Totem Lost Read online

  Contents

  Dedication

  Totem Lost

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  Dedication

  For Karen whose constant support and patience have helped make my books become reality.

  Totem Lost

  A Novel

  James Hadman

  Map

  Prologue

  Sept. 10, 1959: A mere two weeks before her passing, my grandmother, Lois Abraham, and I had to make an unexpected trip to Angoon. She received a telegram from Calvin, an elderly cousin who lived there, he was terminally ill and wanted to see her before he died. This was sad news for the family, but of overwhelming importance to us for another reason. Earlier this year he had written to Grandma that he had in his possession an old bentwood box filled with what he referred to as bark scratchpads covered with scribbles. He described the crest animals on the box and they were the same ones Copper Hair possessed. That gave us hope that what the box contained would complete the story of our ancestor.

  Calvin wrote that he was familiar with my translation of Copper Hair’s journal that had circulated among the villages. He hinted he might give Grandma that box for me to translate too, but past abuses of our native artifacts had made him very cautious. Up until now, negotiations for the change of possession were proceeding at a snail’s pace. But now we had a fresh sense of urgency. He told us that if Grandma wanted the box, she would have to come to Angoon, so he could decide if she would be its next caretaker.

  I volunteered to go in her place and retrieve the box, but Grandma vetoed that plan. She convinced me that if I showed up without her, Calvin’s suspicious nature would likely lead to the box disappearing for another generation. I certainly didn’t want that to happen.

  We had experience with the contents of these ancient bentwood boxes because Grandma was the custodian of two of them that were decorated with our family crests. These had contained the journal of Copper Hair, our Russian ancestor, from more than ten generations before. Those boxes were handed down from mother to daughter until Grandma broke that chain. She decided it was time to share their contents with the world and she selected me to accomplish this task. To read the hundreds of little bark sheets contained in the two boxes, I had to learn Russian. When I had mastered that, I discovered that our ancestor’s Russian name was Abraham Petrovich and the boxes contained the journal of his life among our people.

  He wrote that he had taught his daughter, Abraham’s Copper Spirit, to read and write Russian. In later years, she had helped him keep his journal, so I was familiar with her handwriting. If that box contained her journal, I’d recognize it instantly. Habits formed at an early age tend to persist and we fervently hoped she had continued writing. At the end of Copper Hair’s journal, he writes that he is planning to leave her a letter detailing ways to resist the expected return of the “whitefaces.” That letter wasn’t in the boxes with his journal and I hoped it too might be in the Angoon box and serve as further proof of its authenticity.

  I was concerned for her health, but Grandma insisted she was up to making the trip, even though she was very weak and mostly confined to bed. The challenge was how to get her there. There were only two options—either floatplane or boat. Grandma rejected the flying option.

  “I know enough about old people like Calvin to know he won’t like it if we arrive on one of those planes. Those things flaunt the white man’s power. No. We are boat people. We have to go by boat.”

  “I wish you didn’t have to go at all,” I said.

  “Calvin says he won’t give that box to anyone but me and then only if he determines that I’m a worthy caretaker. If you’re serious about getting it, I have to get my tired old body up there.”

  “Of course I’m serious, but how are we going to do that?”

  “Your father just got a fancy new boat this spring. I’ll get him to take us.” Dad’s new Alaska Limit seiner was a beauty with a comfortable deckhouse that had a little stateroom where Grandma could ride in comfort. The boat was even named for her, the Lois A.

  As far as Grandma was concerned, it was settled. We’d arrive at Angoon aboard Dad’s fishing boat. I hoped old Calvin couldn’t find fault with that.

  Dad was definitely not thrilled to discover he would be making an unexpected trip from Klawak to Angoon. “That’s a long trip up there and back, Mom,” he said. “This is the height of the season, and I’ve got to catch more sockeyes to help pay for my new boat. I can’t waste time on a wild goose chase like this.”

  “Just last week you were bragging about what a good season you’re having–high boat out of Klawak you told me. A few salmon more or less won’t make much difference.”

  Dad shrugged. What Grandma wanted, Grandma got. “Can we at least take off on a Saturday? That way we can travel during the weekend closure.”

  “That’s fine with me,” she said. “I’ll send David down to the ACS office to send a telegram and let them know we’re coming.”

  July 25, 1959: We left Klawak at seven o’clock on Saturday evening and ran through the night. Seventeen hours later we tied up to the city float in Angoon. It was shortly after noon on Sunday and church was letting out. Naturally, a strange boat attracted plenty of attention in such a small village, and the church crowd headed our way.

  We had a time getting Grandma off the boat. Then we had a hundred feet of slippery float and a steep gangplank to negotiate before she was safely on dry land. The payoff for her making the trip was nearly instantaneous.

  A heavyset woman about fifty-years-old, wearing a floral print dress and a pink sweater, detached herself from the smiling crowd and approached us.

  “Mrs. Abraham? Mrs. Lois Abraham?”

  Grandma nodded, and the woman stepped forward and took her hand. “I’m Julia,” she said. “Calvin’s daughter. We’ve been expecting you. That’s a very nice boat. We don’t see many boats from Klawak up here.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you Julia,” Grandma said. “That’s my son and that’s his boat,” she continued, gesturing at Dad. “He’s a high-line fisherman. He was kind enough to take time out from his season to bring me up here to see Calvin. This young man is David, my grandson.” Dad and I shook hands with her. We also shook hands with several of the village elders and the pastor.

  Grandma and Julia were chatting and Julia’s face darkened in distress when she said, “My dad’s not doing so hot. He’s really sick and too weak to get out of bed, but he’s waiting to see you. He has something he wants to give to you personally.” My heart skipped a beat. We were so close.

  “Follow me,” she said, and we did. Their house was one of those old government prefab jobs, very modest and much in need of a coat of paint. We entered by walking up a ramp built for a wheelchair. Julia opened the door, and the smell of sick billowed out. Dad and I exchanged glances. The muscles along Grandma’s jaw began to work.

  “Come on in,” Julia said. “He’s right in here.”

  We followed and what met my eyes was a tall hospital bed on wheels. It dominated the corner of a dark and cluttered room. In it lay an emaciated old man propped up on a nest of pillows. His eyes were closed.

  Julia leaned over him. “Dad,” she said as she touched his shoulder. “There’s someone here to see you.” His eyes flutt
ered open. At first, he looked puzzled when he saw Dad and me, but when he looked at Grandma, a hint of a smile appeared.

  “You must be Cousin Lois,” he said in a weak voice. Grandma nodded. He cleared his throat and continued. “It was good of you to come all the way up here to see an old dying man.” Grandma started to speak, but he held up his hand. “Don’t waste your breath. I know I’m a goner. Dying is taking far too long and it’s so messy. Look at all this garbage.” He gestured at the sickroom paraphernalia surrounding his bed. “That damned nurse shows up daily and sticks me with needles and feeds me handfuls of pills. I’m tired of this.” He gestured toward Dad and me. “Who are these two?”

  “That’s my son and my grandson. My son brought us up here in his boat.”

  He gave us a ghost of a smile. “That’s good,” he said. “I’m glad you didn’t take one of those noisy damned planes. When I first got sick, they made me ride one of those things up to Juneau to the hospital. What an awful experience.” He waved a skeletal hand dismissively. “You don’t want to hear about that stuff. At least I came home in style, aboard my grandson’s trolling boat.” He managed a real smile this time. “Is your son’s boat a nice one?”

  Grandma nodded, her jaw muscles still in motion. She was dead right about the old man’s prejudice against planes. He hadn’t made any comment about them being icons of the white man’s power, but it would not have surprised me if he had.

  “Very comfortable,” Grandma said.

  “It’s a fine boat, Dad. A new Limit seiner,” Julia said.

  Calvin examined my father closely. “I can see you’re a fisherman. You must be a good one.” My father nodded. He looked at me. “Do you crew for your dad?”

  “My brothers do,” I said.

  “David’s a school teacher,” Grandma said. Calvin smiled.

  “Teaching our kids is very important,” he said, looking at Dad. “You must be very proud of your son.” My father nodded. Calvin turned to Grandma. “Your boy’s not a big talker, is he?”

  “He’s a good listener,” Grandma said, and Calvin smiled again. I was getting a positive feeling about how this meeting was going, but we hadn’t even touched on the subject of the box.

  “I’m kind of running out of steam and you haven’t come all the way up here to listen to a foolish old man ramble on. Julia, bring that thing out here.” She leaned down and dragged a battered bentwood box out from under the tall bed. I hoped my face didn’t betray my excitement. One side panel was cracked and scratched; with chips and dents all over it. Despite its condition, I could make out the crest animals that Calvin had described. They were the ones Copper Hair and Wind Spirit owned that would have passed to their daughter. I was sure I was looking at Abraham’s Copper Spirit’s box.

  “I believe this is what you came for,” Calvin said. “I don’t know much about the contents. I call those little things scratchpads, and I think they are very old. Maybe even from before the white men came. Julia has read me parts of Totem, the story your grandson translated about the old Russian who goes Native. That was a good story. This is the young man who did that?”

  “That’s him, Calvin. We think that what’s in this box may be a continuation of the Russian’s account of the old days. It could be another important part of our history,” Grandma said.

  The sick old man nodded. “Those were the good days before the white men came.” Then he closed his eyes and was silent for so long I was afraid he might have gone to sleep, or fainted, or worse, died. I was itching to see what the box contained, and wondered if I could risk taking a peek, but before I could act on my impulse, Calvin opened his eyes.

  “Your David did a good job of telling the story of our proud people before the white men came. After they took over, we suffered so many lies and so much injustice. For example, the proud United States Navy sent a gunboat clear over here from Sitka to shell Angoon. After the government boat blew up our poor little village, they said it was our fault because we stopped white men from stealing our furs. We have never received a dime in compensation or even an apology.” He attempted to spit, but only succeeded in producing a string of mucus that ran down his chin.

  “Take it easy, Dad,” Julia said, wiping his face with a tissue.

  “Please excuse me,” he said. “This subject makes me so mad. I have spent my entire life seeking justice, writing to all the government people I could think of, but my pleas have fallen on deaf ears. It is too late for me, but someone has to continue the struggle.” His dark eyes found me and he continued. “Take the box. I hope it will help our people.” He closed his eyes and then in a soft voice said, “Go now. I must get on with the business of dying.”

  I had the box, but my heart was breaking. I looked at Grandma. She had tears in her eyes. Even my stoic father’s eyes looked moist. I picked up the box–it wasn’t heavy–and turned to leave.

  “I’ll get the door,” Julia said. We stepped outside and she closed it behind us. “Thank you for coming to collect that damned box. He’s been fretting about what to do with it ever since he got sick. I hope he finds a bit of peace now.”

  “We hope so too,” said my father, the first words he had spoken. Grandma hugged her and I just smiled and nodded. I certainly wasn’t letting go of the box. Julia brushed a tear away with the back of her hand.

  “I have to give him his medicine,” she said, turning to go back inside. “Have a safe trip home.”

  The tide had come in so getting Grandma down the gangplank was easier but still slow. While Dad was helping her, I had plenty of time to go ahead. I tucked the box away in her stateroom and then went back to help. After we got Grandma aboard and back to bed, Dad fired up the Cummins and I cast off the lines. We left Angoon at mid-afternoon on Sunday.

  I couldn’t resist peeking inside the box, so while Grandma napped, I put it on the galley table and pried the top off. What I saw made my heart leap. It was definitely Abraham’s Copper Spirit’s handwriting, but the contents were seriously jumbled. Reassembling everything would be a chore I’d have to tackle later. I replaced the lid.

  Our return trip was uneventful. I fixed a simple meal of salmon and rice. I got Grandma to eat a little and relieved my dad in the wheelhouse, so he could have a bite. Steering the new boat was not a problem. It was fitted with an “Iron Mike” so all I had to do was undo the clutch, change course, and reset it. “Mike” did the rest. My main job was making sure we didn’t run into a drift log.

  July 27, 1959: We ran all night and got back to Klawak the next morning. Dad was pleased that he’d only missed a few hours of the opening.

  We walked Grandma back to her house and she went straight to bed. I opened the box on the kitchen table and carefully lifted out some of the little bark sheets. They had originally been bundled and tied with bark strings like the ones in Copper Hair’s boxes, but someone had undone every single bundle, leaving the strings in the box. I wondered what they had been looking for–twenty dollar bills? In addition to Abraham’s Copper Spirit’s writing, I found some sheets written in an unfamiliar hand. Such a mess. I could see why Calvin referred to them as scratchpads. On top of their disorder, they were in poor condition. Some of them were torn and a few were in pieces.

  Putting them in order would take a long time. I’d need more space to lay them out and organize them. I had plenty of room in my office at Sheldon Jackson College back in Sitka, so I would wait until I was back to do that. Now that I was sure I had the right box, I could take my time.

  I put the scratch pads to one side and continued unloading the box. At the bottom were exciting finds. The first two items were cracked pieces of darkened doeskin. I could read enough to determine that one was indeed the letter from Copper Hair to his daughter. The second appeared to be his eulogy. Unfortunately, both were mostly illegible. I would need to clean them and borrow a dissecting microscope from the biology lab to decipher them. The most important f
ind was a leather-bound journal in poor condition. It appeared to have gotten wet and its paper pages were stuck together. After a couple of very careful attempts to open it, I gave up. I would need to wait until I consulted our museum curator. She would know how to handle this fragile treasure.

  Several days after our return, Grandma caught a cold. She was coughing a lot and obviously uncomfortable, but refused when I offered to call the Public Health nurse. When she began to run a fever, I called the nurse anyway. The nurse came and gave her some medicine and she seemed a bit better for a day or two.

  She was in bed one evening when I took her some chicken soup Mother had made. She sat up and after a couple of spoonfuls, she said, “Sit down, David.”

  After I sat on the edge of her bed, she pointed to the dark whale-bone basket she kept on her dresser and said, “Hand me that little thing.” I did, and she reached into it and gave me the clasped-hand, ivory hair ornament she had worn for as long as I could remember. “Here,” she said, “take this thing and give it to your wife when you get one. It’s an old piece of our history.” I started to protest, but she held up a hand. “Give the basket to your mother. It too is more of our history.” I remembered both items being mentioned in Copper Hair’s journal. They were indeed pieces of our history. I knew she treasured them and having her part with them was ominous. “I’m plain and simple getting tired of living,” she said. “My joints ache, my back hurts, my gut rumbles, and I am having a tough time breathing.”

  “Should I call the nurse again? Maybe we need to get you to the hospital in Ketchikan.”

  “Forget the nurse. I’m not going to that damned hospital. They charge a bunch of money to kill you in those places. Now listen to me. You have made a good start on our history and now you have Calvin’s scratchpads to translate. Do a good job, David. Our people need to know what Copper Hair’s daughter has to tell us.”

  August 7, 1959: Those were the last words she spoke. Lois Abraham died in the night. She was born on Sept 9, 1876 and was a month shy of her eighty-fourth birthday. I miss her very much.