The Faceless One by Mark Onspaugh

he smoked his pipe. Uncle Willhad been dead seven years by then, swept off a fishing boat as he exhorted halibut to the hooks. The village had mourned him three days, and when they returned to the sea, their nets were overflowing. Uncle Will’s last act as shaman had brought them great bounty. Now he smiled at his nephew, then vanished when the fire roared up, its sparks spiraling into the sky like incandescent emissaries.
    Jimmy went to Rose and introduced himself. By then he was a shaman’s nephew but no longer officially a shaman. Times had changed in Yanut; television and radio had convinced many that Science and Technology were the new gods to embrace. Some of the elders still sought him out when they were ill, and he still blessed the one or two boats they asked him to, but mostly he pumped gas at the Esso station two miles out of town. It was steady work and paid enough for him to support a family. Rose shyly held out her hand, clad in one of the mittens. He took it, feeling a charge run through him. She had looked down, blushing, but a smile had crossed her face. Jimmy thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
    After the dance, they had walked together down to the inlet, where trees and waves whispered secrets. He had taken her hand to help her over a large log even though she was as sure-footed as he was. He felt the strength in her hands, the warmth, and wondered what her skin felt like.
    They had married that spring, and the mittens still made him think of her dark, shining hair and laughing eyes. Sometimes, he missed her so much he just lay in the dark and cried.
    He stroked the mitten gently, then wrapped it again in the tissue and put it away.
    Behind all these other treasures was a box roughly a foot square and three inches deep. The art and text on the lid proclaimed that it contained a truss by Halbert and Sons Medical Supply of Whitney, Illinois. It was good for both hernia sufferers and those wishing not to become hernia sufferers, was washable, and guaranteed for five years. The illustration showed a smiling man who seemed to be on his way to win the decathlon although he was only wearing his truss.
    Jimmy had found the box in the Dumpster behind the rest home. He had no need for a truss but thought the box might deter any spies. He climbed down from the chair, placed the box on the bed, and sat down next to it. After glancing guiltily at the door, he opened it.
    Inside the box, cushioned by paper towels, were five bottles of liquor, the small kind you got on airplanes. Three Johnny Walker Red, one Smirnoff, one Bacardi.
    George had snatched these when he had flown to Portland for his brother’s funeral. The flight attendant had been so taken with George that she had left the drink cart unattended to fetch him an extra pillow. George had hurriedly taken fourteen bottles in all. He had wanted to leave money for them, but the flight to Oregon had taken most of his cash. He had stuffed the bottles into his carry-on just before she returned. The only one who had noticed had been a small childof three, who had just goggled at George, then smiled when George had waved at him. The child’s mother had smiled at George, too. George had that effect on people.
    Being a generous man, George had given Jimmy almost half his haul. Jimmy hadn’t begrudged his keeping the two bottles of Chivas and the Tanqueray; hell, most people wouldn’t have even told him about the liquor, let alone shared it.
    Jimmy picked up one of the Johnny Walkers and twisted the cap off. He looked at the door one more time for good measure, then drained half the bottle in one gulp. It burned on the way down, a fire that was both pleasant and familiar. He supposed he had taken to drinking too much after Rose had died. It had been hard to fill up his days once they were empty of her. Sadly, among his people he had been considered a moderate drinker. John Muir had once observed that many of the Tlingit gave literal meaning to