Talking at the Woodpile

by David Thompson

  His in-laws gathered around, and their relief and happiness puzzled him. “Why the long faces?” he asked. “I was gone only four days. Surely you knew the storm would hold me back.”

  Everyone began to speak at once. “There was no storm! You’ve been gone nine days!”

  Suyuk stood apart with his arms folded, looking away, barely able to contain himself while waiting for his chance to voice his opinion. “See! I told you not to go. Look at all the trouble you’ve caused. I should have sent Malak with you. And where is the caribou you promised Alak?”

  The crowd around Angunatchiuk went silent. Ayauniq shot Suyuk a glance and took her husband by his arm, herding him toward their tent. “You must be hungry. Let’s go now, and I will make food for you.”

  Angunatchiuk tried to answer Suyuk over his shoulder, but Ayauniq pushed him harder.

  Learning how long he’d been away troubled Angunatchiuk, so he sought out Yugunvaq, who said, “Tell no one of this adventure, especially Suyuk and Malak. They burn with jealousy and go cold with hate. We will talk later.”

  A week later Angunatchiuk was awakened by Yugunvaq shaking his shoulder. Yugunvaq gestured to him to follow him up the hill to his tent. Alak slept peacefully in the corner, and a small fire burned. Yugunvaq dropped a handful of spruce pitch onto it and the smoke cleared their lungs as they inhaled deeply. Yugunvaq leaned forward peering intently at Angunatchiuk.

  “Something has made me curious,” Yugunvaq said. “How did those needle holes come to be about your eyes?”

  Angunatchiuk told the story, beginning with the day he left to hunt caribou. When he described the suckling bear cub, Yugunvaq laughed so hard he fell over onto his side and woke Alak. He told her the story, and their peals of laughter flowed down to the camp, where those who were still awake left their tents and stood out in the cold looking up in curiosity, asking each other, “What is so funny?” They wanted to know what had happened.

  Yugunvaq listened intently, and his eyebrows shot up when Angunatchiuk told about his dream. He nodded, smiling. “This was a good thing. You have been given much, but much will be expected of you in your care for your people.”

  Yugunvaq reached into the corner of his tent and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in bearskin. It contained a tattoo kit, a pouch of soot that he mixed in a bowl with a little water and grease.

  “This story is important, so I will tattoo it on your skin. It will be with you forever.”

  Beginning at Angunatchiuk’s right shoulder, Yugunvaq drew the outline of a standing bear. As he worked, he told his son-in-law what the bear meant. “Grizzly spirit is powerful. Few men acquire it, for fear they would be unable to control it. Few shamans have it. But you, Angunatchiuk, were given it. The bear in your dream was your grizzly spirit.”

  Yugunvaq deftly pierced Angunatchiuk’s skin with a sharpened grouse bone, working in the soot until the drawing was complete.

  “The only spirit greater than bear is mammoth, but I have never heard of a man taking on a mammoth spirit. An old shaman from the Old Crow flats told me, ‘The mammoth spirit should not be taken on, because one day all mammoth will disappear. If you have its spirit, you and all your people will disappear with it. I heard of a squat, heavy-browed people who disappeared with the mammoth in a faraway place.’”

  The next day Angunatchiuk told everyone why he and Yugunvaq had been laughing, and people lined up to see the cub’s pinhole scars. Those who were far-sighted looked closely and burst into laughter; some buried their heads in his chest until they composed themselves. Suyuk and Malak didn’t ask to see the pinholes and discouraged others from asking. “If you want to hear a real hunting story, come and see us. We have many good ones to tell, better than this.” Angunatchiuk took all this in stride and was glad his experience had brought so much mirth to his family and friends. The story of Angunatchiuk and the bear would be told far and wide, long after he finished his days on this earth.

  In the late summer Yugunvaq’s clan met with Angunatchiuk’s father and people—as they’d planned a year earlier—at a camp called Moosehide below the junction of the Thron-diukic and Yuqana rivers. It was called Moosehide because from a distance the many tents covering the ground looked like one big moosehide. Every year the two groups met there to hunt and fish; then they would dry the meat and salmon on long lines of elevated racks. Everyone looked forward to this meeting. Eligible men and women of marrying age were particularly excited.

  Camp was set up on the east bank of the Yuqana. When the Tetlit arrived, the Tukudh were preparing willow baskets to catch fish. They greeted one another with hugs and handshakes. Families were together again. Parents greeted sons, and grandchildren were proudly shown off. Old friends found each other, and old rivalries were re-established with a glance and silence. Drummers took the skin wrappings from their painted drums, warmed them over a fire and welcomed each other with song and dance. People made speeches of greeting, said prayers, composed songs and sang them on the spot. Storytelling began, and Angunatchiuk’s story claimed the greatest interest. Once again he endured the examination of his scars and more uncontrollable laughter.

  The young people eyed each other. The girls walked in groups, clinging to one another for support, laughing and holding their hands over their faces. The boys stood with their chests expanding a little farther than usual.

  Their parents discussed arrangements; some decisions had been made years ago when the youths were children. Applause from the tent signalled final agreements. Most knew of the selection beforehand, and most were agreeable. One young woman stomped her feet, wept and refused. A refusal would be tolerated, but there were only so many potential spouses, and the elders had done their best.

  Malak’s new wife’s parents were bribed with gifts provided by Suyuk, who later berated his son for costing him so much and being such an embarrassment. “If you had cleaned yourself up and been more presentable, we could have chosen better for less.” Malak’s new wife overheard this and cried to her parents. The daughter had been a problem to her mother and father, so they told Malak and Suyuk, “She is your concern now.” People laughed behind their hands, asking, “Who got the better of that marriage?”

  A party gathered to hunt the Thron-diukic River valley. It was a good place to hunt; the hunters would raft game down the creek to the Thron-diukic, then to the Yuqana and downriver to camp. Yugunvaq, Angunatchiuk, Suyuk, Malak, Ukuk, Manikaaq and Iqilan met early one morning by the riverbank.

  The brothers Ukuk, Manikaaq and Iqilan were full of merriment. Ukuk was a great storyteller, and his brothers’ job in life was to further embellish any story he told. If a large salmon swallowed a fisherman, then it became ten salmon that swallowed ten fishermen; if a man was born from an eagle’s egg, the story became a mountain goat born from an eagle’s egg. The brothers were comedians and well-liked; people always sought their company.

  The hunters hiked the short distance up the Thron-diukic and rafted over to Rabbit Creek. The creek got its name from the shiny yellow stones that littered the bottom and collected in layers on the exposed banks; they were as numerous as rabbit droppings. People sometimes made fishing weights from the soft metal, which they could heat and bend into shape. It was too soft for arrow tips or knives, so it was of little other use. The duller yellow metal that turned green was better. Copper was found in the White River area, home of the Northern Tutchone, who traded the nuggets for dried salmon and caribou.

  The men walked single file through thick bush to seek the easiest route up the steep-walled valley. Signs of moose were everywhere. Willows and thick shrubs along the creek provided an abundance of food. That night they camped in a clearing next to the stream. It was a perfect site, and the remains of earlier fires and cut brush testified to its popularity. They lit a smudge fire to keep down blackflies while they prepared and ate food. The men took out spears, knotted babiche into moose snares, strung bows and inspected their arrows. They looked forward to the hunt and agreed that Suyuk should le
ad them.

  “I want the most experienced up front. Angunatchiuk, you follow behind Malak at the end.”

  Angunatchiuk’s face burned at the insult, but Yugunvaq caught his eye and signalled with a wave of his hand not to challenge Suyuk’s decision.

  As they left camp, the hunters set moose snares as Suyuk instructed. If the moose moved away from them, Suyuk decided, he would strip naked and run one down. Moose don’t sweat as humans do, and after hours of running, exhausted animals become easy game.

  There were fresh signs of a herd nearby, and mixed among them were fresher signs of a mammoth. In places it had pulled out willows by the roots and scraped the ground with its powerful tusks. The hunters stopped to decide what to do if they encountered the mammoth.

  Suyuk said, “The mammoth is old.”

  He could tell by the marks its tusks left where it dug. The older the mammoth, the closer the tusks grew together at the tips. These tusks touched at the tips. An older mammoth was more likely to present a problem. He advised, “Best to avoid him.” Everyone else agreed.

  The mammoth caught their scent and moved up the valley. It was old and worn from a hundred years of life, but its memory was long, and the arrowhead lodged in its hip was an aggravation.

  The group hiked all morning. Then Suyuk froze in his tracks. Raising his fist, he motioned for the others to stop. Suyuk stood to full height to see ahead into the thick brush. Suddenly he wheeled and ran. The hunters heard a sound like a rock avalanche. The willows parted in front of them, and the enraged mammoth charged out, its trunk held high and a deafening roar coming from deep within its throat. Everyone reacted at once, but it was too late for Malak. The mammoth scooped him up, held him down and stomped once with its foot. The others shouted and cursed as they scrambled out of the way, fitting arrows into bows. They shot into the mammoth’s face, which caused it to charge even more and bellow in pain.

  Yugunvaq dove into the surrounding brush and fired an arrow. As he turned to loose another, he caught a glimpse of Angunatchiuk, who had been last in line. He wasn’t moving out of the way, but had jammed the butt of his spear into the rocky ground. Grasping the shaft close to his body, he crouched low, letting the mammoth bear down on him. Yugunvaq had seen this before; he knew everything would seem perfectly clear to Angunatchiuk. Time would stand still, and he would hear nothing. Yugunvaq watched the spear disappear into the heavy chest of the mammoth. Its shaft shuddered as it sliced through flesh, bone and cartilage before reaching the heart. Angunatchiuk looked toward the hill, and Yugunvaq was sure his son-in-law saw the ancestors beckoning to him. Then he was gone. The beast crashed to the earth, enveloping him. Together they slid down the bank into a pool in the creek and sank to its depths.

  A light snow began to fall.

  Yugunvaq picked himself up and walked out of the bush. The air was filled with screams and sobbing. Malak lay on his back, his chest crushed. Blood ran from his ears and nose, and frothy pink bubbles flowed from his mouth. He tried to sit up, but Yugunvaq held him down. Malak struggled, but then his eyes dimmed and he was gone. Yugunvaq moved to Ukuk. His leg was twisted at an impossible angle, and he shook uncontrollably, biting his hand to distract him from the pain. Manikaaq tried to straighten his leg, causing Ukuk to faint and go limp. Yugunvaq took advantage of his unconsciousness and expertly set the leg and bound it.

  The other men staggered about, all injured and in shock. They returned to camp, then went back for Malak’s body and made a litter. Iqilan, Suyuk and Yugunvaq carried Malak up a hill that overlooked the valley. There they built a platform and wrapped the body in a tent hide. They placed him on it, then raised their hands to the heavens and laid their plaintive sorrow at the Creator’s feet. Suyuk walked away weeping, and though the men tried to comfort him, he waved them off and would speak to no one.

  Yugunvaq returned to where Angunatchiuk had disappeared. He threw himself on the ground and pleaded for strength to tell the families the horrible news. Worst of all, he couldn’t recover the body. Angunatchiuk had been his friend and successor, and Yugunvaq had cared deeply for him.

  He took off a looped ivory carving that he wore around his neck and placed it on the hill above where his son-in-law had disappeared. The carving represented a storm spirit. Angunatchiuk had been spiritually born in a storm and had died in another storm. Yugunvaq then chanted a prayer that someday Angunatchiuk would be buried with honour.

  Back at their camp the men had made a fire and were trying to rest. Yugunvaq sat down, too tired to talk. Finally he said, “Angunatchiuk was the bravest of us all. He carried the grizzly spirit and proved his worth. We all owe him our lives.”

  The others nodded in agreement.

  Suyuk sat with his head down and would not meet Yugunvaq’s eyes.

  “We all owe him our lives,” Yugunvaq repeated, speaking directly to Suyuk.

  Suyuk looked up with a face full of rage. “He didn’t save everyone.”

  “If your son had been at the end of the line where he belonged, he would be alive today,” Yugunvaq said angrily. He stood up and disappeared into the thick willows. Moments later there was a rustling of wings and a hawk flew from the bush, circled into the sky and headed off in the direction of Moosehide.

  Talking at the Woodpile

  Wilfred Durant and William Pringle were good friends—had been for years. William usually visited Wilfred bringing newspapers and jars of preserves that his sister Dot put up.

  Toward the end of 1931 William arrived with the usual bundle under his arm. “Howdy, Wilfred, brought you some papers flown in this morning and hot off the press. They’re only about two weeks old.”

  “I didn’t think the airplane could land in that fog,” Wilfred said. “I heard them go over early this morning—must have circled around to Mayo and come back. Reminds me of Lindbergh flying blind over the Atlantic. Have a seat, and I’ll make coffee.”

  William sat at the kitchen table reading while Wilfred served strawberry jam and thick slices of freshly baked whole-wheat bread that was still hot from the oven. They washed this down with brimming mugs of freshly ground coffee, thickened with cream and laced with mounds of sugar.

  “I can stand my spoon in it,” William complained about the strength of the brew.

  “There’s no such thing as strong coffee, only weak men,” Wilfred reminded him as they settled in to read.

  The two of them passed their time as bachelors, having little responsibility for anyone but themselves. William worked seasonally for the Klondike Valley Gold Consortium, which operated dredges on Hunker and Bonanza creeks. Wilfred, an independent placer miner, had claims on both creeks. He was a tall, thin, dark man with a bushy moustache and a bad temper. William had the same moustache and the same temper, but he was of average height, stocky and fair.

  Wilfred was from back east, from Rhode Island. He didn’t volunteer information about himself, so the people of Dawson City knew little about him. What they did know they’d learned from Markham, the postmaster, who took information from the envelopes and parcels that moved through his hands. He had no reservations about passing this on. In a town that was cut off from the rest of the world for six months of the year, you had to make your own news.

  Nearly everyone knew that Wilfred was a Harvard alumnus and his family had money. One cousin regularly sent him books and parcels.

  Wilfred had travelled extensively before ending up in Dawson. He camped with Berbers in North Africa, swam the Tigris and Euphrates rivers, walked the Great Wall of China and strode through the halls of Oxford and Cambridge with men such as T.E. Lawrence and Edward G. Browne, both famed orientalists.

  William, on the other hand, had lived in Dawson almost all his life. His parents were among the first gold seekers to struggle over the Chilkoot Pass in the summer of 1896. They hadn’t worked the goldfields but had made their fortune by building and operating sawmills and the Occidental Hotel. William went “outside” to McGill University, where he married and divorced, and now
, like Wilfred, was content to live a bachelor’s life. He’d served in the army during the Great War, where he had been wounded and had witnessed unimaginable horror as callous men pushed others into battles that they themselves could not face.

  Dawson City was William’s home—his sanctuary.

  Dawson people craved entertainment during the long winters, and as well-travelled scholars, Wilfred and William were sought-after dinner guests and public speakers. Friends and families valued their congenial company and their stories about their world adventures. Wilfred was in the habit of taking some artifact with him to entertain the children; an old musket from northern Persia was his favourite. People respected William and Wilfred, two well-educated men in a land far distant from centres of learning. But at heart they were both sourdoughs.

  In late January of 1932, during a long, deep cold spell—the kind when sourdoughs thrive, cheechakos wilt and trips to the woodpile are quick—William emerged from his cabin and trudged up the street to visit Wilfred. Under his arm he carried a stack of month-old newspapers.

  Wilfred greeted him warmly. He hadn’t had a visitor for more than a week because of the cold. Soon they were sitting back in their chairs, drinking coffee and filling their pipes full of aromatic tobacco, each completely absorbed in every printed word in the papers.

  Time passed in pleasant silence. Wilfred refreshed the coffee pot, and Dot’s fresh-baked raisin scones disappeared by the plateful. The late afternoon sun faded into twilight, and once again winter darkness set in. Tossing his paper onto the floor, Wilfred rocked forward in his chair and leaped to his feet. “Time to get the wood in,” he announced.

  “I’ll help,” William said.

  “No need, I’m okay.”

  “I insist.” William stood and followed Wilfred.

  Once outside, they paused to study the inky, moonlit sky, watching for signs of a break in the weather. Seeing none, they moved quickly to the backyard woodpile.