Primal Scream (33 page)

Hazelton

Redcoat versus Cree.

The Last War Cry.

Almighty Voice, a Plains Cree, was jailed in 1895 for killing a steer. He escaped from the guardroom at Duck Lake, so Sergeant Colebrook rode out to bring him in. When the Mountie found the fugitive days later, the Cree shot him through the neck with a shotgun. It took two years to track Almighty Voice, but the renegade was finally spotted near Duck Lake, where he and three Cree youths were chased onto a bluff and surrounded. Backup arrived and the bluff was stormed, a fiasco t
hat cost the lives of two Mount
ies and a volunteer. The Cree dug in for a last stand.

News of the standoff reached Regina during a ball to see a contingent off to London for Queen Victoria's Jubilee. Fearing the Cree might rebel in mass, H.Q. sent twenty-five troops and two artillery guns to the bluff. The nine-pound Maxim gun pointing east, the seven-pound Mark II aiming south, both cannons opened fire at dawn. The Cree were blasted with shrapnel until seven a.m., then side by side the guns pounded them with explosive shot. Nothing moved when police stormed the bluff a second time. They found Almighty Voice and two youths dead, but Iron-child had somehow slipped away. Father to Alfred, grandfather to Katherine Spann, Inspector Wilfred Blake rode off to bring him in.

A century later, the New War Cry.

Because he was Plains Cree from Duck Lake, Ghost Keeper understood the standoff at Totem Lake was a lost cause. The rub was to keep history from repeating itself, with Members dead and natives annihilated. These rebels were a motley crew, drawn from many bands north and south of the line, coalescing around myths like Almighty Voice and Wounded Knee. What they lacked was a tie to the sacred land, for while the sundance was a potent focus to revive native pride and spirituality, it was a ritual foreign to Gitxsan bands, on whose sacred land the circle stood.

After the phone call from DeClercq, Bob George lay on his back in a hospital bed, wondering how to unravel the Gordian knot at Totem Lake, when Herb McCall walked by his door.

"Hey!" George called.

The landowner stopped. "You talkin' to me?" asked the white.

"How's your grandson?"

"Scared and scarred."

"I'm the Mountie arrow-shot last night. Spare time to talk?"

McCall eyed him suspiciously but stepped into the room.

"Have a seat."

The white shook his head. "Say what you gotta say. I have things to do."

"I'm wondering if you and I can work this mess out peacefully. The way I see it, you're in a squeeze. The Gitxsan hate you 'cause you hold their land, and whites hate you 'cause you're costing them jobs and bucks. The land is sacred, so this won't go away. The face on the rebel shirts is Almighty Voice, who's been dead for a hundred years. The way I see it, you got a choice. If I was you, I'd ask myself what's best for me. You can be that asshole who got everybody riled. Or you can be the man of the future in the north, righting the wrong done to sacred land, a savior to native and white alike, who settled past and present grievances, and showed us all how to coexist."

"Bullshit," scoffed McCall.

"You don't understand 'spin.'"

"So how do I become this White Knight?"

"Give Totem Lake to the Gitxsan."

"Are you crazy? Know what that land's worth?"

"Not as much as it's costing local business every day. Nor as much as it will cost your grandkids in the future. About as much as I expect businessmen to donate to buy a better haven for you so they can get on with business."

McCall approached the bed. And turned a chair around. And sat down straddling the back.

"Waterfront?" he said.

West Vancouver

Tired from his ordeal last night and its aftermath today, Robert DeClercq returned home to his hearth and a finger of scotch. His home ablaze with the aromas of Katt's infamous six-alarm chili, his hearth ablaze with the cheeriest fire ever to warm bones, his stomach soon to be ablaze with the burn of Highland malt, he entered the front room, where Katt sat curled up in the Holmes chair with Napoleon and Catnip snoozing together on the rug. The floor space which yesterday had spread out the Headhunter file was littered with library books. The TV was on, picture only, across from her, sound replaced by Nirvana on the stereo. He killed the noise to pour the drink and sink deep into the Watson chair, thankful the dark ages were gone when he'd come home hungry to a cold, gray shell.

"You're all over the tube," she said. "In Seattle, too."

"Want to know what it's like to survive a shark attack?"

"His fifteen minutes of fame, and Bob hates every second."

Sipping the malt at room temperature, as it should be imbibed, he eyed the books and said, "Going for your Ph.D.? What's your thesis on?"

"Gitxsan, Bob. My socials teacher wants a paper on something connected to what's happening up north. I picked the potlatch." "Good, then you can help me solve this case, too." He propped his feet up on the footstool. "What should I know?"

The amateur thespian in her enjoyed nothing better than an audience, especially when given the stage for a subject
made
to act out, and what could be more actable than a potlatch before Captain Cook?

Captain Hook, she called him.

This Tinkerbell.

"Return with me, Bob, to those thrilling times of yesteryear, before the Bad Guys ventured north in their sailing ships." Katt spread her arms in front of her to weave the spell. "We're on the Skeena. River of Mists.
'Xsan
to natives.
Git
—people—of the
'Xsan
. Gitxsan, get it?"

"Got it," he said.

"Every Gitxsan village fronts on the Skeena or a tributary. Lining the riverbank are totem poles"—her finger played leapfrog in the air—"backed by wooden lodges owned by families. Each family is called a House and led by a chief. The name of each House is the name of its chief. The Gitxsan have names like 'Bloody and frozen,' 'Step heavily, sinking in snow,' 'Like crazy man,' 'Outside noise,' and, my favorite, 'Rope dragging and always catching on something.' Every House belongs to one of four clans"—her hands dealt the Houses into groups like playing cards— "Eagle, Fireweed, Wolf, and Frog/Raven. A village usually has two clans. The Houses of each clan rank left or right in descending order of social status. And status is determined by the potlatch feast."

DeClercq sniffed the air. "I smell it cooking. Is that eulachon grease?"

"The four of us are Houses in a village, Bob. I'm lead Wolf, you're lead Frog, so we live side by side hi center on the riverbank. The lesser Wolf"—a finger at Napoleon—"and lesser Frog"—Catnip—"have lodges on our flanks. Sixty-three Gitxsan Houses are ranked this; way, with each village located in its hunting ground,? a vast tract of land stretching north that is subdivided! among Houses in the village. You, me, dog, and cat each have separate grounds, precisely denned by rivers; and markers like debarked trees. The chief of the' House is headhunter within his realm, and when he goes hunting he invites his household along, as well as other Houses hi his clan. A Frog cannot hunt on Wolf land, or a Wolf on Frog. Gitxsan law is you can't enter a House unless invited, so how we keep up to date on boundaries is the potlatch feast."

"This feast sounds more important by the minute," said DeClercq.

Katt stood up and paced, getting into it. "The big thing to remember, Bob, is Gitxsan have no writing, so everything is recorded in art, then passed down through oral histories called
ada'ox
. Each House can be traced back to a supernatural origin, when a spirit' or monster 'seen' by a family member during a magical event became a House crest. Other crests capture the adventures and conquests of warrior chiefs, or the deeds of those that brought disaster in their wakes. Crests and the legends behind them are owned by the House, along with names, songs, dances, and masks that act them out. Only those who inherit the right may interpret the crests, each of which is somehow tied to the land, so telling the myths behind them is like waving a deed. Deed waving is done at—"

"Don't tell me," interjected DeClercq. "A pot-latch feast?"

"A House holds a potlatch feast when someone moves up in status, or status is jeopardized. Potlatch means 'to give' in Chinook jargon, the common trading tongue of West Coast tribes. A feast is held for any occasion requiring witnesses. Naming, piercing, and tattooing of kids. Marriage. Removing shame. And, primarily, to pass leadership.

"Feasts take place in winter between freeze-up and thaw."

Katt paddled an imaginary boat.

"Messengers travel by canoe to invite guests. They gather by the thousands in the longhouse around which a village centers. There the host takes the name of the dead chief, and a totem pole is erected to the memory of the deceased. Hereditary rights are claimed through crests on the pole, the myths of which are acted out in word, dance, and song. The witnesses confirm their host owns the crests, and the land tied to them. As thanks the guests are fed and offered lavish gifts, for status of the House depends on pot-latch. The more given, the higher the rank."

Katt gave DeClercq her Public Enemy CDs.

"But the coolest part is what goes on before the feast. A potlatch meeting might last weeks. The Gitxsan have two secret societies, and they hold rituals in the days before the Big Eat.

"Now listen closely, Bob. This is important. Anything connected with the supernatural is called
nax-nox. Naxnox
is power from the spirit world, which exists in monsters, animals, and humanoid beings impersonated by masks. Since masks are faces of power, we become
naxnox
through possession, and wearing masks at rituals called
halait. Halait
is any ritual manifestation of power. It is both the dancer and the dance. The person displaying power and the ritual in which it occurs.
Naxnox
is what is revealed in
halait
."

"Personification of power?"

"You got it, Bob.
Halait
occurs at meetings of two secret societies before the feast. They are the Dancers and the Dogeaters. The Dogeaters have rituals inherited by chiefs. These are for Destroyers and Cannibals. This is the creation myth."

Katt performed her rendition of each dance as she came to it.

"Four men from Kitamaat failed in their attempt to kill a lake monster. They followed it to the end of the lake and saw four houses with bright paint and cedar-bark rings hung over the doors emerge from the water. A man came out of the first house and danced as if he were lame. The man from the second house danced wilder than him, leaping and barking as if possessed by a dog. From the third house came a chief who destroyed things while he danced. The chief from the fourth house danced the weirdest of all, and sang in a language unknown to the four men. Suddenly, he sprang in the air and devoured a child in his grip. The witnesses to this were informed: Those of your people you thought dead are the ones you hear singing, and it is they who give these dances to you.' "

DeClercq clapped his hands.

Katt took a bow.

"
Halait
initiation is a frenzied affair. The term is
hilaxha
, 'going to the heavens.' Each society makes a chief
wihalait
, a 'great dancer' who 'throws'
naxnox
into novices. They vanish out the smoke hole to acquire wisdom in heaven, then return naked in a wild, possessed state, dancing lame or as if eating dogs. Encountering heavenly spirits has overwhelmed them, and excess power makes each lame or crazy. Like a shaman curing illness, the
wihalait
sucks their backs and blows the excess out the smoke hole. When he hangs a cedar ring as in the myth around a neck, the 'made person' is
halait
in the society.

"Chiefs who join the Dogeaters face stronger power in heaven. They return berserk to destroy property or, in the most feared state, to eat human flesh. While dancing a dance called the
ulala
, a cannibal feasts on the corpse of a slave."

Katt scooped up Catnip and pretended to gobble his tummy.

"Gitxsan had slaves?"

"From outside their territory. How else could they amass the wealth for potlatch feasts?"

"Life's a bitch, and then you're meat."

"Tough times, Bob."

Catnip hissed, so down he went, back to snoozing with dog, who was oblivious to the Dogeater performing onstage.

"
Halait
rituals are staged by a council called the
gitsontk
. They make the masks and devices that manifest
naxnox
. Chance upon them preparing and the intruder is put to death."

"Serious stuff," said DeClercq.

"A spectacular
halait
presented by a high-ranking chief was the Crack of Heaven. It was dramatized with a transformation mask that opened to reveal another mask inside. Members of the society gathered in a lodge. The fourth time the mask opened caused the house to crack. Half the room slid backward from the other half, taking half the center fire and congregation with it. The roof split open as the beams moved; then the mask closed to bring the lodge slowly back together. That was a
naxnox
with power.

"A chief 'going to the heavens' asked the
gitsontk
to prepare his return on a mechanical whale. Made from sea-lion skins, the whale was designed to swim and dive by means of ropes pulled by men hidden onshore. So the whale would spout, hot stones inside boiled water until steam billowed out the blow hole. During this
halait
a hot rock burned through the whale's skin, causing it to sink. Those involved in the failure committed suicide, knowing they'd be put to death." Katt drew a finger across her throat.

"Fantasy must be perfect. Reality never is," said DeClercq.

"Each
naxnox
has a mask, song, and name. These are owned by the Houses and are inherited. After carving by artists of the
gitsontk
,
naxnox
masks become beings of power themselves. Each mask has a 'breath' sung when it is worn, and a whistle to represent the voice of the spirit. When a Gitxsan 'takes the name,' he dramatizes it by wearing the mask. From then on, the names of the
naxnox
mask and the person are the same. 'We become our names,' Gitxsan say. Since power resides in the masks, they are kept strictly hidden from those not allowed to use them, and are only exposed at
halait
rituals before the feast.
Naxnox
names dramatized for and by guests in the secret societies transform members into
naxnox
like these."

Katt's toe touched photos of masks in books on the floor. "Corpse of Ghost," with strips of leather and string sealing the mouth. "Hagawhlamanawn: He Uses His Hands to Cut With," including a
cedar knife to slash at guests.
"Hermaphrodite," "Skeleton," and "Spotted Face" marked by smallpox. "Mother of Rat," "Grizzly Man," and "Land Otter Woman," a: skull face that stole souls from the drowned . . .

"You grasp what
halait
is, don't you, Katt?
Halait
before a potlatch creates opposing rituals to remind the Gitxsan of the need to live within social boundaries. A
naxnox
mask allows the person inside to revel in sacred games of power release and boundary transgression. Such chaos and destruction require the subsequent balance of order and structure in the feast. The same participants meet for both and, after wanton abandon in
halait
, hide away their
naxnox
to celebrate the boundaries of rank, lineage, culture, and peaceful coexistence. But they do so with the knowledge that under Apollonian pomp lurks Dionysus."

Katt bristled at this interruption from the peanut gallery. Some ham was trying to elbow onstage.

"Very deep, Bob."

"Take it down. That's the sort of insight teachers love."

"It's a lot of hooey. Maybe them dudes just liked to party."

"Another perspective."

"Then the party poopers arrived."

"Captain Hook and his ilk?"

"Captain Vancouver, Bob. He sailed up the coast in 1798, and the next century the missionaries came. They got a peek at the potlatch and crapped themselves. Appalled priests ran to politicians for a ban, demanding it as a precondition to civilizing the heathens. How could they lead productive and moral lives if they gave away all possessions in a vainglorious pursuit of social esteem? Listen to this," Katt said, grabbing notes she held out like a town crier: