Once through the hustle and bustle of shoppers, I turned left on Main and walked down past the corner of Orange Street to the Police Station. Stopping atop the steps and looked back toward Number Five Orange and took a seat for a few moments. As I looked down from the steps of the station to a young woman of native decent panhandling close by, I wondered about her circumstances and the tragedy that had brought her here.
Taking a deep breath and a short glance toward the docks and the inlet, I stood reflecting for several more moments, then pushed my way through the revolving glass doors of the station.
Impressed by the sudden roominess and grandeur of the main hall, I took a moment to appreciate its architecture. The high ceilings, almost fourteen feet, and marble floors that magnified and echoed every step and utterance, almost exceeded the noble purpose of the building.
"Hello, can I help you?" enquired a young officer, seemingly out of nowhere.
"Well, yes. My name is Brian Alexander. I'm not so sure who I need to talk to, but I'm inquiring about the break in at the museum yesterday."
"Hang on a minute and I will check to see who the officer handling the case is."
Turning from me, she glanced at a roster and skirted several desks to a terminal. After several moments on the computer, and conversations with two other officers, she came back. "Yes, that is Constable Johnston. He will be a few moments, so if you don't mind having a seat over there, he will be with you shortly."
With a smile, and a nod of my head, I strode over to sit at a bench in an area just off the sunny main foyer. Apart from the few people waiting on the benches near the front desk, the place seemed quiet for a Saturday, but then again how would I know? In boredom, I glanced at the magazines on the table trying to bide my time. Scanning the colorful magazine covers for an interesting article to read, my mind began to wander to the previous day and the old man in my vision behind the Museum.
Just as I slowly started to drift off in thought I was startled by a loud "Hello! Mr. Alexander?"
Uncomfortable at the sudden intrusion, I looked rather unsteadily at the fellow standing before me. Trying to gather my thoughts, I sat straight, and motionless, gazing up at him, the face of the old native man from the museum still impressed on my mind.
"Yes! I would like to enquire as to the incident at the museum yesterday?"
He looked down at me the way only some people in authority can do, "Yes, well there is not a whole lot we can tell you right now as the incident is still under investigation. What, may I ask, is your connection with the case?" he asked curtly.
A little shocked by his candor, “Well, I’m not really connected apart from personal interest. I am studying at the University and just wanted to know more about the article to which the theft attempt had been made."
He looked down at me with a cool glazed countenance that implied, 'do I have time for this?' and said, "The case is still under investigation, and we cannot tell you anything at this time."
I was about to mention the encounter with the young man, who had flattened me, but something seemed to grab me by the throat, and the words "Sorry to have troubled you." came stuttering out instead.
Getting up from the couch, I reached out to shake his hand, "Thank you for your time. I'll keep my eyes on the paper."
Refusing my hand, he nodded and walked away. Turning back to me he half yelled, "You may want to try the Royal Museum. There’s a woman there in the Anthropology Department who is also looking for information; perhaps the two of you can compare notes." A caustic grin slashed across his face; he disappeared down the hall from view.
With a bewildered acknowledgement, I returned to him an impotent, "Yeah, thanks! What's her name?"
Without noticing, a tall thin fair-haired man fell in behind me and followed me out the door.
Once out in the morning air, the frustration eased and the activity of Main Street brought me back to the freshness of the morning. I was nervous talking to the officer, the thoughts of the previous day still vivid in my mind. Sitting down on the warm front steps for a few moments to recoup, I looked down at the cement before my feet and watched the shadows of people drifting by; unobtrusive, one shadow remained stationary; the woman who had been panhandling left. Taking a deep breath of cool air, I stood and started off in the direction of the docks through Gas Town.
The Steam Clock whistled as I turned the corner to head up the street to Hastings. The scenery drastically changed in those few blocks to the shadowy lives of the street people sleeping on park benches, harmless to all but our conscience. For some, giving up is easier; as I passed by a fallen man, empty bottle clutched in his hand, the fact of this was hard for me to ignore. I continued to my car.
Driving west to Georgia Street and on, I turned into the park and the colorful scenery. Passing the remnant zoo and rounding the corner to view the yacht club, I was struck by the disproportion of the scene. To my right, the boats with their masts pointed resolutely to the boastful buildings and skyscrapers of downtown; to my left the trees and abundant green foliage, lush with the seasons rain that heartening me to look beyond to the graceful slopes and mountains above West Vancouver. Standing noble in the foreground, the stalwart totems peered down from their height to the few subjects milling below at their feet. They spoke of a great people of long ago. Strong and proud, they stand foreboding, meritorious, encouraging us to remember the past with its raw reality; as if to announce the coming of an era. The bold carved portraitures of birds and animals peered out toward to skyline of Vancouver, waiting to proclaim the return to a way of life harmonious to the surroundings they guard.
Sitting on the bench across from the totems, I gazed at the workmanship of the carvings. The intricacy and design of the characters was unique and conveyed their individual dispositions well. The sounds of children laughing as they played in the open field behind me along with the warm sun on my face lulled me to slumber. Drifting off into scenes from a fable of the legendary young Makah boy Kuwatsi, who had helped through his mischievous exploits, to save the Makah Nation from starvation, I fell asleep.
A loud progressive ringing in my ears distracted me to a presence beside me. Slowly opening my eyes, I turnied my head to come face to face with the recognizable old, native man sitting right beside me. His eyes were very still, and sparkled with an intensity that appeared to look through me. His brow, straight and strong, emphasized his eyes, curving down to broad chiseled cheekbones. His bold, square chin accented by his broad and full mouth, cut across his features. A complexion of burnt umber glimmered in the sunlight; lined and well weathered, it alluded to his years of life. A shock of white hair starting low on his forehead and tied back flat to his temples, gave a halo of fine illuminate hair that suggested reverence. Startled, but not shocked, I made no moves and looked patiently at him. Without fear or anxiety, we sat and gazed at each other until, without a word being spoken, he gave me a smile. Putting his hand on mine, he pointed toward two pillars of light bathing the totems that sat before us. We effortlessly drifted in that direction and to the light beyond. Something compelled me to look down to the ground where I caught a glimpse of the two of us side by side on the bench. Amazed at the height we had achieved, I became self-aware and instantly heard a loud zap and found myself back on the bench, alone; the old man was no longer there. Scared, I looked around to see if anyone had noticed anything; it appeared not. The children continued playing behind me as if nothing had happened; a young man lying on his side perched on one elbow, continued to read his novel, unmoved. My world was shaken to its core by the experience and no one had noticed. Aware of the aching in my head and slight dizziness, I slowly got to my feet and wandered back to the car beneath the tall Cedar trees that overshadowing the roadway by the shore.
"I've gotta see somebody!”
Easing myself back into my car, I sat for a while mindlessly staring into the space above the hood and beyond the grill. Thoughts of madness gave way to the rationale of a concussi
on from the fall the day before. My stomach slowly settled from its peculiarity, and growled at the turmoil. Swallowing hard and glancing in the side-mirror, I edged out into the light pedestrian traffic on the road. I continued my journey around the park to third beach.
The tide was out, and the flurry of activity from the Kingfishers and gulls, was a good distraction. The occasional crab poked its head from beneath a protective rock, only to retreat again from the advancing feathered hoards of gulls. Kelp swayed back and forth in the pulsing motion of the surf, licking at the barnacle-covered rocks. The rich, strong smell, along with the abundant life of the tidal zone, caught the attention of a number of sun worshippers as they passed the time on the elevated walkway.
A few hours passed, and the strange hollow feeling in my head had now left me. I felt renewed from the short time I had remained resting, and felt relief from the strange encounter with the Indian sage. The sun was heading down along the western ridge of the mountains before me, while the small boats, returning from their forays up the coast, ushered me home. Catching a last glimpse of the sun’s rays above the hills, I followed the sea wall to the path leading up to the lot where my car was parked. Looking back across the bay to the right of the Planetarium, I could see the line of houses that protected mine from the noise and bustle of the traffic across the Burrard Bridge. The lights of the Maritime Museum, that illuminated the large wooden craft within, lit the grassy slope, and the few people who had collected for an evening picnic. The clock, on the old brewery overshadowing the bridge, reflected the rush hour time and flashed the seconds as if testing the pulse of the traffic below.
The cars within the park had slowed while people meandered their way to the busy streets beyond its boundaries. The beds of colorful flowers, on either side of the parkway, gave way to the lights of the shops and hotels along Beach Drive. As the sun set, the brilliance and exuberance of the day faded into a chiaroscurist rendition of the Vancouver skyline, splashed with a multiplicity of neon color.
THREE
Welcoming me home were the walls of my small sitting area faintly pulsing red. The telephone message indicator, with its methodical flash, illuminated the small photo-filled alcove: another picture of Maryse and I, arm in arm outside the butterfly exhibit at Niagara, sat lonely by the phone; my cell sat neglected on its charging perch. The darkness of the rest of the apartment was awash with the reflected pinkish hue of the electronic panorama of the distant apartment buildings outside the patio door. The view was nostalgic; a reminder of Christmas, only all year round with hundreds of thousands of people crammed into a nine-kilometer square section of the city, sharing the same eggnog, and hydro bill. A quick flick of the light switch brought to prominence a small collection of artist’s proofs, acquired during my school days; alongside, a small and sorry looking photography exhibit of my own. The wall opposite displayed a more recent collage of pictures and awards from ten years of work and play. Some of the photographs displayed a visual account of the work I had done for the Film Board; others, a collection of reflective moments, captured in time, colorful, to be visually savored. The small alcove that housed the phone and couch, displayed a variety of talented fledgling artists, some well known, and some not. My favorite, a poster size proof of one artist's interpretation of the colorful 'A Mid-Summer Night’s Dream', dominated the scene. A small bronze trophy, representative of the singular recognition gleaned from years of splicing film and reprints, sat brave amid a forest of gnarled, stunted, clay figurines atop the rough cedar bookcase.
Wading through the physical debris of a lifetime to the kitchen beyond, I turned the kettle on for a cup of refreshment. Picking up a pair of dirty socks along the way, I through them through the open bedroom doorway and retreated to the recliner to settle in and listen to the messages. Knowing one of them would be from Maryse still in Victoria, I put my feet up on the coffee table and pushed the button. With bated anticipation, I listened to a short message from Justin declaring that Mom had phoned and would leave a message later: the next was from Maryse. My heart gave a little tug as she announced she was out for the evening and would not have a chance to talk till tomorrow. Reaching back clasping my hands behind my head, I sat for a few moments staring out the window, wondering how I should spend the rest of the evening.
Out over the strait, beyond the low mountains of the outer harbor, the sun had set; its residue, a scarlet, vermilion ribbon, stretched out above the horizon as far as the eye could see. Feeling exhausted from the day, it appeared as if both the sun and I were going down for the count. The shrill whistle of the kettle, prompted me to my feet and over to pour the water. Leaning against the counter, I watched as the twirling spoon blended the crystalline powder, an almost frightening cacophony of unpronounceable ingredients, into a savory, steaming brown liquid. Opening the patio door, I wandered on to the open deck. With a deep breath of cool air, I tried to exhale the languor that was building within me from the day’s events. Hands clasping the rail, I gazed out to the bay and the numerous small craft dotting the water in front of First Beach - their dark shadows cutting the reflection of the city shimmering in their wake; foghorns announce their efforts to moorings in False Creek. These seeming toy boats sluggishly plodded along - green and red night-lights dotted the pools of darkness on the backdrop of the shore, dancing timeless like gilded fireflies on a warm summer’s night. After moments of watching their lackadaisical journey; the sound of the methodical gentle rush of waves on the pebbly shore, my tired soul nudged me to retreat. Slumping into the old leather recliner my father had left me, with encompassing relief, I sipped on the warm liquid.
With my feet up, my mind uneasy began to play the possibilities of a concussion, to which I could attribute these strange flashes and episodes I'd been having. Together, they had brought me almost to the point of despair. I considered the bump on my head from the collision at the museum, and the absolution of a concussion, but was that all. Had someone slipped me something in my food or drink as a joke; perhaps medical help would be the answer. Taking another sip from my cup, I reconsidered the ramifications of an undiagnosed concussion, and the possibility of spending the rest of the evening in emergency. But, at the moment I had no headache, or dizziness.
A view of the constable’s sardonic face at the station, and the mention of the women in Victoria, resurfaced in my thoughts; perhaps a visit to the Royal Museum in Victoria was an idea. Maryse and I, had been spending more time apart of late, and a few days together would do us the world of good. Finding the name of the woman, on the other hand, which he hadn't divulged, would be difficult. Reassuring myself the trip would be the way to go, I pondered the mystery of the elderly native and his strange familiarity to me. Reflecting on my psychology classes, and how we had occasionally touched on out-of-body experiences, I considered the stigmatism the episode might bring to me of ‘somewhere–out-there’ with my friends. My drinking buddies wouldn't have a clue about an ‘episode’ apart from the usual out-of-body all-night binges they would put themselves through on occasion. Maryse would definitely not understand.
Taking another sip, I focused on the old man and his intense gaze. Who was he? He seemed so familiar as if out of a TV program or a picture I had seen. Thinking back to the articles I had read in the immediate past, I could think of none that would bring his image to mind. The possibilities were endless but there was one TV program that could be culprit - a research piece that I had worked on a few years back, an archeological dig in the Queen Charlotte Islands. I began leafing through the backlog of periodicals on the bookshelf that I had acquired over the years. Amazed at the collection and why I had kept the majority of them, I began the lengthy task of searching.
Sitting cross-legged for several hours on the floor, I leafed through each issue. Article after article came and went with no familiar face. Eventually, a story surfaced triggering the vague remembrance of this man, ' The Ancestry of West Coast Whalers' and the story of Kuwatsi, the boy Makah. Settling back, I perused
the glossy pictures, reading the pictures sub-headings first; I was positive the mystery to the old Sage was here, somewhere hidden.
The article supported the fact the Haida had been a relatively peaceful people, living in harmony with their surroundings in the Queen Charlotte Islands. Trading throughout the region and to the north, they sustained a bountiful life style, both materialistically and spiritually, through whaling, fishing and farming. The totems dotted throughout the islands told of their rich and fruitful heritage. Although the tribes of the Haida were abundant here, their fishing territory was shared to the south with other nations, the Kwakiutl and the Nootka on Vancouver Island, and the Makah on the lower island and Peninsula. The Makah were concentrated more in the south, on the Olympic Peninsula, with relatives up the southwestern coast of the island and in the Puget Sound area. Although, very similar in life style, the four nations were very powerful with a strong sense of civil order and lineage. Not beyond the habit of taking slaves for menial labor, it has been established that these four nations harbored little ill feeling towards each other and traded continually. Even though the Haida were further north along the coast and in the Queen Charlotte Islands, they often met on hunting and fishing forays and shared in the technology and bounty of the sea.
A complimentary article with the familiar name, 'Neustadt' came across the pages. Having read articles on this anthropological philanthropist, I knew full well the circumstances under which the once great German scholar and collector had acquired the artifacts that were being displayed in most of the exhibits throughout America.
More articles highlighted the epidemics of smallpox and other diseases that were brought ashore by visiting European fur traders; these decimated Indian populations. The west coast First Nations inhabitants, in a relatively short period of time, were near extinction. The systematic wave of would-be archeologists and collectors flooding the area later brought continued erosion and a painful near end to these once great cultures. History has yet to determine whether these white traders and academia be saints or sinners.
Pillars of the Moon Page 3
