Monkey Beach (45 page)

As Jimmy slips off the deck and over the railing, what surprises him is how fast the seiner sinks. Something so large, he thinks, should not be able to disappear in mere minutes, but in its last moments, it rode almost level with the water, rolling sluggishly in waves. It tilts up as a wave hits it to reveal the gaping hole where Jimmy rammed the seiner into a log. Josh fought to save his
Queen
. And when he was distracted, Jimmy replays the moment when he pushed him, hoping to make it quick, but, God, failing.

The life raft that Josh threw over the side in the first moments of the crash is nowhere in sight. So Jimmy aims for the shore, lifts his arms in and out of the water, executing the strokes he’s trained all his life to perfect.

One crow caws. It is joined by another and another, until it sounds as if hundreds of crows are on the beach. My hand is numb. The thing waits in the shadows.

“No,” I say. “No, you know what I want. That wasn’t … wasn’t what I …” Very tired. The moss looks comfortable. Rest for a few minutes. Sink to my knees. Eye level with the pale body as it rears up.

“More.”

“No.” Crawl through the bushes. Rocks hard on my palm. Forgot about it, until the cut begins to bleed again. Can hear it, pacing me. Eyelids so heavy.

Startled when I break from the trees. Crows, as far as the eye can see, waiting on the beach. Crows still, as if they were statues. Then they hop out of my way to give me a path to the speedboat.

Manage to stand. Wobble towards the speedboat. It bobs in the rising tide. Untie the rope, slow, hands are clumsy. Lose it for a moment. It’s drifting away in the tide. Water is cold as I wade in up to my waist. Should have pulled the boat to shore, then pushed off. Not thinking. Catch the rope, pull the boat towards me, but can’t quite manage to get in. Slip. Hand can’t grasp the side. Speedboat does enough of a spin to gently knock my head and push me underwater.

The rain is warm. This strikes me as very strange. I am, on some level, aware that this should alarm me. Ma-ma-oo frowns at me. “Are you all right?”

“Peachy keen,” I say, but it comes out as an unintelligible mumble because my mouth isn’t working.

“Come on,” she says.

She grabs my wrists and hauls me up. I sway. The trees blur, come back into focus, and I know something is wrong, but I can’t put my finger on what. Trees so tall. Young trees. Narrow trunks. Rain coming down on my upturned face splashes into my eyes and goes up my nose, making me sneeze. I stop moving altogether, entranced with the sensation of raindrops hitting my skin.

“Listen,” she says, trying to pull me along, yanking my wrist. “You have to listen.”

“Am I dreaming?” I say.

She picks up a piece of oxasuli. “Look. Do you understand?”

“No,” I say.

“You have a dangerous gift,” she says. “It’s like oxasuli. Unless you know how to use it, it will kill you.”

“I still don’t understand,” I say.

Something cold touches my foot, making it so numb that I gasp. I keep catching flashes of green plaid between the trees. I want to stop and see who it is, but I know this isn’t a smart thing to do when I don’t have my head together. Her face is scrunched up in worry. “When it’s time to go, you go,” she says. “Nothing you can do or say will change it. We’re
where we belong, but you have to go back. Do you hear me?”

“Jimmy?”

“Never mind about him now. Go back. You’ve come too far into this world. Go back.”

The trees undulate. A dark, rectangular cloud descends. I can’t catch my breath. We are floating. Her feet aren’t touching the ground. Bubbles rush upward, glimmer silver against the darkness. The flash of red is a life jacket. My exhaled breath disappears against the light coming from the surface. Underwater, Dad’s speedboat sinks in elegant slow motion. The keel scratching the bottom echoes oddly through the water. The surf rocks me, and I brush against slippery kelp leaves. I inhale. The salty taste is so strong that I gag, twist, as the water pulls me back down.

The crows fly in circles above my head. They are silent as they swoop and dive and turn and, finally, I realize that they are dancing.

The tide rocks the kelp beds and the long amber leaves trail gently in the jade green water. I hear the seals squeaking and chirping, but can’t see them yet. Fragmented, shivering light from the surface streams down. Jimmy stands beside me and holds his hand out for me. The moment I touch it, warmth spreads down my arms.

He almost wrenches off my arm as he takes hold of my shoulders and shoves. As I drift upward, the seals twist around me as if they have no bones, swooping and darting through the water, coming close but not close enough to touch me. His upturned face glows in the water, pale white, then pale green, then a shrinking grey spot against the dark water, until he is swallowed.

When I reach the surface, I can’t move my arms. I’m warm now, so it’s hard to want to move. Want to sleep. Want to drift. Rain in my eyes. Waves capping and spraying, and I can’t tell which way the shore is until I hear them singing. I spin myself around and see the bonfire.

I want to yell for help, but nothing comes out. The seal swims beside me, splashing water in my face. This annoys me enough to make me dog-paddle away from him.

When I get tired, a man on the beach puts one hand up to his face and his moose call pierces through the songs, the wind and the waves.

As my feet touch the sand, I see the people around the bonfire make their way to the shoreline and watch me struggle to stay upright against the waves. I am sucked back in the surf, pushed out with the fading tide.

Someone touches my face.
“Wah,”
she says. “My crazy girl. Go home and make me some grandkids.”

“Hiya, Monster,” Mick’s voice says. “Don’t listen to her. You go out there and give ’em hell. Red power!”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. They are blurry, dark figures against the firelight. For a moment, the singing becomes clear. I can understand the words even though they are in Haisla and it’s a
farewell song, they are singing about leaving and meeting again, and they turn and lift their hands. Mick breaks out of the circle and dances, squatting low, showing off.

The beach is dark and empty. The voices are faint, but when I close my eyes I can still see the pale afterimage of Jimmy shaking his head. “Tell her.”

Aux’gwalas
, the others are singing. Take care of her yourself, wherever you’re going.

Early evening light slants over the mountains. The sky is faded denim blue. Somewhere above my head, a raven grumbles as it hops between the branches of the tightly packed trees. The crows have disappeared. Water splashes as a seal bobs its dark head in the shallows, hunting crabs. I lie on the sand. The clamshells are hard against my back. I am no longer cold. I am so light I could just drift away. Close, very close, a b’gwus howls—not quite human, not quite wolf, but something in between. The howl echoes off the mountains. In the distance, I hear the sound of a speedboat.

The list of those who made
Monkey Beach
possible would fill another book. Here is the short version:

My strength has come from my family. Thank you for your support, encouragement, inspiration and enthusiasm. John, Winnie, Dale and Carla, you are my heart and everything I learned about courage, I learned from you. I would like to acknowledge Laura Robinson and Annie Hunt, the strongest women I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing. Their compassion, humour, intelligence and generosity make them powerful and loved. The descendants of Laura Robinson taught me to reach for my dreams, to never be afraid of hard work and to be proud to be Haisla. The descendants of Annie Hunt taught me to face my fears with laughter, to never be afraid of change and to be proud to be Heiltsuk. I will always remember and cherish my baby-sitters, protectors, and guides. My family in Comox and scattered throughout B.C. and Canada, you’ve given me warm welcomes and endless hospitality. You are all gifts from the Creator and I am honoured to be a part of your lives.

My agent, Denise Bukowski, deserves a medal for patience. This book would have been impossible without her support in the face of chronic writer’s angst. Big thanks to Louise Dennys, my editor and midwife, whose gentle guidance brought this manuscript to life. Thank you to Diane Martin and Noelle
Zitzer for their patient suggestions. To the staff at Knopf Canada, thank you for your support. To my publishers, thank you for your faith.

For sharing their insights about Lisamarie, I’d like to thank Karen Nyce, Angie Starr, Lynn Williams, Karen Smith, Sherry Smith, Nancy Nyce and Terri Galligos. Special thanks to Zsuzsi “Title Queen” Gartner for her instrumental help in naming this book. Thanks to my friends, who never tired of listening to my writing saga. Thanks to my teachers, for their patience.

Some of the source material for this book came from
Eulachon: A Fish to Cure Humanity
by AlLene Drake and Lyle Wilson;
Salmonberry Blossoms in the New Year
by Alison Davies with Beatrice Wilson;
Tales of Kitamaat
by Gordon Robinson;
A Haisla Book
, compiled and edited by Emmon Bach;
Shingwauk’s Vision
by J.R. Miller;
Lakota Woman
by Mary Crow Dog with Richard Erdoes;
Forgotten Soldiers
by Fred Gaffen;
Forgotten Warriors
, a film directed by Loretta Todd. My technical advisors include John Robinson, who guided me through my settings, especially Monkey Beach; Bea and Johnny Wilson; Ian Green and John Kelson, who showed me the Kitlope; and Bruce Billy and Ted Hunt, who patiently explained boats, fishing and emergency rescues. My cultural advisors include Winnie Robinson, Patricia Wilson, Louise Barbetti and Pam Brown, who generously shared their knowledge of plants and ghosts; and the people of Kitamaat Village, who have always shared their stories.