Kolymsky Heights (7 page)

He returned to take his First, however, and, as not only a prize student but now Canada’s prize Indian, was offered a Rhodes scholarship to Oxford. He accepted at once, again for reasons of his own. (His young wife was now, tragically, dead, and he was on his own again.) More than ever he was immersed in his work – and a difficulty had surfaced in it.

Proving that tribal story-tellers had good memories was not enough. What they remembered were stories. In official eyes the ‘claims’ were also stories. The repetition of them, in however much detail, did not make them true. What was needed was other evidence,
written
evidence. A single piece of it that could match, detail for detail, the oral version of the Indians would not only authenticate that version but help to validate all the others he had researched. At the least, it could take matters out of the Department of Indian Affairs and into the courtroom.

The evidence he particularly wanted related to treaties made between the Indians and the British in the years 1876,
1877 and 1889. In the pow-wows preceding them, various agreements had been arrived at.

‘These agreements’, as a framed inscription in his room reminded him, ‘remain in the memories of our people, but the government is wilfully ignorant of them.’ The inscription was a copy of a mournful resolution by a convention of chiefs. ‘Yet the obligations were historic and legal ones: solemn agreements. Indian lands were exchanged for the promises of the commissioners representing Queen Victoria.’

Unfortunately the commissioners’ promises did not appear in the published treaties although the details relating to land had been quite exact. When the British later gave up direct rule in Canada no promises turned up in the papers left behind. But they would be in
some
papers, Porter reasoned. Even to experienced colonial negotiators the circumstances of a powwow were exotic enough to merit record – in notes, reminiscences, letters perhaps, which could still be mouldering away somewhere in England. The question was, where? Oxford was a likely place to start finding out.

He had been in the town three months when the letter arrived from Canada. His old professor of biology there wrote to say that he was coming to Oxford for a conference on 29 June, and looked forward to seeing Porter. Which on 30 June he did.

The event was a reception for the visiting scientists, and his professor had taken him along as a guest. ‘After all,’ as he told him, ‘you were one of us yourself, before you fell into error.’ And he had introduced him to other biologists.

Porter, at the time, was an aloof disdainful figure of twenty-three. His head seemed over-large, and his hair over-long. He wore it cut in a fringe over his eyes with the rest hanging straight and black like a helmet all around. At any gathering he would have been distinctive, and even at this international one he stood out. Yet it was not one of the welcoming hosts but one of the receptive guests who identified him first.

‘A Canadian Indian?’ said the twinkling Russian.

‘Right.’

‘And from the north-west, I think. The Nass river?’

‘Skeena river.’

‘Ah. Tsimshean.’

‘Gitksan.’

‘Gitksan – I don’t know of. But all you north-westerners were late arrivals in that continent. You still look like our Siberians. You know of them, perhaps?’

Unsmiling, Porter replied with a burst of Evenk, at which, the Russian held up his hands. ‘Bravo! But it’s the people I know, my friend, not the language. You are ahead of me.’

Porter was ahead of him in English, too. Although the Russian’s vocabulary was good, he was once or twice at a loss for a word; and Porter supplied the word. He could even supply it in Russian, and this was the language they were speaking – his professor having left them to get on with it – when a third man, an Englishman, was hauled in to join them.

The name of the Englishman was Lazenby and the most prominent thing about him was his own extraordinary head. The vast and gleaming cranium, knobbly and extending in various directions, was devoid of a single hair. It contrasted weirdly with Porter’s own powerful array and was the reason the ebullient Russian had called Lazenby over. But they were soon discussing a variety of topics – the Russian’s animation very infectious. Asiatic migrations, pigmentation, natural defects, blindness … In some way they were on to Siberia, and discussing it in a mixture of English and Russian by the time that Rogachev (Porter had at last got the Russian’s name) had located the whisky. Food had been amply available on the buffet tables but not much to drink. And Rogachev had found the drink.

This was one of the things that Porter remembered next day: that the Russian had found the drink, and could hold it. While the Englishman, reluctantly matching them glass for glass, could not; he was unsteady on his feet when they left, Rogachev jovially proposing that they stagger home together.

In fact the Russian was being accommodated in college and Porter’s own college was in another direction. All the same they had walked Lazenby home, and on the way Rogachev
had arranged another meeting with the young Indian; whom by then he was calling Raven, having learned his clan and deciding the name was apter for him. In the same spirit he had allotted other names to himself and to Lazenby. But it was Lazenby who had suddenly discovered an urgent need to urinate. And Rogachev who had discovered the wall. And there the three of them had stood, companionably watering it, one set of chances having brought them there and another set, later on, to recall the scene.

Lazenby flew to Canada on a Tuesday, but it was not a Tuesday in April but in July; and not to Montreal but to Vancouver, several numbing hours farther. And so many changes of plan had occurred in between that he was half out of his mind before he started.

The fellow Raven seemed to be
wholly
out of his mind.

He had university jobs two thousand miles apart. He seemed to attend to them when he felt like it. He cut lectures, left classes, disappeared into woods. Lazenby would have kicked him out years ago; except Raven (
Dr Porter
, as they were calling him now) did not seem to be a person you kicked out so easily.

At Vancouver Lazenby was met by Hendricks, and a young colleague called Walters who had been making arrangements for him. These Lazenby heard about over dinner at the hotel.

Porter, it seemed, was at a place called Kispiox. It was up north, near Prince Rupert on the Skeena river. This was his home ground – Tsimshean Indian country – and he was in the forest there. His movements were not known from day to day but he was calling in regularly at the Kispiox post office.

‘He’s doing that twice a week, sir,’ Walters said. He was an abnormally clean young man with blue eyes and a blond moustache. ‘And he’s very prompt. He picks up his mail bang on mid-day, and answers it there, too. They all call him Johnny, he’s a favourite son. I was up there yesterday, and I phoned through this afternoon. He hasn’t been in this week but tomorrow’s Wednesday and that’s one of his days. So I’ve fixed this, if you agree.’

He had fixed a small jet to fly them to a place called Hazelton, not far from Kispiox, which would enable them to get there before noon. In case Porter did
not
look in tomorrow, he had also checked out hotel rooms where they could wait for him the following day.

Every bone in his body aching, Lazenby considered these arrangements somewhat sourly.

‘What time would that mean getting up?’ he said.

‘Not too early.’ Walters smiled. ‘It’s only about five hundred miles, so if we’re in the air by ten we’ll make it. I have transport laid on at Hazelton. From the airport there it’s just a drive through the woods to Kispiox.’

‘You’re coming, of course,’ Lazenby said to Hendricks.

‘No, George, I’m not.’ The relationship had flourished a little between them. ‘The fewer people the better. I only came to introduce this young fellow, your escorting officer. He’s done all the work anyway. He’s been around Porter for weeks.’

‘Have you spoken to him?’ Lazenby asked the young man.

‘No, sir, I haven’t. My orders were to make no contact.’

‘You make the contact, George,’ Hendricks told him. ‘He’s a very suspicious man, with a big phobia about us – probably warranted. This ethnic thing of his is quite wide-ranging, and we’ve been observing him a long time. He’s stirred up a lot of minority-group activity – in the States, too. But he’s on vacation now, and relaxed. The best thing is just to come on him and talk straight. Tell him what you know, and hope he’ll listen.’

Lazenby closed his eyes.

The idea of ‘making a contact’ with a very suspicious Indian 500 miles into the Canadian wilderness was not more surreal than the other things that had happened to him today. But he didn’t yet feel he had touched earth. A part of him seemed still to be floating between the Atlantic and the Rockies.

‘Yes. Yes, very well,’ he said.

So next day, the air again, in a small jet, buzzing north.

Mountains, lakes, forests drifted mistily below, veiled in rain. It was still raining at Hazelton, a dismal small airport with not much activity going on in it. The transport was waiting, however, a Toyota pickup, and they hurried into it.

They drove for some time on a hardtop road and then were off it and bumping and lurching along an old lumber track. Dense stands of spruce and hemlock dripped on all sides, and square stacks of trimmed logs, soaking gloomily in the dim light.

Kispiox itself, when they splashed into it, was not much cheerier. It lay in a large clearing, an Indian village with totem poles and frame houses and a white-painted frame church. Full washing lines were strung everywhere, clothes hanging like distress signals in the steady downpour. Apart from a few battered pickups there were no other signs of life.

The post office seemed to be a general store. It was empty apart from an old man smoking his pipe in a rocking chair.

‘Hi,’ he said, peering. ‘You the guy was over from Rupert – Mr Jackson, ain’t it?’

‘Right,’ Walters said amiably. ‘How you doing? I called up yesterday afternoon. You said Johnny would be in today.’

‘Oh well, shit!’ the old man said. He took his pipe out. ‘I clean forgot that. I should have told him you was in. I wrote down a note about it. Went right out of my head!’

‘He’s
been
in?’ Walters said.

‘Telephoned. About couple hours ago. He’s over at the Takla. Been there a few days, apparently. Hell, I’m sorry about that. Had him right there on the phone,’ the old man said. ‘You come over from Rupert special, then?’

‘Hazelton. Did he say how long he’d be at the Takla?’

‘Well, he wants his mail sent over. That takes two days. Has to go to Takla Landing, see.’

‘Where is Takla Landing?’ Lazenby asked.

Walters was worrying his small moustache. ‘About fifty miles,’ he said. ‘Maybe sixty.’

‘Seventy more like,’ the old man said. He was looking at Lazenby. ‘You English, mister?’

‘Yes,’ Lazenby said.

‘Thought that. Glad to know you.’ He was extending a hand and Lazenby shook it, observing for the first time that the man was an Indian. The big-boned face had quite a merry look, merrier than the recalled sombreness of Porter’s. He suddenly realised he remembered Porter’s face quite well. ‘It’s a shame you come special,’ the old Indian said. ‘Still, if you’re only over at Hazelton … Maybe I can call him for you, leave a message? Since I forgot it before.’

‘No, don’t worry about it,’ Walters told him. ‘He’s staying at Takla Landing, is he?’

‘No, he ain’t staying there. The
mail
goes there. Then by floatplane over to Bear. That’s where he is. Least, he said to readdress everything to Noreen’s.’

‘What’s Noreen’s?’

‘North end of Bear. That’s
Brown
Bear – the lake. Floatplane is the only way in. It ain’t no trouble for me to call there. Only government money,’ the old man said merrily.

‘Is it a logging camp?’ Walters asked, puzzled.

‘No, Noreen’s ain’t a camp,’ the Indian said, amused. ‘She has that lodge down by the lake. Puts up a beer, chow, a few bunks – it’s like for guys come up fishing. It wouldn’t be no trouble at all,’ he told Lazenby, ‘for me to call and say you looked in. Mister what was it?’

‘This is Mr Brown,’ Walters said, ‘and it isn’t even worth mentioning. He wanted a look at Kispiox anyway.’

‘Nothing to look at, all this rain. Been raining for days,’ the Indian said. ‘It ain’t raining at Bear. Johnny found that out.
Think he’s doing a bit of hunting, fishing there. Anything else I can do for you, then?’

‘Sure, I’ll take that note you wrote – could mix you up.’ Walters said.

The Indian found the note, behind the till, and they went back out in the rain, to the Takla.

The Takla was a chain of connected lakes and rivers stretching for 150 miles, and the Landing was somewhere over halfway up it. They left the pilot to wait with the jet there, and hired a floatplane.

Bear Lake was another half hour.

It was still not two o’clock when they touched down on it, the water very sombre. On all sides the trees stood like a wall around the lake. They taxied up an inlet to the jetty, and when the engine stopped the silence was massive. It was very grey and still here but, as the old Indian had said, not raining.

‘When you want picked up?’ the pilot asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Walters said. He mused. ‘You busy this time of year?’

‘Well, fish are rising. Char and Dolly Varden, big ones, all the way up. People are coming in. I could wait a while for you if you want, see if Noreen can take you. That smoke stack is hers, through the trees. But there’s other places.’

‘Okay, thanks. I’ll leave the bags,’ Walters said, and helped Lazenby out.

The air was very heavy as they tramped through the trees, and there were swarms of midges about. But they did not have to tramp far. Noreen’s was a rambling wooden structure with a broad porch and mosquito frames over the doors and windows. The hall inside was dark and empty, and Walters rang the bell on the desk.

Noreen came rubbing her hair with a towel, a round comfortable figure in dungarees, and she said she could take them, ‘long as you boys don’t mind bunking up together’.

Walters went out for the luggage while Lazenby, with some
misgiving, was led to the room he was to bunk up in. He saw with relief that the bunks were at least on opposite sides of the room, which was spacious and cedar-clad. ‘Plenty of cupboards,’ Noreen said. ‘This one here is for tackle, but no smelly stuff. That goes in the fish room. You over from England, then?’

Lazenby said he was and asked if a Dr Porter was staying there.

‘
Johnny
Porter?’ Noreen said. She looked at him curiously. ‘No, he doesn’t stay here. You looking for him?’

With a sinking feeling Lazenby realised that Porter didn’t seem to stay anywhere. The elusive shadow was always somewhere else. He felt exhaustion sweeping over him again. Already today he had taken off and landed three times, and plenty of afternoon still remained to pursue the phantom elsewhere about the lake. Except that, as a roar outside announced, the plane had just taken off.

He was explaining the matter of the mail when Walters returned with the luggage, and Noreen’s face had cleared.

‘Well, if he arranged that,’ she said, ‘I guess he’ll be in. He does that – has mail sent on here. I don’t mind. He’s okay, Johnny. When you know him. You know him well, Mr –’

‘Lazenby,’ Lazenby said firmly. ‘Professor Lazenby.’ He had seen Walters’s mouth open, and had not come to terms with Mr Brown.

‘Nice to have you with us,’ Noreen said. But her eyes were on the luggage. ‘You boys not planning on any fishing, this trip?’

‘Not this one,’ Walters said. ‘The professor here just wants to see Johnny – college business.’

‘Well, he won’t be in till dark, if it’s just for mail. And not till tomorrow, any case. Don’t come till then. Can I fix you boys something to eat?’

They had a moody lunch, and after it Lazenby took a nap; and woke up rather more cheerful. Noreen had indicated that if he was a fishing man he could take a rod and a boat tomorrow. This seemed such a reasonable way of filling in the
time until Porter showed up that he took himself briskly off to inspect the lake.

A few boats were coming in before dark, and he was encouraged still further by the splendid specimens they brought with them. Enormous great things; species of trout; presumably the char and Dolly Varden. And rainbows, glorious jobs, he’d never seen such a size. No salmon of course in this landlocked water, but things were definitely looking up.

And looking up to such an extent that as he sat with a sherry in a nook off the bar – Walters having discreetly taken himself off to play pool – he saw that the remarkable locality did indeed have salmon. Strange salmon, kokanee, lake-dwellers. A type of sockeye, no doubt. Yes, so they were: sockeye. His eyes fairly goggled through the fishing magazines. Rainbows over ten pounds. Char to thirty. God alone knew what the kokanee went to. Spin, troll or fly … The flies also of great interest. Variations of patterns he had used himself to good effect on the Spey. But also others that might get an even bigger effect. He mused over Mickey Finn, and the Goofus Bug – ‘good floater, deadly on fast water’. The Spey was the fastest water. He took note of the supplier of Goofus and was screwing up his eyes over the illustration when a voice spoke in his ear.

‘You were asking for me?’

He spilt his sherry.

A face like one of those on the totem poles was staring into his.

The cheekbones were high and flat, the eyes unsmiling. The long figure was bent over him, a pair of hunting boots on one end and drawn-back glossy hair on the other. The large face had a moustache on it now.

‘Raven?’ Lazenby said faintly.

‘Hi, Goldilocks,’ Raven said, answering another old question.