So, for some time, there was a big, round, black period, patiently waiting on the last page—and John felt a little happier.
I had never even been in Sechelt Inlet—but with the aid of a chart, the Coast Pilot, and a good deal of imagination, Henry finally reached the big black period—and the tale was ended. And this was the story of Henry, the Whale....
“Phuph..e..e..w!” blew Henry in disgust as he just missed a salmon that sprang out of his way.
“Phuph..e..e..w!” blew Henry in alarm when he tried to swim back the way he had come. He didn’t seem to be making any headway at all. Henry tried again and again but a whirlpool sprang at him and spun him round and round. Then it sucked him down...down...round...faster and faster. Then up he was thrown to the surface and he blew out his breath with a roar.
The Skookumchuck rapids tossed him out on to a jagged point of rock and the strong waters pulled and tore at him. They tossed him along and then threw him up into the quiet inland arm of the sea. He lay bruised and bleeding.
A salmon rose out of the water and seeing him darted away in fright. He swam up and down the bays and inlets spreading fear among the other fish telling them about the big killer whale in the arm.
“What!” shrieked a seal who was about to make a meal of the salmon but closed his mouth in time. “A whale in the inlet? How terrible!”
Henry lay motionless in a great bed of kelp—thirty feet of black and white misery. He lay for three days without stirring. Just when the crab and the rock cod who lived there were working on how long one whale, thirty feet by eight feet, by six feet would live—Henry moved his tail. Not very much, but he could feel it all the way up to his head.
“Oooooooh!” he groaned.
Everything in the kelp bed scuttled for their lives except the crab—who had done the most work on the problem and waited to see what the answer would be. However, Henry moved his tail again and it wasn’t quite so bad this time. He tried moving his eyes next and found that he could still see. He tried thinking. What had happened? Then he suddenly felt very guilty remembering his mother saying over and over, “Keep away from the Skookumchuck rapids. If you ever have to go in, wait for slack tide to come out again.” Henry remembered it all now but he had been diving and rolling along the inlet when a great school of salmon had suddenly appeared. He was so excited that he had followed them, forgetting everything else (and not even noticing that they were heading for the Skookumchuck). Henry groaned again and the crab looked expectant.
The next day Henry felt so much better he decided he would look for the way out. When he began moving about he realized he was quite hungry. In a couple of great gulps Henry swallowed all the inhabitants around him—including the crab whose arithmetic didn’t interest him at all.
“That feels better!” sighed Henry and away he swam. But no matter which way he turned he bumped into a cliff. “This is getting tiresome. I’ll have to ask somebody.”
Henry spied a seal, but the seal saw him first and swam off in a flurry.
“Hi there,” he called seeing a school of salmon. But they leapt out of the water and continued leaping until they were out of sight. “Nasty rude things!” Growling and grumbling to himself Henry sank into the depths to try and think what to do next.
“Well,” yawned a voice from somewhere, “If you have rested long enough I wish you would get off my rock, I want to catch my supper.”
Henry’s jaw dropped. The voice sounded as much under him as any place else. He raised himself slightly and tried to look underneath—but it was very hard to see. “Where are you anyway?”
“Right here on the rock beside you,” said the voice.
“I don’t know what you are and I still can’t see you.”
“Look harder,” chuckled the voice. Henry stared and stared. Then right there on the rock, where Henry was sure it wasn’t, was a large red octopus with its long arm coiled about itself. As Henry stared it slowly faded out of sight again.
“What do you think of that?” asked the voice.
“Stupid,” said Henry crossly. Then from nothing came a cloud of dirty black water and something reached out and pulled his nose.
“You horrid miserable jellyfish,” raged Henry swishing his tail around and flattening everything. “I’ll squash you for that.”
He banged down on the rock and stayed there, wondering if you could eat what you couldn’t see—and what it would taste like if you could. A school of rock cod came swimming by and goggled at a stone-grey octopus arm waving at them from a crack in the rock upon which Henry was sitting so hopefully. They giggled nervously and Henry said, “Hush! I’ve just squashed an octopus and I’m listening.” The cod rushed off in a frenzy at the idea of an octopus teasing a thirty-foot whale.
Henry began to tire of sitting on what he could neither see nor feel and he just had to get up for more air, so he gave an especially hard squash and shot to the surface. Then he remembered suddenly that he had gone down there in the first place to think. Seeing a rocky island ahead he eyed it with satisfaction. “Just the place for a think,” he said.
After a good long think Henry decided that the best way to find the way out was to look for the roar first. Then he would know he was at the Skookumchuck and when the roar stopped and he could see the green stain on the white rock the tide would be slack and he would swim through. Simple. Henry was very pleased with himself.
“Now,” said Henry, “All I have to do is to swim along the surface until I hear the roar. If I keep the cliffs on my left side I won’t get confused.” Every cliff Henry rounded he would listen carefully. It grew dark and still Henry swam on. The cliffs grew dark and tall and Henry swam on watching the stars. A cold grey light began to spread over everything. Seagulls looked pale against the silvery light. Henry could make out a deep bay just ahead of him and decided that it would make a good place for breakfast. The whole bay tossed and heaved with commotion and Henry’s cavernous mouth devoured everything in sight.
As Henry swam out of the bay he saw a white goat come down on a point of land. It stood there and made the kind of noises goats make. Henry stared. This was something new. The goat came down to look at Henry who was new to him too. Whatever it was the goat decided, Henry would be company, and he jumped and hopped over the rocks alongside of him. Whenever Henry stopped the goat would stop, his head, with its ridiculous beard, tilted to one side. Henry decided he didn’t like it and tried blowing at it. But that seemed a waste of time as the goat seemed to enjoy it.
“I’ll race and leave it behind,” decided Henry. So away he tore with the goat following and soon left it behind. Henry raced on. Then suddenly—oh no, not another one! This time Henry wasn’t waiting to see if it would follow but tore past it at full speed. The goat had time only to turn his head as Henry raced by. Every mile or so was a narrow channel and great frowning heights and then—another goat...! They were getting as thick as minnows. Henry put on an extra spurt.
Another goat! Henry blinked. Something was wrong. He was beginning to feel quite queer. Henry stopped with a lurch and the whole world with the goat standing on top went round and round and round. Henry felt very sick.
An angry kingfisher bird spluttered at him from a dead branch. “Look here, what are you racing around and around our island for?”
Henry stared. “Island?”
“Yes island. You’ve been around it half a dozen times now and it’s becoming quite upsetting.”
“Oh dear,” sighed Henry, “I shall have to start all over again.”
Evening came calm and cool and peaceful and Henry settled down to a steady roll. Suddenly right in his path he met Timothy. Timothy opened his mouth and squawked at him. He was a very young seagull and “Squaaaawk,” said Timothy again more insistently.
Henry was so astonished that he could only stare. Things—especially small things—didn’t usually squawk at him. Then as he stared, Timothy opened his mouth again and held it open—quite plainly telling him that he expected Hen
ry to fill it.
This really was embarrassing. How could a whale feed a bird? Timothy looked at him with bright and fearless eyes. Henry wiggled his tail.
“Look here,” he protested. “What’s the matter with you—don’t you realize what I am? Why aren’t you flying anyway?”
“Can’t,” answered Timothy, “I have a broken wing.”
Henry looked. One soft grey wing had been broken just above the second joint. “A man mended it for me but it’s still not good.” It had been carefully set with three matches and bound with a piece of fishing twine.
“Hmmm,” said Henry trying to think of something to distract the bird so it would forget about being hungry. “What’s your name?”
“The man that fixed my wing called me Timothy.”
“Timothy! Why did he call you that?”
“Because my toes are pink.”
“Oh,” said Henry, eyeing him nervously, and Timothy opened his mouth wide and squawked.
“I—I say,” protested Henry desperately, “I haven’t got anything to eat and I wouldn’t know how to feed you if I had.”
“Couldn’t you catch me even one little fish?” pleaded Timothy.
And that is where Henry made his first mistake. He said alright rather ungraciously and then dived and presently appeared with a nice grilse in his mouth which he put in front of Timothy and hastily backed away. Timothy was quite capable of eating it himself and when he had finished and had rinsed his beak and ruffled his feathers as well as he could with the broken wing, he turned confidently to Henry and asked, “Well, what shall we do now?”
That was when Henry made his second mistake. He stammered, “Whaaat?” He tried to mend matters when the seagull repeated the question by saying he couldn’t do anything as he was looking for a way out.
“Way out of what?” asked the seagull.
“The way out of this inlet, of course,” said Henry gloomily.
“Why I’ve often been out of here,” said Timothy. Henry turned and stared at him. “Often been out,” repeated the seagull, nodding his head, “Often, often.”
“And you’ll show me?” asked Henry eagerly.
Timothy said he would but tomorrow, not tonight as he was sleepy and without even bothering to say goodnight, tucked his head under his good wing and went to sleep bobbing gently on the water.
Henry was left wondering if it were safe to trust a seagull who was called Timothy because his feet were pink but since there was nothing he could do about it anyway he decided that he would go to sleep too.
It was quite light when Henry woke up the next morning—or rather was wakened up. “Squaaawk,” said a voice suddenly in his ear. Then he remembered.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that before I’m awake,” grumbled Henry.
But Timothy wasn’t intimidated and just opened his mouth wider. Henry knew what was expected of him and grumpily told Timothy to stay where he was and dove out of sight. It took some time to find Timothy’s breakfast since he decided to eat his own while he was down there. It takes a lot to fill up a killer whale. Finally Henry felt satisfied and seeing a small grilse he said, “Just the thing for Timothy,” and took it carefully in his teeth.
He exploded through the surface but there was no sign of one small seagull. He was afraid he had come rather a long way. He tried calling the bird but it didn’t come out very well with the fish in his teeth. He tried blowing hoping that might attract his attention but he couldn’t give a decent blow either. “Timothy,” he called and outshot the grilse. Before the last echo of Henry’s shout died away the little fish was safely hidden at the bottom of the sea.
“Now he’s made me lose his breakfast,” grumbled Henry irritably looking all about him. “Perhaps I’ve swallowed him,” he thought hopefully and gulped a couple of times to see if he could feel anything half way up or half way down.
“Squaaawk,” said a voice right beside him. Henry wheeled and there was Timothy sitting with his mouth open and eyes shut.
When Henry had replaced the bird’s breakfast and he had rinsed off his beak he said, “Well, come along and I’ll show you the way out now.”
It wasn’t long before Timothy was exhausted paddling along trying to keep up with Henry. “You’ll have to give me a ride.”
“Ride,” exclaimed Henry. This was an indignity to end all indignities. Pat-pat-pat, cold pink toes pattered up his back accompanied by much squawking and fluttering for Henry was very slippery.
Henry gave a cautious roll forward and Timothy slid squawking down his back. Just as he reached Henry’s blow-hole Henry let out his breath and up shot Timothy into the air.
“Beast,” spluttered the bird as he flopped into the water with a splash.
“Sorry,” said Henry cheerfully, “It wasn’t my fault.”
“Of course it was your fault. Who ever heard of anyone having waterfalls in the top of their head anyway?”
“You’d better swim then,” said Henry.
“I won’t,” said Timothy.
“Well don’t. I’ll find my own way out.” Henry blew savagely and decided to teach Timothy a lesson and tore round and round making huge waves. Up and down bobbed Timothy not making a peep.
“Alright,” shouted Henry, “You can ride.”
Timothy decided to try behind Henry’s big fin this time and so long as he rolled gently the seagull was able to stay on. Presently Henry felt that something was not right. It was dark now but Henry could feel that the water was getting shallow and still no sign of the way out. He was just about to say as much when there were excited squawks from Timothy.
“I can see it. I can see it. Straight ahead.”
Henry went forward cautiously trying to see in the darkness, but as far as he could see, trees loomed in an unbroken circle against a quiet sky. What was worse, the water was getting shallower and shallower. Then he felt weeds tickling his tummy.
“What are you stopping for,” shrieked Timothy stamping his cold pink toes.
“Because there isn’t enough water,” said Henry darkly.
“That doesn’t matter, its only fifty yards across here and then we are right out in the open water.”
“Fifty yards of what?”
“Sand,” shrieked Timothy. “Nice soft sand.”
So that’s what soft pink toes led to—nice soft sand. He might have known. “Get off my back,” thundered Henry and Timothy got off. “Now go on.”
Timothy started off obediently but looking back over his shoulder in a bewildered way he asked, “But aren’t you coming too?”
“I—can’t—swim—in—sand!”
“Oh.” And in the darkness Timothy heard a big watery sob, “Shall we try again,” he said in a little wee voice.
Gently Henry backed out of the shallow water. In the dark he turned slowly around and moved ahead. Dark outlines of cliffs drifted past and then suddenly they seemed right on top of them. Henry raised himself out of the water to look. Along the shore the water was making soft gurgling noises, climbing up the stones as far as it could reach, then suck-suck, as it drew back again. Against Henry’s sides it rippled, lip-lip-lip. Hurry, hurry, lapped the impatient ripples. Gurgle, gurgle, said the little eddies. Hurry, hurry, louder and louder, faster and faster. Henry lay there wondering and thinking. Then everything kept getting louder and louder and stronger and more insistent.
“It’s certainly making enough noise,” he was thinking, “roaring like anything. Roaring!” he jumped. Of course it was roaring. “Timothy,” he bellowed, “jump off. It’s the Skookumchuck and I have to hurry while the tide is slack. If you stay on you will get drowned. I’ve found it. I’ve found the way out. Jump off. Goodbye. I’ll see you on the other side.”
Poor Timothy was quite shaken up but he jumped and paddled to the shore by the light of the moon. He watched Henry move ahead through the whirlpools and ripples that were gentled now.
Henry could feel the roaring waters close behind on his tail. Suddenly he saw the Indian v
illage and he knew he was out and safe.
“Out,” he shouted, “Why I’m out! Out, out!”
A little voice back on shore echoed, “Out, out. Henry’s out. Ha, ha. Henry’s out.”
It was after that that we decided to go into the inlet ourselves, and see all the places and things that Henry had. So now, just like Henry, we were trying to find the roar. Suddenly, we heard it—and then we saw the water boiling out from behind the farthest island: The Indian name “Skookumchuck” means “Strong Waters.” How smoothly the translation flows, and how the Indian name boils, swirls and roars! We hastily tied up to a private float against the shore. I should have liked to ask some of the local people about it—before we tried it, even at slack. But the house on the hill was empty, and no boat lay at the wharf.
We ate our lunch while waiting for the roar to stop. We had just finished, when ahead of us, on our side, we could hear the whine of an approaching outboard engine. The sea there seemed completely choked with kelp and small islands, but out from behind an island came a rowboat with an outboard and one man—without a doubt, a local inhabitant. No one else could have wound through that kelp with his sure feeling. Then into the open he came—straight our way—and tied up at the float.
We were round him in an instant, asking questions. He first asked how much our boat drew. Then told us that we could get through where he had come, at any time and any tide. There was a passage through the kelp, about eight feet wide and four feet deep. We couldn’t mistake it—it showed clearly when you got closer. It led right through into the inlet, and nowhere near the rapids.
“But we’ve got to go through the rapids,” broke in John, “because Henry did.”
“Who is Henry?” the man asked him.
“Henry was a whale,” Peter answered. “He went in there, and he couldn’t find his way out again.”
The man laughed. “I knew that whale, young fellows, but I never thought to ask him what his name was.”
The Curve of Time Page 18
