Great had been the "run," and the sockeye season was almost over.
For that reason I wondered many times why my old friend, the
klootchman, had failed to make one of the fishing fleet. She was an
indefatigable work-woman, rivalling her husband as an expert catcher,
and all the year through she talked of little else but the coming
run. But this especial season she had not appeared amongst her
fellow-kind. The fleet and the canneries knew nothing of her, and
when I enquired of her tribes-people they would reply without
explanation, "She not here this year."
But one russet September afternoon I found her. I had idled down
the trail from the swans' basin in Stanley Park to the rim that
skirts the Narrows, and I saw her graceful, high-bowed canoe heading
for the beach that is the favorite landing-place of the "tillicums"
from the Mission. Her canoe looked like a dream-craft, for the
water was very still, and everywhere a blue film hung like a fragrant
veil, for the peat on Lulu Island had been smoldering for days and
its pungent odors and blue-grey haze made a dream-world of sea and
shore and sky.
I hurried up-shore, hailing her in the Chinook, and as she caught my
voice she lifted her paddle directly above her head in the Indian
signal of greeting.
As she beached, I greeted her with extended eager hands to assist
her ashore, for the klootchman is getting to be an old woman; albeit
she paddles against tidewater like a boy in his teens.
"No," she said, as I begged her to come ashore. "I will wait--me.
I just come to fetch Maarda; she been city; she soon come--now."
But she left her "working" attitude and curled like a school-girl in
the bow of the canoe, her elbows resting on her paddle which she
had flung across the gunwales.
"I have missed you, klootchman; you have not been to see me for
three moons, and you have not fished or been at the canneries,"
I remarked.
"No," she said. "I stay home this year." Then, leaning towards me
with grave import in her manner, her eyes, her voice, she added,
"I have a grandchild, born first week July, so--I stay."
So this explained her absence. I, of course, offered
congratulations and enquired all about the great event, for this
was her first grandchild, and the little person was of importance.
"And are you going to make a fisherman of him?" I asked.
"No, no, not boy-child, it is girl-child," she answered with some
indescribable trick of expression that led me to know she preferred
it so.
"You are pleased it is a girl?" I questioned in surprise.
"Very pleased," she replied emphatically. "Very good luck to have
girl for first grandchild. Our tribe not like yours; we want girl
children first; we not always wish boy-child born just for fight.
Your people, they care only for war-path; our tribe more peaceful.
Very good sign first grandchild to be girl. I tell you why:
girl-child may be some time mother herself; very grand thing to be
mother."
I felt I had caught the secret of her meaning. She was rejoicing
that this little one should some time become one of the mothers
of her race. We chatted over it a little longer and she gave me
several playful "digs" about my own tribe thinking so much less of
motherhood than hers, and so much more of battle and bloodshed.
Then we drifted into talk of the sockeye and of the hyiu chickimin
the Indians would get.
"Yes, hyiu chickimin," she repeated with a sigh of satisfaction.
"Always; and hyiu muck-a-muck when big salmon run. No more ever
come that bad year when not any fish."
"When was that?" I asked.
"Before you born, or I, or"--pointing across the park to the distant
city of Vancouver that breathed its wealth and beauty across the
September afternoon--"before that place born, before white man came
here--oh! long before."
Dear old klootchman! I knew by the dusk in her eyes that she was
back in her Land of Legends, and that soon I would be the richer in
my hoard of Indian lore. She sat, still leaning on her paddle; her
eyes, half-closed, rested on the distant outline of the blurred
heights across the Inlet. I shall not further attempt her broken
English, for this is but the shadow of her story, and without her
unique personality the legend is as a flower that lacks both color
and fragrance. She called it "The Lost Salmon-run."
"The wife of the Great Tyee was but a wisp of a girl, but all the world
was young in those days; even the Fraser River was young and small, not
the mighty water it is now; but the pink salmon crowded its throat just
as they do now, and the tillicums caught and salted and smoked the fish
just as they have done this year, just as they will always do. But it
was yet winter, and the rains were slanting and the fogs drifting,
when the wife of the Great Tyee stood before him and said:
"'Before the salmon-run I shall give to you a great gift. Will you
honor me most if it is the gift of a boy-child or a girl-child?'
The Great Tyee loved the woman. He was stern with his people, hard
with his tribe; he ruled his council-fires with a will of stone.
His medicine-men said he had no human heart in his body; his
warriors said he had no human blood in his veins. But he clasped
this woman's hands, and his eyes, his lips, his voice, were gentle
as her own, as he replied:
"'Give to me a girl-child--a little girl-child--that she may grow
to be like you, and, in her turn, give to her husband children.'
"But when the tribes-people heard of his choice they arose in great
anger. They surrounded him in a deep, indignant circle. 'You are
a slave to the woman,' they declared, 'and now you desire to make
yourself a slave to a woman-baby. We want an heir--a man-child to
be our Great Tyee in years to come. When you are old and weary of
tribal affairs, when you sit wrapped in your blanket in the hot
summer sunshine, because your blood is old and thin, what can a
girl-child do to help either you or us? Who, then, will be our
Great Tyee?'
"He stood in the centre of the menacing circle, his arms folded,
his chin raised, his eyes hard as flint. His voice, cold as stone,
replied:
"'Perhaps she will give you such a man-child, and, if so, the child
is yours; he will belong to you, not to me; he will become the
possession of the people. But if the child is a girl she will
belong to me--she will be mine. You cannot take her from me as you
took me from my mother's side and forced me to forget my aged father
in my service to the tribe; she will belong to me, will be the mother
of my grandchildren, and her husband will be my son.'
"'You do not care for the good of your tribe. You care only for
your own wishes and desires,' they rebelled. 'Suppose the salmon-run
is small, we will have no food; suppose there is no man-child,
we will have no Great Tyee to show us how to get food from other
tribes, and we shall starve.'
"'Your hearts are black and bloodless,' thundered the Great Tyee,
turning upon them fiercely, 'and your eyes are blinded. Do you wish
the tribe to forget how great is the importance of a child that
will some day be a mother herself, and give to your children and
grandchildren a Great Tyee? Are the people to live, to thrive,
to increase, to become more powerful with no mother-women to bear
future sons and daughters? Your minds are dead, your brains are
chilled. Still, even in your ignorance, you are my people: you
and your wishes must be considered. I call together the great
medicine-men, the men of witchcraft, the men of magic. They shall
decide the laws which will follow the bearing of either boy or
girl-child. What say you, oh! mighty men?'
"Messengers were then sent up and down the coast, sent far up the
Fraser River, and to the valley lands inland for many leagues,
gathering as they journeyed all the men of magic that could be
found. Never were so many medicine-men in council before. They
built fires and danced and chanted for many days. They spoke with
the gods of the mountains, with the gods of the sea; then 'the
power' of decision came to them. They were inspired with a choice
to lay before the tribes-people, and the most ancient medicine-man
in all the coast region arose and spoke their resolution:
"'The people of the tribe cannot be allowed to have all things.
They want a boy-child and they want a great salmon-run also. They
cannot have both. The Sagalie Tyee has revealed to us, the great
men of magic, that both these things will make the people arrogant
and selfish. They must choose between the two.'
"'Choose, oh! you ignorant tribes-people,' commanded the Great
Tyee. 'The wise men of our coast have said that the girl-child who
will some day bear children of her own will also bring abundance of
salmon at her birth; but the boy-child brings to you but himself.'
"'Let the salmon go,' shouted the people, 'but give us a future
Great Tyee. Give us the boy-child.'
"And when the child was born it was a boy.
"'Evil will fall upon you,' wailed the Great Tyee. 'You have
despised a mother-woman. You will suffer evil and starvation and
hunger and poverty, oh! foolish tribes-people. Did you not know
how great a girl-child is?'
"That spring, people from a score of tribes came up to the Fraser
for the salmon-run. They came great distances--from the mountains,
the lakes, the far-off dry lands, but not one fish entered the vast
rivers of the Pacific Coast. The people had made their choice.
They had forgotten the honor that a mother-child would have brought
them. They were bereft of their food. They were stricken with
poverty. Through the long winter that followed they endured
hunger and starvation. Since then our tribe has always welcomed
girl-children--we want no more lost runs."
The klootchman lifted her arms from her paddle as she concluded;
her eyes left the irregular outline of the violet mountains. She
had come back to this year of grace--her Legend Land had vanished.
"So," she added, "you see now, maybe, why I am glad my grandchild is
girl; it means big salmon-run next year."
"It is a beautiful story, klootchman," I said, "and I feel a
cruel delight that your men of magic punished the people for
their ill choice."
"That because you girl-child yourself," she laughed.
There was the slightest whisper of a step behind me. I turned to
find Maarda almost at my elbow. The rising tide was unbeaching the
canoe, and as Maarda stepped in and the klootchman slipped astern,
it drifted afloat.
"Kla-how-ya," nodded the klootchman as she dipped her paddle-blade
in exquisite silence.
"Kla-how-ya," smiled Maarda.
"Kla-how-ya, tillicums," I replied, and watched for many moments as
they slipped away into the blurred distance, until the canoe merged
into the violet and grey of the farther shore.