Jimmy Bluefeather: A Novel (17 page)

A red cedar dugout canoe should not be retrofitted and put to sea so soon after the steaming, Keb knew. It normally needed weeks to cure. But these were not normal times. Warren had no objections. He said this was Keb’s canoe, not his.

Both sides of Old Keb’s soul told him everything had been in preparation for this journey, this moment. It was James’s life to live, Keb’s death to die. The rainy mist had become a misty rain, counting time. Irene brought Keb three good blankets and a pillow.

“I put Gracie on the plane to Juneau,” she told him, “to go see a doctor. You shouldn’t be going off in this canoe when she’s feeling so poorly. You know that?” Yes, Keb knew that. He knew that Irene guilt-tripped everybody. She sent Mitch on so many guilt trips that Truman said he qualified for frequent flyer miles. “You know I’m right,” Irene said. Irene was always right. Live in Jinkaat long enough and you’d know it too, or pretend to, or pay the price if the pretense wasn’t perfect. Irene went around town with curlers in her hair telling everybody how to raise their kids and grow their gardens. Dag said she got those curlers too hot one day and fried her brains, several times. Refried brains.

Galley Sally handed Keb a box and said, “It’s mostly fish and vegetables
cooked in lemon, and peanut butter cookies. Some sweets and morsels for the dog, too.”

“The dog?” Irene said to Keb. “You’re taking the dog?”

Steve wagged his chewed-off tail.

The box had a strange fruity smell, as if Sally had squeezed in a kiwi instead of a lemon. Keb thanked her and handed it to Oddmund, who put it in the canoe.

For months Keb had imagined this as a covert launching. He and James pushing away while the town slept; paddling into storms and autumn’s darker nights, all the way to Crystal Bay and another blue that’s true, a glacier blue. Paddling through time and into another place, another existence: the rib of the raven, the wrist of the whale, the defiance of the kingfisher, the patience of the heron. These past few years, when facing what he’d become, the husk of the man he used to be, Keb had wished he were dead without having to die. It frightened him, though he couldn’t say it.

Death is not so bad as dying, Dot had told him in her last shallow breath; if only death came first. But right now, this very minute, Keb was more alive than he’d been in a long time. He felt defiant—was that it? Yes, defiant. And stunned too, that such defiance could still arise in him.

Twenty people stood on shore, and every minute more arrived. People on the edge of the moment, moving with the rain, helping to load the canoe, proof that no secrets survive in a small town. No sign of Stuart or the troopers or James or Kid Hugh. What about Little Mac? Would she make it?

It was dark, a little past high tide. Late August. Time to go.

Keb fidgeted. He heard once that death is like the sun. You can’t look straight into it. Die at night then. Close your eyes. Live half your life making stories and the other half telling them. Be grateful. People used to die of toothaches. Wolves still do, but you never hear them complain. Where was Nathan Red Otter? The canoe needed his Haida blessing. Keb was uncertain how it would behave at sea without a proper blessing. He felt his stomach turn, more from excitement than fear. Where was Father Mikal? The second oldest man in town, Keb’s friend for fifty years. Father Mikal was almost dead, like Keb, and often bedridden with a million things wrong. He refused to go to Seattle, knowing as Keb did, that if you’re sick and go down there to get well, you don’t get well. You get sicker and never come home. You die among strangers, and once you die you’re dead and have nothing to say about it. Death is the general condition. Life is the exception: a beautiful, love-filled exception. Keb hoped Father Mikal was okay. He hoped the old priest would forgive him for leaving like this, without a
final good-bye. As a boy, Father Mikal had known Uncle Austin and hunted with him. That meant a lot to Keb. Father Mikal was a good cribbage and poker player, too, a man of mischief and deep conviction and long robes with hearts and jacks up his sleeves, who once said God must have had a sense of humor to create us.

Keb heard ATVs cutting the night. He saw a motorcycle out in front, going like hell, headlights bouncing along the beachfront road as the machines hit potholes but refused to slow down. The motorcycle roared up first. No mistaking the rider. Kid Hugh climbed off and came loping over. No Lakers jersey or old tennis shoes this time. He wore an oil-stained rain slicker, XtraTuf Neoprene boots, and a duct-taped sou’wester. Over one shoulder he carried a small duffel, over the other, a rifle in a soft case.

James followed on an ATV with Little Mac on the back. She was dressed like Kid Hugh, except for a black beret aslant on her head, and her XtraTufs rolled down to her ankles. They pulled a small cart loaded with half a dozen plastic totes, each filled with clothing, food, and other supplies. They dismounted and got to work hauling. Others helped, and formed a line from the ATV to the canoe. Little Mac hugged Keb hard. For all the chatter of a minute before, the beach was silent. No wind. No waves lapping on shore. Nobody said a word. No voices carried across still water from the boat harbor half a mile away. No geese called out their southbound journey. No loons or ravens or gulls. No soft breathing of porpoises or seals. Only the rain. The strumming, thrumming rain. The canoe sat abeam a floating dock that nobody used anymore. It floated true, near as Keb could tell, and was nicely trimmed out with strong thwarts and ample freeboard. James and Kid Hugh packed it well, watching the trim as they did. Without a word, Little Mac grabbed her pack and guitar and a blanket from Irene and walked down the dock, climbed into the canoe, and positioned her things near the fo’c’sle.

Stuart Ewing drove up in his Jeep.

Keb looked at him, the rain running off the rim of his hat.

“I’m not going to ask you not to do this, Keb,” Stuart said.

“Good.”

“It’s your life.”

“Yes.”

“You know there’s a small craft advisory for Icy Strait?”

“Yes.”

Stuart walked onto the dock, past James and Kid Hugh. He shone a small light down the length of the canoe, knelt beside it, ran his hand along the gunwale.
“She looks good, Keb.” Everybody watched. Nobody spoke. Little Mac was at the far end; Keb noticed that Stuart avoided shining the light directly on her. He could hear Oddmund and Dag whispering behind him, and many others. Stuart stood and asked Kid Hugh, “Are you the registered owner of that rifle?”

“Yes?”

“What about you, James?”

“What about me?”

“I’m supposed to pass along a message from Ruby.”

“Oh?”

“She told me she’s left several messages for you.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“She asked me to stop you from going out in this canoe, in worsening weather. She’ll be in Juneau tomorrow morning and plans to fly out here first thing. She said she wants to talk to you about your future.”

“Let him go,” Oddmund said from the crowd.

“You can’t stop him,” Dag added. “He’s done nothing wrong. You have no authority in this.”

James said to Stuart, “This is my future.”

Stuart nodded, “I know that.”

“But my aunt doesn’t.”

Stuart shrugged. “She gave me her cell number to make sure you have it.” He extended his hand, holding a little piece of paper.

Keb noticed James’s posture, the way he stood, not favoring his bad leg like before.

Stuart’s hand remained extended.

“I know her number,” James said softly, his voice deeper than before.

“The tide’s turning,” Oddmund said.

Kid Hugh walked past Stuart and climbed into the canoe. Steve bounded in after him.

James said to Stuart, “Have you heard anything about my mom?”

“Only that she’s in Juneau. I’ll check in with her daily if you’d like.”

“I’d like that.”

“Take good care of your grandfather.”

“I will.”

“Pace yourself.”

“I will.”

“What do you think, Keb?” Oddmund asked, apparently concerned that
the tide or rain or building wind would change his mind. “What’s it going to be? Stay or go?”

Old Keb reached up and felt the rain in his hair. Nobody carves canoes anymore. He looked at James.

“
Óoxjaa Yaadéi
,” James said. “Against the wind. We go.”

ANNE FOLDED HER laundry in the large common room apartment in Bartlett Cove, while Ranger Ron and two other men shot pool and drank Alaskan Amber next to a small chattering television. The Juneau eleven o’clock news came on. The anchorman said, “We now take you to Jinkaat, a live report, where Tanya Pantaletto has more breaking news about Keb and James Wisting. Tanya, what can you tell us?”

Anne put down her laundry. Ron put down his pool cue.

“Good evening, Bill. Yes, this is a rapidly unfolding story. About two hours ago, high school basketball star James Wisting and his grandfather Keb Wisting, the oldest man in Jinkaat, pushed off in a newly carved red cedar dugout canoe that was dedicated last night in a big ceremony. Very early this morning Keb Wisting’s house burned to the ground, the result of suspected arson. I’m now on the beach in Portage Cove, just outside Jinkaat, where townspeople witnessed the canoe’s departure.” The camera swept left and right to show many faces behind Tanya, and beyond the faces, the dark of the night.

The anchorman asked, “Where are they going in the canoe?”

“Nobody knows. They initially headed north, toward Icy Strait. From there they might continue north to Crystal Bay, the ancient homeland of the Jinkaat Tlingit.”

“What are the sea conditions?”

“It’s pretty calm here, with a light rain. But the marine forecast is calling for a small craft advisory, with winds up to twenty-five knots and seas up to six feet. I have with me a friend of the Wisting family, Oddmund Nystad.” Next to Tanya stood a lanky man who was no stranger to the rain, slightly hunched with wispy hair across his wet brow, water dripping off his angular face. “I understand, Mr. Nystad, that you witnessed the launching of this canoe.”

“Sure did. We all did.
”
His voice whispered through his nose. “They took a dog, too, in the canoe, named Steve.”

“The canoe is named Steve?”

“No, the dog is Steve. The canoe is
Against the Wind
.”

“Are you worried about them?”

“Not at all. The canoe runs straight and has good freeboard, and a kroner under each mast.”

“A kroner?”

“A Norwegian coin, for luck. That’s how the Vikings found Greenland a thousand years ago.”

“With kroners under their masts?”

“Yep.”

“Did they take an outboard?”

“Nope, they didn’t have outboards a thousand years ago.”

“Not the Vikings. Keb Wisting and his party, did
they
take an outboard?”

“Oh no, Keb don’t like outboards. Too noisy. Besides, there’s no transom on this canoe, no place to mount a motor of any kind.”

“Do you know where they’re going?”

“Don’t tell her, Oddmund,” a voice yelled from off camera. A goofy look came over Oddmund’s face, a small accomplishment, Anne thought, given what he had to begin with, all eyebrows and nose. Tanya the reporter made the mistake of swinging her microphone into the crowd to pick up more comments.

“Hey, Oddmund,” came another voice, “show her what a real kroner looks like, the one under your mast.”

A rueful smile came over Tanya’s face.

“They’re going to Crystal Bay,” shouted another voice.

“Shut up, Roger.”

“You shut up, Mitch.”

“Nobody’s going to find him as long as he’s got that magic feather.”

The camera swung its light onto more wet faces. A few people waved.

“Crystal Bay,” Tanya said, as the camera turned back to her, “is the Native homeland of the Jinkaat Tlingit. It’s where they came from long ago, and where, if you ask around, you’ll find they want to return again, some to fish and hunt and gather as they did long ago, others to open up industrial economic opportunities through PacAlaska, the regional Native corporation created more than forty years ago, long before Crystal Bay became a national marine reserve.”

The anchorman asked, “Is it possible that Old Keb Wisting would try to take his canoe all the way to the glaciers?”

“It’s possible. The glaciers are more than one hundred miles from here. They no doubt have special significance for him; they carved and shaped his homeland.”

And he’s a carver too
, Anne thought.

“Old Keb trusts no land that has no glaciers,” somebody shouted from off camera.

Anne smiled.
Let the old man go. Just let him go
.

Tanya said, “The glaciers in Crystal Bay today are small remnants of the great glacier that occupied all of Crystal Bay just two hundred and fifty years ago, a glacier that was one hundred miles long, ten to twenty miles wide, and in some places, more than four thousand feet thick. It’s the glacier that forced the Tlingit out of the bay, and has since retreated to unveil a new land, a new bay where Keb Wisting hunted and fished as a boy.”

“And picked berries,” came a voice from the crowd.

The anchorman said, “Keb Wisting is the father of Ruby Bauer, the Pac-Alaska advocate for challenging federal jurisdiction in Crystal Bay. How might this canoe journey affect that lawsuit?”

“Hard to say, Bill. I’ll have continuing news on this story in the morning, exclusive here on Channel Four.”

The anchorman thanked Tanya and moved on to the next story.

Ron put down his beer and headed for the door. Turning, he said to Anne, “This is the exact thing Director Johnson was afraid of. A publicity stunt to help PacAlaska get into Crystal Bay.”

Anne said, “I don’t think that’s Keb Wisting’s intention at all.”

“It doesn’t matter what his intention is, Anne. It matters what the rest of the world makes it out to be. It matters what the media and PacAlaska turn it into. We’re going to need total control on this, with an incident command team and trained law enforcement personnel from Washington. I’m calling Paul.” Ron seemed thrilled, as if he fed on conflict. Anne wondered: Did the last flower of summer just die?