"Nika memloose . . . Mine memloose."
(When I am die, the mine dies.)July 4, 2004
The dense forest canopy hid the afternoon sun. The tiny bit of light that did trickle through, cast a strange net of dark green shadows on the mossy floor. A young woman, her long black hair tied in a single braid, ran down the narrow trail like a deer in flight. Her eyes had that wide, startled look like she had been caught in a pair of headlights and was about to be run over.
She knew it was coming. Heard the snap of dried vines and branches as it pursued her. Her heart pounded in her ears. Sweat glistened on her dark skin.
The steep terrain ahead, led back down to the lake. And camp.
She thought of the .30.30 Winchester in her tent. Loaded. It seemed so far away. How far? Maybe a quarter mile. Too far, she thought. It was gaining. She pushed herself to the limit, the leather hiking boots kicking a flurry of cedar needles and dried leaves. She leapt over windfalls like hurdles. But this mad dash wasn't for a gold medal, just simple survival. She was the prey and it was the hunter.
And it sounded hungry. And close. Too close!
The young woman lunged off the trail and grabbed a small tree truck, using it to propel her body off at a tangent. The thick salal and underbrush soon covered her bare legs with deep scrapes and scratches. The pain of the cuts caused her to wince but not to slow down.
The maneuver worked. It overshot the mark and now had to double back. That gave her a few precious seconds.
She wove amongst the rotten stumps, remnants from clear cuts made long ago by men who had died before she was even born. The axed notches from the fallers' spring boards were still visible on the sides of the stumps where they had stood for hours and sawed at the giant Douglas Firs with their crosscut saws. Men of steel.
She pushed these and all other thoughts from her mind. Except for the gun. It was the goal, the only goal.
As she got closer to the lake, the ground leveled out making the going a little easier. But she got careless and tripped over a small root. It sent her sprawling.
"Damn!" Her knees smashed into a mossy chunk of granite. She was near the edge of a small stream. Its waters looked peaceful and inviting, but there was no time to stop for a drink. It had left the trail above and was following her path. Relentless, still hungry.
She pulled herself to her feet and started down the creek, it was the next best thing to a trail. Her boots splashed through the shallow water as she stuck to the mud and gravel on the sides and avoided the larger rocks.
She pictured the gun: cocking the lever in one swift motion so the bullet slid smoothly into the chamber, aiming at its head and pulling the trigger. She pictured its brains exploding in a cloud of blood, bone and gray matter. That thought, made her feels better--for a second or two. The problem was, now she could hear it splashing behind her. It had already reached the creek.
She saw a clearing to the right and headed towards it. Perhaps it opened onto another trail.
Immediately she realized her mistake. Ahead was a dead end with a steep incline on three sides. Too late to double back. She scrambled to the slope and started to climb. It was steep, but climbable. She had been rock climbing several times with one of her boyfriends in college. She felt a sense of relief and triumph as she pulled herself upward. She was going to make it! She pulled herself higher; she could see the rock wall level out just above her fingers. Almost there! Then something grabbed her ankle like a steel band. Her fingers screamed as they tried to melt into the rock. No, no, NOOO! She fought with every ounce of her being. But it was no use; it was stronger and even more determined. Her fingers slipped off the rock and she fell backwards.
She hit the ground hard, knocking the wind out of her. She struggled slowly to her feet and tried to run, but her ankle had been sprained in the fall. She tried to hobble away feebly, but it was back on its feet, watching her with dead eyes. Then it pounced, hitting her at waist level, knocking her back to the ground. She clawed frantically at its face, trying to gouge out its eyes, but it smashed her hard in the groin. She stopped struggling and fell back; felt its full weight on top of her, its hot, foul breath. Felt it clawing at her blouse as buttons popped and fabric ripped.
"You crazy bastard!" she screamed.
The pain was hot, excruciating when it bit her. She screamed in agony. Then it grabbed her by the throat and began to squeeze, hard. In seconds, the world went white, then black.
* * * January 16, 1891
It was almost sunup in the Fraser Valley. The only light visible on Blackwood Street, shone from the window of the local parish where Father Morgan stood in his long johns, sipping his morning coffee. His breakfast, two poached eggs, a thick slice of back bacon and a tea biscuit sat cold. Untouched. He was thinking of other things.
William Morgan was a squat, heavy-set man with wide cheekbones and a rather broad nose. His thick crown of red hair had begun receding when he was only in his early twenties, and now at fifty-one, he was almost bald. All that remained were two small tuffs, one above each ear, and a thin band of hair across the back. The scalp on top of Father Morgan's head looked tight and shiny. Two pale blue eyes loomed out intensely larger than life from behind the lenses of his small wire-framed glasses.
Father Morgan picked up a clean, white handkerchief from the oak dresser, quartered it, honked rather loudly, and then inspected the results. Unsatisfied, he honked again twice as hard and pulled the hanky open. This time the result must have been more satisfactory; he dropped the cloth back on top of the dresser and grumbled his way across the room to fix a second cup of coffee. His joints were achy this morning. It must be the weather, he thought. "Or maybe I'm just getting old," he sighed. "C'est la vie."
The living quarters at the rear of St. Peter's, were small and sparsely furnished. There was a pine table and chair set crammed in front of a roll-top desk and oak wardrobe, a small alcove that housed a tiny pantry cluttered with dirty dishes, and a threadbare, wing-back chair where Father Morgan liked to do his daily reading. Besides his quota of Scripture, he was currently enjoying Satires by Horace in the original Latin. The kerosene lamp on top of the table flickered constantly, bathing the ceiling and walls in an ever changing cobweb of light and shadows.
Father Morgan finished dressing and yawned sleepily. Dry alder crackled fiercely in the cast iron cook stove, occasionally spitting out a spark or two from the open draught.
Father Morgan pulled out his gold plated, Hamilton pocket-watch. It read 6:05 a.m. He gulped down the last of the coffee, wishing it was something stronger. It was not uncommon for the good Father to consume an occasional pipe of tobacco or snifter of brandy. A model of convention he was not, quite to the contrary, Father Morgan thought of himself as devout, but not self-righteous and stuffy like some men of the cloth. He was comfortable with his humanity and he liked to think of himself as a practical man. Leave the ritual and dogma to someone else.
"Yaahhh," another yawn escaped him. He was still half asleep. Most mornings, he set his alarm for 7:45, but this morning the service was at dawn. Father Morgan walked over to the door with little enthusiasm and pulled his coat from the brass hat rack.
Brisk gusts of icy wind assaulted the open door. It was blowing up the hill from the frozen river below. Father Morgan shivered. It had been an exceptionally cold winter to date. He fixed his overcoat snugly at the collar and wrapped the thick, woolen scarf tightly across his cheeks--one of the ladies in the congregation had knit it for him--there was a fair walk ahead and he didn't cherish the thought of getting frostbite.
Swirls of frost hung on the outside of the parish windows in delicate sculptures of tiny crystals. The churchyard, framed against a background of tall firs, their boughs straining under a heavy burden of fresh snow, looked surreal and foreboding against a pale grey sky. In the graveyard, tombstones poked their heads up defiantly through the thick, white blanket, taunting the living with their grim prophecy: "Nika memloose, mine memloose."
Father Morgan uttered a quick prayer under his breath, and then made his way gingerly down the slippery plank walk to the white picket gate. His breath was frosty.
"Morning, Father."
"Good morning, Jake," Father Morgan replied to a passerby, shutting the gate behind himself.
"Nice day."
"Yes, it is. Awfully chilly though, don't you think?"
"Aye. 'Tis that." The two men stopped and faced each other.
"Today's the day."
"Yes."
"'Bout time, I say."
"Yes. Well, all in God's time, I like to say. I'd better get going though. I mustn't be late. Bye, Jake."
"Bye, Father." Jake turned and started walking away. "See you in church on Sunday!"
Father Morgan smiled and gave a quick wave with his mitten. Then he headed in the opposite direction down Royal Avenue towards Eighth Street.It was a good dream. The old Indian hunter smiled in recollection. He twisted the long braids of graying hair between his fingers and contemplated the dawn. The angry grizzly bear snoring up a storm on the bunk next to him was only his nephew Peter Pierre. I must ask him for an interpretation, the old Indian thought. He gave the sleeping hulk a nudge. Peter was the Katsie tribe's medicine man. He had the power to see into dreams. It was strong magic.
When Peter was fully awake, Slumach described the dream to him.
Through the eyes of a raven, I see a young brave heading out in his canoe. He paddles east, to avoid the sandbars near the mouth of the river, and then heads due north towards Goose Island." Slumach droned on slowly in Chinook, his deep voice measuring each word carefully. "The lake is calm, smooth like the skin of a young child. With a light wind at his back, the young brave makes excellent time over the gentle rippling waters. At the tip of the island, he cuts west, keeping to the windward side of the second island, Little Goose. Slumach made a canoe with his left hand and dragged it across his blanket in an illustration. The chains on the wrist shackles, rattled against the iron bed frame in the process.
As the young brave approaches the black, craggy rocks, he notices a large break in the face at the waterline. Curious, he paddles up to the sharp, slippery bluff. There appears to be a small cavern so he pulls the canoe closer, eventually slipping inside the narrow opening.
As his eyes become accustomed to the dim light, the young brave sees a large serpent perched on a flat ledge directly in front of him. Although the serpent looks very old and weak, the young brave is terrified sure that death will come at any moment. Slumach raised his arms in a gesture of submission, but the chains on the shackles limiting his movement. He smiled.
"Do not be afraid, my son," the serpent says in a tired gentle voice. "I am the guardian of this place, but I am very old. My body is weary and my heart longs to hunt with the ancestors. You have been chosen to take my place here."
"But what are you guarding, old one," the young brave asks the serpent, as his fear is diminished by the thrill of a mystery.
The serpent responds slowly, "Deep in this cavern there are many shiny pebbles. They are the sacred treasure of our people. They must be kept safe, especially from the men who wear the pale skin. Very soon now they will come. If this treasure is lost, it will be the end of the good life as we know it, we the descendants of the great Swaneset." Peter began nodding his head with the rhythm of the story.
The waters begin to rise in the cavern as the lake responds to the call of the moon. The serpent leans over and touches its head to the young brave's shoulder. A blinding flash of blue white light transforms the young brave into a strong serpent. Beside him stands a very old warrior with parched skin and hair the color of dirty snow. Slumach sat up very straight and his brown eyes twinkled. He enjoyed telling stories.
"I entered this place as a young man like you," the old warrior tells the new serpent. "I replaced the last guardian as you have now replaced me. If any man enters this chamber, show no mercy. Only death will keep our treasure safe."
The old warrior slowly lowers his legs into the rising waters. "Do you understand your sacred duties, my son," he asks.
"Yes, old one," the new serpent responds proudly.
"That is good," the old warrior replies in a tired voice. "I go now to meet the ancestors. Farewell!" The old warrior slips into the water and is swallowed by the darkness."
Slumach looked over at his nephew and shrugged, waiting for a response.
An interesting dream," Peter agreed. "The Creator works in many ways." He paused to consider it for a moment.
Just then a noise interrupted their thoughts as a metal tray bearing two plates, was pushed in under the metal door. Peter walked over and picked it up. "I see the Transformer at work here. He has come down from his world high above the clouds to continue his great work. He is watching us always, even now." Peter handed one of the plates to Slumach. His voice became very quiet. "And he's listening to us too; he hears every world we speak.
He could be disguised as a dog on the street, or that spider on the wall." Peter pointed to a small, black spider climbing up the dirty red bricks towards its web in the corner. "Tomorrow when they return you to the ground, the raven will be your eyes and--"
Just then the cell door opened with a clank, and in walked the jailer, followed by Father Morgan whose cheeks were still rosy from the chilly walk uptown.
"--And your ears. You will always walk with the bear, swim with the salmon and fly with the eagle," Peter whispered quickly to Slumach, who smiled again.
The jailer closed the door and re-locked it.
"Good morning, Slumach. Morning, Peter."
"Good morning, Father!" Peter offered a pleasant smile.
Slumach looked up from his eggs and sausages, and grunted an acknowledgment. Peter acted as the translator, Slumach did not speak English.
Father Morgan rubbed his hands together briskly and blew into the palms. "Brrr..." He turned to Slumach. "They will be coming for you soon," he pronounced gravely. "Are you ready to be baptized and accept the Lord Jesus Christ as your savior?"
The old Indian listened to the translation, and then shrugged indifferently.
"Good," Father Morgan replied. "Shall we begin with a prayer?
"Our Father, who art in Heaven..."
Slumach slurped down the last of his eggs. They were runny. Some of the yoke dribbled down his chin, onto the grey fatigues. "Let's just get on with it," he replied quietly in Chinook.The daily newspapers hit the downtown streets a few hours later. Paperboys fought each other for the best corners, shouting excitedly to everyone who passed by, "Extra, extra. Read all about it!"
A man in a long overcoat and top hat gestured to one of the young vendors. "Over here, boy."
A six year old boy, with only a few newspapers left in his shoulder sack, ran over immediately. "Wanna buy a paper!" His grin was almost as immense as his enthusiasm.
The man flicked him a dime. The boy's eyes grew big. He reached into his bag and handed the man a paper, hot off the press. The man opened it to the front page while the boy ran back to his corner, obviously happy with the tip. The man read intently as he walked.
THE DAILY COLUMBIAN, New Westminster, B.C.
Friday, January 16, 1891.
PAID THE PENALTYSlumach, the murderer of Louis Bee, pays the penalty of his crime. Old Slumach was hanged in the yard of the provincial goal this morning at 8 o'clock for the murder on September 8th last, of Louis Bee, a half-breed.
Pierre (The Indian catechist-medicine man) slept in the same cell with Slumach, and prayed with him night and day, and it is satisfactory to know that the labor of the good priest and his assistant was not in vain.
Slumach awakened early and immediately went into devotional exercises with his spiritual attendants, after which breakfast was brought in and he ate a good meal with apparent relish.
A few minutes before 7 o'clock, Father Morgan baptized Slumach, who professed his belief in Christianity and the hope of salvation. Prayers were continued until the arrival of the hangman to pinion him, and to this operation, he submitted without a murmur. All being in readiness a few minutes before 8 o'clock, the procession was formed and proceeded to the scaffold. Mr. Sheriff Armstrong led the way, followed by Mr. Wm. Moresby, governor of the jail and the deputy sheriff, next came Slumach, supported by gaolers Burr and Conner, and followed by the hangman, masked and hooded.
Father Morgan, Pierre, Dr. J.M. McLean, Dr. Walker, and a number of constables brought up the rear of the procession.
Slumach walked firmly up the steps leading to the platform and faced the crowd below. The hangman quickly adjusted the noose, and Father Morgan commenced a prayer. Then the black cap put on, and at 8 o'clock exactly, the bolt was drawn, the trap fell, and Slumach had paid the penalty of his crime.
The hanging was very ably managed, and beyond a few little twitching of the hands and feet, the body remained perfectly still after the drop. In three minutes and fifty-eight seconds, life was pronounced extinct, but it was more than twenty minutes before the body was cut down and placed in the coffin.
Coroner Pittendrigh and a jury viewed the body and brought in the usual verdict. Slumach's neck was broken in the fall, and death must have been painless.
The drop was eight feet five inches. Over fifty persons witnessed the hanging, and a large crowd gathered outside the jail, and remained there until the black flag was hoisted. Among the crowd on the street were several Indian women, relatives of Slumach, who waited around the jail for more than an hour after the execution.
The luncheon was held at the Irving house, 302 Royal Avenue, now the home of Thomas and Mary Briggs. The house was built in 1862, by Mary's father Captain William Irving, who was better know to the locals as the "King of the River."
When gold fever struck British Columbia in 1859, Irving moved his steamers from the Willamette River in Oregon to the Fraser River where he earned his nickname.
"Ah, My Lordship, so pleased that you could make it. Good afternoon, My Lady." Thomas Briggs smiled and took Judge Drake's hand. "Little chilly today?"
"No doubt," Drake replied, his huge, handlebar moustache dripping with melting ice, "Chilly indeed!" Drake was a provincial court judge.
"Sarah!" Briggs called impatiently.
"Coming, Sir!" Sarah Mills was one of three maids. She rushed in and helped Drake off with his overcoat, took his top hat, and then attended to Mrs. Drake's mink jacket and scarf.
"Thank you," mumbled Drake almost inaudibly.
"You're very welcome, sir." Sarah beamed. A man of Drake's stature rarely bothered with courtesy to a lowly house maid. His Lordship must be in a fine mood today, indeed!
"This way, sir," Tom invited. He was pleased that Drake had shown up. It gave the gathering that little extra shot of prestige that had been sorely lacking. "The men are having a drink in the library. Sarah, show Mrs. Drake to the parlor."
"Right away, sir. Mrs. Drake, please follow me." Sarah led Jennifer Drake into the large parlor, a spacious room with textured wallpaper, a square grand piano and an Italian marble fireplace.
The ladies, dressed in their Sunday best, were sipping tea, munching on an assortment of pastries and discussing the finer points of the morning's hanging. They exchanged brief pleasantries with Lady Drake and then resumed their blow by blow commentary on the execution.
"Did he have any final words?"
"Well not officially, but June Conner's husband swears that he heard him whisper some gibberish while they were putting the noose around his neck. He couldn't understand a word of it, but Pierre was there. I'm sure he must have heard what was said."
"Hmmm, I'll have to ask Pierre when I see him next."
"Yes," someone agreed.
"He's here you know."
"Who?"
"Pierre?"
"What? Here at this house?"
"Yes. He came with Father Morgan."
"No! You've got to be kidding--"
"I'm not!
"Really!"
"What a faux pa!
"You'd think a priest would know better..."
Briggs and Judge Drake left the ladies to their gossip, and continued down the spacious hallway.
The Irving house was a large, wood framed mansion in the San Francisco-Gothic Revival style that was popular at the time. Mary's father had it built by the Royal Engineers. At Captain Irving's insistence, all of the structural lumber was redwood, imported from Northern California at considerable expense.
Drake walked in to a chorus of "Your Honor." They were all here, the cream and elite of New Westminster's fledgling society.
The library was separated from the main hallway by a curtained archway, the heavy draft drapes pulled to each side. Elegantly embossed volumes of the classics covered three walls in mahogany bookcases, and a stained glass window near the ceiling on the end, allowed in diffuse light from the southwest. Mr. Pittendrigh, Dr. McLean and Dr. Walker stood in front of the pump organ, chuckling as if someone had just told a funny joke. Bill Moresby was talking to a stranger, over by the smoking table, Bill's pipe billowing out clouds of smoke like one of Captain Irving's steamers. And there was Father Morgan with Peter Pierre, off in a corner, examining a leather bound volume of Milton.
Absolutely disgusting, Drake thought as he spied Pierre with Father Morgan. A paddy priest! And bringing a savage to the home of a gentleman, how utterly distasteful!
Thomas Briggs returned with a double scotch neat, hoping it would be to Drake's liking. "Well, here's to the end of a rather distasteful matter," Briggs proposed.
"Aye, I'll drink to that," Drake agreed as the two long stemmed glasses clinked together.
"To the end of it!"
Copyright © 2003, 2006, Edgar Ramsey. All rights reserved.