Written in Stone (15 page)

“I’m not bound by tradition,” Henry said. He sat across from Mr. Glen and dropped a dishcloth on the floor by his feet. Charlie, on the opposite side of the table, stared at Henry with his mouth hanging open. I couldn’t believe it either.

“Charlie will deal,” Henry went on smoothly. “Would five-card draw be acceptable?”

“Yes, perfectly.” Mr. Glen poured a generous glass of whiskey for both of them.

“To partnership,” Henry said.

“Indeed,” came the reply.

Henry raised his glass. As soon as Mr. Glen tipped
his head back to drink, Henry lowered his glass and quickly poured its contents onto the dishtowel. Charlie hid a smile behind a fan of cards and opened the bidding.

As soon as all eyes were on the table, I slipped into Mr. Glen’s room. I propped open one of the curtains enough to let a narrow triangle of light fall on the floor. There were four large crates and two small ones, plus a large leather suitcase and the canvas knapsack.

One of the large crates was already open. I peeked in and found the owl mask, an old painted spindle whorl, a few of Aunt Loula’s baskets, and a large collection of rocks, each one labeled and wrapped in muslin. I lifted the corner of the other three crates and learned they were empty. One of the smaller crates was also open. It held rows of green bottles, twenty-three in all and a space for the missing one. Whiskey, and obviously he wasn’t drinking it himself. I moved to the second smaller crate, but it was nailed shut. I took out my folding knife and slipped a blade in beside the corner nail. I wiggled the knife to loosen the nail. It came up with a squeak like a mouse in a hawk’s claws. My heart hammered in my throat. Mr. Glen said, “Oh dear,” and stood up.

Charlie laughed. “It’s only a mouse.”

There was a clink and glug of another glass of whiskey being poured.

“Try not to think about the mice,” Henry said.

I heard a rather girlish giggle, and then Mr. Glen said, “To all creatures great and small.”

“All creatures,” Henry replied. There was more laughing and the slap of cards on the table. Then Henry said, “You’ll be leaving tomorrow?”

“Yes, yes, regrettable, but I must move on. I’ll see your two pennies and raise you a nickel.”

“I’m out,” Charlie said, setting his cards down.

“I’ll see your nickel,” Henry said, sliding his money into the pot. “Where will you go?”

“North,” Mr. Glen said. Someone gathered in a handful of coins. “Whose deal?”

“Mine,” Henry said. “Will you go to Neah Bay or across the strait to the Nootka?”

“Both.”

Cards slapped on the table.

“Perhaps you would find a letter of introduction useful?” Henry asked.

“That would be very decent of you,” Mr. Glen said.

“You are far from home with no kin to defend you,” Henry said. “It’s only right that we assist you.”

“How very kind. To friendship,” Mr. Glen said, and I heard the clink of one glass against the other.

“I’m sure you’d do the same for us if we were guests in your home,” Charlie said. There was a less than polite
pause in the conversation. Mr. Glen made another nervous giggle.

“Yes, of course, I would do the same.”

“Don’t worry,” Henry said. “I’m sure you will find generous hosts as far as your journey takes you. It is our custom.”

“Wonderful news.”

“Ante up,” Charlie said.

Someone shuffled the cards and coins dropped on the table. I decided not to risk opening the second box. I lifted a corner to see if it was full and heard the muffled chime of glass bottles.

What could he possibly need two cases of whiskey for? I went to the leather suitcase. It held two pairs of pants neatly rolled, the notebook Mr. Glen always wrote in, and a large sheaf of papers. I took both to the parted curtain to read them. The notebook was all descriptions of land forms and rock types, a wildcatter’s notebook. I flipped back a dozen pages. He had been surveying the whole coast up from the Columbia River. I closed the book and smoothed the sheaf of paper on the floor.

The first thing to catch my eye was the Washington State seal. I traced my finger down the page, reading as fast as I could: land lease … mineral rights … 50 years … exempt from all liabilities and damages …

At the bottom of the page it said Ozette, Washington, 1923, and there were lines for signatures. So that was what the whiskey was for. The next page was identical except for the name at the bottom: Neah Bay, Washington. The following pages named Nitinat and Alert Bay, nine tribal lands in all. I reread the list twice to fix the names in my memory, and then put the papers back where I found them.

I snuck back across to the room Ida and I shared, wondering how I could let Henry know I was done. I thought a moment and then poked Ida in the ribs. Nothing. I tried again. She let out a little groan and rolled over.

“Go to sleep, silly. It was a dream,” I said in what I hoped was a voice that sounded sleepy.

It worked. A minute or so later, Henry yawned loudly and said, “You’ll want to start early. Best get some sleep.” There were mumbles of agreement and the sound of cards and pennies being cleared away, and then the house fell silent.

The next morning, I woke up before Grandma did and found Henry at the table with pen and ink writing a letter of introduction. I hurried over and told him what I’d found the night before.

“So he means to lease the land and tap oil.”

“Yes, and there was a whole paragraph about liability and damages. It said there could be explosions, landslides, noxious clouds, and watershed poisoning.”

Henry nodded. “They tried to drill south of here once, maybe fifteen years ago. There was an accident and a spill. Every fish in the river died. It’s been more than ten years and they are still dirt-poor down there.”

“We have to do something,” I said, pacing the length of the table and back.

“We did,” Henry said. “Nobody signed a lease for our land. This letter will warn Grandpa’s cousin Solomon Jackson, and then he’ll know not to sign a lease either.”

“But what about the others?” I said, still pacing. “There were eight other towns on the lease papers. We have to help all of them.” I turned to face Henry. “We have to go to those places and get there first. We have to warn them.”

Henry set down his pen and gave me a tired look.

“It’s nearly a thousand miles to Juneau. It’s the middle of October. I would need a dozen strong men to make that trip in midsummer.” He looked at the ground. “I’m sorry. It’s just not possible.”

Grandma came in before I had a chance to answer. I fussed at the problem silently while I helped Grandma set out breakfast. There had to be a way to stop him. If there really was oil up here, Mr. Glen was not the last wildcatter we would see.

Susi would know what to do. I wished I was still with her at the post office, and then it hit me. What could be simpler?

An hour later, when Uncle Jeremiah was getting the canoe ready for the trip up to Neah Bay and Henry was helping carry the boxes, I found Mr. Glen writing a letter.

“Are you going to take all the things we sold you
along to Neah Bay, or will you send them back in the mail?”

“I’ll keep them with me,” Mr. Glen said. “Why do you ask?”

“When you go up north, you won’t find people living in a longhouse as we do. Almost everywhere people live in the government houses, and they’re very small.”

I looked at Henry for support and he said, “It’s true. Most tribes that have a longhouse don’t live in it anymore.”

“So there won’t be room for all your things in the little houses,” I added.

“I see,” said Mr. Glen.

“I could take them to Susi’s post office,” I said in a voice I hoped was not too eager. “I’m going there anyway. I promised Susi I’d bring her medicine plants.”

“It so happens I have a very important letter here,” Mr. Glen said. “To my patron. I need to draw funds to complete my trip.”

“I can have it in the mail for you this evening,” I said.

An hour later, I headed south with the letter safe and dry under my coat and the crate of rock samples strapped down in the bow. I felt like a warrior with prisoners in my canoe. I paddled hard and fast, turning out plans as I
went. First, I would take all his rock samples and replace them with fakes, and then I would forge a new letter saying not to send money, that the trip was unsuccessful and no oil or gas could be found.

I paddled the whole way without resting and my arms were trembling when I landed on the beach at Kalaloch, but in my mind, I was already singing victory songs. I untied the crate and used the rope as a tumpline to carry the crate on my back. I trudged up the beach, resting once on a drift log, and then the rest of the way to the post office.

Susi was closing up for the day. Her smile behind the polished post-office counter was the best feeling of coming home I could remember. In that moment, I was positive everything would work out perfectly. I let the whole story of Mr. Glen’s visit gush out of me like water pours out of the mountains in spring, and her praise for my cleverness was better by far than the warmth of her fire and her good elk stew.

We were settled at the table upstairs when I got to the part about switching the rock samples so his partners would think he was not able to find oil. Susi got up and walked over to the window even though there was nothing but darkness to see. She let an uncomfortable silence follow my plan.

Finally, she turned to me and said quietly, “We must not do this. We will not.”

“What?”

“That man gave you a sealed letter and package to carry. He trusted you. This letter and box is the property of the person he sends it to. You will not open them.”

I couldn’t believe it—Susi, talking like a schoolmaster, like an Indian agent. “He stole from us,” I shot back. “And he means to steal more. He lied to us, claimed to be an art dealer when he’s nothing but a prospector.”

“You will not tamper with the mail.”

“Whose side are you on?” I shouted. “Just watch, he’ll take the oil, poison our waters, and leave us with nothing. If you stand by and let him rob from us and kill our salmon—our salmon, Susi! Who will protect them if we don’t? If you do this, you are no family of mine!”

Susi walked to where I sat and put her hand over mine on the table. Her hand was exactly the same as mine, down to the shape of each fingernail. A tear fell on the table beside our hands.

“You are my mirror,” Susi said. “When a white man comes to the post office and calls me squaw or spits on the floor in front of my feet, I look at your face and know that I am beautiful.” She paused, then her voice grew stronger like the grandmothers’. “I gave my word to
defend the mail, defend it equally. Do not ask me to lie. Do not ask me to be one of them.”

Susi stayed there with her hand over mine and waited for me to speak, to look at her, but I couldn’t. She was right, and I hated it. I was right to stop Mr. Glen, and I knew it. I felt as trapped as I did in all those dreams where I heard my name called only to find a stone blocking my way.

“Raven tricked people,” I said at last. “He told lies, but he saved the people.”

Susi sniffed back her tears and said, “It’s true. What would Raven do?” She went to her cot and slid out the drum. She began to play, not a song, just tapping and listening, as if she were asking her drum a question.

I went to my coat and got out the diary from my pocket. I opened to a fresh page and drew my father’s Raven mask. I wrote down everything I remembered my father ever saying about Raven, not only the stories but what makes Raven think the way he does. I was four pages into it when I noticed Susi looking at me.

“What are you writing?” She came and sat beside me. “Can I look?”

No one had ever read my writing before. My face grew hot, and my heels drummed the floor as I watched her read.

“This is incredible,” she whispered.

I stared down at my feet. “The schoolmaster always said I had good penmanship.”

“It’s not the letters, Pearl, it’s the words. Clear. Simple. I can hear your papa’s voice when I read this. Hear him as if he’s in the room with us now.” She turned to me. “You must do this,” she said firmly. “You must do much more of this and show people.”

“But—”

“The people need this as much as they need good fish and warm houses.”

“But what if I’m wrong? What if I forgot some really important part?” I imagined the whole row of old women who sit in the honored position at all the feasts. I imagined them shaking their heads and clucking to each other about that pathetic Pearl Carver, a girl who didn’t know her own stories properly.

Susi put an arm around me. “The truth that you know is enough. If you put your words out in front of the people, they will give you more stories to tell. You just have to—”

“Have the courage of my ideas.” I let that thought echo in my head. I turned my diary back to the page with the whaler’s petroglyph, the page with the storyteller’s open mouth.

“Susi, do they have a post office at Neah Bay and Nitinat and Alert Bay?” I named all nine names on Mr. Glen’s list.

“Yes, of course,” she said.