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  Her funeral drew mourners from all over Southeast Alaska. Hundreds of people showed up by plane and boat and we gave Grandma a memorable send-off.

  In September, when I went back to Sitka for the start of the new school year, I took the Angoon box and its contents with me. The museum staff enjoyed assisting me and we were successful in restoring the contents of the box except for the water-damaged, bound journal. Our curator says restoring the book is beyond their capability, but she’ll try to locate someone who can do the job. As for me, I am busy translating Abraham’s Copper Spirit’s journal.

  The mystery of what went so dreadfully wrong for our people after the time of Copper Hair and Wind Spirit still needs to be solved. Will their daughter’s journal provide important clues? At this point, I don’t even know all the questions, but I will do what I can to discover if the answers lie within this battered old box.

  David Abraham

  Sitka, Alaska

  December 5, 1959

  During this, the Snow on the Mountains Moon, or on 14 January of 1778 by his reckoning, the spirit canoe came for Copper Hair, my beloved father. Thirty-five summers ago, during the Noisy Goose Moon, he first came to our village of Klawak. The spirit canoe may have taken him from us, but his accomplishments outlive him. I speak of his wind-wing, the peace-making alliance with the Haidas of Howkan, the ironmaking skills he and Park shared with us and, of course, his legendary generosity. My father is gone, but his memory lives on with his wife, Wind Spirit, their sons, and me. We all wish for his spirit to return to us soon. Eat now, enjoy the good foods all my friends and family. When we’ve finished we will send Copper Hair’s soul on a safe journey into the spirit world.…Copper Spirit’s Eulogy.

  Chapter One

  17 January, 1778: My name is Abraham’s Copper Spirit and my world is shattered. My beloved father, Copper Hair, has died. Three nights ago, his soul departed and left behind his dead body. We are preparing to set him free to return to the spirit world this afternoon.

  I am sitting in the same spot I have occupied for the past three days and nights and writing—writing random thoughts and memories on scraps of cedar bark. Recollections of my father swim through my overwrought mind like a school of herring, darting and flashing as they pass but reality rules. My father is dead.

  Copper Hair, whose whiteface name was Abraham Petrovich, occupied a special place in Klawak, our village, as well as in the surrounding villages. He was renowned for his ingenuity, sharing the technique for making iron with the people. His famous wind-wing flies throughout our lands—a gift to all. Who can replace such a talented and generous man? I have no answer.

  I will keep my father’s journal in a safe place and, as I promised, continue telling the story of our people in my own words. Writing the strange language he taught me will keep him alive for me.

  Alive—that word brings back my shock upon first viewing my dead father, his ashen pallor and sightless eyes. Never again will those eyes look upon me with love.

  The Wolf Side women, in accordance with our tradition, are preparing him for the funeral. They have fitted a woven cedar-bark veil over his face; I am relieved that I no longer have to stare at his dead eyes.

  Our home, Rust House, is deathly still–no laughter, no voices–not even so much as a whisper relieves the cruel silence. My eyes are drawn to the great ceremonial screen covering the back wall. In an attempt to distract myself, and help me reconcile to the stark facts, I describe what I am seeing.

  Raven, Father’s principal crest animal, is at the top of the screen, and hovers protectively over a dramatic scene below. Father is the helmsman of his great canoe with Killer Whale and Land Otter riding along. He stands in the stern guiding his canoe, wind-wing flying, riding the wind, forever on a special journey.

  Now that his earthly journey is done, his new voyage will be his trip to the spirit world. Preparations to send him on his way are nearing completion.

  In stark contrast to the heroic scene on the screen, his veiled corpse is seated in Father’s chair in front of it. Crowning the apparition’s head is his favourite headdress. A crown with upright sea-lion whiskers, designed to hold eagle down, a symbol of peace, is seated on his head. A long-fringed dance robe decorated with yellow and black crest designs is draped around his shoulders.

  Many familiar objects surround the corpse. The things my father loved to display and use at the potlatches he hosted are in view. Dance robes woven by my mother, Wind Spirit, hang on racks so their designs might be admired. Boxes decorated with our clan crests are stacked high behind the chair. Arranged on and around them are rattles, masks, and all manner of other valuable items. Some are inlaid with copper and abalone shell that reflect light from the low-burning fire.

  Suspended from the ceiling, overlooking the sad scene is Father Raven, our clan crest hat, a very old and important piece. It is bearing witness to Copper Hair’s final feast. The speaker’s staff that he enjoyed thumping on the cedar plank floor to demand attention or make a point leans close at hand against the chair. Happy memories of good times spent in this house flash through my mind but are swiftly extinguished by my grief.

  The seemingly endless third night of mourning is coming to a close with the approach of dawn. The Wolf Side women will return soon to complete their funeral duties. I sit near the fire, so I can see well enough to write the jumble of impressions and memories that swirl through my mind. Across the fire pit, sits my mother, swaddled in her favourite blanket made from the soft, warm feathers of seabirds. She rocks slowly from side to side. We haven’t spoken a word all night, but she is no longer weeping, and I wonder if perhaps she has run out of tears. The Wolf Side women hacked off her long silky hair for the mourning ceremony and now jagged tufts stand up all over Mother’s head. Poor dear–she is the personification of the grief I feel.

  Following the farewell feast to be held this afternoon, Copper Hair’s earthly remains will be cremated. His body will be gone, but we all hope his spirit will stay close to the village, awaiting the proper moment for returning to the living. I suspect Wind Spirit could be easily convinced that the next red-haired baby born to one of my brothers’ wives is her husband’s spirit returning. It isn’t that simple. My limited experience with the spirit world has already taught me that spirits are never predictable.

  Two treasured items are no longer displayed with father’s belongings. The first night, after the Wolf Side women created the impressive display and left, I moved both boxes that contain my father’s journal into my private sleeping area. My dog, Arrow, can help me guard them.

  After his eyes failed him, Copper Hair entrusted me to keep the journal and I have been doing that for him the past three years. He made me promise to continue recording our history as he had for more than forty years. I am now the only one who can read and write the marks covering the bark leaves and old journal books in those boxes. He leaves me an awesome responsibility by making me the custodian of our history and I will do my best to honour his trust.

  The Journal Of Abraham’s Copper Spirit

  17 January, 1778: I have decided to end Father’s story here on this cold morning and begin mine. Tears filled my eyes when I realized the first entry in my new journal must be an account of his death. The thought dismayed me at first, but then a simple solution occurred to me. I would calculate the date of his passing using the calendar he taught me. Then, I would write a short memorial piece to read at the feast this afternoon. I would keep it short and unemotional. He would want it that way. After I finished doing that, I would describe the events of these terrible three days since Father’s death.

  Mother was dozing now and it was obvious my writing hadn’t disturbed her. I got to my feet, surprised at how stiff I was, and threw my copper-coloured braids over my shoulders. The Wolf Side women wanted to cut them when they butchered my mother’s hair, but I wouldn’t let them. They clucked at my “bad” attitude but left me alo
ne. I noticed my hands were still stained with the soot I’d used to blacken my face that awful morning three days ago when I had been jolted awake by Wind Spirit’s screams and cries for help. The self-inflicted abrasions on my arms from my initial convulsion of grief were already healing, evidence that my body wasn’t prepared to succumb to my sorrow. I crossed to the water box and washed my hands. They must be clean before I handled the pale doeskin I wanted to use for the eulogy.

  I retrieved a fresh sheet of skin from my sleeping area and put a couple of pieces of wood on the fire before I mixed fresh ink. By the time I finished with that, the fire was casting good light. I swept a spot on the cedar plank floor, spread the doeskin, and picked up my favourite eagle-quill pen.

  In the careful and exact script Father taught me, I wrote his memorial, including the date of his passing three days ago, followed by a short paragraph to recount his accomplishments, his surviving family, and finishing with the fervent wish that his spirit find its way back to us soon.

  I had finished the eulogy and was beginning to repack my writing kit, when movement caught my tired eyes. Twisting images were beginning to form in the blue-gray smoky haze that spiraled lazily upward toward the dark ceiling. My heart leaped when the unmistakable shape of Killer Whale appeared, then swam upward and disappeared through the smoke hole. While I tried to absorb what I had just seen, a second shape appeared and I recognized Father’s Land Otter Spirit, the Kushdaka. That spirit, Father’s most dreaded spirit animal, slowed its upward journey and then looked directly at me.

  I nearly fainted when the Kushdaka’s lips moved and it spoke in Father’s voice. The spirit told me I must take Copper Hair’s crest animals for my own. I tried to protest that I was an Eagle Side woman and those were Raven Side crests, but the Kushdaka ignored my objections. What it said next sent a chill through me.

  “Abraham’s Copper Spirit, your people need you. To serve them you must become a shaman. Ask your mother for your legacy.” I had no idea what my ‘legacy’ was, but the spirit was no help. After speaking those few cryptic words, the Kushdaka continued wafting upward until it too floated out through the smoke hole.

  I sat quietly, hands folded in my lap, and attempted to make sense of the visitation. Had it really happened? Perhaps I was hallucinating. Had the emotional turmoil of my father’s death and three sleepless nights made me see and hear imaginary things? I considered those possibilities and rejected them. I could question seeing those spirits. I could deny hearing the Kushdaka speak. Either the seeing or the hearing alone could have been delusions, but when the Kushdaka spoke to me in Father’s voice. That was no delusion.

  What was I to do? I didn’t want to become a shaman as the spirit ordered, but there were strong precedents in my family. My father’s sprits were as powerful as those of any shaman. Even my own mother had been apprenticed to my great aunt, Sky Shaker, a famous Haida shaman. She might have gone on to become a shaman in her own right if she hadn’t married my father.

  A feeling of inevitability swept over me. The spirit had spoken in my father’s voice and that was almost as if he himself had spoken to me. If I accepted that Father had given me the message through his Kushdaka spirit, then I had no choice. Becoming a shaman was my destiny.

  I looked at Mother through the smoke and realized she was awake and staring back at me. Had she witnessed the spirit visitation?

  “How are you, Mother?” I asked, struggling to return to my tangible world.

  “I thought I heard your father’s voice,” Mother said, shaking her shorn head, throwing off the last vestiges of sleep. “How could this be?”

  “You did hear him. Father’s spirits came to me and his Kushdaka told me I must become a shaman.”

  “You’re saying a spirit who spoke in your father’s voice told you this?” I nodded.

  After pausing for a long moment, she said, “We can deal with that later. Right now, we have to finish our mourning, so we can free your poor father’s spirit.”

  Arrow appeared from the direction of my sleeping area and her presence brought me back to reality. She nudged me with her muzzle and whined. The poor girl was hungry. She had given birth four days before Father died. Only two puppies of a litter of five had survived. I had tossed the three dead ones into the fire with no inkling that those tiny deaths foreshadowed the tragedy that was to follow. I found a piece of salmon and fed her. As soon as she finished it, she headed back to her pups.

  Just after dawn, a procession of Wolf Side women mourners filed in and took up positions near the body. They began a dirge of farewells. A fresh wave of grief rolled over me as they chanted and kept time with their carved staffs.

  Throughout the morning, more mourners entered Rust House and joined in the chanting. By midday, so many people were already seated they had to crowd together to make room for latecomers to find a spot on the broad cedar platforms surrounding the fire. It appeared as if the entire population of the village had come for the funeral feast and the cremation to follow.

  Copper Hair had been a powerful force in all our lives for so many years that I sensed a distinct aura of disbelief of his death. More than one villager approached the seated corpse and lifted the veil to verify that my father was indeed dead.

  Throughout that very long day, the communal demonstrations of grief continued. According to custom, no one spoke to the widow. So, my poor mother, with her blackened face and hacked hair, sat apart from everyone, rocking in time to the chants. The spectacle of so much grief overwhelmed me. I got up and left the house.

  The moment I stumbled through the door the vista I’ve adored all my life captured me once again. Born and raised in Klawak, I was sensitive to every nuance of its setting. Today, however, my familiar panorama failed to soothe me. The cold afternoon light seemed menacing. Rain was falling from a gray sky onto a jagged skyline formed by the dark trees covering the little island across from the village. That bleak scene was reflected in the gray water of the channel. The usually busy shingle beach was deserted from one end to the other. I turned to look back at the village. Smothering layers of blue-gray wood smoke hovered above the weathered cedar houses and the trees behind them. Cold rain ran down my face and I shivered. The spirit world was very close and very cruel this sorrowful day.

  Mother never tired of telling me how small and poor Klawak was the first time she saw it. I’ve always found that hard to believe. The Klawak I grew up in is a prosperous village with twenty-two houses standing above high water with another seven crowded between the front houses and the trees. Dozens of canoes, many of them the very expensive ceremonial and trading canoes acquired from the Haidas, are drawn up beside the houses and covered to protect them. Totem and mortuary poles stand in front of all but a couple of the houses. I have a catch in my throat as I realize one more mortuary pole will stand next to Rust House by this time tomorrow.

  This has been my home for as long as I can remember. Happy memories and familiar smells reside within these walls. My father delighted in teaching me the full name of Rust House. He made me giggle as I endeavoured to string together its tongue-twisting formal name: House-Where-There-Is-So-Much-Iron-That-People-Get-Rust-On-Themselves-When-They-Enter. Calling it Rust House is much easier.

  I gazed at the wonderful mural spanning its wide gable end. It had weathered over the years, but the canoe motif and the crest animals of Mother and Father were distinct. Raven spread his guardian wings above Killer Whale and Land Otter, who were passengers in a great canoe with its wind-wing flying. A man with red hair–my father–stood tall in the stern and guided it on its way. Surrounding the central part of the mural were my mother’s crest animals, Beaver, Sea Bear, Hummingbird and Eagle. Seeing all the crests reminded me of my destiny. Those powerful spirit animals would become mine if I became a shaman. Several people stepped out of the house and I walked farther down the beach to preserve my solitude. Some distance ahead, Wolf Side men were erecting the
funeral pyre in a small clearing above high tide line. A careful construction of logs designed to hold Father’s seated corpse was taking shape. More wood was stacked nearby, ready to feed the fire if necessary. The farewell feast was scheduled to begin when the pyre was finished and I could see that moment was near. I turned back to the house and realized the feast was already beginning. Women carrying baskets and bowls of food were filing into the house, so I went back inside and took my place next to Mother. I took her hand and gave it a squeeze in an attempt to comfort her but felt no answering pressure.

  Seal Killer, Father’s best friend and adopted brother, stepped up to the position of honour in front of the screen and thumped his staff for attention. Conversation came to a halt and he welcomed the guests in order of their rank. Our immediate family and close friends sat near us and we all looked like I felt. My uncle Park’s normally merry face twisted in sorrow and tears wetted his cheeks. His wife Aneeka and their family were crying, too. My brothers attempted to look stoic and composed, but their attempts failed when their wives and children joined in the mass lamentation.

  Seal Killer thumped his staff until the weeping faded to sniffles and nose-blowing. Young Wolf Side men passed bowls of fresh water to wash our hands. Food followed and many ate with gusto, but I had no appetite.

  Seal Killer stood again and spoke of Father’s wind-wings and the iron-making process–achievements that changed all our lives. He closed by saying how he hoped our ceremonies would set his soul free to become a spirit and help it find its way home to us soon. When he sat, I unrolled the short tribute I had written on the piece of doeskin and read it to the mourners. I doubted that they could appreciate that my reading ability represented the greatest achievement my father had given us—the means to record our history.