listening to the singing river, and sometimes leaning over the
precipice to watch its curling eddies and dancing waterfalls. Suddenly
she heard a slight rustle, as though some passing bird's wing had dipt
the air. Then at her feet there fell a slender, delicately shaped
arrow. It fell with spent force, and her Indian woodcraft told her it
had been shot to her, not at her. She started like a wild animal.
Then her quick eye caught the outline of a handsome, erect figure that
stood on the heights across the river. She did not know him as her
father's enemy. She only saw him to be young, stalwart and of
extraordinary, manly beauty. The spirit of youth and of a certain
savage coquetry awoke within her. Quickly she fitted one of her own
dainty arrows to the bow string and sent it winging across the narrow
canyon; it fell, spent, at his feet, and he knew she had shot it to
him, not at him.
Next morning, woman-like, she crept noiselessly to the brink of the
heights. Would she see him again--that handsome brave? Would he speed
another arrow to her? She had not yet emerged from the tangle of
forest before it fell, its faint-winged flight heralding its coming.
Near the feathered end was tied a tassel of beautiful ermine tails.
She took from her wrist a string of shell beads, fastened it to one of
her little arrows and winged it across the canyon, as yesterday.
The following morning before leaving the lodge she fastened the tassel
of ermine tails in her straight, black hair. Would he see them? But
no arrow fell at her feet that day, but a dearer message was there on
the brink of the precipice. He himself awaited her coming--he who had
never left her thoughts since that first arrow came to her from his
bow-string. His eyes burned with warm fires, as she approached, but
his lips said simply: "I have crossed the Tulameen River." Together
they stood, side by side, and looked down at the depths before them,
watching in silence the little torrent rollicking and roystering over
its boulders and crags.
"That is my country," he said, looking across the river. "This is the
country of your father, and of your brothers; they are my enemies. I
return to my own shore tonight. Will you come with me?"
She looked up into his handsome young face. So this was her father's
foe--the dreaded Tulameen!
"Will you come?" he repeated.
"I will come," she whispered.
It was in the dark of the moon and through the kindly night he led her
far up the rocky shores to the narrow belt of quiet waters, where they
crossed in silence into his own country. A week, a month, a long
golden summer, slipped by, but the insulted old chief and his enraged
sons failed to find her.
Then one morning as the lovers walked together on the heights above the
far upper reaches of the river, even the ever-watchful eyes of the
Tulameen failed to detect the lurking enemy. Across the narrow canyon
crouched and crept the two outwitted brothers of the girl-wife at his
side; their arrows were on their bow-strings, their hearts on fire with
hatred and vengeance. Like two evil-winged birds of prey those arrows
sped across the laughing river, but before they found their mark in the
breast of the victorious Tulameen the girl had unconsciously stepped
before him. With a little sigh, she slipped into his arms, her
brothers' arrows buried into her soft, brown flesh.
It was many a moon before his avenging hand succeeded in slaying the
old chief and those two hated sons of his. But when this was finally
done the handsome young Tulameen left his people, his tribe, his
country, and went into the far north. "For," he said, as he sang his
farewell war song, "my heart lies dead in the Tulameen River."
* * * * *
But the spirit of his girl-wife still sings through the canyon, its
song blending with the music of that sweetest-voiced river in all the
great valleys of the Dry Belt. That is why this laughter, the sobbing
murmur of the beautiful Tulameen will haunt for evermore the ear that
has once listened to its song.
The Grey Archway
The steamer, like a huge shuttle, wove in and out among the countless
small islands; its long trailing scarf of grey smoke hung heavily along
the uncertain shores, casting a shadow over the pearly waters of the
Pacific, which swung lazily from rock to rock in indescribable beauty.
After dinner I wandered astern with the traveller's ever-present hope
of seeing the beauties of a typical Northern sunset, and by some happy
chance I placed my deck stool near an old tillicum, who was leaning on
the rail, his pipe between his thin curved lips, his brown hands
clasped idly, his sombre eyes looking far out to sea, as though they
searched the future--or was it that they were seeing the past?
"Kla-how-ya, tillicum!" I greeted.
He glanced round, and half smiled.
"Kla-how-ya, tillicum!" he replied, with the warmth of friendliness I
have always met with among the Pacific tribes.
I drew my deck stool nearer to him, and he acknowledged the action with
another half smile, but did not stir from his entrenchment, remaining
as if hedged about with an inviolable fortress of exclusiveness. Yet I
knew that my Chinook salutation would be a drawbridge by which I might
hope to cross the moat into his castle of silence.
Indian-like, he took his time before continuing the acquaintance. Then
he began in most excellent English:
"You do not know these Northern waters?"
I shook my head.
After many moments he leaned forward, looking along the curve of the
deck, up the channels and narrows we were threading, to a broad strip
of waters off the port bow. Then he pointed with that peculiar,
thoroughly Indian gesture of the palm uppermost.
"Do you see it--over there? The small island? It rests on the edge of
the water, like a grey gull."
It took my unaccustomed eyes some moments to discern it; then all at
once I caught its outline, veiled in the mists of distance--grey,
cobwebby, dreamy.
"Yes," I replied, "I see it now. You will tell me of it--tillicum?"
He gave a swift glance at my dark skin, then nodded. "You are one of
us," he said, with evidently no thought of a possible contradiction.
"And you will understand, or I should not tell you. You will not smile
at the story, for you are one of us."
"I am one of you, and I shall understand," I answered.
It was a full half-hour before we neared the island, yet neither of us
spoke during that time; then, as the "grey gull" shaped itself into
rock and tree and crag, I noticed in the very centre a stupendous pile
of stone lifting itself skyward, without fissure or cleft; but a
peculiar haziness about the base made me peer narrowly to catch the
perfect outline.
"It is the 'Grey Archway,'" he explained, simply.
Only then did I grasp the singular formation before us; the rock was a
perfect archway, through which we could see the placid Pacific
shimmering in the growing colors of the coming sunset at the opposite
rim of the island.
"What a remarkable whim of Nature!" I exclaimed, but his brown hand was
laid in a contradictory grasp on my arm, and he snatched up my comment
almost with impatience.
"No, it was not Nature," he said. "That is the reason I say you will
understand--you are one of us--you will know what I tell you is true.
The Great Tyee did not make that archway, it was--"here his voice
lowered--"it was magic, red man's medicine and magic--you savvy?"
"Yes," I said. "Tell me, for I--savvy."
"Long time ago," he began, stumbling into a half-broken English
language, because, I think, of the atmosphere and environment, "long
before you were born, or your father, or grandfather, or even his
father, this strange thing happened. It is a story for women to hear,
to remember. Women are the future mothers of the tribe, and we of the
Pacific Coast hold such in high regard, in great reverence. The women
who are mothers--o-ho!--they are the important ones, we say. Warriors,
fighters, brave men, fearless daughters, owe their qualities to these
mothers--eh, is it not always so?"
I nodded silently. The island was swinging nearer to us, the "Grey
Archway" loomed almost above us, the mysticism crowded close, it
enveloped me, caressed me, appealed to me.
"And?" I hinted.
"And," he proceeded, "this 'Grey Archway' is a story of mothers, of
magic, of witchcraft, of warriors, of--love."
An Indian rarely uses the word "love," and when he does it expresses
every quality, every attribute, every intensity, emotion and passion
embraced in those four little letters. Surely this was an exceptional
story I was to hear.
I did not answer, only looked across the pulsing waters toward the
"Grey Archway," which the sinking sun was touching with soft pastels,
tints one could give no name to, beauties impossible to describe.
"You have not heard of Yaada?" he questioned. Then fortunately he
continued without waiting for a reply. He well knew that I had never
heard of Yaada, so why not begin without preliminary to tell me of
her?--so--
"Yaada was the loveliest daughter of the Haida tribe. Young braves
from all the islands, from the mainland, from the upper Skeena country
came, hoping to carry her to their far-off lodges, but they always
returned alone. She was the most desired of all the island maidens,
beautiful, brave, modest, the daughter of her own mother.
"But there was a great man, a very great man--a medicine man, skilful,
powerful, influential, old, deplorably old, and very, very rich; he
said, 'Yaada shall be my wife.' And there was a young fisherman,
handsome, loyal, boyish, poor, oh! very poor, and gloriously young, and
he, too, said, 'Yaada shall be my wife.'
"But Yaada's mother sat apart and thought and dreamed, as mothers will.
She said to herself, 'The great medicine man has power, has vast
riches, and wonderful magic, why not give her to him? But Ulka has the
boy's heart, the boy's beauty, he is very brave, very strong; why not
give her to him?'
"But the laws of the great Haida tribe prevailed. Its wise men said,
'Give the girl to the greatest man, give her to the most powerful, the
richest. The man of magic must have his choice.'
"But at this the mother's heart grew as wax in the summer sunshine--it
is a strange quality that mothers' hearts are made of! 'Give her to
the best man--the man her heart holds highest,' said this Haida mother.
"Then Yaada spoke: 'I am the daughter of my tribe; I would judge of men
by their excellence. He who proves most worthy I shall marry; it is
not riches that make a good husband; it is not beauty that makes a good
father for one's children. Let me and my tribe see some proof of the
excellence of these two men--then, only, shall I choose who is to be
the father of my children. Let us have a trial of their skill; let
them show me how evil or how beautiful is the inside of their hearts.
Let each of them throw a stone with some intent, some purpose in their
hearts. He who makes the noblest mark may call me wife.'
"'Alas! Alas!' wailed the Haida mother. 'This casting of stones does
not show worth. It but shows prowess.'
"'But I have implored the Sagalie Tyee of my father, and of his fathers
before him, to help me to judge between them by this means,' said the
girl. 'So they must cast the stones. In this way only shall I see
their innermost hearts.'
"The medicine man never looked so old as at that moment; so hopelessly
old, so wrinkled, so palsied: he was no mate for Yaada. Ulka never
looked so god-like in his young beauty, so gloriously young, so
courageous. The girl, looking at him, loved him--almost was she
placing her hand in his, but the spirit of her forefathers halted her.
She had spoken the word--she must abide by it. 'Throw!' she commanded.
"Into his shrivelled fingers the great medicine man took a small, round
stone, chanting strange words of magic all the while; his greedy eyes
were on the girl, his greedy thoughts about her.
"Into his strong, young fingers Ulka took a smooth, flat stone; his
handsome eyes were lowered in boyish modesty, his thoughts were
worshipping her. The great medicine man cast his missile first; it
swept through the air like a shaft of lightning, striking the great
rock with a force that shattered it. At the touch of that stone the
'Grey Archway' opened and has remained opened to this day.
"'Oh, wonderful power and magic!' clamored the entire tribe. 'The very
rocks do his bidding.'
"But Yaada stood with eyes that burned in agony. Ulka could never
command such magic--she knew it. But at her side Ulka was standing
erect, tall, slender and beautiful, but just as he cast his missile the
evil voice of the old medicine man began a still more evil incantation.
He fixed his poisonous eyes on the younger man, eyes with hideous magic
in their depths--ill-omened and enchanted with 'bad medicine.' The
stone left Ulka's fingers; for a second it flew forth in a straight
line, then as the evil voice of the old man grew louder in its
incantations the stone curved. Magic had waylaid the strong arm of the
young brave. The stone poised an instant above the forehead of Yaada's
mother, then dropped with the weight of many mountains, and the last
long sleep fell upon her.
"'Slayer of my mother!' stormed the girl, her suffering eyes fixed upon
the medicine man. 'Oh, I now see your black heart through your black
magic. Through, good magic you cut the 'Great Archway,' but your evil
magic you used upon young Ulka. I saw your wicked eyes upon him; I
heard your wicked incantations; I know your wicked heart. You used
your heartless magic in hope of winning me--in hope of making him an
outcast of the tribe. You cared not for my sorrowing heart, my
motherless life to come.' Then, turning to the tribe, she demanded:
'Who of you saw his evil eyes fixed on Ulka? Who of you heard his evil
song?'
"'I,' and 'I,' and 'I,' came voice after voice.
"'The very air is poisoned that we breathe about him,' they shouted.
'The young man is blameless, his heart is as the sun, but the man who
has used his evil magic has a heart black and cold as the hours before
the dawn.'
"Then Yaada's voice arose in a strange, sweet, sorrowful chant:
My feet shall walk no more upon this island,
With its great, Grey Archway.
My mother sleeps forever on this island,
With its great, Grey Archway.
My heart would break without her on this island,
With its great, Grey Archway.
My life was of her life upon this island,
With its great, Grey Archway.
My mother's soul has wandered from this island,
With its great, Grey Archway.
My feet must follow hers beyond this island,
With its great, Grey Archway.
"As Yaada chanted and wailed her farewell, she moved slowly towards the
edge of the cliff. On its brink she hovered a moment with outstretched
arms, as a sea gull poises on its weight--then she called:
"'Ulka, my Ulka! Your hand is innocent of wrong; it was the evil magic
of your rival that slew my mother. I must go to her; even you cannot
keep me here; will you stay, or come with me? Oh! my Ulka!'
"The slender, gloriously young boy sprang toward her; their hands
closed one within the other; for a second they poised on the brink of
the rocks, radiant as stars; then together they plunged into the sea."
* * * * *
The legend was ended. Long ago we had passed the island with its "Grey
Archway"; it was melting into the twilight, far astern.
As I brooded over this strange tale of a daughter's devotion, I watched
the sea and sky for something that would give me a clue to the
inevitable sequel that the tillicum, like all his race, was surely
withholding until the opportune moment.
Something flashed through the darkening waters not a stone's throw from
the steamer. I leaned forward, watching it intently. Two silvery fish
were making a succession of little leaps and plunges along the surface
of the sea, their bodies catching the last tints of sunset, like
flashing jewels. I looked at the tillicum quickly. He was watching
me--a world of anxiety in his half-mournful eyes.
"And those two silvery fish?" I questioned.
He smiled. The anxious look vanished. "I was right," he said; "you do
know us and our ways, for you are one of us. Yes, those fish are seen
only in these waters; there are never but two of them. They are Yaada
and her mate, seeking for the soul of the Haida woman--her mother."
[Illustration: Native art]
Deadman's Island
It is dusk on the Lost Lagoon,
And we two dreaming the dusk away,
Beneath the drift of a twilight grey--
Beneath the drowse of an ending day.
And the curve of a golden moon.
It is dark in the Lost Lagoon.
And gone are the depths of haunting blue,
The grouping gulls, and the old canoe,
The singing firs, and the dusk and--you,
And gone is the golden moon.
O! lure of the Lost Lagoon--
I dream tonight that my paddle blurs
The purple shade where the seaweed stirs--
I hear the call of the singing firs
In the hush of the golden moon.
For many minutes we stood silently, leaning on the western rail of the
bridge as we watched the sun set across that beautiful little water
known as Coal Harbor. I have always resented that jarring,
unattractive name, for years ago, when I first plied paddle across the
gunwale of a light little canoe, and idled about its margin, I named
the sheltered little cove the Lost Lagoon. This was just to please my
own fancy, for as that perfect summer month drifted on, the
ever-restless tides left the harbor devoid of water at my favorite
canoeing hour, and my pet idling place was lost for many days--hence my
fancy to call it the Lost Lagoon. But the chief, Indian-like,
immediately adopted the name, at least when he spoke of the place to
me, and as we watched the sun slip behind the rim of firs, he expressed
the wish that his dugout were here instead of lying beached at the
farther side of the park.
"If canoe was here, you and I we paddle close to shores all 'round your
Lost Lagoon: we make track just like half moon. Then we paddle under
this bridge, and go channel between Deadman's Island and park. Then
'round where cannon speak time at nine o'clock. Then 'cross Inlet to
Indian side of Narrows."
I turned to look eastward, following in fancy the course he had
sketched; the waters were still as the footstep of the oncoming
twilight, and, floating in a pool of soft purple, Deadman's Island
rested like a large circle of candle moss.
"Have you ever been on it?" he asked as he caught my gaze centering on
the irregular outline of the island pines.
"I have prowled the length and depth of it," I told him. "Climbed over
every rock on its shores, crept under every tangled growth of its
interior, explored its overgrown trails, and more than once nearly got
lost in its very heart."
"Yes," he half laughed, "it pretty wild; not much good for anything."
"People seem to think it valuable," I said. "There is a lot of
litigation--of fighting going on now about it."
"Oh! that the way always," he said as though speaking of a long
accepted fact. "Always fight over that place. Hundreds of years ago
they fight about it; Indian people; they say hundreds of years to come
everybody will still fight--never be settled what that place is, who it
belong to, who has right to it. No, never settle. Deadman's Island
always mean fight for someone."
"So the Indians fought amongst themselves about it?" I remarked,
seemingly without guile, although my ears tingled for the legend I knew
was coming.
"Fought like lynx at close quarters," he answered. "Fought, killed
each other, until the island ran with blood redder than that sunset,
and the sea water about it was stained flame color--it was then, my
people say, that the scarlet fire-flower was first seen growing along
this coast."
"It is a beautiful color--the fire-flower," I said.
"It should be fine color, for it was born and grew from the hearts of
fine tribes-people--very fine people," he emphasized.
We crossed to the eastern rail of the bridge, and stood watching the
deep shadows that gathered slowly and silently about the island; I have
seldom looked upon anything more peaceful.
The chief sighed. "We have no such men now, no fighters like those
men, no hearts, no courage like theirs. But I tell you the story; you
understand it then. Now all peace; to-night all good tillicums; even
dead man's spirit does not fight now, but long time after it happen
those spirits fought."
"And the legend?" I ventured.
"Oh! yes," he replied, as if suddenly returning to the present from out
a far country in the realm of time. "Indian people, they call it the
'Legend of the Island of Dead Men.'
"There was war everywhere. Fierce tribes from the northern coast,
savage tribes from the south, all met here and battled and raided,
burned and captured, tortured and killed their enemies. The forests
smoked with camp fires, the Narrows were choked with war canoes, and
the Sagalie Tyee--He who is a man of peace--turned His face away from
His Indian children. About this island there was dispute and
contention. The medicine men from the North claimed it as their
chanting ground. The medicine men from the South laid equal claim to
it. Each wanted it as the stronghold of their witchcraft, their magic.
Great bands of these medicine men met on the small space, using every
sorcery in their power to drive their opponents away. The witch
doctors of the North made their camp on the northern rim of the island;
those from the South settled along the southern edge, looking towards
what is now the great city of Vancouver. Both factions danced,
chanted, burned their magic powders, built their magic fires, beat
their magic rattles, but neither would give way, yet neither conquered.
About them, on the waters, on the mainlands, raged the warfare of their
respective tribes--the Sagalie Tyee had forgotten His Indian children.
"After many months, the warriors on both sides weakened. They said the
incantations of the rival medicine men were bewitching them, were
making their hearts like children's, and their arms nerveless as
women's. So friend and foe arose as one man and drove the medicine men
from the island, hounded them down the Inlet, herded them through the
Narrows and banished them out to sea, where they took refuge on one of
the outer islands of the gulf. Then the tribes once more fell upon
each other in battle.
"The warrior blood of the North will always conquer. They are the
stronger, bolder, more alert, more keen. The snows and the ice of
their country make swifter pulse than the sleepy suns of the South can
awake in a man; their muscles are of sterner stuff, their endurance
greater. Yes, the northern tribes will always be victors.[1] But the
craft and the strategy of the southern tribes are hard things to battle
against. While those of the North followed the medicine men farther
out to sea to make sure of their banishment, those from the South
returned under cover of night and seized the women and children and the
old, enfeebled men in their enemy's camp, transported them all to the
Island of Dead Men, and there held them as captives. Their war canoes
circled the island like a fortification, through which drifted the sobs
of the imprisoned women, the mutterings of the aged men, the wail of
little children.
"Again and again the men of the North assailed that circle of canoes,
and again and again were repulsed. The air was thick with poisoned
arrows, the water stained with blood. But day by day the circle of
southern canoes grew thinner and thinner; the northern arrows were
telling, and truer of aim. Canoes drifted everywhere, empty, or worse
still, manned only by dead men. The pick of the southern warriors had
already fallen, when their greatest Tyee mounted a large rock on the
eastern shore. Brave and unmindful of a thousand weapons aimed at his
heart, he uplifted his hand, palm outward--the signal for conference.
Instantly every northern arrow was lowered, and every northern ear
listened for his words.
[Illustration: KITSILANO BEACH, VANCOUVER, B.C. Bishop & Christie,
Photo.]
"'Oh! men of the upper coast,' he said, 'you are more numerous than we
are; your tribe is larger; your endurance greater. We are growing
hungry, we are growing less in numbers. Our captives--your women and
children and old men--have lessened, too, our stores of food. If you
refuse our terms we will yet fight to the finish. Tomorrow we will
kill all our captives before your eyes, for we can feed them no longer,
or you can have your wives, your mothers, your fathers, your children,
by giving us for each and every one of them one of your best and
bravest young warriors, who will consent to suffer death in their
stead. Speak! You have your choice.'