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 open 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 "Grey 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."