Joko (43 page)

“At the brink of the wilderness,” Swan had once said,

“civilization seems more important.” He lamented, however, that the brotherhood of civilization hadn’t been so easily applied to the natives. While Indians were welcome in Port Townsend, their actions were distrusted. Many perceived them as heathens, and when trouble broke out it was usually blamed on them. “Society always blames its victims,” Swan said. “The poor Indians in this region have already been decimated by war, disease and, now, by us. Yet most of them don’t hate us. They even want to do business with us. Is that uncivilized behavior?”

From the day he entered a Makah lodge and found them all singing
Oh Susannah
with accordion accompaniment, Swan saw the natives as equals. He knew then that these so-called heathens were just like other men, but few among his peers shared that view. It was no surprise to Swan when the officer asked Pugil Bolk for his version of the story first.

“He crowded me,” was all Pugil ever offered in explanation.

Swan reacted angrily. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Without waiting for a response Swan turned to the policeman. “Apparently the Indian’s mistake was to turn the corner at the same time as Pugil. At least that’s what Red Bear says.”

“Red Bear?” said the officer. “Is that the Indian’s name?”

“He’s the son of a Makah chief, Thad, in town trading for grain and tools. That’s his father’s animal over there.” Swan pointed to a pack mule that idly nibbled weeds nearby.

Pugil spat. “Is we done?”

“If no one files a complaint against you,” warned the officer, tapping his club against his boot.

Swan spoke to Red Bear again. When he finished the

Indian looked at Pugil, then at the officer. Finally he slowly shook his head. “
Con-nath in-is-ku.
”

Swan shrugged his shoulders and turned back to face the officer. “Hell, if he won’t complain, I will. Bumping into someone’s no reason to attack a man. Certainly not the son of a local chief!”

Pugil’s eyes narrowed. He withdrew both hands from his dungaree pockets. They were clenched into fists.

“Swan …” said Johnny.

Henry Bash put a hand on Johnny’s shoulder. “Excuse me, boy.” He walked over to Swan. “Let’s not make more of this than we need to, James. The fact is, we didn’t see the altercation begin, so our testimony would have little relevance in resolving this case. It’s Pugil’s word against the Indian’s, James, and no witnesses.” Bash looked at Pugil. “This whole matter may have been a misunderstanding. Isn’t that right, Pugil?”

Pugil Bolk ignored Henry. He looked coldly at Swan.

“This man has a broken nose. He should be taken to a clinic.” argued Swan, ignoring the eyes on him. “That’s plain enough, isn’t it?”

“Yes. That’s unfortunate, but doesn’t change matters. I see no grounds for our complaint.” Henry turned to Johnny.

“Don’t you agree?”

Johnny had been wondering what Jack was thinking of the whole incident when Henry asked the question. “I guess so,” was all he could manage. He caught Swan’s eye and shrugged.

Swan sighed. “Whatever you think is best, Henry. I’m new in town.”

The policeman smiled slightly and turned to address Pugil.

“Mr Bolk, I warn you that more fights involving you will land you in jail. We can’t have people making trouble with Indians or anyone else. You’d best keep your temper under control. Is that understood?”

Pugil never answered. He was already walking away muttering obscenities.

“He’ll end up in jail, I swear,” said the officer.

“You’d best get this one to a clinic, Thad,” said Henry.

“He’s bleeding all over your horse.” The policeman took his horse’s reins and led it down the street. The Indian, still woozy from his beating, rocked unsteadily in the saddle.

Jack was doing his best to blend into the background. He had watched the incident with complete amazement and had no clue as to what had transpired. Now he stood close to Swan’s mule, as motionless as possible, wishing he was deep in the forest and alone.

As they began to leave, Jack bent over and picked up something from the ground. He rolled it between his fingers and sniffed it. He grunted softly in disgust at the smell
.

Johnny noticed Jack had picked something up at the fight scene and asked to see what it was.

Jack handed him a bloody tooth.

Clouds rolled in from the northwest, greyed with rain. Beside the Bash house two pack-mules nibbled grass, waiting patiently to be unloaded. Inside the house, Mrs Watson prepared lunch while everyone waited in the parlor.

“I think you should be careful around the Bolks in future, Swan,” Henry said as he lit a cigar. “Founder status doesn’t mean much them.”

“Nor to me,” Swan retorted.

“Founder status?” asked Johnny. “Is Mr Swan really a founder of this town?”

“Oh my, yes,” said Henry.

“I founded the school at Neah Bay,” Swan said. “To the town I’m an early settler. But old argonauts like me? Common as blackberries.”

Henry laughed. “Without Swan the port wouldn’t be the same, that’s for sure.”

“Hear that, Jack?” said Johnny. “Mr Swan is a hero! A founder.”

Hearing his name, Jack looked at Johnny. He managed a human-style smile, convincing everyone in the room except Johnny that he understood.

“Swan has been petitioning the railroad to run a spur up to Port Townsend,” said Bash. “But that venture will meet with the same success as his Shoalwater oyster beds, I fear.” He gave Jack a wink.

Swan scowled. “There’s no finer port facility at the mouth of the sound. We all know that.”

“Well said, James. But you needn’t convince me; I’m not the railroad. The problem is the distance a line must run to get here; a major undertaking when there are already two major ports in Tacoma and Portland.”

“So it is said,” replied Swan. “But why sail way down there when ships can unload here?”

Henry smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

As Jack listened closely to the men he noticed they used only one kind of speech. With his people, language was not limited to vocalizations, but included whistles, grunts and sounds made with their hands. They could imitate everything from the creaking of pines to the chirp of a squirrel.

It had been hard for Jack to learn the humans’ speech because it all sounded the same. Still with some effort Swan had taught him some words and to relate those words to markings on paper.

Jack vowed to learn all he could from Swan and Johnny.

All his life he had seen the signs of man on signposts, cast off containers, and on stray pieces of what he now knew was newsprint. His family never touched such things but Jack had found himself compelled to study them – to wonder at their meaning. Now, after five moon cycles in human company, he had begun to understand their language.

Jack’s attentive ear and utter silence seemed to draw conversation from their host, who loved an audience. Henry continued to address Jack for some time, and all the while Jack smiled back at him. Jack seemed the perfect audience, attentive and silent. Suddenly in the midst of an anecdote about Swan, Bash noticed Jack’s silence. “Are you understanding me, son?” he asked Jack with a look of concern.

The sasquatch looked at Johnny for support.

Johnny took Jack’s cue. “I wouldn’t expect much talk from Jack, Mr Bash. Jack sure don’t say much.” Without taking a breath, Johnny changed the subject. “You know, Mr Bash, your friend Mr Swan never told me you were famous. Are you a founder, too?”

“I don’t see how I could have overlooked
that
!” Swan scoffed, but when Henry’s attention was elsewhere, Swan gave Johnny an appreciative wink for having expertly changed the subject.

Henry laughed. “Well, Johnny, Port Townsend is still young. We may have more founders per acre than any town west of the Rockies.”

Everyone laughed, except Jack.

Jack sat on a small settee next to Johnny while Swan and Henry occupied armchairs facing them. As the three men talked Jack’s attention was drawn to the window and Henry’s yard where a small house made of glass reflected the land, the house, and the clouds rolling overhead. Inside it were plants. To Jack it seemed magical, appearing to contain both plants and sky. The more he looked at it the more it puzzled him. Finally he was compelled to go outside to investigate
.

Johnny asked Jack where he was going.

“See sky house.” The sasquatch pointed to the window.

Johnny had no idea what Jack was doing, but Swan calmed his fears with a wave of his hand. “Let Jack explore.”

“Sky house?” said Henry. “I can’t imagine what that means.”

Before Henry had asked his question, Jack opened the latch to the front door and was in the garden examining Henry’s greenhouse. His head bobbed up and down as he tried to focus on the moving clouds reflected in the different panes of glass.

“Jack really is different, isn’t he?” said Henry.

“Quite, Henry,” said Swan. “A healthy, inquisitive youth.”

Johnny figured Swan was itching to tell Henry about the sasquatch. Certainly having a mythic animal in their midst was a historic moment, and sitting around eating and conversing with one made it all the more remarkable.

Johnny knew anyone could capitalize on the situation.

Even himself. Even Swan. After all, the old argonaut claimed to have earned considerable sums for his essays on the Northwest Indians. What would Jack’s story bring in U. S. dollars? But Johnny also recalled that Swan had said more than once that he was glad not to write Jack’s story.

“It is one thing to write about Indians, Johnny,” he’d said,

“but quite another to contend that a mythical beast not only exists, but has human qualities. Why, I’d be vilified and scorned in every hallowed hall of academia in the world.”

Standing alone and scrutinized by the humans inside the house made Jack uncomfortable. He turned from the ‘sky house’ and went back to the parlor. He didn’t understand what the house was made of, but he was satisfied that one day he would understand it and the many other mysteries that flourished in the world of men
.

“Our civilization is new to Jack,” said Swan.

Johnny nodded. “He never saw a greenhouse before. You can bet on that.”

When Jack reentered the room, he returned to his place next to Johnny and lowered his eyes.

Neither Henry Bash nor Swan said anything so Johnny broke the silence. “Anyway. I have to get a message to my aunt Gert. I’ve been worried about her for a long time. She must surely think I’m dead.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it, I’m afraid,” said Swan. “The local papers reported you lost off Dungeness four months ago. If the news got back to Yale …”

“Well, my goodness, my boy. We should get you to the telegraph office, immediately,” advised Henry.

By noon on their second day in Port Townsend a telegram had been sent to Gert that said Jack and Johnny would be boarding the next ship to Vancouver. Despite Johnny’s protests, Swan and Henry insisted on sharing the cost of their portage. Johnny had been taught never to accept charity, and only after Swan vowed to let Gert pay them back did he accept.

After sending the telegram, the group walked on foot to the purser’s office and booked passage on the steamship Lucienne, due to depart in three days. With that accomplished Johnny felt somewhat happier, particularly since Swan had decided to accompany the two boys back to Yale. He had often hoped that Gert could get to meet Swan.

Jobless for the moment, Henry having given his job to someone else, Swan proposed they take Jack shopping.

As its name implied, Water Street traced the docks, one of only two streets that lay between the grey cliffs and the bay.

With two steamers moored and unloading, the street was a hub of activity. Handcarts and horse carts dodged one another, people shoved and shouted as they went about their business.

“Why’s there so much fuss?” asked Johnny, having had the wind knocked out of him by a clumsy dock-worker carrying a hundred pound sack of flour.

“Time and tide wait for no man,” quipped Swan as he and Jack helped Johnny to his feet.

Since the confusion was clearly making the sasquatch nervous, Swan suggested they use Washington Street, which he assured them ‘holds less mayhem’.

“Most of the shops are located here, anyway,” said Swan.

Granville’s Market loomed before them as they entered the street. Swan described it as “a harbor store where one might purchase anything from hard-tack to horseshoes.”

Johnny took Jack’s arm as they entered the store.

“Isn’t it grand? Look at all this! What do you think, Jack?”

Swan’s voice rose above the din.

The interior of the store was a hive of Asian, Indian, and white vendors cramped in tiny stalls with their wares. Rows of tables and shelves stacked with goods occupied the front of the store while larger items were in the back. Oil lamps and candlelight filled in the shadows as they moved deeper away from the windows.

Jack was too distracted to notice Swan addressing him.

His eyes danced over the multitudes of people, signs, and mysterious objects that littered the store. Even though the smell of tobacco and humanity nearly overwhelmed him, he was too enthralled to follow his instincts to flee.

Johnny didn’t need their link to feel Jack’s excitement. He seemed to be trying to look everywhere and touch everything at once.

“We’re lucky he’s still with us,” Johnny said to Swan. “He wants to run, but he’s –”

“Fascinated? Normal reaction, I’d say,” quipped Swan. “It is fascinating.”

After a few minutes they had made their way to the racks of clothing on the second floor. Twice Johnny had to make Jack put down objects that compelled him. Heads turned to examine them as a stack of metal pots crashed to the floor.

“God, Jack, don’t wreck the place,” said Johnny, quickly restacking the pots. An angry vendor eyed him closely as he did his best to arrange them the way they’d been displayed.

Jack was too distracted by his surroundings to notice the trouble he’d caused. Swan moved close behind him. “Try not to touch everything, Jack.”