When Raven Dances Read online

  POLLY BIGELOW

  Illustrated by Judith Tritz

  PO Box 221974 Anchorage, Alaska 99522-1974

  [email protected]—www.publicationconsultants.com

  ISBN 978-1-59433-414-6

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2013952223

  Copyright 2013 Polly Bigelow

  —First Edition—

  Illustrator: Judith Tritz

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in any form, or by any mechanical or electronic means including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, in whole or in part in any form, and in any case not without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  Manufactured in the United States of America.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My desire has been to tell the story of the crucial role tiny Seward played in the Allied success during WWll. I wasn’t there, but I am an army brat, remember what life was like during those years, and hoped that I could make a stab at the task. I needed a great deal of help and there are many who assisted in my effort.

  Certainly the first is Mary Barry. Her extraordinarily detailed history of Seward served as my beginning. I read them all, returning to them, especially Volume III, for more information along the way. Beyond that, there still remain in Seward a few citizens who did live during those years and they volunteered details and anecdotes regarding life at that time. They include Nancy and Jack Sadusky, Beverly and Willard Dunham, and Jack and Betty Skinner. Jean Schwafel was supportive of my efforts as well. I thank them for their patience.

  I have from the first received unqualified support from Qutekcak in Seward, specifically Melanee Stevens. The indigenous people in Seward chose the name for my pivotal character, Sava Sahtaii. I also thank Esther Ronne, one of the last residents of the Jesse Lee Home. She graciously gave me an afternoon to talk about life at the Home. I thank Michael and Crista Lee Tritz for taking me out to view Resurrection Bay close-up, for hiking with me, for showing me a WWll munitions cave, and running myriad errands for me.

  John Foutz of City of Seward provided an excellent city map and Bill Toskey assisted in locating important sites. Father Richard Tero of Sacred Heart Church has been supportive as well. Of course, the Seward Community Library and Museum have provided me with excellent historical material and books about Raven’s antics.

  I can’t remember not knowing folk stories and myths of many cultures. I suspect they exist in my DNA. For that reason it is difficult for me to denote what stories I have known since childhood and those I have read, but I list a few books in the bibliography. Since I know that Coyote and Raven are the creators and powerful tricksters in their culture, I felt free to weave them together in this story.

  In writing about the strong connection between Athabaskan language and various tribes of the continental Southwest, once again I am grateful to those who mentored me. Robert Johnson, Navajo cultural specialist at the Window Rock Museum assisted me with my Navajo character, Naasha, and her view of the world, as well as certain Navajo words included in the story. His help was detailed and I tried to adjust words and concepts so that they were suitable for a small non-Navajo girl.

  Regarding Athabaskan, specifically Dena’ina language, I am indebted to Dr. Siri Tuttle, Professor of linguistics at the University of Alaska Fairbanks, who patiently led me over the mine field of sophisticated language similarities and differences.

  Bruce Orton also provided a potential source for language assistance.

  Regarding both native languages, and my use of their words, I am a novice and request that those more knowledgeable be patient with my errors.

  Katch Bachellor at the Alaska Museum fielded my questions concerning prehistoric land animals and sea creatures in Alaska. My interpretation of that information is clearly my own, but even a cursory look at that subject reveals that dinosaurs did populate the Kenai, particularly sea creatures, and animals of monstrous size have been spotted by radar in Alaska waters not all that long ago.

  Library staff in Juneau and Ketchikan fielded my queries and cheerfully assisted. I am particularly indebted to Hillary Koch, who sent me information on Ketchikan.

  Bora Zivkovic, Blog Editor for Scientific American, helped me regarding sleep patterns in Alaska animals. Keith Boggs, Director of the Alaska Natural Heritage Program at University of Alaska Anchorage, assisted me with Alaska flora.

  There were those who willingly supported me as I wrote, especially Diedre Bloom, Jennifer Fields, and Angela Dunne. Angela designed the iconic Raven. Patricia Cleavenger served as my thorough and capable proof reader.

  I am grateful to Rebecca Goodrich for showing me the road and then making sure that there were plenty of dips and detours along the way. Her patient tutorials made the book stronger and richer.

  I thank my daughter, Kate, who was my support and mentor regarding social media. Son, Bill, helped me occasionally with internet problems. Thanks also to Ray Massucco for legal advice regarding the book.

  My husband, Jim, became my patient technical assistant and confidant.

  Lastly, I am profoundly grateful for my editor extraordinaire, Patricia Fry. Her light touch and incisive insight brought needed clarity to the book.

  A big thank you to my reviewers and their kind words.

  I am sure there are others I should thank—I have had many supporters. To all of you I offer my sincere gratitude.

  Finally, I ask the reader to recall that this is a work of fiction, laid over a few facts about what was the valiant town of Seward, Alaska during the war and throughout the ’40s. The town near Window Rock in New Mexico is a creation of my imagination. Those who populate both towns in this novel are, one and all, creatures of my imagination.

  Here we are, my my brother and I,

  On our way to “I don’t know why.”

  Filled with the spirit to smile and sing.

  We truly have everything.

  Author unknown

  Where is the way where light dwelleth? And as for darkness, where is the place thereof…hast thou entered into the treasures of the snow?...

  Hath the rain a father? Or who hath begotten the drops of dew?

  Out of whose womb came the ice? And the hoary frost of heaven, who hath gendered it?

  Job chapter 38: 17 through 29

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  THE PESKY BIRD PREVAILS

  MAMA AND I ENCOUNTER A FLOATING COLOSSUS

  NAASHA’S NAVAJO WORLD

  THE TERROR OF WAR

  BUBBLEGUM, POOKAS, AND A WHISTLE

  IN THE BELLY OF THE WHALE

  YET ANOTHER GOODBYE

  A FOGGY MONOCHROME BEGINNING

  MAKING THE HOUSE OUR HOME

  A SEWARD FOURTH OF JULY

  SETTLING IN

  MAMA AND THE BRIDGE LADIES

  OUR FIRST WINTER IN SEWARD

  CHRISTMAS IN SEWARD

  CYNTHIA DISCOVERS SHANGRI-LA

  A TREASURE PRESENTS ITSELF

  MY FIRST REAL JOB

  WE MEET SAVA AND RAVEN

  SAVA SHARES A MEAL AND MUCH MORE

  THE TOWN THAWS AND THE GROUND GRUMBLES

  CAN’T WE ALL GET ALONG?

  WE ARE STUNNED AND ASHAMED

  OVER NIGHT AT THE JESSE LEE HOME

  GROWING UP

  HALLOWEEN

  NORTHERN LIGHTS AND SPOTLIGHTS

  MY INITIATION INTO A DARKER SIDE OF LIFE

  MY CONCEPT OF CRUELTY DEEPENS

  A STUNNING DISCOVERY

  SOME OF THE MANY SIDES OF LOVE

  WE DO SOMETHING VERY SWELL

  DEATH AGAIN, AND AGAIN

  DRESSING THE STAR

  BYRON’S COMEUPPANCE

  AT LAST MAMA GETS THE
PICTURE

  WITH THE FINEST GUIDE WE PENETRATE ANOTHER WORLD

  I LEARN FORTITUDE AND HUMILITY

  MORE THAN BERRY PICKING

  DOORS AND WINDOWS

  THE PESKY BIRD PREVAILS

  August 1963

  I don’t want to write this story, but Raven insists.

  I sit upon a giant slagheap of mica schist that has exploded onto the hillside, likely from a gaping earth wound, the end product of some lumberman’s interpretation of harvesting trees or some miner’s effort to locate a promising vein. Stumps remain, occasionally jutting from this burst of shining detritus that I cannot construe to be anything other than the fractured guts of earth. For about half a football field in size, the site festers, quietly sloping at a degree slight enough that I have negotiated it easily by foot in order to survey it.

  I have driven gravel roads and hiked about four miles to find a place in these mountains that reflects just how I feel at this moment and this is it.

  It is 1963 and I am in Hope, Alaska, just up the road from my childhood home, Seward. My reason for being here is not a happy one. I suspect the hope encompassed in that name has to do with the heady optimism felt by scores of miners as they trod these hills searching for the shiny stuff—gold or silver or copper. Most of them scoured this area seventy years ago, with varied levels of success. This wound, this gash in nature’s belly, is trying to heal. Many spots are now green, soft to my sight, velvet as the new horns on a deer. Baby aspens and conifers seek to make life out of this ugliness. God bless the moxie of Alaska’s Mother Nature. I have come to adore her and I have come to think my heart and hers are one.

  I sit on this velvet patch, among the new saplings, my arms wrapped around my knees as I survey the world about me. I wear well-worn brown hiking boots, a necessary part of my daily uniform. At my feet, flows a rushing stream shining silver in the sun’s reflection. It comes to my sight from the right below, arcs around to my left and then winds again to the right and down the mountain, to sites not yet wounded, as far as I know.

  High in the spruce tree sits Raven. It isn’t enough that he lives in my heart, he has to nag me, to boot. His call is far from pleasant, but it is insistent. I watch as he jumps from branch to branch preening and fussing. Raven has been after me for a few years now. He says the time has come for me to tell my story. For the life of me, I don’t know why he thinks that what I have to say matters in the least.

  Besides, this is a sad time for me. Most of the time I act on his advice, but this writing thing is tough. He says that if I don’t get going, he will pull my hair and peck at my ear until it is raw, and then he will do it again and again. And I believe him.

  I could defy him. I have done that before. I could dig in with my boots and fists and just refuse to do his will.

  Or perhaps, given my mood today, I will slide down and allow myself to be sliced by these shards, becoming slivers of brown boot, khaki shorts, and blood flowing into that lovely stream. Like colorful Buddhist prayer flags, fragile as a breeze, I could become part of this lovely natural world.

  There he sits, perched on the branch over to my left. He hops from branch to branch performing for my benefit. It is his call, his voice that penetrates my head. He clucks, he squawks, he rails at me and there is no denying his demands. All his companions in the forest, including me, give in and heed him. He snaps his wings, he rants, inveighing me to get started. “Tok, tok, tok.”

  Pouting has never been a major part of my persona, so I give in and do his will.

  Raven says to get on with it, and there is no way I can ignore him.

  MAMA AND I ENCOUNTER A FLOATING COLOSSUS

  May 1946

  So I reach deep into my pack for pencil and paper and begin the story of growing into a woman in a magic land of crystal cold and cutting winds. I have been supported by many who showed me the way through the labyrinth, freely sharing their love and wisdom.

  There have been so many; but one in particular dominates my mind today. He is an extraordinary person made of Alaska soil and flesh, a man whose spirit is one with everything that matters in this Alaska universe. His name is Sava Sahtaii, and he is my dear friend.

  This is also the story of my mother. Her way was not easy, but she was determined to encounter her own future while holding tightly to my hand or my wrist, as I reluctantly stumbled and scuffed along beside her.

  It is the story of Cynthia Bergen, my best friend, whose virtues and talents refused to remain hidden within her, in spite of her modesty.

  I am compelled to mention Silvio, whose sporadic entrances into my life, followed by his capricious exits, continue to perplex me.

  I should mention Matthias, a little boy of modest and questionable provenance who sings like something celestial and is master of an exotic skill.

  Others cheered me on, or counseled me on the way ahead. Some threw obstacles in my path, but fortunately those who helped have been many and those who hindered have been few.

  Finally there is my father, who left me virtually before my voyage began. He didn’t want to leave me; I know that. But leave me, he did. He left me to contend with great sadness—and this pesky, demanding bird. And perhaps some of his kin, to boot.

  What I will recount to you begins when I was a little girl, many years ago, and it ends tomorrow, August 27, 1963. That is because Sava will be gone then. I know that because he told me that his breath-soul will leave him then, and it isn’t difficult to figure out what that means.

  I am Marisol Downey. I am twenty-six years old and a wildlife biologist with the U.S. Forestry Service. I live about fifteen miles from here in the Chugach Range.

  1946

  In May1946, I found myself in a cab in Seattle, Washington headed for the port. My heart pounded, but that had been happening often lately. Everything I had encountered in the last five days was new territory for me. I sat directly behind a cab driver, his rough wool cap filling my already limited field of vision. I was, after all, only fifty-two inches high and a goodly part of that was legs. Within the last half-hour Mama, the driver, and I had managed to stuff piles of suitcases, cartons and bundles into the trunk and passenger seat of the cab. We scrambled into what space remained. Now the driver slowed, stopped and rushed to open Mama’s door and I crawled out after her.

  Before me was a long expanse of wet, worn concrete with sides that dropped directly into a leaden-colored ocean. In front of me and to my side wallowed a black and white behemoth, a cold metal giant of a ship. I wanted to bawl. To forestall that potential shame, I stuffed two lemon-flavored Life Savers into my mouth and chewed them with ferocity.

  I had to crane my neck to see the ship’s top edge. I saw what looked like metal arms of strange, jointed shapes, standing at the ready to achieve feats that I could not yet imagine.

  From a rusty hole the size of my Granny’s entire dining room, a mammoth black chain spewed, as if it were the tongue of this huge beast—a tongue that reached down into the depths of the fearsome chasm as if it sought a drink of that murky water. The chain and a series of grimy, slimy ropes, nearly as thick as my entire body, held the ship so that its movement was limited at the dock. Even so, it still bobbled and leaned lazily, just enough that I could contemplate my fate if I took just three steps that direction and fell between the concrete and the side of the ship.

  I would have become peanut butter with pigtails and ribbons in seconds, and no one would even know I was gone.

  “Oh, Marisol, just look at our ship!” exclaimed Mama. I looked up at her expression, something I could not share at this moment. She was excited; I was terrified.

  On the back of the ship I saw the words, S.S. Denali and I saw that one of those arms had ropes attached to it that had something to do with a flag that fluttered in the slight breeze.

  Ahead of us, a white canvas-covered chute shot out from another opening and dropped, making contact with the concrete pier. Above it I read the words, Alaska Steamship Company. The whole contraption made
me think of the chute made of poles and planks that my Grandfather, Juan Felipe, used to usher his cattle into the corral at his rancho in New Mexico. The only difference, I reckoned, was a fancy canvas cover, but cattle chute it was. I knew well what was to befall the cattle. They were either going to receive a searing, hissing brand on their rumps or they were headed to market to become roasts and steaks.

  I was dressed in what was to become my “for best” uniform throughout our voyage, and for the next year—a light brown plaid wool skirt and a brown jacket. On my feet were saddle shoes, barely broken in and long enough for me to grow into. The white parts blazed and the toes curled up already, impatiently awaiting the feet to fill them. My hair was still slightly wet, plaited into two braids and firmly finished with rubber bands and tan satin ribbons. Atop my head, perched a brown beanie with a perky felt heart on the top.

  Within the last two hours, I had experienced my very first shower. Until that day, Mama had scrubbed my head in the kitchen sink of our house in Gardner, New Mexico and the rest of me had been routinely scoured and polished in a footed bathtub.