The Association logo had been the subject of a great deal of controversy when the Association was first formed over thirty years before. One group of shareholders had held out for art, another for commerce, a third for culture, a fourth for history, and a fifth for the artist of their choice, usually a near relation. The divergent opinion resulted in a verbal fight at the first shareholders’ meeting that very nearly ended in a riot which, legend had it, Emaa quelled by sheer force of personality. The resulting logo, designed by committee, was a jumbled ball of black silhouette images, a leaping salmon, a browsing moose, a Sitka spruce, a jagged mountain with what might have been a tiny mine entrance halfway up it, a dogsled with the musher snapping his whip over the dogs’ heads, a dancer with a drum, a seiner with its nets out, a gold pan. That many images were, of necessity if there were to be anything written on the rest of the page, minuscule, and as such difficult to identify. At first glance the whole thing looked like a Rorschach inkblot. This had of course pleased no one, but Ekaterina Shugak, Kate’s grandmother and the first board chair, had been impatient to move on to more important topics and had pushed it through.
Kate said the first thing that came into her head. “God, that’s ugly.”
Old Sam gave out with a stentorian guffaw. Auntie Joy’s radiance dimmed a trifle. Harvey and Demetri said nothing. Belatedly, Kate realized that all four of them would have had their own opinions on the NNA logo long before Kate was old enough to vote as a shareholder. She looked around, casting about desperately for a less incendiary topic.
The Niniltna Native Association headquarters was a modest, rectangular building two stories high. It had asphalt shingles, vinyl siding, vinyl windows, and an arctic entryway, and was painted brown with white trim. It sat on the side of a hill in back of the village, next to the state trooper’s post on the road to the airstrip.
The board met in a corner room upstairs, with windows in two walls, large sliders equipped with screens. Through them could be seen the washed-out blue sky and the thin sunlight of an arctic fall day, with the gathering edge of an ominous bank of dark cloud. Snow was late this year, and the temperature was dropping fast, putting pipes at risk of freezing all over the Park.
The room held a table, and like almost every project involving shareholder funds, it was made from spruce bark beetle kill harvested from Association lands. The blight had swept through spruce forests across southeastern and south-central Alaska over the last ten years the way the bubonic plague had swept over the world in 1350. Sensibly, the board had reasoned that if the spruce trees were going to fall over dead anyway, they might as well put them to good use. There were spruce bark beetle kill countertops, cupboards, floors, paneling, sleigh beds, rocking chairs, and farmhouse tables in every public and private building in the Park.
This table had been made by Demetri to Ekaterina’s specific instructions, round in shape, because Ekaterina didn’t think there ought to be a head to a table where sat equals, and modest in size, because Ekaterina disapproved of large governing boards. Privately, Kate thought it was because Emaa knew that smaller groups were more easily manipulated.
The table was sanded and polished to a satin gloss, although the individual boards did have a tendency to bow occasionally. Annie Mike had been in the room once when one of the boards, imperfectly dried, had split open with a crack like a .30–06 going off. Demetri had mended it with epoxy, but it could still be seen, a narrow lightning bolt of rich dark brown running almost all the way from Auntie Joy to Kate.
Annie, Association secretary-treasurer and its only full-time employee, was there today, too, sitting at a small desk in the corner, taking notes on a laptop. Annie’s husband, Billy Mike, previous chair of the Niniltna Native Association, had died last year of a massive coronary. They’d lost their son Dandy the year before and after a double whammy like that everyone would have understood if Annie had retreated into a life centered around her last two children left at home. Both were orphans, both adopted. The baby boy, half Korean, half African-American, was named Alexei for Annie’s grandfather. Vanessa Cox, who had lost first her parents to an automobile accident Outside and then her last surviving relatives here in the Park, one to murder and the other to jail, had been acquired the following year.
Contrary to conventional wisdom, Annie had not retreated. Instead, she had soldiered on, doing her duty by Association as secretary-treasurer and by Park as an upstanding Park rat, first in line to offer aid and comfort to those in need. She was pretty much an auntie in waiting, Kate thought. She looked up now from her computer, and the sympathy in her expression made Kate realize that the four board members were sitting in various states of impatience, waiting for Kate to start the meeting.
She looked down at the agenda. Reading and approval of minutes. Reports. Unfinished business. New business. How hard could this be? She sat up straight and cleared her throat. “Okay. Somebody read the minutes so we can approve them.”
There was silence. Kate looked up. “What?”
There was a look of dawning realization in Harvey’s eyes, along with a growing and malicious amusement. “You have to call the meeting to order first.”
“Oh. Uh, okay then. I call the meeting to order. Who reads the minutes?” She looked at Annie. “You’re the secretary, right, Annie? You take the minutes, right? So you probably read them, too. So go ahead.”
Another uncomfortable silence. Harvey settled back in his chair, folded his arms, and looked like someone sitting in the front row of a Steve Martin concert, with balloons.
Harvey, fifty-three, born in Niniltna but raised in Anchorage, was a commercial fisherman like Old Sam and a professional hunting guide like Demetri. Active in local politics, a crony of district senator Pete Heiman, his past term on the state board of fish and game had been notable for his vocal and vociferous and often incendiary support of increasing the length of the hunting and fishing seasons and upping the legal limits on anything with fur or fins. Ekaterina had backed Harvey’s ascension to the NNA board as a sop to pro-development voices in the Association, and had lived to regret it when he openly supported development in Iqaluk. While he had his adherents, there were among NNA shareholders people still suffering the effects of the RPetCo Juneau oil spill who as vociferously disagreed.
Annie looked at Auntie Joy and the two women communed in silence for a moment.
“What?” Kate said.
“You not read your minutes, Katya?” Auntie Joy said.
“What minutes?” Kate said.
Auntie Joy’s radiance dimmed still further. “Viola bring you the minutes, Katya.”
“No, she didn’t,” Kate said indignantly.
Auntie Joy nodded. She wasn’t enjoying herself. “Last month, Katya. One U-Haul box.”
“Auntie, I—” Kate remembered Auntie Vi’s visit the previous month. “Cardboard? Brown?” she said without much hope.
“Auntie Vi bring.”
Kate slumped a little. “Auntie Vi bring.” Where had she left that box? She had a vague memory of putting it in the back of Johnny’s truck. It couldn’t still be there, could it?
“And Katya not read,” Auntie Joy said sorrowfully.
“No.” Then Kate rallied. “So what? The agenda says for them to be read and approved. So somebody read them, for crying out loud.”
Next to her Harvey chuckled, a little louder than was perhaps strictly necessary. “The rest of us already have, Kate.”
“So what?” Kate said again. “The agenda says read them, we read them.”
“You see, Kate,” Harvey said, enjoying himself hugely, “Annie sends out the draft minutes of the last meeting to all the board members. Board members read them in advance, so we don’t have to waste our time reading them during the meeting. Then we approve them.”
“Oh.”
Auntie Joy said anxiously, “But we read now. Is okay. Okay?” She looked around the table.
Joyce Shugak, eighty-something, was a subsistence fisher, retiring each summe
r to a fish camp on Amartuq Creek, upstream from Alaganik Bay where all the commercial fishers in the Park got their nets wet. She had been married once, long ago, and the great tragedy of her life was that she had had no children. The result of this child-hunger led her to adopt every soul in the Park from one to a hundred as her very own. She was a plump, cheerful person, easy to please, ready to praise, and if not quite capable of being blind to faults in others, at least nurtured a determined nearsightedness that worked just as well.
Like the other aunties, she spoke a truncated, rhythmic form of English that came from speaking it as a second language, as all the aunties grew up speaking Aluutiq, Eyak, and Athabascan. Kate suspected that they could all of them have spoken flawless English if they had chosen to do so, but by now it was a matter of pride to speak in their self-invented patois. It branded them as Alaska Natives, born and bred and living the life. They were proud of it, and they didn’t mind reminding people of that fact every time they opened their mouths, which obviated the necessity of their having to actually say so.
Old Sam shrugged. “Sure,” Demetri said. Harvey heaved a sigh and said wearily, “Sure, why not? I’ve only got six other things that need doing today.”
“Yeah,” said Old Sam with his patented nasty grin, “but this one you get paid for.”
Kate looked at him. “We get paid?”
There was a moment of silence. Annie Mike cleared her throat. “If the board please,” she murmured to her laptop, “the secretary will now read the minutes of the last meeting, dated April fifteenth.”
“April?” Kate said, still reeling from the information that she would draw a paycheck for this. How much? Did they get paid per meeting or was it all in one check at the end of the year? Or maybe the beginning of the year? She wondered if it would be enough to cover the cost of a new four-wheeler. She could use a new—
“Wait a minute,” she said.
Annie paused. “Yes, Kate?”
“April? I thought the last meeting was in July.”
Harvey rolled his eyes. “It was cancelled, Kate. You and Old Sam were fishing. Demetri was upriver running his lodge, and the aunties were downriver at fish camp. We didn’t have a quorum.”
Kate was pretty sure she knew what the word quorum meant from the context, but she resolved to look it up in her tattered copy of Webster’s Unabridged at the earliest opportunity, just to be sure. “Sorry,” she said shortly. “I forgot.”
Annie finished reading the minutes. There was silence. “Oh,” Kate said. “Am I supposed to say something?”
“Ask if there are any corrections,” Harvey said briskly. He even smiled at Kate.
Enjoy yourself while it lasts, asshole, Kate thought. Out loud she said, “Are there any corrections to the minutes?” There weren’t, the minutes were approved, and it was with distinct relief that Kate said, “Reports?”
Annie gave the treasurer’s report. NNA sounded fiscally healthy to Kate, but then she wasn’t the best person ever with numbers, so she resolved to ask Auntie Joy privately.
“Unfinished business?” Kate said.
“I move we table all unfinished business for the moment,” Harvey said.
“Second,” Demetri said.
“Huh?” Kate said.
Auntie Joy leaned across the table and said, “Motion moved and seconded. In favor say aye. Opposed, say nay.”
“Oh. Okay. All in favor say—”
“All in favor of tabling unfinished business,” Auntie Joy said.
“Okay, all in favor of tabling unfinished business say aye.”
“Aye,” Harvey said.
“Aye,” Demetri said.
Old Sam gave Harvey an appraising glance. “What’s this about, Harvey?”
Harvey glared. “Out of order!”
Auntie Joy patted the air with pacific hands. “I say aye, too, Old Sam. No fighting, now.”
“Oh, all right,” Old Sam said, giving in, but he fixed Harvey with a cold and untrusting eye.
Auntie Joy said encouragingly, “Okay, Katya, motion carried.”
“The motion is carried,” Kate said obediently.
“No, you say what motion is.”
“Oh. Okay. The motion to table unfinished business is carried. By majority vote!”
She couldn’t help the note of triumph, and Harvey’s laugh was immediate and unkind, and Kate’s hackles rose. She looked down at the agenda. “All right, then I guess we go to new business. Anybody have any new business to discuss?”
“I do,” Harvey said, promptly and predictably. “With the board’s permission, I’d like to introduce Global Harvest Resources Inc.’s personal representative to the Niniltna Native Association, and to the Park.” Before anyone could say anything, he got up and went to the door. “Talia?” He ushered a woman into the room.
“Katya!” Auntie Joy said urgently. “Point of order, Katya!”
“Point of what?” Kate said.
“Question!” Old Sam said.
“What was the question?” Kate said.
“Everyone, meet Talia Macleod,” Harvey said. “Talia, this is the Niniltna Native Association board of directors. Starting on your left, Sam Dementieff, Joy Shugak, Demetri Totemoff, myself, and our recently named interim chair, Kate Shugak. In the corner, that’s Annie Mike, our secretary and treasurer.”
The name was instantly recognizable to them all, as was the dazzling smile she sent round the room, which had graced the front page of every newspaper in Alaska, as well as the cover of Alaska magazine, Outside magazine, and Sports Illustrated, twice. True, one of those had been a group shot of the whole Olympic team, but still.
Talia Macleod was an Alaskan athlete of international renown, a member of the American biathlon team, finishing six times in the top ten nationally, taking first once, and going to the world championship five times and the Olympics twice. Her hair was a white blond mane, her eyes cerulean blue and widely spaced, and she had a lithe figure that looked equally well in ski pants and bathing suits, this latter attested to by the most recent Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, her second appearance in that periodical.
And then, there was that smile. Full-lipped, white-toothed, dimpled even at rest, it had been described as incandescent by one besotted journalist, and it lit up the newspapers, the magazine covers, and any room she walked into.
Including the Niniltna Native Association board room. She didn’t suffer from shyness, either. “How nice to meet you,” she said, walking around the table to shake hands. Either Harvey had rehearsed her or she was very good with names, because she addressed them all faultlessly and without hesitation.
“I hear they call you Old Sam,” she said with an up-from-under flutter of eyelashes. “I can’t think why.”
“Mrs. Shugak,” she said, holding one of Auntie Joy’s hands in both of hers. “It’s an honor to meet one of Ekaterina Shugak’s closest friends, and one of the founding members of the Niniltna Native Association. I’m looking forward to working with you.”
“Demetri,” she said, pulling Demetri to his feet and giving him a warm hug. “Great to see you again.”
“You, too.” Demetri hugged her back and sat down again, avoiding everyone’s eyes.
“Demetri took me and a bunch of friends of mine from Outside hunting up in the Quilak foothills a couple of years back.” She smiled down at him. “My, that was a good time.”
Demetri Totemoff, fifty-five, had been born in Anchorage to Park rats who had moved away. He had moved to the Park after two tours in Vietnam. Married with three children, he was a big game guide with a high-end lodge back in the Quilaks on a salmon- and trout-rich stream, in close proximity to bears black and brown, and within an easy hike of all the moose and caribou a great white hunter could possibly want. The lodge, a rustic affair with hot and cold running water, one-bedroom suites, a full bar, maid service, and a live-in gourmet chef during the fishing and hunting seasons, had become so well known among business executives, the Hollywood elite, an
d the jet set that nowadays it ran full on word of mouth alone. While not as pro-development as Harvey, unlike Auntie Joy, Demetri was not averse to commerce, especially when it might make him a buck or two. On the other hand, he wouldn’t take kindly to any development that might affect the raw, rough, wilderness experience of his guests, either. Of everyone on the board, Demetri had the best grasp of numbers. If it looked like the mine would make him more money, bottom line, than his lodge, he’d be for it. The opposite, the opposite. Self-interest was a wonderful thing, and at least it made him predictable.
Macleod walked around Demetri, trailing a hand across his shoulders, and increased the wattage of her smile to where it was almost blinding. “And of course the legendary Kate Shugak.”
Old Sam’s responding smile had been wicked and appraising, Auntie Joy’s handshake had been brief, the tips of Demetri’s ears were red, and Harvey looked like a proud, lecherous parent. Kate found herself very much on her guard. She leaned forward as if to get to her feet, caught sight of Auntie Joy’s stony visage, and only just stopped herself in time. She hated being loomed over, but since Macleod was at least five ten in her stockings, and the heels of her boots added two inches more, and Kate was only five feet nothing, she would have had to look up anyway. She accepted Macleod’s hand from a seated position and said, “I don’t know about legendary.”
“I do,” Macleod said. Her grip was firm and strong and lasted just long enough. “Mandy says hi, by the way.”
“And you know Mandy,” Kate said. Mandy Baker, expatriate Boston Brahmin and champion dog musher, lived on the second homestead over from Kate’s, and was one of Kate’s closest friends.
Macleod grinned. “I think everybody in Alaska has cheered her out of the chute on Fourth Avenue at least once.”
“Talia,” Harvey said, reasserting his control of the situation, “joined us today at my invitation to tell us a little bit about the Suulutaq Mine.”
There was instant attitude from around the table, beginning with Auntie Joy’s continued imitation of Washington on Mount Rushmore. Hard for an old Native woman to look like a dead white guy, but Auntie Joy managed it. Old Sam leaned back in his chair, propping his knee on the edge of the table, and linked his hands behind his head, but the carefree pose couldn’t hide his attentiveness or his tension. Demetri closed his eyes and shook his head very slightly.
Whisper to the Blood Page 5