West Of Here Part 2

crooked thumb DECEMBER 1889 1889.

From the mouth of the Elwha to the base of the foothills, the settlers trail cut a muddy, circuitous path through a dark tangle of vine maple and alder. The path was rutty and obscure in places but relatively free of downed timber, and Ethan soon shook the chill of dawn as he scooted on his way toward the unknown. Occasionally he'd pa.s.s a claim, marked by a small clearing and a crude cabin, but never any sign of life. The land grab had begun. Men were claiming land but not making the requisite improvements, and Ethan knew well that he would have been within his rights to squat on these claims and call them his own. But he saw nothing in the periphery of these wooded bottomlands to inspire a claim. The timber was inexhaustible, and the river was close at hand to move it, but Ethan longed for something grander than timber.

In spite of a rather limp mustache and a watch-sized blister on the ball of his right foot, Ethan met the first leg of his journey with the ease of a purposeful stride. Neither the dank light of the understory, sodden and brittle with winter, nor the squelchy ground beneath his feet could temper Ethan's optimism. Twice the trail met with the confluence of a small stream, and on both occasions a tree had been felled for the purpose of crossing.

At mile four, Indian George Sampson had a claim in a small meadow along the near bank where the river ran wide. Unable to ford the high water, Ethan drank coffee with the old Indian in the murky light of the cabin, where he soon deduced that Indian George did not share his love of easy conversation. But at the very least the old fellow seemed to endure it with a certain enthusiasm, frequently nodding and raising an eyebrow on occasion. When Sampson did speak, the Salish was to Ethan an indecipherable cascade of sharp syllables, mostly with q qs and k ks, and Ethan found himself nodding his own head and raising his eyebrows. In the end, resorting to crude pantomime, Ethan was able to elicit George's aid in crossing the river by canoe, only to discover during their crossing that the old man was not only in possession of a considerable store of the Queen's English but was in fact a formidable conversationalist, inquiring as to the progress of the opera house being erected next to the colony hotel, the railroad said to be soon arriving from the east (in spite of their vacant offices), and the great fire that was said to have consumed the white man's settlement in Seattle.

"Why didn't you say anything before?"

George shrugged. The slightest of smiles played at the corners of his mouth. "You didn't ask."

On the far bank, Ethan left George with a handshake and some soggy biscuits. The old Indian gratefully accepted this bounty, which he would soon pa.s.s on to the boy, who would refuse the boat and swim across the river clutching the biscuits above the water.

With a final wave to George, Ethan reshifted his load, hefted his new rifle, and proceeded upriver along the left bank until he picked up the trail. As he began to gain elevation, the path diverged from the river and the ground was mottled with snow. The understory thinned out considerably, allowing the eye to penetrate further into the wooded interior up the hill. The sound of the river grew fainter as Ethan plodded on, preceded by the fog of his own breath.

On the far side of the first rise, Ethan met with a swamp, where, from the higher vantage of a rotting cedar, he paused to smoke his pipe and chart the least treacherous crossing. Three days later, Mather's mules, Dolly and Daisy, each cinched up to the tune of two hundred pounds, would bay miserably at the prospect of this crossing and would eventually become hopelessly mired, unburdened of their loads, and finally extracted, forcing the party to circ.u.mnavigate the swamp by a steep overland route, adding a half day to their journey. Ethan considered such an option but decided to meet the challenge head-on in spite of the chill.

He removed his socks and trousers, replacing his boots on his bare feet. Shivering, he refastened his bundle, and set off in his underwear to conquer the soggy terrain. He soon found himself mired in bog water well past the knee, his boot heels heavy with the suck of mud, pulling himself along by the limbs of bare alders.

As he mucked his way through the swamp, his body grew warm from the effort. He found his thoughts ungovernable. Flashes of Eva and the baby (a son, G.o.d willing, to whom he would a.s.sign the name Ethan Eben or perhaps Ethan Allen), flashes of a life yet to be lived, a bounty to be plucked out of the wilderness for the taking. And no rustic life, either - no buckskin jackets and boiled hams, but a life with electricity and running water and chamber music by firelight, a life of consequence, of virtue and good fishing, a life of ever-perpetuating golden opportunities. And maybe a saloon. Why not? Tasteful, of course, nothing Eva would object to. Just a piano player and a civil game of poker. And maybe the occasional pleasure of a whiskey or a half bucket of beer. Everything in moderation, of course.

Ah, but who was he kidding? What did he know of moderation? When had he ever capitalized on opportunities? An inventory of his life would show that he'd squandered opportunities at every pa.s.s - his education, his trade, every chance he ever had of winning the heart of the woman he loved. Eva was right. He did not inspire confidence.

This self-doubt was short-lived, as Ethan emerged from these ruminations at the head of a canyon in a small, clear meadow, just as the sun darted out from between clouds. From this vista he could see straight up the gut of the valley and over the foothills to the rugged snow clad peaks of the divide, where a marooned cloud bank unfurled its wispy arm into the valley. A hundred feet below him, the Elwha thundered through a narrow channel of mossy rock.

Ethan stood in his boots and his jacket and his muddy underwear on a rock spur jutting out over edge of the narrow abyss, and the hairs of his legs stood on end as though electrified. Here was something grand beyond all expectation. Transfixed by the raging flash of the river, he felt the thunder of it in his chest as it vibrated up through the rock. He felt the wild brute force of it in his spirit.

ALL AFTERNOON THE BOY could hear the determined thud of Ethan's ax reports echoing through the little valley, along with the crackle and peel of felled timber and the snow-m.u.f.fled blow as it settled to earth. He watched from the wood line as Ethan dragged each length across the meadow through the snow to the bluff, where he cleared a level spot of snow and began notching saddles in the wood. He worked like a white man. He threw himself headlong at a job as if were he to stop the job would throw itself headlong back at him. could hear the determined thud of Ethan's ax reports echoing through the little valley, along with the crackle and peel of felled timber and the snow-m.u.f.fled blow as it settled to earth. He watched from the wood line as Ethan dragged each length across the meadow through the snow to the bluff, where he cleared a level spot of snow and began notching saddles in the wood. He worked like a white man. He threw himself headlong at a job as if were he to stop the job would throw itself headlong back at him.

And it did. For Thomas heard the plaintive cries of agony and the tide of invectives aimed at heaven when Ethan crushed his thumb wrestling a log into place. The thumb began to swell immediately. Ethan packed it in snow as best he could and cursed himself at length as he leaned against his new home: half a cabin, twenty feet square, three logs high. The thunder of the Elwha was just loud enough to drown out the dull throbbing of his thumb, just hypnotic enough to set his mind wandering again into the future.

Ethan Eben. Ethan Allen. A fine boy, either way. From good hardy stock. Thornburgh and Lambert. A boy to make his father proud, a boy to set upon his shoulder, a boy to watch him shave, to walk at his side, a boy with whom to fish the chill paradise of these mountain waters. A boy he could guide with the steady hand of experience, through the labyrinthine complexities of life, so that he could avoid his father's folly, absolve his father's failures, and rise to the top of the heap. And he would build that boy into a man, and n.o.body would ever call that man small or petty or mean.

Compared to a son, a broken thumb was nothing.

THOMAS SQUATTED IN the hollow of a b.u.t.tressed cedar. Sixteen was the number of trees that were not cedars. One was pointing its finger. Thomas tried not to stare at this one. The sound of the river began with a roar and ended with a hiss, and the sounds were perfectly balanced to Thomas's ears, but he wished he could hear more hiss. He wanted to be the hollow of a b.u.t.tressed cedar. Sixteen was the number of trees that were not cedars. One was pointing its finger. Thomas tried not to stare at this one. The sound of the river began with a roar and ended with a hiss, and the sounds were perfectly balanced to Thomas's ears, but he wished he could hear more hiss. He wanted to be in in the hiss, so he made his way down the hill to the mouth of the canyon, where he met the shallow bank and followed the river around the rugged tangle of a bend that was not yet called Crooked Thumb. Here the river eddied and swirled and hissed, and the roar was further off up the canyon where it belonged. the hiss, so he made his way down the hill to the mouth of the canyon, where he met the shallow bank and followed the river around the rugged tangle of a bend that was not yet called Crooked Thumb. Here the river eddied and swirled and hissed, and the roar was further off up the canyon where it belonged.

Thomas squatted on a smooth wet rock until dusk, fingering water-filled dimples in the surface of the stone, tickling the moss with his toes, and listening for voices in the hiss as his lips moved silently over words that came out of nowhere. His grandfather swore that the silent words were stories trying to get out. Indian George Sampson said they were spirit voices whispering inside of him. Thomas did not question the meaning of the words. The words were to the boy like a clock ticking inside of him, marking the days of his life, so that looking back, these days were not invisible, they were a record, a history, a proof. The Potato Counter had his books full of numbers and schedules. Thomas had his silent words.

LEANING AGAINST THE half cabin, Ethan's body grew cold with inactivity, and his teeth began to clatter as dusk settled in. He set to work making camp with his good hand. Finding no shortage of dead-fall along the wooded fringes, mostly alder and spruce, he soon dried his boots and warmed his aching thumb by a raging fire. He used his last biscuit to make a poultice with snow water; he battered his hand with it and wrapped it in a sock so he wouldn't have to look at it. And again it was not long before he forgot the injury altogether beneath the roar of the Elwha. When he was no longer certain whether he was asleep or awake, he made a bed of spruce boughs inside his roofless cabin and lay on his back exhausted but not beleaguered. Aching but not miserable. Half asleep but fully awake to all of life's possibilities. half cabin, Ethan's body grew cold with inactivity, and his teeth began to clatter as dusk settled in. He set to work making camp with his good hand. Finding no shortage of dead-fall along the wooded fringes, mostly alder and spruce, he soon dried his boots and warmed his aching thumb by a raging fire. He used his last biscuit to make a poultice with snow water; he battered his hand with it and wrapped it in a sock so he wouldn't have to look at it. And again it was not long before he forgot the injury altogether beneath the roar of the Elwha. When he was no longer certain whether he was asleep or awake, he made a bed of spruce boughs inside his roofless cabin and lay on his back exhausted but not beleaguered. Aching but not miserable. Half asleep but fully awake to all of life's possibilities.

ETHAN STIFFENED UPON hearing the first holler, for that's what it sounded like, a deep holler, or a howl, clearly audible over the rushing Elwha. Then a series of whoops not unlike an owl's. They seemed to originate from the far side of the chasm, somewhere up the hillside. After the second holler, he bolted upright beneath his wool blanket. But it was not until the third call garnered a surly response from the near side of the chasm that Ethan found himself clutching the Winchester in his good hand. hearing the first holler, for that's what it sounded like, a deep holler, or a howl, clearly audible over the rushing Elwha. Then a series of whoops not unlike an owl's. They seemed to originate from the far side of the chasm, somewhere up the hillside. After the second holler, he bolted upright beneath his wool blanket. But it was not until the third call garnered a surly response from the near side of the chasm that Ethan found himself clutching the Winchester in his good hand.

He sat rigid and silent for the better part of a half hour, as the two calls volleyed back and forth over the chasm, drawing closer to one another as they moved downriver, until it seemed the near call came from no more than fifty feet directly behind Ethan on the bluff, and its counterpart answered from just over the gap. Ethan took the sock off his hand and eased his head up over the log wall like a prairie dog, leveling his rifle at the night. He heard what sounded like guttural voices whispering in tongues all about him in the canyon, a confusion of voices that seemed at once to circle the canyon and the inside of his head, and he wondered again whether he was asleep or awake, until he heard something large clatter through the nearby brush on a downriver course. And in that moment, Ethan felt the pale flame in his stomach flicker.

He had a good mind to squeeze off a blind round into the night, to dispatch a thunderclap of human braggadocio and send it echoing through the valley like a challenge, but somehow he could not summon the nerve. Instead, he coaxed the glowing coals and fed them until they raged, then squatted by the glow of the fire, holding his rifle. Never had Ethan felt quite so alive.

becoming DECEMBER 1889 1889.

On the eve of the party's final ascent to base camp, where they would cache the last of their supplies before taking aim at the rugged interior, Mather and his men enjoyed venison steaks at the Olympic before crossing the muddy hogback to the colony for a night of theater at the Pioneer, where a certain burlesque musical extravaganza - having enjoyed its inauspicious debut at Wallack's Lyceum Theatre some four decades prior - enjoyed a warm reception from colonists and a few Port Bonitans alike.

At intermission, Eva and Mather retired to the drafty foyer, where a twelve-piece cornet band honked its way through the "Washington Post March," moving Mather to comment that the band sounded a bit ga.s.sy tonight. a bit ga.s.sy tonight.

"You seem amused by our efforts, Mr. Mather," said Eva.

"I confess, I am slightly. While I admire the spirit of it, I really do, I just think that ..."

"And what spirit is that?"

Mather took a quick inventory of his general surroundings. The plank floor protested beneath his shifting weight. "Optimism, I suppose."

Eva found herself appraising Mather's beard, and the dirt caked beneath his fingernails, and for no reason at all she thought of Ethan. "The opera house will be on a much grander scale," she a.s.sured him.

"That's not what I mean," said Mather.

"What do you mean, then?"

"I see a general lack of organization at work here. I see women, children, and tradesmen, but I don't see anyone swinging an ax. I see them painting landscapes. I should think that before I put up an opera house, I'd put that mill to better purpose and get some industry in place. And I'd do something about those natives. They may look it, but they're not beaten yet."

"We're not trying to beat them, Mr. Mather."

"What, then? Join them?"

"They may join us, if they wish. Or we can simply coexist."

Mather smiled. "Nice of you to think so." Against his will, his gaze wandered again to Eva's swollen belly, which never failed to stir and confuse him.

Equally stirred and confused, Eva pulled her shawl about her.

Mather scanned the foyer for occupation. "I was given to understand that you were leaving for ... Chicago, was it?"

"No," she said. "I believe I'm digging in, for better or worse."

"Mm."

"I have more faith in women, women, children, and tradesmen than you do," she said, turning from him slightly. "Not all of us were built to wander." children, and tradesmen than you do," she said, turning from him slightly. "Not all of us were built to wander."

"Ah," said Mather doubtfully.

Eva could feel his eyes upon her, as she presumed to search the lobby for someone or something. And indeed, Mather's eyes were upon her, and his imagination compelled him further still. Where exactly was the grace in this defiant little woman, with her sleek jaw and thin neck and distended belly, if not in her defiance itself, in the challenge it presented him with.

"And the railroad?" he inquired.

"It will come," she said. "Sooner than later. They're setting up new offices in town."

"Yes, I've heard. But I've heard the same in Port Townsend and New Dungeness."

"You doubt it?"

Mather cursed himself for not leaving the subject alone, for never resisting the urge to conquer expectation. "I've been wrong before, and it's cost me a good deal of trouble and embarra.s.sment. And I'll probably be wrong again someday. Still, I see no logical reason why Seattle shouldn't be the hub."

"And build this hub out of rubble?"

"Still, Seattle is a town, town, with all due respect. Don't think a fire is going to hold a town like Seattle down. They have electricity. They have banks. They're not printing their own money." with all due respect. Don't think a fire is going to hold a town like Seattle down. They have electricity. They have banks. They're not printing their own money."

"Perhaps not. But then Seattle hasn't our wealth in unknown quant.i.ties, either. You yourself called this place a gateway not two days ago."

"Yes, but gateway to what, to where? There's rugged country out there. I'm guessing as rough as anything I ever encountered on the Mackenzie or anywhere else. That's no barrier range, Miss Lambert, whatever it is. And should this wilderness not surrender its bounty, what then? What becomes of this place?"

"Then, I suppose, we have no choice but to be a gateway to ourselves."

Throughout the second half of the show Mather snuck sidelong glances at Eva in the half-light, watching the quick, sharp proceedings of her mind in each frown and smile. His favorite expression was antic.i.p.ation, for in those moments when her mind was suspended and awaiting, her little mouth stuck open in the act of flowering, and her eyes wide with innocence, the overall effect was childlike and charming. And when, during a moment of antic.i.p.ation, he ventured to set his hand on hers in the warmth of her lap, she did not object.

After the show, Mather insisted on seeing Eva home by the light of his lantern. As they wended their way down the path, both were in high spirits.

"You're not afraid of the Thunderbird, Mr. Mather?"

"I should like to see his nest. And I fully intend to by spring."

Occasionally, their shoulders grazed one another as they walked.

"What spirit drives you to these enterprises, if I may ask?"

"You might be surprised," he said.

"Very well, surprise me, then."

"What if I told you humility."

"Ha!" said Eva. "I would have hardly guessed. I might have guessed vanity."

"There is that also, I won't deny it. And adventure and the promise of wealth. But more than anything, there is humility. Nature is not easy to conquer. She has a compet.i.tive spirit. She will will humble you, Miss Lambert, and I've found that when she does, a man can be quiet in his heart. Besides, I like a challenge. And what's become of the father of your child?" humble you, Miss Lambert, and I've found that when she does, a man can be quiet in his heart. Besides, I like a challenge. And what's become of the father of your child?"

Eva felt her face go hot. "Pardon me, but I don't see where that's your concern."

"Perhaps not. Except that not ten minutes ago you were holding my hand."

For a silent moment they walked down the path in a puddle of light. Eva could feel her will weakening toward Mather, just as sure as she could feel the broadness and warmth of his big body beside her.

"Nothing has become of him, if you must know. He purports to be in the process of becoming as we speak."

"Becoming what?"

"That I cannot answer. But I trust he has the will to become something."

"Never underestimate the will," said Mather.

Just before the fork in the path, a young Indian woman overtook them and proceeded down the path toward the beach.

"Thomas!" she shouted. "Can qeyen ceq!" "Can qeyen ceq!"

Eva and Mather cut off to the right, soon arriving at Eva's doorstep, where Mather offered her an elbow up the steps.

AFTER MATHER LEFT Eva at her doorstep on the eve of his departure, he found himself adrift in the night, in no hurry to return to the Olympic, where he knew sleep would not have him. Instead, he wandered down the path, his thoughts focused inward toward some uncharted awareness. Eva at her doorstep on the eve of his departure, he found himself adrift in the night, in no hurry to return to the Olympic, where he knew sleep would not have him. Instead, he wandered down the path, his thoughts focused inward toward some uncharted awareness.

How do we measure our lives, Mr. Mather?

That depends upon who we are, Miss Lambert.

And who are you, Mr. Mather?

It struck Mather, as he drifted further down the path, that despite all of his discoveries, despite his ceaseless charge at the unknown, all of his endless plotting and mapping and naming, he was willfully lost in himself. What was all of this exploration, this restless trek onward, if not cowardice dressed up in snow shoes? Fear with a hundred-pound bundle on its back. What was the purpose of his exploration, if not escape?

FROM HER PLACE at the window, Eva watched Mather's retreat, wondering what it was that so compelled her about this man. G.o.d forbid, it was those same qualities that repulsed her: his hulking st.u.r.diness, his feral beard, his appet.i.tes. Was it that he charged at the unknown like a billy goat? That he was so unconcerned with the delicacies of convention, that he spoke frankly at all times? Or was it as rudimentary as the confidence in his stride and the bedrock of his convictions? at the window, Eva watched Mather's retreat, wondering what it was that so compelled her about this man. G.o.d forbid, it was those same qualities that repulsed her: his hulking st.u.r.diness, his feral beard, his appet.i.tes. Was it that he charged at the unknown like a billy goat? That he was so unconcerned with the delicacies of convention, that he spoke frankly at all times? Or was it as rudimentary as the confidence in his stride and the bedrock of his convictions?

Eva scolded herself for this line of thinking and turned her thoughts obediently toward Ethan, who already might well have frozen to death or drowned for all she knew. Yet she could not bring herself to worry about him, for Ethan Thornburgh was nothing if not resilient. Landslides may rumble in his wake, rivers may flood behind him, but Ethan would emerge unscathed. The thought of him brought a smile to her face. Was Ethan not blessed with his own rugged brand of optimism? Was it not his good intentions more than any weakness of character that accounted for his follies? Was there not a great deal of sincerity beneath his toe-wiggling, mustachioed charm? And was he not eager to forge a path for his son, to build himself into an example? Wasn't he throwing himself fearlessly into the unknown, just as sure as James Mather?

Turning from the darkened window, Eva lit a candle and replaced it on the mantel, then perched on the edge of the divan and draped her shawl about her shoulders, resting her hands on the warmth of her belly.

BENEATH THE BOAT SHED, Mather leaned on a scaffold and loaded his pipe. A hundred yards in front of him, the bonfire still cast a dancing yellow glow on the Pioneer. The night rang with laughter, and sing song, and the conspiratorial tones of a community with big plans. But Mather did not wonder at their conversation, nor long for the fellowship of any man. Had he been standing on the wayward side of the Olympics, he could not have felt more remote. Nor could he have felt less compelled toward his own future.

And who are you, Mr. Mather? What spirit drives you?

FOR ALMOST TWO DAYS, Hoko did not see Thomas, but this was not unheard of, even in winter. She could not prevent his wanderings. Once, when Thomas was barely six, Hoko had followed the boy up-creek for the better part of two miles. He moved like a nimble shadow through the forest. She often lost sight of him. She thought she had lost him for good where the creek met the river in a bubbly confluence, only to discover him standing twenty feet behind her. The journey home had been a dance, with Hoko leading, only to find that she was following, stopping, only to find that he had already stopped, and when she arrived back at the fire, she found him there, squatting on his haunches, his lips silently at work.

Other times, his wanderings did not take him so far. Hoko would find him in the yard behind the Olympic Hotel, standing on a log, with his head tilted sideways and one eye covered, or pacing the dock with uneven strides, counting the planks and stepping over cracks. Sometimes she found him tracing circles in shallow water with a stick, or picking up stones along the strait, only to reorient them on the sh.o.r.eline. But more often than not as of late, she found him shadowing one white man or another through town.

On the third day of Thomas's absence, Hoko lost her appet.i.te. Late that evening, when the snow began to fall in earnest, gathering in drifts along the low bank of Hollywood Beach, she cursed herself, and cursed Thomas, and left the fire in search of him.

Front Street was only shadows and a pale orange flicker burning behind curtained windows as Hoko skirted the creek and ducked beneath the boardwalk calling for Thomas among the jumble of pilings. She could feel the thrum of life up the street in the darkness from the Belvedere, where white men gathered at all hours without occasion. As the buzz of activity grew nearer, her thoughts grew fainter. She pa.s.sed two white men leaning in the doorway, speaking gruffly in low tones. When she felt their gaze upon her, she was a stranger to herself.

She crossed the stumped and rutty hogback in the snow. Beyond the hulking boat shed, the Pioneer Theater was bathed in the glow of a large bonfire, ringed with the sawtooth shadows of a dozen people hunkered around it. From down the path, Hoko could discern the uneven cascade of their voices woven with laughter, and the popping of the fire. The little theater was still emptying its restless cargo into the street as Hoko approached. Women were fastening their bonnets, and men were unpocketing their pipes, and children were catching snowflakes on their tongues in a swathe of yellow light.

When Hoko pa.s.sed through their midst, all but the children paused in their tracks and stopped laughing, and no man tipped his hat. Cutting back along the Hollywood sh.o.r.e, she found the canoes pulled further upbeach than usual. The snow was not sticking on the sh.o.r.eline, though it was acc.u.mulating in the wooden boats. An icy wind was knifing off the strait, and the fires burned slantwise with the force of each gust. Hoko could feel the rumble of the tide beneath her step, as she scanned the perimeter of each fire for Thomas, with no success.

She came upon Abe Charles squatting alone by his fire. As always, he was dressed like a white: laced leather boots and a wide-brimmed hat, a shirt of Scotch wool, and a buckskin jacket. He had a pipe in his pocket, and a rifle at his side.

"I'm looking for my boy," said Hoko.