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 to-night 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 sunset across that beautiful little
basin of 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 dug-out 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 footsteps 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.* 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.
* Note.--It would almost seem that the chief knew that wonderful poem
of "The Khan's," "The Men of the Northern Zone," wherein he says:
If ever a Northman lost a throne
Did the conqueror come from the South?
Nay, the North shall ever be free ... etc.
"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.
"'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.
To-morrow 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.'
"In the northern canoes scores and scores of young warriors leapt
to their feet. The air was filled with glad cries, with exultant
shouts. The whole world seemed to ring with the voices of those
young men who called loudly, with glorious courage:
"'Take me, but give me back my old father.'
"'Take me, but spare to my tribe my little sister.'
"'Take me, but release my wife and boy-baby.'
"So the compact was made. Two hundred heroic, magnificent young men
paddled up to the island, broke through the fortifying circle of
canoes, and stepped ashore. They flaunted their eagle plumes with
the spirit and boldness of young gods. Their shoulders were erect,
their step was firm, their hearts strong. Into their canoes they
crowded the two hundred captives. Once more their women sobbed,
their old men muttered, their children wailed, but those young
copper-colored gods never flinched, never faltered. Their weak and
their feeble were saved. What mattered to them such a little thing
as death?
"The released captives were quickly surrounded by their own people,
but the flower of their splendid nation was in the hands of their
enemies, those valorous young men who thought so little of life that
they willingly, gladly laid it down to serve and to save those they
loved and cared for. Amongst them were war-tried warriors who had
fought fifty battles, and boys not yet full grown, who were drawing
a bow-string for the first time; but their hearts, their courage,
their self-sacrifice were as one.
"Out before a long file of southern warriors they stood. Their
chins uplifted, their eyes defiant, their breasts bared. Each
leaned forward and laid his weapons at his feet, then stood erect,
with empty hands, and laughed forth his challenge to death.
A thousand arrows ripped the air, two hundred gallant northern
throats flung forth a death cry exultant, triumphant as conquering
kings--then two hundred fearless northern hearts ceased to beat.
"But in the morning the southern tribes found the spot where they
fell peopled with flaming fire-flowers. Dread terror seized upon
them. They abandoned the island, and when night again shrouded
them they manned their canoes and noiselessly slipped through the
Narrows, turned their bows southward, and this coast-line knew
them no more."
"What glorious men!" I half whispered as the chief concluded the
strange legend.
"Yes, men!" he echoed. "The white people call it Deadman's Island.
That is their way; but we of the Squamish call it The Island of
Dead Men."
The clustering pines and the outlines of the island's margin were
now dusky and indistinct. Peace, peace lay over the waters, and the
purple of the summer twilight had turned to grey, but I knew that in
the depths of the undergrowth on Deadman's Island there blossomed
a flower of flaming beauty; its colors were veiled in the coming
nightfall, but somewhere down in the sanctuary of its petals pulsed
the heart's blood of many and valiant men.