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“No.” Gordon chuckled. “They used the smoke from a fire to cure it, so it would last a long time. And they rendered the fat into the grease that was always highly valued because it kept well and could be used for cooking and preserving and medicine. That’s what this stink box is for.” He moved to show the vat and described how the fish was fermented before it was boiled so the fat could be skimmed off.
“Why is it called a stink box?” someone asked.
“Why do you think?” Gordon pinched his nose and everyone laughed.
“What does it taste like?” someone else asked.
“It’s fish oil so—” Gordon shrugged. “Fishy. I like it. I would eat it every day like butter on toast, but the ooligan runs have declined. Now we save it for potlatch ceremonies.”
That led to questions about the importance of potlatch, which was a ceremonial gathering for First Nations up and down the coast, forming the bedrock of culture, both for the individual tribes and through sharing of songs, stories, dance, gift giving, feasts and celebration. In that way, it had always been an important form of diplomacy and governance, strengthening relationships between the different tribes. The fact it had been outlawed by the Canadian government for over sixty years said everything about how important it was.
When Gordon reached the petroglyph of faces carved into a rock, he shared the story that belonged to his family, describing how his ancestors had come to live here.
Trystan listened intently, even though he’d heard this one many times. It was respectful to listen, but it centered him to hear the stories that Gordon chose to share. It reminded him of his own family’s stories, which had similar supernatural elements.
His childhood had been one of contrasts and confusion, hearing stories like this from his grandmother and aunts and uncles, then learning something else entirely from his White teachers.
He still got caught up in the linear and what could be measured and what was rational, but he also believed in things that were abstract and cyclical and connected in unseen ways. He didn’t have to know the date of an ice age or the great flood to believe it had happened. He’d observed enough wildlife to know that animals communicated with each other, outside their own species, even if it wasn’t in full English sentences. That made a story about an animal calling a human “brother” and helping to save his life as real as anything a news anchor might convey.
“My grandmother told me that story every time we came here to fish camp.” Gordon was wrapping up. His grandmother had passed on some years ago, but Gordon explained how repeating the story kept him connected to her and kept all his ancestors alive. Otherwise, how could that story still exist? Gordon hoped to one day tell his own grandchildren so they could tell their grandchildren, keeping their family alive well into the future.
This was the piece that was missing between Trystan and his flesh and blood brothers. The history they shared was not a deeply rooted tree with branches that stretched out across millennia. Wilf Fraser had snapped it off at the trunk, never saying anything good about his own childhood. How could Trystan be proud to call himself a Fraser when Wilf hadn’t been proud of himself?
By that same token, would Storm one day look at her own personal history and see nothing but a clear-cut of stumps?
People murmured their thanks and Trystan squeezed the young man’s shoulder, bolstering him because it wasn’t easy to open yourself up so completely to strangers, but he was becoming good at it.
A few people had questions so Trystan left Gordon to answer them while he walked to the beach with Cloe. She was quiet, brow furrowed in contemplation.
“Okay?” he asked her.
“Maybe I should try to find my father,” she said pensively. “I’ve never thought of a family history as something that goes both forward and backward.” The lowering sun was filtering through the trees, speckling her light brown cheeks. “My mom lost her parents before she could reconcile with them. She was still really young, which is why she was kind of lost herself. I think I’ve always identified with that. Kind of a distorted belief that that was how I’m like her. Like it was a connection I didn’t want to break, if that makes sense, even though I’ve always wanted to know more about my father’s family. I didn’t want to impose on him, though, especially because his history doesn’t feel like something I’m entitled to lay claim to, if I haven’t lived it.” She chewed her lip briefly.
Trystan was very familiar with that internal friction of coming from two very different cultures.
“It would be up to him to decide how much of his history to share with you.”
“If he knew I existed,” she said, still wearing that thoughtful frown. “One of the reasons I was so determined to find Storm and be part of her life is so she can ask me about Tiffany. But also because ifIdidn’t know what happened to her, I would always wonder about her and worry. I never once thought… What if I’m a piece of the story in my father’s family? A piece they don’t even know is missing.”
“You are.”
“I’m not used to thinking of myself as”—she swallowed—“important. Or being part of something that stretches…beyond being alone.”
How was he not supposed to want to hug her when she said something like that?
His arm twitched, but he noticed Brielle was waiting ahead of them on the trail. She had questions about their day in Bella Coola tomorrow so he stopped to talk with her while Cloe moved ahead to help Johnny set up for the crab dinner.
*
Bella Coola, orQ’umk’uts’, as it was called by the Nuxalkmc, was a tiny town situated where the Bella Coola River finished snaking through the mountains and hit the inlet that connected to the same channel they’d been following around King Island, eventually pouring into the Pacific Ocean. The town could be accessed by air, ferry, or the notorious forty-three kilometers of hairpin turns known as the Hill.
TheStorm Ridgehad got underway before Cloe had started breakfast, since everyone had big days planned. The guests had the option of a guided kayak tour, which the honeymooners and the New Yorkers were taking. Brielle and Elodie were going on a day hike that included an art walk in town and an interpretive visit to a number of totem poles. The Germans were heading out on a river float in hopes of spotting bears fishing in the streams.
“What do we do while everyone is on shore?” Cloe asked Trystan, bringing him what was left of the coffee as she was cleaning up breakfast. “Do we wait here on the boat? Or…?”
“Johnny and I usually visit family. His brother lives here and I see my mom. Thanks.” He sipped the coffee, saluted her with it, then set it in the cupholder.
“Oh, it’s pretty!” She was charmed as she glimpsed the dark green mountains sleeping against the shoreline while granite peaks glowed in the distance, illuminated by the morning sun. The water was a placid, silty green, the sky streaked with frayed-cotton clouds. “It’s bigger than I expected.” There was a veritable forest of masts tied up at the wharf.
