by Gloria Repp
Remembering last night, she jumped out of bed and pulled back the drapes to look at the balcony.
As she suspected, there were no steps leading up to it, just a railing all the way around. A mass of flowering honeysuckle tumbled over the railing. That must be what smelled so sweet at night, but was it strong enough for someone to climb on? Probably not.
She studied the trees with an experienced eye, thanks to her brother’s teaching. Two of the trees overhanging the balcony looked sufficiently strong and well-branched for climbing, but one of them was a cedar, which would be prickly.
She chose the maple tree as the most likely, and promised herself that she would climb it sometime. She could always go out the window if the door was still locked. It would be fun.
She laughed to think what her dignified aunt might say, and sobered abruptly. She was in enough trouble already.
That morning after breakfast, Aunt Myra asked whether she’d like to go into town and Julie agreed enthusiastically, forgetting her resolve to be cool. It would be a good chance to see more of the island. Even Karin seemed to be in a sunny mood and decided to come with them. Since no one mentioned Uncle Nate, Julie assumed that he was working behind the closed door of his study.
As they bumped over the rough road in the family’s old Pontiac, she saw only one or two driveways leading into the woods. A maple tree like the one outside her window reminded her of the footsteps she’d heard last night, and she wanted to ask whether Aunt Myra knew anything about a visitor.
She didn’t really have much to describe except the footsteps, though. Maybe her aunt would think she was imagining things.
She glanced sideways at Karin’s cool, pretty face. No, she wouldn’t risk her cousin’s scornful laugh. She’d try to find out more on her own.
The town consisted of a few buildings huddled around the long pier where the ferry docked. Aunt Myra headed for the general store, and Julie went too.
She poked through the fascinating variety that overflowed the shelves and tables. This mixed-up bunch of stuff was far more interesting than the displays she was used to seeing in Chicago stores. Three tanned women in jeans stood chatting by a rack of children’s books, and beyond them, Stan lounged beside the fishing gear, drinking a can of soda.
He straightened up and ambled over to greet them. “Hello, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. With a grin, he added, “Hi, girls,” but his eyes were on Karin.
Karin tossed back her shining hair. “Hi yourself. What’s new?”
Stan shrugged, turned pink, and looked at Julie. “Nothing much around here. How’re you doing, Julie?”
She was full of questions to ask him, but not here, not now.
An excited voice interrupted. “Julie!” A blond woman—that writer—brushed past a stack of canned pineapple and almost overturned a bucket of mops in her eagerness to get across the store.
“Julie, I’m so glad to see you again,” the woman exclaimed. “And you must be Mrs. Fletcher!” She beamed at Aunt Myra. “I met Julie on Stan’s boat, coming over from Chemainus. My name is Vivian Taylor, and I’m researching an extensive magazine article about Bartlett Island. I’m just so thrilled with this gorgeous place and all the things I’m learning about it. It’s wonderful to meet you at last, Mrs. Fletcher.”
She paused for breath, and Aunt Myra’s frosty smile began to thaw.
“I really would appreciate it, if you would allow me to visit you,” Vivian Taylor went on. “I’ve heard about the marvelous Indian artifacts in your home. That would be a unique highlight for my project! True artifacts are so rare these days.”
Aunt Myra hesitated. “My husband doesn’t care for visitors,” she said. “But maybe he’ll consider it. We could let you know. You’re staying at the mission?”
“I certainly am.” Vivian Taylor’s smile widened. “Mrs. Warner is a wonderful lady and has such interesting stories. Thank you so much. I’ll be waiting for your call.”
In the car on the way home, Julie thought about Vivian Taylor. The woman seemed friendly enough. Maybe too friendly. Was it because she wanted to make a good impression and get an interview?
At lunch time, Aunt Myra told Uncle Nate about meeting Vivian Taylor. “She’s really quite charming and knowledgeable. Don’t you think we ought to let her come for a little visit?”
Uncle Nate speared a piece of cheese with his fork and shook his head in annoyance. “I don’t have time to give interviews to reporters.”
“She’s not a reporter. She’s a writer. And why should Lucy Warner be the only one to contribute her stories for an article about Bartlett Island?” Aunt Myra didn’t back down. “Besides, you don’t seem to mind wasting time visiting that old Indian. Or tinkering with your camera.”
Uncle Nate’s bushy eyebrows drew together into a dark frown that Julie recognized. “That’s enough,” he said quietly. “This subject hardly warrants further discussion, eh? If it’s so important to you, she can come tomorrow morning. Call and tell her that.”
Julie wondered how that could be done, with no telephone in the house, but after lunch she found out.
Aunt Myra sent her and Karin to use the neighbor’s telephone. As they walked along the rocky beach, Julie ventured to ask about the Indian that Aunt Myra had mentioned.
“He’s a strange old guy,” Karin said. “Lives way off by himself and carves Indian stuff. People around here call him the Old One. They say he’s an Indian shaman.”
“What’s a shaman?”
“Oh, you know, like a witch doctor. He puts evil spells on people and has strange powers. Most people stay away from him.”
Karin paused, looking up at a small white house perched above the beach. “Here’s where the Stewarts live. They’ll let us use their phone.”
After Karin had made the phone call and they were on their way back, Julie remembered to ask her another question. “Do you ever hear a thumping noise early in the morning?”
“Yes, every morning on the dot,” Karin said. “He’s doing his exercises. Cal-is-then-ics, he calls them.”
“But who?”
Karin’s face darkened. “My father, who else? He says his precious research job is so demanding that he has to keep in top shape. So he can work on it every minute of the day.”
“You mean, when he’s not there for lunch—”
“He’s working. Research. The most important thing in the world to him. He forgets to come to meals sometimes. Once in a while he has to go over to Vancouver, but it’s all part of that job. He never takes us along.” She shrugged as if it didn’t matter, but Julie saw the hurt in her eyes.
Quickly she changed the subject. “Is it safe to swim out there?” She waved a hand at the gentle swells of the ocean. “The only place I’ve done any swimming is in a pool.”
Karin was silent for a minute, gazing out at the water, her face still shadowed. Then she flipped her hair back and answered. “Sure, it’s safe. Want to try? It’s been too cool so far this year, but the sun feels pretty warm today.”
They ran up to the house together, and Julie put on her swimsuit in a hurry.
Back down at the beach, she took a cautious step into the ocean, remembering how cold the water had felt to her toes that first day. Her toes had been right. This was ice water. By the time she was out knee-deep, she’d started shivering.
She looked for Karin, who had plunged right in and was swimming in lazy circles.
“C’mon, do it fast,” Karin called. “It’s the only way. You’ll freeze standing there.”
Julie inched in a little deeper, her bare feet finding their way along the smooth rock bottom. Suddenly she was showered with icy spray as Siem torpedoed past her. She squealed, took a deep breath, and dived into the water, swimming hard until she reached them.
“Better than a swimming pool?” Karin asked.
“Yes!” Julie gasped, tingling all over. “Compared to this, a swimming pool is like a bathtub.”
The dog put a huge, friendly paw on her shoul
der. “No, no, Siem, don’t! You’re too heavy for me. Here, fetch!” She snatched at a floating stick and threw it as far as she could.
While she waited for Siem to return, she flipped onto her back and asked, “What do you think about Vivian Taylor? Wouldn’t it be exciting if she wrote about your family?”
“I don’t know about that, but she sure made an impression on Mom.” Karin bobbed under the surface and up again. “Wait until she tries to turn on the charm with Dad, tomorrow. She’s going to get a surprise.”
Once again, talking about her father seemed to darken Karin’s mood. “I’ve had enough of this,” she said. “I’m going in.”
Julie was glad to follow her and get warm again. Vivian Taylor’s visit tomorrow could prove to be interesting. Maybe she’d find out something more about Uncle Nate’s job. At least he’d have to answer the writer’s questions—or would he?
Mysteries
The next morning, Julie made sure she was down at the dock in time for Vivian Taylor’s arrival. She’d see Stan again too—he’d be bringing the writer in the mission boat.
She sat on the stone steps beside Siem to wait for them, absentmindedly stroking the thick black fur on his neck. Karin had been cool and distant ever since they’d gone swimming, as if she regretted being the slightest bit friendly for a few minutes.
She sighed. Why did her cousin dislike her so much?
The dog stiffened under her hand, and she glanced up. The boat was docking. Vivian Taylor stepped gracefully out of it and started up the path, chattering to Stan.
She caught sight of Julie and rushed forward to put an arm around her, saying, “Julie, it’s so nice to see you again!”
Julie didn’t mind, but Siem did. He sprang between them, a growl rumbling deep in his throat.
“Oh, my!” The writer stepped back, clutching at her camera. “He is unpleasant, isn’t he? Hello, Mrs. Fletcher, how are you today?”
Aunt Myra had joined them, and she was frowning. “Julie, take that dog away from here. I wish he weren’t so rude to visitors.” She put on her stiff little smile. “Hello, Miss Taylor. My husband will be glad to see you in the library.”
Julie left Siem out by the doghouse and hurried inside so she wouldn’t miss anything. She wondered how glad Uncle Nate really was when she saw his grim face. Although he was answering Vivian Taylor’s questions politely, his voice had a chilly edge to it.
The writer sounded as if she knew quite a bit about the Indian art he’d collected, but Uncle Nate did not seem to be impressed.
“Oh, yes,” she exclaimed. “This beautiful ladle is definitely from the Haida tribe. Mountain-goat horn, isn’t it?” She looked up at Uncle Nate from under her long eyelashes.
He nodded.
She picked up a wooden spatula, delicately carved with strange flowing figures. “What did they use these beautiful spoons for?” she asked.
“The soapberry mixture they served at feasts.”
She scribbled busily in her notebook.
She eyed a wooden comb decorated with a tiny bear. “Now this is really a prize!” She reached to pick it up, and Uncle Nate’s frown stopped her.
“The Tlingit were simply excellent at carving, weren’t they?” she said quickly.
She stepped over to admire his photographs, and when they’d finished a complicated-sounding discussion about photography, she smiled at Aunt Myra. “Your husband really has a marvelous collection here. Lucy Warner said you had several Tlingit pieces, but all I can see is this comb.”
She looked around the library with bright eyes. “Are the rest of them somewhere else?”
“Well, we did have a Tlingit raven club in the collection upstairs,” Aunt Myra said, “but it seems to be—”
Uncle Nate interrupted. “Don’t you have enough material for your article, Miss Taylor?”
“Oh!” Her pretty face fell, and she looked so downcast that Julie felt sorry for her. “Wouldn’t you please let me have just a peek at your other collection?”
Aunt Myra caught Uncle Nate’s eye imploringly, and he turned toward the stairs. “Up here.”
Julie, Karin, and Stan followed them, but when they reached the top, Uncle Nate waved his arms irritably, as if he were shooing a flock of chickens. “Why don’t you kids play outside, eh?”
Disappointed, Julie went back downstairs with Stan and Karin. She’d hoped for a chance to look at the rest of the collection in his study, especially the carved sea otter.
“Why didn’t he let us stay?” she asked as they walked down the steps to the beach.
Karin shrugged. “Who knows? He hates kids, I guess.”
Julie sat on a sun-warmed rock and shielded her eyes from the ocean’s glare. Karin perched on a rock of her own.
Stan chose a rock between them. “Where on this green planet did Dr. Fletcher get all that stuff?” he asked. “The way Miss Taylor raves about it, you’d think it’s pretty special.”
“Those things are rare,” Karin said. “He got them a long time ago when he went on a trip to the Queen Charlottes.” She glanced at Julie. “Islands north of here.”
“Is that where he took all those pictures?” Julie asked.
“Some of them, like the sea otters. He still does a lot of that around here, mostly shots of our island. Or the Indians.” She wrinkled her nose. “If you can stand Indians.”
Julie thought of the Indian boy she’d seen in the woods, and his bright, intense eyes, but she said nothing.
Stan cocked his head. “Hey, Karin,” he said, “what about that old Indian medicine man I’ve heard of? Have you ever talked to him?”
“No, but I’d be curious to find out what he’s really like after all the weird tales I’ve heard. He’s supposed to be good at carving.” Karin’s voice dropped. “I want to ask him if he’ll fix . . .”
“Careful!” Stan’s eyes slid toward Julie.
Karin smiled. “Don’t worry about my little cousin.”
Heels clicked along the stone path up by the house, and Vivian Taylor’s voice rose in protest. “I just wanted to get a few pictures!”
Stan shot Karin a surprised glance and ran up the steps. She followed him, and so did Julie.
Uncle Nate’s face was set in rigid lines, as if he were gritting his teeth. “Stan, please escort Miss Taylor back to the boat and take her away.”
Julie had never heard his voice so cold and stern. Her uncle turned back to the house and marched toward Aunt Myra, who stood in the doorway, looking dismayed.
“Inquisitive woman,” he muttered. “Can’t keep her hands off anything.” Still grumbling, he disappeared inside.
Karin looked at Julie with satisfaction. “What did I tell you? He hates people asking questions and poking around in his stuff. Especially reporters. My father is a strange and remarkable man.” She shook her head and walked back down to the beach.
It was hard to tell whether Karin was boasting or complaining about her father, but what she said made Julie wonder. Why was he so secretive?
That night, she wondered about her uncle again as she watched him emerge from the darkened trees with Siem, a black shadow at his side. She’d been leaning on the windowsill, looking for stars, when she saw the two of them.
Her uncle paused by the doghouse and murmured to Siem for a moment before walking into the kitchen. She heard his light footsteps on the stairs, and then the creak of his study door as it closed.
Where would Uncle Nate go, out in the woods at night? Could he have been visiting that strange Indian they called the Old One?
She was just picking up her book when she heard a muffled thud on the balcony—like she’d heard the night before. Silently she slid behind the long drapes.
As she peered through the glass, the soft hoot of an owl floated on the night air. Someone was standing at the balcony door that led into her uncle’s study. The Indian boy! He held something in his hands that might be a book.
If only she had the key to this door! Could she get the wi
ndow open? Silently she struggled to raise the heavy wooden window. At last she got it halfway up and reached for a chair to stand on. Crash! The window slammed down with an alarming amount of noise.
She snatched another quick look outside. The boy had disappeared. And Aunt Myra would probably be up here any minute to find out what had happened.
She scrambled into bed with guilty haste, trying to ignore the voices from Uncle Nate’s study. Their soft murmur went on far into the night.
The next morning, she remembered the window incident right away and began to worry. Who might have heard it slam closed last night? Uncle Nate probably knew exactly what had happened.
On her way downstairs she tiptoed past the open door of his study. She’d almost reached the stairs when he called, “Julie, please come here.”
She drew a quick breath and walked in reluctantly. Her uncle stood with his back to her, staring out the window. Anxiety tightened her stomach as she waited for him to speak.
Finally he swung around, but his blue eyes weren’t angry.
“You seem to be interested in my Indian things,” he said.
She felt herself flushing as she thought of her first encounter with him, but he didn’t seem to notice. He walked to the shelves beside her, took down a black totem pole, and put it into her hands. “This is one of my favorites.”
She ran her fingers over the silky black surface in wonderment.
“It’s carved out of argilite,” he said, “a kind of stone the Haida Indians used. See the bird on top? That is Thunderbird, perched on the head of Grizzly Bear, who in turn is holding Beaver. It tells an old, old story about those three.”
He put it back on the shelf beside a smaller black totem that was topped with the grinning face of a wolf.
Next, he handed her a whale that was carved of dark, smooth wood. “See this? It looks like an ordinary whale with a handle,” he said, “But shake it.”
