Hannah & the Spindle Whorl (10 page)

I don’t say anything to Yisella, but deep in my heart I know it was Mom, here, wearing her lemon fragrance just as she always did. I know it was her way of letting me know that she’s with me, on this crazy adventure, or in this dream, or whatever this experience is. And although the smell is gone, the memory of it stays with me for a long time.

It’s enough to make me feel safe and so much calmer now, as I sit here on the mat waiting with Yisella and the others. Yisella looks at me kindly, knowing that my uncomfortable moment has passed and I’m pretty much okay again.

Then I catch Nutsa staring at me, and when our eyes meet, I notice that hers are icy cold and unblinking. I look away first, and notice Yisella watching her mother’s movements, the way she sighs and rubs her back with the palm of her hands. I recall what Yisella said earlier about how hard and how long her mother works.

Slivers of early evening’s sunlight stream through the spaces between several planks in the longhouse walls. It is warm and golden and it makes me think of summer evenings back home. By now, I’d probably have finished dinner and be outside with Chuck on the deck, watching for the one-eyed seal that’s been coming around our houseboat for almost a year now. My dad still calls him “One-Eye,” even though I told him it was a pretty lame and unimaginative name for a writer to come up with.

There would be sounds of laughter and clinking dishes coming from the patio of the Salty Dog Café up near the road, and Nell’s dog, Quincy, would be hanging around outside the back door waiting for the leftover fish and chip scraps. But I’m not there, I’m here. At the
Nahnum
, my first fire circle. And the air is electric.

ALL IS QUIET, EVEN
the little ones, as a very old woman, Yisella’s great-grandmother, stands and walks slowly over to sit near the fire. She is small and bent, and her pure white hair is pulled into a single tight braid that follows the length of her spine. Although her face is weathered and lined with age, her eyes are alert as they shine brightly in the firelight. She nods and gives one of the little children sitting closest to her a wide toothless smile.

She wears a skirt made of the same stringy material as the mats we sit on, only it is finer and softer in the way it hangs around her legs. She pats her lap and Poos, the cat, nestles in for a nap. He covers his face with his paws.

Abruptly, great-grandmother begins to speak. Quietly at first, almost in a whisper, but then her voice grows louder and her words more clipped, coming quickly now. Her eyes grow wider and wider, and so do the eyes of the listeners who are seated all around. The little children stare, their eyes widest of all, their mouths forming tiny “Oh’s.”

I have no idea what the old woman is saying. The language is completely different, the words nothing like our English language. Some words seem to come from the very back of her throat and she makes these smacking and popping sounds. I do know that whatever she’s saying must be pretty intense. Her voice becomes quiet and slows once more. She is making stealthy crawling gestures with her arms, like someone creeping along the floor. Then she stands, spilling poor Poos onto the floor. She raises her arms above her head and stares intently at one of the children — the same little boy who I saw playing the chasing game when we first arrived at the village. He looks really freaked out, especially when she heads toward him with her hands waving violently over her head, her footsteps big, heavy and exaggerated.

A little girl starts to cry, but is cuddled into silence by a girl who could be her older sister. Great-grandmother stops in front of the little boy and stares down at him from above. Although she isn’t physically tall, her presence seems huge and powerful. The little boy cowers behind his mother and covers his eyes with his hands. It really bugs me that his mother just sits there, not comforting him much at all. What’s with that? I have a sudden urge to tell the old woman to stop being such a bully. Then I notice the small opening between two of his fingers so that he can still watch what’s going on. Kind of the way I watch scary movies; I don’t want to see but at the same time I have to look.

Suddenly great-grandmother shudders and utters a loud piercing cry that rattles the entire longhouse and sends Poos running for cover. A few people gasp in surprise. Not knowing what she is saying makes me a bit nervous, but at the same time I’m fascinated. I really want to know why she cried out like some kind of monster, but there’s no way I’m going to interrupt now to ask anyone. Especially not Yisella, who is watching as if she doesn’t dare breathe.

A moment later, everyone is silent and great-grandmother is quiet and still. I’m pretty sure that her story has ended but, just as I allow my muscles to relax a bit, she cackles, scoops up the little boy like he’s kindling, and runs out through the door. I can hear him screaming outside, while another child inside the longhouse starts to cry. I get this rush of adrenaline and look to Yisella who still hasn’t moved from her spot. I don’t know what to do. I want to rush out the door and save the little boy. What sort of a story is this? That old lady is obviously crazy and everyone else must be scared of her because no one’s moving. No one is doing anything. They just sit there like statues, as though waiting for something else to happen. Well I may not know what’s going on, but I know one thing for sure: I can’t just sit here and let something awful happen to that little kid!

The once calm and golden atmosphere inside the long-house now seems smoky and dark, claustrophobic. I’m about to jump up and run after them, but then they come back through the door. The old woman is laughing and holding the little boy’s hand. He is also laughing now, although his eyes are still sort of wide and staring.

Everybody seated in the circle breathes a sigh of relief and laughs loudly along with the old woman. They yell and slap their hands on their laps. Two of the smallest children, no longer crying, are curiously watching all the laughing faces, not quite sure what to make of it all. They aren’t the only ones. I can’t figure it out either.

No longer transfixed by the storytelling, Yisella touches my arm, kind of like she’s trying to apologize, but I know she’s fighting to keep from laughing at me.

“Don’t worry, Hannah,” she says, smiling at my serious expression. “My great-grandmother tells this story over and over again so most of us know it well. For some of the little children, it is the first telling.”

“But they’re so young!” I stammer. “They were really scared!”

“Yes,” she agrees. “They were very scared. It was good to see,” she tells me calmly.

“What? Since when is it cool to scare little kids?” I say indignantly, aware that my outburst is turning some heads. When Yisella only laughs at me again, my face grows hot, and it’s not from being so close to the fire! If there’s one thing I hate, it’s when people are cruel to kids and animals.

“Hannah, you shouldn’t be so upset. It’s the way it’s supposed to be. Little kids have to learn the stories. Especially this story,” Yisella says in a more serious tone. “It’s for their own good.”

For their own good. I hate that expression. I hear parents using it all the time, and nine times out of ten, their reason turns out to be something lame. “But why? Why do they need to be so scared?” I ask, in a voice much louder than I intended it to be.

“Because it is the story of Thumquas! Children need to learn about Thumquas as soon as they’re old enough to understand.”

“Thumquas?” I ask.

“Yes, half-man, half-beast,” Yisella explains. “He lives here in the woods and he’s big and hairy. He also has a very strong smell. It’s best that little kids know about him as soon as they’re able to understand. That way they won’t go into the woods alone where he may be able to hurt them. They must learn to stay near the villages.”

“Thumquas? He sounds like the Sasquatch!”

Yisella nods. “Yes, Sesquac is another name. Maybe it is the same. There are lots of different names for him, but to us he is Thumquas and he’s to be feared.”

I don’t believe this! Not the Sasquatch stuff again. I have to fight not to roll my eyes. Yisella gives me a serious look, as if to let me know that she doesn’t appreciate my cynical attitude, so I turn my attention back to the group.

They sit quietly once again. Yisella’s great-grandmother is among them, now seated on the floor with her eyes half-closed. Yisella whispers that the old woman becomes very tired after she tells the story of Thumquas. It takes a lot out of her.

Several more elders speak at the fire circle. They talk slowly and for a long time, often speaking so quietly that it’s really hard for me to hear them, not that I know what they’re saying. Yisella sits beside me and translates the important parts. They tell stories about the thunderbird and others about the salmon, like the ones carved onto the spindle whorl. One elder tells a long story about the first human, Syalutsa, who fell from the sky after the Great Flood. He was very smart and taught the ancestors how to make the river weirs to catch fish as well as how to track and hunt for deer. The children all listen, quiet as mice, and when the story is finished, they all shoot pretend arrows at each other and want to go up the river and catch a hundred fish each. I have to admit it’s pretty cute.

When it grows dark, and many of the kids are getting sleepy, Yisella gets up to speak. Her people seem surprised, so I guess it isn’t often that someone her age speaks during the whole fire circle thing. But she did say it’s unusual to have one in the summer, so maybe this one is different. Yisella wants to talk, and does she ever — for what seems like a really long time! Everyone else listens patiently but I’m so tired, I can’t stop yawning. I’m not used to just sitting and chilling for hours at a time. Still, I guess when you don’t have Google and YouTube and iTunes, you just talk a lot.

I open my eyes as Yisella sits down beside me. I must have dozed off.

“Was my story that boring, Hannah?” Yisella jokes.

“Sorry, but I think I’ve heard it before,” I say with a sheepish grin.

Yisella laughs and then says, matter-of-factly, “It will be fine for you to be here now.”

“It will?” I hadn’t really been aware that it might not be.

“They’ll trust you now because I told them that we were in each other’s dreams.” She adds, “I told them about the raven, and they know that you’re here to help.”

“To help? But how can I help? What do you need help with? What am I supposed to do?” I wonder what Yisella knows that I don’t.

“I’m not sure yet, but we’ll find out. When the time is right we’ll know why you’re here,” Yisella says, motioning toward the door. “The raven has given us magic talk. He wouldn’t do that unless there was a good reason for it.”

I glance over and see that the raven is there, standing on a piece of driftwood just outside the doorway, dividing his gaze between us and the ocean. It occurs to me that he should have a name. I’m sick of calling him “the raven,” so I call him Jack. Probably a dumb name for a magical and all-powerful raven, but it just came to me and, for some reason, seems to suit him. He reminds me a lot of Sadie, the parrot at the marina — the way he holds his head to one side when he looks at you, as if he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“Did you tell everyone about the spindle whorl?” I ask, remembering the electric feeling that flowed through my fingers earlier when I picked it up.

“No.”

“Why not?” I can’t believe that she didn’t tell them how I came to be in their village in the first place! Surely finding Skeepla’s spindle whorl in a cave was kind of an important detail to just forget to mention?

“I don’t know,” Yisella tells me. “I didn’t feel it was the right time to mention it. I’m sure we’ll know when it is.”

“But you can’t know that for sure, Yisella. We need to find out what’s going on now.” I’m feeling a bit frantic, not at all calm like Yisella seems to be. How can she be taking all this in stride? Doesn’t she want answers too?

She pokes me in the ribs. “Your mind is always so busy, Hannah. Try not to think so much, then you’ll see things more clearly.”

“You sound like my Aunt Maddie,” I tell her. Aunt Maddie meditates and has a little bronze Buddha figurine on the dashboard of her Volkswagen. She’s always going on about mantras and blocked energy and chi and stuff.

Yisella pats my arm. “Come on. The sun has set a while ago. You must be so tired. I’ll show you where you can sleep.”

Within no time at all, I’m lying on a platform, on a soft cedar mat, with a heavy woven blanket over me. Yisella lies on a mat a few feet away, and it isn’t long before I can tell she’s fast asleep by the way she’s breathing. In a few more minutes, everyone is asleep except me. Thanks to my power nap earlier, I lie awake listening to the wind blowing up the beach and I try to unscramble my brain.

My journal! I almost forgot about my journal! I feel around in the dark until I find my backpack and then reach inside until my hand comes to rest on the familiar smooth cover. I sit up and open it on my lap. Instinctively, I reach over beside me to switch on a light. Duh. Of course there’s no light here. And I don’t know anything about those ooly-whatever-they’re-called lamp fish that Jim Williams talked about. But I do remember my key ring. I fish around in my backpack again, making as little noise as possible, and pull out the orange ceramic starfish attached to my houseboat key, my bike lock key, our marina storage locker key, and — voilà — my handy dandy mini-flashlight. I whisper a quiet thank you to Santa Dad, who put it in my stocking last Christmas.