Totem (8 page)

Visitors

Amid the crowds gathering on the beach, the chief issued orders. Men readied their canoes while the women herded the children inside the chief's lodge.

“Come on,” Ernie said. He grabbed two paddles from the stack near the lodge and tossed one to Jonny. “I hope you've been practising.”

Ten large canoes set out to greet the strangers.

Under the Union Jack, the steamer pulled into the cove. Its copper hull and spikes of bronze gleamed in the late afternoon sun. As the passengers crowded to the side, the warriors yelped and shot their harpoons into the sky in celebration. The faces of the passengers turned to terror. One of the women in black screamed. Men rushed to the railing and dropped anti-boarding nets into place. Others raised rifles.

Jonny's heart flew into his mouth when a man in the all-too-familiar black skirts came to the rail. He held out a tattered prayer book and mumbled as the men at the rail took aim.

“They think we're attacking,” Ernie cried out. “They're going to fire!”

Jonny dropped his paddle and stood up. He touched his forehead and the place on his chest where his heart almost came through his skin. Then he extended his hand to his left shoulder and then across to his right.
Surely someone on deck will recognize the sign of the cross,
he thought.

“Stand up Ernie,” Jonny urged. “Copy me.”

“I'm not doing that,” Ernie argued. “We ran away from all that.”

A warning shot hit the water.

“It's what they'll understand,” Jonny screamed. “It'll stop them from firing.”

“
Konaway tillikum!
” Ernie shouted out to the other canoes as he stood up waving his arms. “
Konaway tillikum!
”

The surprised warriors watched as Jonny and Ernie stood, touched their forehead, chest, left shoulder, and then their right. They stopped paddling, stood, and copied with puzzled faces.

“Look at what they're doing,” a women in a straw bonnet called out.

Thunderstruck, the priest held up his hand. “They're not heathens,” he said, indicating the soldiers should hold their fire.

Ernie elbowed Jonny. “Whatever you do, don't let on you can speak English.”

The people of the village watched the boatload of sightseers arrive. A scruffy man jumped out first to push the vessel up to the beach. His red flannel shirt was in tatters. Splotches of dirt danced along his suspenders. As thin as a stick, Jonny feared the wind would toss him about the beach like a dead leaf.

A short, sallow man with a single dark pigtail swinging from his stiff black satin cap hopped out of the boat next. Jonny couldn't help but stare at the pointed toes of the man's slipper-like shoes and black pantaloons that were tight at the ankles.

A soldier got out next, cradling his rifle. Seeing no sign of trouble, he waved the rest of them ashore.

A whiskered man in a bowler hat tugged at his shirt cuffs to ensure they showed the proper amount of white below his tweed suit jacket before stepping onto shore. He then tugged at a gold chain to remove a watch from the pocket of his vest to check the time.

The priest, as old and stiff as a dead tree, dragged his threadbare cassock across the sand. His matted white hair stuck out in all directions.
He moved across the stones with a great sigh, leaving the nuns behind him to find their own way.

When the nuns placed the heavy toes of their sturdy laced shoes into the lapping waves, the hems of their cloaks soaked up the water.

A woman in a straw bonnet, close-fitting jacket, and ankle-length skirt stood up. “I'll take the camera,” she told the tattered man standing nearby. In rubber boots, she waded to the shore carrying a large box. She placed it far from the lapping tide and then ran a loving hand over its oilskin cover.

“I hope this little venture will not delay any of our surveying works,” the man in the bowler hat said to the woman, as she placed her tripod next to the box.

“Queen Victoria herself champions the art of photography,” the woman replied in exasperation, “and she is an avid collector of photographs of her colonies.”

“We are in the season of longer days, Mr. Cameron,” the tattered man chimed in. “We'll be able to make up the time.”

The sailor in the stern scrambled to the front of the launch and passed cargo to the tattered man. Tents, tent poles, small steamer trunks, rolled mattresses, and blankets came to shore. They piled barrels, biscuit tins, a tea kettle, frying pan, and several sacks on the sand.

Ernie moved the items about with his toe. “Looks like they're moving in,” he whispered. “That's typical,” he said as he turned and walked away.

“Chop, chop, Cookie!” Mr. Cameron called out to the Chinese man, as he removed his bowler hat. He mopped his balding head with his handkerchief. “My throat is as dry as those wooden gods we've come to photograph.”

The cook pulled together a triangle of beached logs and built a fire for his iron kettle in the middle. The soldier and the tattered man set about erecting the tents.

As they supped their tea, Jonny eavesdropped on their conversation.

“You don't think they actually worship those poles?” the elder nun asked in horror.

“You cannot fail to notice that they give them a place of honour,” the priest said. He pointed to the new pole with the spread wings in front of the chief's lodge. “It is a slightly different shape but it is the cross.” He turned to the young nun. “We will give them rosaries. Sister Bernice will teach them their Ave Marias.”

The woman undid the ribbons of her straw bonnet and removed it. “How wonderful not to have to concern oneself with the right bonnet for the right occasion,” she said. She pulled her dark hair from the tight knot at the nape of her neck and shook it loose. “It will be a relief to remove this ridiculous clothing.”

“I suppose she will be traipsing about in man's pants while we're on shore,” the older nun said with a sniff.

The younger nun sipped at her tea in silence.

“The custom that dictates women put on as many layers as an onion is ridiculous,” the hatless lady retorted, having overheard the remark. “By the time one gets dressed, farmers have finished half their work in the fields.”

“Your gear is safely stowed,” the tattered man said to her as she removed her sou'wester. “I'm just not sure which biscuit tin holds yer plates.”

The soldier placed a box of shells next to him on the log, and proceeded to clean his double-barreled rifle with a greasy rag.

“The one tied with string,” the woman said. “I'm afraid the wet will have tightened it.”

“Here,” the tattered man said to the soldier, “lend us your pocket knife.”

“Who spoke?” The soldier asked, looking up and around at the air. “Was it that gold-digging dog from Dawson?”

“Yep,” replied the man, “and as proud of it as any man in a uniform.”

“Ask that little heathen haunting our camp for his hatchet,” the soldier replied.

Jonny's hand automatically went to the head of the hatchet hanging from his belt. To cover his understanding of what the soldier had just said, he pretended to brush away an imaginary spider crawling up his leg.

But the eyes of the gold miner narrowed.

I just gave myself away,
Jonny thought, turning and heading back to the lodge.
He knows I understand English.

Old Tom

Silver Cloud and Tommy-Two approached the group of visitors as the sun set.

“Welcome to our village,” the chief's son said.

“Hip, hip, hurray!” Mr. Cameron said, speaking past the pipe stem in his mouth. “He speaks the King's English.”

“This is Silver Cloud,” Tommy-Two said. “She is our medicine woman.”

Mr. Cameron lowered his pipe. “I thought all you people had medicine
men
.”

The lady photographer stepped forward and clasped Silver Cloud's hand. “A woman of medicine!” she exclaimed. “How delightfully unconventional for 1862.” She directed her gaze to Mr. Cameron. “I am sure her patients won't refuse to patronize her because she is a woman.”

“Silver Cloud is the greatest medicine woman of all,” Tommy-Two said. “She captured my lost soul and returned it.”

“Did you hear that, Sister Cecile?” the elder nun hissed. “How utterly ridiculous.”

“Do they even know the Lord's Prayer?” the young nun asked.

“I am very pleased to meet you, Silver Cloud,” said the woman. “My name is Agnes Atkinson. I am travelling through your beautiful country creating a collection of photographs.” She glared at Mr. Cameron as she said, “Even though I am not a man, perhaps you will let me take your picture?”

Silver Cloud turned to Tommy-Two and murmured a few words. He nodded. Silver Cloud grunted and nodded as well.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” said the man in the bowler hat. “I am Phillip Reginald Cameron, Knight of the Primrose League, on special assignment to the British Government.” He opened the small tin in his hand and offered it to Silver Cloud, “Menthus pastille?”

Lowering her eyes, Silver Cloud shook her head. Mr. Cameron shrugged and returned the tin to his vest pocket.

“My father, the Chief, invites all of you to attend a celebration in honour of your visit,” Tommy-Two announced. “Please come to his lodge, tomorrow at sunset.”

“That means we won't have to eat bacon and bannock for dinner,” Mr. Cameron said, thumping his chest. “I'm sick of this heartburn.”

“Will there be meat?” the elder nun asked. “We can't eat meat on a Friday.”

The tattered man, who Jonny now knew was a gold miner, approached Tommy-Two. “Tell the chief, we will all attend and thank him most gratefully for the honour of the invitation.”

Tommy-Two smiled. “We will begin the preparations,” he said and turned to walk away.

“Wait a minute,” the gold miner called out. “What's your name?”

Tommy-Two hesitated for a moment. “They call me Tommy-Two,” he said.

“Well, I'll be darned,” the gold miner said, slapping his thigh. “My name is Tom, too. I guess you'll have to call me Old Tom so as not to confuse anyone.”

Tommy-Two grinned. “Old Tom it is,” he said shaking the man's hand.

“Where does the kid with the hatchet live?” Old Tom asked.

“Jonny Joe lives in the forest,” Tommy-Two said. “He's only here for a while.”

The gold miner, to Tommy-Two's surprise, spoke in the Native tongue. “Tell him,” he said, “to meet me at my fire on the beach tonight.”

The sun sank in a crimson splendour. The low-hung moon hid off and on behind the clouds when Jonny approached the miner's campfire. “
Klahawya cheechako
,” he said.

“You can drop the game with me,” Old Tom said. “I already figured you speak English as well as I do.” He gestured for Jonny to sit.

“No tent for you?” Jonny asked.

“Naw,” the man said. “The Chinaman sleeps beside their fire. I sleep beside my own.” He patted the sand. “Tell me what a blue-eyed kid like you is doing in this neck of the woods. How come you speak traders' language and not Native?”

“English is my first language,” Jonny said. “I just learned the other at school.”

“You must have had a white mother,” the miner said. “A mother always talks to her child in her own language. If your mum had been Indian, you'd know it better.”

“I have no idea who my mother or father was,” Jonny said, relieved to be speaking so plainly. “I only knew the priests and nuns at the orphanage.”

“So you were a foundling,” the miner said. “No wonder you're not letting on to that old wooden priest and his two saintly sisters. Your secret is safe with me. Just grunt and shrug whenever they ask you anything.”

The gold miner poked at his fire with a stick. “My mother was a Native,” he said. “My father belonged to the Hudson's Bay Company. He went back to the old country when I was seven and left me with my uncle to be educated. But, since I was a
sikum si'wash
, he put me to work on the woodpile from morning to night. When my father returned, he almost killed his own brother for spending the money that he'd left for my education.”

“So you don't know how to read or write?” Jonny asked.

“Don't know a B from a hornet,” Old Tom said with a grin, “even though my father tried to teach me.” Reaching into his wide-brimmed hat on the sand, he took out a duck egg. He used the stick to crack the shell and swallowed the contents in one gulp. He threw the shell into the fire and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “My father took me with him to the Hudson's Bay Company post,” he said, “I tried my hand as an apprentice to a blacksmith but I turned out to be a pretty good scout, knowing how to pick up on nature's clues.”

Jonny stared into the fire. “Did you really mine for gold?” he asked.

Old Tom picked up his stick and drew in the sand. “The news of the strike on Yukon fields flashed around the world by wire, mouth, and moccasin telegraph. Steamers flowed into Athabasca. From there, gold miners travelled by raft, dugout, scow, and canoe to find their fortune in Dawson. I decided to take my chance with the rest of them.”

“Did you find gold?”

“I found plenty, knowing the lay of the land better than most. I could dress just as fancy as that pompous Mr. Cameron, but I'm spending all my money on land.”

“What kind of land?”

“Land of the Great North,” the miner said. “I've had my fill of living in a public house, living on bacon and tea.” He looked out at the starry sky and sighed. “Dawson City is nothing but opera houses, dance halls, and saloons full of whooping drunks.”

“White men?” Jonny asked in surprise. The priests said only Indians behaved that way.

They sat for a moment watching the stars.

“Where are you planning to go?” Jonny asked.

“Well,” the old miner said. “Just before Miss Atkinson pointed out your smoke, I saw a piece of land that interested me.” He pointed his stick across the bay. “Right across the bay,” he said, “there's a fine seam of coal exposed on the river bank. Tar, too, oozing out of every fissure.” He rubbed his hands together. “A piece of land like that would keep me busy during the day and warm at night. You know anything about that land?”

“I've only been there once,” Jonny said in truth. “But we could investigate tomorrow.”

“Sounds good to me,” the old miner said stretching out on the sand. He put his hat over his face. “I'll meet you on the beach at sun-up. We gotta be back in time for our big party.”

Jonny raced back to the lodge. “Ernie!” he shouted. “That old miner wants to go across the bay. I thought you'd like to go, too.”

“You sure you don't just need me to paddle?” Ernie said, rubbing his friend's head.