The Dark Place (19 page)

Abe’s voice was dreamy. "Five hundred miles they must have walked, always hiding. Over the mountains. Across the Columbia Gorge. Out of the land of Canaan, the warm, plenteous valleys of California, five hundred miles to the wettest, darkest place in America."

"And one of the most isolated places in America. The settlers were hunting them down in the nineteenth century, remember, killing them off." And the twentieth, according to Pringle.

"Hah," Abe said softly, and Gideon could see how much he wanted to believe in the incredible possibility. So did Gideon. "Hah," Abe said again, then shook his head. "No. No, it’s too bizarre, too romantic. No."

"I don’t recall," Gideon said, "that such pedestrian considerations ever caused you any concern before."

Abe slapped the table with his hand. "Right you are. You’re absolutely right. I think we got something here."

He pointed suddenly at another book. "Hand me that, will you?"

As Gideon did so, he saw that it was
Yahi Archery
by Saxton Pope.

Abe flicked rapidly away. Halfway through, he stopped and stared. "This settles it."

On page 119, in neat, economical lines, was a drawing of a Yahi point. It was an arrow, not a spear, and it looked like stone, not bone, but the shape and the technique of manufacture were unmistakably the same as the ones in Pringle’s collection, the one the Zanders had found, and the one in Norris Eckert’s seventh thoracic vertebra.

"That settles it," Gideon agreed. He drew a deep breath. "The Yahi." They were both quiet for a while, lost in their own thoughts. Then Gideon spoke. "Abe, something’s wrong. The Yahi were never a vicious people, and everybody who wrote about Ishi was struck by what a gentle, kind person he was. And Pringle’s story suggests the ones he saw weren’t exactly ferocious. But the ones in there now—they’ve murdered at least three people, probably more—all harmless campers or hikers. One was a young girl—"

"Listen, Gideon, in the 1850s they weren’t exactly angels. Believe me," he said, as if he’d been there, "all the atrocities weren’t on one side. Besides, who knows what their minds are like? A hundred years of isolation, of fear, of hate. Who can tell what goes on in their heads?"

"Abe," Gideon said suddenly, "I’d like to borrow these books, at least the ones that deal with the Yahi, if that’s all right with you."

"You mean tonight? What’s the hurry? You got till next spring."

"No. The FBI will want to find them long before that. I think the best thing would be for me to tell John Lau what we know, and then go in with them, or maybe a little before, to sort of smooth the way, open communication, that kind of thing…" He waved his hand uncertainly.

"Sure, that kind of thing," Abe said, imitating the vague gesture. "You sure you know what you want to do?"

"No."

Abe chewed the inside of his cheek. He pointed at his glass of tea. "I don’t want any more of this stuff. I want some Wild Turkey. A double. You, too. You know where it is?"

When Gideon returned with the bourbons they clinked glasses in a silent toast.

"What a thing," Abe said.

"What a thing," said Gideon.

"All right," Abe said, businesslike. "Let’s think about what’s going to happen after you find them. You and the FBI."

"I’ve
been
thinking. I can’t believe the government would want to put them in prison. And they can’t just let them stay out in the rain forest, obviously. For one thing, they’re dangerous, and for another, it would be inhumane to leave them in that climate. I think it would be good if you started talking to some of your contacts in the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Maybe it’s possible to get them some small piece of land of their own, off in a wilderness area."

"A reservation? Gideon, you take primitive people from their own land, no matter how hot, or cold, or wet, or dry, and put them someplace else, even with all the modern conveniences, and they wither away. You know that."

"Yes, I know that, but they’re already withering. And what’s the alternative? Lock them up in some big concrete building? They’d die for sure. This way we might be able to save them. Not just the people, but what’s left of the culture."

"Maybe," Abe said doubtfully. "All right, I’ll talk to the BIA, but I don’t know. Maybe it takes an Act of Congress to create a reservation. And this would be a pretty funny reservation. You couldn’t let them leave it."

"It’s a pretty funny situation." Gideon looked at his watch. "Eleven-thirty. It’s been a full day, Abe. I’m going to be getting along."

"Finish your bourbon. You can’t waste Wild Turkey."

They touched glasses one more time. "Here’s to Ishi," Abe said.

"And the Yahi."

They drained their glasses.

   It was midnight when Gideon got back to the cottage, but his mind was too active for sleep. He turned on the small electric wall heater against the damp chill that had been building up during the past few days, pulled on an old woolen sweater, and sat down at the little Formica table with Abe’s books spread out in front of him. In a few seconds he was up again, hunting for the tea kettle. He had been the kind of child who ate his vegetables and potatoes first, so the meat could be looked forward to all through the meal. He was the same kind of adult, and to hold off the pleasures of research a little longer he brewed a pot of Earl Grey tea—he’d gotten some for himself when he’d bought Pringle’s—and rummaged in the refrigerator, finally bringing out an apple. Then, humming, enjoying the feel of the rough, warm sweater in the cool room, he sat down again and began.

He started with a dull article on Yahi technology, moved on to a scholarly and interesting paper on social norms, and then spent three painstaking hours with the incredibly complex Yahi language. By 4:00 a.m., although pleased with the linguistic progress he’d made, he was too tired for any more serious study. He threw down his pen, rubbed his eyes, and stretched. His bed was neatly made and beginning to look inviting, but he knew he still wasn’t relaxed enough to sleep. What he needed, he decided, was a hot bath. A hot bath and some easy reading, something to browse in. He turned on the tap and, yawning, reached for one of the volumes he’d thus far ignored,
Indian Days in
Old California,
a 1920 collection of popular observations and reminiscences, no doubt one of the many stimulated by Ishi’s startling appearance a few years earlier.

Once settled in the deliciously hot water, he opened the book, drying his hands first so he didn’t wet the old paper. The first section consisted of pieces written in the 1860s. One was a newspaper account of the bloody killing and scalping of a Yahi family who had stolen a sheep. The next two were more of the same, and the fourth was a learned endorsement of an 1861 court case in which it had been decided that the legal principle of "justifiable conquest" applied to the appropriation of Indian land by white settlers. It was no wonder that the Yahi had chosen to disappear at about that time. Other old articles confirmed in macabre detail Abe’s statement that by no means were all the murders and mutilations in Old California perpetuated by whites.

Gideon had just about decided he’d chosen the wrong book for relaxing with when he came upon a 1919 article called "My Indian Friend Denga," in which a St. Louis woman recalled her childhood in Red Bluff more than fifty years before. Her father and mother had run the general store in the little northern California town, and she had gotten to know some "city" Yahi who sometimes did odd jobs for the store, taking their pay in flour and tea. She had made friends, after a fashion, with one of the Indian children, and had even learned some Yahi, a feat that impressed Gideon considerably.

The affectionate, rambling story was a pleasant counter to the newspaper stories but provided little pertinent information until the last two pages:

I remember the last time I saw Denga. He came to the yard in back of the store with his uncle, old One-ear. I thought it was strange that One-ear didn’t leave him there to play with me, and go inside to help my father, but the two of them just stood there. Denga’s eyes were full of tears, and One-ear was very serious. "Denga cannot play anymore," One-ear said. I was surprised, because that was the first time he ever really said anything to me. Usually he just grinned and shuffled his feet. I guess he finally figured out I could understand Yahi.

"Is he sick?" I asked.

One-ear looked confused, and I thought maybe I hadn’t used the right words. "Not sick," he finally said. "We have to go away."

At that Denga started to cry. "I have to go to the Dark Place," he said.

One-ear kind of shook the boy’s shoulder to make him stop blubbering, and just then Father came to the back door and called One-ear to help him with something. The old Indian went to the door, dragging Denga by the arm, but Father separated them and took One-ear inside. Denga just stood by the door, trembling and miserable. I ran right up to him and asked him what in the world it was all about.

That started him crying again. "We’re never coming back here. We have to go away forever."

"But where is the Dark Place?" I asked him, thinking maybe he meant they were going to die. "Is it Heaven?"

He looked sideways at the ground. That’s the way they said no. Then he said, "It’s far away, on the other side of Mount Lassen. There are no people, and the ferns are as big as trees, and the trees are as tall as mountains, so tall that you can never see the sun, and day is the same as night. And the air is made of water, and it rains all day long."

It sounded awful. "But why do you have to go there?" I asked him.

"So the saltu can’t find us."

Saltu was their word for white people, and it was the first time I’d heard that the Yahi had any reason to be afraid of us.

Of course, later on I found out that they had plenty of reason.

One-ear came out then and glared at Denga; he knew he’d been telling tales. He stared hard at me, with a strange look on his face, as if he wanted to ask something, but then he just took hold of Denga’s arm and dragged him away. Naturally, at the time I didn’t believe the story of the Dark Place, but then Denga didn’t ever come back, and neither did the others. Father must have thought I knew something about it, because he kept asking me where they’d gone, but I remembered that last begging look of One-ear’s and held my tongue. Until now, fifty-two years later, I have kept that story locked in my heart. The Dark Place no longer sounds awful to me. It sounds like a good place to be, cool and dim and calm. I like to think of my little friend Denga there, and ugly old One-ear, beyond whatever earthly or heavenly mountain range it lies, enjoying the tranquil, halcyon days denied them in their ancestral homeland.

With an odd tightening in his throat, Gideon closed the book and laid it on the rim of the tub. He stepped out of the cooling water, put on a warm velour robe, and went into the kitchen to prepare another pot of tea, but changed his mind. Turning up the robe’s collar, he opened the cottage door and stepped into the night. There was no wind, but a cold, velvety mist, smelling of the ocean, drifted in the air. The night was at its blackest and most silent, so that the gentle hissing of the tide on the pebbles of the beach forty feet below seemed much closer, like old leaves rustling a few inches from his ear. Far away a night bird, an owl, hooted twice, mournful and hollow. Much nearer, in the water, there was a sudden small splash, and then a scrabbling sound. Then the slow flapping of big wings. Another night hunter, this one finding its prey.

His hair was wet with mist, and droplets had collected on his eyelids. He stood looking down at the black water he could not see. The Dark Place. The name echoed in his mind, doomful and sinister, melancholy and strangely beautiful. He shivered again, not from the cold this time.

Tranquil, halcyon days. He smiled grimly to himself. Over a hundred years of self-imposed isolation, over a century of fear and loneliness and privation. He tried to imagine the appalling significance of the new trail to them. To what horrendous proportions must the stories of the
saltu
have grown in four generations of retelling? What must have gone through their minds when the snorting, snuffling bulldozers and shrieking saws came and cut a swath along Finley Creek, perhaps within sight of the village that had been their home beyond the memory of many of them, or of their fathers’ memory?

The machines would have gone away after a while, but then the walkers would have begun to come, not with frightening monsters that ripped the trees groaning from the earth, but alone and vulnerable. And the Yahi had killed in desperation and killed again. The walkers had stopped coming. Then the girl had somehow stumbled onto their little territory, and once again they had killed. And now, after over a hundred years, the
saltu
stalked them again.

This time, however, there would be no bloodshed and mutilation. Not if he and John got there before the reward-seekers and the Bigfoot hunters. And they would, because Gideon knew where they were.

He went back into the cottage but stood at the open door to inhale the misty, salt-laden air one more time before he finally lay wearily down. He fell asleep quickly and slept through the gray dawn and long into the drizzly morning.

   When he awoke at ten he called John’s number in Seattle, but the FBI agent wasn’t in, so Gideon left a message asking him to return the call. It was raining—not heavily, but steadily, as if it were going to go on for a long time. He stood at the window awhile, sipping hot coffee from a mug and wondering what it would be like to huddle over a primitive drill trying to light a fire in weather like this.

He scrambled three eggs, fried some bacon, and toasted a few slices of bread in the oven. Then he sat down at the table, trying not to feel guilty, and propped the Yahi dictionary in front of him.

"Ya’a hushol,"
he said between mouthfuls of eggs and bacon. "Hello." He shook his head and tried it again. How were you supposed to pronounce apostrophes? The dictionary had been prepared before the invention of the international phonetic alphabet, and the explanation—"apostrophes may represent any number of concurrent glottalizations"—wasn’t much help.
"Ai’niza ma’a wagai,"
he said, trying to glottalize concurrently. "Me friend." Verbs, cases, and other nonessentials he could do without.