The Swarm (37 page)

‘Oh,' said Delaware.

Anawak flashed his teeth at her. ‘Sorry to tarnish your image of him.'

‘Never mind. What happened next?'

Anawak poured himself some orange juice. ‘He was locked up. While he was in prison he read up on conservation and whales, and when he got out he decided that that's what he had to do. He went to see Davie, whom he knew from a visit to Ucluelet, and asked him if he could use an extra skipper. “Be my guest,” said Davie, “just keep out of trouble.” You know, Jack can be very charming when it suits him.'

Delaware nodded. ‘But this time he wasn't charming.'

‘Oh, he was fine for a while. We had a sudden rush of female tourists. Everything was perfect - until he punched a guy.'

‘A passenger?'

‘Right.'

‘Oh, Jeez.'

‘Yeah. Davie wanted to fire him, but I begged for him to have another chance. But three weeks later he pulled the same trick again. So Davie had to fire him. Wouldn't you have done the same?'

‘I'd have thrown him out the first time,' said Delaware, softly.

‘Well, at least
you
know how to look after yourself,' Anawak said
cuttingly. ‘Anyway, if you stick up for someone and that's how they thank you, sooner or later your patience runs out.'

He gulped his orange juice, choked and coughed. Delaware reached over and thumped him on the back.

‘Then he totally lost it,' he wheezed. ‘Jack's other little problem is that he doesn't know what's real. At some point during his frustration the Spirit of Manitou came upon him and told him; “From now on, let your name be Greywolf, protector of the whales, defender of all living things. Go forth and fight for them.” Well, obviously he was mad with us, so he convinced himself that he had to fight against us. On top of everything else he still thinks I'm on the wrong side and I just haven't noticed.' Anawak was seething with rage now. ‘He doesn't know anything about conservation or the Indians. They think he's hysterical - except the ones whose lives are washed up too: kids with nothing to do, guys who can't be bothered to work, drunks, people looking for trouble…They think he's great, and so do the grey-haired hippies and surfers who want to get rid of the tourists so they can laze around in peace. He attracts the scum of both cultures - anarchists, losers, dropouts, militants, extremists chucked out by Greenpeace for sullying its name, Indians whose clans have disowned them and crooks. Most of them don't give a shit about the whales. They just want to run riot. But Jack doesn't see any of that, and seriously believes that the Seaguards are an environmental pressure group. He even finances them. He earns the money as a lumberjack and a bear guide, and lives in a hovel not fit for a dog. He's such a screw-up. How does someone like him wind up as such a goddamn failure?' He paused for breath.

A seagull was shrieking in the sky above them.

Delaware spread a slice of bread with butter, dribbled some jam on the top and took a bite. ‘Good,' she said. ‘I can tell you still like him.'

 

The name Ucluelet came from the Nootka, meaning ‘safe harbour'. Like Tofino, the picturesque town was situated in a natural harbour and had grown from a fishing village into a favourite spot for whale-watchers.

Greywolf lived in one of the less presentable parts of town. If you turned off the main road and ventured a few hundred metres down a root-ridden track just wide enough for a car, the centuries-old forest opened into a clearing with a shack in the middle. No one was more aware of its lack of comfort than its sole inhabitant. When the weather
was good - and Greywolf's definition of bad weather came somewhere between a tornado and the end of the world - he spent his time outside, wandering through the forest, taking tourists to see the black bears and doing odd jobs. The probability of finding him at home was practically nil, even at night. He either slept in the open or in the bed of an adventure-hungry tourist, who never doubted for a second that she'd bagged herself a noble savage.

It was early afternoon when Anawak got to Ucluelet. He'd made up his mind to drive with Shoemaker to Nanaimo and get the ferry to Vancouver. He had his reasons for not taking the helicopter. The official reason for stopping in Ucluelet was so Shoemaker could talk business with Davie - the station was preparing to branch out into land-based adventure tours - but Anawak had excused himself from the discussions. Whatever the future held, he sensed that his time on Vancouver Island was coming to an end. If he was honest with himself, there was nothing to keep him there. Now the whale-watching was over, what did he have left?

He'd spent years trying to distract himself. OK, so he'd written his doctorate and become a respected scientist, but it was all wasted time. In the past few weeks he'd nearly died twice. Something had changed since the plane crash. He'd felt threatened on the inside, as though an enemy from the long-forgotten past had sensed his fear and was on his scent. He had one last chance to get a grip on his life. The message was clear: break the cycle.

Anawak's path had led him up the track strewn with tree roots and now he was standing in front of the shack, wondering what he was doing there. He took the few steps up to the shabby veranda and knocked.

Greywolf wasn't at home.

He circled the shack a few times, feeling vaguely disappointed. He should have known it would be empty. His feet led him back to the door. He reached out and pushed the handle. The door swung open. Leaving it unlocked was nothing out of the ordinary here. He shivered with a memory. There were other places like that too, or at least, there used to be. Hesitantly he walked in.

He hadn't been here for ages, which made him all the more astonished by the sight that met his eyes. He'd always thought of Greywolf as living in dingy chaos, but although the room was plain it was cosily furnished, with Indian masks and rugs on the walls. Colourful raffia chairs
surrounded a low wooden table. Indian throws adorned the sofa. Two shelves were packed with utensils and wooden rattles that the Nootka used in ceremonies and for traditional chants. He couldn't see a television, but there were two hotplates and a sink. A narrow corridor led to a second room, Greywolf's bedroom, as Anawak remembered.

He felt a fleeting temptation to take a look around, but he still wasn't sure what he was doing there. The house was pulling him into a time warp, taking him back further than he cared to go.

His eyes were caught by a large mask, staring right at him. He took a step closer. Many Indian masks portrayed facial features symbolically, overemphasising and enlarging them - huge eyes, exaggeratedly arched eyebrows, a beak-like hooked nose. But this was a faithful copy of a human face. It showed the calm countenance of a young man with a straight nose, full lips and a smooth, high forehead. The hair looked matted, but seemed real. With the exception of the pupils, which were missing to allow the wearer to see, the eyes were surprisingly lifelike. Their gaze was calm and earnest, as though the man were in a trance.

Anawak stood motionless in front of it. He'd seen plenty of masks before. The Indians made them from cedarwood, bark and leather, and they were popular with tourists. But this mask was different.

‘It's from the Pacheedaht.'

He swivelled round. Greywolf was just behind him. ‘For a phoney Indian you're pretty good at sneaking up on people,' said Anawak.

‘Thanks.' Greywolf grinned. He didn't seem put out to find an uninvited guest. ‘Shame I can't return the compliment. For a
bona fide
Indian you're a wash-out.'

‘How long have you been standing there?'

‘I just walked in. I don't play games, you should know that.' Greywolf eyed him. ‘Now, if you don't mind me asking, why are you here?'

Good question, thought Anawak. Without thinking, he turned back to the mask, as if it might answer for him. ‘From the Pacheedaht, you say?'

‘You don't have a clue, do you?' Greywolf sighed. ‘The Pacheedaht—'

‘I know who they are,' said Anawak, impatiently. A small Nootka band, resident in the south of the island, just north of Victoria. ‘It's the mask that interests me. It looks old, not like the junk on sale round here.'

‘It's a replica.' Greywolf stood beside him. He was wearing jeans and a faded shirt. The coloured checks were barely visible. His fingertips stroked the contours of the cedar face. ‘An ancestral mask. The original's
in the Queestos'
huupaKwan'um
. Do you need me to tell you what a
huupaKwan'um
is?'

‘No.' Although Anawak knew the word, he couldn't be sure of its meaning. Something to do with a ceremony. ‘Was it a present?'

‘I made it,' said Greywolf. He went over to the chairs. ‘Would you like a drink?'

Anawak stared at the mask. ‘You made it yourself?'

‘I've been doing a lot of carving recently. The Queestos don't mind me copying their masks. So, do you want a drink or not?'

‘No.'

‘Why are you here?'

‘I wanted to thank you.'

Greywolf perched on the arm of the sofa, like an animal ready to pounce. ‘What for?'

‘For saving my life.'

‘Oh, that. I thought you hadn't noticed.' Greywolf shrugged. ‘You're welcome. Anything else I can do for you?'

Anawak stood there helplessly. He'd spent weeks avoiding this moment, and now it was over. He'd done what he was supposed to. ‘What've you got to drink, then?' he asked.

‘Cold beer and Coke.'

‘Coke, please.'

Greywolf pointed to the little fridge next to the hotplates. ‘Help yourself. I'll have a beer.'

Anawak opened the fridge and pulled out two cans. He sat down stiffly on one of the painted raffia chairs.

‘So, Leon—'

‘I…' Anawak twisted the can in his hand. He put it on the table. ‘Look, Jack, I should have come ages ago. You pulled me out of the water, and…well, you know what I think about your protests and all your Indian nonsense. I won't say I wasn't mad at you. But that's not the point. The fact is, if it weren't for you, some of us wouldn't be alive, and that's far more important than the other stuff, so I - I came to tell you that. They're calling you the hero of Tofino, and I guess they're right.'

‘Do you mean that?'

‘Yes.'

There was another long silence.

‘What you call “Indian nonsense” is something I believe in, Leon. Do you want to hear why?'

Under normal circumstances the conversation would have ended there. Anawak would have walked out and Greywolf would have hurled insults at his back. No, that wasn't true: Anawak would have begun the barrage before he left the room. ‘All right.'

Greywolf gave him a hard look. ‘I've got my own people that I belong to. I chose them.'

‘Did they choose you too?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Jack, if you don't mind me saying, the way you look is like a fancy-dress version of your people. Like an Indian from a corny old western. What do your people think of that? Are you helping their cause?'

‘I don't have to help anyone's cause.'

‘Oh, yes, you do. If you want to belong somewhere, you have to take responsibility. That's the way it is.'

‘They accept me. That's all I ask.'

‘They're laughing at you, Jack!' Anawak leaned forwards. ‘Don't you see that? You've got a pack of losers clustered around you. Sure, some of them are Indians, but not the sort that their own people want hanging around. You're twenty-five per cent Indian, and the rest is white, mostly Irish. Why didn't you choose to be Irish? At least the name would fit.'

‘I didn't want to,' said Greywolf calmly.

‘And why call yourself “Greywolf”? - Indians don't use names like that any more.'

‘Well, I do.'

Go easy, Anawak thought. You're here to say thanks and you've said it. The rest is redundant. You should go.

But he didn't.

‘OK, explain one thing to me. If you're so set on being accepted by your people, why don't you try to be authentic?'

‘Like you, do you mean?'

Anawak recoiled. ‘Let's leave me out of this.'

‘Why should we?' Greywolf shouted. ‘It's your damn problem. Why should I get the lecture?'

‘Because I'm the one giving it.' Suddenly he was angry again. But this time he wasn't going to ignore it and let it gnaw away inside him.
It was too late for that now. He'd have to look himself in the eye, and he knew what that would mean. Every victory over Greywolf would be a defeat for himself.

Greywolf was watching him through half-closed eyes. ‘You didn't come here to say thank you.'

‘I did.'

‘Do you really think so? Oh, God, you do. But it's not why you're here.' His lips curled in a sneer. ‘Go on, then. What is it you're dying to tell me?'

‘It's like this, Jack. You can call yourself Greywolf till you're blue in the face, but it won't change who you are. There were rules for the giving of names, and in your case not one of them applies. You've got a beautiful mask hanging on the wall, but it's a fake, like your name. And your protest group, that's fake too.' Suddenly it was all pouring out, everything he hadn't meant to say. Not today. He hadn't come here to insult Greywolf, but now he couldn't stop himself. ‘Those people you hang out with are layabouts, wasters. They're only in it for the ride. Don't you get it? You're not achieving anything. Your notion of whale conservation is childish. Choosing your own people - that's crap. Your chosen people will never understand your loony ideas.'

‘If you say so.'

‘Get real, Jack. You know they want to hunt whales, and you want to stop them. That's very honourable, but you haven't been listening. You're turning against the people whom apparently you—'