I Heard The Owl Call My Name

by Margaret Craven

  The rain had stopped, the wind had softened, and the sky was blue, flecked with cloud.

  They swung out and lowered the small boat, and they stowed in it the young vicar’s gear and everything that was to go to the village except the organ. Then Jim put on his gumboots, undid the line, dimbed into the boat and started the outboard motor, and he was off to the mouth of the river without a word.

  While he was gone, the young vicar worked on the boat. Already he had begun to think of the boat as he thought of his own arms and legs, an extension of him­self. Caleb had told him how frequently a fisherman lost his boat because he was too busy with the catch to check its bilge.

  ‘There is no more beautiful sight than a boat burn­ing in the night,’ Caleb had said dryly.

  Mark went over the engine room slowly, double-checking everything. He washed the dishes in the galley, placing them carefully behind the little racks that held them tight in a gale. He checked the log, put away the charts, made up the berths, cleaned the refrigerator, and closed the portholes. When he was done, the sun was high in the sky, and he went out on deck to await the canoes.

  He heard them coming far down the inlet, the out­board motors sharp in the clear air, and then he saw them, one black, one green, each thirty feet long, and narrow.

  Jim had brought with him four young men of the village, and to Mark they looked strangely alike, with the same watchful, waiting eyes. Jim spoke to them in their own language, and when they had manoeuvred the canoes to the stern of the boat, they lashed them together, while he and Mark untied the organ and re­moved the canvas that covered it.

  Now it occurred to Mark that every single thing that went to Kingcome had to be taken up the river and for the first time he knew the stolid, stubborn indifference of the inanimate.

  They moved the organ onto the gunwale of the aft deck. They tugged, pulled, shoved and lifted — the young vicar trying awkwardly to help, afraid the canoes would tip over and the organ end in the salt chuck. At last the organ was balanced on the canoes. Mark locked the boat, put on his gumboots, and took his place on the narrow crosspiece which was the seat, and they started up the inlet.

  Even on this, one of the last good days of fall, it was cold, the water calm, and deep green from the shadow of the cedars. The falls slipped down the mossy cliffs. The mountains were snow-tipped above the timber line. When they passed the potlatch paintings and reached the muskeg near the mouth of the river, the hand of the Welcome totem rose above the trees, and hundreds of small birds, ducks and geese, rose at their passing.

  They entered the river, passed the snags and the log jam, slowing now to seek the channels, to avoid the sand bars where the water was shallow. And up the river on the left Mark saw Whoop-Szo, the Noisy Mountain, and the white-barked alders that edged the bank, and flying over them the sleek black ravens. But on the right he saw only one thing, the little white church of Saint George.

  The Indians took the canoes close to the shore and stepped out into the icy river. As carefully as they had placed the organ onto the canoes, they lifted it and carried it onto the black sands of Kingcome and up the little path that led past the old vicarage to the church.

  They carried it up the steps to the porch, through the door, and set it down inside the church. Jim pulled over a bench, sat down and pedalled vigorously. Mark poked a key. Nothing happened.

  ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘It’s a little damp. It will dry out in time.’

  Then Mark walked slowly down the centre aisle to­wards the hand-carved altar and the great, carved, gol­den eagle which was the lectern, its talons close together, its head turned so that it looked most smugly down its beak, its wings slightly parted to hold the Bible. He saw the carved chair where the Bishop must sit when he came here, and the life-sized Indian painting of Christ holding a little lamb. His face was the Indian’s face, His eyes the Indian’s eyes, and in them the depth of sadness.

  He turned away slowly; he was alone in the church. He walked down the aisle to the door and saw Jim waiting on the steps. No one else was visible, not even a child or a dog.

  ‘Shall we go to the vicarage?’ Jim asked.

  They walked back to the old vicarage on the little path through the trees, and as they drew near, Mark heard a strange sound.

  On the broken step of the vicarage sat an old Indian woman, her face scratched and bleeding. She was wail­ing loudly.

  ‘One of the professional mourners,’ Jim told him. ‘There are three. When somebody dies they take turns wailing day and night.’

  ‘I did not see her when we passed the vicarage carry­ing the organ to the church.’

  ‘She saw you, and was afraid. She hid.’

  ‘And why here? Why does she wail at the vicarage?’

  ‘Because the bodies are kept in the vicarage until burial.’

  As they approached the steps the old Indian woman scuttled into the trees. Jim opened the door and they stepped inside. On boards laid across two trestles was a small body covered with a plastic sheet. Mark lifted the sheet and drew it back, and he looked at what lay under it, and put the sheet down carefully.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘The weesa-bedó — the little, small boy. He had a birth injury and did not grow like the others. He was sailing a paper boat at the river’s edge and fell in. When they saw him floating on the water, the other children thought he was a doll.’

  And why — why hasn’t he been buried?’

  ‘Because no burial permit has been given. The chief councillor went at once to the nearest radio-telephone and summoned the RCMP, but no one has come yet.’

  ‘Then we had better call again.’

  ‘The constable will come today. The old men say so.

  ‘How do they know?’

  ‘How did they know you were coming today? They almost always know. Besides it is the first good day and he will come soon now. It is a five-hour trip from Alert Bay, and he will want to get back before night, and he will be young, and he will be hard.’

  ‘How do you know he will be young?’

  ‘An older man would not wait ten days.’

  ‘Will you take me to the mother?’

  But when they had walked up the path through the trees and up the steps of one of the little cedar houses, and knocked on the door and entered, Mark did not know what to say to the woman who waited.

  She waited as if she had waited all her life, as if she were part of time itself, gently and patiently. Did she remember that in the old days the Indian mother of the Kwakiutl band who lost a child kicked the small body three times and said to it, ‘Do not look back. Do not turn your head. Walk straight on. You are going to the land of the owl’?

  He took her hands and spoke to her. ‘The old men say the constable will come soon. Then we shall bury him, and you can rest,’ but in her soft dark eyes he found no response at all. When he returned to the vicarage to wait, he saw Jim and an older Indian, no doubt the chief councillor, walk down the path to the river, and he heard the motor of a speedboat, and watched it come and stop close to the beach.

  The RCMP officer was young, and it was obvious why he had been long in coming. He had been waiting for a fair day, because with him he had brought his girl. He picked her up and carried her to the sands and Mark was sure he knew the words he spoke to her. ‘Look around as much as you want. Don’t go into any of the houses except the church. This won’t take long.’

  Then the RCMP officer talked to the chief councillor, both voices loud and angry.

  ‘You had no business to move him. You know the rules. In an accident the body must not be moved.’

  ‘We were not sure he was dead. We thought we could revive him.’

  ‘And when you couldn’t, you should have covered him and left him there.’

  ‘On the edge of the river with the tide coming in? In the rain?’

  ‘Where is the body now?’

  ‘It is in the vicarage.’ They came towards Mark, followed by several Indian men.r />
  ‘I’m Constable Pearson. Who are you ?’

  ‘Mark Brian. I am the new vicar-in-residence.’

  ‘And what do you know of this?’

  ‘Nothing. I have just arrived.’

  ‘Let’s go in. I’ll want an autopsy.’

  ‘I’m afraid it is a little late for that.’

  They entered the vicarage. Constable Pearson plucked the sheet from the small body and leaned towards it. Then he bolted from the room, down the rickety steps, and into the bush where he was very sick. The Indians were delighted. Laughter rose in their eyes, higher and higher, filling them, and hovering there in tremulous balance. Not a drop overflowed. When Constable Pearson emerged from the bush, all the eyes were sad again, and all the faces solemn.

  ‘May I offer you a cup of tea?’ asked the young vicar, his voice excessively polite. ‘I notice there is smoke coming from the chimneys of several of the houses. I think we could manage a cup of tea.’

  Constable Pearson did not wish for a cup of tea. He wanted to give the burial permit and leave. The forms must be filled out. Was there a table somewhere? Mark led him to the church, and on the top of the organ that wouldn’t play they made out the forms, and the con­stable left.

  ‘Now,’ said Jim, ‘we can hold the service for the boy.’

  ‘In the church?’

  ‘No — in the open air. We have a new burial ground, but it is a mile from the village, and each time anyone dies the path must be cleared. The chief .wishes the weesa-bedó to be buried in the old burial ground just beyond the end of the village, and the box is made, and the grave is dug, and already my people are gathering there.’

  ‘I’ll get my things.’

  ‘I’ll help you,’ and they scrambled through Mark’s gear that had been piled on the porch of the vicarage until they found a cassock and his Book of Common Prayer.

  Then for the first time Mark walked the main path from one end of the village to the other, past the cedar houses that faced the path, the ceremonial house, the battered eagle poised on a slender shaft. One totem pole was so old he could discern only the top figure, a bear wearing at a most jaunty angle the lid of a garbage can to keep him from weathering further.

  Beyond the village they entered the deep woods, Jim walking quickly, Mark holding his cassock out of the mud, and trying not to slip off the small saplings that made a bridge across one swampy place where the trees were so thick the sun never penetrated. At last they came into a glade and stopped, and stared.

  ‘It is only the grave trees. In the old days each family had its own trees. The lower limbs were cut off as protection against the animals, and the boxes were hoisted by ropes and tied one above another in the tops. Many have fallen as you can see, and the grave sheds that were built later have fallen and most of the old carvings.’

  Later Mark could never remember the details of his first burial. Only parts remained clear. The faces of the tribe, which all looked alike, lifted and waiting in the brooding woods.

  But the words were the same simple words that have been said for the weesa-bedós of all men, and it was as if they had been written for this place and this time. When he spoke, ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills,’ there were the mountains rising above the great trees, and when he read that small and lovely prayer, protect him all day long until the shadows lengthen and the evening comes... ,’ the sun had slipped beneath the mountain tops, and the shadows were lengthening on the small grave at his feet. When it was done, he man­aged to find among all the faces the mother, and this time it was she who touched his sleeve gently and thanked him with her eyes.

  But the tribe did not disperse, and he sensed there was something yet unfinished of which he had no part, and he said, ‘I will go back to the village now, Jim.’

  ‘I’ll go with you.’

  On the way back Mark could hear an old man’s voice speaking loudly in, the burial glade, almost shouting.

  ‘It is the eldest. He is speaking the ancient Eliza­bethan Kwákwala which the young no longer know. Where there is no written language, anything which must be remembered must be said.’

  When they reached the vicarage, the trestle was gone. Someone had made a fire in the old wood stove and let the vicarage fill with the smoke of green cedar and let the breeze clear it. Two places were set on the tattered oilcloth of the kitchen table, a plate and a fork, and in the centre of the table was a board holding an un­appetizing mess of something black and steaming.

  ‘We have had nothing to eat since breakfast. Shall we have dinner?’ Jim asked. ‘It is probably old Marta who brought it.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Seaweed and corn. It is called gluckaston. Try it. You’ll like it,’ and the young vicar tried it and found it excellent.

  ‘I will not need you tomorrow. I’ll be busy here in the vicarage.’

  ‘Then I’ll go fishing. Maybe I’ll get drunk. Do you want to know why I’ll get drunk?’

  ‘Yes — why will you get drunk?’

  ‘Because the weesa-bedó was my relative. When I was five, which was his age, my uncle gave a feast for me and I was given my third name and I danced. I had prac­tised the steps in play.’

  After the meal Jim helped carry the gear into the vicarage, and when he left, Mark walked with him onto the porch and watched him go up the path into the dark trees. Then he went inside by himself, into the sweet and spicy smell of death.

  3

  WHEN DARK CAME TO THE VILLAGE there was a gentle, cautious confabulation about the young vicar who had come from the great outside world. The young women found an imminent need to exchange crochet patterns, and they met like a huddle of young hens and whis­pered about his looks, his manners, even his clean fingernails.

  Chief Eddy, on his way to the social hall, met Jim on the path and he asked, ‘How does he seem to you?’

  ‘He will be no good at hunting or fishing. He knows little of boats. All the time he says we. “Shall we have dinner now? Shall we tie up here?” Pretty soon he will say, “Shall we build a new vicarage?” He will say we and he will mean us,’ and they both smiled.

  In the social hall Chief Eddy found the old men waiting to play the ancient guessing game of La-hell, the benches in place, the bones on the floor. He sat down and the game began, all the players waiting for T. P. Wallace, the elder, the orator of the tribe, to mention the young vicar first.

  T. P. was the only one alive now whose broad brow showed that as an infant it had been tightly bound with cedar bands. In his white shirt, tie and best jacket, he was as impressive as any Montreal executive, and cast in bronze his head would not have been out of place in that museum room reserved for the busts of the ancient Romans. He was slow to speak.

  ‘Did you notice that at the graveside he left quietly and asked no questions?’ They all nodded. ‘He re­spected our customs. And what will he say when he knows we are losing our sons, and that our young no longer understand the meaning of the totems?’

  ‘When the constable was sick in the bushes,’ said Chief Eddy, ‘how well he held his laughter.’

  In one of the best houses of the village Mrs Hudson, the matriarch, was pleased that a vicar was again in residence. The Bishop would surely come more fre­quently, perhaps even with a boatload of landlubber clergy to be fed and housed, and the young wives would gather here in her house to defer to her judgment, speaking softly in Kwákwala.

  ‘What meat shall we have?’

  ‘Roast beef. Or salmon. Or wild goose. Or duck.’

  ‘And what vegetable shall we have?’ Mrs Hudson’s answer was always the same, and her small revenge on the white man, the intruder.

  ‘Mashed turnips.’ No white man likes mashed tur­nips.

  In a small neat house off the main path, Marta Stephens prepared to knit a toque to keep the new vicar’s head warm when he came up the river in the winter. Marta was one of the grandmothers of the tribe. Her hair was white, which, in an Indian, means she was very old. Her face was finely
wrinkled and of obvious gentility. She was the daughter of an hereditary chief, the wife of a chief, the mother of a chief. At the tribal feasts held for the Bishop, it was she who always slipped him a little dish of peas from her garden because he detested mashed turnips, and when he had first come to the village years before, cowering in a canoe under a tarpaulin in a heavy rain, it had been she who held a cup of coffee to his lips because his hands were so cold he could not hold it.

  ‘And how did you like our river?’ And the Bishop had answered dryly that getting into heaven could be no harder than reaching this village, and didn’t Mrs Stephens agree it was bound to be warmer?

  In the poorest house Sam, the unlucky one, con­sidered how best to approach the new vicar for a loan. Soon, of course, while he was green and before the Bishop had a chance to warn him. Sam was descended from slaves and in the old days to be a slave was to be worse than a nothing. He had no pride. His boats burned under him. When he reached the fishing grounds, the fish had not come yet, or they had seen him and fled. Sam wanted only two things in life, liquor and sex, and when he had no money for liquor, he beat his wife and Ellie, his daughter.

  In the night Jim awakened and asked himself, ‘Will he know that here I am free?’

  In the night Keetah, Mrs Hudson’s granddaughter, awakened also, the only one of the tribe who had no English proper name, and she asked herself, ‘Will he know that my Gordon feels himself trapped here?’

  In the night in the last house next to the old burial ground old Peter, the carver, heard a flight of wild geese pass over the village, honking loudly, and he counted the seconds of their passage as was his custom. But it was not a huge migration. No more than a mile long. ‘How long will he be here before he knows that I live among the dead?’

  In the teacher’s house the only other white man in the village did not think of the vicar at all. He didn’t even know he had arrived; he didn’t even know he was coming. This was the teacher’s second year in the vil­lage. He did not like the Indians and they did not like him. When he had returned from his summer holiday, a seaplane had deposited him at flood tide under the alders on the far side of the river, and he had stood there in the rain yelling loudly, ‘Come and get me,’ and T. P. had announced, ‘If he cannot be more polite, let him stay there.’ It was old Marta who finally poled across the river and plucked him from the bank. The teacher had come to the village solely for the isolation pay which would permit him a year in Greece studying the civilization he adored.