The Moss Garden Journal Of Chan Wing Tsit

by Richard Bell

  Chapter 21

  Comcomly was laid in a ceremonial canoe grasping a eagle feather with his favorite weapons and possessions about him. The boat was carried onto the small burial island near Yakala, among the dead dating back before memory. Men and women slashed at their skin and hair in mourning–it took almost a month before life returned to normal.

  Komkomis had no option but to allow Newha Mokst to give the remaining Willamette youths as painful and dishonorable a death as possible. I didn’t need to hear their screams for it to haunt my dreams.

  Intent upon serving Komkomis I swallowed my reservations and maintained a cautious openness. Facing his new formal duties would be difficult and I owed him my friendship and support whether I felt betrayed or not. So I spent more time than ever in councils, sitting close behind him listening to the public and private business so that he would have someone to discuss things with.

  Kilakota’s grief for Comcomly was extremely deep. She was so good at fulfilling all her usual rolls that most people didn’t see how intently she poured herself into finding proof against those who had sent the youths. Her quiet intensity scared me…whoever was responsible would pay in ways I didn’t want to consider.

  The Klatskanias and Willamettes admitted hatching the plot and paying the youth’s transport to Nahcotta, but they refused to pay compensation for the misdeeds. To me that admission seemed evidence enough for revenge. But it seemed Kilakota ignored it.

  In the last year, with marriage and clan membership I felt authentically Tsinuk, but felt lost and hopeless now. I was Tsinuk, but somewhere inside Chinese. I walked Tsinuk soil as a Tsinuk…but also the path of the Buddha Dharma and felt very much a priest. It wasn’t easy being a Buddhist in a non-Buddhist land.

  Master Lu once warned his students of the intoxication of Chan practice. Religious-practice is often addictive…it can be toxic when performed out of habit or duty…or taken more seriously than serves a human life. Students often want to believe that because something is meaningful to them…that it has meaning in itself. It’s easy to assume that extreme dedication makes one a better student…actually it’s a symptom of ignorance and unbalance. I see it even among Tsinuks.

  The Way is a way of being. “Trying” doesn’t help. Trying is understandable, but hopelessly dysfunctional.

  Once, when hearing the call of a seabird I remembered Master Lu saying, “There is no gap between the obvious and hidden. I wanted to be accepted and that felt hidden. I assume the reality of that is obvious…but it wasn’t at the moment for me.

  A seabird shrieked just above me. I grieved Comcomly. Suddenly, I understood. Smiling and bobbing my head like Uncle Tanaka I realized that I really did see what was obvious. There was no gap between my self and the world, no difference between living this moment and enlightenment. Between acceptance and non-acceptance. I was who I was and my setting was as it was. There was nothing else involved. One understood that or not…“reality” simply was. Reality was seamless. Human distinctions didn’t matter.

  I bowed in gratitude to the seabird that sparked my insight, wondering if I should consider it a totem. I was married to a Tsinuk and walked with the chief as brother; I was Tsinuk, yet was not. I was. There was no contradiction.

  Winter descended early. A messenger arrived soaked the bone and minutes later Kilakota announced she was returning to Yakaitl-Wimakl. Despite the pounding storm, within the hour she Tewaugh and Tzum set off with a small flotilla, expecting us to follow.

  This would not be a short trip. It was decided that our lodge’s roof would be removed and the lodge left barren through the winter. It would discourage our dead’s lingering spirits and incidentally kill the fleas that flourished in its warmth. Those remaining in Nahcotta would move to neighbors. Uncle Tanaka and Nowamooks’ artisans moved into back to Tewaugh’s lodge even though he and Tzum were coming with us. Others went to relatives.

  When the storm cleared the roof was taken off in a single afternoon. Opened to the sky the space looked dismal. On my last morning, Uncle Tanaka and I sat in quiet communion, already aching over our separation. I told him to keep our sweat lodge going during my absence. He refused and quoted logic I didn’t understand. So we stripped its smoke-darkened roof-mats and performed rituals honoring all who had visited.

  The sturdy ribs and cedar thatched roof of my temple remained in place; in Buddhism, maintaining the useful was valued, despite human comings and goings. He didn’t understand me any more than I understood him. I told him to leave my temple to the weather. We shared our last poignant moments as a braid of sweetgrass smoldered.

  There was nothing else I needed to do. Komkomis was busy with a mountain of last-minute details as Nowamooks dealt with business issues. I walked out to the ocean and stared across its endless distance. Somewhere a hundred thousand li away was a home so irretrievably lost that I might have been lifted from the wheel of life.

  With my feet washed by the sea, I said my final goodbye to China. Life was short and distance endless. With Comcomly’s death I felt the sharp pang of my own mortality. All was in flux. Even Chan had fallen to my weightless acceptance of the Way.

  Within days of arriving at the Great River a winter storm descended and cloaked the world in cold. Thick fog grudgingly gave way to drizzle and icy rain that turned the river into a raging flood and paths into sodden swamps.

  I sat among Elk Society men watching a Goose Society ritual, feeling very much Tsinuk. Retiring early, I was grateful to curl around Nowamooks. Whatever I was, it was not an awkward stranger. I had committed myself and taken refuge in my totems, yet was still a Buddhist and a priest. There was no contradiction with the deeper dharma. I was a priest married to a shaman and advisor to a great young chief. I had been blessed indeed.

  Travel and trade were impossible. Again it was the time of acknowledging clan and totems. I sat through endless councils and the retelling of legends.

  Days drifted into one another through nights of dancing and days of quiet reflection. It was a time of small gifts and recognizing indebtedness. Long lineages were recited, hereditary titles and honorary names recounted by every voice that rose. Afternoons and evenings were filled with legends and stories that took days to tell. I recited my lineage from Bodhidharma through Master Lu. Almost always, day or night, somewhere among the lodges a drum circle lent a throbbing beat.

  Where Nahcotta was a small village surrounded by a few others, Yakaitl-Wimakl was a tumultuous city. But I found the constant activity tiring. I missed the quiet of my temple as rain turned to sleet and even visiting neighbors became difficult. I meditated facing a wall as I had in the priest’s hall at Nan Hua, merely another man seeking communion with his totems.

  But Yakaitl-Wimakl was a hotbed of rumor. Comcomly, Kilakota, Komkomis, Tzum Tupso and Tewaugh as well as every society and clan each had informants connecting every lodge and village along the river. Kilakota alone was said to have contacts owing favors in every lodge within two day’s travel. The flood of information was so deep it was impossible to weigh.

  A daughter of the Klatskania chief claimed she had proof that Tewaugh killed Willamettes and sank their boats, but she’d never shown it to anyone. Some said Kilakota controlled Tewaugh like a puppet; others claimed he was the mastermind. There were rumors beyond counting and Tsinuk revenge seemed strangely elastic. Yakala’s name had yet to be potlatched. Kilakota still waited.

  An icy cold descended so piercing that no amount of clothes could keep you warm. With the river dangerous and trails flooded, little could be done. A bitter storm brought snow, then rain turned it to slush and half-frozen mud ruled life. Day after day we ate dried fish and tart mashed berries and winter rituals became threadbare burdens.

  A bright note came amid the damp. Ellewa and Flower, Yakala’s then Komkomis’ wives would bear their children in early spring. If the spirits were willing, babies who might live to be chief, would enliven our lodge. Nowamooks watched with barely hidden longing as the expectant mothers were
indulged and pampered.

  Nowamooks and I endured constant social obligations, appearing together publicly through the day but divided by totems and clan and gender many evenings. Only late in the night were we free to be alone together, sharing intimacy and gossip as we snuggled in the dark. The dream of the green stones returned to me. I’d clutch them close then lose them to the flooding tide. I’d wakeup desperate, tasting salt.

  Tempers grew short in the last months of winter. Everything was damp and gritty and even casual words sparked arguments. But the cold finally eased and green buds signaled a coming spring. Then our first spring rituals.

  We had survived and again emerged to springtime.

  Days stretched and friends visited and families instead of clans were foremost again. The first traders returned business to all minds and we lurched unsteadily into a round of feasts. Warm coastal winds brought spring to inland valleys. Leaf-buds swelled on branches until our winter-scarred world was draped with green. Then the heat from the high inland deserts blew westward.

  The barely-toddling daughter of Kilakota’ cousin gathered the first curling fern shoots. The child slept the shoots were scattered on the river to encourage the coming bounty and we partied through the night.

  The first of every season as well as a girl’s first berries and a boy’s first fish were carried through the village to great commotion and acclaim. The child who gathered would not taste a bite…for firsts were given away to impress the importance of feeding others. Eels and acorns, bitterroot, wappato and camas, everything had a first. We kept the blood of the year’s first salmon for five days before returning it to the river to lead its kindred. The second salmon would receive salmon berries in its mouth and be returned to the river.

  Recognition of the world’s cycles became life’s dominant theme. Nowamooks eyed mothers and babies with an uneasy smile of longing. A deep vein of child-longing pulses in human souls; deepest of all in women’s. But it was an awkward subject to address and I assumed her friends knew far more. I too would love a child, but such things were not discussed with men.

  I wanted to return to Nahcotta. The crowding and commotion of the river made me nervous. Certainly there was excitement and the throb of the River’s pulse, but I missed Nahcotta’s quieter flow.

  Komkomis pushed me to go. Nowamooks promised to follow when she could. She was helping Kilakota winnow through swirling rumors. Tewaugh volunteered to accompany oversee the re-roofing of our lodge, and greet the traders already trickling south. I suspected the renewal of lethal threats encouraged the decision.

  I returned eager to rebuild the sweat lodge with Uncle Tanaka. The first morning back he waited beside the lodge’s door. We watched the sun lift over the mountains before ambling to our site.

  After my meditation, Uncle Tanaka insisted we had more important chores. Bowing to his wisdom, I let him lead me in building racks for the coming fish runs.

  We did that for two days then cleaned the three fire pits of Komkomis’ roofless lodge before burning our first braid of sweet-grass and singing our lodge’s spirit song. We recovered the frame and cleaned the grounds. As he tended his fire and heated the season’s first rocks I cleared fallen branches and rocks from our trail and pulled-off my temple’s tattered thatching. We placed bigger posts behind my squared-beam of my doorway and crossbeams to support a substantial roof.

  After re-thatching Uncle Tanaka’s lean-to, we hired Nowamooks to rededicate the sweat lodge. I’d come expecting to stay a month or more, but found the nights lonely without Nowamooks. Tewaugh insisted she was too busy to join me, so leaving him the job of replacing of out lodge roof, I returned to Yakaitl-Wimakl.

  Nowamooks was busy when I entered our lodge; offering a quick, nervous wave before turning back to her guests. Even across the dimly lit space I could see the intensity in her eyes. I watched a messenger slip-in to whisper in her ear. She shook her head and gave a growl that sent him flying out the door.

  Finally escorting her visitors to the door, she settled beside me, exhausted. “Great storms gather,” she muttered quietly. “The Willamettes and Klatskanias have enlisted hundreds of warriors. Kilakota is angrier than I’ve ever seen her. After the clam festival Komkomis fears violence if enemies come …he passed word that they aren’t welcome at our next Festival.”

  Her face was marked with foreboding. Barring people from festivals was nearly unprecedented. Stories of welcoming enemies were legend. The healing nature of festivals stretched back to spirit times. Disputes were set aside.

  “It became their excuse for war. All winter they made angry speeches, calling for our lodges to be burnt.”

  “Perhaps it’s talk?”

  Nowamooks shook her head sadly. “No…they’ve sung war chants since the first signs of spring and have called for their allies to gather. In every village of the lower river they’ve boasted of striking coup. Warriors already rebind their weapons.”

  I thought of how she’d encouraged me to return to Nahcotta. “You’ve known of this since winter.” It was a statement of fact, not a question. “You knew this was coming…but didn’t tell me.”

  “It’s safer there and there was nothing to be done,” she stated flatly. “I want to keep you safe. No one can stop this. The Willamettes and Klatskanias are committed and talk of honor, plunder and controlling trade. Komkomis has had to ask our friends for warriors. We are committed now too; our warriors ready weapons. Between us soon there will be more than a thousand warriors...this is not your war.”

  “My love, even if I’m only a shadow of a Tsinuk, this is my fight.” I sighed sadly. “No, it’s not my choice; but you’re my wife. Please don’t call me a stranger.”

  Worry etched deep lines beside her mouth. Her eyes were hard and there was a terse edge to her voice. “I would rather you be safe,” she whispered. We sat looking into each other’s eyes as the setting sun stretched long shadows. After sitting in silence I slipped away to get us food. Unfolding our blankets and entwining our legs we snuggled close without another word.

  The next morning Komkomis favored me with a nervous smile. He too had said nothing of gathering warriors. I was hurt by the slight. But I still owed him my allegiance. Despite being betrayed, I would support him.

  I sat in the shadows through councils belaboring strategy. The Willamettes and Klatskanias would control the river if we were driven under. But the coming war would cost hundreds of deaths and the enslavement of hundreds more. Loosing would mean the end of all that was Tsinuk.

  Information flowed unceasingly. It took a great part of each day to keep even. Day after day we heard of the swelling Klatskania forces, the warriors of allies traveling up the Willamette and beyond the great trading sites. Their war parties assembled on the banks of the Willamette and south of Celilo; hundreds of fires dotted the shores.

  Our council saw no advantage at hurrying them. Up-river, they had the advantage of knowing the scene and getting food from friendly hands—further down-river those advantages became ours. Komkomis sent dozens of messengers up both the River and the northern coast. Our allies flooded in. The Quileute, Clatsops, Kathlamets and Tillamooks sent warriors in a hundred canoes.

  Kwun-num Tupshin appealed to his northern Salish friends to send warriors to join our cause. Boatloads of Makaha and NuuChaNulth fighters appeared, joining the warriors of allies far upstream beyond Celilo. There were reports of Klatskanias attacking our friends coming down the river. The gathering’s size would be miraculous if its reason had been less ominous.

  Yakaitl-Wimakl hummed with grim energy as focus shifted to the feeding and maintenance of visitors. Strange languages were heard everywhere. Strange faces and customs became common as allies readied themselves for battle. Warriors prepared weapons and communed with totems; purifying themselves with sweats and song.

  I overheard a woman ask her husband to take care. But he merely reached for his son and told her, “May our totem spirits raise my son to be a warrior. May he someday return from ba
ttle to claims that he is even better than his father. May his mother’s heart be glad when he lifts our enemy’s scalps.”

  There was long empty moment of silence before the mother smiled through her tears. Deeply troubled by the exchange, I sat alone by the river, thinking until dark.

  A council of allied elders debated the coming battles. Our enemies had slowed their pace. It was commonly felt that neither had advantage on the water. A lengthy battle would cost incredible numbers and its outcome was impossible to predict. We discussed strategies to gain advantage.

  Ambushing those approaching was an obvious tactic, but with such a huge attacking horde, even dozens of boats attacking them would only be an annoyance and we’d be paddling against the current. And with the numbers arrayed against us, warriors lying in wait could be quickly overwhelmed. Despite that it was agreed that there must be constant, daily strikes, picking off warriors at the edges of their camps. Unhindered enemies became emboldened. Hearing the death songs of friends would cool their lust for blood.

  Some of our fastest boats snuck up-river in the dark to sweep down attacking enemies along the banks–attacking like wasps and flying away. Our warriors hovered near Willamette and Klatskania villages to intercept messengers and pick off stragglers. When Komkomis learned of Willamette parties out scavenging he sent warriors to kill them.

  That strategy slowly showed fruit. Kilakota’s mice reported the scarcity of Klatskanias supplies. Their raiding of villages sewed resentment that brought us allies. With our enemies mired in uncertainty our slim chances increased slightly. Still, I was haunted by the certain knowledge that within days the battle would arrive. Allowing them to reach our lodges would mean disaster.

  Inexperienced youths talked of striking coup and honor, but our elders knew the horrors of battle and wanted a definite strategy. Surprise and a tactical advantage might be found in the sloughs and marsh-bound islands. Surprise and superior strategy might off-set the weight of simple numbers.

  The Tillamooks sent daily canoes of food and ferried the warriors of southern neighbors. We gathered provisions ceaselessly—not an easy task after the winter’s depletion and before the summer’s bounty. Day after day, women scoured the land for food. Messengers were sent to every village within three day’s travel. Promises and the forgiveness of debt were exchanged for dried fish and huckleberries, wappato, pemmican and jerky. We called in old pledges and extended obligations. The war would cost us dearly, but it was no time to hold back.

  Each member of the war council had spies reporting enemy movements. They met a few times each day to discuss problems and weigh the latest news. From my place behind Komkomis I watched the arrayed faces. I was hardly noticed, but I had nothing to say. I was simply a witness and advisor. And I was husband to Nowamooks when she finally came to bed exhausted.

  Should we lose, our lives would be forfeit. I searched among my store of second-hand wisdom, wanting to be ready when Komkomis asked. Confucius taught that allowing people to go to war without guidance, betrayed them. Lao Tzu confirmed that those of the Tao turned away from war. Having no Buddhist advice on fighting left me feeling useless.

  Faces grew drawn as the Willamettes and Klatskanias assembled above the Willamette, ready for their drive. Komkomis sent more warriors to stalk their fringes and archers in our fastest boats to pepper anyone offering a target, hoping to get our enemies looking over their shoulders and questioning the decision to risk death.

  Finally it was sure that the fight would come tomorrow. If not stopped that day they would be in our village. Komkomis sought me out amid the confusion and we walked through a soft rain.

  “By tomorrow evening the world will have changed,” he stated flatly. He had aged a generation and his eyes stared from wrinkle-lined sockets. “Many will die...do you know who will fall?”

  Tears welled in my eyes. “I know nothing but old words, my friend.”

  Komkomis smiled wearily. “Then Chaningsit, tell me old words.”

  I took a breath, “Great warriors are not angry. Instead of flourishing their strength, they hold their weapons lightly and constantly retreat.’”

  He looked deeply into my eyes and held me fixed. “Already friends have died. If we lose, the Tsinuk people will come to an end. It was me who said the Klatskanias could not come to our festival. It’s a stupid reason to kill and die.”

  I looked up into the falling mist. “There are no good reasons to die, my friend. And you know that’s not why they come. Whatever brought us here you must leave behind. Look beyond tomorrow. Fight if you must, but remember that war is followed by famine. Love of victory brings slaughter. Win or lose, all who survive will grieve.”

  Komkomis clasped his hand upon my shoulder and stared into my face. His hand squeezed so hard it hurt, but there was anguish in his eyes.

  “I won’t forget what you’ve told me Chaningsit. Many will die.” He turned stiffly and walked away. He had another council…one I was purposefully not invited to.

  I lifted a hand as if to hold him, but did not call out as he disappeared into the mist. He needed to prepare his spirit and I had no words of meaning.

  That night the Klatskanias and Willamettes camped on the north side of the river—across and upriver from the village of Kathalmet. In the pale light of morning their boats slowly eased from the wisping fog, back-paddling against the current to maintain their position, the huge flotilla hugging the northern bank. I climbed a bluff and watched their seemingly endless canoes, deciding they alone could easily have more than a thousand warriors. War songs drifted to the sky.

  Across the wide river, a string of islands hugged the shore, down from them stretched reed-choked marshes. As I watched, a few brightly painted boats emerged from behind the islands. I watched Komkomis and his friends toss defiant insults and taunts.

  As the first of the foe split off to attack, a collection of nimble Tsinuk canoes sped down, mid-river. They quickly skirted the huge body of Willamettes and attacking from behind, pelted the attackers with arrows and insults before passing them to join Komkomis.

  It incited the larger force to follow. Screaming with anger, our foes swarmed in frenzied pursuit, but the river’s central current, spread them out. As the first arrived, our warriors slipped away into the maze of sloughs then teasingly reveal themselves, then duck away again, leading the enemy deeper and deeper into the tules.

  The smallest and fastest of the enemy’s boats had streaked across the river, the larger, more cumbersome craft were swept further down and had to work back upriver. Soon the attacking forces stretched in disarray across the river from the northern shore to the southern sloughs beyond the Willamette’s mouth.

  As the enemy slowly began entering the marshes Tsinuks would pop from the reeds hurling rocks and catcalls. Soon enemy boats were scattered among the tangled sloughs, The deeper, the more isolated and disorganized they became. Still Tsinuks popped up with insults that left them shaking with frustrated fury.

  Komkomis and his warriors kept feinting and retreating until they floundered in the mud along the shore. Still defiant, they delayed another moment, taunting from the edge of shoulder high grass.

  More than half of the enemy boats entered the reeds where they couldn’t maneuver. They hadn’t recognized the trap. They gave triumphant shouts and pressed onward. But it was a short-lived victory, for suddenly s bands of Tsinuks and their allies emerged from the tules to upend boats and attack with spears and clubs.

  Singing their battle cries, Tsinuk warriors rose from the marsh to slaughter their hapless foe. Caught in the reeds, panicked attackers abandoned canoes and weapons to flee. Having lost their advantage, the boats that could quickly retreated in disarray. Recognizing they’d lost they sought escape.

  The mud of the Great River ran red. Our foes became increasingly desperate as sporadic skirmishes continued through the afternoon. Warriors were flushed from hiding; cries would erupt, shattering the hush of buzzing insects. Then, almost inevitably, Klatskania o
r Willamette death-songs would begin, then suddenly give way to silence. They’d been vanquished almost miraculously–with nowhere to flee but the territory of our friends.

  Flushed with their success, a Tsinuk party attacked an outlying Willamette lodge, but didn’t go further. Finally, Komkomis sent messengers through the sloughs calling friendly forces to return in triumph.

  I slowly descended from my vantage, numbed from watching the carnage. Neither side would ever be able to count their dead. Many on both sides would simply not return, cousins and brothers and clan-mates were gone. Human bones would litter the eroding shores for generations yet ahead. It was beyond doubt the largest, most terrible battle of all the wars in all the legends throughout the river, but few would brag of victory that day.

  The first of our bloodied warriors returned that afternoon. Stragglers and our injured kept appearing through the next two days. Truly honorable hand to hand fighting was limited. Moving our warriors to those marshes the night before had won the battle, but we still had many dead and wounded and there was grumbling that it hadn’t been honorably fought.

  Nowamooks and I went from lodge to lodge, commiserating and consoling. Our anxious concern first blossomed into a giddy thrill, then relief. That fell away as our losses sunk-in, shocked by the wails of grief about us. We nodded and listened, visiting one fire after another, but there wasn’t much to say.

  Sweat lodges were crowded as warriors sang to totems and reconciled themselves to the deaths of friends. The victory was ghastly. Many hundreds would never be found. Slow drumming, mournful songs and quiet speeches punctuated the following days of prayer. All who emerged alive were honored and our missing were mourned, but there was no solace. Certainly the great battle would live in legends. Coup had been honorably struck, great courage and cunning shown, scalps taken, dignity upheld and the attackers repulsed, but there was a mortal heaviness to the universe that would not lift for years.

  As soon as they were able, our allies set off for their homes. The battle was the substance of enduring stories, but all families lost brothers, cousins and friends. After mourning there would be boasting, but that would not come for a moon or more. Prestige and tribute could only be claimed after our debt to the dead was honored.

  Komkomis sat beside me looking across the Great River. We watched the sunrise emerge from the star-extinguishing gray to spread color through layered clouds. When sunlight finally glittered upon the water, the air began to warm and he let out a long, tired breath.

  “There is talk among warriors that each of our fallen warriors leaves a killer’s unpaid debt.”

  Shocked, I looked at him, shaking my head in disbelief.

  “You don’t approve of more revenge, do you Chaningsit.” His voice was almost amused. A flight of ducks rose noisily to circle and head upriver.

  I felt myself shaking, but carefully choose my words. “More revenge Komkomis? Why? The stability and trade that sustains us has been lost. What of healing? Will revenge return trade?” I glared.. “Few will trade with the losers...so our enemies may starve. Surely that’s revenge enough. What does the council need?”

  He shook his head sadly. “It is honorable that those who lost should pay.” His voice held a quiet firmness, but there was no strength of conviction. “They should pay for making war.”

  “But they claim that we drove them to it.” I countered. “They too have dead. Do you want more hatred twisted into the rope our lives and trade depend upon? Whoever among them survives will simply kill more Tsinuk...where will it end?”

  His jaw clamped hard. “But if I don’t support it, I’ll appear weak.”

  “If you line the River with enemies there will never be trade...without trade, how can we be Tsinuk?”

  Komkomis shut his eyes. “The Klatskanias are almost nothing now. Only a few of their warriors survived. They gambled everything and lost, now ghosts inhabit their villages. Their chiefs are dead and their few surviving elders disgraced. Perhaps they will disburse among neighbors; perhaps they will starve. They can not pay a debt… their dishonor will have to serve as revenge.”

  “What of the Willamettes,” I questioned. “Will they allow us to trade to the south if we demand revenge? What will it cost? Endless attacks and more missing boats?”

  Komkomis gave me a long hard look. “I understand your council. I’ll bring the problem to my totems.” Komkomis rose to his feet. “…and Kilakota.”

  Nowamooks never again mentioned the battle. Though victorious, Yakaitl-Wimakl, our village on the Great River, was inhabited by hollow-eyed impersonators of Tsinuks. Among us, hundreds of lost spirits would linger about out lodges. Where there used to be gaiety and trade, now barrenness throbbed slowly.

  Nowamooks and I wanted to return to Nahcotta, but our allies’ delegations began arrive. Each would have to be met and hosted, awarded gifts and recognition. We stayed, playing hosts through the next full moon.

  Komkomis and Kilakota finally insisted we return home. It was decided that the fall clam festival would be one of mourning and healing. It was a subdued affair, but showed great heart. Visitors were welcomed, societies danced, gifts distributed and rituals observed, but it was not a celebration. Somewhere ahead, our sorrow would end. But that would not be soon.

  But it was OK. It was Tsinuk. It was real.