Joko (40 page)

“What did he mean about the … da…”

“
Da-gos
? Mosquitoes. He was saying that it’s buggy up the road. The ashes on his skin were to hide his smell so they don’t sting. I’ve had to resort to ashes at times to keep the bugs at bay, but while it fools the
da-gos
, it frightens the ladies, too,” Swan laughed.

Without further incident the three travelers continued toward Port Townsend. Swan said the march would cover about twenty-five miles of fairly rough terrain, and that proved to be an understatement. Before long it was only Jack who was not huffing and puffing as they negotiated the steep trail, and after only a few hours of travel Johnny remarked that he couldn’t imagine packing everything without the mule.

Finally, with only a few miles to go before they reached the town, Johnny found himself cursing the pack he bore. It made his shoulders and back burn and itch. Despite a cool breeze, he was sweating and his muscles were cramping from exertion. Now, his eyes never left the trail. All he hoped for was the promise of flat road. “No more hills, please,” he prayed silently as he dug his feet into the stony soil. He had developed a limp in his formerly broken leg, and the scar on his forehead glowed a bright pink.

On many occasions Swan had passed the time discussing one subject or another. Now he trudged along, stoic as a soldier and mute as a statue.

“Up and down! Up and down,” Johnny protested as they reached the top of a hill.

“That’s why I got the mule,” replied Swan with a forced smile. “No other way.” He tipped off his hat and wiped his forehead on his coat sleeve.

“I see that, Mr Swan,” snapped Johnny. “But when you spoke of the mule you didn’t say nothing about them hills.

How’d I know we’d be mountain climbin’ and swattin’ at
Da-gos
?”

“Well, I knew we needed the mule and when I last assessed the situation I was the one to make such decisions.

That said, dear John, I doubt if the description would really have helped lighten our steps, do you?”

Swan was right, of course, but Johnny spat into the dust anyway.

“Don’t worry, John.” Swan tightened his grip on the reins of the mule. “There’s fresh coffee only a few miles up this road. Good, fresh, real coffee.” Swan smacked his parched lips almost lasciviously.

Jack had attuned himself to the back and forth banter between the two humans. He found it endlessly amusing because of the way they displayed emotion. He could usually ignore their emotions if he wasn’t touching them, but with anger it was a different story. Anger from the humans seemed to reach out like an invisible animal. It clawed softly at his center. He had learned, or rather felt, the power of anger among the humans. He knew his kin worked hard to avoid men, and now he was beginning to see why.

Hearing Johnny’s angry tone was all it took for Jack to increase the distance between himself and the bickering humans. He trotted ahead down the trail.

Johnny watched Jack disappear around the leafy bend in the trail and mumbled something darkly. Inwardly he admired Jack’s eagerness and felt, at some deep level, that Jack was avoiding his ire. It wasn’t the first time Jack had vanished during a moment of dispute between himself and the old argonaut. Still, he’d been expecting Jack would lag behind the closer they got to Port Townsend.

Only the mule took the rocky, often twisting trail in stride and without complaint. It knew the trail and knew that that it led to home, hay and rest. It also knew they were nearing their destination. Like Jack, it could smell the sea and the humanity.

Johnny was the first to see the steeple of a church through the trees. He stopped dead in his tracks and leaned against a rock, letting his pack fall to the ground. Wiping his face with a handkerchief, he looked excitedly at Swan. “Is that it?”

Swan squinted at the distant tower. “Yep. Port Townsend.

That would be St Paul’s Church.”

Across a valley filled with fresh cleared pastureland, the town seemed to perch on a rise overlooking the northernmost mouth of Admiralty Inlet.

Swan smiled. “The only church I know of with a ship’s bell in the tower. They ring it for Sunday meetings, weddings, and fog. A ship captain gave the bell to the church, stipulating it had to ring during fog to warn ships off Point Hudson.” He yanked the tired mule to action. “Come on, boys. We’re almost there. No reason to slow down now.”

Johnny picked up his bag and tugged at Jack’s sleeve. The sasquatch stared mutely at the distant town but said nothing, nor did he hesitate to follow Johnny toward the seaport.

It had rained that morning. Someone was clearing brush at the edge of town. Grey smoke hung low in the wet trees.

Jack sniffed the smoke and sensed great evil. The worst thing about men was their covenant with fire. Seeing the brush burning made him realize he was soon to be once again immersed in the world of men. It excited him but terrified him, too, but Johnny and Swan’s relaxed demeanor had a calming effect on him and he did not flee as his instincts told him to.

He realized that as long as these men were with him he had family. And family meant security. And besides, where would he go?

“You’ll get a good look at the Sound, when we get up that hill,” said Swan. “This road is called Sims Way.”

Swan’s mood seemed to brighten considerably as they proceeded into Port Townsend. He started bubbling information. Johnny was impressed by the large houses perched on a hill in front of them. The road divided at the base of the hill. One fork led uphill to the stately homes and the other to the wharf where two steamships were moored.

To his right was a small marina and a field where native children played stick ball with a large pinecone.

There was nothing at all primitive about this settlement, and the expensive Victorian homes with fancy pillars and gables seemed almost commonplace. Even the shacks that dotted the edge of town, though simply constructed and small, looked tidy and well cared for. Still, the denuded trees and muddy landscape spoke of a rough-hewn frontier town that had sprung up in a hurry.

Swan had told Johnny that Port Townsend was the first settlement and the site of Captain Vancouver’s landing way back in 1790.

Swan chose to visit the waterfront first. It was late in the day but still early enough to find people in their shops. Soon, humanity bustled around them; people passed them on foot, on horses and carts. None of the busy citizens appeared to notice the threesome as they strolled toward the center of town.

On the way to Port Townsend Swan had told Johnny many details about the town and what they could expect when they got there. To Johnny the place seemed to have the air of a boomtown, not the old port that he’d pictured from Swan’s descriptions. Everything seemed to be fresh and new.

Swan had rented some rooms from Henry Bash, the

Customs agent for whom Swan had worked part-time to earn extra cash. Since he had been out of town Swan doubted that the rooms were still available, but he wanted to go to the Customs office near the docks to see Henry, their best bet at quickly securing room and board for the three of them. Swan said that in the event of a rental of his rooms his effects would be stored in a shed behind the Bash house.

Eager to finish this business before sundown, Swan didn’t allow much time to gawk at the harbor. “Come along, boys,” he said impatiently. “We have business to do before we settle in like tourists. You’ll have ample sight-seeing opportunities in the coming days, I’m sure.”

Johnny pulled the mule along the gravel streets that paralleled the shoreline and led to the center of town. Swan shook his head disapprovingly as he surveyed the town.

“What’s the problem?” asked Johnny.

“So much building,” said Swan. “One day I’ll return a total stranger, won’t recognize a thing.”

Soon they arrived at the Bash offices. Leaving Johnny, Jack and the mule at the gate Swan went up some steps that led to an upstairs office and knocked at the door. There was no answer, so Swan checked his pocket watch and descended the stairs. The party then had to climb the hill to the Bash house, which stood perhaps a quarter mile beyond the bluff that overlooked the port.

Some time later, the three stood on the porch of a grey two-story house surrounded by a lawn and a rose garden.

The house sat on the hill overlooking a broad stretch of farmland. Soon a black woman answered the door.

“Mr Swan,” she shrieked the instant she saw the old gent.

“We thought the Indians took you for sure.” She looked past him and sized up the two boys who watched quietly from the road. “I know you want some coffee, Mr Swan. How about your friends?”

Swan turned and signaled for the boys to join him. Johnny tied the mule to a post and pulled at Jack’s arm as he started up the walk. Reluctantly Jack tagged along behind. Soon they were seated at a large round mahogany table in the main dining room. Swan introduced Johnny and Jack to Maybelle Watson, a large jovial woman who had been in Henry’s employ for as long as Swan could remember.

“I’m sorry, Mr Swan, but Mr Bash had to let your rooms to a gent from Chicago who’s fixing to invest in something somewhere north of here. But I’m sure Mr Bash will help you find a room.”

When her attention fell on the boys, Swan introduced them as traveling companions headed to British Columbia.

She seemed to accept the story without question but displayed an obvious curiosity about Jack. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen someone that looked like you, sir. You must be from very far away.”

Jack looked at her blankly.

“Doesn’t speak our language?” she asked.

“A bit,” replied Swan. “We’re teaching him . He’s from Samoa, Sumatra, very far away.”

“Land sakes,” Maybelle exclaimed. “A boy so far from home.”

She poured a mug of coffee for Johnny and Swan. “I know you’ll take your coffee black, Mr Swan. But what about your Sumatran friend?” She looked at Johnny expectantly.

Johnny smiled. “I like coffee with some milk if it’s no trouble, ma’am. Jack will be having water, I suppose.”

Maybelle nodded and left the room.

Johnny looked around the room. Colorful bottles and sea glass decorated the shelves and the windowsills. These caught Jack’s eye immediately. Occasionally he would rise and go over to one of them, but to Johnny and Swan’s relief, he didn’t touch anything. Finally he returned to his seat.

“This is a big house,” said Johnny.

“Folks tend to keep the shades open and let the light in,” replied Swan. But Johnny was barely listening. Suddenly he felt very sleepy. “You look tired, John,” said Swan.

Jack sat politely in his chair, arms dangling limp at his sides. His eyes moved slowly from object to object as he surveyed the room. The ornate designs, which decorated the furnishings, seemed to fascinate him. Noticing this, Swan said he wondered what Jack thought of it all.

“He’s doin’ great,” said Johnny, looking proudly at Jack.

Mrs Watson returned with a pitcher of milk. “Fresh today,” she said, holding out the pitcher. “Are you sure you boys wouldn’t rather have a nice glass of cool milk?”

Johnny looked at her with a big smile. “That sounds very nice, ma’am. I believe I will at that.”

“And your friend?”

Johnny realized that Jack had never tasted milk. “He might not like it … never had it before,” he remarked. “We call him Jack, ma’am.”

Jack was ignoring them. He was still examining the myriad details of the room. Johnny touched his hand and asked him if he wanted milk. Jack nodded. Johnny’s touch had given him a rough idea that milk was food. He watched with interest as Maybelle poured two large glasses and placed them before the boys.

“Here you go, Mr Jack from Sumatra,” she said cheerfully.

Johnny took three huge gulps before he forced himself to stop drinking. “My goodness,” he gasped. “I’m so thirsty. I do apologize for being piggish.”

“Never you mind, Johnny,” said Mrs Watson. “There’s plenty where that came from.”

Swan watched Jack as the sasquatch rais ed the glass to his lips; then he smiled as Jack took a few cautious sips. He looked at it and put the glass back on the table. Then he stuck his finger into the milk and put the finger in his mouth.

He began doing this repeatedly, each time giving his finger a few noisy sucks. The three humans watched him, dumfounded.

Suddenly Swan realized what Jack was doing and exploded in laughter. “He knows what milk is, all right!” he roared. “That’s plain to see.”

Maybelle also understood and laughed out loud. “Land sakes, Mr Swan. I believe a year hasn’t changed you at all,” she said and disappeared into the kitchen. “You’re teaching those boys bad habits.”

Johnny’s face reddened with embarrassment and he grabbed Jack’s hand as it returned to the glass. “No, Jack.

Drink it from the glass … not
that way
!” Johnny raised his own glass and took some deliberate sips.

Jack seemed to register embarrassment. He looked at Swan, then at Johnny. Then without hesitation he gulped the whole glass down. A moment later he burped loudly and smiled.

Mrs Watson provided a tray loaded with some biscuits and three slices of pie. “Blueberries are big and sweet this year. I baked a couple of pies this morning and I just
knew
you folks would want a taste.”

“Why that’s most kind of you, Maybelle,” said Swan. “And I must apologize for Jack’s table manners. I have been trying to teach him some skills. He’s a bright boy and a fast learner, but he had a lot to learn.”

“I understand perfectly,” said Maybelle. “No need for apologies. Comin’ from clear around the world. I’d say he’s a lucky boy to have found so able a teacher as yourself, Mr Swan.”

She placed the three slices of pie before her guests and poured herself a cup of tea from a pot that had been sitting on the table when they arrived. Then she sat down with a pleasant sigh.

Jack was staring at the slice of blueberry pie she’d put in front of him. He watched carefully as Johnny and Swan began eating. He seemed to be studying the way Johnny used the fork to slice off a piece and then spooned it into his mouth.