“I’ve a wife already,” said Harry, “and her as much as I can handle.”
“Old days all the chiefs have many wives. Marry to give crests and dances. Then marry again. And the wife as well. Four times marry and then she a famous chief woman herself. Not just for sale no more.”
“Everything’s changing in the world.”
“No, I not sell my woman. Understand the white man ways. Slaves are finish now forever, and good, I say, to that. Some good things, but not enough, have come. We are less people every year and dead more and more. This one village is all the Nakwakto together now. Before we have villages all through the inlets. So many people before, Fat Harry. Now just two children who are less than ten year old in this village. Just two. A few more marry people and children other tribe and village. But we die and go and that be that. The end.” He shook his head a moment. Then he scooped a great spoonful of fish grease and supped it down and farted. “You have liquor on you boat?”
“I do.”
“Then we drink tonight.” One of his wives spoke a few throaty syllables and he replied. “She say I a mad old man and drinking make me so.” He giggled, high-pitched, sounding like a young girl. “She don’t know we drink at end of world, so no problem if we mad or not.”
“Ek,” said Charley. They talked together and both of them laughed. Yagis’s sons laughed as well, who before had eaten in silence, only throwing occasional looks Harry’s way, so that more and more he’d come to think they knew something, and were but waiting for the subject to be addressed.
“What’s funny?” Harry said.
“You the white man come with drink,” said Yagis. “You one of the killers. Like the Devil heself, eh? But you the good man white man too. Who to say what make sense any more? About anything? This make us laugh.”
“Make weep too,” said Charley, and Yagis giggled again at that.
“So all the Nakwakto villages are gone?” said Harry.
“Gone dead,” said Yagis. “I from village Teguxste, up past the rapids,” and he waved his arm vaguely toward the east and north. “But we move from there what fifteen year ago or more. All people gather here at Ba’as. First, for trade with white man. This place on edge of ocean to catch they ships. Later we say stupid be separate any more when we so few.”
“George said once, before last I came up here, that you’d not had so much contact with the white man. Least not so much as others.”
“True before. But sickness come anyway. Once people make war for slave and fur, and for sadness at dead of chieftains. And drink come the last thing. So we go slow into nothing.” They ate in silence for a while. Then Yagis said, “George he come to Teguxste when he young. Many times. You know he friend to my cousin, name Make-Alive, brother to George wife before he die. But they friend long time before that too.”
“Charley said something of it.”
“Much fire in that bugger, Make-Alive,” said Yagis. “Always shouting about something. Not enough food for people. About have medicine and things. But good for chieftain be shouting. I sorry when he die. And now this rat-prick fuck man Walewid chief, and him too many crest and name and dance he have and too young to have them. And he only shout when he in drink and about nothing of import neither.” He spat into the fire.
“So George been coming here for years, has he?”
Yagis glanced from the corner of his eye in Harry’s direction, and seemed to judge him for a moment. “Teguxste where George first be paxala. Long year past.”
Harry wondered how to broach the subject of their search. Could he trust Yagis and his family with the truth? They had known George most of his life, were bonded by clan and family ties and had played it true with Harry in his trading, the last time he was here. Yagis was prone to drink though, and he liked a story. Could he keep his mouth to himself?
He caught Charley’s eyes upon him. Charley twitched his head, just faintly, but enough for Harry to keep his counsel for the meantime.
Yagis pushed the trough of rank fish oil his way. “Eat,” he said. Harry made his customary refusal, and suffered the usual derision to follow. But he saw that both the old women only watched him across the fire, their features reticent and still.
Later Harry and Charley sat outside on the steps and smoked. Clouds covered the heavens. It was dark. Fire glow wavered through the village doorways, lighting the water for fifty yards or so. From some of the houses came raucous laughter and voices raised in drink. Farther down the plankway three old men were sitting quietly, a bottle before them.
“Why not ask Yagis direct?” Harry said.
“Good man but big mouth.”
“But what is it we’re hiding?”
“Many men not love George. Now maybe have reason do more than be angry. Come after him maybe. Better stay quiet.”
“So how then do we learn anything, in God’s name?”
“Go back inside. Talk, drink, think.”
Harry cursed, suddenly infuriated by the man, by the village, by everything. “You go. I can’t take no more.” He stood. “I’m aboard the Hesperus awhile.” He left Charley and walked along the plankway to his boat. From inside Chief Walewid’s greathouse came the sounds of intoxication. There were loud voices and he heard scuffles and shouts from the women, and also laughter. Quietly, he stepped aboard the Hesperus. The tide was out and the boat was partly grounded, so that the deck listed maybe twenty degrees.
Harry needed solitude. Every word he spoke felt tested. Ridicule could cover threat, and threat might mean no more than sarcasm. A smile could be a warning, and a grimace acknowledgment of friendship. Words were rarely honest or solely as they seemed, even from such an affable man as Yagis. He felt drawn taut with fury, like a cable pulled so tight it whined.
He walked aft around the pilothouse and ducked through the doorway. Not bothering to light a lamp, he opened a small cupboard by his feet. He felt for a saucepan. He’d brew up some coffee and clear his head.
After dinner, he had brought in two bottles of liquor. Harry did not personally favour drink, except when duty and respect demanded it of him. Not any more. But this night he had partaken of more than he had in some years.
They’d talked of trade and hunting, fishing and trapping. Yagis said he was reluctant to go this year and join the other men at the canneries.
“Making cash is one thing, and good maybe. But on what do we spend it if we here on reserve and only you few white men come past now and then? In summer we find food for winter. That is what we do. If we in the factory, still we must find food for winter.” Yagis slugged at the bottle, his Adam’s apple furious. “Who take time to catch and trap and gather? We try, but not time enough before men go to work again.”
He passed the bottle to his son. “Last time, I buy fish grease from you, Fat Harry! Indian buy grease from white man!” Charley grunted at this. “And now salmon are less each year, and big fishing boat from Japan, America, and England even, God save Queen, make it so.”
“Tell me what it is you want,” Harry said, surprised by his own question.
But Yagis said only, “I want much, Fat Harry,” and after that he was silent for a time.
Crouching in the deckhouse, Harry took the saucepan, opened another low cupboard door, and his fingers felt for the coffee jar. He heard a sound outside, like a brush swept lightly across a surface. He listened but heard nothing more. He brought the coffee from its hiding place and then he heard a footfall close outside, and another. Someone was on board. He made to call, but instead stayed quiet. There were further sounds then, and terse whispers in Kwakwala.
He heard a rattle and realized it was the chain that held the latch to the forward hold, which was not locked, just tied about itself, from where he’d visited it earlier. Harry stood slowly, without a sound, just enough to see through the glass to the forward deck. Against the firelight ashore, two silhouettes were visible, one stooping, the other standing. The one standing held a whalebone killing club, more than three feet long
and curved into a thick knot at its end.
Fury pressed at Harry’s stomach, so that he almost gagged. He took down the machete from above the door, still watching the men on deck. Quietly then, he stepped out through the doorway, keeping low. The men had swung open the door to the hold, and now one began to lower himself inside. Harry watched over the roof of the pilothouse as he moved silently around it, his left hand resting on its wall, supporting him against the sloping deck. In his right hand was the long blade.
From the hold there came an exclamation. The man inside appeared. He was holding two bottles of liquor. He placed them on the deck and disappeared again. The other laughed, stooped down and lifted one bottle up. Harry heard a voice back on the plankway, and he understood there were at least three men intent on burglary. He stopped in indecision. Then the man on deck spoke, slurring in his speech. In amongst the garbled language, he heard his own name, spoken with a sneer.
Harry stepped out from behind the deckhouse, but the other man heard him. He spun more swiftly than Harry would have imagined possible, thinking the man too far gone in drink to be so sharp-witted. He swung his club and Harry shied sideways. The club hit him on his left shoulder.
The agony of it near made him pass out, but he jabbed upward with the machete. The blade went into the underside of the man’s upper arm and jagged against the bone before it carried on into his armpit. Harry’s reach gave out and he pulled the blade back. The pain in his own shoulder made him go down to his knees.
The man’s club fell to the ground and he fell after it, screaming. Harry could see the blood spilling from the wound and the man trying to stem it, and now the whites of the man’s eyes were visible in his shock. There was a shout from the shore, then a thud on deck, even as Harry saw the head of the man in the hold emerge. He stood again and kicked out, but the man ducked back inside.
Harry spun round and saw a squat figure coming aft, crazily angled against the slanting deck, holding a short knife before him. The tears of pain in Harry’s eyes made the figure blur and double. His balance seemed a thing both vague and complex, but he raised the machete and the figure stopped. Harry made to thrust at him. As he did so, his foot slipped in the blood on the deck. He toppled sideways even as the other man rushed at him. He rolled as he fell, trying to protect his damaged shoulder, and the machete dropped from his grasp as he struck the deck. He turned over onto his back, his legs coming up protectively before him.
The man was on him immediately. Harry felt the knife slide along his shinbone. He kicked with both feet and one found a target in the darkness. He heard a grunt. The other man was still screaming. Harry flailed his hands around beside him, feeling for the machete, his vision still hazed. He saw the shadow of the third man, bent double from Harry’s kick.
The fingers of his right hand touched the damp grain of the war club. They closed around it. He felt by its weight that he held it at its handle grip. The man was nearly on him again. Harry swung the club, clumsy, at the man’s legs and felt it smash into flesh. The man shouted, stepped back and waited, wary, a few feet away.
Harry dragged himself backward until his spine rested against the gunnels. The man came down the slope and feinted to Harry’s wounded left side. He weaved, though, and seemed unsteady himself. Sitting as he now was, his equilibrium improved, Harry brought the club in an arc around his body. The man dodged away but lost balance on the sloping deck. His leg hit the gunnels. He flipped over the side and Harry heard him go into the water.
He looked toward the hold, but the man inside had not yet reappeared. There was shouting now and uproar on shore. Lamps were moving on the plankway. The injured man had stopped his screaming, and now he was moaning more softly. Harry gasped air. He looked to his own injuries. His shirt was torn off his shoulder, and blood flowed down his arm. He saw that his shoulder was in a position outside of all sensibility. As seasoned in serious injuries as he was from years at sea, still he had to look away. The agony of it brought flashes of lightning across his vision. His lower leg was soaked with blood, though he felt nothing there. He rested his head back on the top of the gunnels. He tried not to scream himself.
Again the deck shuddered as someone, and another, and then more, jumped aboard.
“Fat Harry?” Charley came into his vision, Yagis’s eldest son beside him. He heard shouts and curses and Charley’s face disappeared again. Yagis was calling out, loud above the clamour from the shore. There was movement now all around him, voices raised in Kwakwala, Charley’s chief among them. He tried to focus. Men were standing on the deck, a couple of them holding lanterns. Some were crouched about the bleeding man. These men were close to violence, it seemed, making angry noises at Charley, who stood in front of Harry with Yagis’s son beside him.
In the water behind his head something was splashing. There was laughter then, from those ashore, and jeering. Harry could see that on the plankway now the entire village had turned out. The men aboard stopped their arguing. They moved over and looked out.
The sounds told Harry the man who had gone overboard was thrashing in the thigh-deep water, caught in the deep mud beneath. Even the men on deck were laughing now. Charley knelt beside him.
“Okay, Fat Harry?”
Harry grunted. “Thief,” he managed.
“Them try steal liquor. You fight.”
“Who?”
“Wal’wid brother, him you cut. Wal’wid in water now.” He put his hands to Harry’s shoulder. Harry groaned and cursed. “Shoulder come out,” Charley said. “Bad bleed. Big split. Not think broke. Club hit you?”
“Leg too,” Harry whispered. He closed his eyes. Charley took hold of his right foot and turned the shin against the light. “Bleed much here too. Make bandage quick. Not bad same shoulder.”
“Walewid’s brother?”
“Him bad. Maybe die.”
“Bandages, disinfectant, sewing needles in the pilothouse. Right top cupboard.”
“First, shoulder go back in.” Charley rested his hands on him. “You ready?” Before Harry could speak, Charley shucked his shoulder back into its joint. He cried out and lost consciousness.
All was nausea and pain. Harry opened his eyes. Blurs of orange flame and shadows. Then movement. Charley squatted before him, doing something to his shin. The old man looked up when he felt Harry shift.
“Not move,” he said.
“How long?” said Harry, his memory returning. Phlegm was thick in the back of his throat, so that he croaked and was almost unintelligible.
Charley seemed to understand. “Sleep maybe five minute only,” he said.
“What happened?”
“Them take Poodlas, Wal’wid brother, in house. Him bad. Take Wal’wid from water. Him great shame. Very funny for people. Not funny for us. Him angry try come back on boat kill you. Yagis and sons stop him, and other people stop him. Now them wait, watch.” He pointed shoreward. Harry saw figures standing silhouetted against the light coming from the open entrance of Walewid’s house.
Harry swore softly and tried to prop himself higher against the gunnels. He groaned as his shoulder howled protest. Charley helped him, then said, “Now not move,” and went back to sewing up the long, ragged wound in his shin. Harry hawked, turned his head and spat back into the water. Charley tied the thread and cut it away with the machete, unwieldy in such a delicate operation. He poured iodine down the injury from the bottle beside him. Harry snorted. Then Charley wrapped a bandage about his calf.
A voice raised a question from shore. Charley answered, “Ek.” A man came aboard and in the light of a lantern, which now hung from the mast, Harry saw it was Yagis.
“No good what happen,” the old man said. He sat beside Harry on the sloping deck. “We take you back my house now. Better look after you. More safe from Walewid as well.”
“I’ll stay aboard,” said Harry. “I’d not risk my boat by not being here to protect it.”
Charley grunted in agreement. He finished the bandaging on Harry’s
leg and moved now to his shoulder.
“Right,” said Yagis. “We move boat down by my house better.” He looked overboard. “When tide back in. Maybe half-hour.” Already the Hesperus was listing less, trembling in the placid waves.
“Maybe better go leave when tide come back,” said Charley. Harry kept silent as Charley washed his shoulder in iodine, then dipped the needle in the bottle before threading it once more. “Bruise here very big and big open cut on top. Much pain for sew back.” Then he pushed the needle in through Harry’s skin and across and out again and tugged, and the broken edges of the wound were drawn together.
Yagis watched Harry, who just breathed heavily through his nose, knowing he was even now being judged on his strength of character. After a moment, Yagis seemed satisfied and nodded his head. “Better you go,” he said. “You give Walewid much shame. All know he wrong. He try steal from you and you fight and you win. Shame on him and family that he do wrong thing, and white man beat him in fight. And look stupid in water.” Yagis laughed, but with little humour. “Very funny. But if brother die, then more trouble.”
Charley finished his sewing. He took another bandage, tied it into a sling, wrapped it about Harry, and secured his arm tight against his chest. Harry rolled sideways, leaned out over the gunnels and threw up. Then he sent Charley down into the hold to bring up a bottle. He guzzled and passed it to Yagis. Together, they listened to the murmur of the people ashore, each staring at the deck and deep in their thoughts, waiting for what would come with the tide.
On shore there was a larger hubbub then. Harry saw a form in the doorway to Walewid’s house that seemed some shapeless, writhing darkness, turning about, blocking sometimes half the firelight inside the house behind, as if it shrunk down to drift low upon the ground, then rearing up until only a sliver of light was visible. It twisted again, and now Harry could see that it had a head, and the profile was that of a wolf. The jaws snapped open and shut, the sound a sharp clack-clack that echoed against the darkness. Then it spoke in the throaty singsong of high Kwakwala. All fell silent to listen. The voice was Walewid’s.
The Cannibal Spirit Page 9