Twenty-Five

“DELICIOUS! THANK YOU.” Lindsey licks her fingers after accepting a sample of pit-smoked salmon from the man in the woven-cedar “basket” hat.

He smiles. “You’re welcome, sister.” He hands another sample to Ayako.

She smacks her lips. “Mmmm.”

He laughs and turns back to tending the slabs of filleted salmon on grills angled over a long open fire pit. “We’ll be feasting soon. You go dance now.”

Inside the Kwamish tribe’s new long-house community hall, drums are revving up, calling them back inside after the “circularity” meeting that Ayako facilitated with Lindsey’s help.

“Hey, we rocked, gal!” Ayako gives Lindsey a high-five. “All of us!”

She sweeps an arm to include the tribal adults now being joined by kids of all ages, heading toward the hall. They’re trailing in from the gravel parking area or the clapboard church across from it, dressed in dancing regalia: dark shirts with rows of miniature wood paddles dangling, dresses with fringe or feathers, some with small blankets over their shoulders decorated with applique images of Northwest-style creatures in geometric patterns of red and black.

The meeting earlier has surpassed their expectations, most of the adults speaking up about what they value, what they want for their children, how the salmon and trees and whales are part of their larger family and must be honored and protected. And now it’s time to dance! And feast!

Lindsey takes a moment to breathe deeply, gazing out at the magnificent view over the open Pacific Ocean here on the edge of the continent. It’s a perfect early fall day, air crisp and clear, breeze ruffling whitecaps over the deep blue sea, distant sound of surf crashing against the rocks far below the cliff. An eagle soars overhead with its shrill cry.

Turning back toward the long-house, she tips her head in a silent thank-you to the carved wingspread eagle topping the tall totem pole in front of it. She nods to the bear with salmon, frog, and raven also carved into the pole, then stoops under the “blessing” cedar frond tacked to the oval doorway, letting it brush her head. Nana’s coached her a bit on etiquette, like showing respect and humility when entering a gathering, bowing to let the cedar fronds cleanse her. She hasn’t seen Damon since she arrived two days ago to meet Nana, who’s been hosting her. He wanted to stay in the background of the project, but she supposes that eventually he’ll show up again.

She blinks as she enters the hall, eyes adjusting from the brightness outside. There’s a fire in the rock-lined pit at one end of the soaring space supported by thick, stripped tree trunks and topped by more cedar trunks as roof beams. Light streams in through opened skylights that let out the smoke. At the far end of the long hall is a gleaming wall of cedar planks with a mural of tribal-design eagles facing each other above killer whales.

Several men in basket hats or feathered headbands are seated around a huge drum, beating out a pounding rhythm. A few women in fringed dresses, along with children in everything from decorated shirts, feathered headgear, or appliqued blankets are moving in free-form dances around the wooden floor. Older women are seated around the perimeter, beating smaller hand drums or shaking rattles and chanting. A scent of woodsmoke and cedar-sage smudging fills the air.

Lindsey grew up attending local tribal celebrations, and loves the energy summoned by the drums, the joyful dancing. She’s nodding to the beat as a line of kids dances past her, stomping and spinning, circling the hall, uttering bird cries and animal growls. She startles as a man in a wooden Bear mask touches her arm and beckons her into the dance. He lumbers convincingly around her like the animal, swathed in a bulky blanket, then herds her into the dance. She throws out her arms in surrender and joins the line, stomping, turning, swaying along.

Finally she spins out of the dance, joining some of the women along the side. One of them hands her a rattle, and she sits to join the rhythm.

A hoarse “Caw, caw!” breaks through the drumbeats, and a general cry goes up as the dancers part to welcome a new arrival.

The man is wearing a painted black raven mask with a long beak, and a black shirt with fringy ribbons and feathers. He crouches, tilts his head to give sideways looks at the other dancers, then raises his head as he pulls a hidden string to make the lower beak open and clack shut in quick snaps. “Caw! Caw!” he croaks, and chases the children in the distinctive bobbing, crouching style of Raven. The children shriek in glee and run as Raven pursues them, hopping and crouching. He dances then to the drumbeat, eerily embodying the bird. Lindsey’s mesmerized, smoky dimness swirling around her, as reality seems to shift and sway, and it is a giant raven dancing before them, feathers shimmering with magic.

Then, bobbing his head, the dancer approaches the sitting women and singles out a graying elder. He pokes her with his beak and tips his head, spreading his “wings” and preening before her. She laughs and pushes him away, saying something in the native language.

Raven hunches, manages to look offended, then spreads his wings and dances off. “Caw! Caw!” He merges into the shadows, vanishes.

“That Chadis’kwis! Always the trickster.” The women laugh, shaking their heads.

The drumming and the smoke are making Lindsey’s head spin, so she slips outside for a breath of fresh air. Heading toward the view over the ocean, she notices the Raven dancer walking in normal human fashion now toward the parking area. He stops at a Subaru wagon and pulls off the mask. It’s Damon.

“Wow.” She starts to raise her hand, call out to him, then stops. She pulls back into the shade as he glances around, then hops into the car and heads off. She smiles.

“See you soon, Lindsey!” Ayako leans out the open window of her pickup, glossy short hair gleaming in the late afternoon sun. She laughs and gives Lindsey a thumb’s-up as she turns and heads off down Nana’s dirt drive.

Lindsey waves and pats the heads of the two yellow labs who amble over to butt her hands. “Hey, Mac. Ginger.” She raises her face to the lowering sun, smiling, still resonating with the drums, with the stories she’s heard that day, about grandmothers and great-grandfathers and how their ways are still alive here, still honored.

“Hey, Linny!” Nana, in her rocker on the porch, raises her face from her knitting and peers over reading glasses as Lindsey rounds the side of the mobile home, flanked by the dogs. “Take a load off.” She picks some yarn balls off the folding chair beside her. “What a day, eh? My old bones just wanting to soak up this last bit of sunshine.” Her silver braids swing forward as she adjusts herself in the rocker, gets a rhythm going to the clicks of her knitting needles.

Lindsey sits beside her as Mac and Ginger settle at their feet, gazing out over the scatter of cars parked on the lawn. For five dollars, Nana and her dogs provide secure parking for hikers on the nearby beach trail. Beyond the Subarus, pickups, and a rusty Buick sedan, the road winds along the curve of the shoreline flanked by wild rose and spiky grasses. The open stretch of the Pacific rolls in from a hazy blue horizon, spray shooting up around the jagged black rock stacks offshore, serrated wavelines sweeping in to break over the sandy beach. Nana’s got a million-dollar view, and they sit drinking it in along with the sunshine.

“You hungry, girl? Got plenty in the fridge, and some lemonade.”

Lindsey gets up, goes into the crowded living space, and pours them each a glass, bringing them back to the porch.

“Ah. Thank you.” Nana takes a sip, sets the glass on a TV tray on her other side. “How about a smoke?” She fumbles for her corncob pipe and fills it with what Lindsey has figured to be a mixture of tobacco and various dried herbs Nana gathers.

“All right.”

Nana smiles and fills her extra pipe for Lindsey, passes it over. Hands shaking with a slight tremor that the knitting seems to anchor, she strikes a match for Lindsey and holds it to the pipe while Lindsey puffs to get it going. She tries not to choke as she pulls in the spicy smoke, lets the taste fill her mouth, and blows it out.

Nana chuckles as she puffs her own pipe, rocking. “That’s good medicine.”

Lindsey’s not sure if that’s a joke, but getting to know Nana’s sly humor these last couple of days, she just nods and takes another puff. It does have a strangely soothing effect.

“Hmm. Looks like we got us another hiker, getting a late start.” Nana tilts her head toward another Subaru turning off the road, heading up the drive to park on the other side of the mobile home. A door opens and shuts, and the hounds jump up, barking, to run around the house. Footsteps approach the wooden pay box mounted on the porch.

“Now there’s a picture!”

Lindsey, startled, turns in her chair, starts to pull the pipe from her mouth.

It’s Damon, camera to his eye and snapping a shot.

Nana slowly lowers her pipe, blows out smoke, and smiles. “Baby boy, you still taking your girly pictures?”

“This time I got two beautiful gals for the price of one.” Grinning, he bounds up the steps and leans over to give Nana a kiss on the cheek. He turns and gives Lindsey one, too.

Nana waves her pipe. “Bring another chair out. Linny’s just going to tell us all about that big meeting.” Nana had declined to attend, making an obscure reference to getting the “real news” later at her sewing circle.

“So, Nana’s sharing her stash, eh?” He winks at Lindsey. “Better watch it, that stuff’ll give you some wild dreams.”

“Now, you don’t start that nonsense. Linny’s too smart for your tricks. You go get yourself some lemonade, come on back out and listen for a change.”

“Yes, Nana,” Damon says meekly, his eyes glinting mischief. “Whatever you say.”

Nana snorts.

Lindsey tells them about the gathering, the stories she heard from the tribal members. “And then at the drumming and dancing, we had a visit from Raven. What was his name again?”

“Chadis’kwis! Up to your old tricks.” Nana seems to have heard about it already. “That’s his tribal name,” she tells Lindsey.

Damon gives an abashed shrug. “Didn’t want to miss out entirely.”

The sun’s a red ball now, flattening in the coppery haze over the ocean and laying a glittering trail of fire over the waves, subsiding into an evening hush. Nana suddenly looks her age, and tired.

Damon stands and, with a tenderness that belies all his teasing, strokes her head and eases her to her feet. “You take a little nap, and I’ll cook us up this salmon I brought.”

“No, no,” she protests. “I’ll cook you some dinner.”

“No way.” Arm around her, he guides her into the home.

Lindsey strolls over the yard with Mac and Ginger, toward the road to take in the last glimmer of sunset, breathe in the fresh salty breeze.

“Hey.” Damon’s come up quietly behind her. He leans over to pet the hounds, then glances up at Lindsey. “You done good here, gal.”

“It was Ayako.”

“You started it rolling.” He straightens, face serious for a change, puts his arms around her and gives her a hug.

His strong body against hers feels good, and she inhales his spicy scent. He gives a little “Mmm,” and presses closer to murmur against her ear, “Hello, Lin.” He kisses her neck.

Tingles run up and down her spine, and she curves into his swaying embrace. They kiss, temperature rising, and time seems to get lost.

She eases back, catching her breath.

“So,” he does his raising-one-eyebrow thing, “I do believe it now—you’re done with Mr. Maybe.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Then take me on your camping trip down the coast?”

She smiles and shakes her head. “Damon, this one I need to do solo. Check in on who I am. Just that wide open ocean and me for now.”

Damon turns to the hounds, who are sitting on their haunches watching expectantly. He makes a comic face, lifts his palms, and tells them, “So, the beautiful maiden said take a hike. But not with me. And the devoted brave hunter threw himself off the ocean cliffs. That’s him out there, getting pummeled by the waves forever.” He jabs his thumb toward the distant rock stacks in the sea.

Mac gives him a big, slobbery yawn, then lifts a hind leg, bending double to lick his own balls.

Lindsey laughs.

Damon rolls his eyes. “See? I don’t get no respect around here.”

It’s an easy hike among the big cedars, and it feels good to be out with her backpack again. Lindsey threads between the massive trunks and steps along logs laid across bogs, enjoying the lush mosses, ferns, salal, and salmonberry of the rain forest. She’s been blessed by the weather gods, sunny days holding with a high-pressure front.

She raises her face to the burning crimson leaves of a vine maple backlit by the sun, tilting her head to play with the flickers of filtered light. Then she ducks around the bush to stand on the edge of the bluff, watching the ocean waves crash against dark rocks below. She finds the steep switchbacks, heads down, and strikes off along packed sand moistened by the retreating tide. Offshore, more jagged dark rock formations stand against the crashing sea, and ahead in the distance, the beach curves toward another steep headland she’ll have to round at low tide the next day.

She sets up her tent beside a tannin-brown creek and stashes her food in a bear-proof container, just in time to save it from a bold party of racoon burglars who invade the camp and start poking around the tent. She shoos them off, then wanders out over the jumble of drift logs. An endless sweep of sandy beach runs from one rocky headland to another down the coast, seagulls threshing the air with their cries. She shucks her boots and wades out into the froth of rushing and retreating waves, savors the cold, tingling touch of the sea. Spreads her arms to the open horizon and all that boundless energy.

She smiles as she hears Nana’s words again, from that morning:

“You stick to your guns, Linny. My boy Damon, he’s not used to gals saying no. Not even maybe….” She chuckled, then sobered. “I know him, and this time he’s serious. I do believe he’s hoping to make something real with you. But you got to be ready. He knows that.”

Lindsey, surprised, thanked her.

Nana nodded. “You’re okay, then. You just stay in your story, don’t worry about no happy ever afters.”

Lindsey smiles now and closes her eyes, spreads her arms and turns in the swirling calf-deep water. The ebb sucks back to sea, pulling the sand out from under her bare feet. She laughs and spins faster, then runs to follow the flowing waterline. With the next surge of breaking waves, the flooding waters chase her toward shore again. She laughs once more and spins, running and dancing the edge of land and sea, leaping the questing fingers of tide, pirouetting along the foamy boundary as she leaves a trail of footprints gleaming in the sun.

Finally, wet and tired, Lindsey turns back toward shore, flushing up more gulls as she gathers polished pebbles along the drift line. Sensing a movement behind her, she turns.

A river otter, brown fur sleek and wet, runs with an awkward humping gait along the mouth of the creek toward the waves. Then another one, smaller, darts along behind. Lindsey catches a breath and holds it as the two eye her, tilt their heads, then relax and roll like puppies in the sand, wriggling on their backs. They jump to their feet, shake vigorously, and trot into the waves, where they dive and surface and dive in curves of sleek grace.

Lindsey’s rooted, watching as the mother otter and her pup emerge from the waves to meander past her and nose along the creek again. She can feel herself beaming, realizes suddenly that she’s happy.

She’s being. Here. Now.