Wind Whisperer Read online

  The girls were none too happy about having me run after them. They kept at a steady pace, and in no time, had widened the distance between us. I was no couch potato, but these little girls were strong and as athletic as they come. Their slick black hair bounced behind them as they ran, while my long blond braid thumped my back like a sodden piece of rope.

  Growing tired of this game of tag, I shouted at them to stop. Pleading with them to understand that I meant no harm; hoping the tone of my voice would tell them I wasn’t an enemy. No such luck. They ran even faster, and I was out of breath and panting in raggedly painful gulps when they suddenly veered to the left toward the embankment. Jagged, truck-sized rocks on the beach ahead of us blocked the way very effectively, and I guessed they knew a shortcut around the barricade.

  The land was not steep where the girls climbed the bank, and I could see a well-worn path leading up through the tall shore grasses and tangled plants. The realization that they could be heading inland and away from the beach made me heartsick. I was beat and didn’t think I could walk much farther, let alone run. I couldn’t understand why they were being so unfriendly. After all, they were visiting my country, and I hadn’t done anything mean to them.

  Then, as I rounded a bend in the trail, a scene right out of National Geographic appeared. There, spread out before me in neat rows, sat huge wooden houses. They were long and quite high. Elaborate totem poles stood at the entrances. The facades of the houses were painted with abstract shapes of whales, birds, and animals. Dozens of people milled around, all doing different activities—talking, laughing, gesturing—tackling jobs I couldn’t even fathom.

  At the far end of this bizarre little town, I noticed a stretch of beach with row after row of incredibly long, canoe-like boats resting on the sand. With the tide out, I could’ve reached this village by continuing on down the beach and rounding the barrier of rocks that jutted out into the water.

  Then it hit me. This was the set for a movie. It had to be. It was perfect in every detail. My eyes swept the scene, but I didn’t see any cameras or guys sitting in director’s chairs shouting out orders.

  The four little girls had reached a group of adults and were talking a mile a minute and stabbing fingers in my direction. The adults—three men and two women—looked over at me in shocked surprise. They were as astonished to see me as I’d been to see them. One of the men, a squat but imposing figure, somewhere in his forties, with a straight, broad back and muscular arms and legs, stepped away from the group and headed toward me with long, determined strides. Maybe this wasn’t a movie set, after all. My stomach did a little flip.

  I stayed where I was, too afraid to move or attempt to meet him half way. As he came closer, he kept his coal-black eyes riveted on me as though afraid I might disappear on him. He came to a stop about a yard away and continued to stare—his eyes boring right through me. Then he spoke. The words were deep and guttural, and he enunciated each word carefully. He wanted me to understand.

  I couldn’t make out even one syllable. My total confusion and bewilderment must have showed on my face because, after a minute or two, he stopped talking and walked around me twice, arms folded across his chest. When he suddenly reached out and grabbed my braid, I flinched, thinking he was going to hit me. He withdrew his hand as though I’d given him an electric shock.

  He barked something then and gave me a firm shove toward the crowd of on-lookers that had now gathered to watch the little exchange. Men, women, and numerous children stood in front of the houses and stared at me like I was a visitor from Mars. Funny thing, I felt like a visitor from Mars. As I scanned the faces watching me so intently, I knew I was the odd-man out. Me, with my blond hair and blue eyes—I was the one who didn’t belong here; not the other way around.

  One of the women stepped away from the throng and approached me.

  The man said something to her and she nodded. Then she smiled at me and pointed to my very wet and messed up clothing. She made a clucking sound, kind of like my great-aunt Ethel used to do when one of us kids annoyed her, then motioned for me to follow her up the slight incline to one of the long, wooden houses.

  I did as I was told. I followed her and three other women into the large building, totally unprepared for what I saw. The light was dim inside, and when one of the women spoke, the sound echoed like it does in a huge cathedral. There was only one spacious room, but it was divided into small sections or “stalls” by waist-high partitions. Each of the compact areas had its own small circle where a fire could be laid. The whole place was incredible. In the middle of the spacious interior a bigger fire pit waited for the next communal blaze.

  The first woman—the one who’d smiled at me—led me over to one of the units toward the back of the long room. She pulled the watch from around my wrist and examined it. She held it up for the others to see, and they shook their heads in bewilderment. They didn’t know what to make of it and that bothered me. Everybody knew what a watch was…didn’t they?

  Convinced that it was nothing too important, although maybe something worth keeping, she put the watch aside and began to remove my ripped jacket, while another woman bent down to untie my shoes. I was so startled at first that I didn’t know what to do. I had no desire to strip in front of these strange women, uncomfortably wet or not. I pushed their hands away and tried to make myself understood.

  “No. Please. I-I want to keep my clothes on,” I said in an overly loud voice. The lead woman only smiled and nodded and continued to forcibly separate me from my T-shirt and jeans. When they got down to my underwear, they all four stopped and stared. They giggled and made gestures that I couldn’t begin to decipher and then removed it, too.

  Thoroughly embarrassed and horrified at my vulnerability, I began to cry. Goose bumps danced up and down my bare arms and legs. One of the women, much older than the rest and wearing a nose ring, said something in a low tone then whisked a folded blanket from one of the low walls close by. She wrapped it snugly around my shoulders, smiling at me the whole time. I clung to it with one hand while I wiped my nose with the other.

  Nervous about what they were going to do next, I held my breath. I was surprised when one of the women produced a garment woven from the same brown material that everybody else wore. I reached out to touch it. It felt fairly soft, but I could tell that the stuff was—or, had been—wood. Narrow strips of wood—probably cedar—had been woven into skirts, shirts, and capes, and even funny cone-shaped hats. Dazed, I stood there in awe.

  Happy to have something to cover my nakedness, I let them dress me in the quaint clothing. It was surprisingly comfortable, and I couldn’t help but grin back at the women. They beamed at me, bobbing their slick, black heads up and down, clucking like hens. They were letting me know that I’d passed inspection.

  I wished I had a mirror. I knew without a doubt that I looked very unlike myself. I was also beginning to realize that these people were not simple tourists or foreigners and certainly not movie extras. After seeing their living quarters, the woven blankets and rugs, the amazing totems, and the many beautiful baskets scattered around, I knew these people were Indians, or rather, Native Americans—members of one of the Pacific Coast tribes. The only question I had now was why were they living like this? Why appear to be lost somewhere in the nineteenth century when it was the twenty-first? It didn’t make sense.

  Nose Ring—I decided to make up names for them to tell them apart—patted my head and said something in a soothing voice. I understood that she wanted to take my braid apart and do something to my hair. I nodded and she flashed a toothless smile and proceeded to untie the end of my thick braid.

  My hair was long and almost reached my waist. I usually wore it in one braid hanging down my back, but now I wished I’d taken my best friend’s advice and gotten it cut.

  I stood very still as the older woman undid my braid and fingered my hair. The other women were very interested in the whole process. Every once in a while one of them would sigh or murmur
, and I guessed it was probably because my hair was so blond and wavy, while theirs was glossy dark and straight.

  Producing a comb out of nowhere, Nose Ring combed my hair with quick, even strokes. After several minutes of running the comb through the long strands, my thick hair began to dry. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw wisps and tendrils float out around my head like a golden halo. Every face around me was an unblinking mask of rapture. It was unnerving.

  Finally satisfied with her handiwork, Nose Ring set the comb aside and sat back on her heels and gazed at me. Then lead woman said a dozen or so words to her, clasped my arm and led me back outside. The man who’d first approached me was standing with eight other men, talking animatedly. When he noticed my transformation, he raised his right hand. It was as if the entire town froze. Nobody moved. Nobody said a word or made any sound whatsoever. They all looked at me like they were seeing something totally bizarre.

  For several minutes, we just stood there staring at one another. Or, rather, the town stared at me, while I did everything in my power to keep from bursting into more tears. I’d no idea what they were going to do with me; what they could possibly want to do with me…that is…no idea that didn’t leave me numb with cold, hard fear.

  Lead Woman—a fitting name for her—finally walked up to the headman and talked quietly. I figured he must be the chief or shaman or whatever they called the one in charge. Words like president, king, and Prime Minister somehow didn’t fit, so I decided to call him Chief, for want of a better title.

  Chief did most of the talking—his thick arm gesturing and waving as though emphasizing each word. Lead Woman listened, hardly blinking, and I knew he was telling her what to do with me next. I closed my eyes and recited a heartfelt prayer for protection. Somehow, I knew my life was at a crossroads.

  FIVE – JOY

  I don’t know what I thought would happen, but it wasn’t at all what I expected. Instead of doing something horrible, Lead Woman led me over to an older girl, who appeared to be about my age. She stood with one of the little girls I’d first seen on the beach and three small, scantily dressed boys. I thought they must be Lead Woman’s children who, after listening to their mother’s brief explanation, directed their sober attention to me. Starting with my bare pink toes and ending with my flowing, blond hair, they regarded me with wide, dark eyes.

  One of the little boys said something and pointed to my face. The older girl pushed his hand down and grinned apologetically at me. It was as if she were telling me that he was just a kid and not to mind him. I tried to smile back. She took that as a great accomplishment and grabbed my hand. Guiding me over to a lone Douglas fir, standing like a sentinel behind one of the houses, she motioned for me to sit.

  On the ground were several woven mats and a tightly woven basket filled with water. In it, were hundreds of strands of cedar wood, spruce roots, and grasses. She sat down on one of the mats, and I sat down beside her. Smiling, she picked up a partially woven basket and demonstrated how to tuck, fold, loop and wind. In minutes, the basket began to take shape—so tightly woven that it’d be able to hold water without leaking. With its unique whale hunting design and choice of three vibrant colors, it was beautiful.

  “Th-that’s nice. I’ve seen baskets like that sell for hundreds of dollars…in shops…in Victoria and-and Seattle.” I offered, totally lost for something to say. I mean, what can you say when your insides are about ready to cave in?

  She glanced up, and I knew she understood that I’d just given her a compliment. She spoke a few words, and my puny mind strained to comprehend. She even repeated them, but it was no use. My brain on overload, nothing anyone said made a bit of sense. Then I had an idea.

  I pointed to myself and said my name as distinctly as I could. “Han…nah. My name is…Han…nah…Hannah.”

  She smiled widely and nodded. At least she got my drift. She said a multi-syllable word while tapping her own chest. I tried to repeat the word but must’ve really botched it because after hearing my clumsy attempt, she threw back her head and laughed. That made me laugh, too. Incredible.

  We locked eyes for a long minute—neither one saying or doing anything. Then she reached out one brown hand and, after hesitating only a second, I stuck out mine. We held hands. She didn’t shake my hand or squeeze it so I didn’t, either. We just grasped each other’s hand as though making a silent pact. She was going to be my friend, and that gave me a tiny spark of hope.

  After a full minute of this weird bonding, she resumed her basket weaving. Every once in a while she’d pause, lift the basket to show me, and then continue to work. Her fingers were nimble and quick, and I knew I’d never get the hang of it in just one demonstration, let alone a lifetime.

  As though reading my thoughts, she set her basket aside and gathered a handful of slender grasses. She arranged them on the mat in front of her and made a checkerboard pattern. Inserting another long reed, she constructed the base for another basket. Then she handed it to me with a wide smile.

  At first, I shook my head and gently pushed her offering away. She understood, but only nodded, and thrust the whole thing back at me. I’d no choice but to take it since I didn’t want to appear mean or difficult. For over a minute, I stared down at the contraption in my lap. She chuckled and guided my clumsy hands through the first move. In less time than I would’ve thought possible, I had the long reed snaking in and out, over and under and had gotten the gist of it—pretty much, that is. I was actually making a basket.

  Of course, it looked nothing like hers—more like a basket made in a kindergarten class—but it was a basket. I knew it would not be used for anything important, but it definitely was a basket. I would have given anything to show my parents.

  We sat there, underneath the arms of the giant Douglas fir, weaving our baskets. Often she glanced over at me and smiled or laughed outright, and I tried to return her good will, but it was difficult since I was putting most of my effort into just trying not to cry. One of the naked little boys waddled over, and she tossed a fir cone his way. He pounced on it with a big grin, his chubby cheeks dimpling. Seeing him made me smile.

  I guess that was enough because he approached shyly, a finger in his mouth, one eye on his big sister. She smiled so he stepped closer then reached out a fat little hand. I didn’t move a muscle as he tentatively touched the top of my head. He murmured something, caressing my hair gently, almost reverently. I knew he was mystified by the honey-yellow color, and I couldn’t blame him, as I would’ve been, too, had the situation been reversed.

  To show him that I thought him just as marvelous, I slowly lifted my hand to touch his cheek. He didn’t flinch or shy away, but allowed me to touch his face and run my hand through his short, black hair. I wanted to hug him, he was so cute, and I was so desperate for comforting. After a quick look at his sister, I lifted my arms to put around his little shoulders. He giggled, gave me a tremendous shove for such a little guy, and ran away. I got the message. No hugs.

  His sister laughed, and I wondered whom it was she thought the most entertaining—her little brother or the pale stranger. I enjoyed hearing her laugh. It was musical, happy—uplifting in a way. I decided to call her “Joy” since her own name was incomprehensible.

  “Joy…Joy,” I said, pointing to her. She smiled and repeated the word. I don’t know if she really knew what I meant but it didn’t matter. She was smiling so I relaxed. As long as Joy smiled, I knew I had a chance.

  * * * *

  That first night I slept on a pallet—sandwiched between Joy and the little brother with the chubby cheeks. I was astonished and a little embarrassed to find out that I would sleep with the whole family in their small cubicle inside the big frame house. At least six other families also lived in that same house. Old people, young couples with small children, middle-aged men and women—all living under one roof in what my culture would’ve considered impossible. But to these people, it was a way of life. They saw nothing strange in playing, arguing, singing, t
alking, eating, sleeping—everything—in an interdependent, communal cooperation that more “sophisticated” people would’ve found extremely distasteful.

  Needless to say, I didn’t sleep very well that night.

  * * * *

  It seemed to me that I’d just fallen asleep when Joy shook me gently and gestured for me to get up. I blinked and stared stupidly at her. It was pitch black out—still night. No way I wanted to get up this early. But I scrambled to my feet anyway and followed her outside. The eastern sky was painted a rosy pink, tinged with red and purple, and highlighted in gold. It was breathtakingly beautiful.

  My first sunrise in this dream-world-that-shouldn’t-be.

  I watched as Joy filled a basket with water, dipped her hands into it daintily, and washed. She fixed her hair, and then relieved herself behind a tree several yards away from the house. I quickly copied her washing technique but hesitated before going behind the same tree. I desperately needed to use the bathroom but in no way could see myself going with only a tree for protection. People were everywhere. Men, women, boys, girls, and little children—they’d see me and I’d die of embarrassment. Or so I thought. Last night, under the cover of darkness, I’d been able to do it, but now? By morning’s light? I couldn’t. Nature had a way of convincing me otherwise. Fifteen minutes later I scurried behind the tree, closed my eyes, lifted my skirt and squatted. All I could think of was my great-aunt Ethel seeing me. She would’ve had a coronary.

  I felt totally useless as I watched Joy and her mother prepare breakfast. The three small boys, without a stitch of clothes on, sat cross-legged on the ground and just stared at me. It didn’t matter what I did—their round, black eyes stuck on me like glue. It would’ve been funny if I didn’t feel so alien and alone. But I didn’t dare let my thoughts wander there. If I so much as even thought of home, my parents, my aunt and uncle back at Lake Crescent—wherever it was—and Jonah, well, my throat closed up and I couldn’t breathe.