Four Quarters of Light (29 page)

However, tomorrow was many hours of daylight away. That evening there were to be more traditional dances, songs and prayers, and all were welcome to participate, no matter what form their spiritual beliefs or practices took. Obviously, no matter how Episcopalian the Gwich'in were they still maintained a sense of the spirit world that many Christians would shun. Such is their respect for this spirit realm that they would never decry another human being's beliefs, no matter how remote they might seem from their own. After supper there was to be the first of several fiddle dances to take place during the Gathering. The final note on the day's rota of events, which was pinned on the wall in the hall, read, ‘No dancing beyond 4 a.m.'.

Back in the hall, it was about nine o'clock. The place had an excited yet congenial atmosphere. It was a time to celebrate. The visitors and the villagers had got to know one another during the interval after the speaking. The dancers were back in costume and talked happily about them. Many of them had been made by the great-grandmother, grandmother, mother and daughter of one family. They were regarded with great respect and represented several generations of tribal life. I thought of them as a unique kind of family album, made before cameras were invented. Their costumes were made for dancing, and the exuberance and shining eyes of the young people seemed in absolute harmony with the riot of colour and pattern in the beadwork.

Soon all the dancers and many others were circling and chanting to the primitive rhythm of the skin drum. I watched with more composure than before and tried hopelessly to catch some of the action on my camera. But I was less concerned now with the costumes than with the faces of the dancers. I wanted to see if I could witness that moment when the spirit of the dancer is overwhelmed by something more than the music; indeed, when that moment took a collective hold.

I watched and listened, taking sheepish photos I knew would not do justice to the embracing atmosphere of the place. But my attention kept returning to one young man. His costume had not the lavish adornment of the others and the finish of the hide was less fine than some. Also he was taller and leaner than the average Gwich'in. Neither did he have the marked ethnic features of his brothers: he had no epicanthic folds around the eyes, his head and face were not rounded like his supposed Siberian ancestors, nor had he the long aquiline features and beaten copper colouring of his Plains Indian relatives. His hair was curly and fair, and I was sure it would be golden by the end of the summer. But there are many different bloodlines in the Alaskan native, and while studying the young man's face I recalled something I had heard before during preparations for my visit: ‘With the Athabascan people, it doesn't matter what or who you are, Eskimo or English, Irish or Finn, Russian or French, you have family wherever you go.' And I had to admit that this evening was the first time I was beginning to feel at home. I was even feeling that if I should feel the pull of the dance I would not hesitate to join in.

But this young man continued to distract me. When he moved in the dancing spiral he moaned with more concentrated abandon, and his guttural chants, which were the first to emerge before being swallowed up in an echoing chorus, seemed to me to have their source in something less human than the circle of bodies in front of me. I looked closely at him every time he passed me, but I never saw any discernible moment of ‘possession' in him. His face only became animated at those moments when he
threw his head back to chant to the sky. There was something quite unearthly yet beautifully moving in the noise that came from him. It was, in every imaginable way, the call of the wild. None of the other dancers seemed driven in the way he was. There had to be something more than spiritual ecstasy there, some powerful driving force not triggered externally by the dance. I did not know what it was, only that the whole dance centred and moved around his fierce energy. These were not the sacred dances we had earlier witnessed, they were invitational and celebratory. They were meant to be enjoyed, and to enrich the sense of community and sharing which were essentials in the Gwich'in culture.

I was thrilling to the euphoria of it all when Chief Evon approached, asked if I was enjoying myself and began introducing me to a few other villagers. We exchanged cordial words, and the chief even joked about my special relationship with the caribou. I laughed too, feeling less bothered now by my transgression. I did, however, remark that I was really looking forward to a shower and would be attending the dedication ceremony at the washeteria the next day. Chief Evon was happy, said he wanted me to meet one of the younger generation of Gwich'in and called over some of the young dancers. Among them was the young man I had been studying. Instead of introducing them to me he stated that I was a visitor from Ireland who was travelling through Alaska to write a book and that after the ceremony tomorrow they might like to speak with me. They all nodded obligingly before moving off. I asked the chief about the young man. ‘It is no surprise you should be interested,' he replied. ‘His mother was Irish. Tomorrow you should speak with him. We are very proud of these young Gwich'in. But I must leave you now – and remember, my Irish friend, there is no dancing after four a.m.' Then he smiled and was gone before I could assure him that I would be fast asleep long before that curfew.

Before midnight, the platform at the top of the room was cleared and a drum set appeared along with some PA equipment and a few well-worn amplifiers. Dancers quickly removed their
buckskin costumes and hovered eagerly around the room. After a brief spell a guitar player took the stage with the drummer and two young fiddle players, and after a few minutes' tuning they began to play some country and western tunes that everyone seemed to enjoy. It was obvious the young fiddlers were merely a warm-up act as after about half an hour three older men, though still in their mid-twenties, took over and really turned up the tempo.

At first I was completely thrown by this event. Some moments ago I had been watching native people perform sacred caribou dances, now here I was watching the same Indians playing country and western music! It took some time to recover from the initial shock. I watched the older couples dance intricate two-foot shuffles while others waltzed with unexpected finesse. And as I listened, the incongruity of what I was witnessing diminished. Athabascan ballroom dancing inside the Arctic Circle seemed less absurd and more unique. I should have realized that with so many mixed bloodlines in the Athabascan gene pool – Russian, Irish, Spanish, Scandinavian and French-Canadian – it would have been impossible to hold back cross-cultural influence in their music.

Fiddle music, I learned from Margaret and her friend, was a long-standing tradition in Alaskan villages. Irish, Orkney Island and French-Canadian fiddle music had arrived with the Hudson Bay Company in the mid-1800s, and a second wave of fiddle music arrived in the 1900s from Appalachia via the Californian gold fields as the miners migrated with their get-rich-quick dreams inspired by the Klondike. Finally, country and western and Cajun music cassettes added their own flavour to this unique fiddle-playing tradition. I was really getting into the swing of this luscious hotch-potch of styles and influences. I considered it would have taken several generations for this grafted music to bury itself so deeply in the native culture. Margaret explained that many native people have a well-honed ear for sound and melody. I knew what she meant. I had experienced the quality of quiet in the bush, and how the slightest sound carries. Natives,
too, she insisted, have a great sense of meticulous application, and most players are self-taught.

As she was explaining these things, I was thinking how the idea of subsistence living was not only about shelter and survival. If it was about creating something useful out of whatever came your way, then obviously that meant music too. When Margaret told me that many of the early instruments, like many things in Alaska, had been ordered through Sears Roebuck catalogues, and then added that at one time the Sears Roebuck business empire had accepted pelts as payment, I had to laugh. An image came into my head of an advertisement in a Sears Roebuck catalogue,
circa
1950: ‘One G-string bango, $75, or ten quality beaver skins. Fiddle and bow in case, $120, or three wolf hides. Both items on special offer as presentation set – $165, or two brown bear skins.'

That night I lay in my tent going over the events of the day while mongrel fiddle music reeled out over the expanding tundra to the accompaniment of youthful laughter and applause.

Alcohol is absolutely forbidden in native settlements, but the following morning the village had a distinctly hung-over air about it. Although the music did stop around four o'clock, people were too excited to sleep; I could still hear talking and laughter after six. I eventually struggled down to the field kitchen at about half past nine, and relished the steaming coffee that was available. There were a few dozen young villagers there plus members of the various camera crews. Everyone looked dog tired after the previous night's exertions, though the cameramen were particularly pleased with the shots they had got and an Australian soundman spoke in raptures about the fiddle playing. I walked among them exchanging hellos and chatting about plans. Most were staying in the village for another day, then heading north to get some footage of the caribou migration. I was again assured they had room for me if I was still keen to go. There was little doubt about that.

As I passed among the growing breakfast crowd I became aware that I was being watched. The young man I had witnessed dancing with such intensity was hovering about, occasionally speaking to his peers but more often on his own. At first I thought
it was my imagination – another hangover from my fascination with the aggressive, trance-like quality of his dancing. So for a few minutes I dissuaded myself that this young man was really watching me. But as I moved from one acquaintance to another, and when I walked over to the community hall and back, there he was, either sitting not far off from where I was speaking or watching me from a distance. I decided to forget the matter entirely, and after warming myself at the great log fire I headed back to my tent for a change of clothes to take to the washeteria.

I must have been some twenty minutes or so sorting things in my tent, checking to see that my sleeping bag was still dry and lighting some incense before emerging and setting off through the village. My young stalker was waiting for me behind the pile of caribou antlers. He said nothing when I looked in his direction, turning his face from me as if he had other concerns to deal with. But during the few minutes' walk to the shower he was never far behind, and when I emerged in my fresh attire, there he was again. I had to admit I was now becoming a little disturbed by this. After all, I had no idea what was on his mind. Had he noticed me watching him with such interest? Had this somehow offended him? I could hardly go off to Chief Evon or one of the elders with this problem.

Instinctively I took the bull by the horns and walked directly over to him. I stopped in front of him and smiled. ‘Did you enjoy the music last night' I asked nonchalantly, drying my hair.

He was startled neither by my action nor by the question. ‘Yes' he replied, ‘I liked the music.' There was not the slightest hint of animation or interest in his face.

‘It was much too late for me – an old man needs his sleep,' I continued, trying to extend the atmosphere of ease between us. ‘Are you going back to the village?' I added invitingly before moving off. Without answering, he walked alongside me. ‘Chief Evon introduced me to so many people last night, but I remember that you're Patrick.' (Patrick is the pseudonym I have given the young man as I am quite sure he would not be happy to have his real name used. The native mind has a thing about names. A
name tells of who you are. It locates you in your family, in your tribe. Usually it is chosen in compliance with certain codes and spiritual beliefs. Respect a man's name and you respect the man. So I have chosen out of deep respect to call him Patrick.)

For a few minutes we walked in silence with me busily pretending to dry my hair while hoping that Patrick would open up rather than simply answer the innocuous questions I was putting to him. It was not to be. When I queried him about his costume, he told me that it had been his father's; when I asked him if his mother had sewn the beadwork, he abruptly answered, ‘No.' But it was the way the answer came that struck me – as if he was trying to choke back something. The word was almost inaudible, and it fell out of his mouth like a stone. I needed to change the subject quickly or else the silence between us would crush us.

‘How old are you?'

‘Nineteen, almost twenty,' he replied, then put the question back to me.

‘Oh, much, much older than that,' I told him, smiling openly at his enquiry.

‘Yes, that is what I thought,' he commented.