Joko (52 page)

“You’re an Indian … I know it,” said Costerson angrily.

“I believe I told you that Jack is no Indian,” said Swan.

“He’s no doubt from a far away land. I know the Indians and Jack doesn’t resemble, except perhaps superficially, any of them. Isn’t that right, Jack?”

For the Indian’s benefit Swan tried his best Salish approximation to what he’d said. The Indian understood and nodded. Swan looked at Costerson and said: “I can try all the dialects with Jack, but he’s not an Indian, and he doesn’t look like any Indians I know of.”

Jack smiled broadly. “Johnny, Swan … family.”

Costerson grew angry. He walked over to Jack and pulled off his cap. Jack’s hair sprung up wildly hiding the ridge that pointed his skull.

“Who … what … are you?” said Costerson, putting his hands on Jack’s shoulders.

“I am Jack,” said the sasquatch.

Jack felt the man’s rage. It rolled over him like a squall line hits a ship at sea. At the same time, Jack’s empathy swept through Costerson. The man’s darkness, the bitterness of defeat that consumed his soul, poured out of him. Jack had never felt anything like it before, from anyone. He pulled away from the man. But the darkness lingered.

Everyone in the room saw it happen, but they could only guess what it felt like for Jack or for Costerson.

Swan spoke up. “I think you have your answer, Mr

Costerson, but I have to say that you had your answer before.

Your presence here suggests that you think one or all of us are lying to you. Is that right? Is that the official position of the railroad?”

Costerson looked confused.

Swan put an arm around Jack and gave the sasquatch a squeeze. “I think of Jack as a second son. And I have come to think of Johnny as one of my own. Poor Jack is a foundling.

Maybe one day he will find his own family, but if he does it will not be soon. They are nowhere near here.”

Gert handed Costerson some coffee. He looked at her blankly and took the cup. He was pale, and in spite of the cool evening there were beads of sweat on his forehead. The man downed the hot coffee in one gulp. Then he looked back at her and said: “Thank you, ma’am.”

Swan saw a golden opportunity at hand. “Bill, let me show you something.” He let go of Jack and walked to the living room and picked up Jack’s cloth bound diary. He reentered the kitchen, thumbing through its pages.

“What’s that?” said Costerson. The man sounded shaken.

“Jack’s journal, I suppose you could call it,” answered Swan, handing the book to Costerson. “Look at it.”

Costerson took the book and flipped through a few pages.

“You wrote this, Jack?”

“Jack write,” said the sasquatch, nodding.

Swan took the book from Costerson and turned to the drawing of the crow. “Look, Jack can draw, too.”

The Indian noticed the drawing. “Makah,” he said, nudging Costerson.

Costerson closed the book. “Indian art. Do you take me for a fool? Explain that.”

Swan laughed. “No, sir, I do not take you for a fool. Jack copied that drawing from one I made for a Makah chief. I’m his teacher. I have been Jack’s tutor since I met him. He learned by copying me. I taught him to assist him in returning to his home. But for now he lives here with his friend. When I get back to Port Townsend I will begin an inquiry, one that I hope will lead us to Jack’s true identity and hopefully to his dear parents.”

Swan paused a moment, then said: “The two boys became such good friends. You know how people will bond together in times of adversity?” He pointed to Johnny. “He’d been through hell when I found him. Broken leg. Emaciated. I took pity on him immediately and was touched by the fact that Jack was a poor young stranger in a strange land. And being a teacher and Indian agent … well, Mr Costerson, I believe that God put us here to protect our kind. What choice did I have then but to do my best to help them both? The short of it, Mr Costerson, is that I can do nothing more than to bring Johnny home to his guardians, and with regards to

Jack …”

Swan took another dramatic pause. He reached into his pocket and began the ritual of lighting his meerschaum.

“Jack is no less special to me,” he continued as he pressed some tobacco into his pipe. “His plight spoke to the Christian in me, and I have undertaken tutoring the boy that he might have as fair a chance as young Tilbury in starting a new life on these shores … if he should never find his way home. I sought to prepare him for either eventuality.”

Costerson said nothing for a moment, then he looked at his companion with an expression that seemed to say: ‘What do you think?’

Tim smiled and shrugged his shoulders, then looked at Gert and lifted his cup. “This is good coffee, ma’am. Much appreciated.” He nodded respectfully to Swan. “I hope your boy finds his home.” The Indian winked at Jack. “Good luck to you, Jack.”

Almost as though he was feeling Johnny’s triumph, Rocky barked at the two riders as the sound of their horses trailed off into the night.

Hannington took Swan’s hand. “That was some speech.

You certainly convinced them, James. Heck, you almost convinced me.” Hannington laughed.

Swan shook his head. “No, it was Jack who convinced them. Who would believe that this young gent sitting at our dinner table is a sasquatch – especially after a stunning display of penmanship? No, sir, the credit goes to Jack. My only task was vouching for him.”

Johnny smiled broadly. “I couldn’t believe his face when Jack took the book and wrote the man’s name. You wrote his
name
, Jack,” crowed the boy.

Lying open on the table lay Jack’s book opened to a blank page and on it one word:

CoSTrson

The group ended up seated back at the round table.

Gert smiled at the doctor. “Don’t worry, Percy, you did what you had to do and it was the right thing. In the end it was you that verified that Jack had written the book.”

“Percy?” asked Johnny. “Your name is Percy?”

“Dr Percival Hannington. It’s a lovely name,” said Gert.

Johnny laughed. “I’ll stick to ‘Doc’ if you don’t mind.”

The doctor nodded to Johnny. “I’d appreciate that, Johnny.” Hannington surveyed the group. “I think we all need a good night’s sleep, but before I get back to town, I feel as though I owe all of you an apology.”

“Forget it, Doc,” said Johnny. “It’s all over now.”

“I hope so,” said Gert.

The doctor put on his wide brimmed leather hat. “I think we’ve all seen the last of Costerson, but I fear that was only round one of our trials with Jack.” He looked at Jack for a moment. “I suspect the big reason why the man didn’t believe Jack was the same animal he’d sent to Barnum is simple denial. If a beast can read and write, what does that say about us?”

A chilly gust of wind swept into the room. “The question remains …” The doctor looked at Swan. “Ready to go?”

“Right behind you,” said Swan, donning his hat and coat.

Swan picked up Jack’s book and closed it. He handed it to Jack. “Don’t want to lose this, Jack. It’s your ticket to Paradise.”

“What do you mean, ‘the question remains’?” asked Gert, holding the sleeve of the doctor’s coat.

The doctor looked at her and then at Jack. “What to do about Jack,” he said, kissing her cheek.

what To do

aboUT Jack?

Late that same night Jack showed his newly written statement to Johnny. Jack held the page before Johnny and gave him a questioning look.

“Yes, Jack,” said Johnny. “That’s what people are wondering. But at least now we’ve got time to think about it.”

The days that followed put a bloom on Johnny that Ginny could hardly ignore. And everyone was noticing that she was coming to town as often as possible. Gert’s work, meanwhile, was gaining popularity with the townsfolk. She was thrilled that people were coming all the way from Lytton to look at her designs. And now that people were thinking about their fall clothes, Johnny’s aunt was enjoying the increased business and the prosperity that accompanied it. She was now selling pre-mades from Vancouver and had even ordered a gown or two from San Francisco, at Swan’s suggestion. Swan helped when the opportunity to do so presented itself. He was, in fact, the instrument that brought salesmen and catalogs from the depot to her shop. Thanks to him she now had smartly decorated invoices, correspondence, and business cards.

Johnny’s aunt was busier than he’d ever seen her, but she wasn’t too busy to notice when he and Ginny were flirting in the corners of the dress shop. More than once she had to intervene with angry orders. Once she told Jack to ‘keep an eye on the lovebirds’, which brought complaints from Johnny and sent Jack to the window looking for birds.

Johnny and Jack did their share; keeping the place tidy and delivering the goods.

In the days leading up to Swan’s departure Johnny was glad that everyone was happy, and to him it seemed to center upon the sasquatch. Johnny was proud of Jack. After all, not only had he saved their lives and endured nature’s most brutal assaults, but he’d also won a great battle on an alien front. Johnny made sure to state his approval of Jack often and was confident that it could never be said that Jack was unappreciated. Nor was there any lack of love and family caring that should cause the sasquatch to be dis turbed. As far as Johnny could see, at least.

But another part of him knew something had changed with Jack. Johnny first noticed it the day after Costerson left.

Something happened when they had touched. It hadn’t changed Costerson, but it had affected Jack. But how, Johnny couldn’t say. Now Jack was pulling away from him at some basic level. Johnny had attributed this to Swan’s departure. Gert thought so, too.

When he linked with Costerson, Jack had seen a side of humans he’d never seen before. It brought out something from Jack’s inner self that was even more surprising and frightening, something he didn’t know existed. Something savage and cold. Something humans call hate.

It surfaced in him like a monster from the deep. Waves of rage, hate, and desire for vengeance swept over him; surges of feelings his kin had long ago learned to suppress for the sake of their survival.

But why had he reacted that way? When he linked with Costerson, Jack remembered the cage, the railroad car, the pain of shackles cutting into his wrists. He remembered the thirst and hunger at the hands of the ‘cage man’, and more than the pain Jack remembered the fear.

Nothing had happened. He didn’t attack the man. The link with Costerson broke before Jack lost control. Now the man was gone. But hate persisted.

The day finally came that Swan packed his bags for travel.

Inevitably, his last night found everyone gathered at Gert’s table. The doctor had brought an old and expensive bottle of brandy which he uncorked to share with Gert, Swan, and Johnny. Though some was offered to Jack as well, he was content with a glass of milk. It served just as well when Doc Hannington toasted Swan.

“This old argonaut is going to miss you all,” said Swan.

“But Henry Bash can’t run Port Townsend without me forever.

According to his recent correspondence, I am going to be elected judge.”

“You are?” said Gert.

Swan laughed. “Indeed, I fear so. No one else wants the job. And this ol’ Boston is the closest thing to a practicing lawyer they’ve got. Also they know I’m easy to push around.

I’ll win for sure.” He winked at Johnny.

“You’ll be a good judge,” said Johnny cheerfully.

Later he and Swan sat in new Adirondack chairs on the front porch of the Tilbury home, enjoying the warm summer night.

“How will Jack be without you around?” asked Johnny.

“Who will teach him?”

Swan shook his head and stared into the dark woods.

“You worry too much, Johnny. When you think about it, Jack has pretty much learned to take care of himself, yes?”

“I mean his studies,” said Johnny. “And he needs you around for support.”

“You think so?” said Swan. “You might be wrong about him, you know. People can surprise you. Sasquatches, too, yes?”

Johnny nodded. “I guess.”

“What I said about Jack to Costerson that night was true.

Jack is his own person.” Swan’s meerschaum went out. He struck a match and stoked the pipe. “The way I see it, two forces drive a body: learning and savvy. Books teach you one and life teaches the other.”

“What do you mean?” asked Johnny.

“I mean you might be city smart but country stupid, to put it another way.” Swan blew a cloud of smoke at a mosquito.

“The knowledge we carry around comes from experience and education. Some call it ‘book learning’, but getting along with people and with animals, like you do, takes another kind of knowledge. Some call it perceptive. I call it savvy.”

“Jack is all savvy, I guess,” said Johnny, looking at the sasquatch, who dozed under a blanket in a nearby chair.

“Exactly,” said Swan. “But don’t forget, Johnny, you have it too. That’s why you are the one he needs most.”

“Tell me what you think will happen to him,” asked

Johnny.

“I gave up on that line of thought a long time ago, Johnny.

Your guess is as good, and probably better, than mine.”

“But what do you
think
will happen to him ?”

“Johnny,” said Swan, “I never in a million years could have guessed that a year of my life would be spent teaching a sasquatch boy to read and write. Now you’re asking me what I think will become of him?” He laughed. “That’s like asking God’s plan for Tuesday.”

Johnny sighed. “If it hadn’t been for you I wouldn’t be here. Jack wouldn’t be here. He’d be in the circus. Without you …” He looked at Jack again and heaved a sigh. “I don’t know.”

“You’ll do fine,” said Swan, patting the boy on the knee.

Dream ing, Jack walked in the mists. The trees were wet and cold but he felt warm. The clouds had come up the mountains with him as he followed the trail. The trail that not even the deer could see.

Far behind Jack, off deep in some hollow or ravine, a train whistle blew.

When he awoke the next morning, Johnny found Jack dressed and on the porch. Jack’s clothes were dirty and full of nettles. “You were out all night again, Jack,” said Johnny.