Wind Whisperer Read online

  * * * *

  That night, I lay on my pallet listening to the unfamiliar sounds around me—the heavy breathing of people sleeping; the loud snoring of elders; the soft murmuring of husbands and wives; the fretful crying of babies. Again, the overwhelming impossibility—the absurdity of the whole thing—flooded over me. What had happened to me? Was there such a thing as time travel? Had I stepped over some innocuous threshold into another dimension? And the worst, most disturbing question of all: would I ever find Jonah? And would we ever find our way back home?

  NINE – THE SHAMAN’S DECISION

  The next morning, dawn brought glorious sunshine with her—a rare treat for this part of the world. The people took advantage of the fine weather and hustled about doing their chores. The women sang while they made baskets or prepared food. The older boys played games that required tremendous skill and dexterity—honing their bodies for manhood. Some of the men shoved the long canoes out into the water, presumably to go fishing. All in all, it was a happy, productive village that embraced the warmth of the day.

  I wanted to feel as light-hearted as those around me, but instead, I was filled with dread and foreboding. The night before, I’d been informed that the shaman desired a word with me. When Chief had discovered the “gift” we’d been given—that we suddenly could understand one another—he’d said very little. He’d only looked at me solemnly, with coal-black eyes that didn’t blink, displaying no emotion. If he was ecstatic like Joy had thought he’d be, he sure had a strange way of showing it. He scared me.

  After breakfast, Chief escorted me to the far end of the village where an old man—thought to have extraordinary powers—lived by himself. Believed to have the ability to tap into the spirit realm, this man could cure illnesses, help his people fish, search for whales, and practically anything that needed to be done. He carried a spirit stick—like the wand waved by a medieval wizard—and used it to aid him in performing his magic. The shaman’s stick was even thought to have a personality of its own—able to fly, stand on end, or dance to the beat of drums. Joy had told me this as we washed ourselves that morning before the sun rose, and the knowledge filled me with a nameless dread.

  Now, as I followed Chief down the center of the sprawling village, I sensed the people watching me. I knew they were wondering what made me tick. They were eager to see whether the shaman accepted the “gift” as something good, or saw it as something very ominous. If he thought I was a witch or infected with a bad spirit, or something, then I could very well become one of those slaves needing to be sacrificed. The tension made my stomach roil.

  The shaman waited for us outside his home. As we approached, his beady eyes riveted on me and remained locked in place for several minutes. He didn’t speak, nor did Chief utter a single word. I stood in front of the old man, uncertain whether I was supposed to look him boldly in the eye or avert my eyes demurely. I don’t remember ever being so nervous in my whole life. I licked dry lips and waited for him to say something.

  After gazing at me so long I figured he’d read my mind and soul, and found me lacking, the old shaman lifted his spirit stick and shook it over my head, then to the right and left of my body. All the while he chanted his incantation in a singsong voice that would’ve thrilled me had it been under different circumstances. Both he and Chief looked as though they expected something prophetic to happen. When it didn’t, Chief broke out in a wide smile, while the old man nodded as though to say that everything was all right. I understood that I’d passed the test.

  “She is special…given to you from he who gives generously,” the shaman spoke softly.

  Chief only grunted, gave the old man a curt nod then lifted his chin in the direction of his house. I followed submissively, grateful to see that Joy, her mother, and sister waited for me out in front. Lead Woman seemed relieved when she saw me, as though she’d been worried I might not return.

  Joy clapped her hands. “Han-nah. You are back. The tide is out now and we can go clam digging. I waited for you.”

  I’d been so tense while the shaman made his decision that I felt a little wobbly now that the ordeal was over, but I forced a smile. “Yeah, okay, sounds great. Let’s go.”

  With a wave to Lead Woman, Joy and I—plus a dozen smaller children—trouped down to the beach. The tide was way out, leaving a wide expanse of glistening gray beach; slick, black rocks covered in purple mussels; and mysterious pools, hiding red, orange, and purple sea anemones. It was pristine, clean and beautiful, yet still remote and alien.

  The littlest children hunted for clam holes, squealing when a geyser of water squirted them, indicating the presence of a clam. Blissfully unaware of the wet, gooey mud or the bone-chilling cold of the salt water, the native children dug in earnest. Soon the two baskets we’d brought along were filled with the delicious mollusks.

  Farther and farther down the beach we went, basking in the warmth of the sun caressing our backs and faces. Everyone had a wonderful time and our laughter filled the air. Joy’s younger sister, Little Feather, and her friend chased each other up and down the beach. Their shrill giggles pierced the air. I loved to watch them play their games—games that were not that much different from the ones girls played in my world.

  Joy and I found a sand-smoothed log and sat down to enjoy the sunshine and to watch the antics of the smaller kids with amusement. We started talking about inconsequential things and soon the subject of boys came up. I mentioned the boy who’d been in my math class at school, whom I’d had the crush on, when Joy told me of her upcoming wedding. I was so shocked by this disclosure that I could only stare at her with mouth open.

  “You? You’re getting married? But you’re so young. You’re too young to even be thinking of marriage.” I stammered stupidly.

  “But, Han-nah…I am not. I am older than a lot of girls in my tribe who are married. Clam Girl—you have seen her pounding cedar bark until it is soft enough to make clothing—has been married for two summers and she is the same age as I.”

  “Wow,” I murmured, not sure just how to react. The idea was so foreign to me that I couldn’t begin to identify with her situation. I knew I wouldn’t want to get married this young, even if I had a boy friend.

  “This is our way. I have been preparing for my wedding for some time now. My family has already given me my woman’s things like cooking utensils and several baskets, and his family has been giving him his man’s things. He has two knives and three blankets. You have met him—the young man who carves totems and makes things from wood. His name is He-Sees-Far. Even so young, he is one of the best totem carvers in our village. Soon he will be asked to carve the lower figures and not the ones higher up the pole—the figures no one can see well. He will be important some day.”

  I thought back to all the young people I’d met in the last three days. I remembered him as being short of stature, muscular, and very focused on his work. He was in the process of creating a tall totem to be erected at the edge of town, depicting a particularly profitable whale hunt that certain esteemed men of the tribe had been on. He was working under an older man and was already pretty good even to my untrained eyes.

  “Yeah,” I said thoughtfully, “I remember him. He, uh, seems like a very nice guy. Uh, congratulations.”

  Joy appeared to accept that at face value and beamed at me. Then her eyes jumped from me to something behind me. I turned to see what had caught her attention. It was the young man who’d found the Walkman. He strode toward us—a wide grin on his face. My heart did a curious flip. He fascinated me, and at the same time made me very uneasy. I waited with bated breath until he was no more than a yard from us. He stopped—his legs set a few feet apart—and grinned down at me.

  “So. You are the recipient of a strange gift,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “How has this come to be? My grandfather would speak no words to me when I asked.”

  “Your grandfather? Is the shaman your grandfather?” I asked, forgetting my discomfiture.

&
nbsp; “Yes. My grandfather is a medicine man as was his father before him. I, too, will be a medicine man.” He lifted his chin. “So. You have been given his blessing? He considers your sudden understanding of our tongue to be a rare gift?”

  I just shrugged but Joy smiled, lowered her eyes, and spoke. “Yes. It is a very fine gift and my father is very proud. We do not know how it happened. It just did. We were in the meadow picking berries. Han-nah is special. Do you not think so?”

  He eyed me appraisingly. “Yes, she is special. She is a fine woman. She is tall and strong and has hair the color of autumn grass…or, perhaps, the sun as he rides his canoe high in the sky.”

  This irked me, but for some inane reason, I blushed—which was the last thing on earth I wanted to do in front of this annoying youth. He didn’t miss a thing—sharp as a tack. And now, he grinned down at me like I was a delightful child who’d just lisped out a cute poem.

  I got to my feet, crossed my arms, and looked him straight in the eye—something I wasn’t sure a girl my age was really supposed to do. “So…you’re going to be a medicine man,” I said, hoping to engage him in idle conversation. “That’s great. So, what does your da—uh, father—do? Is he a shaman, too?”

  He frowned slightly. “He was.”

  “Was? He isn’t anymore? What happened?”

  The youth folded his arms across his bare chest and stared at something beyond me. He was looking right through me. When he didn’t answer for the longest time, I glanced nervously at Joy, but she had her eyes cast down as though deep in thought. Figuring I’d broken some social rule by initiating conversation, I was turning away when he spoke.

  “My father…called Man of Many Dreams…went on a spirit quest…and never returned.”

  I whirled back around and looked at him in shock. “Never returned? You mean he just disappeared? Didn’t people go out looking for him? Maybe he twisted his ankle and couldn’t walk or something? Maybe he...”

  “They did. His cloak was found. Nothing else. He has been gone three winters. So I am to be the next shaman. I will follow in my grandfather’s footsteps. I will take up what my father began…and I will finish the journey.”

  I felt so sorry for this young man who stood so proud before me, trying to remain indifferent, stoic, in control. For over a minute we just stood there, saying nothing. Then I remembered what I’d really wanted to ask him. Clearing my throat, I spoke. “I’ve been meaning to ask you a question…now-now that we can understand what one another is saying…”

  “Yes?”

  Suddenly self-conscious, I averted my gaze. “What I want to ask you is, well, where…where did you find that, uh, that box with the buttons on it?”

  “You like the spirit box,” he chuckled.

  “Uh, yeah…yeah, I like it. So, where did you find it?”

  “In the forest…near where the dead tree with two heads lies…” He knew from the quizzical expression on my face that I hadn’t the foggiest what he meant. He laughed. “I will show you if you like.”

  Nodding, I turned to Joy. “Is it all right if he shows me where he found it?”

  “Of course,” she replied. “I will go, too.”

  “Great.” I turned back to face the older boy. “Lead the way, uh, what’s your name, by the way?”

  “My name is Gray Otter.”

  “Gray Otter.” I repeated the name—savoring it on my tongue. These people’s names all had such a musical ring to them; melodious; wildly beautiful like the people, themselves. I smiled shyly up at the youth. “I’m going to call you Gray, if it’s okay with you.”

  He laughed. “You are a strange one, Hannah-who-talks-in-many-tongues.”

  Gray Otter led the way up through the tall shore grasses, across a wide expanse of low shrubbery, to the edge of the thick forest. Wending our way through the trees, we had walked several yards when he suddenly stopped short and pointed. Resting on the ground was a decomposing log with two gigantic wart-like growths on its convoluted bark. I stared at the two humps in awe. They did resemble two heads—complete with mossy hair. I glanced up at Gray, whose eyes riveted on me.

  “This is where you found the Walk—I mean, the box?”

  “Yes. It lay on the ground here.” He pointed with his toe. “I did not know what it was and was hesitant about getting too close.”

  “D-did you see—” I swallowed and chose my words carefully. “Did you see any signs of-of a person having been near here? You know…footprints or…or anything?”

  He eyed me strangely. “No.”

  Pursing my lips, I examined the ground, kicked loose pebbles and fir cones, hoping for a sign that Jonah had been here. To my untrained eyes, it looked like nothing more than plain old ground. Nothing let me know my cousin passed this way. Nothing.

  Oh, Jonah. Where are you? I know you’re somewhere close by or your stupid radio wouldn’t be here…oh, Jonah…Jonah…please be safe…please be here…please let me find you…or you find me…

  There was no point in hanging around this spot. There was nothing to see—no clues to Jonah’s whereabouts. I looked at Joy and shrugged. “Let’s go back to the beach.”

  She nodded. We thanked Gray Otter and headed back toward the wide stretch of pewter-gray sand with its never-ending breakers. A furtive glance over my shoulder let me know that Gray Otter followed us. That annoyed me…a little bit.

  We reached the beach and sat down on our log. We didn’t talk but just basked in the warmth of the sun on our upturned faces and watched the millions of diamonds dance on the rolling combers. Gray Otter didn’t join us on the log. That wouldn’t be seemly. I was learning the ins and outs of these people’s way of life. Older boys and girls didn’t mix unless supervised or courting. Gray Otter was the grandson of a shaman and knew his place. However, he stayed close by—one eye kept on me. He wore a rather serious expression on his lean face. I wondered what he thought about; hoping his apparent pensiveness wasn’t because of what I’d asked back at the two-headed log.

  Just then a loud clamor arose from the children still playing at the water’s edge. The excitement that suddenly lit up Gray’s face made me whirl around and look out to sea. Shading my eyes with a cupped hand, I expected to see something horrible—like maybe a hundred war canoes headed our way. There were canoes, all right, but they weren’t war canoes from some enemy. Two of the village’s long canoes were coming back, hauling a huge whale in their wake.

  Gray lifted an arm and whooped then sprinted up the beach toward the village. I couldn’t help admiring the way his flying feet ate up the distance. Although not overly tall in stature, he was lean and athletic—unlike some of the older men, who appeared squat and fat to me. Gray looked like he could compete in my high school’s cross country team…and take home all the medals. He sure made poor Peter Adamson pale in comparison.

  By now the children jumped up and down, pointing excitedly out to sea. Joy scrambled to her feet. “Oh, look, Han-nah. The men have harpooned a whale. How wonderful. There will be much to sing about tonight. Let us go back to the village and watch.”

  Without waiting for me to reply, Joy called to the little ones and started running up the beach toward home. The children screamed in delight, grabbed the clam baskets, and made a mad dash to catch up with her long strides. I’d no choice but to follow. By the time we reached the village, the canoes were gliding into shore and other men waded out to help drag in the carcass of what had once been a beautiful killer whale. The whalers were singing.

  Whale, I have given you what you wish to get—my good harpoon. Please hold it with your strong hands…Whale, tow me to the beach of my village, for when you come ashore there, young men will cover your great body with blue-bill duck feathers and the down of the great eagle.

  I stood back from those pressing forward to see the butchering. I watched in morbid fascination as one stocky man took his knife and slit open the belly of the magnificent creature, revealing thick, white fat, intestines, and parts I couldn’t ide
ntify. To me, it was the most horrific thing I’d witnessed yet. All I could think about was that this wonderful mammal had been leaping and playing in the ocean only a short while ago, and now lay gutted into a pile of oily pieces. I was going to be sick. I had to leave the scene before I lost my breakfast and all credibility.

  No one paid me the slightest attention as I backed away, turned then sprinted around one of the long houses. I ran past drying racks, skirted a smokehouse, storage sheds, and didn’t stop running until I reached the edge of the forest, where I flopped to the needle-carpeted ground and closed my eyes. I had to will my stomach to stop its roller coaster ride, and suck in deep breaths of woods-spiced air before I could even think about doing anything else.

  Part of me was ashamed. I knew very well that these people didn’t hunt for pleasure—at least, not just for a trophy to be thrown away, or hung on a wall. They used every bit of the whale—the meat, oil, cartilage and bone. It was childish and maudlin of me to take offense. It was their way of life, and I’d no right to judge. But I hadn’t been brought up in their culture, and slaughtering animals as graceful and lovely as the whale bothered me.

  I covered my face with both hands. Everything was so foreign; so utterly bewildering. I was homesick. I wanted—no, needed—to go home, and I hadn’t the slightest idea how. It seemed impossible that I’d been living with these people for only three days. It felt more like a lifetime, and for one panicky moment, I couldn’t even picture my mother’s face. What if I never got home? What if I never got to see my parents again?

  I don’t know how long I sat, face buried in my hands, rocking back and forth in abject misery. I ceased to be aware of time. I was only aware of my acute sense of loss and my deepening depression. Mental images blurred in frenzied competition. I pictured my ninth birthday when I’d gotten a brand new, shiny, cobalt-blue bicycle that had made my brother, Paul, envious. I saw my grandmother decorating gingerbread people—giving them wonderful details like suspenders and apron pockets. And how those cookies had melted in sugary, gingery clouds in your mouth. I remembered my first ferryboat ride on Elliott Bay when I was only four and how the two mountain ranges had stood out so clearly on that beautiful, sunny day, that you felt like you were in Heaven.