Portlandtown: A Tale of the Oregon Wyldes (25 page)

“I think we’ve got enough to get started,” Kate said.

The kids went to work, each selecting a book from the stack. Kate turned back to the storm totem, which in the low-hanging storeroom lights also appeared more sinister than it had in the mayor’s study. She made a mental note to ask Joseph to open the storeroom skylight before the sun went down.

Kate ran a hand along a series of interwoven lines connecting the killer-whale carving to the bear above it. It was actually a sea bear, a mythical beast found on many Northwest totems. The lines grew from the bear to the wolf, then to the beaver, to the raven, and finally to the thunderbird on top. It was a curious feature though not unprecedented. None of the animal designs was unique, but the fact that they were carved in stone remained unprecedented in Kate’s experience.

“So unusual,” she said under her breath, although what she felt was something very familiar. Native totems were symbolic of many things, but all had one thing in common—they told a story. The storm totem was no different. There was a story here, one that was not entirely clear to Kate, but familiar nonetheless.

Returning to the table, Kate picked through a few of the loose collections before finding the one she wanted. She untied the binding, revealing a stack of papers, most of which were handwritten transcriptions of oral traditions. This particular collection she knew well, having been present when Joseph had written down many of the legends. There were nineteen similar volumes, each a collection of the history and mythology of a single Northwest tribe. Over the past six years, Joseph had, with the help of several like-minded locals, compiled the volumes with hopes of publishing them in a single book celebrating the customs and culture of the tribes. Kate thought it a lovely idea. Thus far, none of the publishers Joseph had contacted shared her assessment.

The current collection was culled from the Nuu-Chah-Nulth tribe, a loosely connected community spread across Vancouver Island. There was a single story in particular that Kate was interested in, one told to them by an elderly man they’d encountered sitting alone on a rocky beach.

Halfway through the stack, Kate stopped turning pages. A small sketch of a bird—not entirely dissimilar to the raven found on the storm totem—sat in the lower-right corner of the page. Above it were the words:
THE WHITE RAVEN
.

Kate smiled. There was no such bird, at least none that she’d ever seen. The classic Oregon raven was as black as any other and twice the size. Most kept to the coast, although Kate had seen a few mingling with the local crows, content to spend their days cawing at the boats that traveled up and down the Willamette River.

The raven of the Native story was twice the size of a man and the color of sunlight. Kate had initially pictured it as a golden creature but was overruled. Apparently, her blind husband could
see
the true color of light and deemed it white. The old man had agreed, pointing to a pile of sun-bleached oyster shells for comparison. Kate kept one of the shells, which upon closer inspection had a polished, rainbowlike sheen on one side. She tried to revise her argument, but Joseph had already transcribed the story, naming the titular bird “the white raven.”

According to the legend, the great bird rose from the sea with a foamy flourish and alighted on a large chunk of driftwood at the top of the tide line. There it found a young maiden waiting for her brother to return from a fishing trip. The raven claimed the brother’s boat had capsized and all hands had been lost. The woman was devastated but refused to cry, saying her sibling loved the sea and would often speak of slipping beneath the waves when it was his time to pass on. The maiden’s noble sadness moved the white raven to shed an enormous tear, which broke on the sandy flotsam, releasing the fishermen from their watery prison. The albino bird then imparted the secret of the tides to the woman and flew away.

Or something like that. The old man was a little unclear about the ending. It was possible the bird had snatched up the maiden and flown away with her, leaving her brother to curse the skies. Joseph and Kate decided the happy ending was more fitting.

Joseph had included the alternate ending in a footnote, along with a sketch of the old man and another interpretation of the magical bird.

This was what Kate had remembered.

The second drawing looked nothing like the raven on the storm totem but was nearly identical to the bird perched on top of it. Joseph had heard only the words of the storyteller and had sketched a perfect match. Kate had long ago learned to trust her husband’s visual instincts, despite his obvious limitations. He could see things others could not, things unseen, even things found only in the mind of another man, such as the thunderbird that topped the storm totem.

It was a thunderbird, not a raven, which meant that either the old man had described something else or they had misinterpreted his meaning when he spoke of the great bird. It was possible this was another mythical creature. Numerous winged beings appeared in Native myths (the cannibal bird, Hokhokw, was one of Kate’s favorites), many of which were commonly found on tribal totems. Could this be something other than a thunderbird?

Kate slid the ladder along the bookshelf until it was within a few feet of the totem. She climbed two rungs, tested its steadiness, then stepped up two more. With considerable mental effort, she ascended one more rung, putting her almost face-to-face with the winged creature on top of the totem.

“What are you,” she whispered. “Thunderbird or other bird?”

A single multicolored fleck sparkled in the creature’s eye as Kate tilted her head. It was the firestone peeking through the stone, but it still sent a shiver through Kate’s body. She leaned in closer and abruptly the ladder shifted. Kate froze. Before she could gather herself to retreat, a hand grasped her ankle.

“I’ve got you,” Joseph said.

Kate carefully made her way down the ladder and once on solid ground kissed her husband on the cheek.

“One of the kids should hold the ladder when you’re on it. Safer that way, right, Kick?”

Kate shot her son a look before he could respond.

Joseph turned to the desk. “Find anything interesting?” he asked, flipping through a book on top of the nearest stack.

“Nothing concrete,” Kate said. “Some familiar designs, but nothing approaching the overall aesthetic.”

“The third animal is a sea bear, not a grizzly bear,” Maddie said.

Kate smiled. “She’s right. And I’m not sure that’s a thunderbird on top. It actually looks a lot like a sketch you did for one of the Nuu-Chah-Nulth stories.”

Joseph ran a finger over the drawing Kate had pulled out. In his mind, he saw the great bird, wings outstretched, sunlight glistening from beneath its wings. When he finally got to finish his hands-on inspection of the totem, he would find that his vision and reality were very similar.

“William is going to come by later today,” he said.

“Billy Red Fish?”

Joseph chuckled. “He hates it when you call him that.”

“I know,” Kate said, grinning. “What did he have to say about our storm totem?”

“He’s run across a few in his travels. None made of stone, however. He was very curious.”

“Good. We could certainly use some firsthand experience.”

Kick snapped his second book closed and tossed it back onto the table. “Where’s Gran’pa?”

“Practicing,” Joseph said.

Kick’s eyes widened. “Shooting?”

“Yes.”

Kate raised an eyebrow. “Where?”

“Bonner’s field,” Joseph said and then answered the question Kate wanted to ask: “He needed the distance for his rifle. That’s all he took with him.”

Kate wasn’t convinced. “How come you didn’t go with him?”

“I offered, but he said he could use the time alone.”

Kate grabbed her husband’s wrist and walked him back to the storeroom entrance.

“You let him go off with his gun alone?”

“It was a rifle and he knows how to handle it.”

“That’s not the point. In his state of mind, I don’t know what he’s going to do. He could hurt himself, or somebody else.”

“I don’t think he would do that.”

“Are you sure?”

Joseph didn’t answer. Instead he closed his uncovered eye, which had the effect of focusing all his attention on his wife. Only Kate understood the gesture.

“Don’t stay mad at him.”

“Why shouldn’t I? He brought that thing into my house—into
our
house.”

“I don’t think he did it on purpose. In fact, I’m not entirely sure he even knew what it was when he brought it with him.”

Kate shook her head. “He knew. He knew enough to hide it from me.”

“He didn’t hide it very well. Blabbed to the mayor the first chance he got. I’m sure everyone in Portland knows by now.”

Joseph put a hand on his wife’s waist.

“Don’t try to talk me out of being angry,” Kate said, stepping out of Joseph’s grasp. “If he’s going to stay with us, he’s going to have to leave some things behind. God knows what else he’s got stashed away.”

Joseph recalled the discovery of the carved box in the marshal’s attic. He remembered who had found it and decided his wife didn’t need to know that piece of information.

“It’s just a gun,” he said.

“No, it’s not.” Kate glanced over at the kids, neither of whom seemed to be paying any attention but both of whom were no doubt following every word. She leaned in closer to her husband. “It’s much more than that and you know it.”

Joseph nodded. “And that’s why he’s agreed to destroy it. We’ll break it apart and toss the pieces into the river.”

Kate frowned. “After the festival.”

“He promised a demonstration. You don’t want him to disappoint the mayor, do you?”

“A little disappointment might do Jim Gates some good.”

Joseph once again placed a hand on his wife’s hip. This time she didn’t retreat.

“He needs this.”

“Needs what? To fire off some old pistol just because the mayor asked him to?”

“In a way,” Joseph said. “He’s kept it for more than a decade, kept it safe. I think he believed he was protecting us.”

“From what?”

“I don’t know, but I’m starting to think he wanted to get rid of it back in Astoria. We all assumed he was trying to dig something up. What if he was looking for a place to bury something instead?”

The idea that her father might have been trying to do something noble definitely had its appeal. And Kate could almost put the pieces together, though they didn’t quite fit. It wasn’t much, but it made her feel the tiniest bit better.

And then Kick opened his mouth.

“Gran’pa didn’t even find it.”

“What?” Kate said.

Joseph tried to wave off his son, but it was too late.

“I found the rose box in the attic. He didn’t even know it was there.”

Kate looked at Joseph and then back at Kick. “You found the gun?”

“Um, yeah,” Kick said, realizing his admission was not going to put his mother in a better mood. “But Gran’pa said I couldn’t have it.”

“Your grandfather wouldn’t let you keep the gun.”

“No, the box! I only wanted the box and Pa said I should ask Gran’pa first.”

Kate slowly turned back to her husband. Joseph felt her eyes fall to him, her smile widen. She wasn’t happy, far from it, but when she wanted him to hear her loud and clear, big, broad expressions worked best, especially when he was in trouble.

“I didn’t know what was in the box,” Joseph said.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“It was heavy. I knew it wasn’t empty, but I didn’t, I couldn’t, um…”

“Yes?”

Before Joseph could dig the hole any deeper, a bell rang at the front of the store.

“Customers,” he said and made his escape.

18

Kate joined her husband a few minutes later as he was studying a series of Oregon elevation charts with the mayor’s celebrity weatherman.

“Good morning, Mr. Edmonds,” she said, laying a hand on Joseph’s shoulder as she drew up behind him. “Planning a trip?”

“What?” Edmonds said, glancing up from the map. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Wylde. A pleasure to see you again.”

Kate nodded politely and peered over her husband’s shoulder. “And are we still expecting rain by festival time?”

Edmonds beamed. “Oh, yes. In fact, I’ve raised my expectation to seventy percent!”

“Sounds like a sure thing,” Kate said.

“Close to it. Of course, if I can update my maps with accurate elevations, I might be able to adjust my calculation another ten percent one way or the other.”

Kate was pleased to see the man in his element. Without the mayor and his extended guest list looking over his shoulder, Edmonds seemed much more at ease. He’d swapped his coat and tie for an explorer’s jacket of sorts, lined with a multitude of pockets from which various instruments and measuring devices protruded. The look fit Kate’s vision of the science heroes found in Jules Verne’s early works: studious, prepared, and dashing.

“How very interesting,” she said.

It wasn’t the tone of her voice but rather Kate’s breathing that caught Joseph’s attention. She
was
interested in Edmonds’s predictions—too interested. This was his punishment, and the fact that he knew Kate was teasing him didn’t make him feel any less jealous.

Joseph tapped the map laid out on the counter. “Mr. Edmonds says the height of our mountains actually dictates how much rain we get.”

“Which mountains?”

“All of them,” said Edmonds. “The local hills would play only a minor roll, of course, but I have no doubt this coastal range has a tremendous effect on local weather patterns and precipitation totals.”

“What about Mount Hood?” asked Kate. “That’s a big mountain.”

“Yes, but I’m guessing most of your weather comes off the Pacific Ocean. Tell me, which way does the wind blow through town?”

“That depends on where you are and when you’re there,” Joseph said. “In the summer it can come from almost any direction.”

“But it most commonly blows west to east, correct?”

Joseph hesitated. He could have given Edmonds a detailed accounting of the seasonal wind patterns, having cataloged them just as accurately as he had the city streets. He could have offered up a remarkably accurate profile of the big windstorm that had struck Portland the preceding November. He also could have listed the most blustery points on the map, as well as the calmest. He chose to keep it simple.