Jimmy Bluefeather: A Novel (32 page)

“Crystals?” Keb heard himself say.

James nodded.

Was that it, then? We find each other, but it takes time. Things have to happen slowly, and deep down. Keb could see himself in that rock, his entire family, the light crystals, Norwegian; the dark, Tlingit. “I can’t be like you,” James said, as if confessing. “I can’t be everything you want me to be, Gramps. I can’t live your life.”

Keb shook his head. He remembered a winter hunting trip with Uncle Austin when he was a small boy doing his best to follow in deep snow. “I can’t walk as big as you,” he complained. “You don’t have to walk as big as me,” Uncle Austin told him. “You just need to walk quiet.” Had Keb told James that story? He needed to say so much right now, and nothing at all. Kids these days, you can’t talk them into change; you have to
listen
them into change.

“You thinking about your mother?” Keb asked him.

“Yeah.”

“Your Aunt Ruby, you know, she tells you what you want to hear. But your mom, she tells you what you
need
to hear. She’s a good mom.”

“I know.”

Keb could see him thinking hard on something. “What is it?”

“My name . . . you know, my new name, Jimmy Bluefeather. It’s not really a Tlingit name, is it?”

“It depends.” To bestow a name was a serious matter.

“Did Mom tell you? After my accident my dad wrote me a letter, from Denver? He said he was sorry. He has a new job and a new son. He got remarried. And he hasn’t touched alcohol in two years.”

“That’s good.”

“He wants me to meet my little brother someday.”

“That’s good too.”

“You know . . . maybe my new name is Arapaho, Jimmy Bluefeather, from my dad. Or maybe it’s from my mom and dad both, part Tlingit and part Arapaho.”

“And part Norwegian.”

James smiled.

After a minute, Keb said, “My shoes . . . off.”

James helped him take off his shoes and socks, and said, “Barefoot, eh? It’s good.”

“Oyyee . . .”
Barefoot. Bearfoot
.

THE HOT CHOCOLATE was ready.

Little Mac poured it into an insulated mug and was walking it over to Old Keb when she stopped, stricken. Not fifty feet away stood Charlie Gant, and behind him his brother Tommy and their sidekick, Pete Brickman, dressed in camo. Keb felt James go stiff at his side, ready to spring. He was not as quick as he used to be, with his bad leg. Keb held him back.

“Hey, Keb,” Charlie said, “it’s good to see you.”

Keb tried to get his tongue to work.

Nobody said a thing.

“We don’t mean to frighten you,” Charlie added, his words measured. “We just want to show you something . . . something important.” He motioned to his brother who stepped forward with a mangled piece of light metal in his hand.

“What’s that?” Keb heard himself ask.

“I know what it is,” James said as he climbed to his feet and hobbled forward to take the piece of metal from Tommy. “It’s a D-ring used by choker-setters. This is what broke, isn’t it?”

Tommy nodded and looked forlornly at Little Mac.

“You got any more hot chocolate?” Charlie asked her.

“This thing’s not even steel or cast iron,” James said. “It’s not even titanium. It’s heavy aluminum.”

“Tell him, Pete,” Charlie said.

“It wasn’t my doing.”

“Tell him, Pete.”

Only then did Keb see that Pete had that stupid baseball bat, the Louisville Slugger. What’d he expect to do? Hit a homer?

Charlie said, “Pete has a confession to make, an apology. Go ahead, Pete.”

Pete fired back, “You and Tommy were the ones who yanked the cable from up on the yarder.”

James hobbled over to Pete and stood before him. With no apparent fear he said, “But you were the choker-setter. You weren’t cutting that day, were you? You weren’t down the line with a saw. You were right in front of me. You were the choker-setter and you used only one stupid aluminum D-ring to cable the logs. You should have used three at least, all of them steel or cast iron, but you only used one.”

Pete froze.

Again, for a long moment nobody spoke. James turned the D-ring in his hands.

Keb was trying to get to his feet. No easy task.

Little Mac said, “Tommy, you want some hot chocolate too?”

Tommy flashed with anger. “You almost shot me with a pellet gun.”

“I missed you on purpose.”

“Not by much.”

“By enough. I could have hit you easy.”

“You hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, Tommy. I don’t hate anybody. You taught me to play the guitar and to sing. I’ll always be grateful to you for that.”

Tommy’s face twisted with confusion. Keb could see that he seldom heard such kind words.

Little Mac said to him, “I learned that Paul McCartney song you told me about, the reverse ‘Blackbird’ song.”

“‘Jenny Wren’? Was I right? Does he tune his guitar down a half step?”

“A full step. Some of the chords are real dissonant, but beautiful. Do you want hot chocolate?” This time Tommy nodded and mustered a small smile.

“There’s more,” Charlie said. “Pete and Tommy burned down your shed, Keb. They didn’t mean to, but they did. They were drunk and picking up pieces of burning wood from the campfire after everybody left that night, and throwing them around like goofballs, and one broke through your window, and with all the shavings on the floor, it just exploded and really took off. They’re sorry.”

“I am sorry, Keb,” Tommy said as he scuffed the ground with his boot, his head down.

“It was Tommy who done it,” Pete said, defiantly.

“Was not.”

“Was too.”

Pete raised the bat and James took a step back, the mangled D-ring still in his hand. He caught his leg on a root and fell. It happened so fast, Old Keb felt himself pass through a single drop of water and into the black eye of
Yéil
.

Raven.

ANNE WAS IN the woods, forty feet away, when she saw the wolf—no, a coyote—no, a crazy stub-tailed dog charging straight at a man who raised a big baseball bat, a dog coming in from behind with blistering speed.

Pete turned but was too late. Steve hit him like a falcon and in seconds had him pinned to the ground, a mouthful of sharp teeth around his neck. Pete went pale as a mushroom.

Stuart walked into camp, picked up the bat, and helped James to his feet.

Keb blinked, and
Yéil
was gone. He heard Pete taking small rapid gulps of air, fighting back pain.

“Call off your dog,” Stuart said to Kid Hugh.

Anne walked directly to Old Keb, where the Chinese girl was already kneeling at his side, holding his hand in an obvious expression of love. “Keb Wisting,” Anne said, also kneeling beside him. “Stuart told me I should greet you in Tlingit, but I haven’t had time to learn a greeting, or even common names, I’m sorry.”

“Lyee sakoowoo saawx’ ch’a tleix ee jeedax goox la hash ee koosteeyi,” Keb said.

James spoke: “Gramps says ‘Language is everything. If you don’t know the names of things, your Tlingit way of life will drift away forever.’”

“Forever is a long time,” Anne said. “I don’t have any cornbread either.”

Keb brightened. “Cornbread?”

“Stuart recommended that I have some cornbread for you, and venison stew, but I don’t. Maybe another time. I do have a fast boat, though.”

“You’re the ranger . . . in the plane.”

“Yes, in May, when we flew from Jinkaat to Juneau, I was the ranger in the plane, sitting next to you. I’m really not a ranger, though.”

“You had sad eyes then. They aren’t so sad now, that’s good.”

“Yes,” Anne glanced at Stuart, “there’s a reason for that.”

“You gave me my feather,” Keb told her, “after I dropped it.”

“Yes.”

“I still have it.”

“I know. I’m glad. We don’t have much time. The Marine Reserve Service has spotters on Feldspar Peak. They’ve probably already seen us, or our boats. Your canoe, I know you tried to sink it until tonight’s low tide, but it’s floating on the tide flat.”

“The canoe?”

“Yes, it refuses to sink.”

“Laa
x
,” Keb said. “Red cedar, from Nathan Red Otter.”

“The rangers will be here soon. I have a fast boat and can take you wherever it is you want to go.”

“No canoe?”

“Later, Keb. We’ll take good care of your canoe. But if you want to get someplace before the authorities arrive and overmanage you, your best bet is with me.”

He looked at her with eyes that had seen both sides of ninety-five years. Eyes she knew from twenty-two years ago, the most traumatic moment of her life. Eyes she trusted.

“Who are you?” the Chinese girl asked her.

“She’s a whale biologist,” James said, “and a good boat handler.”

CAN’T THIS THING go any faster?” James said with a mischievous grin.

“It’s a whale research boat,” Anne told him. “Whales go five knots or so. We’re doing twenty-four. You ever seen a whale go twenty-four knots?”

“Orcas, maybe.”

“They’re big dolphins, not whales.”

“They’re killer whales.”

“They’re big dolphins.”

“They have the wrong name, then.”

“Lots of things have the wrong name.”

“He’s teasing you,” Little Mac said to Anne. “It’s really good of you to give us this ride. Thank you.” She elbowed James in the ribs.

“Yeah, thanks,” James said, as he pushed Little Mac back affectionately.

Anne smiled, thinking: this Mackenzie Chen, alluring but not fragile, her long hair beneath a black beret. No wonder James fell for her, the way she leans into the morning and attends to Old Keb.
Was I ever so confident, beautiful, and kind?

They were headed east in Icy Strait, between Lemesurier Island and Point Carolus. The entire world would soon be on them: rangers, newspeople, boats from all over, people wanting to help but getting in the way. Anne knew that wherever they were going—wherever Keb decided to go—they needed to get ahead of everybody. In a few minutes they would make the turn north into Crystal Bay, if that’s what Keb wanted. Anne watched the old man sit low in a chair on the aft deck.

“Where to, Gramps?” James asked again.

The wind whipped Keb’s white hair. He put his face into it and let his one good eye drink in the dawn. He had his shoes off, toes pointed to the sky, the feather in one hand, three yellow cedar paddles across his lap. “Sít’,” he said. Anne watched Mackenzie sit beside the old man. Keb gestured with the feather, “Sít’ . . . sít’.”

“I am sitting, Keb,” Little Mac said.

“No, sít’, sít’.”

“The glacier,” James said. “That’s it, isn’t it, Gramps?
Sít’
is Tlingit for glacier?”

Keb nodded.
The glacier, yes, the ice of my youth
.

“North,” James said to Anne. “He wants to go up the bay.”

They passed Point Carolus and began a long turn into Crystal Bay. Anne could see boats at a distance, many others on her radar. Dozens. Maybe fifty to a hundred boats clustered around the entrance to the bay, and in Bartlett Cove. Any moving to intercept her? But how could they? She’d just go around them. It’s a big ocean, a wide bay, a free country. Stuart had said he would give her an hour before he called into Bartlett Cove about apprehending Tommy Gant and Pete Brickman, wanted for arson; one hour before the task force would know what happened in Dundas Bay. Kid Hugh had stayed behind to offer assistance. Steve, too, Deputy Dog.

“Go,” Stuart had said to Anne and Keb. “Go do what you have to do.”

It pained Anne to leave him behind.

As they moved north past Point Carolus, she could see boats heading out from Bartlett Cove, five miles or so to the east, and more boats behind those. She checked her radar. “They can follow us and even flank us,” she said, “but they can’t stop us.”

“We got enough fuel?” James asked.

“To get us to the glacier, yes, but back? I’m not sure.”

James pointed toward Point Carolus, now off their port quarter. “That’s where I heard the whales sing.”

“We’re going to have to talk about that someday,” Anne said, thinking, when I’m unemployed, next week, maybe tomorrow. She looked at Old Keb, who kept his face into the wind. He seemed both far away and present, deep in the moment. Mackenzie held his hand. The sea was flat calm over a flooding tide, the entire bay, a painting, a watercolor. A low September sunrise hit golden cottonwoods that shone like candles. Distant peaks stood at ease with new snow below a rosy glow. Seabirds busied themselves everywhere—murrelets, scoters, phalaropes, guillemots, gulls.

“How’d you know how to find us?” James asked Anne. “Back there in the woods, in Dundas Bay?”

“If I told you it was a raven would you believe me?”

“Yes.”

“It wasn’t. It was an emergency location transmitter in your canoe.”

James stared at her, his mouth open in surprise.

“Stuart put it there before you left Jinkaat.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yep.”

“That Stuart,” James said in wonder. “He’s full of surprises.”

“Yes, he is.”

ANNE TURNED ON the VHF radio and got a barrage of hails. First from Ron, then Paul, then a voice she didn’t recognize, each calling the
Firn
on channel sixteen. She turned it off. She had to think. She could call Taylor on Taylor’s cell; hear a friendly voice, find out what’s going on. But that could get Taylor in trouble for conspiring with a rogue ranger, a runaway biologist. Anne throttled back.

“What are you doing?” James asked.

“Slowing down.”

“Why?”

Anne turned on the radio, channel sixteen, and announced, “All vessels in Crystal Bay, this is the NMRS research vessel
Firn
. You’re now in ‘whale waters’ and are required to travel mid-channel and no faster than thirteen knots. Please slow down.”

A spotter plane flew by at five hundred feet, circled, and passed over again. A helicopter ripped in from the east, probably from Strawberry Flats. It hovered off Anne’s starboard bow, pacing her, a TV cameraman shooting out the open door. Anne saw Old Keb put his hands to his ears. Off her stern, an armada followed. Maybe it was time to smoke the joint. She asked James, “Are the other boats gaining on us?”