Totem

by Jennifer Maruno

Something’s wrong, Jonny thought the next morning, when he saw the smoke from the village seep across the sky like black ink. He waded into the water up to his knees.

  “Were you planning to swim across?” Ernie called out from behind. He and Tom were in the canoe, ready to make the crossing.

  A bone-chilling wind swept acrid smoke across the beach. Black clouds from burning tar poured from fires outside the lodges in the hopes of cleansing the air. Ill people lay everywhere.

  Ernie and Tom helped to carry the dead to the burial ground near the mountain stream while Jonny went in search of Silver Cloud.

  The shivers came so strong Jonny thought her teeth would shatter. “Chasekin’s cold-sick has spread.” Silver Cloud whispered through cracked, dry lips. “What is the cause of this fever with shivering? They die, one by one, and I cannot help.”

  Ernie appeared at his side. Jonny felt his fingernails dig into his arm as he pulled him away from the medicine woman. “We can’t stay,” he said. “We’ve got to warn the others.”

  “Kalaku,” Jonny said with widening eyes. He knew he would stop at the cave at the end of his journey to give thanks. “We’ve got to get to the cave to warn him.”

  “I’ll stay,” said Tom. “You two go.”

  They set off back across the bay. The sun was high above the trees, but clouds hung low in the northwest. Their pale greyness crept toward them as the wind brought odours of seaweed and salt. They paddled on. In a whoosh of air, dozens of seals surrounded their canoe. Their heavy breathing broke the silence.

  The growth of the forest seemed to close in upon them as they followed the path up the mountain. They heard the thunder in the east. A flash of light moved across the sky. Soon drops of rain pelted the leaves. The limbs of the tree swayed and branches rattled as the wind rose and the storm reared its ugly head. They arrived at the cave just as the rain began to fall.

  Jonny started a fire while Ernie lit the torch and placed it into its bracket.

  They added wood to the flames and lay spears of salmon meat across the hot coals.

  “He might be a few days,” Ernie said.

  “We will wait,” Jonny replied. He removed the small smooth stone from the woven pouch around his neck and moved his thumb across it. “He has to be warned not to go near the village.”

  Ernie took the stone from Jonny’s hand and turned it over. “An owl,” he said. He looked up at Jonny with a smile and repeated Silver Cloud’s first words to him. “You are not taking him anywhere.”

  “I hope she gets better,” Jonny said.

  Ernie placed the stone near the fire, rose, picked up the torch and headed through the passageway. Jonny followed.

  “We didn’t even know what that guy was doing when we first saw that picture,” Ernie said as he approached the school of fish.

  “And I didn’t know that was a wolf,” Jonny said. “Look, someone’s started a new drawing.”

  The boys walked to the charcoal sketch of the ship in the cove. Around it were the canoes that came to greet the passengers. In the front of the bow, the artist had depicted the old priest.

  “I am sure glad they are gone,” Ernie said. He spit on his finger and reached up to the charcoal drawing. “I’m going to rub that guy out.”

  “These pictures are sacred …” Jonny said, grabbing his arm as Ernie touched the wall.

  Once again the cave echoed with an ear-shattering thunderclap. In an explosion of brilliant light, the boys fell to the floor.

  21

  Return

  When Jonny woke, it was so dark he thought he was back in the workshop. The dense brush at the mouth of the cave blacked out the sun. He heard a wolf howl, but it was so far away it could have been the wind. It wasn’t until he heard the distinct sound of the train whistle that Jonny knew there would be no point waiting for Kalaku.

  He set out to find Ernie hoping that what he thought wasn’t true. Were they really back where they started or was it nothing but a dream?

  Ernie was on the beach hauling a battered canoe from the water. It was the one they used to get away. “This thing’s got a few holes and I only found one paddle,” he said. “We’ll have to take turns bailing.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Back to the farmhouse,” Ernie said. “Didn’t Mr. McCutcheon say he still had Old Tom’s canoe? Once we get our hands on that, we are back on the water, priest or no priest.”

  Jonny stopped helping Ernie push the canoe into the water and turned to look up Golden Mountain. He was sure he heard the old man’s voice, but it was just the wind on the waves.

  The cabin was bright with light when the boys stepped on to the porch and pushed open the door. Tom McCutcheon sat with his wife talking by the hearth.“Thank God!” the chicken farmer said as he jumped up. “You’re both safe.”

  Jonny gave him a brief smile.

  “You must be Jonny and Ernie,” the woman said, “and you must be half-frozen.” She rose, took the knitted afghan from her rocker, and threw it around Jonny’s shoulders.

  Tom removed his sweater and gave it to Ernie.

  “Both of you need a warm drink, a set of warm clothes, and a good night’s sleep,” Mrs. McCutchen said. The farmer sat back down in his rocker. “That storm came out of nowhere,” he told Jonny. “We lost the dock and most of the boats.”

  “What about the chickens?” Jonny asked. It was all coming back.

  “This morning I found them in their crates up on the shore.” He threw back his head and laughed heartily. “Madder than wet hens, they were.”

  Jonny stared into the flames of the fireplace as he warmed his hands. “And Father Gregory?” he asked.

  “He went off with the Mountie this morning to report the two of you missing,” he told Jonny, shaking his head. “He thought we’d never see you two again.”

  “It was the worst storm I’ve seen,” Mrs. McCutcheon said as she handed each of them a sandwich of two thick slabs of bread, meat, and mustard. “We saw the clouds gathering, but never thought it would turn into such a two-headed monster.”

  Ernie stopped chewing. “What did you say?”

  “The storm,” she said. “You didn’t get hit by any falling branches or anything, did you?”

  Jonny shook his head as he wolfed down the sandwich.

  The woman returned to the kitchen.

  “Where did you end up?” the farmer asked. “We went down the road but there was no sign of either of you.”

  They don’t know we tried to run away, Jonny thought. They don’t even know about the canoe. “We decided to do a bit of exploring,” he said. “Ernie said he knew about a cave.”

  “Did you find it?” asked the man.

  Ernie nodded.

  “Good thing,” the man said. “My grandfather used to tell about all kinds of special Indian places around here.” He rose from his chair and stared across the lawn. “Did you know there used to be a whole village across the bay?”

  The farmer’s wife came into the room with a large cup of steaming liquid. Jonny took the cup from the woman into his hands and stared into the tea’s milky brownness. “Once you get that down you can both get to bed.”

  “Do you think they believed us?” Jonny whispered as they crawled under the covers.

  “Do you want to try and tell them what really happened?” Ernie asked.

  “I wouldn’t know how,” Jonny said.

  “We better keep this between the two of us,” he said. “Everyone thinks Indians are crazy anyway. This will just convince them more.”

  Jonny moved through a difficult dream that night. Kalaku was in the clutches of the two-headed serpent. Jonny fought the reptile as best he could, trying not to look directly into his eyes.

  When he woke, the twisted and rolled blankets had entrapped his body.

  Mrs. McCutcheon cracked four eggs next to the bacon smoking in the pan and gave them a shake of salt and pepper. Leaving them to cook, she pulled a plate from the cupboard. Then she flipped the e
ggs over and pulled a knife and fork from the cutlery drawer. She fried two slices of bread alongside the eggs and tossed them on the plate. She dumped the eggs on top of the bread and the bacon on top of that. She put the plate down in front of Ernie.

  “Come to the table,” the farmer said to Jonny, who was standing in the doorway. “You must be starving.”

  “Did you hear the news?” Mrs. McCutcheon said to her husband as she poured him a cup of coffee. “Redemption Residential burnt down.”

  Jonny’s hand wobbled as he pulled out the chair.

  Ernie glared at him. “Hopefully it was hit by lightning,” he said.

  “In town,” she said, “everyone was talking about some of the things that went on there.”

  “Did you know any of the kids that ran away?” the farmer asked.

  “Not really,” Ernie said, kicking Jonny under the table.

  “The man at the post office said there was one boy they could never account for,” said Mrs. McCutcheon. “The priests said he went home for the holidays. His family said he never showed up. Can you imagine?” She put her hand across her heart. “It’s almost as if some forest monster stole him,” she said.

  Jonny’s glass missed his mouth and milk dribbled down his chin.

  “The police should investigate,” her husband said.

  “You want to come home with me?” Ernie asked Jonny.

  Jonny just shrugged. He couldn’t think straight.

  Mrs. McCutcheon placed her hand on Jonny’s back. “You are welcome to stay with us,” she said. “You could help Tom fix the barn, and chop firewood until you are sorted out.”

  “The hatchet!” Jonny cried out, turning to Ernie in alarm. “I left the hatchet in …” He stopped speaking and glanced at the farmer. “I must have dropped it during the storm,” he said.

  “I got one you can use,” the farmer said. “Luckily it was the only thing you lost.”

  Jonny, Ernie, and Tom spent the next few days fixing the barn. Ernie talked non-stop about finding his family.

  Every now and again, Jonny stopped working to gaze off into space.

  “Do you want to go back and see the school?” the farmer asked.

  “No boat,” Jonny replied.

  “You could try that old Indian canoe in the storehouse,” he suggested. “I should put it in the water more often anyway.”

  The terrified squawking of the hens made them all stop working.

  The farmer grabbed the rifle that leaned against the wall of the barn. Following the direction of the sounds, they came face to face with a large timber wolf snarling in the corner of the coop. Tom raised the rifle.

  Jonny looked into the animal’s eyes. “Wait,” he said, putting his hand on the barrel of the rifle and lowering it. “He hasn’t killed any chickens.”

  The chicken farmer looked about the roost. Jonny was right. All of the birds were aloft. There were no signs of a kill anywhere.

  Jonny lowered his body to the animal’s level and began to sing his spirit song.

  The wolf stopped growling.

  Jonny crawled toward the wolf. “I am your brother” he sang in a language the farmer did not understand. “I will help you.”

  The wolf lay down.

  Tom watched in disbelief, while Ernie folded his hands across his chest and smiled.

  Jonny examined the animal’s legs and back. As he ran his hand down the dark, furry throat, the wolf yelped. A long splinter of wood pierced its fur. Jonny pulled the wood from the fur and examined it. “You will have to be more careful in the woods,” he told the wolf as he examined the wound.

  “I’ve got stuff back at the house I use for the dogs,” the farmer said, “but I can’t leave you alone with this wolf.” He handed Ernie the rifle.

  “I’ll be all right,” Jonny said. “Once a wolf has submitted, he will not bite. This fellow is very tired from pain.”

  “Yeah,” Ernie said, taking the rifle. “Wolves are good neighbours. They know how to live with people. It’s people that don’t know how to live with wolves.”

  When Tom returned, he found the wolf lying across Jonny’s lap, fast asleep.

  “He’ll wake up hungry,” Ernie said. “It’s best we get these chickens out of the way.”

  On the way back to the farmhouse, Tom McCutcheon looked at Jonny with admiration. “You really have a way with animals,” he said. “I could use someone like you around here.”

  Jonny had never given any thought to what he would do when school was finished. And now there was no school to return to.

  “Will you give me a place to sleep?” he asked.

  “You can stay in one of the extra bedrooms.”

  Jonny looked at the derelict hut under the old tree. “Could I use the cabin?”

  “Nothing would make the ghost of my old grandfather happier,” the farmer said with a laugh. “Who knows, he may even come to visit you.”

  22

  The Village

  “Better take the canoe across the bay first, just to see how she holds out. Why don’t we visit the old village?” Tom McCutcheon suggested. “After that, you two can take it down river.”

  The farm dogs raced ahead, searching for anything worth disturbing, while Jonny, Ernie, and Tom carried the dugout to the shore.

  “There were some photographs of the village taken around the 1860s,” Tom told them as they pushed it into the water. “The records show the village was abandoned sometime at the beginning of the nineteenth century.”

  “A lot of the villagers got sick,” Jonny said, as he looked off into the distance.

  “You know your history,” Tom McCutcheon said, looking at Jonny with respect. “The records say the final abandonment was because of an influenza epidemic.”

  They pushed the canoe into the water.

  “I saw the photographs at the museum in the city,” Tom explained. “There were about twenty lodges and five hundred people.”

  They stood on the other side of the bay looking at what remained of the village. The framework of the Chief’s lodge had been reduced to moss-covered logs. The rest of the village was mere stumps, all bleached like bones.

  “I always wondered what kind of chief he was,” the farmer said. “My grandfather had great respect for him.”

  “Probably the kind of guy that never ran short of gifts,” Ernie said with a grin.

  As they walked the beach, they came upon two men standing by the river. One carried a clipboard, the other a small box-like camera. Hearing their approach, they turned and smiled.

  “There is supposed to be an Indian graveyard somewhere,” said the rough-hewn man with grey wiry hair that stood up on the back of his head.

  “It’s just beyond that stand of trees,” Jonny said, pointing to the narrow slight-sunken path above the river.

  Tom raised his brows in surprise.

  The broken pole near the mouth of the river caught Jonny’s eye. He kneeled and ran his hands along what was left of the great carved beak. Even in ruins, to Jonny the power of the carving was clear.

  “I guess the rest of it rotted away,” said the man with the camera. His pale blue shirt covered his shorts, but not his white hairy legs and long bony feet. He took a photograph with his Brownie camera. Compared to Agnes’s camera, this tiny box reminded Jonny of a mousetrap.

  A chorus of birds chattered above their heads. Jonny thought about the notes Agnes Atkinson used to write during her visit. He often looked over her shoulder to read her words.

  “The whole forest is vocal with the birdsong. If the mosquitoes were not so bad I would spend hours among the trees. I was fortunate to get a picture of the nest of the white-throated, sparrow with her two young. It was shown to me by a medicine woman called Silver Cloud.”

  “Aren’t these poles just signposts for a family?” The man with the camera asked.

  “Sometimes they honour the dead,” Jonny explained. “The chief had an eagle pole at the entrance of his house to tell everyone that he and his fami
ly were of noble blood.” Jonny rose from the ground. “There was a Thunderbird at the top of this one.”

  “How would you know that?” demanded the second man. He peered at Jonny over his gold-rimmed glasses with skepticism.

  Jonny stood up and shrugged. “I know the traditions. I could carve one just like it.”

  “Make one like what?”

  “That pole,” Jonny said pointing to the prostrate figures on the ground.

  “That totem pole?” the younger man asked. “Probably wouldn’t be exactly like it.”

  “You just got to know what you are doing,” Jonny said, ignoring the younger man, speaking directly to the older one. “Look at the beak,” he said. “Eagle has a curved beak. Raven has a straight beak, and Hawk has a beak that curves nearly all the way back.”

  The older man looked at the younger one. “He seems to really know his stuff,” he said.

  “We’re doing research about the area,” the man in the blue shirt said.

  “Do you have any samples of your work?” the older man asked.

  “My grandfather and I worked on something a while back,” was all Jonny could think of saying, “but it’s in a village far away.”

  “Oh, it’s a family tradition,” the man with the glasses said. “That’s even better. You know, you could make a couple of hundred bucks a pole. What’s your commission?”

  Ernie jabbed Jonny in the ribs and grinned.

  Jonny smiled. “I’ll find a cedar plank and make you a mask.”

  “We could get one from a lumber company,” the man said, removing his glasses and wiping his brow with his handkerchief.

  “That’s all right,” Jonny said. “I prefer to cut my own.”

  The boys left the chicken farmer with the two men to walk along the beach.

  Beside the circular rock fireplace, under a mound of moss that used to be Kalaku’s shelter, they found two shell and copper disk necklaces.

  “Are they Kalaku’s?” Ernie asked.

  Jonny nodded, unable to speak for the tightening in his throat.

  Ernie lifted the necklaces and drew them over his friend’s head. “He would want you to have them,” he said.