The Ancestor

by Lee Matthew Goldberg

  You may come out of it enlightened.”

  The next day I follow a moose on my own, a wickedly fast animal that the hunting party has been after all week. It has been teasing us but could feed the village for a month, so I’m determined to be victorious. I shoot from a far distance, while the Tagish people cry at its defeat. They dance around the collapsed moose with a high-pitched chant that their ancestors have sung to bless noble warriors. It’s then I’m allowed into the men-only tribal dances where we dress in wooden masks and painted caribou robes, telling of the ancient myths. Kaawishté explains that George and I will be initiated. We are

  surrounded by Tagish braves, draped with caribou cloaks and yellow raven’s beaks placed over our heads. The shaman dances and chants around us, then we are handed a dark potion that tastes of blood and tart berries. We migrate into the woods.

  “You will stay here,” the shaman says in broken English. “But you must not eat or light a fire. An animal spirit will speak to you. Every Tagish has an animal as a guide in their life. You need to discover which is the animal that watches over you.”

  “How long does that take?” I ask, but George and Kaawishté shake their heads. You do not question a shaman. The shaman walks off in silence, and George and Kaawishté disperse from my sight. I am alone.

  A light snow begins to fall. My mackinaw coat keeps me warm along with gloves made from rabbit skin and a rabbit-fur hat that covers my ears. For what feels like two days and nights, I wait for the raven to speak, the most esteemed of all spirits, or even the eagle. Sweat pours from my face and armpits despite the cold. I assume this is from the potion I drank. A storm pushes through, snow falling in dizzying flakes. I’m unable to walk, a sitting target for the blizzard. The snow piles on, covering me with its icy quilt. I fall into a deep and dark sleep, wade through a dream. It’s the realest dream I’ve ever encountered. A wolf with glacier-blue eyes locks me in its gaze. It speaks with a powerful, calm voice, the words in Tagish but I’m able to comprehend.

  “I am your protector,” the wolf declares. “My spirit will guide you to your future.”

  I awake and dust off my snow blanket. The Tagish spoke of their reverence of the raven and the eagle, so I’m disappointed to be visited by a wolf. When I return from the village, George and Kaawishté are there.

  “You’ve been gone long time,” Kaawishté says.

  “A couple of days.”

  “No, eight nights,” Kaawishté corrects.

  I’m baffled and reply, “A wolf came to me in my dream.”

  “No dream,” the Injun guide says.

  “What animal came to you both?” I ask.

  Kaawishté responds the raven while George talks of the eagle.

  “I wish one of those came to me.”

  “No, wolf is very good,” Kaawishté says. “Represents wealth.”

  When I blink, I see gold nuggets in place of their eyes.

  It’s time to leave soon and I am given a name by the tribesmen upon my departure, Kahse, which means seeker. I’m unsure if that defines me as a prospector or someone who has now sought a new way of thinking, of living too. Will I take what I’ve acquired here back home? Will it enrich me and my brood?

  I decide I will take it to mean both.

  Seeker of gold and what truly matters.

  35

  That Which Blazes Soon Dims

  October 3rd, 1898

  Up the Yukon, we wade down a fat and practically frozen waterway, its streams slicking down from the mountains. First, we try the sandbars, using our oars as shovels but finding nothing but flour gold, so fine it’s barely worth the trouble. I am, however, getting an education. Kaawishté is a fast hand at washing down a pan, and George adept at a pick-and-shovel. Neither ever complains so that begins to rub off on me. And I’m schooled about how different prospecting is from California where I’d pan on the banks and rivers coming off the Sierra Nevadas. Yukon Territory with its giant mountains and powerful rivers that churn the gold to a fine sand. Nuggets only found in tiny brooks and creeks.

  I’m feeling disillusioned once again, and George can read that on my face.

  “You’re thinking of giving up,” he says.

  “How did you know?”

  “Your face wears the mask mine has worn before.”

  “What keeps you so upbeat, George?”

  He takes in a lungful of air. “Smell that nature, crisp like the bite of a fresh apple.

  Even where you’re from, does the air taste like that?”

  “Can’t say it does.”

  “Then breathe in that wealth till your lungs are full.”

  I do as he says and feel a tad better.

  “My daughter, Natsanitna, turns five today.”

  It takes a second for me to recall Little Joe’s birthday. I am becoming more and more removed from them.

  “Her favorite thing to do is weave,” George says, a smile illuminating his face. It’s less round since we began our journey. Some might call it hardened. I say it’s lived in.

  “She makes ribbons for the whole tribe. Beautiful color patterns.” He pulls one from his pocket, a red-and-blue braid. His hair has grown long and he ties the ribbon into his black curls. “Does it match my ensemble?”

  I laugh. George can be such a goof.

  “Look at the water, it’s glistening.”

  Sure enough, the tributary at our backs gleams with shiny pebbles.

  “Quartz,” George says, rubbing his hands. “And where there’s quartz, there’s often gold.”

  The creek twists to the right and George taps out the sediment from his pan, squats down, and dips it into the sunny waters. He breaks apart the sand with his fingers and then spits in it for good luck. Like magic, a bright yellow shape appears, very fine, but this flour gold has heft.

  “This is near where we’ll find our treasure,” George declares.

  We follow the burbling creek up a grassy hill that feels like a valley of golden dreams.

  Birds chirp, the sunlight a caress. A strange rock formation juts out at an impasse. George

  knocks over the damp bedrock and shovels the dirt at his feet into his pan. This time instead of flour gold sit two small nuggets.

  “Well, I’ll be…” I say, drooling.

  That’s all the gold we find in that spot, but about a mile up the creek bed, we reach a fork leading to a rapid waterway called Rabbit Creek, and we stay with the tributary for a while until we hit a slab of black bedrock.

  “Down there,” George says, throwing off his pack and scampering down. Kaawishté and I do the same. In the shallow water, a gold nub shines, big as a minnow. George places the nugget between his teeth as it bends, definitely not yellow rock, the sweet glory of actual gold!

  “Come down and shovel,” he tells us. “Hi yo. Hurry!”

  The gold had been lodged into the nooks and crannies of the rocks. George flings his pan into the air as the gold rains down in sweet delight. Then he starts doing a jig, dipping and twirling and singing like a beautiful fool. Kaawishté and I join, each of us singing our own song of jubilation. All the blood and sweat we’ve put into this Alaskan jaunt, now in Klondike territory, finally paying off. I wish Adalaide and Little Joe could see my weepy smile. Though I’ll settle for my two journeymen. We hug and kiss each other’s cheeks and then break off all the gold we can see, which equals a few fistfuls.

  But as I’ve learned from life, happiness sometimes only greets us in fits and starts. For tragedy often follows merriment. Without strife, we would not know the true meaning of gaiety. That’s what I like to tell myself to ease the pain. So as George dances his heart out, an axe spirals through the air landing directly in his chest. The blade cuts so deep it hastens to bleed. He falls over on his face, stone dead in an instant.

  Kaawishté and I look around for the assailant. A flash whisks by us revealing an Injun savage, hair a dirty mop, blood painted under his eyes, teeth blackened and sharp. He knocks us over, retrieves his axe, and s
ets to steal our gold.

  “No!” I scream, my eyes darting from George to the gold, unsure what to focus on.

  The savage lunges, the axe held high. Kaawishté and I scurry back. The savage has the gold in his dirty palms. He gives a cackle and takes off, fleeing into the camouflaged trees. Kaawishté pursues him without flinching.

  I am left alone with George. Rolling him over, the blood teems from his gaping wound. If he wasn’t dead before, he’s long gone now. A smile permanently stamped across his face. He died not seeing his death, but ultimately his success.

  I give a few blows from my nose as the tears come. I’m crying for the loss of a friend, a true friend, something I haven’t experienced in a long time, and crying for his wife and half-breed child left behind, also because it could have been me. Little Joe might have been going to bed fatherless tonight had I been in George’s place.

  When Kaawishté returns, his hands are painted red with the savage’s blood while carrying the gold blocks under his armpits.

  “I kill him with his own axe.” He grunts, dropping the bloody nuggets at my feet. He bends down and closes George’s eyes. “We bury him.”

  “Of course.”

  We dig in silence as night arrives with its brisk chill, the light of the moon beaming on the grave. Delicately, we hoist George inside as Kaawishté says a prayer over the body. I hold my rabbit-eared hat to my heart.

  “A finer man I’ve never crossed paths,” I say.

  “We bury the gold with him,” Kaawishté replies.

  I’m about to object, but Kaawishté seems determined so I hear him out.

  “It never would have been found if not for George,” he says. “And he sacrificed his life. By having the gold eternally rest with him, we are showing the gods that we deserve to locate our own. And they will come through because of our sacrifice.”

  “Fair enough,” I say, and help him place the gold in the grave. We shovel until the dirt is piled high and the grave just a part of the earth. It’s the faint light of morning when we’re done.

  “So we head into the Klondike?” I ask, whipping out my map where a red X lies over Dawson City. “Dawson City shouldn’t be too much of a hike.”

  “We go for George.” Kaawishté shoulders his pack and is already ten steps ahead.

  “Off to the city of gold,” I tell the surrounding nature with a sigh. The budding frosts listen with pleasure. Foothills wink, alive with their burning red hues. Crystallized waters lap to the rhythm of my steps. Snow-peaked mountains standing tall and proud with their watching omniscience.

  The land that has given us so much but taken mightily.

  36

  Dawson City, Heart of the Klondike!

  October 5th to October 10th, 1898

  The trail to Dawson City is a treacherous climb, but Kaawishté and I aren’t the only ones making the forty-five-mile journey along a skinny and twisting path replete with cliffs, jagged rocks that could poke out your eye, and swamps thick as quicksand. We pass by hundreds of dead mules crushed by avalanche falls. The acrid stench of rotting flesh mix-ing with the chill mountain air. We follow a line of other hopeful prospectors inching forward along a morose winding procession, holding onto ropes staked into the ground.

  At night, we huddle in makeshift tents, our bones burning cold, the freezing temperatures plummeting. I write to Adalaide but tell her none of my troubles.

  Dearest Adalaide,

  I write to you as my Indian guide and I near Dawson City, the heart of the gold expedition! I miss you and Little Joe terribly and apologize for not writing thus far, but there haven’t been many post offices along the way. The adventures I’ve had are unbridled. I have seen pockets of our majestic country that would rival any painting in a museum. I have become an adept hunter, killing game with a loaned rifle from a steamboat captain in Juneau. I’ve spent time in an Indian settlement where I’ve learned to be more spiritual.

  I’ve made lifelong friends of similar ilk who also see the world through a golden lens.

  There is opportunity in these lands, which makes me believe that it was my destiny to embark on this wilderness jaunt. I am not lonely, for I have found the embroidered mirror that you have left me. I keep it close to my beating heart because you and Little Joe have captured that pounding organ. We have come across gold already, but the true treasure awaits us at Dawson City! I will not let you down, my love. I will make you and Little Joe proud.

  With all my caress,

  Wyatt Emmett Barlow

  I place the letter in a sealed envelope, satisfied that there are very few lies in what I wrote, only omissions of the difficult truth we’ve encountered.

  October 11th, 1898

  Land ho! Our weary feet arrive in Dawson City, a bustling, glittery, gold-steeped town packed wall-to-wall with prospectors, investors, bosom-heavy ladies, mules and horses advertising performances, tents filled with grimy faces poking out, brothels, arcade restaurants, fruit and tobacco stores, markets, saloons, casinos, photo studios, dance halls, an opera house, the Palace Grand Hotel, the Pavillion, and the Monte Carlo featuring boxing matches. The city loud with the rush of promise. Fingertips etched in gold dust, gold as

  the city’s currency, the smell of it a sweet tang. Kaawishté and I in awe, not expecting this grand show. It’s a city that seems as if it’s sprung up out of nowhere, its surroundings nothing more than native Han fishing camps pushed to the outskirts or destroyed. After not socializing with large groups of people for a while, I’m tongue-tied, and I can tell Kaawishté feels similar. George would have probably lapped it all up and celebrated our arrival with a finger of whiskey in a saloon.

  “Let’s have a drink for George,” I tell Kaawishté, because George has been on my mind a lot lately. I’m still unable to process his death, believing he’ll magically appear saying it was all a trick.

  At a casino, men play poker but instead of chips gold bullions are used. We sit at the bar on swiveling stools and order whiskey. Kaawishté points to two gold bullions on the floor that no one seems to care about. I quickly stuff them in my pocket.

  It’s good to take off our weighted packs but my back can’t get used to its freedom, almost as if a phantom rucksack still plagues.

  “The whiskey should help that,” Kaawishté says, because he must be feeling the same.

  The casino ripe with the jubilation of men who have staked their lives on a dream that’s finally become real. These aren’t the hardened faces that we’ve come across on our journey so far. They toss gold cubes at each other like it’s all a joke. I want to shake them for their senselessness. They are all drunk with pleasure, squeezing the derrieres of waitresses in prairie dresses and giving them a gold tip.

  The bartender is a red-faced man with cheeks like a hoarding hamster and a dot of a mouth that’s all smiles. He even has a gold tooth that shines in the sunlight.

  “Just arrived to our fair city?” he asks, spit-shining a glass with a rag and pulling out a whiskey bottle to top us off.

  “Me and my guide have traveled a long way,” I say, and Kaawishté gives an affirmative nod, knowing it’s best as an Injun to not say much and possibly cause a disturbance.

  “Ah, many of us have,” he says. “Cal-i-for-ni-a here. But that land was tapped so I headed north. Opened this fine establishment with every last cent I had. Now I bathe in gold.”

  “That so?”

  “Yep-sir-ee, but I’m afraid you gents have arrived a tad late. Surrounding land is pretty wrung dry. Big city miners come in taking whatever is left.”

  I scan the room. “Doesn’t seem like folks are fleeing in droves.”

  “Oh, they will. Your best bet is to scurry around the floors like a rat hoping for crumbs.”

  He lets out a booming laugh that shakes his belly.

  “Or maybe you just don’t want competition,” Kaawishté finally says, and I’m glad for him to speak up.

  “Injun’s got a mouth on him,” the bartender says. “Well, good for y
ou, feather head.

  But you can ask anyone. Boom here is over, we’re all just staying a little too late at the party, not ready for it to end.”

  I slam my fist on the bar, causing the glasses to rattle. “I won’t go home without gold.”

  “Now, now, son. Calm it down. Didn’t say there’s no gold left in Alaska, only this ar-ea. There’s a whole frontier to the West that’s been barely mined. The Unknown,” he

  says, the word oozing from his lips. “In fact, those who haven’t found their fortune here are beginning to head that way.”

  The thought of more arduous traveling weighs my head down. I want to say I still have the resolve in me, but my last bolt of energy has gone into making it here.

  “How far out west into The Unknown?” I ask.

  “Around Anvil Creek, the true wilderness. Land of bears and ice and not much else save for gold supposedly.”

  “Why are you telling us this?” Kaawishté asks.

  “Feel bad for ya, I guess. Stream of folks coming here lately expecting miracles. But look around. All the miracles have already occurred and people are just riding out their riches before they head back to reality.”

  “Top it off again,” I say, tapping my glass, needing the drink evermore. Kaawishté does the same and we toast.

  “What do you think George would want to do?” I ask.

  Kaawishté grunts. “He’d want us to keep going.”

  “I say we stick around, maybe collect some crumbs so we at least have something.

  Say, I saw a boxing match being advertised. What do you say we do that?”

  At the luxurious Monte Carlo, we hobnob with rich folk paying to see men beat each other to a pulp. I watch with great awe, feeling like I’d want to pound on someone myself. Afterwards, I remember the letter I wrote Adalaide.

  “I must mail this,” I tell Kaawishté.

  We head to a post office grander than any in my tiny Washington town. Kaawishté waits outside while I buy a stamp and can practically smell Adalaide’s lilac aroma as I go mail the letter. But before I can, I’m cut short by three middle-aged cowboys with bandanas covering their faces save their eyes who burst through the front doors with rifles pointed at the screaming customers. I crouch low, my hand on a knife blade, but I tell myself, this is not your fight.