by Heacox, Kim
“Gunalchéesh áyá yáa yee tula,aaní.”
“Aaá. Gunalchéesh.”
Warren explained that by putting hot rocks into the water-filled canoe, the steam would make the cedar pliable. Teams of men and boys would then use clamps and ribs to coax the canoe into greater capacity.
James had devoted hundreds of hours—more time than anybody else—to the carving, and become something of an artist, contouring the inside of the canoe with smaller bladed adzes. He no longer scowled, but he still limped, and probably always would. He stood now at the beam with his hand on the hog-backed gunwale, shoulder to shoulder with other men. The entire basketball team was there. When Warren finished the blessing and ceremoniously asked the name of the canoe, he looked at Keb.
The old man didn’t answer.
James did: “Óoxjaa Yaadéi,” he said. “Against the Wind.”
a time singular and different
THE CROWD CHEERED as the first hot rocks hissed and dropped into the water. The steaming would take eight hours or more, with teams rotating through the work. Everybody got back to eating, storytelling, laughing, drinking, playing. Lots of storytelling. Keb was sorry to see Alaska State Senator Elrod Dufek glad-handing his way through the crowd, always campaigning, and a young man following him with a big camera, and a woman with a microphone. Mitch said she was with Channel Four News in Juneau. They listened to Elrod talk big words. Then watched the camera turn onto Harald Halmerjan. How did he get here? Keb felt the marrow drain from his bones. Ruby’s son Josh appeared with his twin girls, who hugged Keb about the legs. “Popsi,” they called. “Hello, Popsi.”
Their names?
Was Ruby here?
The camera was on him now, Old Keb. The woman reporter said, “I’m now speaking with the oldest man in Jinkaat, Keb Wisting, who organized the carving of this important canoe. Keb, how does it feel to see your work receive this much attention?”
For some reason—it must have been the nagoonberry juice on his fingers—Old Keb was thinking of pies. How Florence Wilson used just the right amount of sugar. It’s easy to oversweeten a pie. The trick is to leave the right amount of tartness. Nobody did it better than Florence.
“Again, this is Tanya Pantaletto reporting from Jinkaat, where people have gathered to steam open the first dugout canoe hand-carved here in a long time. We’re in a large clearing on the edge of the forest, on the edge of town, and I daresay on the edge of time. There’s lots of music and good food. Here with me is the mastermind of it all, Keb Wisting, who lives in the carving shed behind me, near the house that belongs to his daughter Ruby Bauer, president of the PacAlaska Heritage Trust.”
Mastermind?
“Keb, is this canoe event related in any way to the PacAlaska lawsuit to gain more access into Crystal Bay?”
Helen Cornelius was a mastermind at making pies, but her husband worked for the Forest Service and transferred to Montana, and took Helen with him. Too bad.
“Keb, could you please share with our viewers . . .”
The crust was important. Don’t over-knead the dough. It knocks out all the air. Makes it tough.
“Popsi,” a little girl said with a tug on his pants, “the lady is asking you a question.”
“He’s not a mastermind,” James said. “He’s a canoe carver. He’s my grandfather. These are his two great-granddaughters.” James picked up one. Josh had the other.
“And you’re James Wisting?” the reporter asked. “You’re the basketball star?”
“Not anymore.”
“Did you have anything to do with the making of this canoe?”
“A little.”
“Don’t be modest, James,” a voice boomed from the crowd. Harald Halmerjan, he of the condo-sized head and cornbread crime, stepping into the camera. Everybody knew who he was. Why bother with introductions? “This is a special day,” Harald said as he devoured the scene. “For thousands of years our people have traveled by canoe through the uncharted waters of Alaska. At the end of the last great Ice Age . . .” You’d have thought he was a scholar, a professor with a degree, what Mitch called a “duh-gree.”
“How does all of this make you feel?” the reporter asked him.
“How does this make me feel? I feel great. This is a great day.” H. H. extended his arms. “Look at the friends and kids having fun, the good food from the land and the sea, the old and young, the giving and sharing. Twenty, thirty, and fifty years ago our young people weren’t interested in our old ways. We’ve changed that with our heritage programs, and events like this that make us proud again, that enable us to rediscover who we are and where we belong, and how we can take better care of what belongs to us.”
Tanya What’s-Her-Toes was about to ask another question when Harald raised his hand. “We can’t abandon our old ways. We can’t live exclusively in them either. We need to be part of the modern world before it steamrolls over us. That’s why we formed our own corporation. To protect our interests.”
“Isn’t it true,” Tanya asked, “that more than a few Tlingits are uneasy about the corporate approach to the natural world?”
Harald shook his big head. “Look at the improvements. We have better schools, better computers, better business opportunities for our young people.”
An image came to Keb just then, not of a raven, kingfisher, or bear, or his dear wife, Bessie, or Uncle Austin, his voice carved from an ancient riverbed, or his sister Dot, bless their souls, makers of beautiful memories. It was an image of the most accepting, guileless creature he knew, his great-grandson Christopher, the Down’s syndrome son of Robert the Coca-Cola sugar water man and Lorraine who talked a lot, warm in his home with the poodle on Prozac and the cat named Infinity and the bird in a cage. He wanted little Christopher to see the canoe, see who his people used to be. Why must we be so far away from each other?
He walked to the canoe and helped affix clamps and ribs as the water steamed and the wood softened and the canoe slowly gained beam-width and dimension.
HOURS LATER, LONG after nightfall, Deputy Sheriff-in-Training Stuart Ewing leaned against his Jeep in the middle of the festivities where he’d just arrived. He told Keb what he knew and didn’t know. He didn’t know where Tommy and Pete were, or Charlie. But he knew the Alaska State Trooper Pepper Mountain Report was just out. Among other things, it said Pete had not been cutting the day of James’s accident. He was a choker-setter working ahead of James. Stuart wondered if Pete might have improperly bundled the logs so that once Charlie and Tommy jerked them from up on the yarder, the logs came loose down the skid line. This was speculation, of course. There was no physical proof. But still . . .
A crowd gathered to hear what Stuart had say. Mitch said something about finding the Gants and Pete Brickman and getting to the bottom of things.
“Deputize us all,” Dag said.
“No,” Stuart said.
“A deputy can’t make new deputies,” somebody said.
“Sure he can.”
“No, he can’t.”
“Stop it!” Stuart yelled. “I don’t want anybody going off and pretending to be a posse and making things worse. There’s no immediate danger.”
“Yes, there is,” Little Mac said. Everybody turned to see her on the edge of the bonfire, more in shadow than light, sweat on her brow from the steaming, the smallest and biggest among them.
James and Kid Hugh joined the crowd, sweat-soaked like Little Mac. When Kid Hugh took off his T-shirt and pulled on his Lakers jersey, Old Keb caught a killer whale tattoo on his chest, and below that a large diagonal scar across his iron flat stomach.
James wrapped his arm around Little Mac as she folded herself into him.
Mitch invited Keb, Gracie, James, and Little Mac to stay with him and Irene that night, should they all want to be together, since Little Mac’s mom was visiting her two brothers at the big university. Keb nodded in appreciation.
“Might not be a bad idea,” Stuart said. “Now, if it’s okay with everybo
dy, I’m going to get something to eat.” He sauntered over to the buffet tables with a big gun dangling off his needle butt. He might have moseyed or ambled or sashayed. Keb couldn’t tell.
Never one for the sidelines, Harald stepped in and reminded James that his Aunt Ruby was busy in Seattle and wanted to hear from him.
“She’s left me messages,” James said.
“You should be down there with her,” Harald said.
“She should be up here with us,” James shot back.
WARREN THE MASTER carver climbed onto his perch above the canoe and announced the steaming was finished. The beam measured five inches wider than when they began, with the hogback gone. The gunwale line sighted level and true. The bow was nine inches higher with the bow piece pegged in. A cheer went up. Drummers pounded; dancers spiraled about. Old Keb saw James wearing a smile, talking with everybody around him, caressing the canoe. He recalled a couple months ago, when James’s face was so empty Keb had closed his eyes to keep from having to see it. Not anymore.
Keb had no idea what hour it was. Hours didn’t exist anymore. People gathered at the fire to do more talking and eating; talking about the way things used to be and might be again. Who knew? Anything seemed possible with a new canoe.
A couple hours later, things were winding down, when Kevin Pallen emerged from the carving shed where he’d been all night. He walked over to Old Keb carrying a yellow cedar box about five feet long, one foot wide, and one foot deep. He set the box at Keb’s feet, backed away, and sat down on the opposite side of the fire. “It’s for you,” Kid Hugh said to the old man. “It’s a gift.”
Keb stared at the box. On its lid, carved in relief, was a kingfisher, tlaxaneis’, Keb’s clan crest.
“Open it, Gramps,” James said. Little Mac sat next to him with her guitar in her lap. By the light of the fire Keb lifted the lid and removed four paddles hand-carved from xáay, yellow cedar, each with a thin rib down the blade for stability and strength. Warren took one of the paddles from the box, admired it, and passed it on with Keb’s permission. Soon the four paddles were making the rounds. More people walked into the firelight to see them and touch them, to run their fingers over the elegant lines and smooth surfaces. They spoke in whispered admiration, if they spoke at all.
Keb climbed to his feet and shuffled over to Kevin. All the boy could do was sit there, head down, eyes behind a mop of hair. Often the master carver made the paddles himself and gave one or two away as part of the canoe blessing. This time was singular and different, like so much else. “Do these paddles belong with this canoe?” Keb asked the boy. Kevin nodded. Keb asked him to stand, then turned to everyone and said in Tlingit, then English, “This is Kevin Pallen of the Auke Bay Clan, Small Lake Tribe. He is one of the best carvers I know.” Turning to Kevin, he said, “Gunalchéesh, Gunalchéesh, ax tòowoo kligéi ee kàa-x. I’m proud of you.”
For the first time in a long time—longer than anybody could remember—Kevin raised his head and smiled.
our finest decorations
RAVEN DESCENDED THROUGH a heavy sky, its shadow rising. It landed on a bed of snow, a seer, a rascal, a maker of all things that made the earth, sun, moon, and stars. People, too. Yes, Raven made people, first from rock, which made them too strong, and later from dust so they would be mortal. Walking now. Raven was walking on the snow in a funny dance, a messenger bird trying to keep his feet dry, lifting one, then the other. A comical bird, if you had a sense of humor. A battleground bird, if you believed the Vikings. The bird Noah released to find land, if you believed the Bible. The bird that flew into the night and showed us another way, if you believed in another way. Old Keb stirred in his dream. Raven came nearer, dancing still. Was it snow he walked on? No. It was fire. White-hot fire. He wasn’t trying to keep his feet dry, he was trying to keep them cool, keep them from burning. “Follow me,” he said with a loud croak. “Follow me.”
Keb inhaled sharply.
You had to talk to Raven. Make prayers to it. Watch and listen. Remember, before Raven made the world as it is today, he made it easy, where fat grew on trees and rivers flowed uphill and down, and everything was convenient. But humans got lazy. Life isn’t supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to be difficult and perilous to help sharpen our wits. Quiet servitude is easy. Is that what you want? If that’s what you want, go find another bird. A pigeon. A barnyard chicken. A bathtub duck. Fall prey to the hawks and falcons around you.
So Raven made the fat into fungus. He made the rivers flow downhill only. He flew higher than any hawk. He somersaulted over clouds and turned water to ice, and ice into blue glacial rivers that buried a bay and shaped the land and shaped the people, too. He said it was better to die on your feet than to live on your knees. Better to go to sea than go to bed. Sleep on the ocean. Get up. Get up now. He was jumping up and down, this raven, cawing, croaking. “Follow me. Follow me. Get up. Get up.”
Keb opened his eyes. His heart pounded. He was in a strange bed, wet with sweat, his head on a soft pillow, too soft, his one good eye registering light through a window, not the bright light of death, but the muted light of a cloudy dawn. He remembered, then. He was in Mitch and Irene’s house. With no small effort he pulled his sleep-stiffened body upright. He found himself still dressed in his shirt and pants, redolent with wood smoke. Barefoot, he walked to the bedroom door, opened it, and moved down the hall. In the living room he found James asleep on a sofa, flat on his back, forearm across his brow, snoring softly. Gracie and Little Mac must be in the house, too . . . yes, that’s right, all asleep under the same roof.
“James,” Keb said with a shake to his shoulder. “James, wake up. There’s something wrong.”
The boy startled awake and sat up. “What?”
“There’s something wrong.”
“What, Gramps?”
On the table next to the sofa Old Keb saw James’s beaded necklace with the raven feather. He hadn’t touched it in weeks. James had needed it more than him. Picking it up, he said, “We have to go.”
“Go? Go where?”
“We have to go. Go now.”
“Okay, okay.” James pulled on his shirt and pants while Keb moved across the living room. He struggled with the front door lock. Raven was jumping up and down in his mind, flapping its wings. “Hurry, hurry,” it said, “follow me, hurry. . . .”
The lock opened and Keb shuffled out onto the front deck and worked his way down the wooden stairs. The lights of the boat harbor shone across mirror water. Beyond, he could see the faint outline of Chichagof Island against the dawn. In the distance, a dog barked. No traffic. No sign of anybody up and about. James appeared at his side. “What is it, Gramps?”
They stood in the road for a minute. “Listen,” Keb said, “that’s Steve barking.”
He began to walk down the harbor road toward his end of town, past Mitch’s Garage and Nystad’s Mercantile. Not his usual shuffle. He walked with such vigor and determination that his grandson had to hop-step to keep up, his knee in a brace. Again, Keb stopped and listened. The barking was more distinct.
“Gramps, look,” James said, pointing. On the skyline, a yellow-orange glow threw itself against heavy clouds. Large spruce and hemlock stood silhouetted, as if last night’s bonfire were still ablaze. But this was something else.
“You got one of those little phones?” Keb asked James.
“Not with me.”
“Go back to Mitch’s. Get help. Call emergency. Tell them my shed is on fire.”
James stared at him.
“Go,” Keb said.
“What about you?”
“I’m okay. Go.”
James turned and hop-stepped as fast as he could back to Mitch’s house.
Keb walked on, striding on adrenaline that he would have thought his body stopped producing a thousand years ago. He hadn’t felt this strong in centuries. He reached the hog-backed road and put his legs into low gear, the feather firm in his grasp. A couple minutes into the climb he heard a
motorcycle approaching from behind. The beam of the small headlight danced against trees that flanked the road. Keb stopped and watched it come at him as if it would run him down. He didn’t move. It skidded at his feet.
“Get on,” Kid Hugh said.
Keb wrapped his arms around the kid’s skinny waist, just as he had more than three months before, when the kid told him about the accident. Up the road they charged to the clearing and the shed—what used to be the shed, bright as a newborn sun now, the youngest star in the sky, hotter than hell, a fever fire feeding on death and dying.
“Oyyee . . .”
THE FIRE HAD a mighty appetite all right. Keb and Kid Hugh watched it consume the carving shed in minutes, flames high over the roof, a hungry incandescence biting the sky, sucking the atmosphere dry. Such heat, Keb could feel it pull the moisture from his eyes. He and Kid Hugh stood next to the canoe, across the clearing from the shed.
“It’s gone,” Keb said. “There’s nothing to save.”
“It’s your home,” Kid Hugh said.
The canoe is my home now.
Within minutes, Mitch arrived in his truck with Gracie, James, and Little Mac.
“No, no, no!” Gracie screamed as she climbed out and began walking toward the burning shed, arms up to shield herself from the oppressive heat. James grabbed her and pulled her back. She buckled into him. “Oh God, no, no, no.”
Her anguish did more to rip out Old Keb’s heart than seeing his home burn. He joined James in comforting her.
About the time they heard the first siren, they found Kevin sitting on the ground near the canoe, his face wet with tears.
“Kevin,” James asked, “what happened?”
The boy shook his head.
“What happened?”
No response.
“Did you do this?”
He shook his head.
“Do you know how this happened?”
Using a small carving knife, Kevin wrote in the dirt: TOMMY AND PETE.
