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Walker steered his canoe along the shore, easing it in amongst the rocks, letting it drift over the long kelp fronds undulating gently on the surface. He had already filled a basket with sgyuu, the black seaweed the Japanese called nori, and had another half-filled with purple sea urchins. That was more than enough to feed him for the next several days and back at his cabin he had the herring roe he had collected last week and the salmon he had already dried. Food was never a problem.
What was a problem for him, what was bothering him, was something else entirely. This was the second time he had reached out to Dan Connor to ask for help with his own people and it didn’t seem right. Last year it had been for a friend, Joel. This year it was for two men from Banks Inlet. They were two men he didn’t know personally, but they were still his people and he could not refuse the request the old man had made. He knew there was no way he could have helped any of them without involving Dan, so why should he feel uncomfortable about doing so?
It wasn’t as if Dan had objected: it was part of his job and he seemed quite willing to do it, but what troubled Walker was that he was the one doing the asking. Asking was not something that came easily to him. He had spent too long and worked too hard on gaining his independence.
But if he was honest with himself, he had to admit it was more than that. It was also pride, a kind of pride he had struggled to overcome, that he thought he had conquered, but which had crept back again while he wasn’t looking.
Pride in who he was, in what he had achieved, in his culture, in his heritage—all that was fine, but this was different. It was a kind of pride that whispered in his ear and told him that he was too good to ask for help. He had not recognized it until now and he did not like it. It was the kind of pride that had gotten him into trouble when he was young.
He thought about the old man. An old man who was chief of his people and yet willing, in spite of his age, to leave his home to seek help from a stranger when one of them was in trouble. An old man who was certainly proud of who he was, and deservedly so, but who had no problem asking for what was needed when he himself did not have the means to accomplish it.
Walker was so busy with his self-analysis his brain didn’t register the momentary glimpse of shape and movement seen through the narrow opening to a tiny cove until he was almost past it. Even then, he wasn’t sure what it was he had seen. Curious, he dug in his paddle, turned the canoe, and nosed it slowly past the rocks.
The scene inside the cove was like nothing he could have imagined. A man huddled on the shore, his back hunched as if he were trying to hide something from view or trying to protect something, although nothing was visible. He was thin and angular, almost emaciated, and his body looked awkward. Thin colorless hair hung in wisps across his shoulders and down his back, but it was cut short at the front where it looked as if it had been hacked off with a blunt knife. The man’s face, as he watched Walker’s approach, was almost as pale as the hair.
This apparition was too old to be the young white man Dan had mentioned was missing, and it certainly wasn’t anyone from the village in Banks Inlet, but what was he doing here
What looked like a pile of dirty rags was heaped on the gravel beside him, along with a battered saucepan and a couple of plastic bowls. An old blue tarpaulin was stretched between the branches of two trees to create a rough shelter. As Walker approached, the man leaned further over the pile of rags and put out his hand in a protective gesture.
“She’s mine. I found her.”
The voice reminded Walker of the rasping calls of the Night Herons that roosted in his cove. The words were faltering, the cadence odd, but he could hear the strength of determination in them.
Walker nodded. He had no idea what the man was talking about, but it was obvious he was either crazy or very frightened, maybe both. For perhaps the first time in his life, Walker wished he were the kind of person who could put others at ease, but that was impossible. He was who he was. His appearance alone turned most people off and conversation was not his style. Still, he had to say something. The man was looking more terrified by the second.
“Morning,” he said. As a conversation starter it was totally inadequate, but it was the best he could come up with. “I’m Walker. I live up the inlet a bit.” He nodded vaguely towards the south. He wasn’t surprised when the man didn’t answer.
“You live here?” Walker tried again, thinking that perhaps a question might elicit a response, but it seemed to do the opposite as the guy hunched even lower.
“Too bad Dan wasn’t there.” The thought surprised Walker. He couldn’t recall ever wanting the presence of anyone else before, but this was something he had no skill at. Meeting people was Dan’s strength, not his.
He made yet another attempt. “I guess I’m a neighbor.”
There was still no response, but the pale eyes slid sideways and as Walker followed them he saw an ancient fish boat nestled in behind the curving rock wall of the cove. From the peeling paint and the rusting tackle it looked like it might have been there for a long time. In fact it looked about ready to sink.
“You from the fish farm?” The rasping voice caught Walker by surprise and he turned back to see the man lifting the bowl up to the pile of rags. As he watched a black nose slid out from between a couple of layers of cloth and a pink tongue flicked out to lap up whatever was being offered.
“No,” Walker replied, and then added, because he simply had to know, “That a dog in there?”
The man looked down and nodded, his hand hidden inside the pile of rags.
“They didn’t want her,” he said. “They threw her away.”