in my uncles time

8/8/2019 In My Uncles Time

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In My Uncles TIMeS h a d o w s A c r o s s H i l l s i d e s

X'uneiLance a. TwiTcheLL

LukaaX.dikaaykani Xaadaas

TroubLed raven ProducTions

2 0 0 5 a L L r i g h T s r e s e r v e d


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what love man may ndthat knows no boundaries and

grins in the ace o despair

or those that have come beore usor those who will inherit

the consequence o our actions


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We have truly become a sight to behold.

Our ancestors have watched us all apart.But now the long night o our suering

is about to end.

Harold napoleon


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cH a p T e r on ep o c k M a r k e d d a y s


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sH a d o w s ac r o s s H I l l s I d e s


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When the og rolls in just right, creeping in over the ripples o the

ocean, the tips o the highest poles become the only thing visible. Thewatchmen carved on top, who are said to be the guardians o thesehouses, are blinded by thick sheets o gray. And it is on these daysthe worst things pass unseen.

In the village o Skidegate, Cedar canoes line the beaches. Theyare anned out in ront o the three rows o houses that cling to athin, fat area where the mountains touch the sea. There was a time

when these beaches were radiant with lie, as the Haida gathered allthe ood they could in the summer to tell their stories come winter,and celebrate their lives through east and dance.

But these days are dark, pockmarked with disease and amine,lled with the screams o the dead.

It is our o'clock in the morning. At this time the morning beore,a sot seaward breeze carried the og out across the still waters o thesea. But this morning's og will not lit. It sits solid, lumbering likea allen tree crushing the orest foor. Thick rolls o dark smoke mix

with the og to shield Skidegate rom the light o the world. It reeks


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o smoldered fesh, clothing, and Cedar.

Between the gentle lapping o the sea, a large plank house cracklesas fames devour it. The smoke enguls the home, and winds its way

up the housepoles. A bear gure grits his teeth behind the yellowfames, smiling as he endures the pain o loss.

And the House Chie sits ar out on the shore. Seated upon a mas-sive chunk o dark granite, he looks out to the sea or answers. Withhungry fames dancing behind him, his long shadow jitters along thegravel beach, and the old man mutters beneath his breath, speaking

in an ancient tongue."It is out o the darkness that my lie emerged. And in the twilight

o my uncle's time I cannot help but see the change that lies ahead.In the moments up until my birth, our people owned the sea thatsurrounded us; and now we are scavengers. On the beaches whereour houses and poles once armed our presence and protected ouramilies, there are only echoes o what once was. Greatness seems so

distant, unattainable.

"Through times o sickness, as small pox threatened to yank ourpeople rom this earth, I sat and listened to the poetry o my uncles'native tongue. The Blind Poet o the Haida, the curious white mencall him. When he was a young man, the new diseases ripped throughour coastline, robbing him o sight and replacing childish laughter

with the screams o the dead, the dying, and the mournul souls whohappened to survived."

"Oh, I see beore me a dim path that leads to the sunset o myexistence. With virtue and tenacity, I brought my people to theirgreatest hours. We were lords upon the sea.

"Now I sit with the warmth o wickedness at my back rail andbitter as a sun-bleached twig disposed on a gravel beach. In my youth,I gave mysel to my people, and we thrived. Now I am but a speck odust that will blow to nothing in the ace o pestilence and amine.

I no longer have the strength.

That is the path o thorns that I see, laid out like the bones othe dead beore me.


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Nightall. The serenity o the late hours deep within the orest is

broken by panicked ootalls. One oot labors ater the other, wornby miles and ueled by a nauseating sense o urgency. A baby girl,cradled within a tattered wool shirt once worn by a large man, liesinstinctively still within her mothers arms.

Mother is small and visibly shaken. A deep red scratch under herlet eye stretches to just beneath her let ear. A tiny woman, her thinrame seeps cold sweat, and when she nally stops running a seethingpain suraces in her lungs, muscles, and orehead.

She catches her breath, lets go o any hope o composure, andagain, she runs. The rapidness o her breathing is all she hears, and

with a steady gait Mother glides like the og rolling over the oceanssurace. She runs. There is no sense o distance or time, only therhythm o her ootalls. She runs and runs and runs, stopping only

when she nally meets the ocean.Upon a sandy beach that is a reddish hue o brown and covered

with a winding line o dritwood and kelp, she alls to her knees.There is time now, and she weeps. Her daughter stares wide-eyed atthe stillness o the sea and the shore, tiny dark eyes driting back andorth, relaxed. The sun prepares to rise, and in the gentle gray lighto the early morning, the mother huddles over her baby, shakes and

heaves until ear is replaced by atigue.

Again lost in her sense o time, she notices the signs o the comingmorn. The increasing light, calling o the gulls, warming o the coolnight air that intensies the smell o low tide. She looks down at herdaughter, at chestnut skin and cherry amber hair, watching the childdriting to sleep in the atermath.

Then she sees the blood. On her own hands, dried and dark liketrouble, and she tries in desperation to orget. Leaning over to orma protective and warm layer over her child, Mother slides into a ainto exhaustion, and she dreams.

There is rst only a aint voice in the blackness, a guiding comortwith the amiliarity o amily. Then she sees the shape o her great-


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grandather, sitting on the beach with her, telling stories. They sitwhere the sea reaches over the shore, and their eet are submerged inthe cold, shallow water.

His ace is a blur. No matter how hard she tries to ocus, all shecan see clearly is her great-grandpas mouth. He is speaking to her

with the sotness o a grandparent, his words wrapping around herlike a shelter, a harbor. His words are the rhythmic motion o thegentle tide, easing her tension. He speaks about an old story, one shehas heard many times. He is telling o the Gaagit.

I will tell you this, once again, or your protection. Your day-to-day liewill not always be the same. There will be situations, now and then,that will require the extraordinary rom you; times to come that requireyou to listen now.

When I was your age, my Chena did the same to me, sat me downwhile I listened. All my brothers, sisters, riends, would be outside playingand I had to sit and listen. There are ones we choose or this, Chenawould say, smiling.

He would talk to me, telling our stories. These stories have manylevels, many uses, Chena would say. They must be told correctly, the oldway, in order or them to have power. The ones who have learned to listen

can tell stories that change the world; that bring lie, death, east, amine.And like all things, they can be used to help or harm our people.

Yes, Chena would sit me down or hours at a time and told me somany things o our people. The rst thing he told me he said it oten was that with our people, when one who is talking knows how to reallyspeak, and one who listens knows how to really listen, then the words thatare spoken become absolute truth. Remember that, grandchild; rememberthat one thing or me.

Chena began at the beginning, with a string o Raven stories. I sawour Raven, rolling along, creating the havoc and change that made allthings possible or our people. These oten began with Raven trying tosatisy his own hunger, and ended with his most insatiable desire to shareeverything with the world. That was always Ravens great transormation,


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rom looking inward to looking out.

We learn rom this, grandchild. All o us are oten Ravens rst sel, ueled by some greed or appetite. Our way o lie pushes us to become

the second sel, giving all that we have, all that we have worked or, toour people. This path will be the most dicult. But we see our Ravenmake the change time and time again, as easily as fipping over an emptyclamshell.

My Chena then told me o the birth and development o our people.From the many gits and skills given by Raven, to our learning to be a

part o the natural world, to the development o clans and our relationshipto the animal and the supernatural world. Each day it was one morestory, and beore he began the days story he would make me tell him theone rom the day beore. I I did not tell it correctly, down to the smallestdetail, he would tell it to me again. And when I could tell it correctly, hewould smile and begin the next one.

To look at one o these stories would be like holding a single hair rom

your head. It tells a tiny bit about you, but hardly enough to know you.Our people are like this.

Every one o us is needed. That person you dont like, the one who isso mean to you, the ones that hurt you; you need them. You need them,and they you, because you are not yoursel alone. They are dierent people,but part o the same whole. It does not matter i they do not understand,

know, or believe this. It does not matter because things have been andalways will be this way or our people.

That is why this story I will tell you today carries so much weight. Tolose one o our own, especially one so close to you, and to keep on living;requires ceremony, love, amily, and unity. But to lose all o your people,to become lost between this world and the next causes the soul to twistand contort. This worst o all possibilities, to lose all things dear to you

at once, rom oneness to nothingness, creates a deormity so hideous, atransormation so terrible, that the most powerul o ceremonies is requiredto correct and to heal.

And while she rested and dreamt, Raven was there above her, swaying


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upon a thin spruce bough. Raven. Tall and ull with a smooth blackvoice, blinking quickly while watching the exhausted woman with herchild. Always there and always knowing. Inky black Raven.


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cH a p T e r TwoT H e B o d y


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It is mid-morning, and beneath the thin branches o a scraggly alder,

atop the contrasting white, red, and green o the dwar dogwood liesthe lieless remains o a battered man. His lips are cold blue, and hisblood spattered ace is rozen in an expression o anguish and utterloss o peace. Claw-like and pale ngers are clenched around pieceso moss and mud, as i he had attempted to drag himsel rom themurky riverbank.

The surrounding world stirs with lie. From the churning o thethin but swit creek to the scurrying chatter o squirrels and smallsongbirds, everything is in sharp contrast to the scene o a murder.

Autumn vibrance paints the scene with a splendor o colors. Orange,red, and brown stand out rom the backdrop o light green moss anddarker Cedar branches. And o the body, nothing could seem moreout o place in Natures backyard.

Kyle Bennett walks with a steady gait. His thick black boots, whichhad been coated with grease or water resistance, crush small branchesand leaves on the orest foor. He ollows no trail, only wandersthrough the orest to nd what is hidden deep within its sheltering


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evergreens. He carries a tattered tan canvas backpack, and within itis a leather pouch containing various writing materials to record hisdays ndings, be they within the landscape or within the people who

reside upon it.He wears a aded green wool cap, and his brown hair is short, thick,

and shiny. Kyles eyes watch the ground beneath his eet. It is sotand green, mossy and spongy, sinking around his ootalls. He looksup now and then, to watch what is beore him, deep in the woods andmoving arther rom the village he has come to study. There is a lightbreeze that makes the drooping Cedar boughs whisper lightly, and hecan hear the gentle running water o an upcoming creek.

The water is cold and clear, with small white and gray stones onthe creek bottom. It smells o resh earth and clay. He bends overand cups water to his dry mouth, drinks, splashes the creek waterover his sweaty ace. Water drips down his scraggly long beard andmoustache, back into the creek.

Kyle closes his eyes and takes in the sound o water running overthe small round rocks. Taking these walks helps with the headacheshe eels, which have cropped up since his rst days on the island. The

water cools his everish temperature, and seems to cleanse his mindas well as his ace. The world slows a little, claries, and the residueo lie in busy Seattle washes away little by little.

When he opens his eyes, turns his head, he sees the pale mass o acorpse twenty eet to his let. The remains o a man in the long blackrobe o a missionary, clammy white and lieless blue with the red,black, and brown stains o dried blood. So jarring to its surround-ings, the only thing that keeps Kyles heart rom racing is the serenityo his surroundings.

He stares at the scene, uncertain o its authenticity, o his con-

sciousness. The body is upstream rom him, and he quickly wipeshis hands, ace, mouth with panicking motions. There is a twist inhis stomach, and Kyle quickly turns and vomits.

The young mother awawkens. Jarred awake hal-way into a dream,


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wishing only to return, to see her Chena again. The mid-aternoonheat is rich with lie. The sot rythmn o the oceans short waves iscomplimented by gull calls and the song o a distant solitarty Raven.

And in the sheltered bundle beneath Mother, the child sleeps peaceulas the slow moving sun in the clear sky overhead.

Slow and deliberate, she rises slowly so as not to wake her baby.Mother walks careully over the slick lie o low tide, and kneels ontoa dritwood log to rinse her hands and ace in a small pool o saltwater.

With ast scrubbing motions, she eels and watches the cold watercleanse her o blood, dirt, and trouble.

As she nishes, Mother sits upon the log and closes her eyes, long-ing or the answer o what to do next. She can not return to the village,can not ace the possible consequences that would surely ollow. Thesun works its way across the aternoon sky, basking everything in lightand all heat. Lie dances its routine all around her, and yet she onlysits in stillness, contemplating the ate o her rstborn.

Again lled with worry and tension, she closes her eyes slowly,absorbing the brilliant lie o the beach around her. The short, sharpcall o a songbird, the songs o the Eagles, and the many, many soundso Raven. Mother breaths slowly, and calls upon the memory o herGrandather to nish the story.

Pesky and curious, always there to see the truth in the details, high ina thinly covered Hemlock tree, there is Raven. Always looking or thenext meal, adventure, or story, there is charcoal Raven. This one witha small spiked plot o eathers atop her head, looking extra bushy withquickly blinking gray eyes to take in this scene. She turns and looksout to the horizon, letting out a deep, short, guttural call.


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cH a p T e r TH r e es T o r y T e l l e r s


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Darkness. It is the home or an old resident o this world. He sleeps

in silence, but never without light. I was never araid o the dark,he once conded in his nephews, until I lost my sight.

In his childhood, the rst waves o new diseases tore up the coast. A beast o amine, product o the immigration o non-natives; itdevoured lie ater precious lie like a all breeze tossing dry leaves.These wraths travelled under so many names: infuenza, measles, smallpox, tuberculosis. The old man remembers little o the days beorethis sea o sickness, only that there was more strength and aith in anold way o living.

Those memories have always been like my eyesight when I awokerom the sickness, the one they call small pox, he speaks with a slysmile, a collection o blurred images. When the old man speaks hiseyes always remain open, scanning an audience who sits xed on his

gaze and wrapped within his words.He addresses his nephews, three young men, and speaks with a

mixture o humor and sternness. They look at his ace, into his eyes,which resemble something between sh scales and abalone shells.

I have never told you much about my mother, the old manbegins. She was a brilliant woman who loved to laugh. Her voice


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was very dry, and she liked sipping tea rom a aded orange teacup.She claimed that the cup came rom China, and was one o the thingsbrought over rom early trade with the Russians.

Mother used to sit there, sipping her tea, and tell me about thedays when the Russians rst came. Our boats that went to meet theirmassive ships, and there were never women or children who traveled

with these newcomers. She spoke o a time when we still lived likeour ancestors, spending a great deal o time in dugout canoes travel-ling to visit our relatives in other communities.

This was a major thing or our people. Travel. Trade. Everyoneknew the Haida made the strongest canoes, and those canoes wouldcarry our people all along the misty straights that connect our manyislands to Haida Gwaii, the main island. Mother said that the oldones would have a meeting place where they could gather to talk aboutthings, powerul things that needed to be kept out o the village.

When you speak o things you dont understand, she used to say,

spiritual things, you open yoursel up or trouble i you are not careul. Iyou dont know, then just leave it alone. This was a very important pointshe always made, my nephews. There are things out there that are notor everyone. Some o these people who have come to document us,like this anthropologist, he is always asking about these things. Hedoes not know what door he is trying to open. To speak so casuallyo such things, that is taboo or our people.

Remember this, nephews. This is the teaching o your elders andyour grandmother. Now, I must leave you. The talkers are having ameeting to discuss our stories, these many troubles that are settlingupon us, and what must be done to protect our sacred knowledge.

Hidden deep within the grasps o a temperate rain orest, a small cedarplank house shelters the heart o a culture. A sot seaward breeze createsripples among the evergreens, coercing them to say a long, sot hushin the rhythm o the weather. The sun has long set, and the worldaround this tiny house is let in silent stillness, like a valley ater a hardrain, still shimmering with the residues o a days activities.


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A small ring o elders surround a tiny, smoldering fame that onlylights the center o the house. Deep in the dark corners, their wordsburrow into the Cedar houseposts, lling the structure with power

and history. Their speech is slow, deliberate, and lled with vast gapso silence. They know that this is how it has been, and must continueto be, or the storytellers o an oral culture.

When they rst enter the house, there is a time o quiet recollec-tion while silent prayers rise up and beckon the tellers o old. A small

Argellite pipe is handed around, and as the tobacco smoke begins toswirl about in the corners o the small house, an old man begins thenights session. His eyes are heavy, but stare o into some unseendistance. Scarlet splotches surround his pale blue corneas, and hispupils are motionless. He speaks sotly, and the others listen.

We came to have a discussion about our culture, and this onewho keeps asking questions; orever trying to write down all o oursecrets. His questions are bold, and dangerous. But as important as

this discussion is, because we must protect our people and this manrom his own devilish curiosity, there is something else that must bediscussed here tonight.

On occasion there is an event in time that orever shits the direc-tion o a people. Last night something happened that will always bediscussed among our people. One o our daughters is stranded rightnow, away rom us, wandering and hiding rom those who would seekto steal our children. There have been prowlers in our village, theypose as Messengers o God, and are looking to remove children romtheir homes and amilies.

This is something new or us. We have tried our very best toaccommodate the changes that this world is bringing, but this is sovery traumatic or our amilies. They are taking our children to what

they the white mans language is calling boarding school where theyorbid them rom speaking our language. They are orced to behave

just like these Non-Natives, and everything they have ever known isstripped rom them. Beaten rom them. Stolen rom them.

What a nightmare this is or us. We are seeing a wrath like ourancestors could not have imagined. I have seen in my mind a collage


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o images, our children with their hair cut short, wearing the oreign-ers clothing, no longer aware o how to communicate with the land,animals, elders, ancestors, and earth.

This language we speak, it ties us to the land and assists us withour understanding o place within the natural world. Just to look atthe Non-Natives, the way they hunt and sh, is to know that they donot know how they t into the world. There is a hunger there to beabove everything, always in command. That is danger.

Well, last night something happened. Something truly terrible

and world-shaking. Our daughter is out there at the place where theyput the Ghagiid to rest long ago. She is there with her daughter. Shecries, the mother, while the inant stays calm and still. In that place,she is sae, and the child knows this; it is programed inside her. Thatplace where the worst o things happened, the blessings that were laidupon the land allows her now to rest.

She is hiding. She will be chased. Someone has died. I know

this because it is becoming as we speak and sit here today it isbecoming a legend, a story our people will tell about how we survivedthis riot o plagues.

She is out there with her baby girl, as we all know, a special andunique child. This child was was born unto dicult situations, withinher amily and own people. Things that many people would disap-

porve. But there is something that transcends the commonly knownand understood. In these times o despair, this sweet child was broughtout, born into being in the most unusual circumstances.

And this is her story . . .

On an early all morning, the sky was a mix o thick gray rolledup clouds, looking xed orever in place, and patches o blue sky.Beneath a slowly cycling pattern o light showers and the rising sun,a girl sits in conusion. A small rock outcropping shoots out romthe beach, a thin nger surrounded by the high tide and calm waters.She sits atop these gray rocks, with her knees pulled up to her chest,arms crossed around her knees. Like the shiting weather, she alter-


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nates between moments o calm refection and ts o light sobbingand slow rolling tears.

On a beach a hal mile down, gulls and crows gather at the mouth o

a small river that fows with clean cold water. The birds, they call out,they dance, argue, and generally pester each other over the adbundantrun o humpies. The beach is vibrant, in constant sound and motion.

And the girl, she takes a moment to watch this rom her own stillness,perched between a pendulum o emotions, peaks and valleys.

With her head resting on her knees, tilted so she can watch the

birdson the beach, her mind drits back to the moment this littledrama began.

The young mother walked the beach at a very low tide. The sky, water, and earth all shared a similar eerie stillness. Heavy cloudsobscured the sky and bathed the world in sharp contrast, thick withshadows. And the slightest breeze carries the deep salty odor o thesea, the low tide, the damp and the drying beach vegetation.

She took her steps along the high tide line, browsing or hiddenitems hidden amongst the sunbleached and saltsoaked dritwood, orin the vegetation rich with algae greens, deep purples, earthy browns.Now and then she stops, stoops, investigates, and maybe places an

item into a shoulder bag woven rom thick strips o cedar bark.This continues in the thick, humid air o a all morning. She

wandered and wandered, until she noticed something she should notsee, that should not be. Wedged between two massive dritwood logs,a small dugout river canoe sat overturned, piles o seaweeds lining itsedges, where they touch the beach.

The bow and stern o the canoe had large dents and chips, longstrips o wood splinter o o the sides o the hull. Strangest o all,though, along the bottom and near the stern were three long scratchmarks, jagged and deep.

Thats a river canoe she whispered to hersel as her ootalls slowand lighten. She looked up and down the beach, there were only tiny


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creeks in the little cove, none o them large enough or the smallesto canoes. And beyond the beach there was only the open ocean anda smattering o tiny islands.

With the heart beating heavy and loud, her breaths hurried andshallow, she ran her thin ngers along the ridges o the scratches. Thespace between each one was the length o her hand, and when shelooked closely there were crushed sea shells wedged into the scratchmarks. As the fesh o her ngertips ran along the canoes wounds,she elt a growing dizziness, the sounds o the beach lie began tocirculate, her ace fushed, body began to tremble. She slipped intoa vision, a vague notion o what may have happened.

He huddled beneath an overturned canoe, sweat dripping o ohis chin. The small shelter o the river canoe amplied the hurriedsounds o his breathing and heartbeat, the intensity o his body panic.

With his mind on the edge o vertigo, his hands seemed to moveon their own accord, shoveling round stones, jagged shale, and coldmoist piles o beach sand against the inside edge o the canoe. Blooddripped rom his ngertips, but all he could think o was blockingthe light, which revealed quickly moving eet that were an impossibleshade o pale blue with thick black visible veins. Seaweed and kelpdragged behind the eet and cast a maddening pattern o shadowsinside the canoe.

With the beach pushed up against the canoes ledges, nally block-ing out all o the light, all that was let was the sounds. Gurgling.Scurrying. Small polite knocks on the gunwalls o the canoe, a pause,and then something scratching so deep he could hear sea-soakedngernails breaking o into the wood.

In the protection o sheer darkenss, he thought he could almost seecolors, little quick sparkles o blue and red on the outskirts o his vision.Every time he turned his head, they were gone. He thought he eltsea-water splash against his ace, could taste it on his lips mixed witha lunatic sweat. At some point, the madness peaked, and he slumpedover with the sounds o horror surrounding his meek shelter.


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And calmness ell instantaneously. As though it had always beenthere. A second later, there was Raven, letting a deep song escape theback o her throat. A high pitched and guttural roll reaching over the

landscape, blending with the scent o ragrant cedar tips, the slowlydrying beach vegetation, and the atermath o absolute panic. Her song

went on and on, as she stood hidden high in the trees, the sounds o itsmoothed the edges o everything and let it awash in calm atermath.Ravens song, over the gentle rhythm o the sea.


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cH a p T e r Fo U rT U B e r c U l o s I s o n T H e wI n d


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When I was a little girl, we used to spend our days in saety. A cluster

o solemn relatives surround a rail, elderly woman inside a makeshitroom and hospital. They call it the Sanitorium. The building is thepea green shell o a massive army tent, lled with white curtain separa-tors and overfowing with sickness. Outside, the wind rises and allsin gusts and heaves, yet the air within this conne never moves. Itreeks, morning to night, with the rancid combination o ammonia,sweat, and uncontrollable human waste.

We used to play around the big house at Yan, and we could runreely because everyone knew whose child you were. The womansvoice crawls through the stillness o the room while her eyes com-pletely carterized with a salmon scale grayish blue dance let andright with wild anticipation. They knew whose child you were . . .you were everyones child.

Her delicate shape is sunken deep into the bed, as though sheweighs ve times more than beore the sickness came. Deep ravinesin her ace are lled with rivers o sweat and tears, and the heat romher body radiates out to those surrounding her. The diseases, unmind-ul, rip through elders and children; chewing away at the edges o thepeoples method o survival and strength.


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When my mother went on . . . she was over a hundred and twentyyears old . . . and we elt a change in the room just beore she let . . . anenergy at her last deep breaths. The womans hands make sts in the

thin sheets, crumpling and releasing while her labored breaths releaseher story. Our spiritual leader said it was our older relatives theones who moved on that were strongest and closest to her comingto take her home. Our Holy Man said the ones who came were happy;that they balanced the sorrow that hung in that room.

We lay with her body all her precious things and all our clansstrongest items. And sat people by her side or the day that ollowed.

With this, we took the time to give a proper release o the spirit romthe body.

Now there is no time or such things. My nephew tells me thedead are piling up outweighing the living so there is no timeor ceremony. Holes are being dug and shacks built to house those or

which there is no time or workers to care or; and rather than proper

cremation or burial, we are burned in piles that no one is supposedto know o . . . but we all smell it. We all know it. The lives o ourpeople are alling, one ater another, as i stars rom the sky that leaveno guidance or twinkling hope. Only darkness.

Yes. They once came to take us home the ones o long ago.But now we are leaving this world too quickly. Her eyes slow romtheir twitching and shiting, xating on a point within her blindness.Now the valley is fooded with deeated souls, lost ones, slowly wan-dering into the orest.

Her breathing slows, eases. Her ace tightens in concentration,then releases the muscles in a gesture that cannot impact the worldaround it. There is a silence, a stillness, and the sickness carries outonto the wind, into the world around them.

Outside in the evening, beneath the light o a pale hal moon,Raven lets out slow, sullen cries into the darkness. Raven. With thepale moonlight shimmering across her eathers, beak, darting eyes.

Waiting and knowing, watching the wandering souls and calling outto a world devoid o the strength needed to ease the pain o her people.She caws, shits her head quickly, and then lits hersel into the night


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and away rom the trouble surrounding the Sanitorium.


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cH a p T e r F I v ec H I l d r e n I n T H e d a r k n e s s


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Journal Entry October 4th, 1916

Hope. An increasing rarity in these parts. But there is something

stirring a new belief in the people. No one will say, but I think it hassomething to do with a young girl born a week ago. Its the onlymajor, positive occurrence I can think of between now and the time of

their despair.

Kyle Livingston sat on the ledge o a large black and gray slateboulder near the ocean, scrawling out his newest journal entry. Hislips moved along with the words, and his pencil made small swish-ing sounds across the wrinkled pages o his eld book. Thick cloudsobscured the aternoon sky, save or the small patch where rays o the

sun broke through like the outstretched ngers o heaven and reacheddown to the sea.

It has been a great challenge to learn the peoples language Xhaadaasis what they call themselves, and the British Columbians pronounce it


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Haida (Haaydaa). Between the missionaries and the other historians& anthropologists, much will be written about these people; but few willget it right unless they learn to speak the native tongue. Everything

is so rich, and much is lost when translated to a language from a dif-ferent time and place, which makes their thoughts sound elementary.They are bring judged by their ability to speak French or English, butmany of those who are the equivalent of Shakespeare and Plato whenspeaking their own language. And with the pace of illness in theseislands, I cannot help but fear that all may soon be lost.

Both men and women are tireless workers. The summer monthsare a constant flurry of action as one food season bleeds into the next.Winter is a different time altogether as I am told, for this winterwill be my first in this part of the world.

I can only imagine how majestic it will be here on the islands. All Ican think of is a soothing ride aboard a fifty foot cedar canoe, looking

to the shore at snow drifting across the evergreens as we travel throughmisty hilltops and winding channels. But I am certain that it will notbe such a magical experience. In the eyes of many of the people there isa hollowness, as if their eyes were reflecting a bleak fate.

If only I had arrived before the waves of my own people. Before theskirmishes, the hostility, the sickness, and the forced salvation. This

place will never be the same, instead the beauty of these people whoare intertwined with the land will only echo off the hillsides. It isa solemn task to document this change, and if this current wave ofsickness does not soon pass, there may well be no Xhaadaas left of

which to write.

A child has been born among us. Born among us during these timeso dwindling light. Bet despite these surroundings, she will be a beaconto lead our people through the darkness. This leadership will not be

like the Shepherd the robed ones speak o; will not be an icon amongthe masses. She will be just as you and I, common as the winds thatblow in the autumn wind. Her powers o salvation will come in herlineage, and her ability and willingness to carry our precious culturethrough these dark times.

The old blind man spoke in stillness to a small, select crowd within


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the thick walls o a cedar community house. In time, she will shinelike a warm light in the darkness, like a ull moon beaming downupon a rozen night.

This is the hope to which we must cling. We must teach her well,those things we wish to pass on; and we must when at all possible lend her strength when we can save it.

In the early morning, her grandather came to her with a powerulstory. That story had only begun in her dreams when she awoke. Thereis no peace when surrounded by trouble so thick. But we will wish

or her a guardian tonight, a watchman, like in the olden times.We will ocus on this, my beloved people, and it will be. Put the

thought in your collective conscience and know that all the power, allthe capabilities o our people, lie in our ability, desire, and knowledgeo working together. Place it in your minds and ocus, and I willcomplete the story her Chena began or her. In the early morn, asshe lie in complete exhaustion, this is the story he began to tell ...

Years ago. Long ago. There was a strong young man in a village not arrom here. This young man grew ast, learned ast, and was oten helpulto his elders. He succeded at so many things, so ast, though, that he hadlittle ear or awe o anything. I something needed to be done, or i he just

wanted to do something, he would do so without much consideration. Inmany ways, be believed himsel invincible.

This young man was highly respected in the village. While he wasstrong and capable, he was not mean or boastul. His only faw may havebeen that he acted without thinking ully through his coming actions. I atree needed to be allen, he would do so, oten without ceremony. I oodwas needed, he would rush out and hunt and gather, but oten withoutully respecting things. In many places where he gathered ood, the landwas scarred or the creatures earul rom his path o determination.

Many o the elders tried to speak to him, and while not disrespectul hewould disagree in his mind. Am I not doing what is needed to be done?He would think to himsel, and disregard what he was told about beingcautious and aware. He saw the world bend to his will, and believed


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this is how things would always be; and there is danger, my relatives, inthat way o thinking.

This young mans Naanii always tried to speak to him about these

things, and even her words only passed him by. She had an ability, theysay, to see things; sometimes to know things that were coming. She was veryold, and walked with a short cane that had a carving o a Raven on topwith closed eyes. She used to say that a carver made it or her to symbolizeher ability to look inward and see things that had yet to come.


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Waves come to the beach in a steady roll, alling lightly upon the

shore and trickling back with the sound o rolling stones. The beachis gravel, rounded rocks that vary in appearance rom white withlittle black spots, to a reddish-brown, to fat black. Overlooking thebeach is a tall rock that slopes up towards the beach, and ends with atwenty-ve oot vertical cli.

Yaahaahl, chie o the village, sits upon the ledge. His body isslumped at the shoulders and lower back, as i rocks had been piledhigh upon his back and shoulders. Looking out to the sea, he wears anexpression o discouragement, and the lines across his ace are deeplycarved into his aging fesh.

What a wrath o sorrows, with a sigh, he begins to speak tothe coming waves. Like a a murder o crows, perched upon thebranches that tangle my mind. They are the stranglehold o a heavy

heart that ignores the blatant possibility o a peoples demise. Iam utterly powerless . . . to stop or slow it.

The wealth o our people once weighed in possessions, pot-latches, and giveaways is now measured by existence alone. Thedaily survival o each one o our people is worth more than a boatloado copper or pelts, or we are a unique and treasured nation.


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There is an immense valley o sot soil and patchy grass that nearly

covers the entire horizon. Towering mountains surround three sideso this valley, their sharp sloped peaks reaching up to the sky. Theourth side o the valley extends towards and dives below the rippled

waters o the sea, which curls over its sandy beaches like long, pow-erul ngers. In this scene, a bright cloudless day reveals a world ospinning colors.

Small gatherings o deer meander through this place, munchingon greens and delicately sning the ground in eager curiousity. The

world sees only beauty, but beneath the surace . . . a blackness lingers.It slinks under the cover o brilliant purple irises on our massive andcompact legs. Thick strings o saliva bridge the canines o a slack butpowerul jaw.

And yet their day carries on, these isloated bucs and awn and

calves, as the worst imaginable orce plots and prepares. Mad withhunger, the beast is starven, and nothing will eed the void withinit. This creature has become a devourer not o fesh, or bone, orblood but o souls, desire, and hope.

Soon all is lost; some taken in a renzy o tearing fesh and searingpain. For others, their predator quietly inltrates their delicate skin


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and rests within their body to corrupt uture generations. Blacknesscascades over the once majestic valley and wilts the vibrance, romthe bashul irises to the unettered blade o grass. This place, now a

meadow o sorrows, is soiled to the roots. Every moment crushes ahundred insects, a thousand swallows, a million eagles. The haplessbeings cry and moan, writhe and pray or a change or awakening romtheir dark dream; but they have lost the ocus o their power.

And so it sits, rotting and drab or generations innumerable, un-til a young girl nds hersel on a grassy ravine. She lies in stillness,

watching and waiting or a glimpse o the nights sky. The bodies othe heavens sun, moon, and stars had long since been replacedby nothingness.

Without sight, she can only hear. She is in tune with the buzzing,futtering, rustling o the others. One by one, though, the soundstaper and quiet. She can hear the creatures o the world stop one byone, as i petried or suddenly vanished. Then there is only the sound

o the river, its liquid tumbling a constant soothing sound.This girl then eels a sudden discomort, loss o orientation, as

the sounds o the river seem to swirl around her in the darkness. It isas i a single point o sound, and increasing rush o water, is dancingclockwise around her. Faster and aster, the sound o vertigo in thedarkness.


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What are the things that I know? What type o lie has my son

lived? The small church o Skidegate donned a veil o absolute still-ness, silence. Every bench in the hall was ull, and every square ooto space was taken by the sombre ones standing beneath bright walls,stained glass, and colorul portraits o glory, pain, salvation. None othe aces were blackened with soot or darkened by Ravens sun, butall o them were xed upon a small, elderly woman who stood ragilebeore a closed casket.


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What


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And yes, a blind man killed your merchant o God. Because no

words o the great and humble creator ever spoke through a mouth opollution. In is not the right o man to condemn and to raise up, tokill our peoples ways in a horrid name o salvation. It is not the willo the creator to molest, torture, and to capture children rom theiramilies. And when al eyes pointed at each and every suspect, theynever turned to the one whose light had been turned out years ago.

I did not need to see him. His smell was oul, the stench o hisactions that no water could rinse, and my own vulnerability lead himclose to me. And he, who was a devourer o children, who sought tocleanse this world o the Xhaadaas in the name o religion, came toeel the cold steel truth o hypocrisy.

And as he spoke the last words, a gunshot shattered the walls o silenceand deaened the blind poet o the island. It echoed o the hillsidesand out into the sea, where double-nned killer whales breached,tunred, and dove into the darkness.


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in my uncles time

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