Primal Scream (34 page)

"During these gatherings they lose months of time, waste their substance, contract all kinds of diseases, and generally unfit themselves for being British subjects in the proper sense of the word."

"Hallelujah!" said DeClercq.

"So, on January 1, 1885, the potlatch was banned by a law that lasted until 1951. Priests forced natives to burn or surrender sacred
halait
art to God, and some—like this guy—sold
naxnox
for profit to collectors in Europe and the States."

She passed him a photo of a Catholic priest, taken standing in a church with loot at his feet. Hundreds of
naxnox
masks and
halait
treasures like headdresses and rattles and neck rings and blankets and whistles and clubs and canes. The priest was bony and bushy-bearded, with spiked eyebrows.

Rector Luke Noel.

"They thought totems were idols Indians worshiped, Bob. They didn't grasp the potlatch was the foundation of native society, and outlawing it would bring their history, leaders, economy, and religion crashing down. The potlatch was banned because they didn't understand it."

"Or because they understood it only too well."

"We're the bad guys."

"That we are."

"Isn't it ... Isn't it . . ."

"Yes, it is, Katt."

She left the stage and slumped back in the Holmes chair. "The news on Totem Lake did this roving reporter bit. All these whites bitched about Indians wanting the moon. How can they be so blind, knowing what we did to them?"

"It's called dissociation. It's a mental illness, Katt."

She made a note.

"I'll use that, Bob."

"When's your paper due?"

"Next Tuesday."

"Illustrations?"

"Show and tell."

"Tomorrow I fly to Gunanoot. I'll take a camera to snap some shots."

Katt lit up. "Can I come?"

"Certainly not."

"Why, party pooper?"

"You saw the news. Enough said."

"But that's nowhere near Gunanoot. Totem Lake's a light-year away. And that guy you're hunting is north in the bush."

"No!"

"Going alone?"

"Yes," he said.

"Then it's safe. Come on, Bob. It'll be a boon to have me along. I'll win the Gitxsan over. They'll think you're cool. You've got to cut me slack. I want to be a Mountie. It's the opportunity of a lifetime for a great mark. You don't know which crests to snap pictures of. It's not good parenting to cripple a kid's education. I need encouragement to—"

"Enough, Katt."

"Nax nox."

She rapped the air.

He looked puzzled.

"Nax nox.
Get it?" She rapped again.

"Who's there?"

"
Halait
."

"
Halait
who?"

"Ha lait
will you let me stay up and dance at the potlatch, Bob?"

The North

Thursday, January 11

"There," said Dodd, above the monotonous drone of the Beaver's engine.

Katt followed his finger to Stii Kyo Din—"Stands Alone"—renamed Rocher Deboule—"Tumbling Rock"—by whites, where the frozen 'Xsan met the frozen Wa Dzun Kwuh, renamed the Skeena and Bulkley by the map-making crew. The solitary mountain stood alone in a sea of peaks, runneled with melt-water channels and hoary with January ice, jutting eight thousand feet above Gitanmaax, renamed Ha-zelton by rewrite historians. Arced northwest within forty miles of where the rivers joined, all seven Gitxsan vil
lages could see the magic peak.

The teenager turned in the copilot's seat to shout back at DeClercq. "
Halaits
say power is embedded in the mountain.
Naxnox
manifests as tumbling rocks. The rocks tumble shortly before death of a high chief, or deaths of three people in a row.

Suddenly, an avalanche came down the peak.

Prophesy?

Not a cloud to mar the sky, they could see forever out the cockpit window. Two hundred miles west lay the Pacific coast. From its mouth at the tip of the Alaska panhandle, the Skeena angled northeast for one hundred miles to Terrace, where Herb McCall, erstwhile "owner" of Totem Lake, lived and logged.

This side of Terrace, Kitselas Canyon, hemmed in by the Hazelton Mountains, had marked where Gitxsan territories began, before Ottawa imprisoned the Houses on reserves. It was another one hundred miles upriver to Hazelton, past Kitwanga, where Nekt had built his
ta'awdzep
fort.

"Gunanoot," said Dodd, pointing true north.

The Beaver passed over road, rail, and river. Come spring, logging trucks would haul timber clear-cut from Gitxsan Houses west down the Yellowhead Hi
ghway to port at Prince Rupert.
Beneath the plane the CNR snaked the Skeena today, lugging a mile-long train with a hundred-odd cars: tanker cars, and wheat pool cars, and boxcars hiding their cargoes. Past the white river and mythical site of Tarn Lax Aamid— "Land of Plenty"—a long-lost city so populous it was said Gitxsan could yell loud enough to stun geese passing overhead, and so vast that where the birds fell was still the city, Dodd worked levers to drop the Beaver into the snowy valley of a Skeena tributary. A spine of mountains in between, the feeder ran parallel to the north-south upper reaches of the River of Mists, where the Skeena came down the Kispiox Valley to veer west at Hazelton.

East, beyond the Upper Skeena, lay Totem Lake.

The first thing Katt saw was the cross. High atop the spire of the Catholic church, it lorded over lesser buildings clustered around, giving the impression of a European parish. In its shadow stood the band office, a cedar square for leaders elected under the Indian Act, a system whites imposed to undermine the authority of hereditary chiefs. The new community was set back from the riverbank, where the ancient village centered around its longhouse for potlatch feasts. The lodges of the Houses flanked it left and right, in front of which loomed a line of crooked totem poles weathered silver by age, raised as testimony to a history extending back not centuries, but millennia.

The ancient village was rotting away.

Over the mountains to the west was Gitanyow. Over the mountains to the east was Kispiox. Nestled in this valley between was Gunanoot, most isolated of the seven Gitxsan villages and the last forced to bow to priests. The only way in or out by land was a gravel road, which Dodd used as a landing strip.

The skis hit the ice pack for the roughest landing DeClercq could recall. Those within were almost bounced out of their seats. The plane roared down the middle of the road as trees blurred by, branches unloading snow in its wake. The road was a washboard of ice heaves, and the shock absorbers were frozen.

"Fix 'em and fly 'em!" rodeoed Dodd, reining the Beaver to a halt. When the engine died, the only sound was a distant buzz of snowmobiles in the woods. The new call of the wild.

"Welcome to Gunanoot," the bushman said, climbing back to crack the door and let them out."I'll pick you up here this afternoon. Once I finish the milk run from Fort St. James."

They stood beside the road to watch Dodd take off. The pilot swiveled the plane around and fire-walled the throttle. Unless he achieved a takeoff speed of fifty-five mph quickly, he'd smash head-on into trees at a bend in the road. The skis cleared the treetops by what seemed like inches, and the Beaver banked over the mountains to the east.

The cavity of silence left when the engine noise faded was once again filled by the dentist's-drill buzz of snowmobiles.

Infernal machines
, thought DeClercq.

In the years before the white man dismantled their culture, hereditary Gitxsan chiefs would meet guests in the great lodge now rotting by the river. Wolves on one side, Frogs on the other, House chiefs would be seated around the walls according to rank. The middle seat at back was for the head chief, since he held the highest rank with the most power. In Gunanoot this seat was for the lead Wolf. The next highest chiefs of the clans flanked him, the next highest chiefs flanking them, and so on around both sides of the lodge, Wolf by Wolf and Frog by Frog, ending with the lowest ranks by the door where guests came in. Guests sat where the head chief said.

A House chief, as part of his ceremonial regalia, had a rattle to call Gitxsan to a feast. The head chief had as many rattles as there were subchiefs, and one of his own. A head chief with seven rattles had six chiefs under him.

The lead Wolf wore a headdress called an
amhalait
. This had a carved wooden crest on front and was trimmed with ermine skins. The crown of the
amhalait
was filled with eagle down, and when the chief danced his dance of welcome for a guest, he bowed his head so
mek-gaik
fell on both. Eagle down symbolizes friendship and peace, so if
mek-gaik
falls on you, you must be peaceful. Around the fringe of his dance apron hung the hooves of unborn caribou. His button blanket trimmed with fur was draped over his shoulders. His neck ring of woven cedar bark sparkled with abalone shells. His ceremonial rattle was gripped in his right hand.

Except to dance, the lead Wolf never stood. Except for trouble, the lead Wolf never spoke. Instead, he had another chief stand and speak for him. Each chief owned a copper shield with his crest. The bigger the shield, the bigger the chief. A head chiefs speaker knew what to say, having been instructed before the gathering. If there was trouble, the head chief would speak to settle the matter. So not to cause harm by what he might say, a Gitxsan chief always "talked slow."

Now the only vestige left of how it used to be was this chief talking slow to DeClercq.

He was Chief Simgiget.

He was lead Wolf.

They met in the band office next to the Catholic church. Financed by Ottawa under the Indian Act, it was a white man's building with white man's furniture. The act was passed in 1876—the same year Custer made his last stand—to bring every aspect of native life under federal control. The chief was nearing eighty, wizened, and wise, with flinty eyes in a weathered face, and a hunched arthritic body in a sleeveless padded jacket. A baseball cap replaced his
amhalait
.

"The village is deserted. Where is everyone?"

"Gitanmaax," said the chief. "Did you not call a meeting of all our Houses?"

"Yes," said DeClercq. "With your chiefs. If those at Totem Lake don't come out peacefully, there will be bloodshed."

The chief nodded. "Gun nuts. Thugs. False mystics. It is shame they bring to us. We do not seize land. We do not block roads. We do not speak through a gun. Yet we look like militants who disobey your laws. These are not our people. Yet they, too, seize our land. They use our claim to make a name for themselves. Their sundance is no ceremony of mine. We have ceremonies of our own. They mock our traditions and show disrespect for us. I hear they have cans of nitrogen fertilizer in camp. Is that not what blew up in Oklahoma? Or do they intend to fertilize the snow?"

Simgiget eyed DeClercq shrewdly, sizing him up.

"There are chiefs at Gitanmaax. Chiefs you elected under your Indi
an Act. Why do you come to Guna
noot to speak to me?"

"Because you are hereditary chief of chiefs. What right have I to ignore that?"

"There was a time when there were no white men on our land, and in those days we had full possession of it. What you did should be the other way. Should we not measure off pieces for you, not you measure off pieces for us?"

"Yes," said DeClercq.

"You call us 'Indians' because Columbus thought he was in India when he 'discovered' us. We call you many names. To those who met Cook and Vancouver, 'Suddenly, they're here' and 'People who live in a boat' were how we saw you. 'Rich at the mouth of the river' described what you had. 'Hungry people' described what you sought from us. You were
am sii wa
, or 'white driftwood on the beach.' Do you not agree we named you truer than you named us?"

"Yes," said DeClercq.

"A lumberman asked my grandfather the price of his totem pole. He replied the cost was your statue erected to honor Governor Douglas. My grandfather saw the value of your monument. The lumberman didn't grasp the equal value of ours.

"I recall when your governor general came to watch us dance. He dressed in fringed buckskins that made our children laugh. He looked ridiculous. Are we a Plains tribe?

"Where the 'Xsan joins the Wa Dzun Kwuh at Gi-tanmaax, we built a village like what was there before you came. Six longhouses, with totem poles, fish traps, and dugout canoes. As we were planning the ceremony to open 'Ksan, one of you asked what we would do if it rained. 'You want to know what we'll do if it ranis?' I said. 'Yes, what if it rains on opening day?' 'We will wait,' I said, 'until it stops.' "

DeClercq laughed.

Simgiget nodded. "There is what separates us. I do not see the same world as you, and you refuse to listen to what I see."

"
I'm
listening," said DeClercq.

"You don't have a tin ear."

A woman brought them coffee and stoked the stove, fussing over her grandfather until he gently waved her away.

The coffee was strong and hot.

The stove popped from knots in the wood.

"Thousands of years ago as you count time, you say Mongolian nomads crossed an ice bridge to this land to become us. The tr
uth is we were always here. Our
ada'ox
say the people and the land became together at Tarn Lax Aamid. The proof is in crests on our totem poles. The proof is on Picture Rock at Totem Lake. The proof is in the minds of our elders, who pass our history down from mouth to ear. Do these not chronicle our achievements from the beginning of time? You sing a national anthem that states:
Oh, Canada, Our home and native land
. . . Native land it is, and we want it back. What you call British Columbia wasn't lost in war, wasn't sold for a handful of beads, and wasn't given away. It was simply stolen," said Simgiget.

"From 1987 to 1991 we went to your courts to get it back. The judge told us to prove ownership of our land. When an elder tried to sing the
ada'ox
of her House, he cut her off with: 'This is a trial, not a performance. I have a tin ear, so it's not going to do any good to sing it to me.' Your hundred-year-old colonial court denied our claim. Ruling on our history was nasty, brutish, and short, while our ancestors were primitives with no concept of ownership. What is our feast about if not ownership? What is a totem pole if not a deed to our land?"

"I've seen the cartoon," said DeClercq. "The judge says, 'I can't hear your Indian song. I've got a tin ear.' The elder says, 'That's okay, your highness. I've got a can opener Her hand works the opener around the judge's ear, which is labeled
Soup
."

"You stole our land, forbade us to fish, banned the potlatch, denied us the vote, made land claims illegal, and raped our kids. All our protests fall on tin ears, while you condemn us if someone takes direct action on the land."

This guy pulled no punches. DeClercq respected him.

"I want Totem Lake from you. What do you want from me?"

"Winterman Snow," the Mountie said.

The chief looked out the window at the church next door. "The Catholics were the first to acknowledge we had souls. Then came Anglicans, Methodists, Presbyterians, the United Church, and the Salvation Army. We were divided up into religious zones. Missionaries redefined us, and suddenly hunters with names tied to spirits of the woods were landless farmers with Chris-tian names. I was here when Bible Black took the boy."

"Reverend Noel?"

"Bible Black to me."

"The boy ran away from school?"

"And was returned."

"By Corporal Spann?"

Simgiget nodded.

"Then Winterman Snow ran away again and hid in the woods?"

"No," said the chief. "Winterman Snow stayed."

"He's not in school pictures."

"You can't photograph a ghost. Bible Black had his way with him, and the sickly boy threw himself into the river to escape."

"Winterman Snow is dead?"

"If that's how you see the world."

Standing in the shadow of the Catholic cross, Katt gazed down the slope to Gunanoot below, the Guna-noot of nature, of Wolves and Frogs, not this wolf in sheep's clothing above that ate s
ouls.
Sunbeams shone directly on the faces of the crests, lighting every detail for a camera lens, and every minute that passed robbed her of the perfect shot. So while she had promised Bob she'd stay close at hand, the precondition to his letting her come, what harm could there be in wandering through the nearly deserted village alone,' given the fact they both had cellular phones?

Katt sauntered down.

Nowhere, except on the Skeena and Nass, are totem poles found any distance inland. Totems in villages on the coast were spir
ited away, and now ornate muse
ums in grave-robbing realms. The only collection of totem poles to remain fairly intact is that of the Git-xsan nation, decaying in isolated clusters of a few to over thirty in their villages. Her back to the frozen river, Katt moved sideways along the bank, snapping crest on crest up each pole. Ranging between fifteen and sixty feet high, the totems of the Gitxsan are among the tallest. Soaring against a background of glittering pinnacles, they ran the length of the village in an irregular row, some tottering precariously and creaking in the wind that blew down-valley from the north, others having already toppled and crashed. . .