Adrift in the Sound (10 page)

Poland tisked with the sharp edge of his tongue. “Bums … Coyotes … Always sneaking around here. Her father never would have let them on this place. They’ll set the barn on fire with the smoking. Stupid!”

Rain poured and puddled in the ruts where the driveway gravel had worn thin. Poland slammed the truck door when he got out and stormed into the barn. She could hear him slamming tools around. She took her bag, waved a hasty goodbye, which Poland ignored, and hurried down the trail to the cabin.

TWELVE

PUSHING THE CABIN DOOR OPEN
, she found Rocket sitting on the stool in the middle of the room, staring at her paintings. “Hi.” He stood up, smiled crookedly. “How ya doin’?” He rocked back, took a long look at her. “Marian said you’ve been sick.”

“What’re you doing in here?”

“Sorry. The rain started coming down … hard.” He flapped his black and white flannel shirt against his muscled chest to show it was wet. “I was gonna sit down by the water. Greg told me you were staying in the cabin. The door was unlocked. I was just getting out of the rain.”

He moved toward her, nodded toward the rain rolling off the eaves through the open door. “Doesn’t look like it’s letting up.”

He extended his hand to her as if to shake and Lizette pulled back. He dropped his hand.

“Nice paintings,” he said, preparing to leave. “I like that one.” He stopped and went back to the canvas she’d been working on the past few days. He brushed its surface with his hand, touched a moist impasto, flattened the movement and energy she’d built with careful brushstrokes. She frowned and kept quiet

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” she said, folding her arms, standing aside, gesturing with her head for him to leave. “Don’t touch it … It’s not dry and you wrecked it.”

“Well, it looks like something,” he said, turning back to the canvas, wiping his fingers on his jeans, “I just don’t know what. Want me to build a fire? Might help it dry.”

Lizette scowled. “I want you to go.”

“It’s damp in here,” he said. “There’s wood.”

He went to the stove and knelt, gathered kindling from the wood box, popped small scraps into the firebox and struck a match, dropped it in. The fire flared. “That’ll warm things up.” He blew into the stove. The wood crackled.

“Marian says you been sick,” he said again.

“Marian’s not a doctor,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Put your bag down. Relax.”

Lizette set her bag in the closet. Turned to him, said, “You have to go.”

“Don’t be so uptight.” He stood and put up his hands in defense. “I’m just getting out of the rain, not hurting anything.”

“Is Marian back?”

“Yeah, but she’s asleep. Up all night. The woman she helped had a baby boy this morning. Tough time, Marian said. She’s taking a nap … with Greg. That’s why I left and walked down here.”

“Who else’s here?”

“I don’t know. Some cat from Seattle. Friend of Greg’s. Never met him before. He’s a poet, something weird like that. Fisher’s with us. He’s sleeping on the couch, half loaded. More people are coming later, a couple of local guys said they’d stop by.” He went back to the stove, put more kindling on the flames. “A good band’s playing in town tonight. You wanna go?”

He moved to the window and looked out on the little bay. “Hey! Did you see that?”

“What?”

“A black fin. Huge. It’s an orca”

“They live here, mostly in the summer though.” She joined him at the window. “It’s kind of early for them, but some rogues have been hanging around here for weeks.”

“Look! There it is again. Shit, man!”

“It’s hunting,” she said calmly, scanning the water’s surface.

“That close to shore? What the hell?”

“They live here,” she repeated and turned from the window, tended to the fire. “The water’s deep close to shore in the cove, bottom drops off.”

“It’s Looney!” Rocket shouted and Lizette peered through the glass at the water.

“Looney!” He bounced up and down. My orca! See the gashes on his back!”

He stabbed the glass with his thick fingers. “Christ. I can’t believe it! He’s alive! Oh, my God! Look! There’s a seal out there.”

He banged on the glass with his knuckles, looked around for Lizette, but she was already out the door and running down the path to the beach.

“They’re swimming this way!” he called to her, following down the trail. “This is so far out!” He stopped and slapped his knees, laughed out loud.

Marian’s border collie pup Tucker, ran barking onto the sand, circling Lizette, running up to Rocket and back to the water’s edge. The dog came back again, circled them, bounded back to the water, covering the short distance in a flash.

“Tuck! Come!” Lizette tried using commands, then begging, “Come boy! Good boy!”

She stopped calling when, in the roiled surf, she saw her gray speckled seal pop up, dive, pop up. She saw terror in its eyes and clutched her throat, screamed. The spooked seal made a run for the beach, cleared the water’s foamy lip, waddled up the wet sand, the dog nipping at its hind flippers.

A mass of black and white, clicking and gnashing, roared out of the water, just missing the seal’s flippers. Lizette jumped back. Tucker lunged forward, lowering his body, barking into the swirling surf. The orca’s beaching sent water surging around Lizette’s ankles, knocking her off balance. She saw its pink tongue and conical teeth, it’s searching, hungry eyes. She shrieked. Rocket grabbed her, pulled her higher up the beach, onto the spiky salt grass.

“See the scars?” he yelled into her ear, yanking her arm. “Propeller marks. Jesus! Christ! He’s alive! I can’t believe it!”

Tucker bounded into the water beside the beast’s snapping jaws. He took a sideways blow from its head and was swept deeper into the surf, then leapt back onto land, whirled on the orca, barking in a high, angry pitch.

The seal, stunned by the gush of water, struggled for traction, clambered for higher ground, barking hoarsely, paddling the sand. It didn’t see the open mouth, teeth homing in from behind. Jaws clamped. Bones crunched. Blood spurted in a fountain, sprayed the sand and the dog, lipsticked the orca’s mouth. Tucker yelped and grabbed at the seal’s gray body dangling from the orca’s mouth as it slid back into the sea.

It surfaced by the jagged rocks at the edge of the inlet, the seal’s body gripped in its teeth, still barking. Tucker gained the rocks in a bound, snarling and snapping. Water surged from the orca’s thrashing and washed over the jagged rocks. Tucker lost his footing and fell into the frothy surge, caught his hind leg in a crevice, yelped madly. Rocket leaped onto the rocks and a wave swept him into the orca’s wash. Lizette watched him clutch at the outcropping, edging toward Tucker. The orca threw itself against the rocks, pushed a surge of water over them, creating enough float for Rocket to free the dog’s leg.

Then the orca was gone in a black and white streak, dorsal fin erect, tail flipping defiantly as it swam away. Further out, the huge animal tossed the seal’s body into the air, snatched it, tossed it, snatched it and sounded, tail flukes lifted defiantly.

The water flattened. The pelting rain washed away the blood on the sand. Tucker whimpered at Lizette’s feet, covered in blood. She knelt to look at his wounds and saw his paw and front leg were cut, but his hind leg was the worst. Rocket ripped off his shirt, picked Tucker up and wrapped him, holding a wad of sleeve tight against his hock.

“Let’s get Marian,” Lizette said as they ran through the trees toward the main house.

“Marian! Marian, wake up!” Lizette gasped, charging into her bedroom. Greg was sitting astride her and she was tangled in the bedsheets

“It’s Tuck,” Lizette said, shaking the end of the bed, dripping water on the floor, gasping for air. “The orca got him. He’s bleeding,”

“How the hell did that happen?” Greg demanded, falling to one side, rolling onto the floor, standing, pulling his pants over his feet, hopping as he hoisted them up.

“He was trying to protect the seal,” Lizette explained.

“He’s a fuckin’ sheep dog,” Greg yelled at her. “He’s supposed to protect sheep. Dog’s a head case, man. Now, get the hell out of here.”

Marian pushed past them, pulling a loose dress over her head as she went. In the kitchen, Rocket held the whimpering animal against his bare chest. Marian cleared the table and put Tucker on it.

“Get me some towels from the hall closet,” Marian ordered. “Greg, get my black bag from under the bed. Put him on the table. I need to take a look.”

She worked Tucker’s leg, checking for fractures, torn tendons, any sign of irreparable damage. The dog whined and lay his head down. Greg put the medicine bag on the table. Marian reached inside for a syringe and a vial of Novocain. She gave the dog a quick shot and he relaxed. She shaved the fur from his leg, while Rocket held his head steady, and she looked more closely at the wounds. Lizette slid down the cabinet to the floor, sobbing. Marian looked up, saw that in the commotion Poland had come in.

“Poland, get Liz out of here,” Marian said. “Take her out to the barn. Show her the new lambs. Do it now. Greg, put a pot of water on the stove to boil. Hold him steady, Rocket.”

Lizette leaned on Poland as they sloshed through the rain to the barn, going into the cold darkness, smelling the sweet hay and manure. In the pens around them, hungry lambs bleated and nursed.

“The seal was my friend,” Lizette sobbed. “He came to me when I first got here. I tried to talk with him, but he was so shy.” She stopped to catch her breath, explain. “He played outside the window while I painted. The orca threw him around like a dog’s chew toy.”

Poland led her into a lamb pen and pressed her down in the straw. He went and got a blanket and a couple of bottles with heavy nipples and came back to sit beside her, wrapped her legs, handed her a bottle and a lamb.

“My cousin married a Tlingit woman,” he said. “He lives up north with her. They got three kids, all girls. They’re grown up, married now. My cousin, he said his wife tells a story about how, in a time before killer whales, there was a hunter and totem carver named Natsilane. See?” Lizette nodded that she understood.

“So, he got a wife on Duke Island. A chief’s daughter. Beautiful. Big chest.” Poland put down the lamb he was feeding and bobbled his hands in front of him. Lizette giggled and sniffed.

“So,” Poland continued, “he lived with her people. At first the village people didn’t like him, but then they saw he was a good hunter and he shared his kills with them. But his wife’s brothers didn’t like being shown up by an outsider.

“They decided to get even, teach him a lesson. On the day of the big seal hunt they paddled near rocks, and Natsilane climbed out of the canoe and plunged his spear into a big bull seal that bellowed into the wind.” Poland suddenly trumpeted like a seal, startling Lizette and the lambs, making her burst into tears again. Poland hugged her, stroked her head.

“Sorry,” he said. “I got excited. So, his spear point broke off in the seal.” Poland showed how it snapped with his fists, startling the lamb cradled in his arms. “The sea lion charged into the water. But that wasn’t the worst part. The brothers were paddling away as fast as they could, leaving Natsilane on the rocks.”

Speaking softly in the half light of the barn, Poland said, “What they did broke his heart.” He reached over Lizette and tucked the blanket tighter around her legs. “He pulled his cape over him and slept on the rocks, but woke up when he heard his name whispered on the wind. He saw a sea lion that looked like a man and followed him into the water, down beneath the waves and into the Seal Chief’s House.”

“Where was Watches Underwater?” Lizette asked. She snuggled tighter against Poland and let the lamb suckle her fingers. “Couldn’t she help?”

“I told you. It’s a Tlingit story, not Lummi.” He cleared his throat. “No one’s watching in this story. Now, when they got to the great house, the chief asked Natsilane if he could help his injured son. Natsilane pulled his spear point out and sewed up the wound. The sea lions formed a raft with their backs and took him home. The seal son healed and, later, the chief granted Natsilane the power to create life.”

Lizette shifted the lamb on her lap. “Then what happened?”

“Well, the boy carved a black and white fish out of spruce, the first killer whale. It was big and beautiful and no one had ever seen anything like it. When he put it in the water, it came to life and swam out to sea, sleek and black with a white saddle. It came back whenever Natsilane called.”

“This is a long story,” Lizette said, yawning.

“No, it’s a good story,” Poland said, putting down his lamb and standing up. “I told it to your father once. He wrote it down. It was the first orca and Natsilane taught it to hunt and help the people. It brought schools of fish to the families and they feasted everyday.” “Then what happened?” Lizette asked