Opposite Contraries (23 page)

The boat was anchored out a way, and we landed one at a time in the small dugout canoe. I made a quick summary of the work to be done and was already deep in a sketch by time the others were landed. Here I may say that this is one of the trying features of this work. Places are so difficult to get at, accommodation always meagre, boats very erratic. You must therefore come quickly to your conclusions, select your objects and your view of objects. Time is so precious you dare not stop to rest up or think how tired you are. In places where there is much walking,
you must shoulder a very heavy pack. The elements always have to be buffeted. Wind, showers, hot sun, incoming tides. Indians satisfied as to why you’ve come, etc. You must be absolutely honest and true in the depicting of a totem, for meaning is attached to every line; you must be most particular about detail and proportion.
I never use the camera nor work from photos;
every pole in my collection has been studied from its actual reality in its own original setting and I have, as you might term it, been personally acquainted with every pole shown here.

Indians, I think, express it well when they say to one another, “Come and see the woman make pictures with her head and hands, not with a box.” Many of them have spoken to me of this, saying it was new for them to see pictures made thus, though they have seen cameras and some indeed used them. For instance, when I was doing the poles in Hazelton, an Indian stepped up and photographed me.

But to return to Cha-atl; in these northern places, it is light enough to work ’til nine and after. After supper came the stories round the campfire; these people spoke good English. I had brought a young Canadian girl with me from Skidegate and we sat there listening to ghost stories. They seemed very real with the coffins perched up on the top of the mortuary columns above our heads, the silent black forest behind us and the melancholy roar of the West Coast surf in our ears, especially so as “Mother saw this one” and “Grandmother that.” Then having well filled our heads with these tales, the pair got up and paddled off to the boat in midstream to sleep, for they said they would not sleep on the beach among the ghosts of the dead. We were left in our little tent alone in the silent blackness. We were certainly not troubled by the ghosts. Our bed of cut
rushes was fairly comfortable, but we were devoured by flies and mosquitoes and got little sleep. Just at dawn I got up and walked on the beach. It was wonderful. The great stillness, the solemn old grey poles towering above the tent, the shorter mortuary columns crowned with their crested coffins, the water softly lapping the pebbly beach. And the sullen roar of the distant surf. These things redolent of the past of a strong, fine, primitive people are worth seeing and feeling. The trip to Cha-atl is full of wonderful memories to me.

Another most delightful trip was my visit to Yan (No. 77). I went there twice, spending long days among the poles. Yan stands nearly opposite to Masset on the northern island of the Charlotte group, with a wide stretch of Masset Inlet between. This body of water can be extremely rough and unpleasant at times, full of treacherous currents and eddies. I went in a small dugout Indian boat, and my companions were an Indian woman and her two children. She sat in the stern with the baby in her lap and steered as a small girl of 12 deftly manipulated the sail, a homemade affair of flour sacks. How well they do handle their boats; it seems born in them. It was a wild day and rained heavily and I could only sketch between showers. We sheltered in a hut and made a fire, and the woman told me stories of her life. These are always worth hearing, but you must not ask too many questions or the storyteller will become mute. Listen then: this woman had had 9 children and lost them all. Indian women love their children passionately. To have no children is to be truly desolate. When the last of this woman’s died, she was heart-broken. Then came to her a young woman of Skidegate, her friend and the mother of five or six children. She brought with her two, a boy and a girl, and these she gave to the forlorn
mother to somewhat console her. (It was not, the woman said, that she did not love her children dearly that she could give them away, for she wept many many days and could not eat, but she was so sorry for her friend.) What a sacrifice for friendship’s sake. How many white mothers, though they might grieve for another’s sorrow, would be even dream of such a sacrifice?

There is a fine type of honour, too, among these people. We sheltered in an old hut which was used at times by some Indians to store tools in (for it is not uncommon for the people to go back and forth to these old villages and use any cultivated spots to grow vegetables and berries in). There were a few old clothes, some tools and some dry firewood there; when we had finished, the woman, after carefully extinguishing the fire, sought fresh wood and replaced what we had used. Though they have much in common, yet they have great respect for one another’s property. Fruit would rot on the branches in a garden if its owner were away, but the others would not think it right to pluck it for their own use without permission. I think they could teach us many many things, especially the old ones; the vices of the younger ones, alas, have been mainly acquired from the whites, poor souls! They looked up to the whites as a superior race whom they should try to copy; alas, they could not discriminate between the good and bad. There was so much bad, and they copied it. In their own primitive state they were a moral people with a high ideal of right. Here’s a little story I heard at Hazelton. An Englishman going prospecting with some Indians was much concerned at leaving his belongings in his tent as he could not lock it up. Oh, said his Indian guide, it is quite safe to do so, there are no white men this side of Dawson. There were Indians all about but it never occurred to him they would steal.

There is a mighty calm about Yan. The great solemn unpainted poles with a carpet of fireweed running a wild riot of colour around their bases. There also are some very fine tombs, of which No. [?] is an example; a gorgeous red-leafed shrub which abounds here had formed a sturdy bush on the top of one of the posts. It is a very dignified tomb and one can well imagine a primitive noble buried within.

Among the tribes there are many different modes of burial, though it is becoming now more common to bury in the earth as we do. Yet many strange methods of disposing of the dead may still be seen. I have spoken of the method of placing the coffins in the top of carved columns. Much of this was done in Q.C.I., and it is only chiefs, shamen and nobles who are accorded these grand tombs. Just beyond Masset is a most wonderful old burying place. The graves are made thus. Two solid cedar tree trunks were sunk in the earth about 14 ft. apart. This was bridged with heavy slabs of wood about 6 or 8 ft. from the ground. There the coffin rested. These must be very old, for in every instance of the six or eight still standing, great spruce trees are growing from the top. You can see that they have seeded themselves in the pithy top of the cedar posts; here they have grown, throwing strong roots down to the earth through the centre of the cedar trunks and bursting them apart. Some tribes cremate their dead, and the widow is compelled to carry the charred bones of her dead husband round with her for one year. Another common practice is to place the coffin in the treetops, lopping off all the under branches and binding them securely to the topmost boughs; here they will remain for a great number of years. And it is customary to bring blankets and anything particularly prized by the deceased nearby.
I will never forget a grave I saw many years ago at Ucluelet on the West coast of Vancouver Island. It was that of a young woman. The coffin was a box about the size of an ordinary trunk, for they double the dead into a sitting posture. A scarlet blanket was bound about the box, and over that again was spread a gay patchwork quilt. This coffin was placed in a hollow cedar tree trunk. Gay beads were spread about, a hanging lamp and other personal treasures of the deceased. The wood was dark and sombre, but somehow a stray sunbeam had filtered through a rift in the hollow tree, lighting up the patchwork quilt and the gay trinkets. The effect in that dark wood was both beautiful and weird. It is customary there when a beloved one dies to burn his house down that it may go to the spirit world for his shelter there.

In No. 64 you will see a burying ground in the woods of Alert Bay, taken some years ago. That thunderbird with spread wings is also from an Alert Bay cemetery. In the same place are many strange paintings, carvings, representations of the copper chests of drawers and other furniture put on graves.

Hazelton possesses a very quaint graveyard. It is on the bluff behind the town and the view from there is magnificent. The dead are buried in the ground and perfect little miniature houses are built over them, having chimneys, windows, doors, etc. You will see all the treasures of the dead: clothes, sewing machines, children’s toys, women’s hair, warrior’s weapons, dishes, boots, hats and if possible a photo of the deceased (though this was only in a case of a young person as the old ones do not like pictures of themselves). This cemetery is divided into little streets. The little houses of the dead are gaily painted. No two are alike in colour and design. They also have little gardens round them.
Picture No. [?] represents the graves at Hagglegate. Here they are quite near to the village, straggling along at the top of the bank. The mountain behind is the glorious Rocher de Boule.

At Kitseukla they also build houses of the dead in front of the village. In looking through the window of one of these houses, one gets a considerable shock to meet the pallid gaze of a young man sitting within. After you have become accustomed to the gloom of the interior, you see it is a wooden effigy, dressed in real clothes and hat; he is seated in a chair, the one hand on his rifle and, in the other outstretched palm, five bullets. The face is very ghastly. This young fellow committed a murder. The police tracked him down, but when he saw he was cornered, he shot himself rather than be taken. Some tribes used to keep bodies of dead personages in their dwelling house for months.

This little story was told to me by Dr. Newcombe. He was travelling among the Indians, and on one occasion was put into a room to sleep, the chief ornament of which was a fine new coffin. On inquiring, he found that his host, although in excellent health, had acquired it against the day of his death. He had previously possessed another, but upon the death of his great friend, he had presented him his own coffin as the highest honour he could bestow. His nephews, therefore, gave him this second one, and now his great worry was that he was growing very stout and he feared he would outgrow it. He used to get in now and again to reassure himself.

There is one other village I would like to mention before I close; that is Guyasdoms. Guyasdoms is about eighteen miles from Alert Bay. I went there through the kindness of Mr. Halliday, the Indian agent at Alert Bay, who was going on a business trip up the Kinkom Inlet. I took a young Indian girl with me, and when
we were deposited on the beach and the launch went its way, we were the only living creatures in the place with the exception of a poor half-mad dog who had been forsaken and gone wild. The Indians were all off at the fishing [grounds]. Not a soul remained. Guyasdoms differs absolutely from Alert Bay in that the latter is a show village where all the tourist boats call and the Indians cater to the tourist trade and to the spectacular. Guyasdoms, on the other hand, lies off the beaten track in one of the old-time original villages, unchanged by fashion and civilization. It is large, extending along the waterfront above three beautiful beaches of white shell and pebbles. These three beaches are divided by points so that you do not see the entire village as you approach and are surprised to find how large it is upon investigation.

Among my pictures will be seen two specimens of the houses of Guyasdoms, Nos. 93 and 7, and truly dignified dwellings they are (from the front); all the grandeur of their buildings is “forrard.” The back and sides are formed of any old thing in the shape of planks, logs, bark or matting of any old size and shape. There are no windows, sufficient light and air filtering in through the gaps and cracks, and the large smoke[hole] in the roof. This is an adjustable flap that can be regulated according to the wind. But the fronts of these houses are truly imposing. No. 1 was formed of solid hand-hewn cedar planks some inches in thickness, and the posts and beams are enormous across the top, one solid cedar beam carved with the moon totem in the centre and the mythical sea serpent each end. No. 93 is one of the most dignified paganish mansions I have ever seen. The door in the centre is formed through the totem pole, a large whale with a little man astride his back and a flying thunderbird above. The entrance is through a heavy door in the
whale’s mouth. A flight of steps formed of solid logs banked with clay descends to the beach. It is so primitive, so heathenish, and withal so dignified. The people having been absent some months, the place had become completely overgrown with nettles; they were 8 ft. high, towering above our heads and cruelly stinging our ears and foreheads as we battled our way through them. To make matters worse, in front of the houses were wide plank walks hidden by the nettles and covered with large white slugs; these wretched creatures made it so slimy that we frequently took headlong plunges into the nettle beds. Imagine again the shock of picking oneself out of this predicament to come face to face with that [blank in text] with its outstretched arms and diabolical face. But there she stands, towering above the nettles. We reached a little above her knee as we stood beside her. She is D’Sonoqua, or wood spirit.

What a weird night that was at Guyasdoms. We slept on the floor of the old mission house. How absolutely lonely; the windows had no blinds, and tall trees with coffins bound to their topmost branches rocked their gruesome burdens all night, the wind moaned, the forsaken dog uttered his plaintive howl, the rats were much in evidence and the bed vastly uncomfortable. My little Indian companion alternately whispered of the ghosts and snored loudly. How small one feels in these great vastnesses of nature, alone.