The Darkening Archipelago (11 page)

“What should we do?” asked Ravenwing.

“We need to find out what Stoboltz is up to. We need to find out what is happening at Jeopardy Rock.”

8

The wind battered the community of Port Lostcoast. It barrelled down the Queen Charlotte Strait as if fleeing the far north, paying little regard to the broken islands that lay in its path. It whipped the waters of George Sound and Salmon Channel into a convoluted frenzy of eight-foot swells and deep troughs punctuated by breaking waves whose spray felt like ice. The sky above was clear, but the temperature had plunged, and the mourners who filed from the Big House clutched their coats around themselves to ward off the needled chill. Drummers and singers led the group, which marched in solemn union toward the sea.

Above the procession, ravens wheeled on the wind. They rose, wings extended, high above, riding the turbulent pockets of air that were tossed onto the shore and against the bluffs that the town was built around. When the wind eased to near-gale force, the birds tucked their wings and dropped like torpedoes into the harbour, only to extend their wings again and rise on the blustery air.

The mourners followed Grace Ravenwing away from the docks and the harbour to a rocky promenade at the ocean's side. There they gathered around her while she drew the carving of a raven from a bundle of cloth. Speaking a few inaudible words into the wind, she flung the bird into the breaking waves, where it was instantly consigned to the sea.

She, her two sisters, and one brother stood together for a few moments on the shore and then turned to make their way back toward town, the others forming a ragged line behind them. Cole Blackwater fell in behind Grace and her siblings, silent as they made their way back to the Big House. He had received no relief from the potlatch ceremony celebrating Archie Ravenwing. Despite a day of feasting, singing, dancing, and trading gifts, Cole felt restless. He pulled the collar of his coat up against the wind, his curly hair blowing around his face. He turned his eyes to the caterwauling ravens overhead, their black forms contrasting starkly with the almost-white sky. When the procession reached the Big House, Cole opted to stay apart from the others and stood on a small rise of stone from which he could see the harbour, the empty slip where the
Inlet Dancer
should rest, and across the passage to the hulk of Gilford Island. He buried his hands into his pockets and ruminated on the nature of loss.

His thoughts ranged far beyond the frayed archipelago of islands, over the rugged Coast Range, and across the belly of inland British Columbia to another range of mountains — the Rockies. They stretched two thousand miles from stem to stern, marking the border of Alberta and British Columbia for much of their distance. He had crossed the Great Divide last year for the first time since leaving Alberta in 2002. He had crossed the divide that separated the watersheds east and west, and he had crossed the divide that separated him from the anguish he felt at the losses in his own life. Now, thirty-eight years old and somewhat worse for wear, Cole Blackwater was cutting his way through the inevitable scar tissue that had formed over some of his darker wounds. He touched the real scars on his face. These physical markings were, though always visible when he looked in the mirror, easier to put out of his mind.

The scars he faced with unwelcome candour were far beneath the skin.

Like the red stain on the boxing ring in the barn on the Blackwater ranch. That stain dug into Cole like a dull blade.

After Oracle, Cole went to the ranch with Sarah to ride horses and find peace with the place. But confronting the broad splatter of blood on the mat of the boxing ring brought no peace whatsoever. It opened the wounds, and Cole Blackwater seemed powerless to suture them again. Standing in the dim light of the barn, Walter had told him that people would understand if they knew what had really happened in that barn in the spring of 2002 when their father had died. They would understand, and nobody would blame him for what had happened.

Cole remembered their conversation as if it had happened yesterday.

“I doubt it,” Cole had said derisively. They would blame
him
and they
wouldn't
understand. “People might talk like they wouldn't blame a boy for the sins of his father. They talk that way, but deep down inside, they'd be wondering what it was I had done to deserve the old man's treatment. And they would look at this red stain on the mat, and at what he had done to me, and they would wonder if I hadn't just about had enough. And they'd be right, Walter. They would be right.” Cole had turned in the half light of evening in the Porcupine Hills. “I had enough. I don't know why I came here. I swore I never would again. But leaving Ottawa, my life one big fucked-up mess of my own making, I thought that it couldn't get any worse. But then I show up here and it was like he had been waiting for twenty years, storing up all that anger for me. When I arrived, it was like he felt relief because he would be able to empty out that anger on me one more time.

“He didn't come at me at first. He just waited, and then that day —” Cole pointed to the red stain — “I was out riding and he pounced, and in his own way was able to put the knife in and twist it. He didn't come at me with his fists this time, Walt. Just a few words was all it took. It felt like I was a kid again. I was powerless to stop him.”

He and Walter stood shoulder to shoulder, Cole a few inches taller but Walter broad and strong, his stained Stetson in his hands, his wispy hair matted with sweat.

“Mom told me that Dad had taken it out on her, too. She told me that day when the old man and I got back from riding. She told me that when I left home to go to Calgary, then Toronto, he took it out on her! Did you know that?” said Cole, his voice cracking with anger.

Walter nodded. “I know that he had some pretty harsh words for her.”

“More than that, Walter. More than words. He hit her! He hit our mother! Did you know about that?” Cole turned accusingly to face his brother, his eyes wild and bright with tears that he would not shed.

“I didn't know about that,” said Walter, looking down at his boots.

“How could you not? You were still around in those days.”

“I didn't know, Cole.” Walter turned and looked at him gently.

“I was a boy, too. Older, yes, but just a boy. I was afraid of him, too. He never hit me. I don't know why. That's not my fault. But he never did. And I didn't know about Mom.”

“She told me that very day.” Cole pointed again at the stain. “I came in from my ride, and I told her what the old man had said, and she told me what he had done. I don't think she meant to. It just came out. She said it only happened twice and that she had threatened to call the police, that he promised never to do it again and kept that word. Can you believe it?” said Cole, exasperated. He shook his head, stepped onto the red mark, and hunched down. “Maybe the old bastard got what he deserved. There was nothing I could do. Part of me wished it had happened sooner, so that fewer of us would have suffered.”

“It's a tough thing to talk about your father like that,” said Walter.

“I don't feel any pity for him. I don't see his death as a loss.”

They could smell supper emanating from the house as they stood in the barn, looking at the boxing ring for the last time. The next day they had torn it down and burned it in the yard. Sarah stood with Cole, hand in hand, and watched the huge bonfire send sparks high into the sky over the foothills.

Now Cole faced the sea. Another passage. Another ending. He didn't think of his father's death as a loss. But what he did regard with bereavement was the time his father had stolen from him. Time, and the possibility of himself as a man without the ragged scars that marked his life.

“I've never been to a potlatch before.” A voice with a European accent interrupted Cole's self pity, and he turned to see a man in a heavy Gore-Tex coat beside him, also looking at the ocean. “That was quite the ceremony.”

Cole looked at the man, wishing he didn't have to engage with anybody at that very moment. But the man went on. “It's hard to believe that your country banned the potlatch tradition for more than seventy years.”

“Have we met?” Cole asked.

“I'm sorry, let me introduce myself. I'm Erik Nilsson,” The man held out a hand.

Cole removed a hand from his pocket and shook. “Cole Blackwater,” he said.

“So you're Cole Blackwater,” said Nilsson. “I should have guessed.” He smiled. “Archie told me so much about you. How you were helping him shut us down, how you were going to stop us in our tracks.” He laughed in good nature. “I would have thought you were ten feet tall to listen to Archie.”

“You're Erik Nilsson of Stoboltz?”

“I am.”

Cole turned back to the sea. “Didn't expect to see anybody from your company here today.”

“Why not? I've known Archie for many years. He was a worthy opponent. He kept us honest,” Nilsson laughed. “Sure, he could be a pain in the ass, but —”

“We don't speak ill of the dead,” said Cole, not looking at Nilsson.

“Please,” he said, “excuse me. I don't know all the traditions here.”

“Here or any place else,” said Cole.

“Of course,” said Nilsson, opening his hands to indicate his acceptance. “Of course, you couldn't resist the opportunity the ceremony provided to speak ill of us.” He smiled when he said it.

“I spoke my mind. I only spoke the truth.”

“Come now, Mr. Blackwater, we all know that truth is just a matter of perspective. You say that salmon farms are destroying the wild salmon runs in the Broughton and elsewhere. You accuse us of increasing disease and parasites in this ecosystem. You claim our product harms human health. But I know many who disagree. I know many who say that our operations provide much-needed employment for a people stricken with poverty. I know people who are glad to have a healthy food choice that is affordable and that tastes good.”

Cole regarded him from behind the hair that threatened to cover his eyes. “It's not really the time and place for this, Mr. Nilsson.”

Nilsson gestured with his hands again. “I can appreciate that. This community has lost a great man. I respect that. I would like to introduce you to someone. I hope you will talk to him before you accuse our company of some egregious wrongs, Mr. Blackwater. Come, may I ask you to meet someone?”

Cole said nothing, but stepped from the rock. Nilsson guided him to a small group of people chatting outside the hall. Cole recognized Greg White Eagle and two other men from the Lostcoast community. Nilsson said something in Swedish and a third man stepped toward him. “This is Dr. Darvin Thurlow. He's our senior staff scientist. He has been working here in the Broughton for the last year as we set up our operations, helping to ensure we have no impact on the ecosystem. He's also leading our research into minimizing the impact of sea lice on wild salmon. Doctor, this is Cole Blackwater.”

Thurlow extended his hand. Cole took it. It was icy from the bracing wind, the fingers long and thin but strong. Cole shook. “Good to meet you, Doctor.”

“Sorry that it's under such difficult circumstances,” said Thurlow, his face looking baleful.

“Where are you based?” Cole asked.

“Well, I'm adjunct at u vic, but I'm based in Alert Bay. I really don't spend much time in either these days. All my time is spent at our operations in the archipelago.”

“I was just asking Cole if he would find the time to talk with you about our operations so that he can at least hear our side of things,” said Nilsson. “Learn from you all that we are doing to improve the environment and the working conditions at our operations. ”

“I'd be pleased to talk anytime.”

Cole felt dizzy, and an immediate need to get away from both Thurlow and Nilsson overcame him. He was aware of Greg White Eagle watching him. “I'm sure we'll find a time,” he said. “Now, please excuse me.” As he made his way toward the dirt road that wound its way up the hill to Archie Ravenwing's home, he was aware of eyes on him, and their inaudible words pierced him as he walked.

Cole was halfway up the hill when he heard someone calling from behind him. If it's Nilsson, Thurlow, or White Eagle, he thought, I'm going to have to punch someone in the mouth. Turning, the wind slapped him in the face. He had to squint into the late afternoon sun, low on the horizon, to see who had hailed him. He felt as though God herself was against him that day.

“Hey, Cole, wait up!”

Cole watched a man in a heavy orange float coat labour up the hill. He was broad in the shoulders and heavy in the chest, and wore a ball cap pulled down low over his forehead. As he half-walked, half-ran up the hill, he looked more like a child than the forty-year-old man that he was.

“Hey, Darren, glad to see you,” Cole said, finding that he was genuinely pleased to see Archie's former fishing partner. “I saw you there at the community centre, but we didn't have a chance to talk.” Cole reached out his hand as the big man caught up to him.

“Hey-ya, Cole. Good to see you, too. What's it been? Two years?”