Hannah & the Spindle Whorl

by Carol Anne Shaw

  There’s nothing I can do right now except be Yisella’s friend. But I’m still afraid. I’m afraid because now there are others in Tl’ulpalus who are getting sick. Two of the elders and two of the really young kids have the fever and the same rash, and everybody is freaking out. It’s heartbreaking, and terrifying to watch. And what about me? I’m lucky that I don’t get sick very much — I never even get colds. But what if I get this?

  These days Yisella barely leaves her mother’s side. She sits and watches, and on the rare occasion that Skeepla is more aware of her surroundings, Yisella sings and talks to her.

  A week after Skeepla’s illness first took hold, she wakes and sees Yisella sitting beside her. She takes Yisella’s hand and looks her in the eye. Her grip is serious, strong despite the fact that she has become so frail and weak. They speak in hushed tones for a little while.

  Skeepla falls back into an exhausted sleep and Yisella walks quickly out of the longhouse. I’m not sure if I should follow her but Yisella’s grandmother gives me a look as if I should. It’s strange. I’ve only been here in Tl’ulpalus for a little over two weeks, and yet I can often understand everyone instinctively, in a way that’s hard to describe. I can understand and speak only a few Quw’utsun’ words but you can say a lot with your eyes, or in the way you move, and in the gestures that you make with your hands. It makes me think that maybe I talk too much most of the time.

  Yisella is sitting on the grass just outside the longhouse. She twirls a long piece of beach grass around her forefinger. I stretch my toes in front of me when I sit down beside her. The rain has stopped and today it is hot and the ocean is flat and calm. I can tell it’s going to be a perfect summer day.

  “My mother is worried. She says that summer will soon be over and I need to get ready for another trip across the water with the rest of the village.”

  “Why?” I ask. “Where?”

  “Our summer camp. Sometimes we make two or three trips. It’s the most important time, when we trade for things like the goat’s wool, remember? It’s harder for the people over there to have enough food during the winter. The Quw’utsun’ people are lucky to have so much here to eat.”

  That explains why I’ve seen the villagers checking out the canoes on the beach the past couple of days. The boats are huge and heavy looking, much bigger than any canoes that I’ve ever seen. The large front ends, the bows, are high and each is carved with a ferocious and very intimidating wolf’s head. I see men lashing large planks to the canoes with cedar rope. Yisella says they use them to build summerhouses when they reach the other side of the strait. It’s hard for me to believe that these canoes, as sturdy as they look, can be paddled all the way across the Strait of Georgia! I’ve done the trip tons of times and sometimes it’s pretty rough, even in a humongous ferryboat. I wonder if the Quw’utsun’ people get seasick?

  “But someone has to stay here in the village, don’t they?” I ask.

  Yisella frowns but doesn’t answer right away. I’m sure that she’s thinking about Skeepla and the others who are sick. “I’m going to stay to finish my mother’s blanket,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone. She stares at the ground when she says this, which is weird because she usually looks you straight in the eye when she talks to you.

  “But,” I push, “you said you can’t do it. Weave, I mean. You said you don’t have the spinning gift.”

  Yisella blinks slowly. “I don’t. But I think I should stay and try anyway. Nutsa can’t be trusted to finish it. My mother–—” Her voice catches and she stops talking. I recognize the pain in her voice. I know all about that. I just nod like I understand because, well, I do.

  Before, when I watched Skeepla working with the spindle whorl, I’d noticed the wooden loom sitting near the baskets of fleece. Two vertical pieces of wood stood straight and tall, supporting two thinner horizontal pieces about six feet long. Over this, was the off-white tightly woven blanket that her mother was working on. It had a deep brown and red geometric design running down both sides.

  “I’ve watched enough to know how to make that pattern,” Yisella tells me, looking suddenly composed again. She tells me that the blanket is her mother’s most prized piece of work so far, a present to be given at the potlatch. It is an important potlatch, held at the very end of summer.

  Our class had learned a little bit about potlatches from Mrs. Elford. I knew that it was a kind of “giving away” party, where the invited guests received tons of stuff. The more stuff the guests received, the more important the party-givers were. Then the guests would have to give their own potlatch down the road and try to give even more stuff to their guests to prove that they were even more important. So the better the gifts you gave away, the more status your village received. Tl’ulpalus was bound to rate high, partly because of Skeepla’s amazing skill. Yisella says that this blanket is like no other.

  “The problem is that Mother won’t want me to stay here,” she continues. “She’ll want me to work hard with the rest of village.”

  Poor Yisella. Lately she looks worried all the time, which seems like an awful way for a kid to be. She’s worried about her mother’s health, worried about her sister’s bad attitude, worried about her father and his worry over the villagers’ fascination with the hwunitum. Wow … all I ever seem to worry about is getting my homework done on time and trying not to miss the school bus in the morning.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m not sure. If I stay, it will make my mother angry. But if I go, it won’t feel right. I just don’t know what I should do.”

  I feel bad for her. It’s kind of like the time I had to choose between going horseback riding with Gwyneth — something we’d planned for weeks — or helping Nell in the bakery when she broke her arm. I felt sure that Nell would be seriously mad if she learned I’d passed up a party to help her, but I also knew that Gwyneth would be mad if I ditched riding with her. In the end, I helped Nell, and Gwyneth ended up being cool with it. I guess that’s why she was my best friend.

  “Come on, Yisella, let’s go walk on the beach. Sometimes walking helps me figure stuff out. Maybe it’ll help you too.”

  She nods her head but her mind is somewhere else. Yisella peers through the entrance to the longhouse and gazes over at the unfinished blanket on the rustic loom. I look over to where Skeepla is lying. She’s so weak now that she is no longer even moaning. It’s an awful and frightening sight. Her entire body is covered with the angry blisters, so much so that you can’t see a single patch of smooth skin. Her breathing is rapid and shallow, and her arms are limp at her sides. It’s one thing to read about smallpox, but another to see it up close. It’s like a nightmare.

  Yisella’s grandmother continues to sweep the air around Skeepla with the cedar bough, but her movements are different than they were over a week ago. Now they’re almost peaceful. Our eyes meet and I see something in her look that tells me Skeepla won’t be with us much longer. She knows it, I know it; and while I’m pretty sure that Yisella isn’t letting herself think about it, I think she knows it too. I look over and I can tell that she’s worrying again.

  “Come on, Yisella,” I say, grabbing her arm and leading her away from the longhouse. “You’ve been sitting here long enough.” As we pass the doorway, I block the sight of her mother’s body with my own.

  The morning passes slowly and peacefully. We walk up and down the beach, not talking much, and then we sit on a log, mindlessly drawing pictures in the wet sand. It’s the first time that I’ve seen my friend without something to do and I secretly vow that I will never complain to my dad about the few chores I have. They’re nothing compared to what Yisella has to do.

  I tell her a bit more about my home, my Cowichan Bay. How there are many boats, but not like the canoes that she knows. I tell her about our boat that we live on, how we sleep on it, how we can cook on it, and how we have a lot of neighbours who live the same way. I tell her about Nell’s bakery, and the different breads and t
hings that she makes using the flour and sugar that Yisella has only just discovered for her own cooking. She doesn’t really seem that surprised. She just nods her head, as if I’m telling her stuff that she already knows.

  And then, for some reason, I just start telling her about my mom. I tell her how much I still miss my mom and that the last thing we talked about on the day that she died was whether or not Chuck could remember what he’d eaten for dinner the day before. I tell her other things too. About how she loved to brush my hair for as long as I would let her, how she used to say that she would “tame” my wild curls, even though she never could.

  I laugh as I remember how she would sing to herself when she was super nervous, making up really lame words to songs if she didn’t know the lyrics. How she always smelled like fresh lemons because of the lemon fragrance that she used. She put it on every single day for as long as I could remember. I told Yisella how she knitted heavy wool socks in bright colours — bright reds and flaming oranges — even quicker than it would take to go to the store and buy them. Finally, I tell her that I can’t bear to be near her things. That they’re hidden away in a wooden chest because it hurts too much to look at them.

  I haven’t talked this much about Mom since she died, and the funny thing is, it doesn’t feel sad. It feels good. It feels good to remember her this way, all the fun we had and the goofy things that she used to do. Yisella asks me so many things about her. What did she look like? What was her name? Did she laugh a lot? Did she like the ocean? Could I sing any of the dumb songs that she used to sing?

  After a long time, when I’ve told her all I can, I actually feel lighter, like I can finally take a whole deep breath. A few weeks after Mom’s accident, Dad made me talk to the school guidance counsellor. I’d thought it was so dumb, and afterwards I’d felt worse, not better.

  Now I take a deep breath and give Yisella a big hug. “Thank you,” I say, and laugh when she looks confused.

  “What for?”

  “I don’t really know.” I smile, looking out at a pair of cormorants that have come to rest on a log floating in the bay. Jack sits on a rock at the shoreline. He’s always nearby when Yisella and I are together, kind of a permanent fixture.

  “Thanks for just listening, I guess, and for wanting to know about my mother.”

  “We’re friends,” Yisella says, “and our mothers are both special. Huy chqa to you too.”

  “Huych … oh forget it. You know I can’t pronounce it. I’ve already tried!”

  “Huy chqa!” she says again, and smiles her wide genuine smile. I’ve missed seeing that in the days since her mother got sick.

  I repeat the word for “thank you,” huy chqa, over and over. It’s pronounced like “hytch kah.” Yisella covers her mouth with her hand and laughs out loud at the way I say it. I get back at her by making her say a tongue twister in English: red leather, yellow leather, red leather, yellow leather, again and again. Then it’s my turn to laugh because she’s hopeless.

  Our laughter is cut short when Nutsa suddenly appears on the bank above the shore, calling for her sister. I’m not sure what she says but all of the colour drains from Yisella’s face. She leaps up and then races toward the longhouse, kicking up sand in every direction. Jack leaves his perch on the rock near the water and flaps his wings furiously, trying to catch up. I’m quick to follow, although I’m really scared of what might be waiting for her. After Yisella disappears inside the entrance, women begin to cry and chant. Yisella’s father appears a moment later, his arms around both of his daughters. His face is strained and his eyes are filled with tears. I feel myself stiffen and I hold my breath, everything becoming real very fast. My whole body goes hot, then cold. I know that my nightmare has come true. Skeepla is gone.

  Yisella’s grandmother embraces her and says something in a very quiet voice. With a solemn face, Yisella translates: Skeepla is now among the people who have gone to the dead. It sounds creepy to say something like that, but Yisella says this is what happens when somebody dies. And that we have to be careful of what we do in the next few hours, so we don’t lead Skeepla’s soul back to us. If she’s not ready to go, she could return and try to take someone she loves with her to keep her company on her journey. I look over at Yisella and wonder if she’s scared but, as usual, she looks like she can handle anything. For sure, I don’t want her to know how scared I am.

  There’s so much sadness in the longhouse. No one understands this awful sickness that has taken Skeepla and so many others in the neighbouring villages. There’s a lot of talk about people dying in places across the water too. I can’t take my eyes off Skeepla’s still small body lying on her sleeping platform. She looks peaceful, as if, without the pain, she can finally rest. Yisella and Nutsa sit quietly by her side, ready to do whatever is needed. Even Nutsa has lost her usual faraway expression and she looks alert and determined. Yisella’s great-grandmother begins to apply thick red and black streaks on Skeepla’s cheeks, talking quietly to her great-granddaughters while she works.

  “Great-grandmother says that death is part of life,” Yisella explains. “When one of us leaves, we make room for another one to be born.”

  I can’t stop the tear that slides down my cheek. I’m not a fan of death. I brush my arm quickly across my face and give her a weak smile. Her words make sense and I really want to believe them. More than anything. I wonder if my mom believed that? Our family was never much into church or anything, and no one ever really talks about what happens after you die. All I know is that it isn’t fair that my mother was taken away from me so early, and I feel the sting of her absence all over again. Then Yisella says something to her sister, and together they look over to Skeepla’s blanket and nod to each other.

  I go outside and sit on the beach, giving Yisella and her family some privacy. I wish I didn’t, but I know exactly what she’s feeling. I remember everything about the day Mom died. It was sunny and warm, a day like this one. I remember Dad trying to be calm and strong while he struggled to find the right words to tell me about Mom’s car accident. I could hear people laughing by the roadside up at the Salty Dog Café and I remember wondering how they could be so carefree and happy? How could they be going out for a fish and chip dinner today? How could they act like it was just another stupid regular day? For a while after that I never felt anything at all. It was like I was some kind of robot.

  I look back at Yisella’s family as Jack flaps up from the ground and settles comfortably a few feet away from me. We stare at each other for a bit, and he cocks his head to one side.

  “Jack?” I say. “What’s the deal here? Why do I have to be here for this and feel sad all over again?” For a brief second I wonder if he’ll actually say something to me. I mean, why not? Anything seems possible now. But he just ruffles his feathers and gives me one of his quizzical looks.

  I sit there thinking about how everyone has been pretty nice to me since I arrived — everyone except Nutsa, that is. I’m okay being alone, except for Jack, ’cause I know that there are some things that I just can’t be a part of. Stuff I can’t possibly begin to know or understand. Like that gross yarrow stuff. I mean, my knee has already formed a big ugly scab, which is pretty quick, considering how much it was bleeding before.

  So, not knowing what else to do, I sit in the sun on the beach with Jack. He picks away at one of his feet with his shiny beak while I try hard not to pick at my scab.

  20

  Whorl Dance

  THE NEWS OF Skeepla’s death travels and soon people from the neighbouring villages near the Cowichan and Koksilah rivers come to pay their respects. It’s obvious that Skeepla was admired, that she’ll be missed for a long time to come. Nutsa and Yisella greet the visitors with brave smiles even though I can tell it is a struggle. Then, with help from the elders, they carefully arrange their mother in a gentle crouching position inside a sturdy cedar plank box. Everyone has a job to do; everyone except me, that is.

  Like so many other times here,
I feel useless. I’m not sure if I should try to help or just stay in the background. After seeing the looks I get from the visiting villagers, as though I smell bad or something, I decide to stay in the background. It could be my imagination, but I’m sure that some of them are bugged by my being here. Do they think that it’s my fault that Skeepla died? Because I’m hwunitum? Do they think that I brought smallpox here? I avoid them by playing with Poos a lot.

  There’s no way that I want to pester Yisella about any of this. She and Nutsa are so preoccupied. They don’t smile but they aren’t crying either. I think they might be feeling like robots just the way I did. So I just hang around by the wall of the longhouse and watch with Poos … and Jack. If I wasn’t sure before that Jack was different, somehow special, I definitely am now. No other raven would sit with a little cat — unless that cat was dinner!

  I want to be capable like Yisella, but I’m not. I miss Dad and Aunt Maddie, and even the way Chuck chewed on my eyebrow. I feel like the worst friend there is for thinking about myself at a time like this, but all I really want to do is disappear and get back home, now. Poos rubs his body along the side of my leg, as if he senses my distress. I’m so grateful for his company the past few days. I have really grown to love the little cat.

  Later on, Yisella and her family perform a solemn dance, chanting in low tones, their feet stamping the hard earth of the longhouse floor. The dance is long and everyone is quiet when it ends, even the smallest children. I watch from a corner, wanting desperately to be invisible. I don’t have any right to be watching something so ancient and important and private — I feel like a spy. I’m grateful that Jack is with me, watching.