Pillars of the Moon

by French, B. J. ;

  After a few heaves, the coffee and remainder of the piece of toast floated away into oblivion and I felt a little better. The bitterness from the Gravol was detestable.

  "You got any water?" I yelled at Steve.

  "Yeah, below."

  As I looked briefly up over the undulating bow of the Eventide, the distant shore was getting closer and closer, but oh so painfully slow! I couldn't help thinking as I looked back at him, full faced in the wind, enjoying every minute of the journey, 'you're nuts!!'

  NINE

  Shawna had slept soundly in the forward berth on the crossing. I, not so fortunate, sat at the galley table, head down, listening to the saltshaker roll back and forth, back and forth with the listing of the boat. The rolling motion kept a firm grip on my equilibrial concentration, while I did the same with my half digested toast. Able to doze from time to time, the crossing time was painfully slow, and seemed to take forever. Steve eventually called me topside to help prepare for a change of sail. I was more than willing to oblige, and stumbled up the steps to a face full of fresh salty spray.

  As we had made our way past the jetty, the rolling subsided, the sun came out, and my stomach was able to settle. Shawna, up from her nap, gave a hand by tossing the bumpers over the side and prepared the bowline for docking. As we moored, the thought of firm ground, and a chance to sleep was more than I could bear. Tripping over a clove hook and flopping down lazily on the boardwalk, I waved my hand to be left alone. Thankfully, the motion in my head slowly subsided while I clung to the dock. Within minutes, I was drifting off to sleep, the waves slapping methodically on the underside of the dock. Shawna and Steve secured the lines.

  For the better part of an hour, I lay warm in the sun while Shawna continued to prepare for her meeting. With a change of hairstyle, and borrowed t-shirt tied in a knot at her hip, she bounded up the dock ramp to the telephone booth alongside the marina parking lot. Slow to rise, I remained on my back to watch the cloud formations far above me. Almost fully recovered and feeling hungry, I gathered a few things and headed off to the harbor master’s office for a snack and information about ferry sailing times. Still staggering slightly from indolent sea motion, I wandered, camera over shoulder, to the ramp at the far end of the maze of board-walks. Flipping my cell phone open to see about reception, I made the slow and steady climb up the ramp’s steep incline to street level. Heading back along Marine Drive toward town, I tried texting Marese, but with no luck. The Eventide sat idle apart from Steve working at a slow pace, getting ready to set sail again. Through the haze of my sickness, I had noticed his unease; he obviously preferred (even though we had not talked about it) to leave the bowl, and Shawna, to their own ends and have me set sail with him. I, on the other hand, with my eagerness to sail diminished, would prefer to stay ashore.

  On the way back from the office, schedule in hand and munching on a chocolate bar, I caught a glimpse of Shawna sitting on a bench with her bags by her side. The restaurant frontage, feet from the main road and just off to the side of the lot, was the only liquor bar in the marina area. Unknowingly, she sat framed by the flashing neon sign of a half dozen popular beers; with the word 'Destiny' illuminating the mansard six feet above her head, I couldn't resist a photo that insinuated a rhyme of false impression. Cross-legged and out of the sun, her toe bobbing up and down with impatience, she looked from this way to that, taking in whatever visual stimulation this bland excuse for a social arena had to offer. A vision of exceptional extra-ordination, her native beauty was striking, I moved to center her figure in the only splash of color and shadow the building had to offer. Trying to be nonchalant, but unable to fool her, she slowly reached up and took her sunglasses from her face to expose a glaring reprimand. With tongue poked out, and a hand assault on the air in front of her, she spirited me to carry on 'away'. Aware of the compromising predicament that I placed her in, I quickly packed up and headed further along the parking lot.

  The government boathouse and ramp at the end of the lot were vacant and dwarfed by the massive mound of cedar chips behind it. The whole dock area and the marina were not the most attractive I had ever seen, and if the truth be know, a bit of an eyesore. Sheet metal boathouses strewn in irregular fashion up and down the lines of wooden walkways gave the impression of a city slum. The inspiring view of the southern coast of Vancouver Island, in my opinion, was the only redeeming feature the panorama had to offer. To make matters slightly less depressive, from a distance, I could see Steve outstretched on the deck basking in the fleeting moments of sun, more like a seal bull elephant on a rock than a human on a deck. A lovely character shot, he will be pleased.

  As I approached the down ramp, the gentle squeaking of brakes alerted me to an old cream-colored pick-up truck stopping in front of the bar. Snapping a picture from the hip, I continued toward the ramp, clicking additional pictures every few steps. After Shawna’s eventual acceptance to enter the pick-up truck, I stopped and watched as they slowly pulled out of the parking lot with Shawna in the passenger seat. I took an exposure of the license plate as the truck pulled away. A little black and white dog frolicked in the truck bed and yelped at me in curious disapproval.

  I rejoined Steve waiting patiently, snacking on a few stale chips and continued to nap for the better part of an hour until we finally heard footsteps on the boardwalk. Shawna came striding up portside, almost happy to see us again. Her huge bag fell forward as she climbed over the guardrails, dumping some of its contents onto the deck. Lunging forward with my hand, I was able to save it from tumbling into the water. Embarrassed, she scurried to pick up her things and gather them together as if she were assembling a deck of cards. Reaching over, I picked up a laminated card embossed with the figure of a black bird, its wings outstretched and pointing down at the ends, surrounded by writing and symbols. On the other side, her picture with her credentials, and a swastika-like cross in the corner. A bell went off in my head as I remembered what Vincent had told me about the third Reich and their antics years back. Not letting my apprehension show, I handed the card to her and smiled.

  "Thanks." she responded, as she took my hand to lead me forward to where Steve waited.

  "Well?" Steve sighed, as he tossed a half smoked cigarette into a rusty soup can hanging from the wire rail. He lifted his head to peer from beneath the rim of his 'A's' baseball cap.

  With a wave of my hand to silence him, Shawna and I seated ourselves beside him to form a semi-circle, and proceeded to look at each other, each waiting for the other to begin. Steve put his head back down with exhalation, and pulled his cap over his eyes again. After several moments of gathering her thoughts, Shawna looked over to me and started to say something. With hesitancy in her voice, she stuttered and fumbled for more words.

  "Spit it out, Shawna. Tell me what it is they want you to do."

  "The Elders are very grateful for your help Brian, but are split down the middle as to how to proceed. What we have brought, and presented to the council, is not such an easy responsibility to be passed on. Even though the council has been waiting for decades in preparation and anticipation for this day, there are spiritual ramifications and forces that must be considered. You have been a guide in the journey of the ancient that some do not feel has been completed yet. For the most part they would like you to continue on your path with us and have asked me to encourage you to do so. But some of the younger members of the council are not so sure.

  I propped myself up on both arms behind me and crossed my legs flat out before me, “I’ve been pushed, bullied and dragged, and I still don't completely understand how and why this is happening. In some ways I'm glad to be able to help, and for the experience, but this is not a conscious contrivance of mine. I seem to be, 'just coming along for the ride'."

  She gave a nod and said nothing, reflecting on what I had said. Sitting motionless, I watched the light dancing on the water, reflecting its motif on the hulls of the other vessels. Below the tide line, mussels and white-crusted
barnacles clung on to wood trusses adorned with green algae streaming like tresses of hair beneath the surface.

  "This experience, as you call it," she continued, "is reflective and cognizant of the history of my ancestors for thousands of years. I do not understand it all either. The experiences you’ve had are repeated time and time again throughout the stories and history of my people. It is much greater than either one of us can realize, implications point to the spiritual rebirth and survival of my people, and perhaps, of all mankind."

  My eyebrow lifted, as I looked back at her with that numb and furry feeling that arises when you sense that the truth has been spoken, but have nothing to say. I began to remember what Vincent had said about the contents of the bowl, and the mysterious crystals from an antediluvian world, and wondered at its significance.

  "All right, I will stick with you for a while longer, as long as there are no more sea voyages. But you have to be up front with me, on all accounts."

  Shawna nodded with a half-smile that curled the side of her lip. "I will try. After what we left behind in Victoria, we’ll be safer here anyway."

  "Yes,” I replied. “It appears that would be the case."

  Shawna peered down at her watch hardly noticeable amid a collection of turquoise and silver ornamental wristbands. "But they would like to talk to you.”

  “Who, the jaguar men, or the elders?"

  "The elders feel that you have been used for a purpose, and chosen to help us. Some don't want you to be allowed to go any further, to experience our sacred ceremony."

  "Experience! Sacred! What ceremony?"

  As I threw the bowline onto the deck and gently shoved the Eventide on her way, Steve's face showed little but sobriety. He was thankful to be on his way, but I sensed reservation. It had been a restful stopover and a diversion for him, but I knew there would be questions when I got back. As I watched him ferry out of the marina, I couldn't help but think of how lucky we were to have been rid of our adversaries in Victoria. Hopefully, the ‘town of angels’ has guardians over-watching us.

  The bow of the Eventide bobbed up and down as she vaulted homeward out into the swells of the straight. I was relieved not to be heading back into the tempest of the strait, and the galley. With my overnight bag slung over my shoulder, and camera in hand, we followed the boardwalk up and proceeded to the phone by the bar. Feeling hungry again, I grabbed a snack inside the restaurant while Shawna made the appropriate call. Our rendezvous was out front on the bench again by the neon signs. We waited.

  Between bites of steak sandwich, I took snaps of the fishers strolling up from the waterfront below; characters of all shapes, sizes, and nationalities. Natives, blacks, whites, with a seasoning of the Orient mixed in. Some went one way to their vehicles, others passed by us on their way to rinse the salt from their throats.

  It did not take long before the cream pick-up pulled up and I was motioned into the back with a sardonic smile and the wag of a six-inch tail. With the squeal of tires and a cloud of dust, we were heading out of town with me crouched in the corner, behind the cab, sharing the remains of my sandwich with the dog. For more than an hour of winding road cutting through some of the most magnificent scenery on the west coast, we continued our journey through the valleys of the great Olympics.

  The geology of these glorious mountains, along with the Rockies, was created from huge oceanic volcanoes along the border of the colliding tectonics of the Pacific and North American plates. Expelled and thrown up, the range became a fertile and rich expanse of a changing world. Clothed with a vast and dense rain forest, they stand formidable, maturing some of the largest trees the world has birthed, the giant Red Cedars. Holding up the sky, these trees like spires of an ancient cathedral protect the pure waters that flow from the mountains. Cascading waterfalls, deep crystal clear potholes and hot springs dot the area, bringing forth their own unique, individual flora accenting the already diverse and lush environment.

  With the truck slowing slightly, and sensing we were nearing the end of the coastal highway, Shawna peered through the sliding window and shouted the encouragement, "Hang on, just a little while longer."

  The continual rock and bump of the pickup had frazzled me to near exhaustion as the mutt and I had cuddled close beneath a well-worn hair-covered blanket. Although the weather had cleared and warmed, the relentless wind, in the open back, had beaten me numb. Between the boat ride over and the roller-coaster express that got us thus far, I was feeling rather spent.

  As we slowed to a tolerable pace to cruise down the main street, I was impressed to see how neat and tidy the town appeared. There was not the flamboyance of a commercial strip, nor garish billboards marring the mountainous view that surrounded the village, but it seemed adequately furnished. Neah Bay did not appear to be a typical reservation-fishing village. Even though there were vacant storefronts and buildings, the sidewalks were kept clean and free from debris. The Makah Cultural Center, at the very gate to the town, was a neat and shining example of the reborn heritage of a community fighting back from near extinction. With a population of several thousand people it had grown from just hundreds over the last two decades. Now was obviously not the best time of year to visit this area and other towns along the coast. This was perhaps one of the wettest places on the North American continent, influenced by the rising clouds dumping hundreds of inches of rainfall every year. With spring on the way, the wet weather would ease up and people more visible, preparing for the new season. Summertime is quite the opposite, full of activity, with festivals highlighting Makah culture and fishing. The area bustles with tourists visiting the western-most point of the continental USA, along with the curious, looking for truth in the artifacts of the long-ago culture.

  A number of fishing trawlers sat idle in the harbor, waiting for the sun to set far enough into dusk before venturing out again into the straight for an evening catch. A number of iron relics from the bustling days of logging still marked the shores, influencing the layout of the marina.

  A scan of the dock and marina reflecting the commerce of the area showed the absence of the usual paraphernalia and regalia that accompanied more modern urban marinas. The perimeter of beaches lined with black volcanic rock rolled smooth by the pounding surf, did little to brighten this sleepy fishing village. As I watched and passed the many stores and houses in the foreground, an inauspicious feeling clung to them like the mist that hung amid the cedars out toward the point. With a welcomed warm Pacific wind, all the stagnation could blow away to reveal the beauty that lay beating above the surf.

  A remnant of loggers, as I would learn later, had remained behind to add too the melancholia of years of near desperation. Alcoholic abuses, and even murder, were not uncommon to these rocky, weather beaten shores, which only added to the off-season desolation. The affluence of more developed times had parted, but the usual merchant frontage, lining the board-walk streets, gave hope to those who had remained to build a future with fishing and tourism. With the changing facade and renewed awakening of the native peoples, it had become the homestead of the Makah Nation, the greatest whalers the world has ever known.

  Not long after, we were seated around a coffee table at the 'Maidens Locker', a local bar and restaurant. All of us stared mindfully into our glasses of beer, while a half-dozen or so local men stared back. Eager to talk, these leather-faced, toothless seafarers began boasting of their local history and legends, which centered on the old loggers, sunken Japanese vessels, and several murders happening years back. Everyone had his own version of the bride who had been betrothed to another man, further down the coast that had been stolen causing homicidal retribution. Another oratorically embellished tale was of a long outstanding feud involving a stolen knife and fishing gear, resulting in another furry of uncontrollable rage and kidnapping. It became obvious these were issues of questionable proportion, stoking the fires of imagination with much smoke that would not blow away. As the beer began to flow, so did the stories. F
eats of courage and strength, bridled with prowess that engaged all but the elderly of this exuberant male dominant society, were all that we heard for the better part of an hour. I'm sure the women had their equal say in matters, but sensed in this braggartorium, the only ostentatious female to be heard, was the bar maid bellowing orders from across the room. From all appearances these men were uncomplicated with a great sense of tradition. Strong ties to the sea and the mountainous land that surrounded them, forged these men rugged and strong, and without a doubt a challenge for those who chose to deal adversely with them. As I listened intently to more of the older tales of the sea going Makah, it became obvious the broken image of a once flourishing nation, was still missing pieces.

  After a great mudslide influenced the deterioration of their existence along the coast, an epidemic of smallpox, brought on by European explorers, scattered the remaining inhabitants to many locations throughout the Olympic northwest. A few short decades ago a larger remnant slowly gathered together in Neah Bay after artifacts from the ruins of Ozette were discovered washed up along the beach a few miles south west. An effort launched by several courageous souls, started a movement and a discovery that ultimately ended in the prized Cultural Center. It helped to revive and enlighten, the almost extinct Makah, to a need that would revitalize their heritage and almost irrevocable history.