The Moss Garden Journal Of Chan Wing Tsit

by Richard Bell

  Chapter 22

  Nowamooks and I moved back to Nahcotta in a flotilla of small canoes, leaving Komkomis and Kilakota to meet the visitors trickling-in. Tewaugh had our lodge’s roof replaced and brought in new mats and woven screens. He’d even seen to the rededication prayers and kept fires burning to dry and warm it, but hadn’t let a soul move in.

  Nowamooks immediately burnt sage and sang to the lodge’s spirit. Then organizing a few witnesses she set to an elaborate ceremony of rededication. After acknowledging lingering spirits and kindling our first true lodge-fire we reclaimed our old alcove and set up our household. That first night we were alone in the cavernous room, the next morning inviting the rest of the household.

  Each day there were new reports about the aftermath of the war. The Klatskanias had lost two generations of chiefs and warriors, leaving them reeling without leadership. The Willamettes fared far better, for their leaders and many of their warriors had been in larger canoes that were unable to quickly cross the River.

  The battle left a festering wound; humanity’s net had been shredded. The distrust from before was made worse with the hardships and deaths. Now not only a few traders were involved, but the allies of both sides had been infected with the suspicions, hurt and trauma of the battles. Traders from the eastern mountains and south of the Willamettes simply stayed home. Only a few small traders risked the journey for rumors of raiders, lost trade good and murders still were told.

  Without trade, we Tsinuk were nothing. Though we had food–all self-respect and personal meaning seemed to have fled. The non-human world was fruitful; food was plentiful; fish, seaweed, wappato and camas filled nutritional needs. Huckleberries and cranberries promised abundance, but our souls, the very heart and meaning of being Tsinuk was stricken, for there was no trade to bring passion and meaning to our lives.

  The year was still young–the salmon had not yet returned, yet everything had changed. A scattering of small traders traveled carrying all they had in a single parfleche. But no convoys of Northern traders arrived. Though stable, my life seemed as undirected as the tides. Nowamooks and I took long walks at dawn and dusk. Her mother sent and received messengers, but she was listless and unfocused. Unmoored and drifting, I spent meaningless hours pulling insignificant weeds.

  We traveled back to Yakaitl-Wimakl restless and unsettled. Komkomis petitioned to host a sun dance only to be told, cryptically, that he might have an answer before winter.

  In councils I listened impassively to complaints and petitions trying to cobble together answers to problems beyond our grasp. Somehow Kilakota convinced our allies that, for the sake of healing and trade there could be no plunder or compensation. It was an unpopular position; few seemed aware that our enemies had already bankrupted themselves. The only way to extract any wealth was to let them trade. How could starving enemies pay a war debt?

  Neutral emissaries scurried between Yakaitl-Wimakl and every community of influence, but Kilakota didn’t reveal much. The common feeling was that our enemies had such a sense of being wronged that they couldn’t even acknowledge that they’d lost. Agreeing to terms for a settlement seemed impossible. I saw no path to normalcy beyond reconciliation. But without the two sides speaking it felt impossible.

  Despite movement toward an agreement, healing was a universal concern. Night after night singers and dancers performed our most sacred rituals. People fasted and spent days communing with totems. Nowamooks and I counseled distraught widows and grieving families and day after day every sweat lodge was crowded. The whole community was taking responsibility for rebalancing of the world. Mourning was critical—until the legions of wandering ghosts accepted their deaths, all other efforts would be fruitless.

  Even though it was assumed that his River foes had been vanquished, Tewaugh remained in Nahcotta, greeting the few small-time traders appearing. Though seemingly inconsolable he offered to buy all canoes found abandoned among the reeds after the battle, leaving the details to a cousin who swept them up for almost nothing.

  In a move that surprised everyone, Kilakota convinced him to give the Willamettes enough boats to haul the freight of their southern neighbors. It was more than a gesture toward re-weaving our crucial net. Tewaugh pretended it was his own idea; extending lenient credit and selling the boats cheap. But the gesture didn’t seem to salve bad feelings.

  The trading areas that used to draw thousands and give purpose to life were almost silent. Only small-time traders pulled up on beaches instead of the great heavily loaded canoes of before. Our own debt was substantial, the boxes of salmon and piles of trade goods usually kept in reserve were long since gone and we had little but promises to exchange for what we needed. Trading sites offered a little tobacco and few elk hides, but there were few northern traders to pass them on to. There was no demand for the dentalia, halibut and carved boxes we used to send up the Great River. The world suffered from the hatred still hovering about lodge fires.

  With the war’s unsettled ending, Nowamooks seemed to have aged a decade; instead of the bubbly, cheerful woman I’d married, she’d grown moody and distraught. It seemed that after exhausting her strength she had mortgaged her spirit. Tewaugh made efforts to appear jovial, but he too was drowning in darkness. He and Tzum fought for two days, but neither showed distress in public. Instead, they hosted elaborate ceremonies, trying to midwife the healing that hung beyond our reach.

  All agreed that singing and dancing were essential and that sweating and feasting and gifts could not be neglected. Uncle Tanaka and I rededicated our sweat lodge. Every morning I would take my place in my temple and meditate while he pulled aside the door-flap to air it out, broke firewood and swept the area with a pine branch. After kindling flame, he sang prayers to both the fire and firewood. Then bobbing his head, he arranged and rearranged his sweat lodge’s stones.

  Our sweat lodge would heat and as I finished meditation he would carefully prepared a pipe. Once our spirits were aligned we would offer healing prayers to the world, pull closed the door flap and offer our souls to the Tao.

  When I first returned and offered to share his chores he interpreted it as dismissal. I had to host a feast in his honor to convince him I knew his value. He didn’t trust me to know the fire’s special prayers or to speak respectfully enough to wood so that it would burn a sacred flame. I recognized his priestly conversation with the stones and flames and smoke. Now I bowed deeply to him each morning, sincerely grateful for his presence.

  From up and down the river and far up the northern coast, came stories about traders’ concern for their crews and goods. Evidently few would risk their wealth and friends for the sake of trade. It would take more than reassuring words to lure them back.

  Kilakota invited every community touched by the crisis to a special council at the Wayam trading area at Celilo. At the first running of the salmon, our warring tribes would pass a pipe, trade peacefully and set the war behind them. That no retribution would be demanded created a minor scandal; even Nowamooks rolled her eyes at the uniqueness of the notion. For the next few days she eyed me suspiciously, as if I had somehow worked magic on her mother. Offering an innocent smile, I began to feel some hope.

  It was announced that instead of Komkomis Nowamooks would represent the Tsinuks. It took all by surprise. The presence of Tewaugh or Komkomis would almost invite violence. But choosing a woman with a limp and little status was surprising.

  She didn’t have the stature of Raven’s Heart. But she was both daughter and sister of respected chiefs and daughter of Kilakota. A rumor spread that choosing her was an slight, but no one would question Kilakota; it was simply our duty to go. The Willamettes and Klatskanias would have to pledge peace with a woman.

  Three large canoes were loaded with gifts and, anticipating an interest in trade, another two were readied to carry trade goods. The boats were repainted and twenty Black Mouths chosen as paddlers. Kilakota and Tewaugh personally selected the gifts.

  My stomach knotted as I
stepped into the boat and tied the strings of my hat beneath my chin. Nowamooks and I sat erect, conscious of being the focus of attention. We cast a noble air that befitted the task before us. I nodded respectfully to Komkomis and Kilakota, resolved to whatever would be.

  With the sky clear and the sun warm it seemed an auspicious beginning. Our spirits were high. Paddles dug deep, moving us against the current as we zigzagged to catch shore-side eddies and cut across the roiling current.

  Word of our coming spread like wildfire and people lined the shore to show support. Many paddled out to deliver gifts and invite us to stop, but our Black Mouths were suspicious and Nowamooks resolute. We continued on without pausing.

  We passed a stretch where the banks were strangely barren. “The first Klatskania village.” Nowamooks whispered. Our paddlers kept their weapons close and watched the banks for movement, but not a soul was seen. Passing the mouth of the Willamette River, the few people we saw, pointedly ignored us.

  Heavily loaded and working against the current, it took three long days to arrive. One night was spent in a Wishxam village named Nixluidix, across from a Sahaptin village called Tenino.

  The roar of Celilo falls could be heard a full day before we arrived. Starting as an imperceptible whisper, the rumble swelled with each turn until it shook the rocks beneath us. The river’s huge volume was constricted to cascade over immense boulders. The power was impossible to describe. All who saw it were awed and humbled; it seemed an entire ocean coursed before us with violence a thousand times greater than the worst ocean storms. It was an irresistible force…not even seeing it lent comprehension.

  The warrior paddling before me muttered reverently to his totems. Compared to this power, both humans and animal spirits were mere insects. Even Nowamooks moved with a softened stride.

  Our canoes ground ashore on the southern shore, safely away from the roiling caldron at the base of the falls. The rock beneath our feet actually trembled with the water’s power, the air itself vibrated. Pounding against the rocks, the water was pulverized to a cloud of mist rising and drifting in the air like smoke and emitting the sound of never-ending surf. Our crew fashioned an enclosure of our boats while Nowamooks and I dressed in our formal finest. I painted an Eagle clan emblem on my chest and tied a single eagle feather in my hair.

  Accompanied by warriors bearing out gifts, Nowamooks and I made our way to the lodge of the gray-haired Wayam Chief, Smohalla. His village, named Skin, stepped back on the rocks above the beach on the downstream end of the falls. Besides managing the trading site, the Wayam community had grown wealthy from portaging eastern traders and facilitating trade just as Tsinuks served those from the north.

  Smohalla used his own language for his speech of welcome then slipped into fluent Tsinuk. He was proud to host all who would come serving peace. He was honored to provide a fire. Nowamooks rose and honored our host, his village and the purpose bringing us all together. She held out an intricate, carved NuuChaNulth bowl as a token of respect.

  Smohalla decreed that our timing was auspicious for we had beaten the salmon up the river. He sent baskets of food to our crew and invited us to relax in his sweat lodge. Then he politely made way for other speakers as platters of eel and camas appeared.

  Nowamooks and I wandered through the crowd and its quickly assembled shelters. Our warrior bodyguards eyed everyone mistrustfully, but Nowamooks seemed indifferent to any risk. There was no need for introductions; people drew back as they recognized who she was. Strangers fell silent and stepped aside. The whispered asides revealed the anxiety that spread like rings on a pond.

  We were told Raven’s Heart arrived three days earlier, but was presently detained with unspecified business; she would meet with us when convenient. Nowamooks murmured that her Wapakyt village was close though no one pointed it out as we came upstream. When I offered a questioning look she simply blinked and looked away.

  Visitors kept arriving through the afternoon. By evening camps lined both sides of the river. All talk was about the council. It was already far bigger an event than I’d imagined. There were so many people from so many communities they lent a cosmopolitan, urban feel of a city.

  Two days went by as people streamed in. Makaha and Salish and Snohomish arrived from far north and strangers came from beyond the eastern mountains. Also, parties from River communities and a camp of Shoshone from beyond the mountains. The Wishxam village on the northern shore was as crowded as the Wayam. The air was scented from a hundred new fires.

  Outside the village, the horses of the Nez Perce and Cayuse drew excited viewers. Until just recently, horses were unknown along the river so they were still a novel idea. Elders tended to look askance at them, for they were considered little use to people who traveled by boat. The Yakama, Klikitat and Walla Walla were still horseless, but their youths stood with undisguised desire at the edge of the meadows, watching with jealous yearning.

  Horses were admittedly contentious. Smohalla explained that, “I remember the Nez Perce’s first horses, their young men were SO proud.” He leaned back to weigh my interest. “They brought some good perhaps…they can move things. But they’ve destroyed harmony, unbalanced families and angered neighbors. The creatures themselves aren’t bad, but the young don’t understand how they’ve brought disrespect to our world.”

  He reached for another piece of fish. “Before horses people couldn’t run away from things, so theft and violence were rare. But someone with a horse loses respect for others…they simply ride away from the wrongs they do. It’s wrong.”

  “Once there was tolerance. Our elders were honored. But now tolerance is considered weakness. Young people abandon traditional ways and attack defenseless neighbors. Without respect, the world is lost. Thieves on horses steal brazenly, leaving old people to starve.”

  He pounded the mat with his staff. “You are lucky to be living downriver; for horses destroy our values and culture. A year ago the Cayuse attacked us...in our own valley! Without horses of our own, what could we do?” He touched his head with his fingers, “Young men want horses. And I can’t explain why it’s bad…or stop them.”

  The next morning the Willamettes arrived in a flotilla of canoes. We stood on the bank watching. They knew we were there of course, but no messages were exchanged. When new gossip predicted attacks our Black Mouths quietly spirited the two of us away to sleep at our host’s lodge. But no attack occurred and by mid-morning the encampment was abuzz with reports of the salmon heading upriver. We joined the crowds watching the silver fish crowd-in. Yesterday’s fears were forgotten; conflicts fell away before the importance of the salmon.

  The Wayam salmon chief called out welcome in three languages. He alone would decide all salmon related questions, stopping fishing at the end of each day, settling disputes and enforcing the return of entrails and bones to the river. A Wayam child helped net a first fish and beamed proudly as it was carried through the crowd.

  All about us, people sang and shouted encouragement. Drums throbbed and children perched on parents’ shoulders chattering excitedly. The coming of the salmon signaled the end of shortage and the beginning of a time of feasting. It seemed an auspicious sign.

  The number of salmon steadily increased. It was assumed they’d held back until we’d come to make peace but with humans now returning to balance, they arrived. The sacred fish fought to deliver themselves and were pulled from the water from every rock and stretch of bank.

  There was no reason beyond politeness for us downstream folk to fish. Our villages would have had their celebrations and our racks would be loaded to overflowing. Nowamooks and I wandered with our hovering Black Mouths through the churning celebration. Jokes and laughter sounded over the falls’ constant roar. As the afternoon slid toward evening, fishermen drifted up from the banks and games sprang up as if by magic.

  Two days later the Klatskanias had still not arrived. The council had almost been forgotten with the salmon’s arrival. Nowamooks began to show concer
n and asked our host to find out what was wrong. Our relationship with Willamettes surprised me, for it seemed almost as if the war had never happened. Both parties nodded and smiled as we passed on paths as if there’d never been hostility. We made the exchange of small gifts natural between trading partners. But there was still no word from the Klatskanias and rumors spread that no version of peace would be accepted.

  Two days later we were summoned by Smohalla. “The Klatskanias claim that the salmon delayed their leaving. Peace is less important than salmon.” he coughed and lowered his voice. “And they’d like to make you impatient.”

  Nowamooks smiled. “Thank you my friend, your assistance serves peace. We Tsinuks will repay you…well past the snows of winter.”

  “Trade, ” Smohalla replied formally, “is the river’s blood. Salmon and camas allow survival, but not life. I told the Klatskania what has been decided and what is expected. They will arrive in two days...we must allow them to save face. Remember…they have no elders to guide their actions.”

  We waited patiently through those two days. Then early on the third morning Nowamooks announced that we would host a feast the next afternoon. She sent messengers throughout the encampment and spent the rest of the day sorting gifts.

  “We’ll honor Smohalla,” was all she told me. That explained nothing to me.

  I wandered off thinking I would never understand the complexities of politics. I never got far trying to decipher Nowamooks or her mother. Everything in our boats would be given away…at least eventually. We could give a lot today without our later gifting noticeably affected. Even after the war, Tsinuk wealth was greater than most inland tribes. This wouldn’t be a grand feast by Tsinuk standards, but we would supply roasted fowl, fresh fish, and chewy black tree-lichen.

  We welcomed noble guests as they approached our enclosure and made sure there plenty of food for those crowding close. Smohalla and his council, the Willamettes and nobles from significant encampment shared the first ring around our fire. Elegant advisors attended Raven’s Heart who appeared in regal dress.

  Nowamooks placed Smohalla on one side of us and the Willamettes on the other. Her welcoming speech lauded the return of peace and trade. “But we’ve brought no trade goods to this council...” she waved to covered piles behind her. “All we have with us are gifts. But…” she noted, her finger in the air, “Two more canoes are waiting, fully loaded with trade goods. They’ll come immediately if trade is offered about this fire.”

  There was wave of murmured pleasure. Trade was better than the veiled threats most expected. “Let us renew our friendship and talk trade. Healing and trade are our goal. This will be a memorable council.”

  It was a wonderful way to begin. Cautious expectation swept the circle and a wave of talk erupted as food appeared and the parties chatted among themselves. Everyone had lost relatives and friends, and no one was quite sure who their enemies might be. But a definite thaw could be felt. Bowl and trays were passed about while Nowamooks made much of our guests and invited them to talk among themselves.

  With the return of their canoes and assurance they wouldn’t be attacked, the Willamettes had been able to ferry the goods of their southern friends. With their survival ensured, they were eager to talk of peace. We Tsinuks would be allowed access to the south in exchange for the Willamette’s access to Northern traders. It was an unheard-of concession. Over the past few days messengers between the Willamettes and Nowamooks confirmed our intentions. After this council, if not truly friends, at least we would be trading partners. The Willamettes would continue as one of the five Great River trading communities; almost as if they’d won.

  Talk continued as our bellies filled. Every group from every community had goods to trade and lists of what they wanted. Nowamooks and I worked together, she the charming trader while I stood behind her smiling and straining to remember details.

  As dusk descended Nowamooks stood to speak again, speaking eloquently of sharing honor. She gestured to the gifts and motioned for the blankets to be lifted, revealing them.

  I turned to look. It looked like easily half of all we brought; an impressive amount to give! She spoke eloquently on the subject of trade as she gave away NuuChaNulth blankets, carved bowls, strings of dentalia, valuable obsidian and cords strung-stiff with clams. As stars spread across the heavens, the feast drew to a satisfied close.