While Becky passed her a couple of packages of dried chicken noodle soup and a pot, I searched for the tea bags and mugs. When I started to place a tea bag in each of the mugs I was summarily chastised by Louise. “Sorry, dear, I’m fussy about my tea. You will find a tea pot in the pack.”
Sure enough, I discovered a large eight-cup Brown Betty carefully wrapped in tea towels and buried amongst the softer items. Given the amount of crazing in the royal blue glaze, the crack along the spout, and the black-stained interior, I’d say Louise had been using this teapot since before we were born. And it did make an excellent cup of tea. Well, almost. I prefer real milk to canned concentrate. But stranded in the back of beyond, I could hardly be choosy.
I waded out into the water to pass Eric a mug of hot tea and another mug of steaming soup. “How goes it?”
“Not good.” The cover was off the motor and various parts lay strewn on the floorboards. He held up a tiny piece of metal. “This should’ve been replaced during the overhaul, but it wasn’t. I’ve been trying to jury rig something, but I’m not having any luck.”
“Not what we want to hear.” I looked out over the vast empty bay. The distant mountainous shore appeared equally empty. I realized with a shiver the sun had gone. Dense rain-gorged clouds were moving in fast. “We’re kind of far from help, aren’t we?”
“Check if Becky brought a satellite phone. I also think you’d better start hauling the tents and the rest of our gear onto shore. I have a feeling we’ll be camping here tonight.”
As luck would have it, Becky hadn’t brought a satellite phone. Louise hadn’t wanted to pay the additional rental fee, figuring there was little that could go wrong. Yeah, right. She went on to say that in the old days her people got along very well without such luxuries. I almost shot back about her not thinking twice about using the luxury of the Zodiac and its motorized power, but held my tongue. If we had used a Haida canoe, we wouldn’t be in this fix.
While I was returning to the Zodiac for my third load, I saw a white boat emerge from around the point that we had rounded. It was on a heading that would take it across the bay toward the next point of land. Unfortunately, it was a fair distance away.
I ran back onto the beach, jumped up and down and waved my arms and hollered. Louise and Becky joined me. Becky even waved her yellow jacket, but the boat continued chugging across the bay without so much as a shift in our direction.
“I think that’s Ernest,” I said. “It looks like the cabin cruiser we saw at his village.”
“Yup, it looks like his Sunseeker,” Becky answered.
“Where do you think he’s going?”
“It’s hard to tell. My ancestral village, SGang Gwaay, is in that direction, and so is Llnagaay.”
“I bet he’s going to Llnagaay,” I said.
“Yup, after Johnnie, if he’s there.” She glanced at Louise, but the elder’s only response was to purse her lips.
“How far away is it? Could we walk?”
“Totally impossible. Look at the terrain. Would you want to walk through that stuff?”
Nope. It was the same impenetrable shoreline we’d been passing since starting our journey: near vertical slopes plunging into the sea, trees so tightly packed a mouse would have difficulties getting through.
“I suppose in the old days there might’ve been a trail from here to Llnagaay, but no way it’s still there,” Becky said. “We’ve got no choice. We have to stay here until someone finds us.”
“Yikes. Unless Ernest comes back this way that might never happen.”
“My Dad’ll come. He said if we weren’t back in three days, he’d come looking.”
Thank goodness for concerned fathers, I thought. “How will this affect your plans, Louise? You wanted to get to your village tonight.” I watched the first drops of rain land on the water near Eric.
Louise sighed, turned her eyes to the lonely grey sea, and shrugged. “There is nothing more I can do. What will be, will be.”
Fifty-Four
Old Chief’s Shame
By the time rain started seeping through the trees and splashing onto the pole, he was connecting the last line of the traitor’s crest to the boy’s eagle. It was only fitting that the link between the two should be the knife that killed the kid. It had taken awhile, but eventually the cedar had told him what the figure should be for the betraying clansman who almost destroyed the Greenstone Eagles. He wouldn’t know if it was right until Auntie saw it. If he’d got it wrong, she would frown. But if he had it right, she would smile in her matriarchal way.
Even the shame of Old Chief he had to figure out on his own. No one knew, and if they did they weren’t telling. But someone once mentioned a sailing ship; another said something about otter pelts. Then he remembered a story about another great Haida chief who’d been shamed by the Iron Men. He figured something like that must’ve happened to Old Chief.
He figured when Old Chief learned his treasure was stolen, he loaded up his canoes with clansmen and paddled out to the Iron Men’s ship still moored in the bay. They would’ve invited him on board, just him on his own. They probably laughed as he struggled up the unfamiliar rope ladder and made snide remarks about the primitiveness of his chief’s regalia, for it was certain that Old Chief would’ve been fully robed in his fancy goat’s wool blanket and ermine-tail headdress. He might’ve even carried a copper or two to emphasize his highborn status.
He would’ve gone in peace, knowing their few rifles and spears couldn’t win against cannon power. He probably was prepared to negotiate in true Haida fashion for the return of the treasure. Old Chief would’ve offered them something the Iron Men would consider of equal value, like canoe loads of otter pelts. But it didn’t work.
Instead the bastards laughed at him. Not only did they keep the treasure, but they helped themselves to the pelts. To add to the shame, they stripped him of his regalia, forcing him to return to his men naked. Old Chief never recovered. Within a couple of years he was dead.
But the treasure was eventually returned, for why else would people continue to believe it was hidden near Llnagaay? He wouldn’t be surprised if Old Chief’s Matriarch had had a hand in its return.
Hearing the rain strengthen out on the water, he covered the pole with plastic sheeting. He felt good. He’d finished the story in time. Though he may not get to carve it, he knew it would get carved.
He watched his brother’s grey boat skim across the water toward him. He limped down to the water. The pain was bad today.
Bro raised his fist in triumph. “The boat’s come. It’s show time.”
Fifty-Five
“Hey, anyone there?” a man’s voice called out.
I was burrowing myself into a hole of thick, velvety moss, trying to find a missing gizmo.
“Louise, this you?”
Louise?! Where did Louise come from? I was alone. No wait. That’s not true. Eric was here … somewhere. I snuggled further down into the comforting moss.
“Hello, who’s there?” called out another voice.
No, wait. That’s Eric.
“Come on Meg, wake up. Someone’s here.”
I struggled to climb out of my dream although I didn’t want to. I realized the soothing warmth was Eric and nestled deeper. We’d joined our two sleeping bags together to make for a warmer and more interesting night, although it had been a challenge with the three women sleeping almost on top of us in the other tent. The rain that had sent us scurrying into our tents was still beating down on the fly.
“My name is Siegfried,” the stranger said. “I am seeking Louise O’Brien. Is she with you?”
“Yes, yes, Siggy. I’m here,” came Louise’s sleepy voice from next door.
“Eric,” I whispered. “That’s the guy from the restaurant.”
“Un-hun.”
“The one Sherry accused. Maybe Ernest is going after this guy and not Johnnie.”
“The cops cleared him, remember?”
“Mayb
e, but alibis can always be broken. Do you think we can trust him?” I whispered.
“How did you know where to find me, Siggy?” Louise called out.
“When you didn’t show up, I worried you might have run into trouble, so I came looking,” the man answered.
Eric started putting on his clothes. “I think if Louise can trust him, we can too.”
“How are things at Llnagaay?” Louise asked.
“Starting to heat up.”
“I guess we’d better get going.”
Fifty-Six
The Wait
He and his brother made their way to the inlet where Scav said the boat was moored. To keep their presence a secret, they left Bro’s boat tied up in a cove not far from the inlet’s entrance. They scrambled along the steep, rocky shore in the pouring rain until they could just make out the white shape of a cabin cruiser in the growing twilight. Thank Salaana, the tide was going out, making for easier walking, otherwise Bro would’ve had to do it on his own. Not a good idea, even if he was carrying his rifle. The situation would likely need both of their guns.
It was pretty dark by the time they reached a spot where they could see straight down the inlet to where the lights from inside the boat rippled across the water.
“There’s only one boat,” Bro said. “You sure the other’s coming?”
“I’m sure.” Just the way he was sure the end of this inlet was where the Iron Men’s rowboat had tied up more than a century and a half ago. “It’ll be here soon.”
“You sure there’ll just be the two boats?”
“I’m sure. They won’t want anyone else in on this.” The same way the Coward had kept the number of his men down to one, as had the Chief Iron Man.
“I guess we’d better make ourselves at home.”
His brother scrambled over the rocks to where a tangle of overhanging spruce branches offered a degree of protection from the wet. He propped his back against the trunk and pulled out a flask from his jacket pocket.
“Bro, we don’t need that.”
“Best way I know to stay warm in this shit.”
“We need to stay sober. We don’t know what’s going to happen.”
“Yeah, but like you said, the action ain’t likely to start till morning. We can sleep it off by then.”
“Yeah, and wake up with the mother of all hangovers. That’d make us real alert, eh?”
“Okay, okay. Have it your way.” He started to put it back in his pocket.
“I’ll take it.” Two Finger held out his hand, the one which had given him the nickname — though technically it was a finger and a thumb. The other fingers he’d lost in a fishing accident.
Bro jutted out his jaw in refusal, but after trying to ignore his brother’s sneering stare, gave in and handed him the flask. Two Finger slipped it into his back pocket.
“Who do you think is here first?”
“I can’t see the Geek getting here none too quick. He may have a fancy new boat, but I’m not sure he knows how to run it.” He clenched his teeth as a jolt of pain ran right through him. He wondered how much worse it was going to get.
“What a laugh if he sunk it, eh?”
“Yup. It’d sure solve everything.” But then they would never know.
“What’re we gonna do when it gets here? Attack them?”
“Nope. We need to see if they find it. We need proof.”
“So we gonna follow them and watch them dig it up?”
“Nope. No point in traipsing along a trail that hasn’t been used since our people left. Let them get all scraped up. They’ve got to come back to their boats to get out of here, so we’ll be sitting inside waiting for them.”
“You sure Auntie is coming?”
“Yup. I told Scav to call her. She knows what’s going to happen. She’s going to do whatever it takes to stop them. The clan’s her life. She won’t let these guys destroy it.”
He heard the sound of the boat before he saw it cutting through the water toward them. Although he didn’t think they could see him in the dark and the rain, he ducked under the foliage to stand beside his brother.
“Sure hope they didn’t see our boat,” his brother said. “We should’a hid it better.”
“They won’t see it in this weather. Besides, they weren’t looking for it. They think they’re all alone on the edge of the world.”
He could make out the blur of two faces in the light of the cockpit as the boat slipped by. He smiled in the blackness at nothing in particular other than his own sense of destiny. A hundred and fifty-five years later the story was playing out again with the same players, well, not quite, their descendents. He was going to make damn sure it had a different ending. This time the Matriarch would stop them.
Fifty-Seven
The five of us scrambled into Siggy’s Red Rocket, as he called his red Zodiac, and headed in the direction Ernest’s boat had taken. The short journey ended in a small bay beside a rather unusual habitation. Although it appeared to be a normal two-storey house, closer examination revealed that it had been built one room at a time in lean-to and stacking fashion from an odd assortment of building materials. Siggy later bragged that he’d spent almost nothing on its construction. For the most part he’d scavenged logs and other items from nearby beaches and the Queen Charlotte garbage dump. He even bragged that some friends called him Scav, short for Scavenger.
In the interests of speed we left most of our gear behind. The only items we brought were clothes and sleeping bags and, of course, Allistair’s urn, although in the turmoil of leaving it was almost forgotten. Although Becky didn’t want to leave the boat and the gear unattended, Siggy assured her that they would be fine. He also promised to fix the motor, but only after it was over.
The only hint Louise gave that the purpose of our trip was other than to scatter her grandson’s ashes was when she said to Siggy, “I hope I’m not too late. I can’t let it happen again.”
What the “it” was, neither was saying, despite Eric’s offer of help. Louise merely made some cryptic comment about events in the past affecting events in the present. She finished by telling us to get some sleep, that tomorrow was going to be a long day.
Next morning we awoke to clear skies and a delicious breakfast Siggy had prepared on his woodstove. It included eggs collected moments before from a chicken coop and pancakes made from freshly ground millet flour using a grinder propelled by a stationary bike. With the only power source being some small solar panels, which ran the lights and his computer, Siggy had become very ingenious in providing himself with modern-day comforts.
As far as I could tell his was the only house on this shallow south-facing bay. The shore across the channel appeared as wild and devoid of human presence as every other shore we’d passed on our way to this southern tip of Moresby Island.
I thought Three Deer Point was isolated, with only one other habitation on Echo Lake, but we did have electricity and easy road access to stores and friends. Though surrounded by endless forests and lakes, I didn’t feel as if Eric and I lived on the edge of the world.
Siggy, on the other hand, lived on the edge of the world with nothing but hundreds if not thousands of kilometres of empty ocean beyond the few islands that protected him from the ravages of the sea. The closest stores and people were back the way we’d come, a good five-hour boat trip away.
I was amazed to discover that he’d been living here for more than thirty years. No wonder he was a bit strange, with his carefully braided foot-long beard, which today sported purple and pink beads, and his single pirate-like gold hoop earring. All he needed was a black eye-patch to complete the impression.
“Where are they?” Louise asked, not bothering to identify who “they” were.
But Siggy knew. “The two of them went to Otter Inlet last night. I didn’t see their boat when I last checked the lagoon, so I assume they’re still there.”
“What about the others? Have they arrived?”
“A boat c
ame by late yesterday afternoon and headed toward Otter Inlet. Then, after dark, another passed by heading in the same direction.”
“Just the two boats?”
“Ja. How many are you expecting?” Siggy asked.
“Two sounds about right. They’re going to want to keep this to as few people as possible.”
“They haven’t passed back this way, so I assume they’re still in the inlet, unless they took the other coast.”
“They’ll be moored in the inlet. They won’t leave until they get what they came for.”
I was dying to ask what was going on and whether one of the boats was Ernest’s. I could tell from the Eric’s arched brow he wanted to know too. But the intense resolve on Louise’s face told us that she wasn’t about to satisfy our curiosity.
“How long do you think it will take?” Siggy asked.
“I’ve no idea. It depends on how well they can read the map. Did Col tell you what this was about?”
“He just said it had to do with saving the clan’s honour and something to do with correcting past wrongs.”
I waited, but she deflected Siggy’s ignorance with “It’s a long story and I don’t have time to go into it now, but when this is over I will tell you the story of our shame.” She included all of us in her gaze.
“Col also said it had something to do with stopping a killer. What’s that all about?”
“So it’s true. I wasn’t sure.”
“Who got killed?” Siggy asked.
She sighed. “My grandson, the man who should’ve been Chief Greenstone.”
“Gotverdomme,” Siggy swore at the same time as Cloë cried out, “What? Allistair’s murderer is here?”
Until now she’d been playing with her food and paying little attention to Louise and Siggy. Occasionally she’d smile sweetly to herself and caress the bag containing her son’s ashes.
“Where is he?” She stood up. “I need a gun.”
She glanced frantically around the crowded room. Her eyes passed over the book-filled shelves, the jumble of dirty dishes on the counter, the assortment of clothes hanging from a line of wall hooks, until they rested on a rifle propped next to the back door. But Eric, anticipating her move, blocked the gun just as she was about to grab it.
Silver Totem of Shame Page 24
