| 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 sung 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 [Page 53] 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,
[Page 54] “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 [Page 55]
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 makes 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 godlike 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!’ clamoured 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 for ever 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 [Page 58] 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.”
[Page 59]
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