Adrift in the Sound (30 page)

THIRTY–ONE

SLOWING FOR THE GRAVEL DRIVEWAY
to Cutler Ranch, Einar took a deep breath and drove through the gate toward the familiar house and barn. The ranch looked the same, except for a subtle slumping, less erect now with Henry gone.
The peace and beauty remains
, he thought with relief, scanning the meadows and orchards, aching to get out and walk. He glanced at Lizette, frozen beside him on the old Volvo’s front seat and felt calm. He knew she and Violet would be safe here at the ranch, at least for now. Maybe he could figure out something later for the little piece of land he and Lena bought years ago, but not now.

He glanced at the back of the station wagon. They’d packed in a hurry. He’d put together an overnight bag and carried his boxes of artifacts from the study’s closet to the station wagon, set them gently to the side, loaded the nursery furniture and the stroller, tied his mother’s rocking chair on top.

“What day is it?” Lizette asked in a trance.

“Saturday,” he said, startled to hear her voice, pulling up beside the barn.

She hadn’t spoken since she’d hung up the phone with Marian and asked him to drive her to Orcas. He’d watched her closely on the ferry, marveled at her ability to withdraw and shut out the world. Even her response to the baby’s crying was distant, reserved. He realized he’d gone too far in telling her about Lena, that he’d selfishly unburdened himself, had miscalculated the impact of revealing her mother’s betrayal. He’d gotten out of the car on the ferry and gone up to the passenger deck, stood outside in the wind, gulped the fresh air. Alone in the Sound, seduced by the jade green water, he contemplated joining Lena.

“Put the stuff in the barn,” she said, snatching Violet from the backseat. “I need to be alone, please, take some meds. Tell Marian and Abaya I’ll be over after while.” She headed for the worn trail behind the house. Tucker appeared out of nowhere to nip at her heels.
Leg’s better
, she thought.
He’s going to make it.

Einar watched them disappear down the slope toward the trees and felt like he was standing in a desert, the gravel biting through the soles of his boots, the world sucked dry, empty without them. He unloaded and drove out, followed Horseshoe Highway toward Poland and Abaya’s place, the road familiar and yet brand new in the dazzling sunlight.

Turtle Mountain, shaped like the rim of a protective bowl, sheltered everything he had left to love. The forest blanketed the mountain’s graceful hump and against the variegated green backdrop, eagles lofted on gentle winds, soared, wing tips riffling in the shifting breezes, the air heavy with sea salt. Along the road, Canadian black-tail deer browsed, indifferent to the Volvo’s humming approach. Dandelion dotted the fields and, here and there, the yellow blooms had gone to fluffy white seed. He felt a sudden urge to stop and walk in the tall grass, wade into the verdancy.

The road was strangely empty of cars, as if he alone traveled the world. He pulled over and slipped under a barbed wire fence, stepped into a lush pasture, stood knee-deep in grass and gazed down Crow Valley to the orderly rows of fruit trees in a far orchard. The leaves rustling in the breeze showed green and silver, a few fluttered in the air ahead of leaf drop. He fell face down in the grass, pressed his heart to the earth, let the grass enfold him, took strength, then rolled over and over. He roared with laughter and flopped an arm over his eyes to deflect the sunlight and relaxed into the flood of emotions he’d been swimming against for years, let the feelings freewheel, overtake him. He picked up a warbler’s song and clinched his vocal cords to call a return. After a long while, he gathered his bones and stood, unsteady, went to the car and fired it up.

Rounding a bend, he saw cars and pickups lining the road’s shoulders on both sides, parked tight, nose to tail. He hesitated, thought about backing up, parking at the end of the line, walking the distance to Poland’s place, but remembered the boxes in the back of the station wagon, too big and cumbersome to carry a long distance. He turned off the highway and threaded his way between cars on the long dirt road that led to Poland and Abaya’s farm, admired the split rail fences Poland built with his sons so many years ago, still stout, zigzagging to the ranch’s dooryard. Before he reached the broad opening between the white barn and the house, a young man stepped out and put up his hands to signal a halt. Einar braked, rolled down the window.

“No parking,” he said. “Every space is taken. We have to keep the road clear for emergencies. Park out on the road.” Einar protested about the boxes, declined to leave them unattended in the yard.

“So, dirty old man. You’ve come!” Poland boomed as he moved from the barn to the side of the car, embracing Einar through the window. He waved the young man away. “You’re just in time. We’re putting out food for an early supper. Then, when it’s dark, we’ll build up the fire and do spirit dances.” Poland glanced in the back of the car. “Where’s Elizabeth?”

“Resting. At the cabin. With the baby.”

A worried shadow darkened Poland’s face. “She’s my best ranch hand. This is no time to rest. How’s that little poop pants of hers?”

“You mean my granddaughter?” Einar faked a solemn face. Both men burst into grins. “She’s a little brat, of course.”

“Park over there.” Poland directed Einar to the far side of the house, to a spot near the propane tank. He followed the car, knocked on the back panel when the car was safely in place. Einar got out and lifted the station wagon’s hatch, pulled the boxes to the edge.

“What you got here?” Poland said trying to snoop over Einar’s shoulder.

“We better take this stuff inside.” Einar loaded him with boxes. “I’ll show you.”

The two men sat on the old, saggy couch in the living room, the boxes on the floor in front of them. Einar pulled the flaps open, lifted out an object wrapped in newspaper and tore the paper away.

Poland fell back on the sofa cushions. “Raven.” He exhaled the word like a prayer and took the carved mask from Einar’s hands, turned it slowly, looked inside and found a second mask, put that one to his face, turned to Einar, and in that moment he became the bear spirit, alert and ominous.

Recognizing the mask’s spirit power, Einar gasped, saw the fullness of its authority, understood how keeping the mask and all these things, had been wrong, how it had robbed not only his friends, but also the spirits. He put his hands to his eyes to feel his blindness and understood his need for forgiveness.

Rifling through the box, Poland pulled out another object and unwrapped it, lifted the two-headed dance rattle from its wrapping, and the green and red wolf mask, with its tufts of human hair fringing the edges, the black and orange dance wand with orca fin. The doeskin spirit drum with painted Chinook and orca chasing around the edge. Then he dug deeper into the big box and unwrapped the painted cedar warrior mask with inset abalone shells, then the goose-feathered frog mask. Watches Underwater came out too, her wary eyes alert, red lips pursed for supping air, and he thought about Lizette, how she floated on the edges of life, moving beyond his grasp. The pile of ceremonial masks grew too large to arrange on the couch between them. Poland got up and cleared the boat-hatch cover that served as a coffee table. He ordered the masks on the table and turned to dig deeper in the open boxes.

Einar fell back, drained by the emotion of the homecoming and the events of the past few days. He looked around the living room, surprised at its unchanged modesty—noticed a red-and-black print of salmon dancing, photos of the boys when they were small, a picture of Poland standing in a canoe, preparing to throw a fish net, the cheap frames listing crookedly on the walls, the smell of cedar smoke and fish flavoring the air.

“Will you dance tonight?” Einar asked.

Poland stopped digging, looked thoughtful.

“No. Tonight beginners dance. Then the people will send them away, coax them back, scold them and praise them. The new dancers don’t know how to make spirit power, not yet. But these masks will help them. My great uncle always liked this one best.” He held up a red and black sea monster mask, its fierce mouth holding a fish, its eyes glaring. “He always chose this one when he danced, said it helped his fishing. He was the best fisherman I ever saw, lost an eye to a hook.”

“You silly men.” Abaya blew through the back door like a whirlwind, apron flapping, abalone earrings clacking, on her head a crown of curled bear claws attached to a deerskin headband, tied in a bow in the back. Her long gray hair trailed to her waist.

“Einar! Einar!” She rushed into the living room, grabbed him as he stood up to greet her, toppled him back onto the couch, erupting into apologies and laughter. “You honor us!” She paused and surveyed the collection of masks, rattles, wands and drums on the coffee table and couch, laid her hand on her throat. “Our treasure. It’s home…. The spirits have come to us!” She burst into tears. The men jumped up and reached for her, embraced her tiny body, each gathering a part of her to him, shoulder, elbow, waist, swaying with her, speechless in response to her emotion.

“Hey. What’s going on?” Raven stood in the doorway, hands on hips. They turned to him, embarrassed by the intrusion. The men pulled away from Abaya, who stood sniffling, trying to smile toward her son. “I thought you came to get mayonnaise for the venison burgers,” Raven said to his mother and went to the refrigerator and bent to search for the jar.

“You don’t need that junk on good deer meat,” Poland groused, mostly to himself.

Raven came into the living room, surveyed the mask collection. “What’s all this?” He made a dismissive gesture toward Einar, picked up Watches Underwater and thought about Lizette, about the night they’d talked in the coffee shop, about what he’d said to her, calling her father a grave robber, how she’d seemed so lost and wounded. He turned the mask in his hands, admired the vivid colors, the supping mouth, alert eyes, and silently resented Einar.

“Our spirits have come home,” Abaya said softly and found a chair with the back of her legs, collapsed into the seat, adjusted her crown, looked delicate and queenly. The men nearly bowed in the gray-green gauze of afternoon light.

Raven turned to Einar, put the mask down. “What the hell are you doing here?” His voice boomed, indignation crackling around the edge. He threw a scorching look at Einar, who retreated to avoid the heat. “You stole our spirits, disrespected our history, now you come here with cardboard boxes to share what’s already ours? Man, you’ve got a lot of nerve, acting all holy, while you hoard our stuff.”

“That’s enough!” Poland was on his feet, moving toward his son, who pivoted to show his chest, defiant, presenting his full body as a taunt to his father. Poland coiled like a metal spring, vapor escaped his nostrils.

In a whisper, Abaya began: “Long ago the world was only a great sheet of water. There was no land. There were no people. Only Thunderbird lived. His wing beats made booms across the world.” Poland turned from his son and sat beside Einar on the couch, leaving Raven to shift like a stiff, unsteady pole.

“Then Thunderbird flew down and touched the water. The earth popped up. Then he flew down again and touched the earth. Animals jumped up and scampered around. Thunderbird created all living things except people, who are descended from the animals. Dog was the ancestor of the Lummi.”

Raven settled into a chair across from his mother, glowered, put the mayonnaise jar by his feet. “I never heard this story,” he said, accusingly. “We’re Salish. Lummi people come from Salmon and Orca.”

Ignoring him, Abaya continued. “Thunderbird gave a sacred arrow to the Lummi. He warned them, said this arrow was never to be used or lost, so they buried it like a dog does a bone. It was safe there and because of that the people never died. The people wore out their throats with eating. They lived so long their feet wore out from walking.” She cleared her throat and searched her son’s face, but saw only sullen resentment. “They were happy.”

“What does this story have to do with grave robbing?” Raven sat still, but balled his fists.

“While the sacred was safe, the people were too,” Poland growled. “But people, white people, began to dig up our bones. Our spirit masks and dance things were in danger, but they’ve been safe with Einar. Our people live. You have returned to us.”

“More important,” Abaya cut in, “Einar paid us for them, used them for teaching about our people at the university, never let them get away. We used the money from Einar and Lena to buy this farm. How do you think we got this place? Picking apples?” She glanced around, as if taking in the whole island. “Our cousins sold things to him, too. You’ve lived a good life here because of it.” She settled her gaze on her son, who sat with his head down, and she said in a chastising tone, “Einar guarded our sacred things. Now they’re here again. And he can take them back when we are done. They’re safe with him. Nothing is stolen.”