1

August 1, 1899.

64° 30’ north latitude. 165° 24’ west longitude.

Nome blisters the lower lip of Seward Peninsula.

A shallow land shelf extends into the Bering Sea.

Breakers wash the flat beach.

The coastline is razor straight from West Point to Cape Nome, perhaps twenty-five miles east southeast. North, across the low mountains, is Kotzebue Sound, and then farther north, one hundred and twenty nautical miles, the Arctic Circle.

Here two rivers notch the clean coastline: the Nome and the Snake. They move into the breakers sluggishly, forming back eddies, swirling over the gutted silt beds. At the tip of the peninsula, past Port Clarence, past the village of York, lies Cape Prince of Wales, its cold nose nudging Asia; the ancestral footpath.

There is a lifeboat, loose from the freighter Portland and pitching toward shore. Beneath it the sockeye salmon, up from the mid-Pacific, find their way to the spawning place. At the farthest reaches they lie in the shallows of the ancient streams, inedible, silver bellies turned red, eggs planted in the silt like bean sprouts. There is a prospector’s superstition that for every salmon egg a nugget of equal size, gold and round, is born of the earth itself.

Above Nome the mountains slope quickly into tundra, frozen in the winter, covered with a soggy green-gray moss during the summer months. There is a striking lack of vegetation. The tundra is covered with hummocks, bursting like cold sores through the earth, but generally the land is barren, yielding to scrub timber at best. In the uplands ptarmigan and grouse nest by the thousands. On the coastal marshes duck and geese are as thick as the winter ice.

Finn, an Irishman, stands down the beach watching the lifeboat nearing shore. He’s a new arrival himself, as can be judged by the position of his tent in the expanding city. For an hour his was farthest south of any in Nome, then second farthest, then one among fifty. He came on this very Portland, voyage before last, and is meeting her now by way of fulfilling a promise. There’s an Irishwoman aboard and he’s had a letter saying he is to see her safely settled in.

The pilot stands in the stern of the lifeboat; the passengers sit between their hands, knuckles wrapping the wooden seats beneath them. Starboard there are larger skiffs carrying lumber and provisions to lines of men who stand in the water then string up the beach like pilings. The breakers swell, an occasional wave crashing, coasting up the beach. Seagulls call to the lifeboat, braiding the air behind it. The pilot cuts the burping engine, moves to the bow, and jumps out to turn the boat seaward again. The passengers step over the side and feel the cold salt water wrap their legs. In a moment they look to see the pilot poling himself away from them. The women step gingerly, the hems of their dresses turning dark. The men shout to the pilot, waving. A coin purse is thrown and arcs, causing the seagulls to dip toward it for an instant. The pilot catches the coin purse and holds it aloft briefly, before everything, the boat and the pilot too, disappears into a wave trough and is gone.

They have arrived. Finn steps forward, extending his arms to them. The rhythm of the line of men passing provisions up the beach does not break; heads turn toward the newcomers but hands are steady. The two women place their bags on the sand and lift their skirts, kicking their feet. Henriette, in sealskin jacket, frowns at her wet ankles and sand-covered shoes. Ellen steadies her while she empties them.

Two of the passengers are Japanese and one of them cannot speak English at all. They are dressed in white shirts and collars and are carrying their jackets across their arms. The younger one is the spokesman and speaks to the others and then to his companion. They have traveled six months and have arrived in Nome on schedule. The younger is called Fujino, the older, Kaneda.

When Henriette finishes drying her feet she helps Ellen, who turns away from the men and balances on one foot. Ellen is the Irishwoman, it’s clear to Finn, and though they are strangers they are from the same part of Ireland and share the same family name. Finn walks boldly up to them.

“Well then…” he says.

In August of 1899 Nome was a village of tents. Wood was piled up, lumber for the building of the real town, but as yet there were only tents, then up past them, way up toward the tundra, a single three-story wooden house. The village wound from its center like a galaxy. There were paths between many of the tents, but there were no real streets yet, and toward the beach the tents looked to have grown directly out of the earth, the way loose sand banked against them so. Their flaps were pulled back, forming triangles, or were laced like shoes against the wind, and in front of them men sat on stiff-backed chairs, strangely postured. Many small craft were on the water and many more were pulled up the dark beach, their tiny keel marks crisscrossing the sand like distant highways. Circles of men stood about. There were mules tied to rear tent pegs, and dogs were everywhere.

The five of them walked up the slow incline, pushing their heels into the sand. Finn led, the women followed, then the Japanese. Ellen, her arms pressed tightly to her sides, wanted to suggest that they all join hands. She clutched her carpet bag. It was surprising to her that there were so many who were idle here, so few working. The loose friendship formed aboard ship tightened for her as they entered the town. Names had been stenciled on the sides of some of the tents, and on others shingles hung from small tears in the canvas, messages burnt like warnings on their visible sides. It was like walking into a maze.

“There’s no fit place for a cup of coffee,” said Finn, turning and smiling at them. “There is the New York Kitchen but it’s dirty, no table for a private party.”

Ellen said, “If we could just sit awhile. Get our bearings,” but the two Japanese turned abruptly and began saying goodbye. Fujino announced that they would be going to look for the supplies they’d need, for a place to stay the night. He stepped back and bowed deeply, thanking the two women for the pleasure of their company on the voyage. He suggested that they meet occasionally and the others agreed, hesitant to see them leave so quickly, before they had a sense of direction, a feeling for the town. Nevertheless, the two Japanese moved away. They backed down the small path, smiling, they stepped around a tent and were gone.

A lack of movement by those nearby gave the feeling that it was warmer than it actually was. Large mosquitoes floated slowly past them. Ellen and Henriette looked at the empty space where the Japanese had been. They were standing in front of the New York Kitchen, its flap bent back and held by a knife stabbed through it. Inside the Kitchen men sat bent over bowls on long benches. They brought pieces of beef or long thin fish to their mouths. Their food was all in hunks, nothing that would crumble against the uneven pressure of their large hands, but still they ate greedily, their knees pressed together to prevent loose bits from falling to the floor.

“A spot of tea then, if you don’t mind the benches?” Finn said softly.

They leaned toward the low entrance, but before they could enter a briskly walking man stepped in front of them, looking inside. “Let’s go now,” the man shouted. “We need you all.” He was speaking to no one in particular, but moved everyone. Henriette and Ellen listened to the dull sound of benches pushing through the sand, the commotion of men standing. The Kitchen emptied of its eaters, who followed the man back around a corner, quickening their pace, swatting at the mosquitoes who buzzed now, matching with their tone the gossipy chatter that had arisen from the men and from the bystanders.

Finn and Ellen and Henriette stayed a moment but then they too followed the crowd. People had come out of nearby tents and stood waiting. The men from the Kitchen paced themselves like soldiers, heading toward the beach. A path had been formed by the bystanders, by the people standing along its sides, and led from the beach all the way up to the wooden house that stood toward the foothills, slightly above the town. There was the sense of a parade, but since the crowd could not see far they were quiet and listened. They could hear the grunts of the men from the Kitchen and in a moment an unsteady wagon was pushed along the winding path and among them. The wheels of the wagon moved slowly in the brutal sand. A crystal chandelier hung from a crossboard at the top of the wagon, the tears of it touching each other, ringing softly in the warm air.

“It has the look of winter to it,” someone whispered, “the way it gleams like ice.”

The owner of the chandelier rode the wagon too, his feet braced, his sleeves rolled up, his arms, like those of a dishwasher, pushed among the chandelier’s tears. Easy. Steady. His name was Dr. Kingman and his eyes were deep and worried.

As the wagon moved along, the path behind it closed and the people followed. Finn was reminded of the long struggle to Calvary, the chandelier, like a man with an aura, shining toward the sky. He wondered what these two women were thinking of, coming to a place like this. All these sandy men trudging. This other young girl appeared to be an American. She was frail-looking, but prettier than the hard-boned Irish one. He could see in her face the story of her leaving: family up in arms, father wishing his sons had the sense to get out and that his daughter’d stay. Finn had sisters of his own plugging about somewhere. Looking at Ellen he couldn’t remember their faces being any different. They’d be farmers’ wives by now, no doubt, with their hair pulled back in buns, a wisp or two of it straying about their eyes.

It took nearly an hour to move the wagon over the soft earth and up to the big house. The house was painted brown and had been furnished with tables and chairs brought from Seattle and from San Francisco. Three women stood in its doorway but quickly stepped back to allow the chandelier room to pass. In the main room on the first floor a brass hook had been embedded into the central ceiling beam. The owner and two others carried the chandelier down off the wagon and into the house. They stood on ladders in order to lift the chandelier up to the brass hook and let it settle. They heard the slight creaking of the beam as it took the weight, and they stepped back to watch it slowly stop moving. The room was quiet. No part of the chandelier had been broken. The sun through the window showed pink and clear at the edges of the chandelier. Dr. Kingman stood in its liquid light, rubbing his hands briskly on the front of his trousers. Everyone in town had seen it. The house was carpeted and clean. The workmen stood quietly on the porch looking in, their food cooling quickly in the New York Kitchen.

Before the two Japanese left Nome they purchased a territorial map and learned how to stake a claim. They exchanged their suits and collars for miners’ clothes, bought a pack mule and a tent, and moved through the verdure and the wildflowers carrying back packs. When it rained they tucked their trousers into their boots, or took out paper umbrellas and kept moving. They hiked all the first afternoon, camped, then hiked all the next day, reaching Topcock Creek at five o’clock in the evening, two o’clock the next afternoon in Tokyo. Kaneda liked to keep track of the time so that he could stop during the day and think of his wife and his children at home. He was a carpenter by trade, but had read everything in the Japanese language on gold mining. His one regret was that he could not speak English at all. He’d tried learning it once but had failed. He needed a tutor for his children and had met Fujino by placing an advertisement to that effect in the newspaper. English was the language of the future and Fujino had lived in America and had been to England itself. When Kaneda decided to leave for Alaska he asked Fujino to go with him. Still, even with a translator it was frustrating for Kaneda not to be able to speak to anyone. He felt foolish, was afraid of offending someone, of not being able to explain.

Kaneda and Fujino pitched their tent in the waning light. They were counting on being able to mine where others could not. They’d use a water wheel and let the power of the creek move the mounds of stone and gold across the floor of their sluice boxes. They built a fireplace between their tent and the edge of the stream, catching trout and letting them cook in the oil of their frypan until the tails turned up and the eyes turned white. They had bottles of soy sauce and slender wooden chopsticks. From the back of their pack mule they unloaded sacks of short-grained rice, washed it in the stream and boiled it over the coals. They used the rice water for tea.

During their first week on the creek Kaneda built the water wheel. He made the axle shaft from a lean wooden pole, giving that portion of the pole that would go through the wheel a copper jacket. There was a perfect sandbar in the middle of the stream, a few meters from where they had camped. Fujino built a scaffolding on the bar and another on the solid tundra at the far side of the stream. Together they built a dam. They were able to channel all or none of the water toward their water wheel. When the wheel was in use the stream flowed its normal course, and when they channeled all of the water toward them the wheel stopped and the stream bed widened to within ten meters of their camp. They built a bulkhead along that shore, setting wood and stone into the earth and then flooding the area, giving them fresh water for drinking and bathing.

After the water wheel was completed, Fujino set up a hose that drew water from the stream and poured it over the axle for lubrication. The purpose of the wheel was to lift the water up, dumping it into a long wooden sluice. The sluice would have gates that could be pulled open to allow water to run through, or pushed down to stop it. When the sluice box was dammed the water wheel had to be stopped and the stream diverted over to the near channel. The sluice box ran downhill, so that even without the power of the water wheel the prospectors could empty it, simply by lifting the gate.

“If we find gold you must go back to Nome to register the land,” Kaneda said, the day after completing the work. “I will stay here.”

Fujino nodded. They had been working hard for a long time and were tired. He reached into a pack that was lying on the moss behind him and pulled out a large bottle of sake.

Kaneda said, “We will find gold enough to buy a better brand of sake.” He waited anxiously as Fujino heated the liquor in a tin pot.

“We are seventy li from the town,” Fujino said, staring into his cup. “How many thousands of li are we from Tokyo?”

Kaneda looked at the man and remembered how young he was. He knew that Fujino was interested in his oldest daughter. He had seen them talking together at the entrance to his home in Tokyo. Fujino had almost mentioned the girl twice during the long sea voyage. If he asks for her hand I will refuse, thought Kaneda. If he gets rich and asks again I will allow it.

Fujino was looking straight at him. “I will use the money I make to buy land in the center of Tokyo,” he said. “Tokyo-no-mannaka.” He stood up and wandered down to the stream. He cupped his hands and yelled, listening to his echo. “Moshi moshi? Dareka iru no? Nihonjin iru no ka?” He could hear only the short laugh of Kaneda now standing behind him.

“Loneliness,” said the old man. “You are so proud of your loneliness that you yell at the mountains. You are a modern man but our water wheel could have been built in the same manner five hundred years ago.” The sake spun lightly on his lips and the old man laughed.

“Only the voice of the modern man…” he said. “Ha ha. I’ve got it.

Only the voice of

the modern man disturbs the

peace of the river.

“That’s you. The modern man. Five-seven-five, too. Try to top it.”

Kaneda stepped back to the tent and to his blanket, laughing and muttering his haiku. After Fujino drank the rest of the sake he poured the water over the fire, listening to it hiss and die. And soon he too went to sleep, counting on his fingers, trying to think of a retort.

In a few days Finn was free of the women, though he didn’t much like what they’d decided to do. They had taken jobs, both of them, as day laborers in the New York Kitchen. Ellen was a scrapper, pushing dried eggs and beef bones into the waste pits, and Henriette moved among prospectors taking food orders. Finn was with them when they saw the notice, but he’d not said anything against it. It was his job to see them safely off the ship, nothing more. Though he’d enjoyed once again hearing the soft strains of an Irishwoman’s voice, he knew he’d be smartest not to get involved. They had cots to sleep on, those two, and that wasn’t bad. There were few enough women in Nome with their own beds.

Finn was not a prospector. He’d heard what had happened half a century before in California, and he knew that the same thing would happen here. Oh, the wild fortunes would be made by the prospectors all right, but the moderate ones would be made by the others: the store owners, the builders, the publicans. Finn was good with his hands, and thought that, when the opportunity presented itself, he’d go into construction. He considered himself lucky, though at forty-five he hadn’t yet much to show for it. In the nineteen years he’d been out of Ireland he’d worked on the railroad and been a salesman. And though he’d been more than a little successful as a salesman—women thought of him as handsome—he was here now with the idea of building a town.

For a month, ever since his arrival, Finn had drifted with the milling crowd, waiting for his opportunity. He listened to the accents and the different languages. There were other Irish, there were Asians, Indians, Frenchmen, there were Jews. He floated through the restaurants and bars, careful about the spending of his money. He watched men, hundreds of them, fanning over the tundra to work the mines during the day and closing in on the town in the evenings or on weekends. There was a sense of generosity, one toward the other, each man knowing he would strike. Finn adjusted himself to the mood easily. He discovered one night that the owner of the Gold Belt saloon was Irish, and from then on that was where he spent his time.

This evening Finn pulled on his heavy boots and waded into the low surf for loose bark and driftwood. He leaned it against his tent to dry then stoked his stove with the previous day’s collection and sat alone in front of the fire’s red glow. At ten o’clock Finn changed his shirt and stepped out into the bright night. The Gold Belt would be full now and it would be proper for him to make his entrance. This pub had a wonderful game, a contest really, and though Finn had been signed up for days, tonight was the first time that he’d actually be allowed to play. There could be only one contestant at a time, and tonight, after the long wait, it would be Finn. He worked his way along the soft sand paths, two gold coins heavy in his pockets. He felt the heft of them, one to each side, like the weight and balance of his father’s gold watch.

The Gold Belt stood opposite the New York Kitchen, and as Finn passed he saw Ellen and she saw him. She leaned against the handle of a long broom just at the entrance, her hair a shambles, her eyes gone tired. Finn slowed some and, looking in her direction, turned and stopped.

“Top of the evening,” he said.

“It’s a different world here, I’d say,” said Ellen. “At home the pubs’d be closed by now.”

“Oh yes,” said Finn. “But the longer hours take away the tendency to gulp.”

The weight of Finn’s two coins stood him evenly in front of her. It takes an Irishwoman to criticize the drinking habits of strangers, he thought. Finn asked after Henriette and inquired as to the difficulty of the work. He spoke politely, but he had the contest on his mind and in a moment excused himself and stepped toward the bar.

From the cool path Ellen watched him go and watched the movement of the miners through the smoky tent flaps. Mouths were wide, heads were thrown back, but somehow no sound reached her. Strange that pubs were so open here. One could walk by and see directly in. At home they were always closed, political. At home men drank and talked darkly, their heads just off their pints. Ellen could remember her father coming in, always at ten after the closing hour, the gist of an argument still with him. He would stand in their narrow hallway looking down into the kitchen, but he’d not see her until his thoughts caught up with him. And then he’d throw back his head, his features turning fatherly once again and he’d laugh…. But not here, she thought. No serious talk here. She could see faces that she knew from the New York Kitchen, and she could see Finn, standing at the bar, holding a fistful of it. The first joke she could remember was her uncle quoting from the Bible: “As it says in the book of Guinnesses…” he’d said, and it had taken her years to understand.

Ellen stood transfixed in the shadows. Now, after such a short time, she was beginning to say “prospectors” just as she used to say “farmers.” She laid slabs of beef or fish before them; she carried dozens of brimming mugs of coffee, placing one in front of each dull face. Ellen sighed and stepped back into the kitchen and began clearing the dirty plates away. She had to bend to get into the corners where the ceiling sloped to the wall. She guessed among her traveling companions it would be those two Asians who’d make it. The Japanese. They’d left for the unclaimed lands on the very first day. A people like that, shifty-eyed and small.

When Ellen finished for the night she walked once more past the Gold Belt and saw Finn again, holding his black mug up timelessly. It would be a shame to go directly to bed but she’d not be going into one of these saloons. Saloons indeed. Pubs was what they were no matter what fancy name you gave them. She walked between several of the tents, her black shoes twisting on the soft ground. Here, as everywhere, there was a mixture of sand and moss. She left the path, popping from between two tents to walk on the beach for a while. The tents behind and beside her glowed pale and ghostly in the night, and she could hear voices from within them. Men were making plans, women laughing. Was it the same everywhere then, Ireland, America, Alaska? If it was, then what was there to gain anywhere in the world? Ellen looked at the water. She looked at herself standing there in her black dress, the waves stepping loudly toward her. She raised her arm and spun around in the wet sand until her hair pushed against her forehead, the ends of it flowing into the gray night. She pointed east and then south a little. Follow your finger to Ireland, she thought. Hullo, daddy, what time is it there? Are you home from the pub yet? She spun a little more and danced a little. The tents, the sea, the tents. Oh how she’d spun in the fields of Ireland: the house, the fields, the house. She slowed a little, tired. She came back along the rim of the horizon, pointing at each dim star, looking, trying to find a familiar constellation.

Inside the Gold Belt Finn drained his pint and took another from the owner, a man who was praising the beauty of his own bar.

“…and with so little good hardwood around,” he said. “It comes from the Philippines and there’s not a scratch on it. It’s used to the dainty drinking habits of the Spanish, I suppose.”

The owner pushed a large cloth about as he spoke, polishing one place or another, not getting far from his conversation with Finn. The bar too had come on the Portland, a few voyages ago, but though the tent was large, the bar, with its dark red grains, would not quite fit. It pushed against the end of the tent and against the flaps. Before winter there would be a building big enough to make the bar look small, but now it was grotesque.

Finn looked at his long reflection in the warped mirror behind the bar. It made him look thinner than he was, made him think less of himself. The mirror was attached to the canvas wall and was never still, so that in its reflection a calm man looked nervous.

“I’m heavier than I appear to be,” Finn told the owner. “I’ll not be fooled into thinking I’m not.”

“Only another half hour until midnight, then we’ll see.”

The owner was referring to his contest. “Worth your weight in gold,” he called it, a game he’d invented and one that had filled his saloon with hopefuls each night of its running.

Finn looked from the mirror to his body. He checked his pockets for extra weight and then slipped his boots from around his thick feet.

At exactly midnight four women dressed in the costumes of ballerinas walked to the front of the tent and began unlacing the canvas, untying it from the wooden pegs in the corners. They rolled the tent sides up, exposing the twilight. A breeze lifted papers off the tables and moved the dust around the floor.

One of the girls came close to Finn. “The trick is in the sacks,” she said. “Only the ones near the bottom are correctly marked.”

The customers moved their chairs around so that they were facing a small platform. Several more of the bar women came forward carrying chains and lengths of hollow pipe and began assembling a huge balance scale on the platform, one which in every detail except size matched the scale in the assayer’s office. When the scale was complete, the plates on either side of it sat firmly upon the wooden stage; one was empty and on the other was a straight-backed chair. The scale had a crank in the back of it, and at its side someone had placed a wheelbarrow full of sacks, sand representing different amounts of gold dust, the weights clearly marked on the outside.

“I’m on then,” said Finn, walking around the beer stains in the earth to the place where the scale was constructed. The owner was there waiting for him.

“Here’s our candidate,” he told the calming crowd. “Finn Wallace from Ireland, who should have it down for he saw it done here last week and then the week before. But for those of you who have come by ships still weighed in the harbor I’ll explain that all the man needs to do is place these sacks on the scale to the one side, and then place himself upon the chair over here. After he is ready I’ll crank him, and the sacks too, high up off the ground, and we’ll all watch the central needle just as we do when we are weighing our own week’s work. If he is within a pound, or within two, he’ll receive a pack mule and sundry equipment and goods, enough to allow him to strike out on his own. Also, and perhaps he’ll feel it’s more important, he’ll win an entire night’s drinking, compliments of the house.”

The owner stood down and looked toward a girl, who brought Finn forward. From the open side of the tent dim stars could be seen. The crowd was quiet; the wind blew in without notice. Finn walked over to the wheelbarrow and began placing twenty-pound sacks on the scale. He chose only those sacks near the bottom, setting the others aside.

“I know my own weight,” he said. “I’ve weighed the same for fifteen years.”

As he neared the end of the weight placing, many of the customers stood, trying to see how much he’d put on. Finn lifted two hundred and five pounds onto the scale, then looking at his clothes and the chair he placed another ten-pound sack on top of it.

“If I’m wrong it’s the lifting of these sacks that’s caused it,” he said.

A ballerina offered Finn another pint glass but he waved it away and sat back easily.

“Lift away then,” he said. “When you’re ready.”

When the owner moved to the back of the scale the silence broke, the crowd began yelling instructions.

“You’re heavier than that, bud ….”

“You’re lighter by ten.”

Finn stared calmly down off the chair at them. And, though the customers argued hotly, they stepped back and pulled their chairs and tables with them, making room. Outside people stepped onto the paths to watch. Though it was past midnight the streets were still busy. Finn saw the forms of dozens of people in the gray night.

The owner turned the crank at the back of the scale, slowly lifting the two sides of it off the ground. Everyone watched the space between the scale and the platform increase. The sides of the scale lifted unevenly and the needle swayed, first toward Finn, next toward the sacks of sand. The scale was lifted high and when it stopped moving the needle settled on the center, or perhaps half a pound in the direction of Finn.

“He’s a winner!” bellowed the owner, coming out from behind the scale and pointing at the needle. “It’s almost exact!”

The ballerinas and the customers cheered. Finn watched them jumping about below him. Even outside the tent he could see some of the ghost figures leaping into the night. The owner took hold of the chain that supported the sacks of sand and pulled it toward the back of the stage so that the scale became a swing, sending Finn out over the people in the bar and out through the rolled-up canvas wall and into the street. Finn glided above the sandy paths, then back into the Gold Belt and over the customers once again. Round and round, the owner kept him moving, faster and faster.

Finn could see the shadows of people standing in front of their tents far off toward the beach. He could see Ellen, standing back by the New York Kitchen, and from one place he could see the sea itself. Finn heard the shouts of the people and the slight crash of the waves from the beach. In a moment one of the sacks of sand slipped off the other side of the swing, and Finn dipped slightly down. The audience got louder. Four or five of the costumed ballerinas kicked their legs in unison, leading the customers in their applause. Finn spun on, outside and in, the scale a replica of the one down through the town, heavy on the counter of the assayer’s office.

Ellen woke Henriette with the news that it was time they got going, that Finn would accompany them, that the Eskimo village was a good two hours away. They were traveling out of Nome to buy fish for the New York Kitchen, and Ellen saw the strong back of Finn’s new mule as the help they needed. Also, Finn knew the Eskimo village and could make introductions, help them with the bargaining.

Ellen stepped into a dress then out of it again and into her first pair of trousers. They hung from her in wrinkles but were warm and followed the action of her legs, surrounded them at whatever pace she chose. If her father could see her now he’d hold his breath, she thought, or scowl and call her his son. It made her laugh. Here was Henriette in trousers too, happy to be leaving the city for a day.

The two women left the Kitchen loosely clothed, tucking in the corners of their shirts and looking about for strangers. Finn’s mule stood blank-eyed near their tent and the man himself was ready, the blear of the previous night’s drinking washed from his eyes, his mood expanding for them like the fellow countryman that he was, like an older brother taking charge. When they started up the beach the waves were high and it was overcast and gray and raining. The mule pushed his stub legs into the sand and in a while the tents sank behind them, only the tops visible, even the largest blending with the landscape. They walked past the outskirts of town to the mouth of the Snake, where the water touched the powerful sea. There was a raft on their side of the river and a rope stretched across it and was tied in the secure mist of the far bank. The mule sat back eying the situation.

“This is the site they’ve chosen for the Army post,” said Finn, putting his arms around the mule’s neck and tugging. “There’ll be American soldiers here before winter.” He strapped a piece of canvas around the mule’s eyes and rode him onto the raft. Ellen and Henriette stood beside the animal, holding its head. It was easy crossing the river, the current taking them from one side and tossing them toward the other. The river washed the sand from their feet and matted the hair around the mule’s hard hooves. Finn held on to the thick rope, pulling. The only danger was in letting go, or in letting his feet slip from the slick wet planks. All three imagined the raft bobbing out to sea. Finn saw himself hanging from the cross rope, watching it go. He imagined the women waving their hands and the confident mule staring peacefully into the dark folds of its blindfold.

When they bumped on the far bank of the river the mule bolted, running off the raft and down the beach a ways. Ellen saw its sightless head turning to her out of the grayness, so she walked over and held it, waiting while her companions secured the wet raft to a tree. The mule, nostrils deep, dipped its head toward her and she covered its ears as she’d seen her father do. “Whoa,” she said, “calm yourself, donkey.” She waited until Finn took hold of the loose reins before she stepped forward and led them along the narrow beach. She walked just ahead of the animal, letting it see her wide back and lose itself in the plaid pattern of her jacket.

In two hours they came out of the gray morning and saw the Eskimo village, circles of wooden lean-tos pushed into the melting ground. Around the village poles were placed in the earth with rows of drying fish stretched on lines between them. Eskimo children ran toward them on the sand and Finn reached down and hoisted them, one and then the others, high up over his head. There were open bags of salt, kayaks and canoes pulled high up the beach.

A man approached them extending his hand. He was Finn’s age, but looked to Ellen like Kaneda, the older of the two Japanese. The man’s name was Phil and he was the head of the fishermen’s group, the one that did all of the dealings with the people from Nome. He said, “You’ve come just ahead of a storm.” He pointed up the beach to a large lean-to and told them that there was another group, visiting Eskimos from Port Clarence, and that there would be plenty of fish to buy. He asked them to follow him and they turned and threaded their way up to the lean-to, walking between the sacks of salt, followed by the children.

When they entered the lean-to they found the group of visitors sitting in a circle talking to a white man, Reverend Raymond, a teacher and the pastor of the village mission. The group from Port Clarence stuck their fingers into bowls of meal, spoke softly, and munched on dried fish.

“You should plan on spending the night,” said Phil, once the Port Clarence group had spread out, making room for them all to sit down. “Soon it will be too dark and stormy for you to make your way back.”

The Reverend Raymond sat forward smiling and trying to shake their hands. “There are plenty of places to sleep,” he said, his mouth still half full of food.

Few of the Eskimos in the group spoke English, but one of them, sitting next to Ellen, asked her questions and got answers, which were translated by the reverend.

“Have you come for the beginning of Nanoon’s womanhood?” the man asked. The reverend answered without waiting for a response.

“They have come to buy fish,” he said.

“We have come for Nanoon’s womanhood,” the man told the reverend to tell Ellen. “Everyone is excited about it.”

“Today is the day that one of Phil’s sisters begins her passage into womanhood,” said the reverend. “Everyone is feeling rather festive. We’d be happy if you’d join in the celebration.”

Ellen looked from one to the other of her traveling companions. She could see a lengthy row of lean-tos opposite her and a smaller, newly built hut in the exact center of the village. There were no tents here and all of the buildings had one open side facing away from the sea, away from most of the wind and the rain. On each lean-to a heavy skin tarp covered the entire front and could be rolled up or down depending on the weather. The inside walls of the lean-to where they sat were covered with insulating furs. The reverend told Ellen that each of the structures had to be rebuilt each summer. He said that as soon as the support poles were placed in the ground they began to sink down toward the permafrost causing the entire village to slowly sag.

At a suggestion from the reverend, Ellen got up and left with him to take a tour of the village. The reverend was a tall man, and seemed a happy one. He was a Protestant and told her that he’d been in the village for four years and had built his own home and taken over the duties at the school from his predecessor, who’d given the villagers their Christian names. He was from Wisconsin and had gone to seminary in Minneapolis. He had a brother in Alaska someplace, panning for gold.

“This is one of the few villages on the peninsula,” he told Ellen. “Most Eskimo families simply travel about looking for good fishing ground and a place to sleep. I mean during the winter, of course.”

Ellen walked next to the man, feeling quickly as if she were being courted. The reverend didn’t take her arm, but that was the feeling she had, nevertheless. They walked all along the clean village paths and down to where the canoes were kept and back toward the tundra, where there were several trees standing tall and surrounding the reverend’s closed and lonely house.

“I’ve worked hard on this place,” he said. “May I show you where you and Miss Henriette will be sleeping?”

Ellen smiled slightly and followed the man up onto the small wooden porch, where a hide swing hung from ropes. The door to the house opened wide and as she entered Ellen saw that the woodwork inside was darkly stained and polished, that the two rooms were divided only by hanging pelt curtains, and that one contained a porcelain washbasin with wildflowers in a stone jar. There was a ladder leading to a loft, where the reverend had a large desk and where there was a real glass window looking out over the village and out to sea. There were two slim leather chairs. Ellen sat in one while the reverend ran down the ladder again to make some tea.

Ellen could see that it was raining now and she could hear the reverend whistling with his tea kettle below. She felt at ease here, and looked forward to spending the night in this house, away from the oppression of Nome. The reverend moved like a man half his size. He was back up the ladder with teacups, then quickly down again, and back with the steaming pot and a bowl of sugar.

“It’s English tea,” he said proudly. “I’ve been thinking of brewing a cup for weeks now.”

“This is the first place in Alaska that has given me the feeling of a home,” she told him. “You have a beautiful view.”

“I can really go home if I request it, you know,” he said, sitting down across from her. “But if I don’t I might be here forever. It’s a nice place after you get used to it.”

Ellen nodded and blew across the surface of her tea. She pictured herself sitting straight, having tea with a stranger. Her grandmother had taught her how to have tea with gentlemen. Ellen could feel the fire from the kitchen below, and when she looked up she noticed the reverend holding his teacup high and looking at her over the top of it.

“Well then, here’s to a happy stay for you and all your friends. I hope it will be profitable, both spiritually and in other ways.” He winked at her so she inclined her head and took a sip. The reverend had more tea ready and poured for her before she had quite finished what was in her cup. When he spoke to her she looked him directly in the eyes but when she spoke she looked at his forehead. It was one of her grandmother’s tricks and she was sure he hadn’t noticed. The reverend made it easy for her by taking whatever subject she did and making it his own. She mentioned the fish that they had come to buy and he talked for five minutes on what a thrill it was to catch a salmon from a canoe. He invited her to try it the next morning if the storm was gone, and she accepted. They were getting on well. Below them through the window they could see the open end of the lean-to where the party was taking place. Ellen saw Finn sitting cross-legged on the floor. She saw Henriette, crouched on a low stool, slightly above the others, leaning into the conversation.

Finn, lifting his head from the circle of Eskimos, could see the two still figures framed in the window. First he noticed the trees, then the house, then the two figures in the window. They seemed pasted on the glass. He was talking to Phil and watching the Eskimos from Port Clarence, who sat across the circle. It was nearly time to begin the ceremony for Phil’s sister Nanoon, so they all looked about, hoping to get a glimpse of her walking toward them. Phil looked at Finn. “Today’s my sister’s day,” he said. “She begins her weeks alone. You couldn’t have come at a better time.”

Finn’s legs ached from sitting in one position for so long and he stood and stretched. He’d been watching the preparations but hadn’t known whether to ask Phil about them or not. Phil’s sister was reaching puberty and Finn knew it was an important time. He imagined Phil needed to be alone for a while, so he borrowed a sealskin jacket and stood in the increasing rain looking for a place to relieve himself. He’d already had several bowls of the food, several glasses of wine. Phil directed him toward a creek bed from where he could still see the house of the reverend, but not the window. Rain struck his face and neck so he struggled to pull up the tough hood of the jacket and was immediately too warm inside it. He wondered where the boy had taken his mule, and at that same moment decided to keep the mule, not to try to sell it as previously he’d thought he would. Finn watched the rain hitting the quiet water of the stream. It was odd that the Eskimos had chosen this little stream as the village toilet. If he hadn’t known he’d have thought it as clean as any, for it was as clear.

Finn turned and started back along the path that Phil had shown him. He was away from the main village, but in the first lean-to he came to he heard voices and saw through the side of it the perfect face of Nanoon, that sister, the one whose day it was and who would be entombed for the winter in the feathered hut at the center of the village. Her head was already wreathed with white feathers, circling it like petals, and Phil’s wife and sisters moved about her. Finn felt he could see the change from girl to woman right there before his eyes; he felt he could see the innocence leaving. When Nanoon saw him her lips parted as if to speak, but Finn stepped away quickly. And as he looked back toward the main village he saw Henriette watching him too, from inside the party lean-to and low down on her three-legged stool. Henriette waved so Finn tipped his hat to her, dancing once around like a circus bear.

At dusk the population of the village swelled and people strolled between the lean-tos under pink parasols. In one lean-to there was a barrel of rum and in another were long salted strips of jerky. Ellen and the reverend were back, and soon, in a lean-to hidden from them all, someone began playing a piano. The rain dampened the thin parasols of the strollers and the music forced them to walk and step in straight lines and circles, all heads turned toward the small round hut at the center of the village. Finn found the reverend and Ellen and stayed with them.

And Phil was right about the storm. Though it was still early the long day was cut to darkness by clouds moving shoulder to shoulder across the sky. Finn and the reverend and Ellen watched the clear spaces disappear. They had walked to the mule house, where Finn’s mule stood, nostrils rigidly taking in the storm, and now they were walking back. This was the public section of the village, where the storage houses were and the animals were kept. It was the section of the village farthest from the beach, and some of the buildings were built like the reverend’s, closed on all four sides. There was lightning, quick as the raising of an eyebrow, then thunder, rolling in low over the waves.

In the main village the paths were less crowded now. The rain slowed movement, keeping the people inside, engaging them in the act of eating. And there was the beginning of activity around the special hut. People looked toward it or peered in the direction from which Nanoon would eventually come.

“She is so beautiful,” said the reverend. “It’s a pity you won’t be able to see her face.”

Phil stood at the entrance to his own lean-to now, and signaled with a lantern that Nanoon was ready. All the children of the village formed a line from his lean-to to the special hut, getting down on their hands and knees and waiting. When she came out Nanoon was dressed entirely in feathers, and all of them were white and all were from the Snowy Owl, who even now, some thought, perched on the trees around the village in order to see that the ceremony went well. When the people saw her the piano stopped and everyone turned their heads to watch her pass. She walked with one leg on either side of the kneeling children. She walked over them, dropping each onto the earth behind her like the children she would bear.

Nanoon was alone, and though her face was completely covered Finn was sure that she was looking directly at him, that her round owl’s eyes sought him above all the others. When she got to the hut Phil went over and, without looking at her, pulled back the feathered doorway, allowing his sister to crawl on through. He closed it again immediately and called his other sisters forward to sew the flap shut. That was all. Phil and the members of his family shook hands, the kneeling children stood and ran away, and the piano started up again. The reverend looked from Ellen to Finn and sighed. “Is there anything more beautiful than ritual?” he asked.

Inside the lean-to where the party had begun the visitors from Port Clarence were congratulating Phil on the smoothness of a ceremony well done. People sat in a circle again, but at its center this time there was dancing. Two men and two women stepped toward and away from each other, then tapped whoever would be next and sat down. Visitors were always chosen first, but when Finn and Ellen and the reverend walked in they were, nevertheless, surprised to see Henriette dancing opposite Phil’s wife and with two of the men from the Port Clarence group. The piano could still be heard but the dancers were not taking their rhythm from it. Rather, the audience clapped out the rhythm and the tempo for them.

Henriette danced with a loose grin on her face. While the others moved in and out to the constant clapping, she did a kind of hop, coming down on both feet and then turning all the way around and hopping back. Seeing her embarrassed Ellen, but before she could react Henriette sat down and Ellen herself was pushed into the circle and was joined by Finn, the reverend, and by another of Phil’s many sisters. Ellen stood stiff-backed for a moment but found that made her more self-conscious than dancing. She hopped as briefly as she could, trying to follow the woman across from her. She looked sideways, hoping to glare at Finn, if she could catch his eye, but he wasn’t looking at her. Rather he leapt high into the air and came down shouting. And the reverend danced lightly and with skill. No one noticed Ellen’s discomfort.

They danced until there was a break in the clapping, then chose others to take their places. Ellen chose the person nearest her and quickly sat down where that person had been. She was deeply embarrassed and watched everyone to see if they perceived it. She sat with her back to the wall, thank God not over where Finn was with his back to the howling wind. It was the first time she had ever danced, the very first. Ellen watched the others but after a while began to relax and saw herself up there dancing as well as they did. She pictured her entire Irish family watching her dance and frowning. She saw them sitting in the circle, clapping for her, and she saw herself moving her body in front of them, sometimes holding up the hem of her skirt, sometimes swishing it back and forth. She imagined her father looking at her ankles and getting angry, so she tapped him on the head and sat in his place while he jerked around up there, his hips and knees working like those of a puppet. Oh, he would frown. Ellen clapped for her father and smiled as he danced grotesquely around. She’d make him dance in his pub; if he weren’t careful she’d make him dance in the street!

Ellen opened her eyes to the Eskimo dancers and watched as another and another group began. Everyone had to dance. Everyone would. Ellen saw Henriette across from her clapping and grinning. She saw Finn and the reverend, and she saw herself again. It was easy. She closed her eyes and there was her father, still bounding about, sweating from the exertion of it all. He pumped his legs and moved about the room and jumped and turned and twisted. How long would he hold up? she wondered. He tried several times to tap his way out of it but the people around him pulled back, moving their heads just out of his reach.

Ellen was shocked that she’d let her own father work himself so. She knew he wasn’t in the best of health. Still she watched. Heel toe, heel toe, his black boots kicked and shuffled. Ellen clapped on steadily, now thinking of home, now watching the Eskimos. Across from her Finn had fallen away into the night. She could see him standing dimly back there, next to that feathered hut. He put his ear to it, then shouted, then listened. He was trying to make himself understood, trying hard to hear the voice of the virgin through the howls of the storm and over the general cacophony of the night.

The storm made it seem late, and darkness made everyone cold and reminded them of winter. Soon the fronts of the lean-tos began blinking shut like eyes, the candles and kerosene lamps folding under pelt doors. Ellen and Henriette walked quickly through the storm following the reverend. Finn slept at Phil’s place, at the far end of a long line of Phil’s relatives, in a smallish space formerly occupied by Nanoon. The moment before Phil rolled down the hide front of his lean-to they all stood together, peering through the darkness at the shining hut and at the storm.

“Soon she will be a woman,” said Phil. “Those Port Clarence men will be falling all over themselves.”

The reverend had hot water ready for washing quickly. He gave Henriette his bed and had prepared a special cot for Ellen up in the loft. He himself would sleep on the floor at the bottom of the ladder. The reverend provided each of the women with a stiff nightshirt and stood out on the cold porch while they changed into them. When he came back inside his house he turned down the light and fumbled with the buttons of his clothing in the dark. He wore a long white nightshirt like the one he had given Ellen. He also wore a nightcap and held a candle in a small tray and went about the house checking.

The reverend gave the women some time to get to sleep and then stood at the bottom of the ladder, quietly, listening to the regular rhythm of Ellen’s breathing above him. Tomorrow he would take her fishing if it wasn’t raining. Then he’d help her load the fish she wanted to buy on the mule and he’d walk with her to the edge of the village. The reverend reached down and quickly pinched the wick of his candle. Gray smoke disappeared into the closing darkness. He heard the rustling of bedclothes. He heard Henriette cough and turn and he thought of her occupying his bed, her head on his pillow.

When the reverend thought enough time had passed he let his weight come down softly on the bottom rung of the ladder and brought his other foot up to it. He looked straight forward into the darkness, his hands tightly gripping the ladder’s sides.

He took another step with his right foot and pulled his left foot up after it. He could hear nothing of Ellen though he could still hear Henriette turning fitfully below him. His stomach was knotted tight and he thought of how freely he’d be able to stand here tomorrow, when the women were gone. The reverend stepped up again, tipping his head back and raising his eyes over the edge of the floor of the loft. He took one more step, inching his whole head above the plank and resting his chin on the worn surface of the floor. The white bedding was a pale cocoon on the boards in front of him. He held his breath, would move no closer. He could have reached out and touched her. The reverend fell into a deeper quiet than he would have thought possible. His hands were locked on the railing and his eyes grew used to the darkness, bringing her more and more toward him. The rain, like a branch, tapped loudly on the picture window as if in warning.

Ellen, in the warm bedding, had still not slept and was looking toward the ceiling of the loft, imagining she could hear the reverend sleeping below. She thought she could see the rough ceiling beams outlined in the air. She was tired but could not sleep. It seemed to her the whole loft was pitching back and forth, rocking her like the tight bed of the ship she’d come in. She tried to empty her mind of thoughts, to rest. Tomorrow they would need to get the fish and start back early. It would be hard work and they’d be nearly a day late. She imagined herself unhappy in the New York Kitchen again. It would be very busy, that’s one consolation. And the muscles in her legs would be sore from dancing.

The Eskimo village, Nome, and the camp of Kaneda and Fujino on Topcock Creek form a triangle, each point hidden in the slick topography of the mossy peninsula. They are outposts at the edges of the gold fields and men sit in each, looking out to sea or at the gray-soaked mountains. If it is stormy, as it is this night, the entire peninsula is covered with blackness, with the sounds of coming winter. In the estuary birds will sink in their moss beds, only their tulip necks extending darkly. Everywhere everyone sleeps. In Nome the bars have closed early, tent flaps have been bound with rope as the storm pushes the sea into a froth. Some of the tents, pegged too close to the water’s edge, are awash as the tide scoots under the canvas walls and across the hard-packed floors. In Finn’s tent the legs of his stove sink four inches into the freshly wetted sand.

At their camp on Topcock Creek, Fujino and Kaneda have completed another day’s work and have eaten and talked and bathed. The frypans and dishes of their evening meal are submerged in water at the edge of the pond. Already their supply of sake is diminished, but they are beginning to find gold in the water-washed sand of their sluice box. Soon Fujino will go back to town to file the claim they have staked but Kaneda is disappointed. Though it is a good strike, it is not what he had hoped for. Like carpentry this job requires many hours of work each day for the gold they find. And here the gold has been washed to a fine powder by the forces of the stream, the largest nugget found being just the size of a child’s fingernail. Most of the gold can barely be seen. It must be processed, clearly separated from the black and red sand that is everywhere.

Inside the tent, next to the sleeping men, sits a box filled with the gold they have found thus far. This gold is free of the sand it rose with and is shining. It has taken the form of flat cakes, honeycombed and porous. For days they have been using the same process. After the gold and sands have been washed and are drying in the bottom of the sluice, Fujino passes a powerful horseshoe magnet over it, pulling much of the black sand away. Kaneda then mixes a flask of mercury with small parts of what remains and waits for the gold and red sand to form an amalgam. After that all that is left to do is to heat the volatile mercury, letting it evaporate away and leaving the gold alone, hot and drying, taking each time a different shape, like snowflakes.

The two men have collected several dozen such snowflakes, each stacked upon the one before it. They work full days, each with his own job, both men digging, both loading the long sluice box with sand and moss and gravel. During the first few days Fujino and Kaneda spoke more than they do now. Kaneda is the boss and the cook, Fujino the one who does most of the lifting. They speak of home rarely, neither of them mentioning Kaneda’s daughter. They see only tundra wolves and beaver, and once, only once, they saw a huge brown bear fishing near their camp in the morning.

In the evening, after they have eaten and after Fujino plunges the tin plates and frying pan into the water, Kaneda often leans back and tells a story. He was a student of Japanese history and remembers all the interesting stories he has read. He tells Fujino about the warring years of the fifteenth century and of the unification of the country under Hideyoshi. He talks about very ancient history, when a woman was the ruler, and he talks about the introduction of various religions to the islands. Fujino had studied history too, in school, but it is nice to hear the rambling voice of the old man here in this lonely country. He has become a listener though he was hired as a translator.

Fujino had thought, on the ship, that they would be among men here, not by themselves far away and hiding, and he often wonders what life is like in Nome. He saw it and was not impressed on that first day, but he would like to see it again. He looks forward to going in to file the claim. He will take a day or two and will drink in the bars and find those who came on the ship with him. They are too self-sufficient out here. If he could he would think of a reason for having to go to Nome once a month. If for nothing else he would go because he needed a break, some time to himself among people. Fujino has respect for Kaneda but Kaneda is an old man and can afford to be by himself all the time. He no longer thinks of women and has passion left only for gold.

Sometimes after working there is nothing to do but sleep and Fujino is not yet ready for it. On these occasions, though his body is tired, he walks quickly out along the creek bed and up into the hills. There is nothing else, no different land, no people, but at least there is movement. He can stretch his legs, extending his stride into long leaps along the bending course of the river. He makes up games for himself, rules for walking. Sometimes Fujino is gone for hours, returning to the camp well after Kaneda is asleep. It is a hard life for a young man. He often tells himself so. Still, he is a good worker and he knows Kaneda likes him, even respects his ability. Things are going according to plan. He will make enough money to buy some land, if not in the center of Tokyo, at least somewhere nearby. He will ask for the hand of Kaneda’s daughter and Kaneda will not be able to refuse. If they are here a year, even two, what does it matter? Life will be the same at home, only he will be different. He will have money and a wife and a rich father-in-law. And he will know a good deal more about Japanese history.

As the two men sleep the storm moves north out of sight and across the low mountains toward the Arctic Circle. The darkness is replaced by summer gray and the sky becomes clear. Sleepers turn in their beds at all three points of the triangle: in the Eskimo village, in Nome, and on Topcock Creek. The sun is almost risen and another day has come.

The reverend started up the ladder at five, quiet, trying not to wake Henriette. Ellen was already dressed and waiting, the bedding she had used rolled upright, leaning against the loft railing.

“I would have come earlier,” he said.

Through the loft window they could see that the village was still closed and sleeping, though the rain had stopped and puddles were spaced about the ground, reflecting silver and blue. Here and there dogs lay on their sides, gray fur moving slightly in the wind. One dog trotted up the main path and out along the beach. Ellen and the reverend stepped quietly down the ladder and once outside walked quickly through the village to the boathouse. The reverend pulled a short, wide canoe out and down a slick ramp to the water’s edge. He’d brought along poles and lines, and a small bucket of herring to be used as bait.

“If we’re lucky we’ll have a strike soon,” he said. “Early morning is feeding time and they’re usually swimming high.”

“I don’t swim so well,” said Ellen, looking at the canoe. “I’ve never been fishing before.”

The reverend placed Ellen in the middle of the canoe and waded out a few feet before stepping in himself. There was only one paddle so the reverend used it, paddling from the stern, sometimes changing sides, lifting the paddle over his head or swinging it around behind him so that the water would not drip into the canoe. They glided, the bow turning now slightly port, now slightly starboard. The rippling of the water against the sides of the canoe was the only sound. In five minutes they were well off the beach and somewhat down toward Nome. The reverend threw a makeshift anchor over the side and let the rope slide through his hands until it went slack and the stone settled in the soft mud of the shallow bottom. The canoe swung around and drifted until the rope was taut again and stretching.

Ellen turned slowly, bringing her feet close to her body and over the seat so that she was facing the reverend. He quickly baited the two barbed hooks and, handing Ellen one of the poles, told her to let the line out by hand, counting twenty times as she did so.

“If you feel a strike,” he said, “wait just a moment before you start reeling it in. Let the fish set the hook. He’ll do that by himself. Then he’s all yours.”

Looking back at the village, Ellen could already see a few people walking back and forth across the beach. She could see the feather-topped roof of Nanoon’s coming-of-age hut. She was about to speak when a silver salmon leapt from the water a few feet from them and toward shore. The belly of the fish flashed in the sun then slapped the clean surface of the sea again and was gone. Soon concentric circles rocked the canoe.

“My God,” said Ellen.

The reverend was pleased and proud.

“That was a big one,” he said. “Maybe he’s yours. He’s heading for your hook right now.”

As he said it the tip of Ellen’s rod dug deeply into the water and she jerked it back and stood up, almost capsizing the canoe.

“Hold it!” shouted the reverend. “Sit down. Let him set the hook!”

The pole had gone slack again and for a moment Ellen thought the fish was free. But just as she was about to say so the pole bent double again and she froze, holding up the tip of it but doing nothing else.

“All right, you’ve got him,” whispered the reverend. “Now turn the handle, bring him in.”

Ellen fumbled with the crank on the side of the pole and quickly the tension was gone again and once more she thought that the fish had escaped.

“Just keep it coming,” said the reverend. “He’s still there. Keep the line taut.”

“It’s a heavy thing,” she said.

The fish leapt again, slicing the water with the line it was dragging, shaking its head like a dog. Ellen kept cranking, taking in the line. The fish was deep and then shallow, there was tension and then there was none. In a moment, looking over the side, Ellen saw the slender brown back of the fish floating, then touching the canoe and gone in a flash.

“He’s tiring now,” said the reverend. “You’ve got him.”

And indeed it did seem easier as she again pulled the fish into view and watched it treading water just below the surface, facing the canoe and waiting.

The reverend lowered a long gaff over the side and brought it up, skillfully lifting the fish, its tail swinging, out of the tranquil sea. The fish flopped once or twice on the bottom of the canoe and the reverend removed the hook and then hit the fish several times with the blunt end of the gaff. It lay long and silver in the bottom of the boat, its gills quivering, its jaw working open and shut.

“He’s a beauty,” said the reverend. “Fifteen pounds is my guess. Maybe more. You did well.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Ellen. “Is it dead?”

“Oh yes, I’ve taken care of that. We’ll salt it when we get to shore and you can take it back and have your own special supper.”

He looked at Ellen. He had taken the hook from the fish’s mouth and was rebaiting it. He threw it over the side and picked up his own pole. He pointed at her line and gestured so Ellen let the line slowly out, counting it back into the water once again.

By the time Ellen had her fish the whole village was awake and smoke was rising. Henriette awoke to the empty house and reheated the still lukewarm coffee that the reverend had left on the stove. It was a comfortable house. She climbed to the loft with the coffee and two thick slices of bread and jam, settling into a chair in front of the window. She could see the canoe on the water and all of the lean-tos of the village below. Here and there dogs stood, waiting for scraps of food to be thrown out to them. Most of the lean-tos were opened now, their hide fronts rolled up exposing their insides. Strange way to live, she thought, every day opening up the front of your house so that others can see in.

Henriette was feeling better about being in Alaska. She saw Finn through the window, walking by himself around the front of one of the lean-tos. She was relaxed, daydreaming. It seemed to Henriette that she could feel herself coming into focus for the others. It always took people a long time to get to know her and she could feel that happening now. She saw Phil come out of his lean-to to throw a piece of food high into the air over the dogs. He went back in and quickly rolled the front up and began to sweep hard until dust ballooned around him. She saw the canoe come ashore and recognized its occupants and saw the fish that the reverend was carrying. Henriette knew they would be leaving soon, so when she finished her bread and coffee she went back down the ladder and thought once again how pleasant it would be to live here, in this house, in this village. She took the cup she had been using into the kitchen and dropped it into the sink. The cup split easily in two, the handle half of it taking the shape of a sugar scoop. There were only two pieces and Henriette picked them both up, frowning. She looked around the kitchen for a few minutes and then slipped the broken pieces into a small sack and put the sack in the bag she had brought with her from Nome. And then, after straightening up the bed she’d slept in, she slipped into her sealskin jacket and left the house.

Henriette went directly to Phil’s lean-to and said good morning, waiting until Phil and his family turned around and noticed her. Soon Ellen and the reverend came in carrying the fish and telling the story of the catch, and Finn came back and remained quiet at the entrance, standing behind them all. It was time for them to leave, so Ellen handed Phil a list written the morning before by the owner of the New York Kitchen and Phil checked off the items with a soft lead pencil. Everything was there and he would have it loaded on the mule and ready in fifteen minutes. They bargained. Ellen felt like paying Phil’s price, but held out for two cents less per pound. Had she purchased the fish when they’d first arrived she might have gotten a better price, but as it was she felt happy and felt that she was among friends.

The reverend cleaned and salted Ellen’s salmon and placed it in her arms. It was the only strike they’d had, he reminded her, and she had done well. While they stood and talked, three young men brought the pack mule to them and stood back to examine the steadiness of the load. The young men pushed the load at each other, leaned into it, making the mule brace his feet. Ellen waited until they were through and then placed her own fish in a canvas sack and hung it around the mule’s neck.

“Like the pendulum in a grandfather’s clock,” she said.

The reverend laughed and put his arms out as if to encircle the entire group. He put them down again. “Good-bye,” he said. “I’ve so enjoyed our visit.”

Everyone shook hands. Phil with Finn, the reverend with Ellen. Henriette shook hands with the three young men who’d loaded the fish. They were all standing near Nanoon’s small feathered hut.

“Everyone is anticipating how beautiful she will be,” said Phil. “No one can imagine it.”

They walked together to the outskirts of the village and then stood and shook hands again.

“Good-bye!” they all shouted. When Ellen and Finn and Henriette walked away from the Eskimos the warm wind carried their voices toward the sea. The three young men still waved at them. The mule stopped and Finn hit him once on the flank. The sky, of course, was clear, the storm gone. They would be back in Nome by noon, back to work, back among civilized men.