by Thomas Hopp
Back in his office and pouring over new computer printouts, McKean exulted, “Step three complete with a good yield of final product - now we’re in business! Our off-the-shelf chemical supplies are running low, but I’ve got Robert in his car right now making the rounds of labs at the University of Washington and Fred Hutchinson Cancer Center. He’ll bring back kilograms of every component.”
“Enough to make thousands and thousands of doses,” said Janet, who sat at the computer desk, glowing with triumph.
“Exactly,” McKean said. “And Kay has the National Guard preparing to resupply us on an even bigger scale. We can make traincar loads if needed.”
“You’re absolutely certain the Neah virus threat is history?” I asked.
“Answer: yes indeed!”
Gordon Steel came to the office doorway, flanked by Tleena and John.
“We owe you a lot,” McKean said to them.
“Maybe so,” old Steel replied. “But you taught me something, too. Your love for your son showed me I was no different from you in what really matters. I saw I had to forgive babalthuds before I could live with myself. Hating babalthuds for old wrongs was my worst enemy. Now my spirit is at peace. Maybe babalthuds brought diseases, drugs, and alcohol to Neah Bay - but the modern world was coming to Neah Bay anyway. You can’t stop history. I put all that hate behind. Now I face the future with a pure heart.”
McKean broke into a grin. “You were so angry, I thought at first you had created the Neah virus yourself.”
Steel grinned his own gap-toothed grin. “What, you think I got a DNA lab in my longhouse? We don’t even have indoor plumbing. No. It was Raven who made the Neah virus. Raven made the Neah virus to enlighten babalthuds, to show them they don’t know everything. He made it as a sign to say, ‘Don’t be so cocky. Don’t pick on Makahs. Respect the treaty you signed a hundred-and-fifty years ago. You babalthuds go chase after your money and leave the Makahs to chase after whales. Everybody’s okay then.’ And now it’s Makah traditions that’s saving your babalthud hides. But things are still out of balance. If babalthuds want the Makahs’ cure then they’ve got to accept Makahs’ whaling traditions too, right along with their cure.”
“When put that way,” McKean observed, “we have little choice. Either we respect you, or we die.”
“That’s the way babalthuds have always treated us.”
McKean stood and laid a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “I promise you this. I’ll pass your demand along when I present this cure to the world. I’ll have ample opportunity at press conferences, news interviews, and scientific symposia.”
“And I’ll help you in that effort, Peyton,” I added. “I’ll write down this incredible story and publish it for all the world to read.”
McKean said, “I’ve learned something else, Gordon. You were right when you said the Indian Wars are still going on at Neah Bay. The protesters, for all their high ideals, have been depriving your children of food you consider essential to their health and growth.”
Steel grinned. “At last we understand each other.”
McKean nodded. “You could have turned the tables on us, Gordon. You had us at your mercy. But you didn’t condemn us to death.”
“I guess that makes me a nice guy,” Steel said with a wry smile. “Or a fool, depending on how things turn out.”
There was a pause. Then McKean said, “Speaking of Raven, I am reminded of one other mystery, which I had all but lost in the shuffle of activity. I have speculated this virus might first have infected a bird and picked up a portion of its DNA in the process.”
“And which bird might that be?” I asked, beginning to guess the answer.
“Precisely my question,” McKean remarked. “On a hunch, I asked Kay Erwin to send a blood sample from the dead raven you found, Fin. Beryl sequenced a portion of its DNA and found that the gp91 NCAM segment in the raven’s genome was an exact match to the majority of the G1 insertion DNA. However, there were three mutated segments, namely the sequences that cross-react with human NCAM. So we have found our source of the mysterious insertion - a raven!”
“Raven works in mysterious ways,” said old Steel.
“If I may be allowed to speculate,” McKean went on, “I think I can explain the mystery. It seems likely that sometime in the era of the Spanish colonists, a raven ate from the carcass of a dead rabid animal - a raccoon, perhaps - and then picked over a dead salmon washed up on the shore, thereby mixing rabies virus and VHSV virus within its body. Growing inside the raven, the two viruses may have recombined while also capturing a segment of the raven’s DNA to become the triple-recombinant monster that is the Neah virus - part rabies, part VHSV, and part raven. From there, the raven G1 DNA segment may have mutated to become more human-like, enabling its gp91 protein product to home in on the human brain and cause the Lost Souls disease.”
Old Steel nodded. “Transformations. Our legends talk about animals changing into humans and humans changing into animals. Raven knew what he was doing. He did all that on purpose. He’s trickier than a DNA scientist.”
We were all quiet for a moment, pondering the incredible revelations that had unfolded in the space of just a few days. Then Gordon Steel said to McKean, “It is done, then. Everything is in balance, like Quykatsayak teaches.”
“Now Makahs don’t even need to go whaling,” I pointed out.
“How do you figure that?” Steel asked.
“Peyton McKean has discovered a synthetic vitamin W, so your children can take it as a supplement. You won’t need to hunt whales.”
He thought a moment. “Maybe so, Fin Morton. But tell me this. What’s vitamin B12?”
McKean answered for me. “Decades ago, when medical researchers were discovering Vitamins A through E, they learned that there was not just one, but twelve different B vitamins.”
“Well,” Steel responded. “Maybe you’ve found vitamin W1 okay, and it’s good for saving babalthuds. But maybe our kids need vitamin W12. I think its going to take a while to figure that out. Meanwhile, we’ll keep an eye out for fresh whale meat, even if it’s just something your oil tankers killed.”
“You have my respect and sympathy in that endeavor,” McKean replied. “And somehow, some day, I believe all will work out well for whales, Makahs, and babalthuds alike.”
Steel nodded. “Some people think Makahs act like savages - that rich Captain Wayne MacGraw for instance, and his protesters and his movie star friends. But I think differently. I think maybe the next Albert Einstein could be a Makah, but only if he eats a proper diet with lots of vitamin W. Our kids’ immunity will be stronger if they get their vitamin W, and they’ll do better in school. Someday a Makah will win an Olympic gold medal or become a great doctor like you, Peyton McKean. Maybe someday there’ll be a Makah President of the United States. But if there is, I tell you he or she will be raised on a diet with lots of vitamin W. That’s why I’ve been feeding our people sea spinach. I knew those vitamin Ws were in it.”
McKean smiled. “I admire you, Gordon. And I admire the Makahs’ perseverance under pressure from a whole world of whale lovers.”
“Makahs love whales too,” Steel replied.
“Yeah. On the dinner table,” I joked.
Steel nodded his head. “Yes, but that’s not all. Our survival depends on whales, so no one on earth loves them more than us. You are what you eat. And so they are us, and we are them. No one will regret it more than us if many whales must die to keep babalthuds alive. That’s why I wish you success with your synthetic cure, Peyton McKean.”
“Duly noted,” McKean said.
“Just think,” Steel went on. “I had the whole babalthud world in my hands. If I had let you guys die, then that’s the end of the babalthuds - they all die with you. When I realized I could kill you just by keeping my secrets, that’s when I knew I didn’t have to. Makah people have their own destiny. It doesn’t depend on whether babalthuds live or die.”
“Or,” said McKean obliquel
y, “who is babalthud and who isn’t.”
Steel looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“You might be interested to know what the DNA tests have told us about the Spaniard. Remember him? He’s the one who started all this. As it turns out, he possessed an extremely rare DNA marker, HLA B-499, which occurs in some Spanish populations but is almost never found in other Europeans. And it’s certainly unheard of in Makahs - with two notable exceptions.”
“Two Makahs?” Steel puzzled. “Who?”
“John and Tleena Steel.”
The old man’s whiskery jaw dropped.
“You’ll recall that Kay Erwin’s people took blood samples from both of them,” McKean explained, “to study their immunity to the Neah virus. Knowing the Spaniard’s result, I asked Kay to check them for HLA B-499, just on a whim.”
“You’re saying my kids are babalthuds?”
“No,” McKean chuckled. “Not babalthuds. But not pure Makah, either. There’s at least a trace of the Spaniard in them.”
Steel said, “Now I understand something my grandfather once told me. He said Capitan Nuniez had a child by the Makah woman he raped.”
Tleena looked aghast. “You’re saying I’m descended from a Spanish rapist?”
“Answer, yes,” said McKean, “and Tleena’s father too, if I am not mistaken.”
A genuine look of shock came over Gordon Steel’s face, to match Tleena’s and John’s expressions. Steel resisted. “How sure are you that he’s our ancestor?”
“One chance in seven-point-four-five billion that he’s not,” McKean replied. “And, in genetic testing, that’s about as absolutely certain as you can be.”
“So, all right,” Steel acquiesced. “I believe we’re related to the Spaniard. But not everything can be explained scientifically.”
“Like what?” McKean asked.
“Like the fact you’re standing here alive, today. That’s not science. No medicine could have cured you at the longhouse. You were all too far gone. It was Quykatsayak that saved you. In my trance, I sang to him in the spirit world. I asked him to heal you - and he did.”
A loud cheer went up in the lab and we hurried over. On the laboratory radio, the President was making a public speech. “In conclusion,” he said, “based on news of the tremendous discoveries at Immune Corporation in Seattle, I hereby order the Navy to call off its whale hunt, and order the National Guard to stand by to deliver Dr. Peyton McKean’s treatment to all who need a dose. Thank you, good evening, and God bless America.”
Cheers and whistles and applause erupted all around us. Lab-coated researchers gathered to shake Peyton McKean’s hand. Loud, boisterous conversations filled the lab, which normally was a place of quiet and focused work.
After the congratulations were said and the technicians went back to their tasks, McKean took John and Gordon Steel into the mass-spectrometer room to show them the equipment used to discover the new medicine. Tleena and I watched the work ongoing in the lab for a while, and then went to McKean’s office. After some small talk, Tleena stepped near me. Her beauty made my pulse quicken. I acted, rather than spoke. I wrapped my arms around her and hugged her tightly. I drew back to look into her luminous dark-amber eyes, and she asked, “It’s not the end of our story, is it?”
I started to speak, but Gordon Steel came across the hall with Peyton and John behind him. The old man stared at me hard as he came into the office. But then his eyes sparkled humorously. “I warned you, Tleena, don’t get involved with any non-Indians.”
“No need to worry on that account,” McKean interjected. “Janet has analyzed the blood sample Kay Erwin’s people took from Fin. Your mongrel heritage, Fin, extends farther than just the European continent. Her tests confirmed the expected DNA markers for the Greek and English ancestors you claim via your given name and surname. But apparently you also have some other more obscure ancestry. Are you aware of any ancestors from New Orleans?”
“How could you know that from DNA?” I asked. “My mother’s side of the family came to Chicago from New Orleans. But you can’t see that in DNA - “
“A hotbed of hybridization, old New Orleans,” said McKean. “Apparently, you picked up some non-European ancestry there that you didn’t suspect.”
“Non-European? Look at me. Do you see anything here except an average middle-class white American? Medium height, medium build, dark blond hair, pale skin, hazel eyes. I’m vanilla through and through.”
“Don’t be so sure,” said McKean. “Looks can be deceiving. Extremely so. The great geneticist Gregor Mendel interbred red and white peas to get pink flowers. And then he bred red and white ones back out of the hybrid in just two generations.”
“Maybe that’s true for peas,” I resisted. “But people are more complicated.”
“Hardly,” McKean scoffed. “Peas have more DNA than humans. What’s true for them is true for us as well. The whiteness on your surface is just the temporary cloak of the current generation. In our mongrel nation, the surface is often less interesting than what lies hidden.”
“I’ve got to think that one over,” I said.
“You are a red-and-white hybrid, Fin. Despite your surface appearance, you’ve got a unique DNA marker from the New Orleans area. Ah. Here comes Janet. I’ll let her explain.”
Janet took on a mischievous grin. “While we were studying the Spaniard’s DNA, I tried to use your DNA for comparison, assuming that you were a typical white American. But your DNA shared some markers with Native Americans, so I ran another set of DNA probes on you and found several more, including one that is among the rarest of all. It’s called RFLP 1205 at the HB21 locus. Do you know what that means?”
“No, I can’t say that I do.”
“It’s a really special marker,” she said. “It’s from native people who supposedly vanished centuries ago. Ever heard of the Opelousas?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
“The Opelousas were a tribe from the New Orleans area.”
“Long thought to be extinct,” McKean added.
“Extinct as a pure breed,” said Janet. “But archeologists found the DNA marker you possess in the bones in an Opelousa grave disturbed by a highway project.”
I was momentarily speechless. My brain was overloading on unfamiliar concepts, as often happens in the presence of my brilliant friend and his ultra-competent technician.
Gordon Steel broke the silence. “Welcome to Indian Country, Phineus Morton!”
“And as long as we’re clearing up mysteries,” said McKean, “let’s not rush to judge Capitan Nuniez a rapist. I have finished my translation of the parchment. The last passage suggests that it was the two clashing cultures, Makah and Spanish, that chose to see their love as a crime.”
He fished out a sheet of paper from the pile on his desk and read it.
“Mother of Jesus, pray for the lost soul of Capitan Nuniez. He had grown feverish, and he wandered outside the walls of our stockade. He was found in the forest by the natives. He died calling the name of the pregnant girl who remains hidden in her father’s longhouse. It is not true Nuniez took her against her will. He loved her and she loved him. And although his child will be born without the sanctity of Christian marriage, Mary please bless the mother and the child as well.
“Our other dead we have burnt, and scattered their ashes on the sea. But here we commit the bones of Capitan Nuniez, who is of royal blood, to rest in the safety of our gunpowder magazine. Tomorrow with the coming of the tide, we will burn the stockade and board the ship and abandon this accursed place forever, as Devilfish demands.
“On behalf of the twenty-four surviving members of the garrison we pray that God and Jesus grant us a safe return to Mexico and Madrid.
“Signed this 7th day of November, 1778, by Ernesto Clemencia, Vice-Comandante. Written and witnessed by Fernando Garcia, physician.”
“That’s good.” Gordon Steel chuckled when McKean finished. “You’re good with words, Peyton M
cKean.”
“Another mystery solved,” McKean replied. “But a blood sample from you, Gordon, would help nail things down.”
“No way,” said Steel. “But I’ll tell you what you can do. You can put that parchment back in the grave.”
McKean looked surprised. “Why?”
“You know that Indian Affairs agent, Grayson? He’s still on your case.”
“But he’s only concerned with artifacts from native graves,” McKean countered. “He’s probably seen the light by now about the parchment.”
“Other way round,” said Steel.
McKean’s dark brows knit and the old man laughed until he wheezed for breath. Then he explained, “Me and John and Tleena are enrolled as official members of the Makah Tribe. And now you’ve proved we have the blood of that Spaniard in us. So the parchment came out of a Makah ancestor’s grave after all!”
McKean smiled. “Once Leon is fully recovered, I’ll give him the parchment. He can take it back to Neah Bay and explain everything to Grayson. That ought to settle the matter.”
I accompanied Gordon, John and Tleena on a tour around ImCo’s production facility on the floor above McKean’s labs. McKean showed us how the large-scale manufacture of the cure would be done. Every stage of the synthetic process was shown to the old man, and he grunted approvingly at the stainless steel vats, mechanical stirring motors, fume hoods and electrical process-monitoring equipment in profusion, manned by a determined looking staff of dozens of scientists and technicians who were protected from the disease while they worked by his homemade remedy.
At the end of the tour, McKean asked Gordon to stay and see that things went smoothly.
“No,” said the old man. “I’m sure you can turn Devilfish’s cure into a babalthud chemical. All this modern technology’s just a bit beyond an old shaman like me. Besides, I can’t tolerate the big city for more than a day. Alcohol is too tempting. It’s illegal on the Rez. John will take me home. Gotta go pretty quick. The ferry’s only scheduled once this afternoon and we’re supposed to be on it.”
We went down to the street to say goodbye at the curb, where John had parked the pickup in front of ImCo. There, another shock awaited me. Parked at the curb just ahead of the pickup was -
