On one side, the ocean opens to infinity. On the other, vague features of the shore are shrouded in mist: the beaches, arced like half-open eyes, delimited by rocky headlands, and the velvet black forest outlining the land, dark as kohl on a dancer’s eyelid. We’re heading north.
We’re going away from Yakov, Maria, and Kotelnikov. Away from Nikolai Isaakovich and the rest of the crew. Away from the Kad’iak. We’ve been divided as if we were a measure of wheat or a bushel of apples.
We’re returning along a shore we passed so long ago when we were aboard the Sviatoi Nikolai. We sailed around this headland and past that white beach. We saw this tiny cluster of stacks topped with scraggy growth against which the sea now throws itself in a tantrum.
Ahead lies a foam-capped ocean. We’ll drown if the canoe should capsize. We slide up a wave several times the height of the boat and slam down on the other side. Water splashes into the canoe. I have no cape—it was left behind. But there’s no time to dwell on my wet clothes. Looming ahead is another monstrous wave.
We surge to its crest and plunge down the other side with a thud. Another fan of water sprays me. It’s so cold, it bites.
Water begins to accumulate in the boat. Around my feet, rivulets stream back and forth along the length of the canoe as we climb and descend the mountainous waves. From behind, I hear the rhythmic scrape of somebody bailing.
Then a paddler starts to sing. “Wála hiiiiiii!”[26] he cries.
Without hesitation, others join in. “Wála hiiiiiiii! Tikwotsláli.”
Music slides into the bowl of our vessel, then curls up the other side, and is pushed overhead where it hangs for an instant before the wind takes it away. But the “wála hi” refills the boat again and again, and eventually it seems like the canoe itself is singing. The voices of the koliuzhi in the other canoe rise faintly above the sound of the storm as they, too, join in. The men match their paddling with the cadence of the music.
Abruptly, the canoes are steered out to sea. The bow of the canoe is pointed directly into the waves and it slices through them, opening a path for us. The men continue to sing and dig deep with their paddles, taking us farther and farther away from land. When we’re directly across from a distant headland that resembles a fortress, the paddlers pull the nose of the canoe sharply toward shore. Within two strokes, everything smoothens. The waves flatten. Instead of fighting us, the wind pushes us along. The singing ends as suddenly as it began. The paddlers drive us, like an arrow, toward the shelter of a long and shallow bay.
On shore, four totem poles overlook the cove. Like the ones outside Novo-Arkhangelsk, they’re immense. The silhouette of one pole, with open wings near its top, resembles the Holy Cross. Dwarfed by the line of poles and nearly lost in the trees, a dozen low buildings squat. They’re well above the sand, well away from the sea, merging with shadow.
As we draw closer, I see people gathered on the beach. Are they expecting us? The wind shifts and carries music out to us. The people on the beach are singing us onto their shore. Are they celebrating? The other canoe heads toward them, but we stay at sea beyond the line where the surf breaks, and bob in the water like a dry leaf.
A basket-laden man from the landed canoe follows a line of koliuzhi into one of the houses. The rest of the men from the canoe remain on the beach with two watchmen, one holding a bow and arrow, the other a spear. Despite their appearance, their weapons are at rest and they converse with their visitors. After a long time and a short time, a crowd emerges from the house and returns to shore. The basket-laden man is among them, but he’s left behind whatever he was carrying. My canoe is beckoned to the beach.
“Wacush! Wacush!” I hear the koliuzhi shout as the canoe scrapes against the beach.
After I disembark, I follow everyone up the sand and over the rocks. We pass between two of the totem poles. They’re each as high as six men, and, astonishingly, for I’ve never before seen any totem pole closely, each is made of a single piece of wood. Carved by whom? Erected how? The eyes, hands, and feet, the paws, claws, toothy mouths, and nubs of rounded ears or peaks of pointy ones, all flowing into one another, follow the grain of the wood. Why are they here, facing the sea? What do they represent? Everyone enters the shadowy doorway of a house, and I have no choice but to follow.
Upon entering, I’m again blinded by darkness. A fire burns in the centre of a sunken floor. When my eyes start to adjust and my surroundings emerge, I see how similar this house is to the Tsar’s house: wooden plank walls that stretch between heavy, carved posts; the entire perimeter ringed with imposing benches; the rafters garlanded with fish, skeins of dried grass, ribbons of bark, coils of rope, and bulging baskets. The only difference is in scale. There are ten carved posts and the ceiling soars like in a great hall in a royal palace. This house is mammoth.
I hear giggles and whispers in the shadows. When my eyes have finished adjusting, I see the people. There might be two hundred of them.
The man who must be the toyon stands beside the fire. He has a rattle in his hand. But everything else about him is unlike any koliuzhi I’ve ever seen.
Shaven and short-haired, he’s groomed like an Englishman. A fashionable beaver hat is perched atop his head, tipped back, exposing his young face. His shoulders are covered by a sea otter cape that reaches to his knees. Through its opening, the rest of his clothing is visible: a red broadcloth jacket, double-breasted, with long tails. And trousers. He wears trousers.
“Good day,” he says, in English.
I don’t know English, but I recognize these words. In the mansions of Petersburg, I’ve heard them often enough, mostly in the funny anecdotes meant to contrast the fine breeding of the French with the coarse manners of the English. “Good day,” I reply awkwardly.
I look down. His boots are made of soft hide, just like the Tsar’s, and seem out of place with the rest of his clothing.
He speaks to me in English, the way the English do, barely opening their mouths and slurring together all their words, softening the consonants until they all sound the same, so unlike my language. He arrives at a question, asks it, and waits for my response.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t understand.” Is there any point? “Russian,” I say, though I know it useless. Our conversation is finished. “I speak Russian.”
“You speak Russian?” he says in Russian. “Fine,” he continues. “My Russian is tolerable. However, you must pardon me when I make an error.”
He speaks with an accent just like Yakov’s, but he appears more like an English nobleman than a worker for the Russian-American Company. I shouldn’t be so surprised. The koliuzhi who gave us the halibut knew the Russian word for fish. And what about the lamestin woman speaking French? Still, I never would have imagined hearing my language spoken here. “How could you know Russian?”
He laughs. “I like different languages,” he says. “They interest me. But your people—I think you do not. Long ago, I decided it would be best if I learned some words.”
Some words? He makes mistakes but he’s conversant.
“Who taught you?”
“Do you know of the Peacock? There were some good-humoured men on board. Right after that, it was the O’Cain. I cannot imagine why your Tsar thought it wise to get mixed up with the Americans, but who am I to say so? Your men were good enough teachers of your language.”
“I’ve never heard of those ships. I come from the Sviatoi Nikolai.”
“Yes, Captain Slobodchikov said there would be more ships—Russian ships—but we haven’t seen any yet. Mostly it’s the English and the Americans.”
26
This lyric is from a “Song for delivering brides (or women) to Neah Bay.” It is believed to have been found by Young Doctor, a noted Makah shaman and finder of songs. The words are thought by the Quileutes to be “song syllables” that don’t mean anything—like the “scoobee doobee do” found in several American songs of the 1960s.