Joko (22 page)

Swan found Johnny’s connection with the railroad a suitable springboard for a few of his own tales. He said it had been his dream to bring the railroad to the Northwestern Territories, adding that the effort would bring fortune to everyone. Swan said that the place Vancouver first explored had long been opened to the kind of commerce Swan expected would eventually come to the U.S. northwest coast; the area Swan referred to repeatedly as ‘the territories’.

Johnny listened with half an ear to Swan’s dialog. His attention never left the forest, and every time he saw movement in the shadows he strained to see if it was the sasquatch. But as Swan continued to pass the time with his tales of the northwest coast, Johnny began to doubt if Jocko was nearby.

Swan continued his narrative, recounting stories of the local Indians he had documented in his religiously maintained diaries. He told of Potlatches he visited where more than a hundred canoes converged on one chief’s village to trade gifts and share news; of gigantic feasts he said: “… must have exhausted woods, streams, and perhaps even the ocean, of edible fare.”

He told Johnny that even after so many years in the area he still found it remarkable to find Indian lodges that looked like frame houses. The Indians, he said, were masters at woodworking. Their dugouts and dwellings bore the mark of

“skillfully engineered craftsmanship of great sophistication and simplicity.” Swan smoked his pipe and reminisced, but all the while his eyes, like Johnny’s, scrutinized the forest.

Finally he looked sympathetically at Johnny and said: “I feel compelled to say, young Tilbury, that I’ve been in this area for many years. I’ve walked the beaches and the woods, wet and dry, but I never saw, or knew anyone who’d seen, a sasquatch. They’re only part of the local mythology, as far as I can see. Still,” he admitted, “they don’t call ’em skookum, which is what they call ghosts, demons, or spirits of the dead.

Sasqatch means ‘mountain man’. But, like I say, I never knew a body that reported encountering one, white man or Indian.

I’m uninformed on the subject, I’m afraid.”

“Me too,” said Johnny. “I’ve heard stories, but never believed them. But then …”

Johnny noticed Swan scrutinizing the forest. “Mr Swan,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “Jocko, the sasquatch, is like us, but he’s not human either. He’s not like you or me, but he’s still a person.”

Swan looked at Johnny blankly. “A person, you say?”

“Well, he’s not an animal. He’s got feelings. People type feelings. He thinks about things. He’s learning from me.

Starting to say things.”

“What things?” asked Swan.

Johnny knew Jocko’s attempts at speech sometimes appeared no better than a parrot, but Jocko had convinced him. How could he explain it to Swan, or to anyone? To do so meant revealing the strange link between Johnny and Jocko.

Speech had little to do with it. His aunt had found that out when she touched Jocko. Doc Hannington, too. But Johnny felt it strongest.

“I can tell you this, Mr Swan,” said Johnny. “Jocko has a good heart. He killed that bear, and he did it real easy, but I could see he took no pleasure in it. Sure, he could have killed me or other men just as easily as that bear,” Johnny looked Swan in the eyes. “But Jocko wouldn’t do it. I know that for sure.”

“And for argument’s sake, Johnny,” countered Swan, raising a skeptical eyebrow, “what makes you so cock sure of that? By your own admission, you’ve barely made his acquaintance.”

Johnny looked off into the shadows of the forest. “I just know it.”

Suddenly Johnny cupped both hands to this mouth and yelled: “Joc-kooooo! If you’re out there … come here!”

His hail echoed into the distance like a shot being fired.

Swan started and nearly fell from his chair. Off in the forest, birds screeched, chipmunks popped shrill alarms to each other then dove into burrows. A distant hawk even answered Johnny with a shrill call.

“God,” said Swan. “That was most unexpected. You might notify me next time before you do that.”

“Sorry,” said Johnny. “But I should’ve called for him long ago.”

Swan scoffed. “If that’s all that is required to seduce your friend to make an appearance, I would have advised it long ago.”

They waited and listened as the forest returned to normal.

After a few moments they heard a whistle. Johnny knew the call.

“Western meadowlark,” said Swan. He looked bemusedly at Johnny. “Good imitation.”

“Imitation?” said Johnny.

“I heard it last evening, long after sundown. Heard it twice, as a matter of fact.” Swan smiled. “Same bird. After dark a lark keeps his beak shut.” He tapped his pipe on the leg of his chair and began refilling it with tobacco. “Either there’s a lunatic lark out there, or it’s your friend, Mr Barefoot.”

“Do you really know the bird calls that well, Mr Swan?” asked Johnny.

“Fairly well. And I know the Indians. They’re expert imitators.”

Swan reloaded his pipe. “I have heard tales about these mountain men, or sasquatch. Mostly from the Indians. Tales traded around campfires. I’ve heard strange stories. I have heard tell of them whistling to one another, out in the deep forest, sometimes imitating birds and sometimes just whistling loud. Just for the Hell of it.”

Swan looked at Johnny and pointed into the woods with the stem of his pipe. “Is that your friend out there, Johnny?”

Johnny always respected directness. He gave Swan a wry smile. “I reckon so, Mr Swan.”

Swan dropped his eyes in thought for a moment. “Will he come into the cabin, do you think?”

“I don’t know what he’ll do, Mr Swan. He’s been in charge since we left the steamer. He’ll come sooner or later. I hope.”

If he could, Johnny would have gotten to his feet and walked toward the whistle, but it had been an effort merely to get out of the cabin and into a chair. His head and leg ached to distraction, and he was wondering if stronger painkillers inhabited Swan’s bag of herbs.

Johnny saw something move in the forest. Behind Swan, off the man’s left shoulder, about fifty feet away, a shadow moved. Then moved again. Then it was gone.

Rather than thinking it to be Jocko, Johnny dismissed it as a relic of his injury.

All the while Swan squinted at the forest, his eyes fixed in the direction of the birdcall.

The shadows grew hard and deep in the forest this time of day. At Swan’s feet was a broad patch of sunlight, ending abruptly in the inky shadows of the great trees. Flies gathered in the brilliant light, enjoying the heat and the sweat forming on the Johnny’s forehead.

“Maybe we should just go inside, Mr Swan,” said Johnny.

“That is, if you don’t mind.” He wiped his forehead. “I think I could lie down. I ain’t feeling too good.”

Without hesitation, Swan sprang to his feet. “Well, yes.

That’s a good idea. Don’t want to roast the bruised scalp in the sun. It’s been a warm season, overall.”

As Swan helped Johnny through the cabin door, Johnny realized he was a long way from recovering. His ears rang and his lips tingled as a dark tunnel began to form around him. He realized that he couldn’t feel his fingers or his feet, or Swan holding him.

SWan Fix JONY

Hed and leg

jonny stay with swan man Joko meet swan

good man swan

Johnny woke a few minutes later on a bed, with Swan swabbing his forehead with a cool wet cloth. The old man was clearly relieved when Johnny opened his eyes.

“You had me scared,” said Swan. “I don’t know, boy. That head wound might be serious, but there’s nothing I can do.

We’re sixty miles out of Port Townsend and ten miles from the only settlement I know of, an Indian village on the other side of the ridge.”

“No need to worry, Mr Swan,” said Johnny. “I won’t be down long. I don’t mean to put you to any trouble.”

“Just take her easy, Mr Tilbury.” Swan patted Johnny’s arm. “Altogether, I’d say that the best cure is rest.” He continued to wipe Johnny’s forehead. It reminded Johnny of the care his aunt Gert had given him during a couple of bouts of the flu.

“You been a month in the woods. I’d say you’ve had yourself quite a time.”

Johnny nodded. “I was down more than up. If it hadn’t been for Jocko …”

“You did fine, Johnny. You covered that ground the hard way. Knocked unconscious off a freighter, dragged to shore and carted off to a sasquatch nest.” Swan shook his head.

“Then off through the swamps with no preparations, no provisions. Attacked by a bear … my dear God, John Tilbury.

Look at you! You’re a walkin’ miracle, I dare say!”

Johnny laughed. “Well, the way you tell it, I guess. But Jocko took good care of me.”

Swan remained quiet for a while, then he looked seriously at Johnny. “You saw Jocko, while we were sitting outs ide. We both heard him. But you saw him, didn’t you?” asked Swan.

“I think so. He was out in the woods to your left, from where you were sitting. But that’s not why I got sick.”

“No, no, no,” said Swan. “I wasn’t suggesting that. I just had a strange feeling. As though I knew when you saw him.”

When Johnny’s head fully cleared he sat up on one elbow and faced Swan.

“From the moment he grabbed me, back when he was in the cage, I felt like I was family,” said Johnny, searching for the appropriate words to explain the unexplainable. “I’ve always had a way with critters. My aunt calls it my gift. The railroaders knew about it, so they had me watch over Jocko.

Then, when I was alone with him in the railroad shed he grabbed my arm, and all of a sudden we understood each other. Jocko can do it easiest with me, but he did it with my aunt Gert and Doc Hannington, too. I saw him do it.”

“He talked to them?” asked Swan.

“No. Not with words. They felt him. If it happens to you, well, you’ll see what I mean.”

Johnny recounted some of his ‘talks’ with Jocko and described how Jocko behaved as they crossed the forest and how Jocko protected him, like a brother. “Whatever he may be, Mr Swan,” Johnny finally said, “Jocko is my friend.”

Swan thought for a moment, then asked Johnny how he received messages from the sasquatch.

“Pictures and feelings,” said Johnny. “Then I, we just understand. That’s all I can say.”

Swan laughed. “Fantastic. I’m truly amazed. I must tell you, John Tilbury, that when I planned this sabbatical in the woods I wondered how well I’d survive the dreary Olympic winter alone with my notebooks. But now …”

Swan said that a month before, while Johnny was sailing the San Juan straits, he had just departed Port Townsend with a party of Chehallis Indians, and after a week of canoeing and fording streams had come to this trapper’s cabin in the Olympics. He said he was there, “… to write articles and collect them in a journal as I always do.” Swan confessed that only a week after his arrival, he had difficulty collecting his thoughts. He called this condition ‘constipation of the pen’.

Swan puffed furiously on his pipe as he related his horror when he realized he was trapped, by his own design, in a wooden coffin at the edge of civilization.

“I was going to trudge out,” concluded Swan. “But now here you are with your incredible story to brighten my winter!”

Swan chuckled as he got up and walked to the door. He opened it, and then returned to Johnny’s side. “It’s a warm afternoon and fairly dry,” he said. “A good time to air out the cabin, I think.” Then he removed the wet cloth from Johnny’s head and placed it in a pan of water. “You’d better sleep some, now.”

On a limb of a great spruce, Jocko watched the cabin. Too often he had thought his time with the human had reached an end, but he was compelled to remain with the boy who helped him escape. He whistled more than once to Johnny. There was no answer.

One force compelled Jocko to stay. Johnny knew the way home

Jocko ate sorrel and wild grapes as he pressed his body against the thick bark of the tree. He watched, waited and slept. At night he roamed the mountains.

Finally Johnny emerged from the tiny cabin. The human who made fire was with him.

When Johnny awoke, Swan was cooking dinner. On a spit over the central fireplace hung two large rabbits that looked roasted to perfection.

Swan saw that Johnny was awake. “I kept the door unlatched all afternoon but your friend hasn’t appeared. It got colder, so I shut the door and stoked the fire.” He pointed to a kettle perched on a smooth stone near the flames. “I made a quantity of willow tea. It’s in the kettle.”

Johnny winced as he tried to move, but his leg felt somewhat better. He sat up slowly on the bed.

“Thanks, Mr Swan.” Johnny looked at the door. “I’m not sure Jocko will come in here. He avoids people. And houses.

But he still might. Have you heard whistling?”

Swan shook his head. “Not that I’ve noticed. There are night birds, noises in the woods. A week in the woods alone sets your ears to strange sounds, that’s for sure. The Indians attest to spirits out there. Should a chief die, he may be gone, but his spirit is another matter. Their campfires are lively places. Keeping spirits at bay.”

Swan and Johnny passed the rest of the evening eating a leisurely dinner topped off with some sweetened berries and a brew made from black coffee beans Swan had packed away for a worthy occasion. Ceremoniously he filled their tin cups with the fragrant amber brew.

“I propose a toast, John Tilbury,” he said, raising his cup.

“Yes, sir!” said Johnny, doing the same.

“Here’s a toast to us. And to you, John Tilbury, my honored, if injured, guest.”

“Hear, hear!” answered Johnny. “To the honorable James Swan, a generous host, to be sure.”

Swan grinned in appreciation and raised a finger. “May you join me for the winter in this spacious cabin, and may your healing be quick. And here’s to a pleasant winter for everyone in this glorious wilderness.”

Johnny started to drink but Swan raised his finger again.

“And here’s to your friend, Jocko. May he join us soon.”

Johnny winced as his lips touched the hot coffee. “I’m not sure Jocko’d join us in drinkin’ the coffee, but I guess I can drink to that. Soon as it cools a mite.”