Where the River Takes Me Read online

  I wonder if the Chief Factors in this district are awarded 12 beaver tails as they are in the Saskatchewan District. Father loved when Mr. Rowand received his tails, for he shared with the other officers. Eugh, I can taste the gristle just thinking of beaver tails.

  Lucy has said nothing more about accompanying me on my next Adventure. She may have forgotten, or perhaps she was not serious. I am relieved.

  The wind today is driving the smoke from the camas fires right over the Fort. My nose won’t stop twitching.

  Thursday, September 5th

  Another outing with Rev. Staines, a walk around James Bay to Laurel Point, a place where I had not yet been, and we left right after Supper — only a few of us — Sarah, Lucy, Eliza, James, Alec and Thomas. Radish called us a bunch of chowderheads, spending time with Rev. S when we didn’t have to.

  I thought the same, but an outing was an outing and, since the wind was blowing in a different direction, we were not bothered by smoke.

  And Rev. Staines was different — pointing out plants and trees and little creatures and telling us their names (like slugs, eughh!). I was afraid he’d get so carried away with Nature Studies we would not even make it to the head of the Bay, let alone to Laurel Point. But we did!

  We had a fine view from the Point, for we could look across the water at the Songhees village and down the harbour toward the Fort. There is an abundance of laurel trees — Rev. Staines said some people call them arbutus — and they shed their bark. It is a reddish-brown colour that peels off like paper, and curls! We all had to try it, and Alec stuck a few rolled-up curls behind his ears. The bare trunk is a deep orangey-gold. It feels cool and smooth to the touch.

  Laurel Point is also called Deadman’s Point, because it’s a Songhees cemetery. There are four carved wooden figures there, as large as life, standing side by side overlooking the water, as if they are guarding the entrance to the harbour. Perhaps they mark the graves of powerful chiefs!

  Rev. Staines told us we would stop there a while, as he wanted to make some jottings in his notebook. The boys were scrambling on the beach looking for crabs, the girls were watching them and I sat on a large rock jutting into the water just a little ways beyond.

  I had no sooner sat down than I heard someone call my name. I spun around and saw Kwetlal and an older boy paddling a canoe. They were coming from the entrance to the harbour and were on their way home when Kwetlal spotted me and came over.

  I had seen the boy before, fishing for herring, and when Kwetlal introduced us I learned that he is her brother. Try as I might, I could not pronounce his Songhees name, so he said I could call him Jimmy. He paddles for the men at the Fort sometimes, and that’s what they call him. His father and uncle work as paddlers too, along with others in the village, and that is how they know a little English. As usual, our “conversation” involved gestures and guesswork, but I think I understood well enough. Jimmy’s smattering of English was a big help.

  By now the others had seen the canoe and were throwing curious looks in our direction — including Rev. Staines — so I joined them as Kwetlal and Jimmy paddled away.

  Our walk back was faster, for the sun was going down and Rev. S was anxious to reach the Fort before dark. He even let some of us run on ahead.

  And now the sun is down, and Mrs. Staines will be here at any moment, telling us to put out our candles. Time for one last sentence — Laurel Point is a good place to wave across to the village because Kwetlal or Jimmy might spot me and wave back. What a glorious outing!

  Friday, September 6th

  More jam, but from a new tin. The other has gone missing.

  Alec and Davy have been trading some of their belongings. The other day I saw them on the beach with some herring fishermen and watched them trade a hat and something else for a string of dried clams and some herring. And yesterday I saw them with Mr. Beauchamp — even though Rev. Staines ordered us not to go near the smithy on account of his “filthy tongue” — and as I was walking by, I happened to see Mr. Beauchamp handing Davy a musket and some ammunition. I did not see what Mr. Beauchamp got in return — a trifle, I expect, for the musket looked very old and rusty. But the boys looked pleased. Until they saw me.

  I smiled and looked the other way.

  Saturday, September 7th

  I walked to Laurel Point this morning and there was Kwetlal! She was already on this side of the harbour and had seen me coming. One of her tasks is to collect herring eggs, and she does it in a clever way. Since the fish like to lay their eggs on branches, she weights cedar branches with stones, sinks them into shallow water and leaves them overnight. In the morning, she pulls up the branches and collects the eggs! I helped her wash the eggs into baskets and reset the branches, and later, in the village (yes, I went to the village!), I helped squeeze the eggs into balls to be dried.

  Her village is different from the Cree camps, for there are no ponies and their shelters are not buffalo-hide tipis that can be taken down and moved when the buffalo move on, but enormous lodges made of giant cedar planks and lined with woven cedar mats. The centre of the lodge is the common area, and the rest is divided into compartments, each with its own fire. Their sleeping platforms are placed one above the other, a little like the hammocks on the Cadboro, but not likely to rock!

  Brown dogs were sleeping or running loose throughout the village, and I did not see any of the woolly white ones. I asked Kwetlal about this through a mixture of words and actions — in this case saying “woolly white dogs,” pointing to the white in my dress and howling. She found this very funny, but understood all right, and took me to the enclosure I had seen from the water the day I arrived. There was only one dog inside, not four, as I’d seen that day, and after I made a show of counting and looking puzzled, Kwetlal pointed in the direction of the strait, mimed the action of paddling, and howled in her turn. Fortunately I remembered what Mr. Douglas had said about the wool dogs being kept on a nearby island, away from the other dogs. Otherwise I might have thought that they had been taken to the mainland.

  It is very frustrating to be unable to speak like we normally would, but our way seems to be working out, especially since she knows a few English words. And our game of acting out meanings is entertaining, not only for us but for anyone else who happens to be around.

  I saw her grandmother again today, and met her mother and a few other relatives. The men and older boys were out fishing or hunting, or had gone up the coast to trade with other tribes. Some boys, like Jimmy, were off harpooning seals.

  Kwetlal showed me a basket she was weaving, using the soft inner bark of red and yellow cedar. She explained that it took a long time to train her fingers to weave tightly enough so that the baskets could hold water and hot stones, for they are used for cooking fish.

  A lot of women were wearing HBCo blankets over their shoulders, and here’s something curious — I think I saw Maggie’s blue sash! A girl had it tied around her waist, but as she was on the far side of someone’s lodge I did not see it clearly. If it was Maggie’s, how did the girl come to have it? Not from the Trade Store, for such a sash is not a trade item. Unless one of our boys took it and used it for his own trading? Ahh! Is this why things are disappearing? I suspect it is! If this were my Novel I would boldly confront the ringleader — Davy, I think — and haul him off to the Chief Factor for punishment. Why, Davy is a bit like Fagin in Oliver Twist, who orders poor orphans like Oliver to break into houses and pick pockets.

  This is only speculation — a regular Misdemeanor, it seems — and I would never accuse someone without proof. Except in a Novel.

  Back to the Songhees village. The best thing about my visit to what Mrs. Staines calls “forbidden territory” was paddling the canoe. I loved the feel of the paddle and the way it cuts into the water, though it has a different feel than the lighter paddle I used in Fort Edmonton. But our canoes were lighter altogether — they were not made from the trunks of cedar trees!

  Mostly everyone in the village was occ
upied with camas bulbs in one way or another. Some were putting red-hot stones into an enormous pit and covering them with dry grass. Others were at another pit, putting baskets of bulbs — hundreds of bulbs! — on top of the grass and covering it with branches and soil and old cedar mats. One of the women made a hole in the earth, poured in water, and plugged the hole so that the water would seep through to the bulbs and steam them. Kwetlal gave me a cooked bulb to try. It was dark brown and soft, and tasted sweet. I liked it so much I had some more.

  Kwetlal said it takes a couple of days for the bulbs to cook. A long time to wait if you wanted to poison someone. If the Villain in my Novel decides to use the death camas, I will make sure he has a cooked supply on hand.

  Later

  Paddling back to Laurel Point might have been the best part of my visit, but the very best part was making Soopolallie, which you make with a bright orange-red berry that’s also called soopolallie. Kwetlal had found enough late berries to fill a basket, and it was my good fortune to be there when she was planning to make the treat. She even let me help! We used sturdy green leaves from a bush called salal as our whipping tools, added a bit of water, and whipped the berries until they foamed into a salmon-coloured froth. It was almost too pretty to eat! Kwetlal’s mother added some sugar she’d got from the Trade Store, but the soopolallie still tasted bitter. I didn’t mind, for it felt light and frothy on my tongue. Light in my stomach, too, almost as if I’d swallowed air. Soopolallie! Even the name sounds light and frothy.

  Sunday, September 8th

  Cook is in a foul temper because yesterday another tin of jam was stolen, and it was opened but two days ago. We had treacle for Breakfast, with sour faces.

  My day worsened after Breakfast, for Kwetlal had not warned me of the effects of eating camas. So all day I have been passing wind.

  The ordeal began during Rev. S’s sermon when Radish whispered, “Who farted?”

  No mystery there, for my face must have looked as red and hot as it felt. The girls held their noses and moved as far from me as they could, and the boys did the same, covering their mouths to hold in the giggles.

  Rev. Staines tried (unsuccessfully) to keep his nose from twitching. Mrs. Staines scowled and raised her handkerchief to her face, but what could I do?

  After Service Mrs. Staines took me aside and asked what I had eaten to cause such misery (hers or mine?).

  I told her it could have been the herrings we had for Supper, but was more likely the treacle at Breakfast. My stomach has grown used to the jam, I said, and was not happy with treacle, and was it not fortunate that no one else was afflicted?

  She said, “Thank the Lord for small mercies.”

  I keep wondering about the Jam Thief. Is he one of us? Or one of the workers, or one of the canadien children, or an officer? It could be anyone. I have seen the pantry off the kitchen, and it would be easy enough to slip inside. I might have done so myself had I thought of it, or been so inclined.

  Monday, September 9th

  Mr. Durham came into the schoolroom (during Latin) and told us that several items have gone missing from the Company Store.

  “We didn’t do it,” Radish blurted out.

  “No one’s accusing you,” said Mr. Durham. He only wanted to know if any of us had been outside last night, and if we had seen anything suspicious. No one had.

  Some of us asked questions so he would stay longer — we had already missed a good part of Latin! — but Rev. Staines saw what we were up to and put an end to it by saying we must not keep Mr. Durham from his work.

  There was a search throughout the Fort but nothing has been found. Who can this daring thief be? First the dormitories, then the pantry and now the Company Store! It could be Mr. Douglas’s office next.

  If Suzanne were here we would sneak out at night and lie in wait and catch the thief red-handed. That would be an Adventure!

  The air is still a bit smoky, but not as much as before.

  Tuesday, September 10th

  Jam at Breakfast! Cook showed mercy and opened another tin.

  Later

  Another treat today!

  A Company ship arrived from the Sandwich Islands after making a stop at San Francisco, and at Supper we were given an orange, the first I have ever tasted. It was sweet, juicy and tangy and I wanted to make it last and last and last. I put a bit of the peel inside Nokum’s pouch so I can smell it and remember the taste.

  Wednesday, September 11th

  Sarah has just announced that the man who stole from the Company Store has been caught. The items were found in the men’s barracks, stashed with the culprit’s belongings. He is a canadien and will be punished tomorrow.

  I asked her about the jam and “our” missing items but they did not turn up. Which means the other thief is still at large.

  Thursday, September 12th

  The thief was flogged this morning. Alec, Davy, etc. went down to the jetty to watch and told us — in gruesome detail — how the man was stripped and bound to a post and flogged with a cat-o’-nine-tails.

  They were late coming into class and Rev. Staines was furious when he found out the reason. He gave them a lecture on cruelty — he, of all people — and kept them in for the rest of the day. If he becomes the Villain in my Novel I will have him stripped and flogged without mercy.

  I have been trying to behave better in school. Trying not to squirm, yawn, sigh, groan, fidget, mutter, frown, scowl, argue, daydream, whisper, mutter, hum, turn around, look sideways — but it is impossible. My head turns on its own, my face shows my feelings, the hums slip out without my permission — I am like Davy that morning in church, when he said, “It wasn’t me tapping, it was my fingers.”

  My tongue is swollen, the number of times I have bitten it to keep quiet, but I cannot control the expressions on my face. The Spy in my Novel will need more self-control than I have, to keep his thoughts and feelings — and secrets — hidden.

  Friday, September 13th

  I was in the yard after morning class when Lucy grabbed my arm and pulled me over to the other girls. “Tell them what you told me, Jenna,” she said. “About the camas poison.”

  Before I could utter a word Lucy was telling them herself.

  “Where did you learn that?” said Eliza.

  “She learned from the Indians,” said Maggie.

  Then the questions began. Jenna, are you making friends with the Indians? … Do you like them better than us? … It’s not very English of you — don’t you like being English? … The time we went to Laurel Point, were you talking to the girl in the canoe? … Have you gone to their village?

  “No!” I said, but they didn’t believe me.

  We can tell by your face, Jenna. You know you’re not allowed to go to the village … If Mrs. Staines finds out … Why do you like them better than us? and so on, and I was fumbling for an answer when the bell rang for Dinner.

  I hoped that would be the end of it but, later on, Lucy took me aside and said, “You have been to the village, haven’t you? You’ll be caned if Rev. Staines finds out. Or Mrs. Staines.”

  “They won’t find out,” I said. “Not unless you tell them.”

  “I won’t tell,” she said. “If you do something for me in return. Remember when you promised to take me on your next adventure?”

  I had not promised, but was not about to argue.

  Well, she said she had been waiting for me to give the word, and was hurt that I had gone to the village without her. So tomorrow she wants me to take her on an Adventure. Not to the village but somewhere else.

  Das, dat, damus! I told her one little fact about camas and now it’s a big bother. Was I boasting about the poison? Was it pride that made me tell her?

  Yes, says Aunt Grace in my mind. And she’s right. I was proud, for I finally had the chance to tell Lucy something that wasn’t about Fort Edmonton, and I thought that if she saw me as an interesting person she would like me.

  It won’t be such a hardship to take h
er tomorrow, I suppose. Though I have no idea where we will go.

  What bothers me now is the way I kept saying no, as if I were ashamed of liking Kwetlal or going to the village, etc. The only reason I didn’t answer truthfully was for fear of being punished. Then I would never be allowed to do anything adventurous or interesting on my own.

  Until this happened, Maggie and Sarah and the rest have been friendlier —

  I just thought of something. They must like me a little, because why else would they care where I went or what I did?

  Oh here I go again, thinking and speculating too much.

  The air has been free of smoke these last few days.

  Saturday, September 14th

  If this were a chapter in my Novel I would call it An Eventful Day of Stolen Jam, Burnt Potatoes and Bloody Noses!

  So, to begin.

  At Breakfast, Cook announced that there will be no more jam until the thief is caught and punished. No jam for Gov. Blanshard or Mr. Douglas or Mrs. Staines, or for anyone. The fourth tin has now gone missing and he is not opening another until the matter is solved. Because if he does, and they keep on disappearing, there will be no tins left and we will be forced to wait until the next ship arrives with provisions and that could take another year. And we boarders need not think we are being treated more harshly than the others — “’Tis true,” he says, “you lot have been grumbling the loudest about unfair treatment” — because everyone has to go without, etc. etc. He did go on!

  Well Lucy was ready to set out on our Adventure the moment we were excused from the table, and we left the Fort by the East Gate. At the time I did not know where we were going, only that it would not be to the village or to my Lookout, but we could start by going to Beacon Hill and maybe an idea would present itself. Sure enough, it did, for when we got to the hill we saw some of the boys! They were just beginning to go down to the beach, following the same trail I discovered the first week I was here. “Let’s spy on the boys!” I said, and Lucy was more than eager.