“What if Jesus had gotten his head cut off instead of dying on the cross, what would you wear on your chest? What if he was killed with a spear? The Aleuts kill fish with a spear. Did the people who killed Jesus have spears?”
“Yes, they had spears.”
“What would you hang on your chest if the people killed Jesus with a spear?”
“I’m not sure. I’d have to think about that,” Steve replied, somewhat relieved that Jesus had died on the Cross.
In all, Steve spent several days on the island. He remained partly to teach the children more about Jesus but also to make sure the boy with the infected leg was recovering.
By the third day, the wound was almost completely healed. The redness had shrunken to a pinkish area no larger than a quarter. The red streak up his leg had vanished and the boy was up hobbling around, free of pain. The shaman strutted through the village taking credit for the healing, but the people began to scoff at him, saying the priest was the one who performed the miracle.
Returning from a climb part way up the steaming mountain, on the day he planned to leave the island, Steve noticed something strange about his plane. The pontoons had leaked and the plane had settled down in about eighteen inches of water. He thought it unusual that both pontoons would start leaking at the same time, although it was entirely possible if they had both been cut on the ridge of a sharp rock on the bottom. However, there were no rocks in the vicinity and he did not recall scraping on a rock as he taxied to shore several days before. On closer inspection, Steve saw that the pontoons had been cut—gashes probably made with a sharp axe. But what really concerned him were the rear sections of the pontoons that had been bent down preventing a takeoff on land. There was no way he could take off on the wheels with the pontoons scraping on the ground. He knew it must have been done in anger by the shaman—very likely while Steve was up inspecting the mountain.
The priest made inquiries, but found that no one admitted to seeing anything. He found this very hard to believe because the plane was in full view of the village houses. Even the children evaded his questions and looked away as he asked. Slowly, he realized the villagers were afraid to pin the blame on the shaman. One of the worst things that could befall a person would be to have a shaman angry at you. He could see to it that the demons possessed you forever. You would be made to writhe in torment by the demons for eons to come. Although many of the adults thought it might not be true, no one was willing to take the chance.
Steve angrily strode to the shaman’s small house separated from the other houses in the village by a small hillock. As the priest pushed open the door, the stench almost overcame him. The shaman confronted the priest holding the bones between himself and the priest—either to ward off evil brought by the priest or to make sure evil befell the priest. Steve could not tell which. Pushing the bones aside, he grabbed the filthy shaman by the throat, feeling the greasy skin in his fingers. The shaman’s thick black matted hair looked like it had never seen soap and water. As he forced the shaman, eyes bulging, to the ground in a vice-like grip, Steve suddenly stopped. How could he be doing this? He, a priest. What example was he setting for the children of the village?
He let the shaman stand up again. “You’re going to have a busy day,” Steve said in a threatening tone. “You and I are going to take the pontoons off the plane and then I’m going to try to get out of here on skis. I don’t want any of your incantations. None of your stupid miracles. All I want is some hard work. Do you understand?”
The shaman gasping for breath, nodded.
*****
By late afternoon, the pontoons were off and tied inboard under the wings of the plane. The plane was sitting on a strip of hard-packed snowy road that ran down the center of the small village. As Steve revved the engines, the shaman ran back to his house; villagers scattered on either side of the priest’s planned takeoff run. The airplane lurched forward, engines roaring, skis skidding in the snow. A cloud of snow blew to the rear. The craft bounced down the street on a road so rough Steve thought he’d never get up enough speed to become airborne. “Jesus, help me get this thing in the air,” he cried out as he kept inching back on the wheel to test whether there was enough lift to separate the plane from the rutted and lumpy snow. At the point where he had almost given up hope and was preparing to throttle back, the snow-covered road at the edge of the village seemed smoother and the plane began to pick up speed. Finally with a Herculean pull-up, Steve managed to clear the ground only to find he was heading straight into a small mountain at the edge of town. Banking sharply to the left to head out over the water, the plane lost altitude and he saw a tiny spray as the left wingtip skimmed the wavelets on the surface of the water. If the tip dug in, he would cartwheel into the sea—end over end. Gingerly, holding his breath, applying hard right rudder, and full right ailerons, Steve was able to yaw and roll sufficiently to slide the left wingtip out of the water. Finally, he rolled the plane into level flight and, gaining altitude, started on his way back to Dutch Harbor.
During the climbout, he contacted the Unalaska Airport tower and said he was coming in from Umak on skis and had never landed on skis before.
“Father Murphy, the runways have been plowed so you cannot… repeat cannot come in on the runways. As you approach we will guide you to a nearby snow-covered field. We’ll have emergency equipment on standby just in case.”
“Thanks guys. I’ll say a Mass for you next Sunday.” Then, more relaxed and remembering the children, Steve turned and flew back over the village dipping his wings for the benefit of the children.
One of the watching children shouted, “Jesus helped Father Steve miss Devil Mountain. Maybe Jesus really is the greatest shaman of them all.”
34
Upon his return from Umak Island, Steve found a letter waiting for him in the Unalaska post office. It was from Janet, with a return address in Cambridge. He delayed opening it until he was seated alone in a booth in the coffee shop a few blocks from the Russian Church. He nervously lit a cigarette as he sat with his coffee. He had begun smoking again right after the newspaper article about the rescue of the fishermen was published. He needed the crutch. He knew his days in the Aleutians were numbered. He was almost too nervous to open Janet’s letter and read it. Then, slowly and carefully he slit open the envelope.
Dear Steve,
Jonathon gave me your address. Good heavens, the Aleutian Islands! He said you wanted to get far away from...you know who, and it looks like you have. There are only two of us who know where you are. At least, I think there are only two of us. Hopefully, no one in the church has been able to track you down.
Steve, I have news. I received my Master’s in Social Work last month and have received a job offer as a Social Worker with Catholic Charities of Boston. That’s why the Cambridge address.
I really hate to tell you this, but since my attempted annulment failed, I have been under tremendous pressure from my family and my husband, Fred’s family, to get us back together. Both sets of parents want grandchildren and Fred seems disposed to give our marriage another try. There’s also the issue of religion—you know it well—‘Til death do us part’. Frankly, I am confused and I feel bombarded on all sides.
You know, Steve, I love you and I always will. I wish things could be as they had been when we were at the university. Days we spent together. Days when I fell I love with you. Do people sometimes just follow the dictates of their relatives and the church even though they love someone else? Are you and I doing with our lives what God intended us to do? Say a prayer for me. I’ll write again when there is more news.
Love,
Janet
Steve read the letter three times. He slipped it into his pocket and sat staring out at the snow that had just begun to fall. Buttoning his parka and pulling the hood over his head, he left the shop and walked aimlessly back to the church. He let himself in the side door to the small chapel. He knelt at the altar. He had no prayers. How could he ask God to s
olve an impossible situation? He struggled to say something, anything to the Lord, but nothing would come except the image of Janet’s face and a stream of tears clouding his eyes.
*****
A few days later, Steve was back in Juneau after the Unalaska mechanic had tried a patchup job on the pontoons. It was enough—possibly barely enough for a water landing. Totem’s mechanic was scheduled to do some routine maintenance on the Otter. “I see the guys at Unalaska airport did some rough patching when they put the pontoons back on, but I can tell you the repairs won’t last. One more water landing with those babies and you’ll be swimming for shore. Let me fit you out with a new pair.”
“The pity of it is that one of them was new. It was put on after my crosswind landing at Unalaska. How long will all this take?” Steve asked, worried that he might be tied up in Juneau for a week.
“I’ll have the plane ready for you by tomorrow morning if that’s OK.”
“I suppose it will have to be,” Steve answered, hoping he could find a place to stay for the night in Juneau.
After asking around, Steve managed to find a room in a small hotel out on the edge of town. Looking out the window he could see the famous Mendenhall Glacier in the distance. Then, as he took a bus back into the center of the town, he saw a string of bald eagles boldly sitting on fence posts that lined the roadside—fat and contented after gorging themselves on fish in the river.
Steve’s next stop was at a Catholic Church in the center of town where he luckily found a priest who was hearing confessions before evening Mass. His confession was routine. He did not mention that he was a priest. Five Hail Mary’s and a good act of contrition. Two hours later, Steve was seated in the Red Dog Saloon with Totem, the former used car salesman—currently in the airplane business. He ordered a sandwich and a beer.
“How do you like living on Unalaska? Kind of like living at the end of the world, ain’t it? Careful you don’t fall off,” Totem laughed as he raised his beer to touch glasses with Steve’s.
“It sure isn’t the Garden of Eden,” Steve replied. “But when I visit the villages in the outlying islands, I feel as if I’m doing something meaningful. It’s become a pastoral ministry for me. Guess you’d call me a circuit rider. Or better said, a circuit flyer.”
“But what do you do when you get to one of those far out islands? Can you even talk to the people? Do they speak English?”
“Oh yes, for the most part they speak English. They almost all have TVs now which helps a lot and the children are required to learn English in school. Some of the older people still speak Russian and also the native Aleut language, mostly when they don’t want you to know what they’re saying, but the old language is dying out.”
“What islands do you visit?”
“I usually head west from Unalaska out to the islands near Adak, the former Navy base and sometimes out to the end of the chain—Attu. My favorite island is Umak. I always get a big welcome there. Friendly people. In answer to your question about what I do when I land, I sometimes take the kids up for short airplane rides. Have to be careful not to use too much gas. After that, I hold what you might call ‘religion school’.”
“So you’re kinda like a missionary, right?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“You mentioned Umak. I heard that island’s headed for trouble. The experts think the big steaming mountain on the island is about ready to blow. The authorities are thinking of evacuating the villagers.”
“That’s terrible,” Steve said wincing. “Those people have worked hard to build nice homes and a small one-room schoolhouse. The men go out every day on commercial fishing boats and make a pretty decent wage. If the villagers are evacuated, they’ll lose everything they’ve built up.”
“True,” Totem agreed. “But if they stay, they’re likely to be dead meat.”
“What’s the time table for an eruption?”
“They said on the news it could happen any time.”
*****
The next morning, after attending early Mass, and receiving holy communion, Steve was happy to find the Otter was ready. He took off heading for Unalaska with a fuel stop at Seward. As he approached Unalaska, word came on the radio of the evacuation of Umak Island. Some of the elders apparently refused to leave and were being warned they would be moved out forcibly, if necessary. Rescue boats were being sent to the island. “What a tragedy,” he thought. “Those people must be scared and miserable.”
Sergei met him at the airport. He wanted Steve to fly him to Umak. An uncle, the only remaining member of his family, was on the island.
“We can’t go there, Sergei. They’re evacuating the island.”
“I know that. But my old uncle is a stubborn one. He’ll hide out and they won’t be able to find him. He’s a wily one. But I think I can find him and talk him into leaving.”
“If you insist,” Steve said. “Let’s fuel up and go.”
*****
Approaching Umak Island, it became clear the island was in trouble. Huge clouds of black smoke and ash were streaming up from the cinder cone.
“Don’t know if we can land. That big Coast Guard cutter is likely to wave us off. If they do and I don’t fly out, they’ll throw the book at me later.”
“Please, Steve. My uncle’s life is on the line. I think I can find him and talk him into leaving.”
“Sergei, how do you know they haven’t already picked him up? He could be on one of the rescue boats.”
“I doubt it. If I know him, he’s still somewhere on the island.”
“You better find him fast,” Steve warned as he brought the Otter into the cove. He noticed that the Coast Guard cutter had already turned to leave and was speeding away from the island. Apparently the officers on board thought the island had been completely evacuated. Or, perhaps, they thought they had done all they could and it was too dangerous to remain in the cove any longer. Steve also noticed that the smaller rescue boats were now miles away from the island.
When the Coast Guard cutter saw the Otter, they ordered Steve to turn back immediately. Steve decided he needed a white lie as he told the Coast Guard he was with the U.S. Geological Survey and needed to get closer in for just a few minutes to observe the volcano.
In the confusion and smoke, the Coast Guard lost track of the plane.
By the time Steve had landed in the cove and taxied into the shallows, the windshield of the Otter was almost completely covered with ash from the volcano. He shut the engines down and drifted ashore because the turbine inlets were beginning to ingest ash. If the intakes became clogged, they’d never be able to take off again.
Sergei jumped into the shallows and ran ashore in the ankle-deep water. As he did so, he saw a man come out of a small house hidden in heavy brush and run part way up the side of the volcano.
Steve leaned out of the cockpit window and shouted to Sergei. “That’s the village shaman, Sergei. Forget about him, he’s crazy. Go find your uncle.”
“He is my uncle,” Sergei shouted back as he ran up the slope after the shaman.
The devil in the mountain roared. He spit fire into the sky. The end came swiftly but not mercifully as a torrent of molten lava poured down from the lip of the volcano and engulfed the two men. Steve’s last image of the shaman was of the ‘holy man’ standing on the slope of the volcano facing the onrushing stream of lava. With mask on and rapidly clicking bones in his hands, he commanded the devil in the volcano to go back to sleep. Steve had a last view of Sergei as the Russian-Aleut priest, struggling to pull his uncle out of the path of the lava, crossed himself with the two-finger Russian Sign of the Cross and was covered by the hot glowing mass of lava which completely swallowed him and his uncle.
At the horrible sight, Steve almost became sick in the cockpit. With one arm hanging out of the left side cockpit window, he made a hasty Sign of the Cross—blessing Sergei and the shaman who had both disappeared from sight. He had to do it with his left hand because his right hand w
as grappling with the throttles to rev up the turbines. He wheeled the Otter around for a quick takeoff from the cove. The windshield wipers were no use—all they did was cake up the falling ash that covered the glass. He could feel the heat radiating from the lava as it ran sizzling into the sea producing a cloud of team just a few yards from the airplane. In no time the entire airplane was covered with a thin layer of hot ash. With the props in flat pitch, Steve found he could start the engines and was relieved to see that the spinning props were throwing the ash away from the blades and the inlets, making a kind of tunnel in the air. Then he doggedly poured on every last ounce of power he could get out of the engines. The Otter began an agonizingly slow takeoff run on the water. Although it was midday, the swirling ash thrust the cove into darkness. With the windshield covered, Steve had to hang his head out of the side cockpit window to see where he was heading. Even so, he could barely make out the water surface that lay ahead. As the Otter gained speed and the pontoons went up on the step, he was able to pull up and take off. In the air, he was flying on instruments because he could barely see out of the windshield.
Ten minutes later, he brought the Otter in for a landing in the cove of another island. Standing on one of the pontoons, he doused the windshield with bucketfuls of water until he felt he would be able to see well enough to get back to Unalaska and Dutch Harbor.
*****
Because it involved a volcanic eruption, the story made the national news. TV and the newspapers told the story but at the time did not have the names of the individuals involved: The story read: During the eruption of the volcanic mountain Atta on the Aleutian Island Umak, due to the prompt action of the Coast Guard and other rescuers, the island was evacuated; however, a clergyman died in an aborted rescue attempt of one individual who had remained on the island despite the eruption. In attempting the rescue, two clergymen had slipped by the Coast Guard in a private floatplane.”
Locally, Steve was hailed as a hero by some of the islanders for his attempted rescue of a shaman, but castigated by others for the death of Father Sergius. The Coast Guard berated him for a foolhardy failed rescue attempt which cost the life of the Russian priest.