The Hauntings of Hood Canal

by Jack Cady

  In spite of dreams he slept late, and woke surprised to find himself granted another day of life. He lay for long moments without moving. Mixed sunlight filled the windows. In the parking lot rich guys and butterflies bailed out of the motel. They had driven south because the road was out. Now they would circle north to Seattle, take a ferry, and return to the project. The rich guys walked with confidence. They had pulled one off. The two hookers, who at present were doubtless shacked up with a couple of badly shocked loggers, had caused no trouble for rich guys.

  The fisherman rose, bathed, dressed, found breakfast. He walked morning streets beneath sun and cloud. He told himself that if a guy needed to hitch a ride north there was only one place to go. He set a course for China Bay.

  ═

  The three goldfish at China Bay Taverna swim among ferns, and, like the old Chinaman in Mr. Wm. Yeats’s great poem, deal with what is past, or passing, or to come. The goldfish fatten with the years, cruise lazily, and have been known to burp at exactly the right point in bar room discussions. On the day when the fisherman arrived, their lighted tank overlooked only one geriatric lad seated at the far end of the bar. He wore a black armband, and the hanky in his jacket pocket was black. This was the man who claimed a former career as a diplomat. When the fisherman sat beside him, the guy took a careful look, then motioned to the bartender. The motion was more of a command, than a request. The bartender produced a deck of cards and a board.

  “It’s a little known fact,” the old guy said, “that in spite of English claims, the game of cribbage was actually invented aboard ships in the days of Alexander. It originally carried a name equivalent to our word, swindle.”

  “I believe it,” the fisherman told him. “Why wouldn’t I believe it?” The fisherman flexed his twisted hand. “You’ll have to shuffle. But I can deal with my left hand.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” the old boy said. “I advise serenity. I caution against haste. You’ll find that age has pronounced advantages, but they must be realized in methodical manner.”

  “How much?”

  “Penny a point,” the guy said, “but in order not to burden society, save back enough to cover your funeral.”

  “Your friend?” the fisherman asked about the ex-Navy guy.

  “A true master of the bull flip.” The old man sighed, touched his black armband, sincere, even somewhat sad. “We are not like to see his kind again.” He looked around the joint, at pool tables and punchboards, at pictures of Athens street scenes, and Chinese cheesecake. “But bull lives on. It’s a comfort in its way. Actually, a memorial.”

  Beyond the windows of China Bay the Canal lay calm as the mind of a monk. No hump moved beneath the water. Mixed sunlight came and went. The Canal beamed, then went sullen beneath clouds, then brightened beneath another smidgen of sun.

  “It’s gone,” the old guy said. “What humped out there moved on. It tried to save lives, but only managed to twist cars. It fought against decay and lost the battle, but there will be other wars.” He shuffled cards, pushed the deck toward the fisherman. “One need not ordinarily feel sorry for the dead, but those who drowned were emptied, neutered, turned into blanks. For that, one may have feelings.”

  For a long moment the fisherman felt more lonely than usual. He had come to depend on the creature, come to think of it as a sort of partner in what could only be called confusion-with-­good-intent. Then he realized that his loneliness came because the creature had actually known what it intended, had not been confused.

  The fisherman felt isolated, watched calm water, watched where gulls scavenged the tideline, and knew that he too had departed the scene. He could not pretend to himself that the storm had left him with a boat. He could not pretend that, insurance or not, he would buy another.

  “You weep for a while,” the old man said, “and then you laugh. Mostly at yourself. Once in a while you shake your fists at the gods, just to keep in practice.”

  From the back room came the sound of Lee cussing in Chinese. The bartender moved quietly behind the empty bar, arranging ashtrays and humming something classical. The bartender moved with the music, graceful as a girl, strong as a workingman. Precisely placed chairs ranked around small tables. Cones of light illuminated pool tables. Floors glowed swept and clean; the place orderly, that through the day would descend to confusion and chaos.

  The goldfish burped. The Dragon-Lady-red doors swung open and an itinerant entered. The fisherman looked up, looked twice, looked three times. He was actually surprised that he could still feel even mild shock. He dealt cards.

  “I bring truth,” Chantrell told the bartender.

  “How cunning of you. Will you be using the parking lot today?” The bartender placed a can of pop and a barroom sausage before Chantrell.

  “Thus doth the Lord provide,” Chantrell told the bartender, “and you, his beloved servant.”

  “I’m actually a bartender.” The bartender smiled, and turned away so Chantrell could wolf his handout with some dignity. From the stockroom Lee’s voice mixed Chinese and English cuss words.

  “Pearl of the Orient,” the bartender said, “we’re about to get company. Save back some curses. One must not run short.”

  Sometimes the bartender’s eyes are blue, sometimes gray, but this day nearly black. The bartender looked the joint over, gaze benevolent. “A bully pulpit, the parking lot. Perhaps the mission of this joint is to supply souls for you to save.” The bartender’s voice sounded droll, but not unkind.

  The fisherman discovered that he felt almost happy. Chantrell had made it. He had made it in about the way a guy would have to expect; clumsy, sort of dumb and awful sincere, but unstoned. The mushroom kid had moved up a slot or two.

  “If you wonder too much about the Mysteries,” the old man told the fisherman, “insanity becomes part of the package.”

  “What?”

  “You are wondering if a small step forward is worth the attendant destruction.” The guy chuckled. “I am very, very old, and very wise, and a helluva lot smarter than you. It pays to pay attention.”

  The fisherman glanced again at the Canal. “I make it to rain in five minutes.”

  “You see,” the old man told him.

  “That guy used to be a junkie,” the fisherman explained about Chantrell.

  “Perhaps he still is,” the oldster mused, “there’s all kinds of junk. On the other hand, it takes moxie to stand preaching in the rain.” The old man moved pegs. “Needfulness clusters around joints. There’s a sufficiency of needfulness.”

  “Is there such a thing as an honest hustle?” The fisherman remembered telling the tow truck kid there was no such thing. “Maybe being mistaken, or even wrong, doesn’t have much to do with being honest.”

  “It’s something to think about,” the oldster admitted. He glanced toward the Dragon-Lady-red doors. “What happens next may explain quite a bit.” He shuffled and dealt.

  A red-hair thing entered, simpering. Its hair was permed, and it exuded a light stench. It walked to the bar with all the ease of slime draining from a garbage truck. It looked the bar over, then took a seat beside Chantrell.

  Chantrell stood. He looked at the red-hair the way a cop looks at drunken vomit. “There’s things I’m not strong enough to handle,” he told the bartender. Chantrell’s voice was actually calm. “But I grow stronger every day.” He moved toward the door. “Parking lot,” he said quietly. “Grace is like rain. It can happen anywhere. Take my word.”

  “We’re fresh out of strychnine,” the bartender told the red­-hair. The bartender watched Chantrell leave, watched rain begin to patter on the Canal. “You have certainly settled for a shabby incarnation this time,” the bartender told the red-hair. “I thought you’d pick something attractive, something people would like.”

  “They like this,” the thing said. “I gave it a lot of thought. This incarnation is actually perfect. It’s that sort of time in history.”

  “Suppose I grant your point,
” the bartender said. “Which, of course, I do not.”

  “You may take my word about what losers like,” the red-hair said. “I’ve been at this for a long, long time.”

  “As have I,” the bartender murmured. “And sometimes the days move slowly.” The bartender turned toward the back room. “We have among us a creature of urges and low desires.”

  Cussing flowered, then sparked, then threatened to blister paint. Lee came from the back room, gray shirt, orange tie, wrinkled face. “Didn’t we just do this?”

  “Time flies,” the red-hair suggested.

  “Hear what I say and trust it,” the oldster whispered to the fisherman. “Every three or four centuries there’s a meeting of these forces. Every three or four centuries some nation begins to slide. When that happens you get this caucus. I am a superior diplomat.”

  “Incarnation or not . . .”

  “Stay out of it,” the oldster insisted. “You are truly helpless. That thing is a force. It can empty you as it emptied others. Lee and the bartender are forces. They play on a stage too big for your imagining.”

  “People are dead.” The fisherman did not lower his voice.

  The red-hair turned. “Death is not a thing I enjoy. Where necessary, yes, but death is not an object. My pleasure comes from damage, wounds, wreckage, broken and fractured things.” The red-hair simpered. “I enjoy you, your ruptured hand, your age, your feeble indignation.” The red-hair stopped simpering. “And now you must shut up.”

  “Are you not premature?” the bartender asked. “It took a goodly while for you to manifest this time. You were hardily opposed.”

  “Perhaps a little,” the red-hair admitted. “Always before it’s been a walk. But the stage has become bigger.”

  “Always before,” the oldster whispered, “the battle lay within the heart of one or another nation. This time it’s in the heart of the western world.”

  “One thing puzzles me,” the bartender said. “Why here? Why manifest in this small and unimportant place?”

  “The cities are already mine,” the red-hair said. “They did it to themselves. But there are small pockets out here in the boonies where people stumble around and bump into each other. They aren’t particularly good, or particularly bright, but they halfway try to take care of each other. They actually try to protect their worlds. I’m doing a mopping up operation, nearly meaningless, an amusement, actually. Most enjoyable.”

  Lee loosened his tie. “The next time we go through this you won’t find me owning a joint. Next time through I’ll raise mangos or cabbages. Or, maybe I’ll seed clouds.” Lee’s scorn was so great the fisherman thought he could hear it sizzle. “The problem with a joint,” Lee told the red-hair, “is there’s too many guys like you . . . look the same . . . talk the same . . . “ Lee wrinkled his nose. “. . . smell the same . . . and too stupid to zip their drawers.”

  “It’s my specialty,’’ the red-hair simpered. “Intelligence doesn’t damage things, just lack of it.” The red-hair snickered.

  “Gimmie a time-line,” Lee said, “then get the hell out.”

  “Be careful,” the red-hair told him. “If it were not for me, folks like you would have no work.”

  “What a delightful idea,’’ the bartender said. “Or, as Grandma used to put it, ‘Land of Goshen’ . . . or did she say, ‘my stars and garters.’” The bartender smiled broadly.

  “There will now be negotiation,’’ the oldster whispered. “Dreadfully boring. All about wealth and lack of it, ideas or lack of them, offers and counter offers. Lee will choose a new continent to bring to prominence. The bartender will work at protecting history. The red-hair will fake and giggle and hustle.”

  “I got nothin’ to lose,’’ the fisherman said, and knew he talked like a kid. “I could get in one good swing.”

  “You have everything to lose,” the oldster whispered. “That thing is immortal. Go now, and wend your way; but take this with you: although a civilization dies, it does not mean that intelligence must. Thought and honor are that thing’s enemies, and thought and honor are individual. You may remain strong in the midst of squalor. Protect your loves if you can. Protect their worlds if you can. Wend your way.” The oldster moved pegs. “Crib,” he said.

  Epilogue

  After heavy storms the forest seems to rise and stretch and shake like a dog waking from a nap. Branches of fir that sailed before the wind lie on the forest floor and arrange themselves in clusters. Cones continue to mature, and from the decaying clusters will eventually sprout new seedlings. No one knows how the branches manage this, but people of the forest know it is true.

  And movement returns. The birds of winter, sparrows, of which there are more than twenty kinds, Oregon juncos, nuthatch, and chickadees emerge from sheltered spots where they have huddled against wind. They flit and putter about tops of giant trees where they pick seeds in the canopy. Sometimes a robin, who has failed to get the winter message, hops on the forest floor where there is movement of mice; while up and down the trunks of trees chipmunks whistle, chase, and chatter.

  This, according to the poet, is / the forest primeval / the murmuring pines and the hemlocks / and this, according to forester and lumber magnate, is old growth timber in which resides owl, cougar, bear, deer, goat, wolverine, shrew, and in which, from time immemorial humans have dreamed dreams, some shabby, and some of beauty.

  And, after a storm, a hound may trot through a splendor of smells, because wind and water bring breakage. New sights appear in old places. As Jubal Jim trots through the forest he pauses at the site of an ancient Indian village. Rain has flooded the slope, washed at roots of trees, tumbled shrubs and unearthed a variety of things.

  Jubal Jim stops and sniffs a yellowing fragment. In this Pacific Northwest, through centuries, bone becomes soil but stone and ivory and teeth remain. This is a small tooth, certainly human, now cleaned by rain and yellowed by time. Jubal Jim makes water against a tree, moves on. There is something troubled in his gait, like a dog with arthritis, or a dog confused, or a dog unsure.

  Like men and elephants, Jubal Jim is a creature of habit. He follows a familiar path. Where a tree has fallen he jumps over, stops to sniff among broken limbs or around torn roots. Insects are already about their business, burrowing, hiding, feeding in the rubble. Where the nests of mice or shrew are ripped away there remains a sense of departing warmth, though the nests, in fact, are cold.

  Jubal Jim moves on, but with caution. At places along the path his belly lowers toward the ground. He crouches. Jubal Jim is brave, but tenuous in the face of change. He moves a bit more quickly as the roof of Sugar Bear’s shop appears among the trees. Windows in the shop are dark. Blown cedar tips cover the roof. Jubal Jim moves forward into Sugar Bear’s clearing, stops, momentarily confused.

  The cliff, where in springtimes swallows were wont to dance, has disappeared. The cliff has become a slide, raw earth flowing beneath the sluicing force of rain. Where once stood a fairy-tale house, now lies a slope of mud and forest debris.

  Crows fly above the clearing. A tree squirrel pokes its nose into the winter air, withdraws into its nest. The mud is nearly liquid, a field of mud above which not even a chimney shows.

  Jubal Jim inches forward, sniffs, paws at the mud, and begins to dig. Liquid soil spatters behind him. The dug hole keeps closing as more mud flows in. Jubal Jim stops digging, Sniffs here, there, walks through mud. Gives voice.

  The howl rises through the forest, deep, throaty, filled with sorrow, filled perhaps with anguish. The howl moves through trees toward the Canal. It is absorbed by forest and by the rush of water in a distant stream. Jubal Jim howls and howls.

  Supplementary Materials

  Flying Home

  Just as we were gettin’ down to the part in the last chorus (playing on a barge in the Potomac) when everyone goes ‘rum-ba-da, dum-ba-da, rum - pow!’ I yelled to the bass player to ‘hit the water.’ And he got so excited that he jumped right in!

  —Lion
el Hampton

  It was big and silver and the nose poked at air which in my memory is blue. People dashed back and forth beneath its wings with the bustle of third-rate bureaucrats over a fifth-rate rule. The thing was a Ford Tri-motor. It was the biggest plane I had then seen. At age nine the sight of that plane embarked me on a lifetime of social philosophy.

  This was before the flowers came and before Baez began asking where they had gone. It was before anyone thought of throwing daisies at a cop. The USA in voluminous compassion had not yet bombed Hiroshima, lynched the Rosenbergs or lately engaged in war crimes. There were no sales taxes, televisions, shopping centers, subdivisions or freeways. We were told that the way to get an heir was to contact God. He dispatched a stork.

  The Tri-motor was storklike. Squatted on the runway it stood high on widespread wheels. The tail slouched to the ground. When you boarded you walked uphill. The three propellers, one to a wing, one on the nose, rested gawkish as sticks cast at random. It was a toy designed for a monster poodle. Fetch, Fido, fetch; but the damned thing flew. In the air it was most beautiful.

  “To your dad and to me a plane could be beautiful.” I say this to my friend as we discuss our differences. My friend was born after the Second World War.

  “It was before the Theatre of the Absurd,” she says.

  It sure was, although the world was drenched in the absurd. It was polluted with the absurd. My friend’s father, twelve years my senior, was about to go to war when I saw that plane. He would trail mules on the Burma Road. The battle jacket he wore in those days was given to his daughter. It hangs in our attic. Dry and cracking leather, a blaze of forgotten insignia.