The two men have collected several dozen such snowflakes, each stacked upon the one before it. They work full days, each with his own job, both men digging, both loading the long sluice box with sand and moss and gravel. During the first few days Fujino and Kaneda spoke more than they do now. Kaneda is the boss and the cook, Fujino the one who does most of the lifting. They speak of home rarely, neither of them mentioning Kaneda’s daughter. They see only tundra wolves and beaver, and once, only once, they saw a huge brown bear fishing near their camp in the morning.
In the evening, after they have eaten and after Fujino plunges the tin plates and frying pan into the water, Kaneda often leans back and tells a story. He was a student of Japanese history and remembers all the interesting stories he has read. He tells Fujino about the warring years of the fifteenth century and of the unification of the country under Hideyoshi. He talks about very ancient history, when a woman was the ruler, and he talks about the introduction of various religions to the islands. Fujino had studied history too, in school, but it is nice to hear the rambling voice of the old man here in this lonely country. He has become a listener though he was hired as a translator.
Fujino had thought, on the ship, that they would be among men here, not by themselves far away and hiding, and he often wonders what life is like in Nome. He saw it and was not impressed on that first day, but he would like to see it again. He looks forward to going in to file the claim. He will take a day or two and will drink in the bars and find those who came on the ship with him. They are too self-sufficient out here. If he could he would think of a reason for having to go to Nome once a month. If for nothing else he would go because he needed a break, some time to himself among people. Fujino has respect for Kaneda but Kaneda is an old man and can afford to be by himself all the time. He no longer thinks of women and has passion left only for gold.
Sometimes after working there is nothing to do but sleep and Fujino is not yet ready for it. On these occasions, though his body is tired, he walks quickly out along the creek bed and up into the hills. There is nothing else, no different land, no people, but at least there is movement. He can stretch his legs, extending his stride into long leaps along the bending course of the river. He makes up games for himself, rules for walking. Sometimes Fujino is gone for hours, returning to the camp well after Kaneda is asleep. It is a hard life for a young man. He often tells himself so. Still, he is a good worker and he knows Kaneda likes him, even respects his ability. Things are going according to plan. He will make enough money to buy some land, if not in the center of Tokyo, at least somewhere nearby. He will ask for the hand of Kaneda’s daughter and Kaneda will not be able to refuse. If they are here a year, even two, what does it matter? Life will be the same at home, only he will be different. He will have money and a wife and a rich father-in-law. And he will know a good deal more about Japanese history.
As the two men sleep the storm moves north out of sight and across the low mountains toward the Arctic Circle. The darkness is replaced by summer gray and the sky becomes clear. Sleepers turn in their beds at all three points of the triangle: in the Eskimo village, in Nome, and on Topcock Creek. The sun is almost risen and another day has come.
The reverend started up the ladder at five, quiet, trying not to wake Henriette. Ellen was already dressed and waiting, the bedding she had used rolled upright, leaning against the loft railing.
“I would have come earlier,” he said.
Through the loft window they could see that the village was still closed and sleeping, though the rain had stopped and puddles were spaced about the ground, reflecting silver and blue. Here and there dogs lay on their sides, gray fur moving slightly in the wind. One dog trotted up the main path and out along the beach. Ellen and the reverend stepped quietly down the ladder and once outside walked quickly through the village to the boathouse. The reverend pulled a short, wide canoe out and down a slick ramp to the water’s edge. He’d brought along poles and lines, and a small bucket of herring to be used as bait.
“If we’re lucky we’ll have a strike soon,” he said. “Early morning is feeding time and they’re usually swimming high.”
“I don’t swim so well,” said Ellen, looking at the canoe. “I’ve never been fishing before.”
The reverend placed Ellen in the middle of the canoe and waded out a few feet before stepping in himself. There was only one paddle so the reverend used it, paddling from the stern, sometimes changing sides, lifting the paddle over his head or swinging it around behind him so that the water would not drip into the canoe. They glided, the bow turning now slightly port, now slightly starboard. The rippling of the water against the sides of the canoe was the only sound. In five minutes they were well off the beach and somewhat down toward Nome. The reverend threw a makeshift anchor over the side and let the rope slide through his hands until it went slack and the stone settled in the soft mud of the shallow bottom. The canoe swung around and drifted until the rope was taut again and stretching.
Ellen turned slowly, bringing her feet close to her body and over the seat so that she was facing the reverend. He quickly baited the two barbed hooks and, handing Ellen one of the poles, told her to let the line out by hand, counting twenty times as she did so.
“If you feel a strike,” he said, “wait just a moment before you start reeling it in. Let the fish set the hook. He’ll do that by himself. Then he’s all yours.”
Looking back at the village, Ellen could already see a few people walking back and forth across the beach. She could see the feather-topped roof of Nanoon’s coming-of-age hut. She was about to speak when a silver salmon leapt from the water a few feet from them and toward shore. The belly of the fish flashed in the sun then slapped the clean surface of the sea again and was gone. Soon concentric circles rocked the canoe.
“My God,” said Ellen.
The reverend was pleased and proud.
“That was a big one,” he said. “Maybe he’s yours. He’s heading for your hook right now.”
As he said it the tip of Ellen’s rod dug deeply into the water and she jerked it back and stood up, almost capsizing the canoe.
“Hold it!” shouted the reverend. “Sit down. Let him set the hook!”
The pole had gone slack again and for a moment Ellen thought the fish was free. But just as she was about to say so the pole bent double again and she froze, holding up the tip of it but doing nothing else.
“All right, you’ve got him,” whispered the reverend. “Now turn the handle, bring him in.”
Ellen fumbled with the crank on the side of the pole and quickly the tension was gone again and once more she thought that the fish had escaped.
“Just keep it coming,” said the reverend. “He’s still there. Keep the line taut.”
“It’s a heavy thing,” she said.
The fish leapt again, slicing the water with the line it was dragging, shaking its head like a dog. Ellen kept cranking, taking in the line. The fish was deep and then shallow, there was tension and then there was none. In a moment, looking over the side, Ellen saw the slender brown back of the fish floating, then touching the canoe and gone in a flash.
“He’s tiring now,” said the reverend. “You’ve got him.”
And indeed it did seem easier as she again pulled the fish into view and watched it treading water just below the surface, facing the canoe and waiting.
The reverend lowered a long gaff over the side and brought it up, skillfully lifting the fish, its tail swinging, out of the tranquil sea. The fish flopped once or twice on the bottom of the canoe and the reverend removed the hook and then hit the fish several times with the blunt end of the gaff. It lay long and silver in the bottom of the boat, its gills quivering, its jaw working open and shut.
“He’s a beauty,” said the reverend. “Fifteen pounds is my guess. Maybe more. You did well.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Ellen. “Is it dead?”
“Oh yes, I’ve taken care of that. We
’ll salt it when we get to shore and you can take it back and have your own special supper.”
He looked at Ellen. He had taken the hook from the fish’s mouth and was rebaiting it. He threw it over the side and picked up his own pole. He pointed at her line and gestured so Ellen let the line slowly out, counting it back into the water once again.
By the time Ellen had her fish the whole village was awake and smoke was rising. Henriette awoke to the empty house and reheated the still lukewarm coffee that the reverend had left on the stove. It was a comfortable house. She climbed to the loft with the coffee and two thick slices of bread and jam, settling into a chair in front of the window. She could see the canoe on the water and all of the lean-tos of the village below. Here and there dogs stood, waiting for scraps of food to be thrown out to them. Most of the lean-tos were opened now, their hide fronts rolled up exposing their insides. Strange way to live, she thought, every day opening up the front of your house so that others can see in.
Henriette was feeling better about being in Alaska. She saw Finn through the window, walking by himself around the front of one of the lean-tos. She was relaxed, daydreaming. It seemed to Henriette that she could feel herself coming into focus for the others. It always took people a long time to get to know her and she could feel that happening now. She saw Phil come out of his lean-to to throw a piece of food high into the air over the dogs. He went back in and quickly rolled the front up and began to sweep hard until dust ballooned around him. She saw the canoe come ashore and recognized its occupants and saw the fish that the reverend was carrying. Henriette knew they would be leaving soon, so when she finished her bread and coffee she went back down the ladder and thought once again how pleasant it would be to live here, in this house, in this village. She took the cup she had been using into the kitchen and dropped it into the sink. The cup split easily in two, the handle half of it taking the shape of a sugar scoop. There were only two pieces and Henriette picked them both up, frowning. She looked around the kitchen for a few minutes and then slipped the broken pieces into a small sack and put the sack in the bag she had brought with her from Nome. And then, after straightening up the bed she’d slept in, she slipped into her sealskin jacket and left the house.
Henriette went directly to Phil’s lean-to and said good morning, waiting until Phil and his family turned around and noticed her. Soon Ellen and the reverend came in carrying the fish and telling the story of the catch, and Finn came back and remained quiet at the entrance, standing behind them all. It was time for them to leave, so Ellen handed Phil a list written the morning before by the owner of the New York Kitchen and Phil checked off the items with a soft lead pencil. Everything was there and he would have it loaded on the mule and ready in fifteen minutes. They bargained. Ellen felt like paying Phil’s price, but held out for two cents less per pound. Had she purchased the fish when they’d first arrived she might have gotten a better price, but as it was she felt happy and felt that she was among friends.
The reverend cleaned and salted Ellen’s salmon and placed it in her arms. It was the only strike they’d had, he reminded her, and she had done well. While they stood and talked, three young men brought the pack mule to them and stood back to examine the steadiness of the load. The young men pushed the load at each other, leaned into it, making the mule brace his feet. Ellen waited until they were through and then placed her own fish in a canvas sack and hung it around the mule’s neck.
“Like the pendulum in a grandfather’s clock,” she said.
The reverend laughed and put his arms out as if to encircle the entire group. He put them down again. “Good-bye,” he said. “I’ve so enjoyed our visit.”
Everyone shook hands. Phil with Finn, the reverend with Ellen. Henriette shook hands with the three young men who’d loaded the fish. They were all standing near Nanoon’s small feathered hut.
“Everyone is anticipating how beautiful she will be,” said Phil. “No one can imagine it.”
They walked together to the outskirts of the village and then stood and shook hands again.
“Good-bye!” they all shouted. When Ellen and Finn and Henriette walked away from the Eskimos the warm wind carried their voices toward the sea. The three young men still waved at them. The mule stopped and Finn hit him once on the flank. The sky, of course, was clear, the storm gone. They would be back in Nome by noon, back to work, back among civilized men.
2
Modeling it after one she’d seen in the Eskimo village, Ellen opened up a public bath. Nome seemed dirty to her after her return and she knew of only one way to clean it up. She gave notice at the New York Kitchen, bought a double-sized tent and two huge copper tubs, and hired Henriette to come help. Ellen had regained a sense of industry from her visit to the village. The tent she bought had two rooms and in the back, next to the copper tubs, she placed an iron stove that had burners for the heating of two buckets of water at the same time. Henriette would be responsible for keeping the fires going and for keeping the water hot.
It was amazing how Ellen’s opinion of Henriette had changed since the trip. Now she seemed a quiet, warm-hearted girl, where before she’d seemed only slow. Ellen had been quick to judge again and she was sorry for it. It was one of her faults. Henriette had told her that she might quit the New York Kitchen, might possibly take the next ship south, before Ellen offered her the job. She told Henriette she’d give her eight dollars a day, and at night, after the last of the bathers had gone, there’d be spaces where they could sleep, collapsible cots that fit between the tubs, in the back room, where everything was still hot.
Ellen had to buy the space where the bath was to sit, but she wasn’t unhappy about that. Her space was sufficiently up from the beach for her not to have to worry about high water, and soon she’d have her own building on it. She’d not wait for the general construction crews to get started. She decided that if she’d misjudged Henriette it was also possible that she’d misjudged Finn and she asked him to put up the building for her. He agreed and as a beginning fashioned a dozen strong chicken coops for stacking along the far canvas wall of the front room of her bath. There would be baths and there would be eggs. Ellen bought a dozen dull chickens from a ship in port.
The grand opening of Ellen’s bath was on a Tuesday. Her hours would be from noon to midnight, but today they began at nine. The night before, those who had worked on the bath used the tubs for the first time, telling each other how clean they felt and how sure they were that the business would be a success. Ellen bathed first, then Henriette, then Finn. Ellen decided that she’d charge two dollars a bath and that eggs would be fifty cents each. The first real customer was a man named John Hummel, who had scurvy and had not been out of Nome since his arrival six months earlier. Hummel pursed his lips and smiled, letting the red scurvy line show itself around the gold caps of his teeth.
“You ought to have a slogan,” he said. “Something to bring people in from long distances.” He entered the back room and Ellen listened to the sound the water made as it slid across his shoulders and back down into the tub.
To help with the bath’s advertising, Finn had gone about the town handing out leaflets made by Henriette. Ellen and Henriette kept every inch of the bath clean and ready for use and Ellen had a sprinkling can full of water near the front room counter so that she could wet down the dirt floor occasionally, keeping the dust away. Here at least there would be cleanliness. Here it was easy for Ellen to imagine herself not in Nome at all, but still in the Eskimo village. And so she rarely went out. If she had an errand she sent Henriette, or, indeed, would ask Finn to go. She spent her spare minutes thinking of the village and the reverend, or thinking of home. She daydreamed, wondering what the reaction would be to an Irish stone house around here, the kind she’d lived in as a child. Stone houses…From hers it had been a forty-minute walk to the little school where she’d studied with the others, maybe six of them. There was a pub in her village and a post office and a small store. That was all. Tho
ugh it was a tiny neighborhood her father never tired of talking to the same men each night. He’d go to his pub or feel guilty if he didn’t. And they’d wait, the women, all sitting in the quiet living room, the same subjects returning like the hours of the day.
Ellen remembered the grandfather’s clock in the narrow front hallway of that house. As a small girl she’d once hidden within it, ducking behind the sharp pendulum and staring past it and through the dusty glass as the members of her family searched for her. She must have stayed in that clock for more than an hour, for she remembered the lonely sound of its striking. It echoed through the wood and into her body. The pendulum sliced the air in front of her nose, making soft cutting sounds. Several times her mother or her sisters had stared directly at her, but they saw only themselves in the flat surface of the glass, never the girl hiding behind the sockets of their own eyes.
It was Ellen’s grandmother who finally found her. Her father’s mother. The small door had opened and the old woman bent down, peering past the pendulum.
“Ellen?” she had shrieked, her voice darting past the sharp seconds. She pulled the child out and stood her on the clean floor and closed the clock door without starting the pendulum again. It had moved silently, and in little circles.
John Hummel, the forgotten first customer, finished his bath quickly and startled Ellen when he stepped in front of her.
“Oh,” she said.
Fools' Gold Page 4
