grinned and pointed to our well. He had coarse hair hanging to his shoulders; it was unbrushed and his head was bound with a red band. He had wrinkles everywhere, face, hands and clothing. His coat and pants were in tatters. He was brown and dirty all over, but his face was gentle and kind.
Soon I heard the pad-pad of their naked feet on the clay of the path. The water from the boy’s pail slopped in the dust while he stared back at me.
They made tea and ate stuff out of the iron pot; it was fish, I could smell it. The man and the woman sat beside the pot, but the children took pieces and ran up and down eating them.
They had hung a tent from the limb of the old willow tree that lolled over the sand from the bank. The bundles and blankets had been tossed into the tent; the flaps were open and I could see everything lying higgledy-piggledy inside.
Each child ate what he wanted; then he went into the tent and tumbled, dead with sleep, among the bundles. The man, too, stopped eating and went into the tent and lay down. The dog and the cat were curled up among the blankets.
The woman on the beach drew the smouldering logs apart; when she poured a little water on them they hissed. Last of all she too went into the tent with her baby.
The tent fill of sleep greyed itself into the shadow under the willow tree. The wolf’s head of the canoe stuck up black on the beach a little longer; then it faded back and back into the night. The sea kept on going slap-slap-slap over the beach.
S AILING TO Y AN
At the appointed time I sat on the beach waiting for the Indian. He did not come and there was no sign of his boat.
An Indian woman came down the bank carrying a heavy not-walking-age child. A slim girl of twelve was with her. She carried a paddle and going to a light canoe that was high on the sand, she began to drag it towards the sea.
The woman put the baby into the canoe and she and the girl grunted and shunted the canoe into the water, then they beckoned to me.
“Go now,” said the woman.
“Go where?”
“Yan.—My man tell me come take you go Yan.”
“But—the baby—?”
Between Yan and Masset lay ugly waters—I could not—no, I really could not—a tippy little canoe—a woman with her arms full of baby—and a girl child—!
The girl was rigging a ragged flour sack in the canoe for a sail. The pole was already placed, the rag flapped limply round it. The wind and the waves were crisp and sparkling. They were ready, waiting to bulge the sack and toss the canoe.
“How can you manage the canoe and the baby?” I asked the woman and hung back.
Pointing to the bow seat, the woman commanded, “Sit down.”
I got in and sat.
The woman waded out holding the canoe and easing it about in the sand until it was afloat. Then she got in and clamped the child between her knees. Her paddle worked without noise among the waves. The wind filled the flour sack as beautifully as if it had been a silk sail.
The canoe took the water as a beaver launches himself—with a silent scoot.
The straight young girl with black hair and eyes and the lank print dress that clung to her childish shape, held the sail rope and humoured the whimsical little canoe. The sack now bulged with wind as tight as once it had bulged with flour. The woman’s paddle advised the canoe just how to cut each wave.
We streaked across the water and were at Yan before I remembered to be frightened. The canoe grumbled over the pebbly beach and we got out.
We lit a fire on the beach and ate.
The brave old totems stood solemnly round the bay. Behind them were the old houses of Yan, and behind that again was the forest. All around was a blaze of rosy pink fireweed, rioting from the rich black soil and bursting into loose delicate blossoms, each head pointing straight to the sky.
Nobody lived in Yan . Yan’s people had moved to the newer village of Masset, where there was a store, an Indian agent and a church.
Sometimes Indians came over to Yan to
Soon I heard the pad-pad of their naked feet on the clay of the path. The water from the boy’s pail slopped in the dust while he stared back at me.
They made tea and ate stuff out of the iron pot; it was fish, I could smell it. The man and the woman sat beside the pot, but the children took pieces and ran up and down eating them.
They had hung a tent from the limb of the old willow tree that lolled over the sand from the bank. The bundles and blankets had been tossed into the tent; the flaps were open and I could see everything lying higgledy-piggledy inside.
Each child ate what he wanted; then he went into the tent and tumbled, dead with sleep, among the bundles. The man, too, stopped eating and went into the tent and lay down. The dog and the cat were curled up among the blankets.
The woman on the beach drew the smouldering logs apart; when she poured a little water on them they hissed. Last of all she too went into the tent with her baby.
The tent fill of sleep greyed itself into the shadow under the willow tree. The wolf’s head of the canoe stuck up black on the beach a little longer; then it faded back and back into the night. The sea kept on going slap-slap-slap over the beach.
S AILING TO Y AN
At the appointed time I sat on the beach waiting for the Indian. He did not come and there was no sign of his boat.
An Indian woman came down the bank carrying a heavy not-walking-age child. A slim girl of twelve was with her. She carried a paddle and going to a light canoe that was high on the sand, she began to drag it towards the sea.
The woman put the baby into the canoe and she and the girl grunted and shunted the canoe into the water, then they beckoned to me.
“Go now,” said the woman.
“Go where?”
“Yan.—My man tell me come take you go Yan.”
“But—the baby—?”
Between Yan and Masset lay ugly waters—I could not—no, I really could not—a tippy little canoe—a woman with her arms full of baby—and a girl child—!
The girl was rigging a ragged flour sack in the canoe for a sail. The pole was already placed, the rag flapped limply round it. The wind and the waves were crisp and sparkling. They were ready, waiting to bulge the sack and toss the canoe.
“How can you manage the canoe and the baby?” I asked the woman and hung back.
Pointing to the bow seat, the woman commanded, “Sit down.”
I got in and sat.
The woman waded out holding the canoe and easing it about in the sand until it was afloat. Then she got in and clamped the child between her knees. Her paddle worked without noise among the waves. The wind filled the flour sack as beautifully as if it had been a silk sail.
The canoe took the water as a beaver launches himself—with a silent scoot.
The straight young girl with black hair and eyes and the lank print dress that clung to her childish shape, held the sail rope and humoured the whimsical little canoe. The sack now bulged with wind as tight as once it had bulged with flour. The woman’s paddle advised the canoe just how to cut each wave.
We streaked across the water and were at Yan before I remembered to be frightened. The canoe grumbled over the pebbly beach and we got out.
We lit a fire on the beach and ate.
The brave old totems stood solemnly round the bay. Behind them were the old houses of Yan, and behind that again was the forest. All around was a blaze of rosy pink fireweed, rioting from the rich black soil and bursting into loose delicate blossoms, each head pointing straight to the sky.
Nobody lived in Yan . Yan’s people had moved to the newer village of Masset, where there was a store, an Indian agent and a church.
Sometimes Indians came over to Yan to
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