The Dead Go to Seattle

by Vivian Faith Prescott

  Yes, it was as if their town was transparent. That’s what his grandma had said the landotter village was called, “Transparent Village.” So, maybe folks were afraid. Maybe, Earp was right about Wrangell’s wild and strange reputation. The town did still have a wild nature, despite the fact you could buy cannon balls and gurdies, and re-cork the bottom of your troller on dry land now. The best thing, though, about the town was that it was deemed the “friendliest town in Alaska.” Everyone waved at everyone else. Well, take that back, his ex-wife didn’t wave at him. But people would always want to stop and talk in the grocery store and chat on Main Street. And, they were always telling stories. Sometimes they were doozies.

  In Wrangell, the myths remained, dancing around campfires and whispered over pizza and beer. Sometimes it was a story about who was sleeping with the neighbor. But the old stories were the best. Then there were stories about Thomas Bay, Anita Bay, up River, all the weird things that happened around here. As a kid, he and his friends used to tell landotter stories outside while camping. That subject was always taboo to talk about while around adults, especially the oldest ones, even his Norwegian grandparents. Sometimes he’d hear them laughing about trolls, but then they’d catch him listening and change the subject. He never knew why his Norwegian grandmother had married a Tlingit man. Back then, it was more common for a white man to marry a Native woman. His family teased him about being a Tlingwegian. Norwegian or Tlingit, it didn’t matter, they shared the taboos. He used to dare himself and whisper the creature’s name in the dark while playing hide-and-seek. Maybe that’s when he decided there were no consequences, no order. Nothing seemed to happen. His friends would get mad at him, though. He played along. He and his friends would run into the house before the landotter people heard them and came scampering out from their stump holes. That was the most daring thing he and his friends could think of besides running around shooting each other with BB guns. He still had a BB rolling around in the back of his eye somewhere from when Karl Agard had shot him.

  The fifty-mile-per-hour winds shook the tin roofs on the small box houses. It was then, as the gust kicked his back, that Sven jerked himself away from watching where his feet were and looked up into the hillside. On Mount Dewey, a large glow emanated from the trees above the next row of houses. He stopped for a moment, puzzled, and leaned next to a metal railing keeping him from falling behind the back of the drug store. He blinked. In the light, shadows shaped like large men swayed back and forth. It reminded him of a dance he’d seen, as a kid, when he and his family had visited Hoonah. His mom had taken him to a clan memorial. All he remembered was being able to stay up all night listening to people speaking a language he couldn’t understand and there was a lot of singing, dancing, and food. He remembered a men’s dance, and the drumbeat had been stuck in his head ever since.

  Now, on the hill above him, the dancing shapes and the light changed from yellow-gold to red, then white hot. It spit up a large spruce like a tongue of fire. What the heck? His head spun and he stepped forward to cross the street, not taking his eyes off the hillside. He intended to take a side street up to the highest level of houses above town, but he couldn’t seem to catch his breath and his skin felt flush despite the cold rain.

  Sven stepped out onto Church Street and didn’t hear the car swishing toward him. A pair of mooned headlights hovered toward him. He slipped and fell as the moons bore down. He rolled his body back toward the sidewalk and the car drove past, splashing a small tidal wave of water, covering him. He jerked his head up trying to catch his breath in the foot-high puddle of water. Red taillights turned the corner and headed down the same hill he’d just walked up.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said, spitting muddy water from his mouth. Through the horizontal rain, the famous statue of Mary grinned at him from St. Rose of Lima’s yard. He got up on his knees and then staggered up like a drunk. The brightly lit red cross on top of the Presbyterian Church steeple burned a hole through the horizontal rain. He wobbled, wiped his face with his hand, and straightened his ball cap. Water dripped down from the bill of his hat. He patted himself on the chest and sloshed through one large puddle to the other side of the street. His feet were soaked. Breathe. Breathe. He inhaled then coughed. Maybe he inhaled muddy water?

  He headed for the red glowing cross on the Presbyterian Church. They’d have a phone. He’d call one of his cousins for a ride the rest of the way up the hill to his house. Crap. Goddamn heart, goddamn storm. His shoes sloshed up the cement steps leading from the sidewalk to the double wood doors of the Presbyterian Church.

  The lights were off in the manse next door where the minister, S. Hall Young III, and his family lived. Sven turned the knob on the right half of the set of doors and opened it. He stamped his feet onto the mat and shook himself like a wet dog. His soaked jeans stuck to his skin, and his shoes muddied the floor. He took off his hat and shook his sleeves. He arms ached and his heart still beat rapidly. He tried breathing in and out, but he couldn’t get a full breath.

  “Christ,” he mumbled, heading down the small entryway. To the right, the sanctuary doors were open, but the room was dark. Voices floated in from the left side of the hall, toward the kitchen. He’d attended many weddings and funerals here so he knew the layout: Jesus to the right, donuts to the left. He opened the door to his left and peeked inside. Two men and five or six women sat around a round table. Some of the women he recognized: Mrs. Johnsson, Mrs. Sarrel, Evelina Halko. Bibles were stacked on a table covered with a plastic-flowered tablecloth.

  “Hey,” Sven said hoarsely, trying his best to speak. He swayed at the door.

  Reverend Young hurried to him. “Mr. Bolstad, what’s the matter?”

  Reverend Young led Sven to the table and sat him down at a chair. Mrs. Johnsson lifted her fat hand to his forehead. “My, my, son, on a cold night like this, you’re burning up. You’ve got yourself a fever.”

  “You’re soaked,” Reverend Young added. “Let me help you.”

  Sven nodded as they undid his raincoat.

  A young man with a guitar sat and stared at Sven.

  Mrs. Sarell, another woman in the flock, brought Sven a cup of coffee. Sven took the cup in his hands. His hands shook. He sipped the coffee. “I saw … I saw the light. I came in because the light, up there.” He pointed toward the wall behind them.

  Mrs. Sarell, noting the large crucifix on the wall, clasped her hands and said “Hallelujah.”

  “Oh my,” said Mrs. Johnsson.

  The guitar guy strummed his guitar.

  “No, no,” Sven stammered. “There’s a light up on the hill. Something’s weird. Something’s burning.” He wasn’t about to tell them about the dancing shapes. They’d think he was crazy.

  Mrs. Johnsson mumbled something to Mrs. Sarell about it being Sven’s soul that was the only thing burning.

  “Christ,” Sven mumbled back. “I mean, Jeezus.” Sven shut his mouth. He couldn’t find a swear word that fit the situation. He wanted to say “Fuck you all, you holy rollers.” But, he’d figure they’d only lay hands on him and try and cast out his demons. But maybe not, they were Presbyterians, though he wasn’t sure what Presbyterians did since he’d never actually been to a church service. By the looks on their faces, he figured his demons were here to stay.

  Sven put his hand to his mouth and coughed. The group stared at him as if they were waiting for some explanation other than seeing a light. He said, “I was coming from a council meeting, and I looked up at the clearing on Mount Dewey and saw a light. It was glowing up there. And I don’t think it was a fire. No one would be out this time of night. It’s goddamn October.” Sven paused and then said to the wide-eyed women, “Shit. Sorry ma’ams.”

  Mrs. Sarell waved him off. “Thank you for apologizing but I am married to a retired logger, you know.”

  Sven nodded.

  Young said, “A fire? I agree. Not in this weather.”

  Mrs. Johnsson moved closer to Sven and sniffed.

&nbs
p; Sven shook his head, “No, I’m not drunk.”

  Young turned to the parishioners. “I’m going outside to see if maybe I can see it.”

  Sven looked around the room. He wasn’t about to stay here with these people. He said to the reverend, “I’ll show you where to look.”

  The rest of the group followed. They put on their hats and coats in the foyer and headed outside. As Reverend Young opened the door, it whipped from his hand, slamming against the railing. “My, it’s gusting now,” Young yelled.

  Holding their hats tight to their heads and trying to stay balanced, they crossed the street to the sidewalk on the other side. It’d stopped pouring, but was still raining. Sven pointed to the hill above the glowing red cross.

  The guitar man whistled, “Wow, I see it. What the …” He stopped himself.

  Young said, “St. Elmo’s fire, maybe? Ball lightning?”

  “No,” Mrs. Johnsson said, “I seen ball lightning many times out fishing and it’s not that.”

  “Maybe lightning struck a tree or something?” someone else said.

  “Maybe, but the fire is … there’s something in it,” Mrs. Sarell said.

  “Looks like people dancing,” the guitar man said.

  “People have been dancing again lately,” Mrs. Johnsson said, “trying to teach the kids that Native stuff. Or maybe they’re witches. There used to be witches here years ago and those shamans.”

  “What?” Mrs. Sarell asked.

  “Could be those Natives,” Mrs. Johnsson said.

  Sven raised his eyebrow. His heart beat rapidly again. The wind flipped a nearby stop sign, bending it sideways and back again, rattling it hard. They stood for a few moments more holding onto the metal railing to keep their balance. The red cross above the church blinked on and off, on and off, as if it was keeping time with his heart rhythm. Suddenly, Sven recognized the pattern. He’d been a boy scout once and had learned Morse code. What the hell, it couldn’t be …

  The light on the hillside burned dimmer and then went out. Nearby, a tree cracked and thudded to the ground.

  “Let’s get back inside,” Young said.

  And, that’s how he found himself inside the Presbyterian Church sanctuary on an October night on his knees with Mrs. Johnsson and Mrs. Sarell patting him on the back and handing him a Kleenex.

  His concept of chaos ended with church every Sunday at 11:00 a.m., with the call to worship, the prayer, the hymns, the confession and more hymns, the word, and finally the prayers. He loved the Presbyterians. They even had the service spelled out on a wooden board telling everything they were going to do. He knew when to stand and when to sit down. There was order. Thanks to the Presbyterians, he now had the comfort of knowing the “shit wasn’t going to hit the fan” anytime soon—or so he thought.

  After a few months of attending church, he went to the doctor because his heart arrhythmia was gone. There was no fluttering or tightness or flip-flopping, either. The doctor asked if he’d been doing anything different, but, of course, the doctor already knew. Sven had given up drugs and drinking. He’d told his cousins he wasn’t going to be dealing anymore. Nope. No more of that stuff. He’d found a new life, a new order. In fact, he’d even started to catch on to orders of the day, main motions, amendments, and debates. He even read through “Title 14: Harbor and Port Facilities, Chapter 14.01: General Provisions” while having his morning coffee.

  All that changed, however, with one phone call. The phone rang before 11:00 p.m. in February of the following year. It was during the ten days when the Stikine River wind howls down the valley across the flats and into town and the chill factor dips to ten below zero and everyone stays at home.

  “The church is on fire,” the guitar kid’s voice squeaked into the phone.

  Sven threw on his turnout gear and jumped into his truck.

  Cooper, another fireman, was already there spraying a hose on a full blaze. “Someone saw an explosion,” he yelled to Sven.

  “Furnace?” Sven asked. It was always the furnace, or the woodstove. That’s the way it seemed, anyway.

  Several hours into the next day, and after the fire died down, the air grew colder again without the heat from the fire. The church remained standing but the stained glass windows had blown out and the inside of the church was severely burned. Sven stood inside the church.

  It’s back. It’s here. He could feel it. Chaos. It filled him and warmed up his feet, despite the broken windows and the cold wind whipping around in the darkness. A floodlight from outside beamed in through the windows. All around him he was washing in the blood of smoldering charred wood and brokenness.

  Later, the dim winter afternoon light cast no hope on the burned church. Townsfolk had begun to gather to help clear out the wreckage. Sven helped carry out a few of the icons from the church to the manse next door and then headed back to help with cleanup. Reverend Young shuffled through the rubble, holding a small cloth against his face.

  Cooper kicked over a pew and found a small section of pipe and held it up. “Looks like a pipe bomb.”

  Sven walked over. “What the heck?” A bomb? Who would want to do that? Why? His chest tightened. His breath caught.

  Several other firemen gathered to examine the object.

  Young said, “We’ve had trouble since—” he paused, then said, “lately.”

  “Trouble?” Sven asked. What kind of trouble? He hadn’t heard of any.

  “My tires were slashed about a month ago. One night, someone spray-painted something on the manse wall. And I found a torn Bible on the church steps one Sunday morning.”

  “Why?” Sven asked. These were good people. He was good people. It was a church for Christ’s sake. It wasn’t a bar or anything.

  Young put his hand on Sven’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll find out who did this.”

  The few hours of winter daylight had rotated in and out of the day while Sven helped clear the debris. Outside the church, darkness fell fast like a dark cape draping the island. Mrs. Sarell and Mrs. Johnsson stood bundled up in their parkas with scarves tightly woven around their faces. Sven recognized Mrs. Johnsson’s round body, which looked even bigger wrapped up. Mrs. Sarell rocked nervously on her heels. Tears froze to their eyelids.

  “I hope you’re happy,” Mrs. Johnsson mumbled through her scarf to Sven.

  “Happy?”

  “This is because of you,” she said. “Everyone says so.”

  Sven raised his eyebrow. “Me?” What was she talking about? Me?

  Mrs. Sarell nudged her.

  Mrs. Johnsson pulled down her scarf from over her mouth and sneered, “Yes, you.”

  Mrs. Sarell pulled her away, “Tilde, this is not the time.” She turned to Sven, “Maybe it would be best if you stayed away for a while.”

  Sven stood in the cold watching the two women wiggle their way down the street and stuff themselves into a car. His stomach soured. He wiped his forehead with his glove. Who did these women think they were? Were they judging him? Wasn’t that against their rules or something like that?

  Reverend Young walked over to him as another dump truck pulled up. He said, “We can meet Sundays in the manse until we rebuild.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Sven said.

  “The cross will have to be the first thing that functions. Everyone depends upon the light. It’s a mariners’ beacon, you know.”

  Sven said nothing but stared at the volunteers hauling away anything they could salvage for safekeeping and any materials for the garbage. Take it all away. It’s all garbage.

  Young nodded. “Sometimes God’s plan is confusing. Sometimes, a light might not lead us to the light, but a light might be used to strand us somewhere, temporarily.”

  Sven said, “Yeah, maybe I realize now. There’s a difference between being led and being stranded.” Yes, like the old stories. There’s a difference between being drowned and being saved. But maybe there wasn’t. Led or stranded, either way, you’re fucked.

 
; Reverend Young went back to helping with cleanup. Sven got into his truck and drove up the steep hill to his house. At his home high above the town, he rummaged around in a drawer and found what he was looking for. In between the refrigerator manual and a pack of shish kebab sticks was a pack of Camels. He went outside on his deck in just his shirt. No coat. He wanted to feel the Stikine winds sting his hands and face. He wanted to feel the cold seep through his flannel shirt. He pounded his chest with his fist. He wanted to feel it right there. He lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply. The cherry from his cigarette glowed bright in the early morning hours still wintry dark. Sure, it would be light in a few hours, but goddamn, it would never be light enough.

  Date: late 1990s-early 2000s

  Recorded by John Swanton

  Assisted by Tooch Waterson

  The Girl with the Porcelain Face

  Astri lay on the floor looking up at forty-three pairs of eyes. Her dolls, in their white gloves, silver and gold dresses, deerskin tunics, medieval gowns, bride’s dresses, schoolgirl skirts, and pajamas. Her dolls with long brown and long blonde hair and short blonde and short red hair, curly and straight hair, all watched her from their stands.

  Minutes before, Astri had flown down the stairs with the thrust of Evert’s two strong arms. Evert Planz, Astri’s husband, walked down the stairs and stepped over her. He went to the glass sliding door, opened it, and went out to his truck, got in, and peeled out the gravel driveway.

  As soon as Astri heard the gravel roll beneath the tires, spitting chunks out toward their house, she knew it was okay to breathe, okay to remove her hands from clutching her swollen baby belly. Astri rolled up on her back, her arms behind her, half sitting up. She stared at the dolls who stared at her. Evert hated her dolls. In fact, now she had a dozen fewer dolls. Last week Evert had been pissed at her for ordering another doll from the Shopping Channel, so he proceeded to smash their porcelain heads on their stagecoach wheel coffee table and broke that too.