Pillars of the Moon

by French, B. J. ;

  "Are you all right?" echoed in my ears.

  "Yeah," trying to catch my breath. With air rushing deep into my lungs, I leaned up on one elbow and continued to gather my thoughts. Looking for my phone, a pair of dark hands clutched my arm as if to reassure me. Unaware of my muddy condition and the puddles of soggy grass that lay beneath, I hesitated to get to my feet.

  "I gotta go!" he blurted.

  Panting, he picked up a small wooden crate that lay in the grass and threw me my cell. After a long gaze as if to assure me, he reached with his forearm to help me to my feet. I declined and continued to rest on my elbow. Quickly, the fellow looked about scouting for something, got to his feet, and scurried off as if endangered. I caught him briefly looking back before the young man cleared the cedar hedge by the embankment. A shock of his black hair danced on his shoulders as he vanished into the trees beyond.

  Half bent, I took several more breaths to gather my strength. Reaching to feel the back of my head where it had made contact with the stone, I gently rubbed the tenderness. My leather coat was covered in mud and I could feel the cold wet that had leaked up my back as I had lain on the ground. Sluggishly, I picked up my bent umbrella, cleared the mud off my phone and made my way to the rear of the building. In the courtyard, I came to rest on a low wet bench, collected my composure and took another deep breath of cool air. With my head almost clear, I wondered, 'what in the hell just happened?' As if in reply, a Raven atop one of the frontal-totems of a long house, chattered and carried on relentlessly. Trying for several moments to extend my crooked umbrella, I lay it aside in defeat. Attempting to brush the mud from my coat, I looked out to the bay and wondered how long the wait to the exhibit proceedings would be.

  Drifting off for a moment, I came to with a start as a security guard yelled "Hey! Wake up!" Giving me a nudge he asked, "Did you see anybody running by?"

  Clearing my head of the vision of an elderly native man with his gray hair tied back in a ponytail, I gave a “huh"

  "Hey! Are you alright?" He looked toward my mud covered back and crooked, hapless umbrella now in hand.

  Sitting motionless, trying to put the last few minutes into perspective, I imagined to myself, 'I got hit by a young man, not an old man'. Confused, I looked up at the guard and continued to answer his question,

  "Well, No!" The following words turned to marbles in my mouth.

  Satisfied I was all right and knew nothing, he shrugged me off and headed in the direction of the service doors at the back of the building. Baffled, I yelled at him just before he disappeared through the door, "What about the exhibit?"

  "Cancelled!"

  "Great!” I lamented to my crooked umbrella.

  A Raven atop the totem gave a few, curt cackles and flew off toward the shoreline. After walking around the side of the building to make my way back to the car, curiosity got the better of me as I neared the front entrance again and decided to take a peek. Crouching low and inconspicuously propped in the corner beside the carved panels of the entrance doors, I peered through the glass to see what had transpired. The police and the guard, with whom I had just talked, were conversing back and forth. They eventually turned and I saw the guard point to the back of the building and then to the front. As I leaned my bruised body against the glass, he looked my way and thought he pointed me out to the police.

  Not wishing to be involved in the incident, I cleared the stairs to the parking lot. Passing the cedar trees, I glanced between them to see the two officers turn down the small flagstone path to the side of the museum. Behind the wheel of my 'Black Beauty', I drove from the parking lot feeling much relieved to leave them behind. My head began to clear as I continued up Marine Drive and the eventual exit from the University. A persistent ringing in my ears and a slight headache hung behind my eyes.

  As I drove along slowly, my mind replayed the scenes of the previous minutes back and forth trying to understand what had just happened. Wiping the drops of water from my brow, I began to recall, step by step the last half-hour. Passing several pedestrians walking on the road beside the parked cars, I couldn't help but notice the familiarity of the two of them. A young man and his mother, walking near the middle of the road; nothing out of the ordinary, apart from the fact they shouldn't have been walking there, till I caught their full identity in the rear view mirror.

  ‘It was them, the guy who ran into me!’

  A second glance revealed that the old woman was not a woman but the old man I remembered as I sat on the bench recuperating. Slowing down, I pulled over and looked in my mirror again.

  "Gone."

  Stopping right in the middle of the drive, I reefed my head around to see where they might have disappeared. Opening the door and standing in the middle of the road, I looked about me, scanning the parked cars and the grassy boulevard on either side.

  "I need a drink."

  By the time I got to the coffee bar, at 64th and Granville Street, rush hour was a steady grind. The ache in my head had subsided and the sun, or what little was left, peeked through the residual rain clouds and painted the buildings with its golden hue. The streetlights, faintly aglow, greeted the reckless hustle of the Vancouver nightlife. The Georgia Straight, a local paper, lay motionless beside me on the counter, its bold headlines beckoning me to open its sprawling pages. Rose, my sister would be at her home soon and I could confide in her as to what had just happened..

  Sitting alone and sipping my coffee, blankly leafing through the paper, I began to wonder of the circumstances surrounding the exhibit and the young man who had run into me. Was there a connection with the closure of the exhibit and the running man, the elderly native man in my vision after the collision? It was intriguing and my mind drifted to an earlier time in Mexico.

  We, my brother-in-law Steve and I, had the opportunity to travel throughout Central America and explore some of the ruins. It was there, while taking photographs of the antiquities, that I became fascinated with the North American Indian Culture and its subtle nuances. Of most interest, at the time was the chance to explore the cenotes; those large surface holes, sometimes obscured by lush jungle, that could be several hundred feet across and as much as a hundred feet deep, and rumor had it, full of gold artifacts. Accompanied by several of the not-so-ethical local amateur archeologists, we began our adventures examining these freshwater sinkholes of the Yucatan, only to find that the local Police were as hard to appease as the sacrificial Mayan gods of old. In naiveté, a suggestion by some of the locals was embraced and we continued extracting artifacts while unbeknown to us, others, in due time, were smuggling them to the lucrative North American and European markets. Steve and I, being the adventuresome, act before you think type of guys, jumped at the opportunity for a week of fun diving until the local authorities, got wind of the operation. Luckily, we were helped by a local archeologist named Dr. Magnus, who had little to lose and much to gain, and our reputations and visas were left intact. This regrettable experience opened our eyes to the attitude and climate of exploration in the jungle areas of Central America and also, intrinsically, to the greater reality of the interconnection between the lost cultures of the Indians of Central America, and possibly to the whole of the Americas. With the jungle’s hidden wealth of both culture and treasure to explore, my interest and desires were kept smoldering to this day.

  A bike handlebar hitting the glass brought me out of my thoughts and back to the flurry of the little coffee bar. I eased myself from the stool and continued to the little house on 60th Street, a quaint two story with lead crossed windows on either side of the central, cut stone arched doorway. Ivy crept along a five-foot stone retaining wall bordering the sidewalk, giving the front yard an old English personality and afforded relative privacy from the neighbors and vise-versa.

  "Hello, Rose!" I sheepishly yelled, as I poked my head through the crack in the front door then strode through the foyer.

  Crossing through the living room to the dining room, I slid a pizza
on the table. Looking around, I noticed the new porcelain figurines she had collected on the sideboard and went over to take a look.

  "Well. What brings you here this time of the day?" she laughed as she strode into the dining room, her hair wrapped in a towel. "Ah Pizza! How did you know, I've been craving a slice?"

  She smiled while she grabbed a couple of plates from the cupboard, knowing that full well that it was my stomach and no concern for hers that had led me to buy it.

  "Where is everyone?" I asked.

  "Out." she sparked. She gave me a side-glance and smiled at me, "They're always out, especially when I need them and always here when I don't. They never let me know where they are, not that I really want to know as long as they are safe. They come home eat, then shower, get dressed, ask for money and leave. The next night, it is the same thing. I may, and I mean may, catch a glimpse of one sitting in front of the T.V. when I get home from work." She smiled at me. "Does that answer your question better?"

  "Yep!" I blurted. "Can I use your washroom to get cleaned up?"

  "Sure," she replied as I walked by. "What happened to you?" noticing my wet, mud soaked back.

  "I'll explain in a few minutes," as I crossed the kitchen to the washroom.

  As we sat down later and opened the pizza box, we talked candidly about the kids and ended with me trying to explain the incidents of the last several hours.

  "How is your friend, Chief Hidden Wolf?"

  She finished her mouthful and wiped the corner of her mouth with a tissue. "I guess he's fine. I haven't seen him for almost six months. He's supposed to be in the States traveling, talking about the upcoming changes in governmental land legislation.

  "Oh! So he's not here?"

  "No. Why do you ask?"

  "Well, I saw someone today. That is, I think I saw someone today who reminded me of Hidden Wolf." I stopped and took another bite. Chewing slowly I continued, "Short, long gray hair tied in a ponytail."

  Describing over half the older native male population in the north-west, she gave me a questionable look.

  "Yeah, I know. But his eyes were different. They were very bright, almost on fire."

  "You are confusing me Bri. Did he have any scars?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Without more to go on, I really can't be much help to you, Bri."

  She gave me that strange look again, then took another bite of her pizza.

  "Look," she said gathering her plate and heading into the kitchen. "I have to catch the 9.30 ferry to Victoria to meet Steve, and I have a little over an hour to get there. The kids will be home before 11:00 so would you mind keeping an eye on things while you are here." Without waiting for a reply, she yelled, ”Thanks” and disappeared into the back hall.

  “Can I do some laundry?”

  Not twenty miles south at the Tsawwassen Ferry Terminal, a lone figure sauntered up the catwalk to the waiting arms of a young native woman, who had procured their tickets to Swartz Bay. In the shadows of the ships superstructure, he handed her the small leather bag he had kept well hidden until then. She grabbed it and held it to her breast. Looking up to the constellations that had so influenced her ancestors, she gave a sigh of relief, “We have it.”

  After several hours and watching a special on the TV about the Anasazi Indians of New Mexico, I went into Rose’s study to see if I could locate several articles I had read about the Anasazi in the recent past. The program I had watched had somewhat alarmed me with the inference that these farmers and potters, in their desperation, had resorted to cannibalism as a means of survival. This accusation, although not unheard of in some circumstances, seemed a little far-fetched in this instance and appeared to have been founded on supposition. There had been few facts presented. Human bones of various ages and of both genders were found at the bottom of surface water wells and middens dotted throughout their inhabited area; there had been little else. Although not impossible, cannibalism was always a possibility, but not likely. The Colorado River and its tributaries and rivulets were in constant flux, but the Anasazi could always migrate within their local area to forage for their means of survival. There were always aggressive tribes to consider, so perhaps things were not as simple as were lead to believe. From what I understood and read of the ancestors of the Pueblo Indians, there was nothing in their customs or artwork that could point to the likelihood: the thought and its implications intrigued me.

  By the time one-thirty rolled around, I had skimmed several books, watched the news, and had consumed the contents of a half dozen bottles of beer, peace offerings from the kids partying downstairs, the remains of which had collected on the table. Anxious to get my clothes, I stood at the top of the stairs and yelled for everyone to leave; it was pointless. Closing the door to confine the noise, I crept into the spare room and lay down on top of the covers, with my head sandwiched between two pillows, my sister’s pink slippers dangling off the end of my toes. Sleep was bliss.

  TWO

  The sun, reflecting through the heart-shaped prism, sent its shafts of light scattering throughout the bedroom. With every whisper of wind, a small ceramic chime gently tinkled a rhyme that seemed to harmonize with the ringing in my head. The dryness of my mouth and thickness of my tongue alluded to last evening's slow and purposeful slide into the wee hours of the morning. The contents of the six dead soldiers of the night before still remained in my bladder and were crying for release. I covered my head with a pillow in an attempt to relieve the discomfort.

  Rolling over to ease the stiffness of immobilization, I noticed a small picture upon the dresser of my girlfriend Marese as we sat on the stonework fencing above the falls at Niagara. Adjusting the pillows to sit upright, I pondered our relationship and the events of the previous day, and how to explain the absurdity of it all and whether she’d believe me.

  The old Winslow clock sounded in the living-room notifying me of the late morning hour. Listening intently for any sounds of stirrings from the basement below, I made a wholehearted attempt to raise myself. Considering a shower, I eased myself from the bed, planted my feet firmly inside the wash basket containing my clean clothes and stumbled headlong into the bathroom. Slipping on the tiled floor, I grabbed the toilet bowl to break my fall, my hand slipping inside and splashing its contents over my face. Pondering the tragic start to the day, I considered it had to get better.

  Within the hour, I was sitting cross-legged in a white plastic lawn chair, sunglasses in place shielding my strained eyes, cell phone in hand, sipping fresh brewed coffee.

  Taking a deep breath, forgetting the pain and the light traffic about me, I tried to download the latest news on my phone, but the battery warning started to flash. I grabbed the local paper from an adjoining table and started my perusal of the news. After briefly skimming the pages with whimsical contempt, my eye caught what I had subconsciously been looking for, a small article announcing the break in. The heading read, 'Neustadt Exhibit in Jeopardy!' Articles on loan from the Neustadt Foundation were tampered with and 'thought to be damaged' at the Museum of Anthropology on the University grounds late Friday afternoon. Charges are pending and the investigation continues. The Neustadt exhibit has been closed until further notice.

  Realizing the implications of my being on and around the premises at the same time and that the guard had noticed me, I thought it prudent to find out more of what had happened. It would not be easy task to get information from the paper, reams of red tape to endure with no assurance of any consequence. It would have been nice to know someone at the paper, but of course that wasn't the case.

  Back in Kitsilano, excited with the prospects of the investigation, I bounced up the front steps and through the etched glass front doors. Passing the collection of my black and white photos lining the staircase walls, I raced up the old oak staircase, two steps at a time to the landing and the door to my flat. Once inside, I plugged my phone in and sunk into the couch. Reaching for the telephone directory, I keyed the number i
nto the phone, I waited patiently for a response.

  "Good morning. Thank you for phoning the Frazer Sun. Help us to direct your call by listening to the following six options; if you have a touchtone phone, push ‘one'."

  Hanging up the receiver, I pondered my 'personal options' and decided to call my sister’s house. After several rings, and a quick conversation with Vanessa, I learned that my sister had left the island with Steve on a sailing foray.

  Frustrated, I put the receiver down and sat back to look out the dormer window across to English Bay and Stanley Park. The mist along the shoreline was lifting to revealing the slow march of pedestrians along the sea wall. Tucking my hands behind my head, I tried to ease the dull ache in my head. Playful birds chattering in the tree boughs outside the window lightened my mood and fueled my desire to discover the circumstances surrounding the robbery. An inquiry at the police station was perhaps the only viable option available at the moment; perhaps not the most informative avenue to take, but with the facts as they appeared, and the circumstance of my involvement, perhaps the best.

  Gathering a few of my belongings, I climbed into my 'beauty' and started off towards downtown across the Burrard Street Bridge. The traffic got heavier toward the core as bicyclists, shoppers and adventurers headed north.

  Arriving in China Town, the streets were a bustle with every type of person and race this earth had labored to bring forth. Vegetable produce in boxes stacked up to the awnings, decorated the storefronts. Colorful vegetables and fruits of all shapes and sizes lined trays that obscured a clear passage for the numerous passers-by. Clothes and multi-colored flip-flops as bright as any painter’s pallet were stacked high and wide in disarray. A combination of unique smells emanated from behind open stalls; the fresh fragrance of mango, the stink of calamari and shrimp added to the ambiance that is such a part of this gregarious area of downtown. Broad smiles from brown and olive faces brought it all to life. So matchless and wonderfully singular, this little area, once a logging town only a century ago, has been as much apart of the heritage to this part of the country as old Gassy Jacks whisky bar.