Seaweed on Ice Page 4

  “Of course it is,” she snapped, in a display of idiot peevishness. She turned toward me, but her gaze missed mine by a couple of feet. She said, “I suppose you know all about it, officer?”

  “Mr. Lofthouse told me that you’ve changed your will, and that you’re worried about your nephew—”

  “In that case you know nothing,” she barked. “I haven’t changed anything yet.”

  “I’ve got your new will right here, ready to be signed,” said Lofthouse breezily, seemingly unaffected by Mrs. Tranter’s strange animus. He opened his briefcase and shuffled through it, but in the poorly lit room couldn’t find what he was looking for. Muttering to himself, he moved the briefcase closer to the lamp.

  Mrs. Tranter peered toward Lofthouse and said, “My nephew telephoned from Tofino. He’s hitchhiking back here tomorrow. If he’s lucky catching rides he should arrive by mid-afternoon.” She put her head back and cackled with amusement.

  “Hendrix lives in a shed in the back yard,” Lofthouse started to say.

  “Lived in the shed,” Mrs. Tranter snapped, with a ring of malicious triumph. “Past tense. That arrangement is over. Richard cheated me and must face the consequences.” Her face swung in my direction as she added, “When he arrives tomorrow, officer, tell him to clear his things out of my shed. After that, he’s to stay away from me.”

  “Mrs. Tranter is quite within her rights,” Lofthouse told me. “Hendrix has no legal tenancy because he’s never paid rent. He has performed no services in lieu of rent. Mrs. Tranter, therefore, has no obligation to him whatsoever.”

  “Yes. I don’t want him mooning about the place, upsetting me with his foolishness,” she said. “I’ve had enough of Richard’s shenanigans. It’s time he made his own way in the world.”

  I looked squarely at Mrs. Tranter and she seemed to return my gaze from behind her dark glasses. I wondered what she could see. Perhaps vague shapes, hardly more. The lenses seemed utterly black in this weak light.

  “Mr. Lofthouse has suggested that I be absent when Richard returns,” she said. “He thinks I should move out of this house for a day or two. Give Richard a chance to collect his things and calm down.”

  I was already sick of the pair of them. “Ejecting tenants isn’t police work. We have enough to do as it is,” I said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to make other arrangements.”

  “I’m a taxpayer!” Mrs. Tranter exclaimed. “Surely I’m entitled to help from the police!”

  “Let me be blunt,” I said. “From what I’ve been told, you’ve goaded Mr. Hendrix unnecessarily. If you are seriously worried, hire a security guard. I’m a city policeman. We’re not paid to sort out personal family problems.”

  My words met with deep silence. Mrs. Tranter’s hands began to pick nervously at the fur of her coat.

  “Besides,” I added, “Mr. Hendrix is likely to hang around indefinitely. The city can’t station personnel here forever.”

  “No, no, Sergeant,” said Mrs. Tranter in a conciliatory tone. “I know my nephew. Richard will fume and fuss at first, but he hasn’t the guts to stick with anything long. Not even anger. He’ll come to his senses soon enough.”

  The doorbell rang, and Lofthouse stood up. “I’m expecting my clerk to join us. That’ll be her.” As he went to answer the door, I heard him stumble in the dim hallway.

  Mrs. Tranter leaned forward. “Does plain speaking offend you, officer?”

  “Policemen are not easily shocked.”

  “You think I’m being unnecessarily cruel,” she said.

  I didn’t answer.

  “Richard abused my hospitality. He robbed me. He’s lazy and good-for-nothing because my sister, Richard’s mother, spoiled him when he was growing up. He arrived on my doorstep unannounced and penniless. I made the mistake of letting him move into my garden shed.” A self-pitying whine crept into her voice. “I’m all alone in the world now. My husband is dead. My sister is dead. They’re all gone except me. Richard’s the only family I have left. I’d hoped he’d be good company for my old age, but he’s just a money-grubbing nuisance.”

  I still kept quiet.

  We heard the front door close. Lofthouse re-entered the room with his clerk, Grace Sleight. Damp tufts of greying hair protruded from beneath her blue beret. I had often seen her chubby, amiable face at the Blanshard Street courthouse, but tonight she seemed preoccupied, even worried. She gave me a weak smile that faded quickly.

  “We won’t keep you long, Grace,” said Lofthouse, taking documents and a pen from his briefcase and moving to Mrs. Tranter’s side. He straightened, faced the three of us and stated formally, “Mrs. Tranter will be signing her last will and testament, and two witnesses will watch the signing. Is that clearly understood?”

  Grace and I nodded.

  “Here’s your new will, ma’am. If you’ll just initial here first, please,” he said, placing the deed on the side table at Mrs. Tranter’s elbow. She had difficulty finding the right place. We watched Lofthouse guide her hand so that she could initial each page and scribble her signature at the end. Grace and I appended our signatures last.

  Lofthouse said dismissively, “Thanks for stopping by, Grace. That’ll do. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I looked at Lofthouse and Mrs. Tranter in turn and said, “Unless there’s anything else, I’ll be on my way, too.” I turned to Grace and said, “Which way are you heading, Grace?”

  “James Bay.”

  “Can I hitch a ride to Swans?”

  “Of course.”

  Lofthouse looked at me warily. “We’re still hoping you’ll help us out, Silas.”

  “Before I go, could I speak to you privately, Sam?” I said.

  Lofthouse stared at me uncomprehendingly for a moment. Then his lips twitched. “Ah, certainly.”

  Grace and I wished Mrs. Tranter goodnight but got no response. Lofthouse followed us down the hall, clutching his briefcase against his chest as if he couldn’t bear to be parted from it. At the front door, he fumbled for a light switch and clicked it on.

  I poked his chest with my finger and said, “This deal stinks. If you’re really worried about your client’s safety, hire rent-a-cops. Keep me out of it.”

  Exasperated, Lofthouse banged his forehead with the ball of his hand. “All right, all right! You’ve sure got a hard-on. What are you so pissed about?”

  “You’re trying to drag me into a private fight. We both know, among other things, that when Derek Battle finds out you’ve nicked one of his clients, he’ll raise hell.”

  “That’s my problem. If Battle messes with me I’ll hammer the bastard into the ground.” Lofthouse smiled grimly and added, “Play ball with me, Silas, and I’ll steer money your way. You know, for personal expenses.”

  Disgusted, I put on my coat and followed Grace out into the cold.

  It was just after seven o’clock when Grace dropped me off outside Swans pub. I hadn’t eaten much since breakfast, and the bit of whisky I’d had with Lofthouse earlier burned in my stomach. After a hot beef sandwich and a pint of India Pale Ale, I paid up, collected my car and drove home.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Along the first half-mile of its length, Victoria West is bisected by railroad tracks. These tracks separate the rich—who live in luxurious waterfront condos—from the majority of Vic West’s inhabitants, many of whom live in tract housing and small apartment buildings. Farther along Esquimalt Road, past the dockyards, pubs and mini-malls, is the Warrior Indian Reserve, partially concealed from the highway by a small forest of Garry oaks.

  My home on the reserve is a two-room beach cabin that I built with my own hands. I don’t have a hot water heater, so I make do with cold water unless I light my wood stove. My outhouse is a one-holer beneath a big cedar. But I do have electricity. One wall is covered with bookshelves, racks for my blues records and an outdated stereo system. When I look out my front windows, I have grandstand views of the Olympic Mountains, rising from the sea on the U.S. side of the Strait of J
uan de Fuca. From my bedroom, I can see black and white killer whales. They’re inanimate, though: painted on the walls of the Warrior longhouse. That longhouse—in fact, every house visible—has a moss-covered roof and is surrounded by trees.

  As tired as I was when I got home, I changed into running gear and went out. I warmed up with a fast walk along the reserve’s unpaved roads, then crossed onto pavement and started jogging toward Victoria. The rain and snow had stopped for the time being. I took it easy at first, conscious for the first 10 minutes of my heavy breathing and cold hands. My right knee ached. Then the old miracle happened and I was out of my body. Suddenly I wasn’t gasping anymore. I forgot my aching knee and my hands were warm. I detoured across the Bay Street bridge. Deadman Island’s dark mass rose up on my left. Long ago that small island had been a Coast Salish cemetery; I’d grown up listening to stories about its ghostly occupants.

  I headed north. Strings of Christmas lights twinkled on houses here and there. In one yard a plywood Santa cracked his whip over grinning plywood reindeer. Before I knew it, I had jogged to Mavis Tranter’s house. I skirted the property until I found the shed where Richard Hendrix lived. I was about to try the door when a large dog howled somewhere nearby. I heard faint crunching sounds as a palpable entity approached. I remembered that a wolf had been sighted in this area. A spirit quester? Then my peripheral vision picked up something. Slowly I turned my head to the right. My mouth went dry. The skin on the back of my neck crawled as a dark shape materialized from behind the shed. I shivered, even as drops of perspiration pricked my body.

  The shape moved toward me, then stopped. I could smell it—it stank the way wet dogs smell after rolling in something rotten. I recalled old stories about Ghost People—long-dead humans with the power to assume the animal shapes. Wolves and bears who hunt for souls in the night. Heart thudding, I moved slowly backwards the way I had come and out onto the street. The shape, whatever it was, made no attempt to follow me as I headed home.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  After fixing myself bacon and eggs for breakfast, I walked up to the band office. I wanted to ask Chief Alphonse something, but he was, as always, busy wrestling with the seemingly endless problems besetting Canada’s Native elders. Maureen, his secretary, asked me to come back in half an hour. I went down to the beach and sat on a drift log. Waves rolled in, broke their backs and sighed back out to sea again.

  The basis of the Coast Salish class system involves names and titles. Ultimately, the status of an Indian band depends upon the status of its chief. At present, we Warriors were riding high. Chief Alphonse had been only 30 years old when he inherited noble rank, but his career toward Warrior chiefdom had begun before his first birthday, when his first name was bestowed.

  Upon inheriting a chiefly name, a Warrior has the right—and the duty—to perform a particular dance. Alphonse now owned several names, each of which had involved giving one or more potlatches and dancing feasts, where vast amounts of money and property were distributed among Coast Salish people. Chiefdom, therefore, implies the right to perform certain dances. It also implies the possession of wealth and a readiness to share it.

  In ancient times, an uninitiated class of people existed who were given no names at all. These unfortunates—for the most part slaves and their descendants—had the same rights as stones or pieces of wood. They were forbidden under pain of death from participating in—or even witnessing—important ceremonials.

  The progression of names from low to high goes along with the progression of dances leading to Winter Ceremonial. The Coast Salish world is turned upside down at Winter Ceremonial. It is the time when supernatural beings prey upon humans. It is the time of year when personal spirits return to their owners after travelling around the world. It is the time of year when a Coast Salish cop might encounter the ghost of a giant wolf.

  Beach pebbles crunched underfoot. It was Maureen. In her soft voice she said, “Sorry, Silas, the chief has run into a snag. He’s gonna be tied up for a while. Is there anything I can do?”

  “What do you know about ghost wolves?”

  “Not much. Why?”

  “I was hoping Chief Alphonse could tell me something.”

  “Old Mary Cooke probably knows all about ’em,” Maureen said. “If you have time, I’m sure she’d like to see you. But she isn’t well, so try not to tire her out.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Old Mary Cooke lived on the reserve in a decrepit house surrounded by junk—dead refrigerators, baby strollers, a fibreglass canoe with a hole in it and a gas mower that had died years earlier in a patch of weeds. She was in her kitchen, sitting on an old sofa, looking like a pile of second-hand clothes in her floppy black hat and layers of skirts and coats. Her eyes were closed, but I said hello in a soft voice and sat down beside her.

  “I’m a black caterpillar,” she said, opening her eyes. “It’s pretty near time for me to die, change into a black moth. Fly back to the Unknown World.”

  Mary was about a hundred years old, so her prophecy was undeniably true. Death was a prospect she faced with total equanimity—or so I imagined. She was holding something in her hand. When she opened it, I saw an abalone shell. I asked her what she knew about ghost wolves.

  “The last time I was in the Unknown World I was a young girl,” she said. “Me and another young girl were diving for abalones when we saw wolves running along the beach. They all ran away except for one old wolf who was half blind and slow, just like I am now. The other girl felt sorry for that old wolf, but I laughed at him. Threw stones to drive him off, told him he was stupid and useless.

  “When me and the other girl had filled our baskets with abalones we started back home. We’d been diving in cold water for hours. The other girl was ill because she’d been shot with sickness arrows. It was a hot day, but with sickness in her, she had the shakes and kept dropping her basket. I wouldn’t stop and help so she got left behind on her own.”

  “That seems strange,” I said. “Why not help her?”

  “I dunno,” Mary replied. “Maybe I was scared because it was turning dark. Then that girl got lost in a forest of trees with feet that kept moving and blocking her way. Animals with human faces howled down from branches. She roamed about in terror till she came to this bunch of dry ferns and lay herself down and cried herself to sleep.

  “Next morning when this girl woke up, she saw something in the fog. She thought it was a wolf, standing on two hind legs. The girl was scared till wind blew the fog away and she realized it wasn’t a wolf. It was a handsome young man, roasting abalones on a campfire. There was enough abalone to feed ’em both so they ate hearty. By the time this girl had eaten she was feeling pretty good. That sickness power had worn right off. She told this man who she was. He wouldn’t tell her who he was, but he did offer to show her the way home. He waited for her to pack the empty shells into her basket. Then they started walking away through the strange woods. Animals with human faces were still howling down from the trees, but she wasn’t scared anymore.” Mary held her abalone shell up close to one cloudy eye and studied it a moment before resuming her story.

  “She followed the handsome man along till they reached a lake surrounded by pit houses. One pit house had smoke coming out of a hole in its roof. The man wanted her to go inside, but she looked closer and saw the pit house was a den full of wolves. She tried to run away, but the man suddenly turned fierce. Grabbed her and took her inside the pit house. When the girl took a second look round, she saw the house was full of people, not wolves. The people were friendly, but the handsome man turned back into the tired old wolf she’d seen when she was diving for abalones. He wanted the girl to be his wife because that girl hadn’t laughed at him. “

  Mary stopped talking and fingered the shell some more. “What happened then?” I prompted.

  “The girl wanted to go home. But the funny thing was, the longer the girl stayed with the wolf, the more she liked him. They got married and he put wolf power into her—you k
now, the same way a man puts children into a woman if he loves her.

  “And all this time the girl’s uncles were searching for her. About a year went by till they found her in that wolf den and killed the wolves. One of the uncles cut the wolf’s head off and skinned him. The uncles decorated the wolf skin with abalone shells and put the skin on her back.

  “From then on, that girl had wolf power.” Mary sighed deeply and added, “I’ve been dreaming about that girl lately, can’t stop thinking about her. Sometimes, I think she’s watching me.”

  Mary put the abalone shell she’d been holding into my hands. “You can have this now, Silas,” she said. “Hang it round your neck on a string or put it in your medicine bag. I won’t be needing it no more.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  I drove into town, parked behind Swans and sat for a minute with the heater on, thinking about the strange story Old Mary Cooke had just told me. Rain mixed with hailstones slammed my car’s roof like the beats of a crazed drummer. I decided to make a run for it.

  As soon as I was inside my office, the phone rang. It was Bernie. “What’s a whaling shrine?” he asked, not bothering with hello.

  “No idea. Why?”

  “There’s a rumour on the street that someone’s planning to steal one.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “What’s to tell? It’s just a rumour.” And with that he hung up.

  I brought Richard Hendrix’s name up on my computer. He’d been busted a couple of times for minor trespasses. I thought for a bit, then went to the public library on Blanshard Street and checked back issues of the Canadian News Index. There was nothing under Richard Hendrix. Further digging led me to a file on The Wilderness Preservation Committee, an environmental action group headed by Felicity Exeter.

  Mrs. Exeter was a local celebrity, a rich and somewhat reclusive woman who divided her time between protecting British Columbia’s trees and gallery hopping in New York City. A few years previously, the Wilderness Preservation Committee, commonly known as the WPC, had confronted logging crews at the Carmanah forest watershed. Ten activists, including Felicity Exeter and Richard Hendrix, chained themselves across a road to prevent loggers from hacking down 500-year-old trees. The standoff ended when RCMP officers cut the chains, charged the activists with public mischief and jailed them overnight. At subsequent trials the activists were each fined $500 or given 30 days. Mrs. Exeter paid everybody’s fines and they all went home, except for one old granny who opted to martyr herself. She served her prison sentence writing letters to newspapers.