Raven went outside, and having the third box in his possession, he turned himself into a bird and flew off. As Raven flew, he called out for the people of earth, but because there was no sun he could not see them. When he heard the people calling for him, Raven opened the box and the sun burst out, shining on all the lands. From that time on, the earth had light.
“DO YOU UNDERSTAND, Ferguson? Raven didn’t just give us the sun, moon, and stars. He had to steal them from someone else.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Stealing is an act of evil. But giving is an act of good. So was Raven good or evil?”
Ferguson felt a little dumb for having to be led to the answer.
“Both.”
“Both. Exactly. You now have a complete understanding of the Tlingit religion.”
Ferguson nodded.
“Tlingit spirits are to be respected, Ferguson. They are to be treated fairly. If they are not respected, they can be harsh and vindictive. If they are treated fairly, they can be generous and kind.”
“I see,” Ferguson said, for lack of anything better to say. This was all getting a little intense for him. He wanted to get it over with. Enough with the lessons.
“I’m here because you wanted me here,” David continued. “I hope this isn’t simply something you’re doing to appease the locals.”
“It isn’t,” Ferguson answered quickly, turning his back to Livingstone and warming his hands before the fire. “It isn’t.”
Chapter 8
THE GIRL COUNTED JENNA’S ITEMS AND UNLOCKED A WHITE door. Jenna went into the little booth, stripped down, and then stood staring at the pile of new clothes on the bench. Jeans, underwear, socks, bras, sweaters, and a pretty ankle-length dress that she knew she wouldn’t need where she was going but she wanted anyway—it fit so nicely and she didn’t want to miss the opportunity. What the hell was she doing? She was buying a complete line of Banana Republic clothes. Something that only a fugitive would do. Something that only a frightened person would do.
And she was frightened. Out of her mind. Because it finally hit her that she had bought a ticket and had every intention of boarding a ferry that would take her to Wrangell, Alaska. The scene of the crime. Well, not exactly. The scene of the crime was a few nautical miles south and west of Wrangell. Thunder Bay. It was like a drain, and Jenna was spinning helplessly in the bathwater. Being drawn inevitably toward some kind of confrontation. Some kind of conclusion.
She had sworn never to set foot in the state of Alaska again. Two years ago, as she flew away from the place where her heart had been ripped from her body. Where her very soul had been crushed. Where her spirit had drowned with her baby. She swore she would never go again. And now, in a Banana Republic changing room, being hassled by a stupid high school girl about how many items she was trying on, Jenna was actually realizing that unless she veered drastically to the right or left, she would get on a ferry, and that ferry would deposit her exactly where she said she would never be seen again.
That’s why she was afraid.
But her fear was not stopping her.
She stepped out of the store wearing jeans, a T-shirt and sweater, a leather jacket, boots, and carrying a backpack stuffed with another pair of jeans, khaki shorts, extra T-shirts, socks and underwear, and the dress. She ditched her black suit that Christine liked so much in the garbage can on the street.
In the drugstore next door, Jenna bought miniature versions of all the toiletries she would need for her trip. She was relieved that the woman behind the counter was nice enough to let her use the bathroom in back to brush her teeth and get that sticky muffin-and-coffee taste out of her mouth.
It was nine thirty and Jenna strolled down to the dock. Cars and people were loading onto the ferry, and Jenna felt excited about her trip. She also felt that she at least had to tell Robert she would be gone. Seeing a pay phone up against the building, she went to it and called home. The phone rang four times and the answering machine picked up. That’s strange, she thought. Where could Robert be? Hopefully not out looking for her. Jenna left a quick message and hung up. She walked over to the gangway and got on line to board the ferry.
The lower level was dark, lit only by smoky greenish lights. The smell of car exhaust made Jenna feel a little nauseated. Gasoline smelled good; exhaust smelled bad. Passengers walked along the cold deck following bright yellow lines. The lines led to two elevators, where people were backed up waiting their turn. Jenna patiently stood on line.
Finally she squeezed her way into one of the elevators with twenty other people and it chugged upward, toward the top of the boat. Her elevator-mates spilled out into a lobby on the main deck and, pushing and shoving, ran toward one of the doors to the outside deck. Now Jenna remembered what the rush was all about. The ferries have only a few state rooms. There are the inside lounges with the big chairs that Jenna’s grandmother always stayed in. But most people go to the sundeck. Under the solarium they have heaters so you don’t freeze at night. Damn, Jenna thought, I should have bought a blanket.
Jenna moved with the pack up to the sundeck. It was a large open area: steel, covered with a thin green carpeting. The side that was toward the rear of the boat was open to the elements. About a third of it, toward the front of the boat, was a yellow-glassed solarium, like a giant hothouse. The end was open, but the walls and roof were covered, providing shelter from wind and rain. The solarium was already packed with travelers rolling out their sleeping bags and staking their claims. There were a few lounge chairs, but all of those had already been claimed. On the lower open deck, campers were pitching tents.
Jenna let out a sigh. She hadn’t planned this trip very well and it was showing. She had no sleeping bag, no blanket, no anything. And sleeping in her jacket on the deck didn’t sound too appealing. Maybe there was a place left inside. She hustled down the stairs on the side of the solarium and toward the front of the boat.
The sleeping lounge was a joke. First of all, it was already jammed with passengers. All the chairs were taken. And everyone was smoking. The room was filled with a thick cloud of toxic smoke. Jenna could hardly breathe. Several TVs suspended from the ceiling were blaring out sound to go with their staticky picture.
Despondent, Jenna headed for the cafeteria. She bought a cup of coffee and a banana and sat at a table. The excitement was gone. Jenna checked her watch. It was a quarter to eleven. Not too late to get off the ferry and go home. Maybe this was a stupid idea. Never follow your instincts—they’re always wrong. She cringed at the idea of being on a boat for three days with nowhere to sleep.
“Hey!”
Jenna looked up. It was Willie and Debbie.
“You didn’t say you were going on the ferry.”
Jenna smiled.
“It was kind of an impulse.”
“That’s cool.”
“I guess. Maybe too impulsive, though. I don’t have a sleeping bag or anything and there’s no place left inside.”
Willie grinned and looked at Debbie.
“Come hang out with us. We’re up on the deck.”
“I think I might get off and make the trip some other time.”
“No way. You can have my chair.”
“Willie’s been on the ferry before,” Debbie explained. “He knows the secret way up the stairs. He got us two lounge chairs under the sunroof.”
“You can have mine. I’ll sleep on the deck.”
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
“Sure you could. I’ve got a sleeping pad, I don’t care. I’ve done it before. I like the deck better, anyway. I got the chairs because of Debbie. She’s a girl.”
“Willie, don’t be a sexist. Girls can sleep on the deck, too.”
“Whatever.” Willie laughed. “When you’re done, come on up. You’ll take my chair. The boat’s leaving in a minute anyway, it’s too late to get off. Come on up.”
They both looked expectantly at Jenna. Jenna smiled.
“Okay.”
They smiled back and headed out of the cafeteria. At least it wouldn’t be a lonely trip, Jenna thought, peeling her banana.
Jenna stepped out on the deck as the boat pulled away from the dock. There’s something about a boat leaving port that makes one pause. Perhaps it is something reminiscent of the Titanic, that fateful voyage. Or, is it simply that in this mode of transportation one actually has time to reflect? Airplanes move too fast; cars are too demanding of attention. On a boat trip, you kind of amble to the next destination, so you can think about what you’ve left and where you’re going.
Jenna had left Seattle. She had left Robert. She had left her house and her life. She had left her cameras. But that was nothing new. Her career as a photographer had ended long ago. The last time she had used her cameras was the last time she was in Alaska. Two years ago, when Bobby died. She had forced herself to process those rolls and print a couple of shots, but she couldn’t do any more than that. Thousands of dollars of camera equipment sitting in a closet gathering dust because Jenna couldn’t bear to touch it.
The ferry was about a hundred yards from the dock and Jenna suddenly felt a twang of regret. There was no going back. The next port was Prince Rupert in Canada, and that was two days away. After that, Ketchikan, and then Wrangell. Maybe after she visited her grandmother’s house, she’d get back on the ferry and go all the way up to Skagway to use up the ticket she’d bought. But maybe not. She’d have to see how things went. If she couldn’t even look at her last pictures from Alaska, she certainly didn’t know how she would feel about going there now.
She went up to the sundeck and claimed her lounge chair from Willie and Debbie. Willie moved his things off the chair and arranged them between Jenna and Debbie. The deck was now full of people and sleeping bags. Groups were clustered around common objects like coolers of beer, decks of cards, radios. Some people napped, some read, some ate. All were dressed in the colorful clothes of Alaskan travelers. The summer-weight travelers were dressed for success in bright purple and red nylon things with fuzzy Patagonia accoutrements and new boots. The seasoned travelers were in wools, flannel shirts, and worn jeans. Grunge. If these people could play music, they’d have it made.
Jenna lay back on the chair. It was one of those pool deck models with the sticky plastic straps that cross the aluminum tube frame. Jenna didn’t have a sleeping bag to make it more comfortable, but as she lay back she realized she didn’t need it. She was very tired and it was warm under the yellow glass. And she fell asleep almost immediately.
WHEN JENNA WOKE UP the sun was already starting down. The sky was getting dusky, and to the west a band of orange blanketed the horizon. Willie was lying on his sleeping bag, reading. Debbie was gone. The deck was quiet and the rumble of the engines made the floor vibrate.
Jenna felt groggy and a little nauseated. She never liked taking naps. They always made her feel sick. She lay still for a few minutes to get herself back together. She sat up as Debbie returned to her chair carrying a few small bags of pretzels.
“You slept for a long time,” Debbie said, smiling.
Jenna nodded. Willie put down his book and sat up, too.
“Me and Debbie got you something,” Willie said, tugging at Debbie’s jean leg. Debbie pulled a bundle of tissue paper out of her pocket.
“Oh, you didn’t have to do that.”
“We wanted to,” Debbie said. “You’ve been so nice.”
She unwrapped a piece of tissue paper and revealed a silver charm on a black leather strap. Debbie handed it to Jenna. It was a beautiful, intricately carved design.
“I got it from an old Indian lady in the cafeteria,” Debbie said.
“It’s real silver,” Willie added.
“It’s wonderful. What is it? A fish?”
It kind of looked like a fish, but not quite. A fish with little arms. There were two faces on it, almost as if the bigger animal had swallowed the smaller one. A larger fishlike thing and, inside, another face.
“No, she said it was something else. An otter-something. I wrote it down,” Debbie said, fumbling in her pocket and pulling out a piece of paper. “It’s called a kushtaka.”
“A kushtaka? What is it? It’s beautiful.”
“An Indian spirit. I picked it because it seemed the most like you.”
Jenna smiled and looked up.
“Help me put it on.”
Debbie tied the leather strap around Jenna’s neck and they all admired how good it looked on her.
“A kushtaka,” Jenna said. “It sounds so mysterious.”
“The woman told me a story, but I forgot it. Something about stealing souls. It was sort of hard to understand her. She was real nice, but a little weird, I guess.”
“Well, it was very sweet of you both. Thank you so much.”
Jenna kissed each of them on the cheek. It was a very nice piece of jewelry. Jenna wondered how much it cost. She held the charm in her fingers. Kushtaka. What kind of an Indian spirit was it? Maybe she would find the old woman who sold it and ask her what it meant. Kushtaka.
Chapter 9
“I’M FRIGGIN’ HUNGRY,” FERGUSON MUTTERED, SHOVING ANOTHER cigarette into his mouth. It was ten thirty and getting dark out and he hadn’t eaten since lunch. He was having a hard time keeping himself awake and his feet were damp and cold. He could really go for a cup of chili right now. Hot, with onions and cheese and those big red beans.
Livingstone wouldn’t let him turn on the lights. The fire burning in the pit was the only source of light or heat. But it was Livingstone’s fire. He kept it, fed it, wouldn’t let Ferguson near it. Since the morning, Livingstone had been worshiping the fire. He would sit in front of it, staring into it for hours, then get up and walk around it in circles for hours. Sometimes he would speak some strange words. His eyes had met Ferguson’s only once since the séance began, when Ferguson tried to put a log on the fire and Livingstone stopped him. That was pretty early on, but Ferguson could tell David was far gone. He looked like that blind guy in the beginning of Kung Fu, the one who calls David Carradine “Grasshopper.”
David Livingstone was circling, now, a blanket over him, every now and then adding a hop to his step. Indian dancing. Fergie had seen plenty of Indian dancing and he wasn’t impressed at all. It wasn’t like ballet, or something, where everyone knows what to do and it’s very exact. It’s just a bunch of fat guys with their stomachs hanging out, running around in circles bumping into each other. There doesn’t seem to be any order to it. Fergie thought maybe he was watching bad dancers, but they were the best ones. That’s what it’s supposed to look like. A bunch of fat guys with wooden helmets, bumping into each other.
“I’m hungry,” he said again, louder.
This time David heard him. He stopped circling and looked over at Fergie.
“Those things will kill you,” David said, pointing to Ferguson’s cigarette. He had a crooked smile on his face and his eyes were distant, vacant, not the eyes Fergie had seen that morning.
“Not eating. That’ll kill me.”
“Did you bring your sleeping bag like I told you?”
“It’s in my plane,” Fergie answered.
“But you didn’t bring any food?”
“I didn’t figure we’d be spending the night.”
“But I told you to bring a sleeping bag,” David said.
Strange, Fergie thought. He seems so loose and relaxed. This morning he was so uptight.
“How long is this going to take?” Fergie asked.
“As long as it takes.”
“Well, the workers will be here in the morning, so you’d better be done by then.”
“Oh, no,” David said, suddenly dropping into a sitting position. He rubbed his face with his hands, pushing the loose flesh around, twisting his face, looking off in the distance. “Oh, no,” he repeated, “no, no, no. No workers in here. This is our place. This is our fire. No one else.”
“But they have to work.”
“No.” David fell
backward, cracking his head on the floor. Fergie winced at the sound, but David didn’t seem to notice. “We are here. They know we are here. They will come for us when they are ready. This is our house.” He said “house” almost barking. His voice was becoming more guttural, like an animal’s. “I will not eat or sleep until they come.”
“When are they going to come?”
“When they are ready.”
Then David closed his eyes and started making a weird sound from his throat. A dark, choking sound. Ferguson stubbed out his cigarette and stood up, frustrated and a little uneasy.
“I’m going to get my sleeping bag,” he said to the room, and then stepped out into the night.
A light drizzle was falling outside. Ferguson’s feet were still cold and becoming numb. He got his sleeping bag out of his plane and looked up at the town. It was dark except for an orange glow from the community house. The sky was a gray slate, clouds lightened slightly by the last fingers of the day. The air smelled like cinnamon, and Ferguson, for some reason, remembered his father. A slight man with black hair and green eyes. Black Irish. Mean as a bastard. He went elk hunting every October with his buddies and brought home a buck or two for the winter. Fergie always wanted to go. But he was too young. He wouldn’t be able to keep up. And then, when he was eleven, his dad said he could go. Fergie was so excited he couldn’t sleep for three days. Camping with the men, wet in their sleeping bags from the damp fog and the drizzle. His feet so cold. His father yelling at him to keep up. They took a rest on a log, and a doe with a fawn walked right up to them. Fergie wanted to shoot them, but his father said no, they were helpless animals. The men deer, those we shoot, the women and children are free to go. And then they shot a man deer and they tracked it down after the bullet went in. It wasn’t a clean shot. It wasn’t heart. It was lungs, and the thing ran and ran until it collapsed from lack of blood. And his father strung it up from a tree upside down and cut the head off, letting the rest of the blood run out onto the ground. And then he took his knife and slit the sheath of leather holding the animal’s insides in, letting them all spill out onto the dirt. And the smell of cinnamon was gone, obscured by the smell of hot intestines. Fergie turned away, unable to control his nausea at the smell, his father digging through the cavity, hands black with blood. Fergie vomited and his father laughed. Did you puke, you little baby? Did you puke, little girl? Scooping out handfuls of organs, hacking through bones. The bastard weighs two hundred pounds. Packing the carcass out on his back, sweating and cursing. Fergie’s job was to hold the flashlight. The darkness was close and they had to get back to the truck. Fergie dropped the light and it broke. No more light. His father smacked him hard across the face, his nose bled, and when he turned around, his father smacked him hard across the back of his head. Don’t turn your back on me, you little prick, he said. So Fergie turned again and he got hit again. If I have to drop this deer, I’m gonna beat you, boy. So Ferguson led the way out of the woods trying to hold back his tears, shaking with rage and fear, his father and a dead deer following him. Gonna cry, little girl? We’ll get you a little pink dress. Gonna cry for us? Mama ain’t here for you? Go on, cry.