Pillars of the Moon

by French, B. J. ;

  "He isn't now," could be heard from the opposite corner.

  Across several tables by the distant corner, the odd fellow from the vending machines at the terminal sat glaring at me, taking sips from a cup. I gave a nod once again, but said nothing. With my back to the wall, I made myself comfortable placing everything on my tray in order and started into my breakfast. Occasionally, between spoonsful, I read the article and glimpsed the gulls perched upon the life boat hoist, patiently watching me eat.

  With the warmth of the sun beating hard through the glass, I relaxed with my feet up on a chair in front of me; my head propped against the wall, my temple against the glass.

  Queen of Nanaimo Ferry

  When I looked up again, we were already half way through the Channel Islands. Adjusting myself in the chair, I leaned my head sideways just in time to catch a glimpse of a familiar, dark face. Startled at what I saw, thinking it was the young native fellow from the museum, my chair fell forward with my face and forehead bumping into the glass. The cafeteria was silent as I grabbed my bag, got to my feet, and raced to the door. As I went to clear the bulkhead, the odd fellow from the vending machines, with the leathers, put his arm out to stop me and stood, blocking my way, facing me.

  "Slow down. You'll get hurt," he said cockily.

  Looking at him straight in the eye, "Yah thanks! What in the hell do you care?" I grabbed his shoulder and gave it a shove to make my way by.

  Out in the fresh air, the cool wind off the bow cleared the anger that had filled me from the short confrontation, enough for me to have a second thought of the familiar face.

  As fast as my impaired gait could carry me, I followed off in the direction he had headed. After several turns around the deck, through various levels, I did not manage to find him. Feeling a little discouraged at the fruitless endeavor and knowing that he had initially been a part of all the oddities that had occurred over the last days, I continued to hobble around the deck trying to enjoy the scenery.

  With the sound of the foghorn, the ferry maneuvered the last turn before docking at the Swartz Bay terminal. Milling down the almost vertical stairways to the lower decks, the several hundred passengers made their way to the car decks and waited patiently till the docking was complete. Taking a quick glance around at the adjacent cars, in the off chance of that familiar face popping up, I resigned myself to the fact that I had been mistaken about his identity. With engines revving, the ferry in reverse slipped and nudged its way to an almost perfect docking. A dull thud announced the telescopic steel ramp from the dock had landed on the ferry deck.Waiting while the pedestrians and cyclists disembarked, I watched and took advantage of the motorcyclists waiting their turn by taking candid camera shots of the many makes and the unique characters who rode them. To the surprise of the deck hands, one motorcyclist in black leathers, on a colorful machine, did not wait for approval but accelerated sideways, up the steel ramp, in a puff of exhaust and disappeared from sight. The rest waited patiently for their turn and moved off slowly.

  Avoiding the foot traffic, I drove cautiously out of the terminal, following the other cars as they headed south. Radio blaring and the sunroof open, I mindlessly passed hikers and cyclists dotting the paved curb-lane along the highway. Some remained with thumbs extended, backpacks piled high beside them, trying to grab my attention although two lanes over. The scenery off to the side was near 'suburban' with many houses and small farms lining the main highway. Large billboards now blocked the once scenic view through the reserve.

  It felt good coming back to the island, nostalgic in a way. Maryse came mostly to Vancouver to visit me, with me now visiting the island perhaps once a year. I had lived for several years in Victoria and surrounding area and had purchased land, with my family, at the end of the Sooke Peninsula. The lagoon on the north side of the property was great for crab fishing, but a continuous fog bank sitting over the property from dawn to dusk made it impossible for anything to dry out. We had a lot of fun, fishing, gathering mussels, and hiking through the pristine area while Rose and Steve raised the kids. We eventually sold it to move back to Vancouver and be closer to the rest of the family. Still to this day, if you look from Sooke, over the inlet past the spit, you can see a cloud of fog hanging, lifeless, over several acres of cleared land. That would be our property.

  Passing the turnoff to Sydney, I made a left turn to one of the back roads to Cordova Bay. The road curved continuously and was difficult to navigate, but to see some of the old-growth forest and the open water of the channel made the excursion worthwhile. Mount Baker's snow-capped peak towered high above the shimmering blue strait that flowing beneath a ribbon of white cloud, a humbling experience. Sannichton and Brentwood Bay, unique little boroughs just to the west, brought back the memories of the years I had spent living on the island. The humming of the car motor, the stereo, the smell of the tan leather interior, along with the beautiful scenery, were all a small part of the dream I had in returning to the island.

  Enjoying the drive, but with the seat vacant beside me, I had a sense of urgency -perhaps physical, perhaps emotional- that kept nagging at me; it could also have been the burn starting to heal. The sun, streaming in shafts from the forest canopy to the east, highlighted the road as if to orchestrate a winding theatrical stage. The ocean peeking through the lichen-laden boughs as if I were in a distant dreamland and, apart from my aches and pains, made me feel like myself once again. It reminded me of the many trips the two of us had taken throughout the island. Life, at the moment, could not have been better.

  Looking in my rear view mirror, I noticed a distant motorcycle, bouncing up and down with the contours of the road following me around the snake bend corners with great ease. To my surprise, he accelerated right by me without the least concern for oncoming traffic. Impressed by the power of the machine, I watched as he disappeared, with not so much as a trace or care, around the potholes and bends in the road. Continuing on for a short distance longer, oblivious to the cares of the preceding days, I enjoyed the milieu and fresh air. Within several minutes though, a sparkle of light flashed from ahead, warning me of an oncoming car. Whizzing along, at ease with my surroundings, I continued without taking second notice. Coming into an extremely bright area, and then back into the dark shade of the cedars, I was thrown into near blindness. Before my eyes could adjust, I strained to see a motorcycle driving directly for me.

  "Shiiiiiit!"

  Pulling the wheel hard to the right and slamming on the brakes, my cell phone flew across the dash and splintered into several pieces; the car slid into the ravine and straight into a stump. Red cedar chunks flew high into the air as the car came to an abrupt stop nose up, with the rear bumper low in the ditch.

  "Wow!" was all that escaped from my lips.

  Sitting still and gathering my thoughts, I gripped the wheel. Wondering how the motorcyclist could have been so blatantly stupid, I turned to look out the rear window. Pissed, I turned to see the motorcycle stopped twenty yards behind me, upright and motionless. Gradually opening the door and easing my way from the seat, I stood with one hand on the roof of the car, the other on my hip.

  "You bastard!" was all that rolled off my tongue.

  The driver lifted his visor and stared at me with a grin on his face. He slowly pulled his helmet off as if to acknowledge the stand off. I caught a glint of light reflect from below his right ear, and suddenly I realized who he was, the punk who had tried to stop me on the ferry. As I walked back toward him, he laughed and slid his helmet back on. Cranking the throttle in a sudden burst, he popped the clutch and sped off in a trail of leaves. All that remained was his black skid mark on the pavement and the blue streak of words that I yelled after him.

  Angry, and wondering what to do, I walked back to the car. Kicking a chunk of cedar that had landed on the road, I circled to the front of the car where the nose was covered in dirt and cedar chips. Down on my hands and knees, I dug around the front to expose any damage. To my surprise
, very little damage was evident except for a bent airfoil and a gash in the rubberized skin over the bumper.

  "Good," I sighed looking about to see where I might use a phone.

  Heading back in the direction I had come, I saw that the sun had hid itself in the upper boughs of the tall cedars, casting cool shadows across the road. In the sun scorched areas, white mist ascended from the blacktop as steam, perhaps an omen that I should do the same. The smell of the damp earth, and the new foliage lining the road helped to take my mind from the incident and relief from the tension of the moment. Touched by the serenity of the surroundings, I had walked for several minutes when I came across a laneway lined with tall cedar hedges . As I proceeded up the lane, the most heavenly thing I had smelled for some time drifted by my nose. The wonderful scent of flowers filled my head. Peering through the hedges, I looked upon a wild garden with an assortment of flowers and bushes scattered almost haphazardly about its perimeter. A bed of blaze roses stood out brilliantly from the distant front corner in the direction from whence I'd come. Beside them a wheel barrel, hoe and digging spade lay dormant and unattended, but attested to recent use. It was easy to see that the occupants cared for and loved the beauty that surrounded them and had brought their own personalities to the garden. As I continued along the drive, the layer of gravel crunched beneath my feet and alerted a small dog somewhere on the premises to my approach. Kicking an exposed root from the ground, I stumbled up the front steps to a flagstone landing and an old oak door with a small lead glass sidelight to the right. Admiring the large lion-head doorknocker, I lifted the brass ring and let it drop hard against the solid door. The little dog yapped viciously inside as someone came to open the door.

  "Good morning," I smiled, stooping slightly to accommodate the height of the tiny elderly woman in front of me. "My name is Brian Alexander and I was wondering if I might use your phone?"

  “Well, good morning," she smiled back. "I'm June, and we imagined someone would be coming our way. Are you alright?"

  A look of bewilderment must have come to my face for she quickly continued.

  "We were out in the garden when we heard the tires of your car squeal and then the motor cycle drive off.... Please... Please come in, how rude of me." She waved me in with her hand while the little dog scampered off, long hair flying, to alert the household. "My husband will be with you directly."

  The woman shuffled off in her slippers and gardening apron, and retreated out of sight down the dark hallway. Within seconds, the little dog came scurrying around the corner, nails clicking on the hardwood floor, to drop a beanie baby at my feet.

  "Lasa Apso’s have a good sense of character," came the soft deep voice of a man from the corner of the foyer by the hall entrance.

  I looked up from the dog to see an elderly, gray-haired man of slight stature. His deep blue eyes and soft-spoken nature gave me the impression he was a learned man. His graceful movement, as he reached out his hand to shake mine, gave me a sense of confidence in him.

  "Hello, my name is Vincent daLima." A smile came across his face. "We were expecting a visitor and are glad to see you are alright."

  "Brian Alexander." I replied with a nod. His name seemed familiar to me.

  Vincent looked down at the dog between us. "They were bred as guard dogs for the palaces high in the Tibetan mountains," he stated as he bent over to pick the little dog up in his arms. "This is Lilly. She is very generous, sharing everything she has with those she likes, even her beanie babies. They are said to have an uncanny sense of hearing and even, supposedly, a sixth sense. She is sometimes at the right place at the right time, but more accurately at the wrong place at the wrong time." She wriggled in his arms and her tongue darted out to lick his nose as he looked down at her. With a sweeping motion, he lowered her to the floor and released her from his arms. "Now on your way." he ordered and she scurried around the corner and out of sight.

  "I am glad to see you’re not hurt. We were quite concerned when we heard the commotion outside the garden. We were not sure whether we should phone the police or not, till we heard the expression of anger and the motorcycle drive off."

  "I am fine," I sighed," but I am afraid I will need some help with my car."

  "Is it badly damaged?"

  "No. But it will have to be pulled out of the ditch.

  "Good. BMW's are well made cars, aren't they? It is an older one isn't it?"

  I half smiled as he turned away, not surprised that he had bothered to look at my car. My eyes followed him to a doorway. His gesture was warm as if we'd known each other for some time and he welcomed me into his sitting room. "My wife will get you a drink, and I will give you some privacy to make some calls. The telephone is at the desk. Do you need a telephone directory?"

  "No thank you,"

  He smiled and left the room, door ajar. With the clicking of her nails again, Lilly made her way along the hall to stand guard just beyond the crack of the door. With one eye peeping in from beneath a hairy brow, beanie baby in mouth, she watched me. Without moving a muscle, apart from the nostrils flaring slightly as she breathed, she sat motionless like a statuette.

  Within moments, I had described the circumstances of my demise to Maryse, and given the directions to her and hung up the phone. I sat back in the chair and wondered whether or not she had truly understood the directions, but concluded it was no use worrying. A few moments later, the light shuffle of slippers on the hardwood floor came closer to the study door.

  "Lilly. Out of the way." To my surprise, June side-stepping the dog, entered with a tray full of china. With a smile from ear to ear she gently put the tray on the desk in front of me. I had to smile. The teapot was decorated with pink roses and brocade of gold outlining the contours of the spout. The teacups matched, with tiny finger holes that could accommodate no man. A variety of biscuits adorned a plate in the center of the tray, with embroidered napkins on either side. I could see that this was to be a real 'morning tea'.

  "We very rarely get visitors any more," she sighed, as she began to prepare the cups and saucers. "Since Vincent gave up his tenure at the University, we don't see many folks this way. He is such a brilliant man. It is a shame they don't use him more, although he does talk down at the museum on occasion."

  "What may I ask is Vincent's area of study?"

  "Well, his doctorate was in native studies, and I know he has helped with the museum’s handling of artifacts being given back to the bands and tribal elders." She looked at me with a side-glance. "I think that's why they don't come any more."

  A bell went off in my head as I began to look around the room. 'I think I remember this guy.' The certificates and photos on the walls all pointed to a learned and well-traveled man. The photos were mostly in black and white, while a few, more recent, appeared in color. Getting up from the chair, I did a slow walk from picture to picture, and was amazed at the scope of Vincent's scholarly career. A few pictures, showing Vincent with tribal elders in front of totems and long houses, indicated the depth of relationship this man must have acquired through his dealings.

  "That was taken in the Queen Charlottes," came a voice from the hall.

  Startled, I turned to Vincent as he entered the room. "Very impressive."

  "Only if it amounts to something," he replied, as he made his way to the high back leather chair behind the desk.

  "What do you mean?"

  He smiled back at me and then returned a more direct address. "A life-time of work can mean nothing if it is not done with the intent to build and not destroy."

  I said nothing and turned to continue to browse along the bookshelves. "Do you mind," looking back to him for a second, not to be presumptuous and pry into his privacy?

  "Not at all, they are only pictures and impressions."

  "That is a powerful statement from a man who, if my memory serves me well, has probably done more for the rebuilding of the West Coast Tribes than any other white man, perhaps in all of A
merica."

  "You flatter me, but I assure you, most of it is fantasy, and the rest is wishful thinking, by all parties.”

  "Excuse me!" I interrupted, a little taken back by his candor.

  "Sit down Mr. Alexander, and have your tea. We have each other at a disadvantage, as I know who you are as well, through your work that was published years back. And I think also, a film documentary."

  "You mean someone actually remembers my work, let alone having once upon a time read and seen it!" I smiled.

  "No. I didn't say I remembered it. I remember your name."

  I felt the smile drop from my face. He smiled from ear to ear as he saw he had me.

  "June, pour Mr. Alexander his tea."

  "Sugar?" June asked with a gentle smile.

  I nodded and relaxed against the shelves across from Vincent's' desk. "You worked with Dr. Neustadt in the latter stages of his career, didn't you?"

  Vincent pointed to one of the black and whites tucked amongst the books in his bookshelf. The photograph was very old with its edges frayed and the finish of the frame tarnished. In the photo, a very young Vincent standing proud, outdoors, in an over grown clearing surrounded by the stunted remnants of cedar trees. In front of him stood a tall, carved cedar interior post belonging to a long house; an elderly man, presumably Neustadt, stood by Vincent's side, leaning forward into the hood of a camera.

  "Ninstints?" I questioned without taking my eyes off of the photo.

  "Yes," replied Vincent with a sound of pleasure to his voice. "You have a good eye." His chair squeaked a little as he turned back to his desk to take a sip of tea. "The totems at that point were in much better condition than they were when finally transported in 1956 for preservation. Most were too far gone for transport."

  I slowly skirted the room looking at the many artifacts and pictures lining the shelves to the chair and slumped into it with a 'wosh' as the air escaped from the cushion.