|
Scene #93
Prologue
His mind going no further than the river's song, Troy
Cougar concentrated on the wooden shaft, bone barb, and length of
rope clutched in his hand. He sat cross legged on the ground, his
legs protected from pine needles and twigs by jeans. His shoulders
were covered with an eighty year old cedar-bark cape smelling of
forest and age. Although the Wolf Clan met just once a year
where the river fed into the ocean, he never forgot his role in the
ancient ritual. Securing the bone barb to the wooden shaft, he
held his handmade harpoon up for the others to see. "Laxgebu,
Wolf People, once again we come to the Mother River to celebrate
the return of the salmon. As our ancestors did, so do we give
thanks." Chief Mokwina, Troy's father, held out his hand to
receive the small harpoon. Then he lifted it toward the early
morning sun. "Laxgebu, Wolf People," the older man began.
"The first salmon rite is as old as the river, ancient as the
ocean. We are here to continue that tradition and to thank the
salmon who sacrifice themselves for us. We take the gift of their
bodies in gratitude because the salmon is immortal and if offended,
may not return. May seek vengeance." His eyes, dimmed from
cataracts, flashed with passion. "The salmon must be honored.
Although much has changed since our Tsimghian, Nootkan, and Yuron
ancestors walked this land, what they honored must not die. This
is why we are here, not just to walk in the past but to fight for
the future." As his father began the legend of how human-salmon
were responsible for the well-being of generations of North Pacific
Coast Indians, Troy rested his hands on his knees. In a few
minutes, he'd wade into the river and stand there until a salmon
swam close enough to spear. Then his father would sprinkle it with
eagle down, roast, and share it with all members of the Wolf Clan.
His people had always participated in the ritual, and the salmon
had always returned. Only, ritual was no longer enough.
Uneasy, Troy straightened. Beside him lay the wooden
trumpet-like instrument his great grandfather had made. When he
blew on it, the sound would echo a wolf's cry until the ageless
reverberations became part of him. At a signal from his father,
he stood and fixed his attention on the forest. For no longer than
a heartbeat he thought he saw something red and glowing like the
eyes of a wild animal. Then he settled the cape around his
shoulders and held the trumpet to his lips. The single note,
deep-bellied and full, rose, held. In his mind he saw it drift
through the tree-coated hills and slide out over the ocean.
For as long as the sound lasted, he would think of nothing
except the power of his clan's guardian spirit. And after that?
He was Chief Mokwina's eldest son. He had to do something or
the salmon would disappear from the river just as the wolf had been
driven from the forest. He had to fight the enemy and protect
tradition with today's weapons, not ancient ritual. CHAPTER
ONE Sweat. Sweat from too many bodies crammed into too
little space. The stench filled Nicole Horton's senses and made
her crave fresh air. Outside, the storm threw its strength against
the building's west wall. Rain hit the window with cracks so sharp
she thought the old glass would shatter. Still, this was the
northern Oregon coast, a place accustomed to powerful winds and
urgent rain. No one else in the packed school auditorium seemed
concerned about the old structure, and except for her and her
superior and maybe the two reporters, they were all locals. They'd
know if the little town of Wolf Bay was in danger of being pummeled
out of existence. But would these hostile people tell her?
Beal Jacobs, looking remote and authoritative in his navy blue
suit with the red power tie, hadn't moved in the past five minutes,
but she sensed that underneath he boiled. A slightly built man
with thinning hair whose name escaped her held up a watch. "That's
your time, Clyde," the hearings officer said, his eyes not on the
object of his comment but the nearly two hundred people hunched on
folding metal chairs. "You want to leave your map with Mr.
Jacobs?" "Don't bother." Beal's mouth barely moved. "The
thing's not drawn to scale and doesn't show any topographic
features. It's all but useless." "The hell it is," Clyde
spluttered. He jabbed a thick finger at what he'd sketched on a
piece of typing paper. "That's my place. Right there not more 'n
a half mile from the river. I'm affected. I don't want you
forgettin' that. I'm affected." "I'm aware of that." Beal
sounded both weary and angry, tones so unlike him that Nicole all
but forgot the used-up air and storm trying to batter its way
inside. "You said so at least three times. How many more are set
to speak? It's getting late." He was right. It would soon be
night. Between the insufficient lights and blue-black clouds,
Nicole could barely make out those in the back rows. Still, she
wished Beal had kept irritation and impatience out of his voice.
This day-long hearing on reaction to a resort a group of investors
wanted to build along the Spruce River was vitally important to
these people. They'd trooped into the elementary school early this
morning, voices hard with determination, eyes cold and distrusting
of the officer from the Northwest Fisheries Council and her, his
assistant. No wonder. She and Beal were undoubtedly seen as
part of a massive bureaucracy forcing its impersonal weight on the
isolated community. The residents, most of them Native American,
wanted nothing to do with anything that smacked of Big Brother
which for as long as she stuck with this job she was.
| 
