The Cannibal Spirit by Harry Whitehead Page B

question. “Why’re we going to Blunden?”
    â€œGeorge learn many thing of Nakwakto people when he young. He close many people there. George heart in them woods. Hunt for animal there many time. Maybe people see him. Maybe he there in village.” He struck a match and lit his rolled cigarette.
    â€œAnd Francine’s Nakwakto, is she not? I wonder he wouldn’t have mentioned it to her.”
    â€œHe just go. Not speak first. Old George close her brother many year from when he boy. Brother die now. Same everyone. But maybe George go back there remember.” Charley blew a long draft of smoke. “You know old George he paxala?”
    Harry shook his head and shrugged, not knowing what the old man meant.
    â€œMan have medicine. Shaman, Mr. Boas call. George become paxala with Nakwakto. Think George now in land Nakwakto.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œKnow George. He like have power over thing. But cannot have power over death. He not save son, David. Before he try with paxala medicine. Maybe now go think thing from past. Have problem in head about what can or cannot do. Nakwakto—that where George become real Indian first time. Lose white blood. Now go back think about be Indian again.”
    Harry had never thought of Charley having much awareness of the workings of the mind. “You’ve more to you than you show, haven’t you, Charley Seaweed?” he said.
    Charley shrugged. “Or else George go die on sea.” He leaned over the gunnels and spat. “Killing self big thing, now you white fuck men come.”
    Harry angled the Hesperus north toward the thirty miles or so of sea that separated them from Blunden Harbour. He tied off the rudder and stood. “Pull to it,” he said. “We’re as well to raise sail, with the wind so fair on our quarter. You’re not just here as guide. You can labour too. And I’ll be pleased if you’ll throw me back my baccy.”
    Charley pulled it from his pocket. He smiled. “Nice box,” he said and tossed it back.
    The sky stayed clear and the wind still in the south and west. They made the deep inlet, at the entrance of which lay Blunden Harbour, in five hours, much of it with the tide. Harry had been here some six weeks before, trading.
    Twelve houses stood against the forest’s looming spruce and cedar. Several were the newer, smaller framed houses of the white man’s design. There was evidence of the modern world in the milled lumber and the glass windows of many of the houses, even here in one of the more remote Kwagiulth villages. With the tide in, there was no beach. The houses were stilted, built out over the shingle itself where it sloped so steeply into the water. A plankway ran along in front of the houses, and here and there along it, steps led down to the water.
    As they drew closer, Harry watched to see if he could make out George’s canoe among the many others tied against the steps. But all the designs along their sides were of wolf and bear and seal, and nowhere could he see the killer whale.
    â€œNot have George canoe,” said Charley.
    â€œWe’ll tie off before the house of Chief Walewid,” Harry said.
    â€œBlack-soul,” Charley muttered. He walked forward to get the mooring rope. “Better we speak Cousin Yagis.”
    â€œNo trade this time,” shouted Chief Walewid from his doorway as Harry leapt from the Hesperus to the steps in front of the chieftain’s house. The young man emerged into the light, black squinting eyes and jagged yellow teeth. He leaned against the totem pole out front, bare but for the wolf’s head high at its apex. “Too much trade already with you, Fat Harry. Go fuck off. Come back few months.”
    â€œCan we moor here the evening then, Chief? Visit with the people of our clan?”
    â€œNo white man clan here.” He spat down into the water, insolently close past Harry’s feet.
    â€œYoh,”