Silver Totem of Shame Read online

  Eric’s dimples erupted. “As in ‘greased lightning.’ In my day I was one of the fastest guys on ice.”

  “I guess you never saw Eric skate, did you, Meg?” Cloë said. “He was a ballerina on ice. I used to watch every game.”

  Eric turned to his sister in surprise. “Why, Sis, I never knew that. Thanks for the loyalty.”

  Unsmiling, she stared at him before continuing. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

  She scowled at the mishmash of patrons crowding the room. With the predominant apparel being jeans, T-shirts, running shoes, and the occasional ball cap, casual was in. Unlike Eric and me, who were still wearing our jeans, Cloë had dressed for dinner in her urban best: a pair of dark brown wool slacks and a camel blazer over a pale blue cashmere sweater. A burgundy pashmina was draped around her shoulders. To tell the truth, I wished I’d worn my pashmina too. The walk down the hill to the restaurant had been chilly, with a cold wind rising off the water.

  “Are you sure you want to eat here?” she asked.

  “You’re just going to have to get used to country casual,” Eric replied. “So unless you want to go without dinner, I suggest you sit and try to enjoy yourself.”

  She shoved a strand of hair behind her ear before pulling the chair out with a resounding screech.

  If she acted this way during our entire stay, it was going to get downright boring and unpleasant. Judging by the less than pleased expression on Eric’s face, he was having similar thoughts. But his expression perked up as he glanced over the menu.

  “It looks like we’ve hit seafood nirvana.”

  “I can’t stand fish,” his sister replied. “At least they have filet mignon. I’ll order that.”

  Eric’s fan arrived with clean cutlery and new placemats with maps on them advertising the delights of Queen Charlotte.

  “We have a couple of specials on tonight,” he said. “Fresh-caught Coho from the north, and halibut. But Lightning, for you and your missus, I have something even more special — a couple of Dolly Vardens caught by my buddy early this morning.”

  “What do you think, Meg?” Eric asked, barely able to contain his enthusiasm.

  “What in the world is a Dolly Varden?” I asked with some suspicion.

  “A variety of trout,” Jimmy replied. “Tastes a lot like char. But don’t ask me how it got such a crazy name. Someone said it’s from a character in a Dickens book.”

  After the owner left with our orders, Eric turned to his sister. “My friend Louise said you are very welcome to come to the pole raising tomorrow. She’s picking us up around ten o’clock. I’m not sure how long it will take, but there’s a potlatch after that I imagine will go on for hours. So, plan for a long day.”

  “I’m not interested. What about Allistair? When are you going to look for his relatives?”

  “As I said, my plan is to ask around at tomorrow’s events. I think you should come.”

  While he was speaking, I watched a new group of diners arrive, namely Ernest Paul, François, and Sherry. Many sets of eyes watched the group as they walked over to a recently vacated table. The restaurant had suddenly become very quiet. The carver nodded at several people and shook hands with others. But I didn’t get the sense that the attention was directed at him. Rather the focus seemed to be squarely on the Frenchman, who appeared to be totally unaware of their interest. He smiled in our direction before doing his gentlemanly duty and pulling out the chair for Sherry.

  The silence gradually gave way to conversation with a tense edge to it. Occasionally eyes flitted back to the new diners as they chatted amongst themselves and perused the menu.

  Heads turned when a bottle slammed onto the counter at the far end of the room. The heftier of two men drinking at the bar shouted, “I’m not gonna drink with that traitor!” He lumbered over to Ernest’s table, raised his middle finger at François, and shouted, “You bastard. How dare you show your face on these islands?”

  He stomped to the exit.

  “You coming, Siggy?” he shouted, holding the door open.

  His companion, who had long, straggly grey hair and a curious rat’s tail of a beard, slid off his bar chair. I caught the gleam of a gold earring as he turned. Shorter and slimmer than his buddy, he sauntered up to François, hissed “asshole,” and spat on him. Without missing a step, he strode over to join his grinning friend.

  The sound of the door slamming left the room in stunned silence.

  Wiping the spit from his jacket with a handkerchief, François tossed the insult off with a shrug. Though, I did catch the French word for “idiot” before he turned to Ernest to ask for his advice on the menu.

  Twenty-Five

  Conversation in the room didn’t return to its former energetic level. I noticed many diners were leaving, some with half-eaten meals on their plates. By the time a steaming bowl of spot prawns landed on our table, the restaurant was empty apart from our table, François’s, and a couple of other obviously tourist-occupied tables.

  “What was that all about?” Eric asked his hockey buddy.

  “Goddamn logging,” Jimmy spat out. “It’s always caused a shitload of trouble, what with the constant fighting between the tree huggers and the loggers. But that guy over there did what no one else ever done. He got them fighting on the same side.”

  “Not an easy achievement. What in the world did he do?”

  “His company clear-cut one of the few remaining stands of mature cedar and Sitka spruce after the moratorium was put in place.”

  “What moratorium?” I asked.

  “The Haida had a big protest a few years back over logging on sacred land and won. Everyone paid attention to the moratorium until that bastard arrived. He brought in an off-island crew, and before anyone realized what was going on, they clear-cut half the island. He not only got all the tree huggers mad at him, he also got all the local loggers spitting mad. The two groups even set up common protests.” He chuckled. “I can’t imagine what he’s doing here.”

  “Probably buying a totem pole from Ernest,” I said.

  “Those two got a lot in common. Ern’s got his own share of enemies. Some of the traditional carvers don’t like the way he’s commercialized totem pole carving.” His grin revealed a large gap where a bottom tooth was missing. “More like they’re jealous of all the money he’s making.”

  “I saw his studio in Vancouver. Did you know that a young man was killed there recently?”

  “Yeah, I heard something about it. Kid was supposed to be an up and comin’ carver, eh?”

  “He was my sister’s adopted son.” Eric motioned toward Cloë, who seemed to be paying more attention to the cutlery in front of her than the conversation.

  “My condolences, ma’am. Not easy losing a son.”

  “No, it isn’t,” she replied. “He never had a chance to visit his ancestral lands while he was alive. So I’ve brought him to pay homage to his ancestors.”

  Sensing his confusion, I hastily added, “She’s brought his ashes to sprinkle on the land.”

  “That sounds like a fine idea. Does he still have family here?”

  “I don’t know. He was a baby when I adopted him. Nothing was known of his parentage other than that his mother was Haida. I’m hoping to trace his birth family. Do you know anyone who we could ask?”

  “I don’t rightly know. Once we were all one big community here in the Charlottes, Haida and whites living together, eh? But ever since the government said they couldn’t get their Indian benefits unless they lived in Skidegate or Old Masset, they pretty much stick to themselves now. With so many of us out of work with the collapse of the fishery and logging industry, the Haida are now the rich ones with all their government money. So there’s a lot of resentment. Too bad. I had a couple of real good Haida friends. I don’t see them much anymore. But I suppose you could start with the band council office. If you don’t know which community his mother came from, best try both. One’s in Skidegate and the othe
r’s in Old Masset.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What’s the mother’s name? When I was working in the logging camps, I used to know a lot of Haida. Chances are I might know her family.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have a last name. Mary was her first name.”

  “It’s gonna be tricky. Mary’s pretty common. How far back you talking?”

  “About nineteen years.”

  “As I say, it’s gonna be tough. A lot of girls leave these islands.”

  “I have a bracelet that belonged to her. I’m hoping someone will recognize it.”

  “One of them fancy gold ones all the Haida women wear? I hear tell that the more bracelets a woman’s got, the more she’s supposed to be loved and the more shit her man probably got into. It’s blackmail if you ask me.” He chuckled. “Something you gotta realize with Haida women, they wear the pants. The poor men don’t stand a chance. I had me a Haida girlfriend once, and I tell you I never met such a bossy woman. One day I finally had enough. I told her I was going out for some cigarettes and never went back. She hounded me for months after, so much so that I hid out in the camps for a good year.” He chuckled. “But boy, she sure was a looker.”

  “The bracelet is silver with an intricate Haida design carved into it,” Cloë persisted. “It looks old.”

  “Like I said, try the band offices.”

  “Thanks, you’ve been a big help.”

  “You folks here for the pole raising?”

  “Yeah, we’re looking forward to it,” Eric answered.

  “Should be a good one. Time was there weren’t no pole raisings. The authorities outlawed it. Was the missionaries’ doing. Said it was unchristian. When it was finally okay, no one had the money to become chief. ’Cause, you see, not only do they have to pay for the pole and its carving but they also gotta hold this big potlatch after. The new chief has to feed and give out gifts to everyone who watched the pole raising. I hear tell there can be hundreds of people and it can cost the poor bugger up to a hundred grand to put on a half-decent one. I can think of better things I’d rather do with my money. They say the more money you spend, the bigger the chief you are. So tomorrow’s gonna be expensive ’cause this is for the chief of one of the most important clans in the islands. You guys should get yourself a nice gift.”

  Twenty-Six

  Preparing the Log

  He spent most of yesterday planing the log, smoothing out the nicks and gouges from the trip north. It sure was a beauty. He’d never worked on one so near perfect. Usually the logs he carved were full of knots, mostly because they were second-growth. This had to have been one big grandmother of a red cedar, a thousand years old or more, the kind of tree that demanded respect. And the kind of tree you’re hard-pressed to find these days with all the logging that’s been done on the islands. He wondered where Ern had found such a monster. And why he’d wasted it on the boy instead of keeping it for himself.

  Thank Salaana, Ern had already sheared off the back and hollowed it out the Haida way. He didn’t have the strength or the tools to do it. And it needed doing with such a big log. It made for easier handling and allowed it to dry more evenly, keeping the grain from splitting. This prep was done a ways back, for the wood was good and dry. In fact, a little too dry, so the damp of Llnagaay should keep it moist, making it better for carving.

  He sanded away the black outline of crests the boy had drawn over the log. That was the boy’s story, not his. But it hadn’t really been a story, just a series of animal crests in Haida formline flowing one into another without any real meaning. They were likely figures Ern had told him to draw. How could the boy carve a story when he’d known nothing about his Haida roots, let alone his clan’s stories?

  From the way the drawings flowed one into another, he could tell the kid’d had talent. There was good harmony and balance. He would’ve made a good Haida carver, maybe even a great one. Too bad it would never come to be.

  When he started to erase the eagle at the bottom of the pole and plane away the carving where the boy’s blood had flowed, the log stirred and tingled. It wanted him to stop, so he did. He would keep the boy’s initial cut, still dark where the blood had sunk into the wood. But he would add motifs to the eagle that would identify the boy, for his killing was part of the story. Though probably not the end of the story, for stories never end.

  By the time he finished preparing the log, his hand was throbbing real bad, so he called it a day. He crawled back inside his orange pumpkin with the bottle of rye Scav had sold him. He’d pretty near finished it off, which was bad. He’d sworn off booze. But hell, what did it matter now?

  In the morning, his hand still throbbed along with his head, so he took his time getting going. After a bracing cup of steaming tea, along with the last of the rye, he made his way to the log. He ran his hands up and down the wood, waiting for figures to emerge. He stared at it, breathed on it, talked to it, willing it to speak.

  He wandered over the remnants of the old village, walking where the ancestors had walked, waiting for them to speak. He tried to decipher the crests on the only totem pole not completely buried in moss. Time and weather had pretty well blunted its silvery features. The only thing he could make out was the angled beak of an eagle, which was to be expected since this village belonged to his clan, the Greenstone eagles, or Hlgaa K’ inhlgahl Xaaydaga, as Nanaay had taught him. One of the few Haida words he knew how to pronounce.

  He stopped by the pit where Nanaay had said Old Chief’s longhouse had stood and sat on the spongy mound of a once enormous crossbeam. The hole was little more than a deep mossy indentation in the ground with two thick spruce trunks rising from the far end. At one time it would’ve been a swimming pool–size hole with two levels of platforms surrounding it, large enough to house an extended family of forty or so, including slaves. Old Chief would’ve made sure it was the largest in the village, overpowering the other longhouses, so no one would dare ignore his highborn status and his power as chief of the Greenstone clan.

  As the afternoon wore on and the rain found its way through the dense cedar canopy, images swirled through his mind: eagles, hummingbirds, ravens, beavers, even a killer whale, and of course the picket fence. He’d better not forget the picket fence, for it was that hare-brained visit to the gold miners’ camp at the mouth of the Fraser River that led to the shame.

  What a mighty paddle that trip must’ve been, over a thousand kilometres of open water in the only canoes that could make such a journey, the giant canoes the ancestors hollowed out of a single monumental cedar. That was why the Haida were so unbeatable and so safe in the island homeland. No mainland tribe dared travel the hundred-and-fifty-kilometre distance in their small dugout canoes. But the ancestors hadn’t bargained on the Iron Men and their sailing boats, which could travel even farther. And when they finally came to Haida Gwaii, the Haida were invincible no more.

  Twenty-Seven

  Although I couldn’t see the start of the procession, I could hear the drummers above the heavy breathing and shuffling of the men inching along the road in front of us. They were transporting the massive totem pole the traditional way, with manpower. A good sixty or so men, split between the two sides, had hefted the pole at the carving shed and were now carrying it along the road to the place where it would stand for the next hundred years or more.

  Louise O’Brien had picked Eric and me up at the Haida Heritage Centre about an hour ago. Although we’d invited Eric’s sister to join us for breakfast, she never appeared. Last night Eric had offered her the use of our rental car in case she wanted to follow up on Jimmy’s suggestions for tracking down Allistair’s relatives, but she turned him down. So I wasn’t sure what she intended to do today. Maybe she just wanted some time to herself as she tried to adjust to life without her son.

  We’d driven along the coastal road to where a crowd was gathered at the Skidegate carving shed. A blustery morning, waves were crashing onto the beach. The wind whipped the clothing of the
waiting throng of several hundred people. Low scudding clouds hinted at rain.

  We arrived just as the men were carrying the eighteen-metre totem pole onto the road. Gaily painted carvings of assorted Haida creatures seemed to leap out of the top two-thirds of the pole while the bottom third had been left untouched. According to Louise, this section would be buried in a deep hole that’d been dug in a less traditional way: with a backhoe and an excavator.

  The unwieldy pole was being carried on lengths of sturdy four-by-four fence posting placed every metre along its length. Four men, two to each side, hefted each four-by-four to waist height. Judging by the laboured breathing and the odd red face, the task was onerous, even with this amount of manpower.

  Though it took a good forty-five minutes to get there, the pole’s final resting place was little more than a few hundred metres along the road at a large suburban brick house. Struggling to walk in sync, the men maintained a pace that was more a crawl. Whenever one of them looked as if he was about to collapse, another was ready to take his place. Although most of the men were young and sturdy, there was the odd grey-haired gent, no doubt intent on proving he still had it in him. I could even sense Eric flexing his muscles beside me, wanting to test himself. Thankfully we reached the destination before he had a chance.

  The men carried the pole along the side of the house to the oceanfront. A fitting place for a totem pole, I thought, to stand guard on a grey stone beach overlooking the sea’s endless cycle of tides. The men collapsed with relief as they dropped the carved end a little too heavily onto a crib of planks, knocking several to the ground and causing the pole to wobble dangerously. Before it could fall, several men grabbed the dislodged planks and shoved them firmly underneath, while others angled the un-carved end toward the yawning hole. Once firmly in place, the men laughed and gave one another congratulatory slaps amidst cheers from the crowd. The air vibrated with excitement.