by Scott O'Dell
Zia
Scott O'Dell
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Houghton Mifflin Company Boston
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to Dorothy Markinko
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Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
O'Dell, Scott, 1903—
Zia.
SUMMARY: A young Indian girl, Zia, caught between
the traditional world of her mother and the present
world of the Mission, is helped by her aunt Karana
whose story was told in the Island of the Blue Dolphins.
[1. Indians of North America—Fiction]
I. Title.
PZ7.0237Zi (Fic] 75-44156
ISBN 0-395-24393-9
COPYRIGHT © 1976 BY SCOTT O'DELL
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be
reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and
recording, or by any information storage or retrieval
system, except as may be expressly permitted by the 1976
Copyright Act or in writing from the publisher. Requests
for permission should be addressed in writing to
Houghton Mifflin Company, 2 Park Street,
Boston, Massachusetts 02108.
V 10 9 8
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Also by
SCOTT O'DELL
The Black Pearl
Child of Fire
The Cruise of the Arctic Star
The Dark Canoe
Island of the Blue Dolphins
Journey to Jericho
The King's Fifth
Sing Down the Moon
The Treasure of Topo-El-Bampo
The Hawk That Dare Not Hunt by Day
1
AFTER ONE of the big storms that come in from the islands, our shore is covered with small clams. The clams are no larger than the end of your finger and the wind spread them out on the beach so thick it's hard to walk. The clams are blue and when you look either way, up or down the beach, all you can see for leagues are these tiny blue clams. That's why we call it the Blue Beach.
The great storms always come in the winter but this one came in June and the beach was covered with clams up to your ankles. Usually we raked them up, my brother and I, into baskets and took them back to the Mission. There we washed them and cooked them in a little fresh water. They made wonderful soup, these little blue clams, and we would make a whole meal out of a bowl of soup and a handful of tortillas.
On this morning, after the storm had raged all night, we went to the beach early to gather clams. But the storm had washed up so much that we forgot the clams for a while and went running along the beach searching for other things.
We had a plan and we never changed it. We called it que busco primero, yo mantengo. For instance, if Mando found something first that he wanted he would keep it, and if I found something first that I wanted I would do the same. But if Mando found ajar with syrup in it and I found a fishing line and a hook, then we would make a swap. If we saw something at the same time and we both shouted "mine," then we would draw sticks and the one who got the longer stick won. We had very strict rules, but sometimes we quarreled over things both wanted. Then we wouldn't speak to each other for a day.
On this morning, as we waded through the clams and picked up many things—a clock, part of a sail, and a carpenter's plane—I saw something gray drifting at the edge of the surf.
"Mine," I shouted and ran toward it.
Mando ran too, shouting, "Mine! Mine!"
It was a boat, a boat that one of the big ships had lost and it had floated ashore.
We reached the boat at the same time. Mando was still shouting, "Mine! Mine!" He was so excited he just stood there looking at the boat and shouting.
I calmly walked over and put my hand on the bow.
"I saw it first. And it's mine. That's the rule, Mando."
There were tears in his eyes.
"But I will make you captain. I'll be the owner and you'll be the captain who steers it," I said.
This seemed to satisfy him. He rubbed his eyes and tried to smile.
There was a name on the stern of the boat. It was printed in English and all I could read was the first word, Boston. Then a "B" and then a blank space where the paint had peeled away and then the letter "Y." Two words.
The boat turned up at both ends and was six strides long and about two strides wide. There were three places to sit, places for four oars, but there was only one oar left, and a harpoon. It was a very stout boat and once it had been painted black.
"What can we do with it?" I asked Mando, who was still trying to master his disappointment. "What do you say, captain?"
Mando walked around the boat and picked up the oar and put it back. "We can't take it to the Mission. Someone would steal it the first night."
"If we put our name on it?" I asked. "And pulled it up the beach and turned it upside down?"
"Even if we took it into the chapel, they would steal it," Mando said.
He scratched his nose, which always helped him to think. I waited, having no thoughts of my own.
"I'll tell you what," he said at last, walking around the boat again, "We'll hide it."
"But where?"
"You know San Felipe lagoon? We'll hide it there."
"But how do we get the boat into the lagoon?" I said.
"We float it. We walk and push at the same time." He grabbed hold of the stern. "And we do it now. Now. In another hour everyone will be shouting and running around down here."
We floated the longboat with the first big wave and step by step, my brother pushing against the stern and me guiding it from the bow, we came to the mouth of San Felipe lagoon. The tide was beginning to ebb, but we steered into the lagoon. We had enough water under us to shove the boat ashore.
No one ever came here because, close by, at the far end of the lagoon, was a haunted cave. Bats flew out of it at dusk and at dawn they flew back. Some said it was the home of a large snake. There were many bad tales about it. Everyone was afraid of the lagoon and the cave. Mando was, too, but he pretended that he wasn't.
Nevertheless, we covered the boat with brush and seaweed, just to be sure that no one would see it. Then we gathered our trophies along the beach, acting as though nothing had happened, and went back to the Mission, high above the beach on a hill.
2
THE SERVICE was just beginning and afterward I went to Father Vicente to confess that I had found a boat on the beach.
Father Vicente was young and had a bony face and eyes the color of chocolate. He was a kind man. I think he liked me and I liked him.
I sat down on the little bench and put my lips against the screen that separated us. I could not see him but I knew he was there, listening to me. Some of the fathers would act as if they were listening to you but you could tell that they were thinking of something else.
"This morning," I said, "I found a boat on the shore. It was washed up by the storm."
"What kind of a boat?" said Father Vicente from far off, as if he were talking from another world.
"It looks like the boats the whaling ships use when they go out to kill whales. It had places for four oars but all were lost save one. And it had a harpoon and a long line fastened to the harpoon."
"Where is it now?"
"My brother and I hid it in San Felipe lagoon."
"Is there a name on the boat?" Father Vicente asked me.
"There is a word." I spelled it for him. "Then there's another word that begins with a 'B' and then there's a letter that is rubbed out and then another letter. 'Y.'"
"Boston is part of the name and the last word is Boy. Boston Boy," said Father Vicente. "She's a whaler from Boston and hunts beyon
d Santa Rosa Island and the crew visits us sometimes. I've not seen them for two years now. They used to come every year."
I waited and held my breath. Then I said, "I found the boat on the shore. Does it belong to the ship or does it belong to me? That is what I want to know."
"They may not come to look for it," Father Vicente replied.
"But if they do come and ask if we have seen their boat, what will you say?"
"I will say I have not seen it," said Father Vicente, "which is the truth, verdad."
"It is the truth," I answered, "but if they ask you if you have heard of the boat?"
"I will say, 'Yes, señores, I have heard that a whaleboat washed ashore in the storm. I have heard this, but I have not seen the boat.'"
"It is the truth, but does the boat really belong to them? It was theirs and it broke away and washed up on our beach. Can they say that it is still their boat whether it broke away and washed up or not? That is what I would like to know."
"By the law of the sea the whaleboat you found belongs to you."
"But maybe they will not come to look for it. They have many boats."
"The best. But, Zia, the boat is yours. That is the law. Furthermore, you possess it and possession is important in matters of this kind."
"I did not steal the boat," I said, still a little troubled in spite of Father Vicente's advice. "It was a gift from the sea."
Father Vicente was silent for a while. "What plans do you have for this boat?" he asked.
"Mando is the captain and we will go out and fish and dive for abalone," I answered.
"But together, Zia. Mando is not to go alone. Is that understood? Good. He is young and sometimes giddy in the head. If I had a boat I would not trust him. Not alone. Not outside the lagoon. Not even that far alone."
"Nor will I."
When I said good-bye to Father Vicente, I went outside to the garden. Mando was waiting for me.
"Did you go to confession?" I asked him.
"Yes, to Father Merced."
"Did you tell him about the boat?"
"No. He does not care about boats. Nor does God," said Mando. "But we do not have a real boat yet. It has only one oar. You cannot go anywhere with one oar, except in circles. When we have a real boat, then I will tell somebody maybe. But not Father Merced."
He started off toward the beach. I called him back. "Listen, Mando. You are not to take the boat out of the lagoon except when I am with you. Understand?"
Mando nodded. "I am going now to find a branch. One that is straight. One that is straight and will make a good oar."
"Before you go," I said, "Promise me that you will not take the boat unless I am with you. Look me in the eyes and promise."
Mando looked at me, though it caused him an effort. He touched his lips with his thumb and made some gestures that had to do with god Mukat and with Zando, asking for their help.
"I promise," he said and went running off to look for a straight limb.
Where he found the limb I do not know but it was straight and strong and he spent hours on it in the Mission shop before and after his work in the fields. He used my boat's oar for a model and made his oar exactly like it in shape, though it was heavier than mine.
We took the oar to the lagoon early the next Sunday morning after the church service was over. It was a bright day. The tide was moving out and the sun sparkled.
"You take the light oar," Mando said, "the one on the right side."
I clambered into the boat and sat down beside him and we both began to row down the lagoon toward the sea. Just before you reach the end of the lagoon there is a small beach and here we went ashore. Mando had brought an adobe brick with him and he scraped the stern of the boat where the name was. He scraped it clean and from the sack he carried on his back he took a wooden sign about two feet long.
"I made it in the workshop. What do you think? A good joke, huh? I changed the name. Father Zurriga helped me and we made a new name. See."
He held it up. The plaque was painted in white letters. It said Island Girl.
Mando was pleased with his little joke. "Boston Boy. Island Girl. That's a better name, huh?"
"For Karana?"
"Named for you," Mando said. "For you, my sister. Because all you talk of is going to the island."
He nailed the plaque to the stern of the boat and we set off again. At the end of the lagoon where it meets the sea there is a long spit of land, curved like a saber. The spit breaks the force of the waves and we had no trouble rowing to the end of it and into the open sea.
We did not go far, but rowed along the shore, just outside the line where the swells begin to gather and break. And as the sun grew hot we headed back for the lagoon.
3
ALL THE beachcombing we did for the next week was to find things for the boat—some rope, a cushion, a blanket, a box of fishhooks inside an empty wine barrel, a heavy piece of iron, two bottles the right size to fill with drinking water.
The next Sunday morning we did not leave the lagoon. We took the boat and turned it upside down and covered the bottom with tar we had heated in a pot. The tar had washed up on the beach in long strips. I do not know where it came from. Mando said it was sent by Mukat, but this I doubt. The boat had leaked a little before, but now that the bottom was covered with tar not a drop came in.
The following Sunday we picked up the heavy piece of iron where we had hidden it and fastened it to a chain I had found and fastened the chain to a rope. Now we had a boat that did not leak, that had two oars, and an anchor that was so heavy it took both of us to lift it.
"We should go somewhere now," Mando said. "Maybe around the world like Columbus."
"Columbus did not go around the world, Mando."
"Then we will be the first to go."
"Magellan went around the world first," I said, showing off the knowledge I had learned in the Mission school.
"Maybe we can go somewhere not as far," Mando said. "Maybe to the island."
"What island, Mando?" I knew the island he meant. The idea had been in my thoughts even at the moment I had first seen the boat. I thought about it all the time.
"To the Island of the Blue Dolphins," Mando said. "We will find Karana and bring her home." He paused and his face lighted up. "We could put a sail on the boat and sail sometimes when the wind was blowing. Then we could row when it was calm. We could do both. We could row and sail. In two days or three we would reach the island."
"Maybe she is not there now," I said.
"Maybe she is dead," said Mando. "Maybe wild dogs ate her up."
"It is possible," I said to put an end to these thoughts. "But the white man, Captain Nidever, saw her footsteps in the sand when he was there last year."
"Why did he not follow the footsteps? That's what I would like to know."
"There was a storm coming up and he feared for his boat."
"I will ask Mukat and Zando about these things. Then we will know. And maybe Father Merced also. No. Not him. Father Vicente? Maybe he will come with us. It would make it easier with three of us. Then I could fish while we sailed along. It would be easier even if I did not fish. But I am afraid of what Father Merced will say. Likewise Father Vicente. They may not allow us to go."
I felt angry. "We will go anyway, whatever is said. We are not chained to the earth. We have a boat and oars and an anchor. What are they for? They belong to us. To go out in San Felipe lagoon, is that what they are meant for?"
I had already made up my mind to make the voyage beyond the islands of Santa Cruz and Santa Rosa, out to the far island, where no one went, even the Chumash Indians in their red canoes. Nobody ever went there except the ship that came to rescue our tribe, except Captain Nidever, who was a hunter and went to the island to hunt otter. But we would go, my brother and I, now that we owned a seaworthy boat with two oars.
Yes, we would go and we would go soon. It was why I had come to Mission Santa Barbara in the first place. When Mando and I lived far to t
he south in the Cupeño village of Pala I had decided this.
That was the day two padres came to our village. They came on foot in their sandals and long robes and talked to our chief. They talked for a long time, all that day and into the night. There were more than a hundred of us and most of us listened.
One of the padres said, "Your people will be treated well. They will have plenty to eat. The work will not be heavy and they will have a good place to sleep, better than you have here." He paused to look around at our brush huts. "And we will teach you to speak Spanish and introduce you to our God, who will bless you and look over you."
"We have enough to eat," our chief said. "The huts you look at with scorn are not to our liking. Where we came from, where we lived before the Spanish and the white man drove us away from our meadows and springs, we had better places to live. And our gods, though they are different from yours, bless us with rain and sun and many places where we can go."
This was true.
Every year in the early summer we went to the sea and put up brush huts and fished. We ate some of the fish we caught and abalones we gathered on the rocks, but most of them we put on blankets in the sun and dried for winter.
We stayed on the beach, which was pretty and had white sand, and fished and dug for clams. We netted wild birds that came to a lagoon near where we camped and roasted them in a pit that we dug and covered with seaweed.
Until late summer we lived there on the beach. Then we gathered up our dried fish and our abalones and went back into our hills, which lay close against the mountains. There in the hills we women gathered acorns from the oak trees.
There was a great stone ledge and on this ledge we soaked the acorns and then let them dry in the sun. On the ledge were hundreds of holes that many women during their lifetimes had dug. In these holes, using stones, we ground the acorns to flour. We made many sacks of this flour.
With this flour and the abalone and fish we had gathered and the deer that our hunters ran down and killed, we lived through the winter. Our food sometimes ran low late in the spring. Then we dug roots and lived on those until it was summer and time to go to the sea again.