Hannah & the Spindle Whorl
Page 17
“I sure hope you’re right.”
“I’m right,” she tells me. “But let’s stay in here until morning anyway.”
We both sink down against the smooth sloping wall of the cave.
“Yisella?”
“Mmmm?”
“I know about this cave.”
“What do you mean?”
“This cave is the one I told you about. I found your mother’s spindle whorl here. It’s how I got to your village.” I struggle to find the right words — words that don’t make me sound like a crazy person. “I found this cave one day, and the spindle whorl. I came back with my friend, Max, and some other people who wanted to see the place where I found your mother’s spindle whorl.”
Yisella is quiet, but after a moment, I hear her take a deep breath.
“Hannah?”
“Yes?”
“Back in your world, what happens to things that you find? Things from my world? Like my mother’s spindle whorl?”
Until Yisella asks this question, I hadn’t thought about this.
“Well, I guess that the man I told you about, the man who studies things from the past, I guess he keeps it.”
“Even though he didn’t know me or my mother?” Yisella’s voice is a little more strained.
“Yeah … stuff that the Quw’utsun’ make is pretty interesting. He’d put it in the muse—” I think for a moment, carefully choosing the right words. “In the museum. A museum is a place where things from the past are looked after, so they don’t get damaged or lost. The spindle whorl would have gone there. To protect it.”
“So, it would be safe there?” Yisella asks.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “It’d be totally safe.”
“Forever?”
“Forever.”
Yisella is quiet then, and before long she falls asleep. I curl up beside her, missing Poos and the sound of his purring. Jack has tucked himself away in the corner, his head underneath one wing. Before any more images of that terrifying chase, of Thumquas or the big sailor with the greasy muttonchops, can enter my head, I drift into sleep, exhausted.
27
Warmed by the Sun
I WAKE SUDDENLY, my head resting on my backpack. My clothes are damp and sticking to my back from lying against the flat rock. There’s a sliver of sunlight coming through a crack in the cave, and I can hear a nuthatch chirping from somewhere outside. I blink and wait for my eyes to adjust to the dim light.
“Yisella?” I don’t see her. I can’t imagine that she’d go outside without me, especially after what we went through with … with that thing, and those sailors. “Yisella?” Something is different. The light has changed, the smells are different, and the opening to the cave is not in front of me anymore. The light is now coming in through an opening near the floor of the cave. The opening is just big enough to shimmy under if I crawled out on my stomach. I stare at it for a long time, hardly believing … but deep down I know.
Just to be sure, I turn myself around and feel my way back to the other end of the cave. I know exactly where the opening should be. I know exactly how I will have to suck in my stomach if I want to squeeze through it. But there is no other opening. Nothing. Nothing except a damp, rocky cave wall that seems about a hundred feet thick.
“Hey, Hannah! Are you in there?” I hear a boy’s voice outside, and he’s speaking English!
“Han? I know you’re there. If the university finds out you went back in there, you’re going to be so busted … hey … Hannah? I forgot my DC hat. I can’t live without it, y’know.”
My heart lurches in my chest and I pinch my hand as hard as I can. It’s Max!
“Max?” I call out, and my voice comes out all high-pitched and freaky.
“Uh … duh! Who else would I be?”
I grab my backpack and start to crawl out of the cave on my hands and knees. It’s only then that I realize I’m not wearing the cedar skirt or the cape anymore. I’m wearing my jeans and my orange Quicksilver hoodie. Gone is the spruce basket. And gone is Yisella.
Out in the open, I sit on the ground in front of Max, staring at him like some kind of spaced-out zombie.
“Whoa, Hannah. What happened to you in the past half-hour? You’re all mussed up!” Max laughs and picks some grass out of my hair.
Half an hour? Is he kidding me? I look at my watch: 4:40:13 pm. It’s working again. I can’t talk. I don’t know what to say or what to feel. How do I make sense of the zillion and one thoughts that are swimming around in my head? I stand up, and dart across the trail to where a mass of blackberry bushes grow. I grab hold of a spiky branch, not even feeling the sharp spines as they bite into my hand. The berries are rock hard and bright green. The way they always look in June.
I look at Max. He’s watching me, sort of laughing but looking kind of freaked out too. His hair is stuck down on one side of his head and he’s got grass stains on both knees of his jeans. He’s written some science notes or something in blue ink on his hand and, of course, one of his shoelaces is untied. Without thinking, I run back over and throw my arms around his neck. I give him the biggest bear hug ever.
“Whoa!” he says, losing his balance. “What’s wrong with you?” He steps back looking flushed, like he’s a bit embarrassed.
“Max!” I say frantically. “What day is it? And … and what month is it?”
He rolls his eyes.
“Shut up, Hannah. You’re being super sketchy right now.”
“MAX!”
He flinches. “Okay! Okay! Jeez. It’s Wednesday. June 17th. Same as it was this morning. What’s with you?”
“Uh. I’m okay,” I say, knowing that if I even begin to tell him what I’ve been through, he’ll think I really have lost my mind.
Then I remember my camera and my journal in my backpack. I took photos of Yisella and her family! I wrote pages in my journal! If I show Max that stuff, it’ll explain everything! I snatch my backpack off the ground and practically turn it inside out trying to get to my things. The camera rolls out first and I snatch it up and turn in on. My fingers suddenly feel boneless and I have a hard time pushing the right buttons to get to the albums. I start scrolling through the thumbnails. There are tons of them. Photos of the afternoon with Mr. Sullivan, Jim and Kelly. There’s a few of Max making stupid faces and there’s a couple of Chuck sleeping in the sun on the deck at home. But there aren’t any pictures of Yisella and her family, or inside the longhouse, or the canoes, or Jack, or … anything! I switch off the camera and flip open my journal, madly leafing through the pages. No! This can’t be right! I search back and forth across the blank pages but the last thing I wrote was on June 17th in the morning. That’s this morning, according to Max. I shove the camera and the diary back into my backpack. I feel sick.
Max takes a step back from me, looking at me as though I’m some sort of alien lunatic.
“Are … are you sure you’re okay? You look totally out of it. Like, one minute you’re all freaked out, and the next minute you’re hugging me. What’s with that?”
“I just, well, I can hug a friend if I want to, can’t I?” I try to look all cool and slightly bored. It’s not possible that this was all some crazy dream!
“Man, girls are ridiculous! Whatever … can I puhleeze have my DC hat? I hafta get home. It’s my turn to help with dinner. For some dumb reason my mom has made up this chart about who cooks dinner on what night. I think she thinks that it’ll …” His voice trails off into nothing. I try to look as if I’m interested in what he’s saying, but I’m not really paying attention at all. I’m listening to the steady “going home” traffic as it passes on Cowichan Bay Road in the distance. I’m listening to the ferry sounding its horn out in the strait, and I’m listening to a raven perched on a branch just above our heads.
“Blah doo — blah doo.” He hops from branch to branch, looking down at Max and me. I smile up at him. He’s a dead ringer for Jack. The Trickster. Messenger of Magic. The traveller between worlds. And there’s something a
bout the way he’s looking at me …
Max and I walk out to the road together. He blabbers on about this and that. I take in the sights all around me: the bicyclists that ride by, the blooming hanging baskets that swing from the shop awnings, the line of people waiting for ice cream at Udderly Wonderful, and Nell … Nell is there! Waving from her open door.
“Hey guys. Good day?” she calls, wiping her hands on her bright floral apron. I am so happy to see her familiar crinkly face that I can’t stop smiling.
“Well, I guess you had a great day, judging from your face!” Nell laughs, “Who’s your friend?”
“Uh, Max. You know Max,” I tell her, but she chuckles and points to my feet. “No, I mean your four-legged friend there?”
I look down to see a little grey cat sitting by my feet, casually licking his paw. There’s a little diamond shaped patch of white fur right between his blue eyes. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck go straight up.
My heart skips a beat. I feel light-headed. It’s Poos!
“Oh … ah,” I stammer, reaching down to scoop him up. “He followed me in the woods. I … I call him Poos.”
“Puss?” says Nell. “Well, not all that original, Han, but he’s sure cute. Better go break the news to Chuck.”
“He doesn’t look very old,” Max says. “Weird, I didn’t notice him until just now. How come you didn’t mention him before?”
“Uh, well, he sort of comes and goes.”
“Looks like he likes you.”
I don’t say anything, but dig into my backpack and hand Max his DC hat.
“Thanks, Hannah, see ya tomorrow. Remember the pics, don’t forget to upload ’em,” he calls as he heads off up the road.
“Yeah, yeah. Nag, nag, nag.” I smile. I look down at Poos and then clutch him to my face, not ever wanting to let him go! He smells warm. He smells like sunshine. I carry him across the road and down along the walkway that leads past the Salty Dog Café to dock number five.
We bump into Quincy on the ramp but he’s only mildly interested in Poos, choosing instead to wander over to the boat where two men are unloading the day’s catch.
Then I have to stop. I’m looking at our houseboat and it feels like I didn’t leave it for one single second. I can’t wait to go inside, see my room and my green and purple striped comforter, fill the old whistling kettle and make a good way-too-sweet cup of tea. I want to check out the kitchen cupboards and see if maybe, just maybe, there’s a full bag of chocolate chips hiding behind the cans of kidney beans!
I step over the dock onto the deck and gently place Poos on the ground. He sniffs around tentatively and is unprepared for Chuck who appears from behind a deck chair with his tail fluffed up like a giant feather boa. I’m so happy to see Chuck but when I go to grab him, he darts off down the dock. He has better things to do. I have to remind myself that, for Chuck, this is just an ordinary day. For a minute I’m worried that Poos might follow Chuck down the dock, but instead he jumps down the three stairs leading into our front room. I follow behind and, once again, I need to stop and take it all in.
There it is. The same mess I saw this morning: my dad’s laptop and papers scattered around in what he would call “creative chaos.” And, of course, he’s left his coffee cup, half-full and kind of gross, on the table beside the computer. I think it’s the best sight in the world.
I flop down on the couch, listening for the gentle lapping of the water on the side of the boat. Dad won’t be home for a couple more hours today because it’s Wednesday — the day that he meets with his writing group. I’m kinda glad that I have the chance to just hang out with Poos and get my brain turned around again. There’s so much to process; I can’t even begin to make sense of it all. Thumquas! And the cave! The magical place that started my adventure, and the place where it all came to an end. Yisella and I, we found it together. It’s where Skeepla’s spindle whorl would stay untouched for almost one hundred and fifty years until I came to find it again. I remembered the questions Yisella asked me about Mr. Sullivan when we were hiding in the cave. The last thing we talked about was how the spindle whorl would be safe in a museum. Did she leave it there on purpose, when she woke up and I was gone? Mr. Sullivan said the traces of organic hairs that were found on the whorl were most likely goat hair, so maybe it was Skeepla’s blanket protecting the wood of the whorl all those years? I want to believe this. I want Yisella to know that even though Skeepla’s blanket was never finished, it played a major part in keeping her mother’s memory alive.
I think of Yisella’s smiling face and of the steadiness of her voice when we last talked. I hope that she’s okay. I think about all the stuff that she taught me. About plant medicine, and different foods and the customs of her village. But she also taught me about sucking it up, and being braver and stronger than you think you can be.
I settle back against the big, red throw pillows. Poos jumps up and curls into a ball at my feet. It’s hard to keep my eyes open, especially after Chuck wanders in from outside to join me on the couch. I count three couch potatoes before I fall asleep.
I wake up because I’m hungry. I pull myself up off the couch. My stomach growls loudly, and Chuck looks at me through eyes half-open. Poos doesn’t even move; he is clearly not ready to wake up. I check my watch. It’s almost six o’clock, and I remember again that it’s Wednesday which means I have to get my own dinner.
I feel as though I’ve been sleeping forever, not just for an hour. I feel this way because of the dream I had. Another one about Yisella. I scan the room, anxiously looking for my backpack, and see it leaning against the lamp across the room. I unzip it quickly and take out my journal, padding back to the couch to arrange myself around the sleeping grey and the snoring orange fur balls that are Poos and Chuck.
The cut-out killer whale inside my pen swims slowly back and forth as I twiddle it mindlessly between my thumb and forefinger. Then I write.
Wednesday, June 17, 2010
Dear Diary:
This is the hardest entry to write. I don’t know how to start. Dad says that when he has a zillion things to include in a chapter and he isn’t sure what to write first, he just goes on auto-pilot. That means he doesn’t think about whether or not it’s going to make any sense. (He says that comes later.) He just writes it down. He calls it “putting down the bones.” So that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to put down the bones. And the first thing I want to write about is the dream I just had. Oh wow. Here I go:
It’s daylight and I can see the outside of the cave. My cave. And then I see Yisella turning sideways as she squeezes out of the narrow opening in the rock. She’s hearing voices. Someone’s calling her name. It’s a woman’s voice, a Quw’utsun’ voice. And it’s coming from beyond the trees, by the sea.
Yisella doesn’t waste any time. She bursts out of the trees and onto the beach. There’s a canoe just off shore, a big one with a proud wolf’s head carved at the bow where Nutsa is standing, waving her arms frantically over her head. Behind her sits Yisella’s great-grandmother and her mother’s mother. The three women see her right away, and they all start calling her name over and over again, as though they’re afraid she might actually disappear. Yisella’s jumping up and down on the shoreline and Nutsa actually looks happy as she jumps over the side of the canoe and swims to shore. When she gets to Yisella, the two of them hug each other. Two young men at the back of the canoe bring the boat into the shallow water where they help Yisella’s grandmother and great-grandmother onto the beach. The men stay in the boat, but the three generations of women have this giant group hug thing going on at the water’s edge.
And then I just woke up, and you know … I feel like maybe Yisella and her family are going to be okay. I mean, I hate that stupid smallpox disease, and what it did to all those people back then, and I hate that no one knows what it was really like for them, but well … this was a good dream. I guess I’m going to be writing some pretty intense stuff in my BC history report.
But I gotta do something else first …
I snap my journal shut, get up from the couch and go to the back room — the junk room, as Dad and I call it. On one side of the room is an old cedar chest. It’s covered with bric-a-brac, not to mention a half-completed jigsaw puzzle of a grizzly bear in an alpine meadow. I sweep it clean and open the lid. There it is, a cloth bag with sunflowers and little brown birds painted across the front of it — my mother’s knitting bag.
I lift it out and open the wooden slats at the top. There are lots of brightly coloured balls of yarn in the bottom of the bag, shades of yellow, peach and bright red. And there’s my dad’s old grey work sock that I remember so well, filled with knitting needles of all shapes and sizes. I close the bag, and lug it through the living room and up onto the deck. After Mom died, Dad put all her stuff away, telling me where things were and that, whenever I wanted them, they’d be there waiting for me.
I haven’t been able to think about it for a long time. But today, something seems different. Today I feel tough and brave, like Yisella. I pull out a pair of needles from the old sock, feeling the smooth metal, cool to the touch. Then it happens. My palms start to get warm and I feel a familiar twitch in my fingertips, the same electric jolt that I felt back in Tl’ulpalus when I picked up Skeepla’s spindle whorl. Only this time I’m not surprised. This time I’m ready.
I reach down, pull out a ball of red yarn, and begin to loop it in and around the fingers of my left hand. I remember the hours I spent watching Mom knit during winter evenings. The way her needles had flown back and forth, and the ball of yarn had jumped on the floor beside her feet every few seconds. I remember how to do this.