When Raven Dances, page 29
Smiling, he surveyed his audience as he pushed his gold-colored spectacles onto the bridge of his nose. The mayor carried a little table toward him and Dr. Fersch covered it with a piece of soft fabric. He then placed a number of items he had brought to share with his audience. As he talked, he picked up and discussed each one, treating each item tenderly and respectfully.
Finally, he closed, inviting people in the audience to share any item they had brought.
“At last, our moment is here,” I muttered. Anticipation for what I hoped was to come made my fingers turn ice cold. I grabbed Cyn’s arm. Silence filled the room.
“Come on now, it’s your turn,” the professor smiled, rubbing his hands together slowly. “If there are people who have brought items today that you would like for me to take a look at, I would consider it a real pleasure.” And after a long pause, “Really, I don’t bite, I encourage you to come forward…after all, I will be grateful for your help.”
We gazed about and noticed others with small items, but it seemed nobody wanted to be first. People smiled and looked around at one another. Cynthia and I were not smiling; outwardly at least, we were calm. The strain was becoming intolerable. I felt as if I were a pop bottle, well shaken.
At last, Byron raised his hand, his face the picture of condescension. He would be the brave one.
“At last!” Cyn whispered. He was performing as we expected and had no idea that he had become a puppet and we pulled the strings.
Box in hand, Byron ambled toward the stage, his magnetic smile ignited, his darling errant curl dancing on his forehead. Every eye was on him and he knew it. He mounted the steps to the podium, slid the box from its satin covering and placed it in front of Professor Fersch, with such care he may have been serving a plate of cookies. Stepping back slightly, he clasped his hands behind his back. Oh, he was so pleased with himself.
The professor gingerly examined the box, feeling its surfaces and turning it. At length, he turned to Byron. “Young man,” he said slowly, “You have an interesting item here. Tell me who you are and how you came to have this box?”
“I am Byron Peterson and I am in tenth grade, sir,” he declared, smiling. A couple of his buddies whistled.
Cynthia looked at me and we both mouthed, “Sir?” That had to be a new word for him.
“And how did you find this box?” continued the professor, his eyes fixed on Byron.
“Well,” His arms crossed smugly over his chest, he was now speaking to his entire rapt audience, “I was riding my horse over on the other side of the bay near the Chee Chaco claim at Thumb Cove and, well, there it was.”
Professor: “And where precisely did you find it?”
Time froze. My heart thumped.
Byron: “Well, sir, as I remember, I just looked down and, uh, there it was, kinda sitting under a rock.”
Cynthia, under her breath: “Sure it was, you miserable pile of fish guts.”
Me: “May your nose grow so long you have to support it with a sling.”
Professor: “Hmmmm. Under a rock. Well, let’s just take a look.” He turned the box slowly. “This box may be quite old. Haida bentwood box. Very nice painting, looks like Raven and maybe Bear painted here. Have you examined the contents of the box?”
Byron: “Yes sir. They’re real old, too, sir. I thought maybe they were magic Indian things.”
The professor carefully opened the box, saying, “Let’s have a look.”
I wish I had the capability to describe the look on the professor’s face…surprise? Confusion? Disbelief?
His eyes went from the items to Byron and back again. At length, he gave Byron a long, quizzical look. Byron met his gaze grinning, and then looked down at the box. Instantly, his self-assured expression dissolved. His face became crimson, his eyes widened, and finally his lush, darling eyebrows furrowed.
Oh, all the work, the worry, the guilt we had endured, the fear and tension while we set up our attack, every moment now became infinitely worthwhile. Nothing could have been so precious as that moment of truth; it was exquisite.
Professor Fersch removed the piece of porcelain from the box as Byron stood, mute.
“This may be old,” the professor spoke slowly and deliberately. “But I doubt it. Perhaps prewar Japanese, but I suspect…no I think it’s from occupied Japan.”
We heard sounds from the audience. Mumbles, chatter. They mouthed the words,
“Occupied Japan?”
Next he removed the crab shell.
“I don’t know what to make of this.” Professor Fersch held it up, examining the glyphs.
His arm extended the shell toward Byron and Byron flinched. The local high school hero actually flinched.
“Hmmmm,” said Dr. Fersch.
He then held up a tiny sock doll with auburn braids, rabbit’s foot attached to one arm.
“This does look Indian…”
Byron stared at Naasha’s doll, his face displaying shock. His jaw gaped and wobbled; his complexion now bright red.
I too gasped and grabbed Cynthia’s arm; I was just as stunned as Byron. She looked back, equally perplexed. We had inserted a surprise, but the professor had not yet found it. I would never have put my doll in that box. Never. How did it get in that box?
Finally the professor smiled and held up a piece of paper, looking at Byron. “This must be part of a joke, young man?” He queried, smiling. The audience began to giggle. Byron’s pals made catcalls.
The professor unfolded and held up a piece of white paper and we beheld our very own artwork—an image of Kilroy.
Byron stomped off the stage, his face a thundercloud. I am sure he had never felt so alone as when he marched through the aisles, past the bleachers, and out of the gym. He was followed closely by Louise. I swear I saw smoke coming from his very red ears as the glass door swung shut.
We shared in his confusion, but his anger was his own alone. Fortunately, we couldn’t hear their words, but we saw Louise touch his arm, and we saw him pull abruptly away from her. We were witnessing the dramatic demise of a high school romance. Poor mortified, bamboozled Byron, who never saw it coming, and poor Louise, who was blindsided too.
Professor Fersch examined one more item from the audience and in a short time concluded his talk, encouraging anyone to bring up artifacts and questions. We pushed toward the dais in the crowd, hoping to retrieve my precious sock doll in the confusion. Cynthia eased her way into the melee, slipping the doll into her pocket, and we beat feet as fast as we could to get out of there.
On a grassy spot at the base of Mt. Marathon, the very spot where Silvio had sat to survey Seward and the bay, we lay on our backs laughing like puppies being tickled, kicking our feet in the air. Cyn pulled my doll from her pocket and sat her on my lap facing me. I held her tight.
Grinning, Cynthia said, “I don’t know how we could have done it better, do you? Ooo, my sides hurt.”
“No,” I said. “It was really perfect. But we had some luck here, didn’t we? I mean, what just happened?” I turned my attention to my doll. “How did you get in that box, dolly? I mean it. How did you get there?” My doll couldn’t explain because she didn’t have a mouth. She was and forever would be mute.
“I swear, Marisol, I don’t know,” Cyn declared. “I had nothing to do with putting her in there. But it was just about perfect, don’t you think? However it happened.”
“Oooh yes, it was. Well, she’s safe back with me. But the main thing is, we got him. We really did. Etta would say, ‘Glory be!’ And I say, ‘Amen to that!’”
“Yeah. Just about perfect,” Cyn declared.
After a moment of happy reflection, I said, “There just is nothing we can do about that box, darn it, but other than that, our entire afternoon was just about perfect.”
We lay there, still, enjoying the moment. I gazed from dolly to crystalline sky, allowing my aching sides to recover from laughter.
“You know, how lucky were we that he just dug those things out of his walls and didn’t even realize…”
“That they were fakes!” I said, “Dumb fakes!”
“So, you know, now he thinks he found a box of junk!” Cyn declared. “Oh, Marisol, the very joy of it all.”
“You know, Cyn, I actually feel just a tiny bit sorry for him.”
Cyn’s reaction was immediate. “No way! He asked for everything he got.”
We lay there enjoying this delicious moment, hoping it would last forever.
Whoosh! The sudden sound and flash of motion caught our eyes, and there he was. Raven himself, sitting on a tree snag just to the right of us, perhaps four feet away. His tail flicked; he stood in silhouette, amber eyes glaring, his scissor-sharp beak open slightly, checking the breeze. He held our gaze and we dared not speak or breathe. He was so close, and still, I could see the breeze slightly ruffle the delicate pin feathers at the juncture where his leg joined his body. He splayed his tail into a wedge, then tucked it. His body shone silver and violet in the light.
He began picking up his feet and stomping about. With each step, his head declined, as if he were looking at his feet, and he repeated that motion again and again in a deliberate marching rhythm. “Gga…gga…gga…” He said, shaking his head. “Tok, tok, tok.” He drew one claw across the tree bark.
We remained still, and he became still; we stared at each other, seemingly transfixed for some length of time.
Then, suddenly in a glint of light, he was gone.
“Now what did that mean?” I wondered out loud.
“Darned if I can say for sure,” Cyn answered me. “But I think he was congratulating us.”
“Or asking us to congratulate him?”
We would never know. The spell broken, we gathered ourselves together and reluctantly headed home, still rejoicing in our almost perfect retribution.
AT LAST MAMA GETS THE PICTURE
Cynthia and I continued to be so pleased with ourselves that the air we breathed seemed ethereal. Two weeks went by before I went to the Peterson house to work. I don’t recall exactly what my excuse was, but it took me that long before I felt I could face Byron after his descent from the heights of teen royalty. I finished in the kitchen, putting away the last of the dishes, when he came home from baseball practice. I watched as he walked to the stable, where he remained, waiting for me to leave. I suspected that his smug, dismissive attitude toward me had begun to morph into something akin to respect, and that suited me just fine. He had to know that we were instrumental in his demise, but he was treating Louise as if she had the plague. Poor thing, I thought.
He was still puzzled over what had happened to him, and I would be the last person to alleviate his confusion and humiliation. Especially since, in one way, I was as confused as he was.
That afternoon, Sava staggered up the gravel driveway under the weight of a huge basket full of writhing, cranky Alaska crab. Mama’s face radiated delight. She gratefully accepted the basket, placing it on the table on the front porch for the time being. She insisted that he come into the kitchen. Sava sat next to me as Mama heated the teapot, sliced soda bread and pulled butter and jam from the refrigerator.
“Can you join us to help us eat those crab?” Mama queried.
“No.” he said. But something was on his mind. His hands fidgeted in his lap, one thumb pressing against the other, then absently rubbing. “My daughters,” he began, speaking slowly and softly. “My daughters, I have much to thank you for.”
We waited, silently anticipating his words, and I thought the moment had arrived to tell Mama the entire story.
“My little daughter, you and your friend trick the boy so good.” He smiled.
“What do you mean?” Mama asked, her face a map of surprise.
I piped in, “Sava, you are my friend, we were happy to…”
“But you do it so perfect! You make the boy wiggle, wiggle big and long. It was, it was, it was…very swell. But, my sister, you must not be harsh at our Marisol. She has done something very good.”
Mama sat, still confused; and I gushed, “Sava you are sooo welcome.”
A look of impatience flooded Mama’s face; she was perplexed. “Marisol,” she said, “just what are you two talking about?”
Oh boy. I was in for it, I thought. So I told her, starting from the beginning— our secret hiding place, finding the treasure, Byron’s theft, finding the items in his house, and making the fake items. I watched apprehensively as Mama’s expression changed from fear to comprehension.
At last she broke into laughter and blurted, “So that is why you broke my little parsley pot!”
“You knew?” I said.
Mama looked at me, saying firmly, “You may think you are cleverer than I am, little girl, but you’re not. Furthermore, you didn’t clean up the mess on the back step very well.”
“You know, young lady,” she said as she filled Sava’s teacup, “you know you put my friendship with Byron’s mother in jeopardy.”
I had thought about that, but not for very long. I had watched Mrs. Peterson’s face as her beloved son fell from his pedestal, and she was dumbfounded.
“That’s one of the reasons I didn’t tell you, Mama. I’m truly sorry,” I said, and I was, indeed, contrite.
Sava smiled. “So now, my daughters, I must do what my promise says that I make many months back.”
Mama and I leaned forward in anticipation.
“Soon we go, all of us, on a walk trip into some of the country where my soul lives, the land my people love. At last we will share it together.”
“You mean our hike?” Mama exclaimed. Sava nodded his head, still smiling.
“You really mean it? When? When can we go?” Mama was excited and I was relieved. Perhaps the time of my crisis was over. It wasn’t so bad after all.
“When you want,” he said. “That is when I will go, when you wish,”
So it was that Mama began plotting for our long-awaited hike, which kept her so busy she didn’t have time to be mad at me.
WITH THE FINEST GUIDE WE PENETRATE ANOTHER WORLD
June 1949
Mama knows how to get results when she chooses. In just a few days, she had procured permission for Aaron and Cyn to join us, had arranged a release from the Home for Matthias, and had wangled two five-foot square army surplus tents, one for the girls and one for the boys.
I had not seen her so drawn into a plan, her jaw so set, since we started out for Alaska a few years ago.
If only Sava would share his knowledge of the land with us, Mama would do the rest. She volunteered to oversee us all, her own unruly pack of kits. She would plan meals, buy supplies. She would arrange for what went with us; she would plan it all.
By then, our spring-summer had arrived. Over the centuries, each species of animal had adapted sleep patterns to fit its needs amid the peculiarities of Alaska summer and winter. Generally they slept or left in winter. But summer was a completely different matter.
Birds set their own daily timetables; no matter when hours of light arrived, or bronzed darkness descended, they kept their sensible sleep routine. They had been flocking to Seward’s meadows and mountains, frenetically preparing their new homes for their new families.
Other animals had barely awakened from their winter slumber, but knew instinctively to begin to prepare for the next long winter sleep. Ground squirrels, hoary marmots, various rodents busily scurried about taking advantage of every hour of their lengthening days, mating and caring for their young households. As they intently scurried about, they were likely pursued by red fox and coyotes, just as eager to feed their broods.
Bears, particularly sows with new cubs, awoke emaciated after their winter snooze. What was their summer schedule? we wondered. When did they sleep in summer? We soon found out—they are driven to eat, and eat, sleeping only when fullness makes them sleep. Then, when they awaken, they begin eating again.
As for human animals, we would arise to a sluggish dullness at a very early hour and toss about in that same dullness before sleep arrived.
To this day, I think the birds have the right idea.
So it was that very early one morning, a morning blessed with sunshine, we set out on our hike along Resurrection River toward destinations chosen and known only by our sage guide.
Snowmelt from Mt. Marathon meandered in myriad trickles toward Resurrection River, sometimes veering into shallow side streams and eventually into the bay itself.
