Pillars of the Moon

by French, B. J. ;

  The stale cigarette smoke hung in the air of the bar like a fog in the coastal cedars. The noisy atmosphere, along with smell of charcoal broiled burgers and beer, reminded me of social evenings in my college years. A familiarity and sordid reminiscence rolled into one. It lent some comfort for me, as I sipped my draft and listened, somewhat separated from the joviality of the table. The ambience of the bar was not one that I was now accustomed; rather austere and undone, with a scattering of arbourite and wood tables. The accompaniment of vinyl and chrome kitchen chairs gave the look of a 'forties kitchenette'.

  Shawna seemed to fit right in with the crowd, and held her own against several young men competing for her attention. It was a relief to see her smile and carry on with a sense of humor that until now was nonexistent. Plates of nacho chips and cheese came to the table and were devoured even quicker than the jugs of beer that began to stack the table.

  Looking around the rest of the room brought to focus a table of four unpleasant looking fellows, noticeably irritated by our jocularity. Continually looking over to us, it was becoming apparent of their disapproval to our, or perhaps my presence in the bar. There was a chance it could have been someone else at the table that they knew, or perhaps they had just eaten bad burgers, but I didn't think so. A little unnerved in these unacquainted surroundings, I started to look toward the exit. The fact that the gruesome foursome were left unattended by the barmaid and totally ignored by the rest of our group was only adding to my agitation.

  As the conversations and interactions around our table deepened with familiarity, the men who had finished with their own versions of local history were curious to know what brought me to Neah Bay. As I began to explain my vocation and interest in West Coast First Nations to them, my uneasiness began to melt away. After a few tall tales of my own, with much reference to my photography and filmmaking, they were fascinated to no end and interested once again in my inquiries’ to the murders and how I could make a movie.

  After several more beers, the effects of the last two nights of near sleeplessness tugged at my eyelids. With my attentiveness slipping, and the half finished beer becoming as flat as my attention span, I started to nod. Finally, a tribal elder came in and approached the table. The small crowd’s liveliness went quiet as one by one each of the men nodded in respect to the gray haired man that stood stolid at the end of the table. He was not a large man, but there was something about him that affected the mood in the bar and made his presence felt. After looking about the table, his eyes finally rested on me, and I knew it was time to go. Shawna gathered her things and lightly patted one of the young men on the top of his head in jest as she passed. He blushed and turned to watch her walk away, while the others laughed and made fun of him at her reproach.

  Once outside, I took a deep breath and shook the lethargy from my body. It lifted my spirits to be out in the sun again as it began to peek through the clouds and light up the wooded encroachments close to the parking lot. The dusting of gnats and flies, dancing through the shafts of light, were making their early springtime debut. The sparse, but busy clouds of insects disappeared as we moved slowly into another angle of light exposing us to the possibility of unsavory inhalation.

  The wind direction changed bringing damp, cool, wintry air from the north and the Queen Charlotte Islands. This area of the coast, being further west on the peninsula than Victoria across the strait, was more susceptible to the erratic changes in wind direction. Some of the natives throughout the area could read the upcoming winds and cloud formations as easily as their ancestors could read the waves and currents of the water while fishing in dense fog.

  As we slowly crossed the lot, my mind wandered back to the meeting with the concerned elders. Shawna had not mentioned a word in regards to what they were expecting of me. My visions and descriptions were intriguing to some of the elders, as conveyed by Shawna, but I had no control over the apparitions, and wondered what they expected of me. Most native ceremonial ways were unfamiliar to me and I was not sure I could accommodate them. Conversations with Vincent from the night before about Native American ceremony came to mind, and it would have been nice to be able to talk to him again. He had a great familiarity with the ways and customs of the surrounding nations. I would have to be patient; my mind wanted to wander on the subject and run wild with my imagination. I tried to keep focused on the upcoming meeting.

  As I climbed into the back of the late model '4X4' that had been waiting for us, I sank down into the cozy seat, placing my bag on the seat beside me. Surprisingly, there had been little attention paid to the bag, which I would presume, was obviously the holding place for the artifact.

  The native man that came to pick us up said virtually nothing. Introduced by Shawna as Daniel, he smiled and nodded his head, looked about, then prepared to drive away. He spoke several times to Shawna sitting beside him in the front seat in a language I was not familiar. There were a lot of clicks and guttural sounds to the phonetics that were similar to some native languages and dialects of the west coast but for the most part, unfamiliar to me. As we drove from the parking lot, the four men, who had been sitting in the back corner of the bar, walked from the front entrance and watched as we drove off.

  Shawna looked back to me, "Those are the guys who do not think you should be involved."

  "That's reassuring, but how serious are they in making sure that I don't."

  "They will leave us alone. My people are not always the easiest to get along with, but once they have agreed to something, they stick to it. We will be alright," she replied.

  A few miles out of town, we turned up a bumpy gravel road and headed inland into the foothills. The jogging and gentle rocking of the car made me relax and before to long I was drifting off to sleep. Before I had much of a chance to doze, I was jerked forward by the breaking action of the car. Snapping out of the light sleep, I watched as several braves, sporting rifles and sun-glasses, stood in the middle of the road about ten feet in front of the truck, barring the way.

  Daniel who until now had only spoken a few words to Shawna, without moving his head focused his eyes on me in the rear view mirror, "Don't move! And say nothing."

  As I sat and watched without moving, the braves, in army teagues, approached the car cautiously. The hand of Daniel slowly slid down to between the two seats in front of me and remained motionless on the butt of a hidden sawed-off rifle I had not noticed. My mouth became dry and I could feel the blood drain from my face. It was an odd feeling of sweat and coolness with a slightly elevated heart rate which gave way to my light headiness. Everything became crystal clear, and almost in slow motion, as the two separated, one to one side of the vehicle and the other to the other. Shawna did not move either and could tell by the stone cold look on her face, she was as alarmed as I. Daniel opened his window further to greet the fellow as he approached the driver's side. The brave peered through the window at me and then back to Daniel. He took a long look at Shawna but did not make a move to direct us out of the car. The brave took a slow walk around the vehicle and back to the window and Daniel. He asked a couple of questions in a native tongue, while the other watched through the glass on the opposite side. I could tell by the actions of the subordinate that he was trying to rile Shawna and get her attention. Shawna without taking notice sat motionless and tried to concentrate on the brave opposite asking the questions. I could not understand, but got the gist of introductions and the purpose for our journey. Shawna spoke a few curt words announcing her obvious displeasure and the brave backed up from the car. For a split second there was hesitancy where he was going to lift his rifle, but to my astonishment and relief, he laughed and waved us to continue. The fellow, on Shawnas', side gently tapped the window with his hand and yelled, “Go ahead little sister.”

  There was no mention of the conversation after, so I presumed with great pleasure that Daniel had managed to appease the curiosity of me to the sentinels. As I turned my head to take a quick glance, the two lit cigar
ettes as we pulled away. I snapped a couple of pictures and watched, as they grew small in the distance and less threatening. Pondering the predicament, I was astonished as to how Shawna was able to handle the lewd attention, and comments, that she so often endured from the native men she encountered. She never seemed to be overly upset by them, and probably knew most of them by name and would shrug the advances off as if it were routine. 'Perhaps it was'.

  As I turned back to Shawna, the sun highlighted her profile and I watched, for a while, as her eyes flitted back and forth from the road to the palisade of trees. My thoughts returned to her immovable emotion as the men surrounded the car, and then to the swastika on the card in her purse. Who were these men? Were they working for the same group of people as she, or a different organization I was yet to discover?

  Sitting in the back seat, I was overcome with fatigue and the thoughts that ran through my head. Was this the area in which Shawna had spent her early years as a young girl growing up? Did she mature here, and acquire her higher standing in the tribe? Were my perceptions about her real, or was I being over imaginative? This whole situation was beginning to get to me, to preoccupy my mind to the point of distraction. And as we drove deeper into the rain forest, and further from civilization, I was convinced, without a shadow of a doubt, I would not come out alive. It had not been a good day.

  Eventually, we pulled off into a clearing by the side of the road. Met once again by the man who I recognized as driving the cream pick-up truck, and my hairy acquaintance of the ride in the open air to Neah Bay, we got out of the 4x4 and stretched our legs. My little friend came and sniffed at my feet and licked my hand in welcome. The sandwich morsel had won me a friend indeed. Kneeling down and stroking the back of his head, I looked around at the expanse of the open lot. Several people with some measure of hospitality greeted us for the first time. An elderly woman came to greet us with a smile and open arms. She must have been in her seventies and when she reached out to Shawna, Shawna put the palm of her hand in hers and gently lifted the back of the old woman's hand and touched it to her forehead; a touching warm moment as she embraced the old woman and nodded to an elderly man standing by the edge of the clearing.

  The greeting had reminded me of my trip to Malaysia, where I had seen the hand greeting before at a special occasion where the elders were being greeted by subordinates. It had struck me as odd, and gave the impression of lordship over the individual doing the act. I later began to understand that it was a form of a blessing for both parties. One for the showing of respect and willing submission to the elder, the other, an acceptance and accolades from the younger and their family. Shelter and hospitality, from the respected elders and their families in return, were forthright as long as the stay required. Hospitality, I imagine, in the same spirit of the outlawed North American native potlatch. It would appear that in most countries in the world, other than North America, elder people are held in respect, and reverence, to their years of experience and are considered assets, instead of liabilities.

  After a smile and a short conversation, the old woman turned from Shawna and came to greet me. Not quite knowing how to approach her appropriately, I lifted my hand to offer it in a shake, which she took. I told her my name. The procedure felt a little awkward for me, in comparison to the greeting I had just witnessed, but after a smile and a laugh, my gestures were met with approval.

  After our greetings, I gathered my meager belongings along with the over-night bag and followed Shawna. She was walking off with her arm around the old woman's shoulders like a youngster with her favorite grandma. The old man, with Shawna's purse bag over his shoulder, looked a little awkward but followed in the direction of a wooded area just visible over the crest of the hill.

  'I just couldn't believe she was a Nazi,’ thinking to myself as I followed along. With my hairy friend at my feet, I looked across the small parking area, showing signs of construction, and wondered at the number of utility sheds with WSU (Washington State University) stenciled on the sides. In the distance, a young boy hid in the bushes, keeping his eye on us as we went.

  "Nothing out of the ordinary about this place, 'little guy'," I spoke in the direction of the lad. "No swastikas here."

  Over the top of the hill, a light breeze and the crashing of distant waves greeted us. Awash with distinct aromas of surf and tidal zone biology, the wind added to the familiarity of the area. My stomach filled with butterflies as my thoughts turned to a family outing, many years ago, on a pebbly beach at Southend-on-sea, England. I thought of the boy in the bushes and envied the wealth of memories and experiences he too will have when he's old enough to appreciate them.

  A small, roughly maintained house, half way down the slope to the waterfront, came to view. Rows of tall racks, made from branch poles and slats that I recognized as drying racks for fish and whale meat, bordered the dirt walkway. A small roofed stand for cleaning fish, down by the wharf, looked to be in good shape and still in use. A fair size skiff with canopy and down riggers was tied up beside the stand along with rubber boots and coolers that were left ready for the next excursion.

  Walking down the path was like walking back in time. Under foot, the dull thud of the bare ground bordered by uncut tall grass. The noisy din of wind and birds from the close surrounding forest, near muffled by the moisture-laden air. An open shed revealed a large cedar log being chipped and shaped into what appeared to be a canoe. Tell tale signs of woodcarvings, with half finished figurines and animal caricatures, lay strewn around the clearing and beneath trees. A smoke house lay off to the edge of the clearing down toward the waterfront. Up into the hills back toward the forest, wooden crates tucked beneath the canopy of alder trees, showed a bee apiary of moderate size. It was obvious, there was a lot to be seen and done in this little coppice in the woods.

  Once inside the small cabin, the old woman immediately busied herself with food preparations. Over to the left, was an open hearth with a small caldron hanging from a leather thong and a ceiling hook. The blazing fire, within the open faced clay brick and stone, reminded me more of a pottery kiln than a cooking oven. The rich aroma of wood and animal skins fed my senses as I began to relax and feel more at ease. The walls were invariably a museum of hunting and fishing paraphernalia that looked antiquated, but usable. As I looked more closely, the old hand tools were quite intricate and were adorned with carvings that depicted little persons and creatures. These little figures were obviously center to the society of these superstitious peoples of the sea.

  As we stood just inside the door, the old man took our coats and gestured us to warm by the hearth. After a few moments of coddling myself, I viewed the humble surroundings and couldn't help but question 'where we were and why did I feel strangely a part of the smells and wonderful ambiances?

  After a few quiet moments of contemplation, I questioned Shawna, "The language that you speak with these people, what is it?"

  "It is the language of my ancestors, the Quidicca-atx. (Kwee-ditch-chuh-aht) It is a dialect similar to some of the other tribes about here, but our family heritage also comes from the central plains of centuries ago. There is talk of our great ancestor coming from the plains and following the great Columbia River, stopping in many places and finally resting on these shores. His horned image is carved, along with his dog, in a sacred place along the great river and is there to this day."

  Shawna reached over and took a cup from the mantle and dipped it in the broth pot that boiled over the fire and offered it to me. I took a sip, got comfortable again and watched as she did the same.

  "Shawna. There is something that has been bothering me, and I would like to ask you about it. "

  She nodded and took another sip of broth, barely taking her eyes off of the embers of the fire.

  "The card I handed you from your purse that fell out on the deck, what is it?"

  "Which? This one?" as she reached down into her purse to retrieve it."

  "Yeah, the bird, what is it?" />
  "It is a symbol that most native peoples recognize as hope. You have heard of the phoenix."

  I nodded in agreement.

  "Out from the ashes, after thousands of years of war, hatred and oppression, a spirit, a remnant of our people, will rise to show mankind a new way that is as old as mankind itself. The Firebird represents an embodiment of people from the Bird Clan, and the Fire Clan, both instrumental in the birthing of the new world."

  "What about the cross on the back, or should I say, swastika?"

  Shawna gave me a side-glance and pondered the implications that might have alluded to the quarry.

  "It is not a swastika. It is a cross that symbolizes the migrations of our ancestors to the four corners of this land after their emergence from their world under the ground and across the sea."

  "Under the ground, what do you mean, under the ground?"

  "Do you remember what your friend Vincent spoke about, in regards to the Hopi legends last night? Well, his story is similar to what our people believe. Our ancestors tell us of a time we spent under the ground as protection from a great time of ice, and then later, with encouragement of the Katchina of this age, a voyage, in grass boats on a great sea. Our ancestors landed, after much time, on the shores of this land, and were encouraged by the Katchina to continue. But shortly before he left, he gave us direction to migrate four times around this great land before we would find our resting place, the center of our universe. The Creator then provided us with guidance, via a cloud by day and a star by night. A great many of my forefathers tried to complete their migrations and created great civilizations in the process, but all failed save a small remnant."