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Ziiza: A Story of the Oregon CountryChapter 1. Eyes in the Forest
Ziiza felt the creature's eyes, but did not turn around. She slid her bare foot across the beach pebbles and touched her son's leg. The boy, Edu by name, turned slowly, as if by prearrangement. She moved her head, signaling him to look behind her. He looked into the trees. He noticed nothing unusual. She signaled again. Finally, he saw the creature, sitting beside a dark-leaved salal bush, almost covered by a drooping cedar limb, head tilted quizzically - not an aggressive stance at all. Edu had never seen a creature like this before. Wolf? Right shape. But no. Its soft brown eyes, bent ears, and short muzzle were not those of a wolf. It was stockier, too. Or it would have been had it not been starving, which it obviously was, as Edu caught sight of its ribs through its tawny chest.
Ziiza smiled mischievously and tossed a piece of scorched deer meat over her shoulder. The creature left its cover, caught it on the fly, and swallowed. No rustling leaves or branches, no nails clicking on pebbles, no snapping teeth. One silent, fluid motion. And back beside the salal bush, where its hungry eyes again bored into her back.
She turned and faced the creature for the first time. Her other children, sitting around their driftwood fire, were now staring at it, too. She flicked another scrap. Again the creature left its cover, swallowed, and returned. At that, Milli, her eldest daughter, giggled into her hand. Another son, Com, threw a chunk high in the air. The creature caught it and bolted it down. “Hungry tonight, dummy,” Milli said, poking him in the side. “You threw it all away.” The children laughed and threw more meat to the creature, who stuck to its routine, swallowing in one gulp, two if necessary, then returning - its eyes still as hungry-looking as if it had not eaten a thing.
Ziiza relaxed and leaned back. Her smile broadened. “We haven't had this much fun,” she said, “since before . . .” She clamped her teeth as if to bite off the words and began again: “We haven't had this much fun in weeks, have we children?”
Below them, MeTonn, canoe flotilla leader and headman of the band of travelers, heard them laughing. “Stupid woman. Stupid children. Stupid all of them,” he growled, as he pulled a charred bone from his fire. “What do they think they are doing, wasting food,” he said to Hawl, his hairy, thick-wristed second canoe man. “The first meat we've had in days and days, since I can't remember when, and those passengers” - he spit out the word - “those passengers are throwing it away, feeding that mangy . . . that mangy, whatever it is. Why did I ever allow? Strange creature, though; I've never seen anything like it.” Hawl grunted his agreement, accompanied by a broken-toothed grin, and, in the manner of the slow-witted, an exaggerated nod.
Grumbling and complaining, plotting and scheming - how to get rid of Ziiza and her six children - was nothing new for MeTonn and Hawl; they had been at it for weeks. The wasted deer meat, the improbable creature, the passenger family's levity, were incidental to his complaint, though, for it was MeTonn's raging complaint, not Hawl's. The muma, Ziiza, did not behave like a woman should, did not limit her speech to gossip-talk with the other women, or to controlling her children, and then, when among men, obedient silence. “This looks like an excellent campsite,” she once had the effrontery to suggest. It was, but they had paddled on. And she was not his only problem.
“I hate the big one,” MeTonn hissed, crunching the bone with the good side of his long-ago-broken and poorly-healed jaw. “I hate him. I hate him.” He sucked burnt grease from his fingers, one, two, three, four, and his thumb. His silent paddling cadence - I (dip), hate (stroke), him (recover). I (dip), hate (stroke), him (recover) - was out and he did not care. Speaking the words even made his sour stomach feel better. For a while. The object of his hatred, Ziiza's eldest son, Org - tall, muscular, quick, confident - was growing into manhood before his eyes. Threateningly. When would he challenge him for leadership? Soon, MeTonn feared. Yes, feared. Could he take him? Twenty years ago. Probably. Possibly. Maybe. “It was luck. Just luck. I know it,” he said, referring to Org's extraordinary kill that afternoon. “Luck. He could never do it again. Never.” True, luck had played large. The feat could never be repeated. But the fact remained, Org had done it. And, equally embarrassing, everyone in the five canoes had seen him do it. The men's grateful smiles, the women's admiring glances, the long-dreamed-of meat feast he had no part in delivering, had cracked his confidence.
One by one MeTonn's travelers found their sleeping places, prompted by his glares, reminding them that, as always, late-night fires were for leaders only, meaning Hawl and himself. Senior paddlers squirmed under overturned canoes and wrapped themselves in fur robes. The others found the most comfortable spots they could: depressions in the sand above the tide line, stony nests farther up the beach. Later, when it rained, some scrambled under trees. Some did not bother; they pulled their robes tight and endured. Day and night in this saltwater and rain country, they were wet much of the time, anyway. They endured. Or they gave out.
MeTonn hunched over the fire, as he would all night, his robe draped on his back, dozing, waking, thinking, dozing again. Hawl slept across from him. MeTonn trusted no one but Hawl and himself with the night watch. The others, he believed, with justification, were worthless.
Tired, satiated, and content, Ziiza and the children lost interest in the creature. They did not try to drive it away. Hungry as it was, there were far more threatening animals and creatures in the forest. They scooted close to their fire, now a pile of glowing coals, Ziiza in the middle, the youngest tight against her, the older ones tight against them. Not having robes for everyone, they shared, pulling them over their backs and heads, shelter-like, clutching the ends. Govvi, the youngest girl, who usually attached importance to such things, did not bother to build up the fire; she closed her eyes and let go. Ziiza kissed each one - a cheek, a nose, a forehead - and whispered, “Good night all.” The children fell asleep immediately. Ziiza gave Org a proud muma's look, pulled Edu and Govvi tight, and closed her eyes. Before she drifted off, she recalled Org's feat that afternoon:
They were traveling a sheltered passage formed by a string of long narrow islands. Org, paddling bow-man in Hawl's canoe, had spotted a pair of deer browsing sea-grass in knee-deep water. Tiny waves lapped on the shore, making just enough noise to cover the bow wake's gurgle; the wind was in their faces. He raised his paddle - which by MeTonn's rules he had no right to do - signaling the others to stop.
Org thrust his paddle deep and pulled hard. Hawl did the same. The mid-canoe paddlers pulled their paddles, caught the drips in their hands, and bent forward. Let them not look up, catch our scent, Ziiza had pleaded silently. Please. We have not had meat in so long. Org and Hawl stroked again. Closed in in a slow glide. The doe raised her head, water dripping from her nose. Flicked her ears. She lowered her head and resumed feeding.
Two canoe lengths from them Org pushed his paddle away. Deer chewing. Glide slowing. He drew his knife. Crouched. Sprang from the canoe. He grabbed the buck by an antler, plunged the knife into its throat, and pulled up. Blood spurted, pulsed, and gushed.
Ziiza shivered with delight, opened her eyes, looked at sleeping Org, and closed them again.
Had it not been for the muddy bottom, the doe would have been off. But when she lunged, her sharp hooves stuck. Org splashed heavily through the water, twisting his feet to break the suction. “Ahhhh-yeeee. Ahhhh-yeeee,” the people screamed, beating their paddles on the sides. The doe freed herself from the muck and bounded onto the beach. He threw his stone-headed club. One - slow - revolution. Thunk. Behind the eye. A step and her forelegs buckled. Org walked slowly to her. Finished her off. The people jumped from the canoes and ran to him, screaming, dancing, slapping his back. Had he been one to seize dramatic moments and revel and show off, this was the moment. But he was not. His only show was the blood on his hand as he gutted the doe. They camped on the island beach.
Twilight passed into blackness, clouds blotted the stars, the moon stuck behind the mainland mountains. The driftwood fire spit and flared in the breeze.
“Wake up, Hawl. Wake up,” MeTonn said, pounding a fist on his knee. Hawl started, blinked, and raised his head from his rock pillow. “Listen, the big one will paddle in the bow. Your canoe. Tomorrow morning.” Hawl grunted. MeTonn grabbed a clump of rotting seaweed, threw it on the fire, and shifted position to relieve his tingling bum. He inhaled the acrid smoke till it burned his lungs. Loved it. Inhaled again. And again. Pop. A spark shot into the air. MeTonn leaned forward, trying to catch it on his thick purple tongue. The spark expired and floated away like a miniature shooting star. Click. He snapped his yellow teeth - the few that met.
Again he leaned into the foul seaweed smoke, widened his eyes, and snorted. Waggled his head. Savored the pain. Deliriously blinded and gagging on smoke, he growled: “The - muma - she - is - mine.” Hawl grunted obediently. MeTonn cupped his ear suspiciously - as if he could hear Ziiza listening. He turned his ugly, menacing face toward her sleeping family and their faintly-glowing fire. Still blinded, he cocked his head, and waited. No sound but the wind. And the water lapping on the protected shoreline. “This is the last of the islands,” he said, leaning away from the smoke and prodding Hawl with his stick to make sure he was listening. “No more passage. After this one, nothing but open Sea. I smelled it this afternoon. I tasted the wind.”
MeTonn rocked in and out of the smoke. He let the fire die. As the night deepened, he nodded into a smoke-induced stupor, mumbling, growling, coughing, and spitting. He slept and waked, slept and waked, until the moon brightened the clouds. Then he slept.
Edu woke first, as always. And, as almost always, he saw and felt a dripping gray fog covering the beach, hanging over the water, blocking the sunrise beyond the mountains. New days did not begin here as they did in other parts of the world. On this lonesome coast, nighttime gave way slowly, grudgingly. Beautiful in its way, since it was springtime and mild. Were it winter, another matter. Some mornings the sun overcame the fog, burned it off, leaving scattered low clouds over the Sea. That was his prediction for today.
After his weather analysis, which he did propped on an elbow, Edu sat up and scanned the sleepers - no one awake - and the canoes. He walked to the fire and poked below the dewy top coals for an ember. Finding none, he walked to the other fire. MeTonn slept hunched forward, under his robe, his face touching his knees. Hawl gurgled and snored opposite him. He probed for a live stick. Found one. As he picked it up a rock rolled under his foot and clicked on another. MeTonn jerked his head up, recognized the boy, and opened his mouth to speak. But he did not. Instead, he glared at now-awake Hawl and lowered his head. Edu tiptoed back to his family, waving the stick to keep it alive.
On reaching the fire he was startled to see the creature - still there - sitting - at the edge of the forest. Sitting beside the salal bush. Under the cedar limb. Head tilted. Eyes filled with the same sad, hungry, quizzical look. Edu blew on the stick and it flared. The creature watched. “Muma, Muma,” he whispered, leaning over and touching Ziiza's shoulder, “That thing. The creature. The one that ate our meat. It's still here.” She groaned, drew her shoulder away, and tightened her eyelids.
“The creature's still here,” Edu repeated the news to his brothers and sisters as he woke them. It continued to stare with brown, unblinking eyes. Intelligence? Cunning? Possibly. But he had seen that in creatures before: wolves, foxes, wildcats. This creature's look was not like that. Hungry eyes? Yes. But he knew that. What else?
Morning fires were not for cooking in MeTonn's camps, just warm-ups for the travelers, to ease their stiffness, pull the pain from their elbows, shoulders, backs, and knees. Now he was up and giving orders. Not that he had much to say; everyone knew his or her duties. The men carried the canoes to the water and positioned their paddles and weapons. The tide was out and the muck bottom that had slowed hunter and deer the day before was exposed, an odoriferous mixture of needles, twigs, sand, saltwater mud, and decaying seaweed. The women loaded the leftover meat, other food, robes, and the few cooking implements they possessed. Ziiza's five children - Org, the sixth, was considered a paddler, not a child passenger - were filling water pouches at a tiny spring leaking onto the beach north of camp. They ate no formal meals; last night's meat feast was as close as they came to that. Individuals carried personal food pouches, eating when hungry, on the water, during shore breaks, or in camp. When food ran low, they dug clams and pried mussels off exposed rocks at low tide, their staple foods. Or they worked the river estuaries on the incoming tide, for crab, perch, and flounder. They had no time for hunting unless an animal presented itself for a quick kill, such as yesterday's deer, or baby sea lions left on the beach, or the rare small creature that came within a stone's throw. After satisfying their immediate needs, sometimes cooking their catch, sometimes not, they gathered enough to sustain themselves for a few days and paddled on.
“Wet your paddles,” MeTonn shouted. Foggy mornings were, for the most part, windless, and paddling was best. Get the miles in before mid-day was his rule, and his people - and unwelcome passengers - knew it to be a good one. After that, the wind generally rose, on good days creating gentle, easy swells, on bad days headwinds, crosswinds, and whitecaps, enough to stop canoes dead in the water and drive them to early camps (much to the flotilla leader's disgust). Spring and summer winds blew from the northwest, and, since they were traveling south, gave an assist. Rarely enough, however, to make sail raising worthwhile.
The five steersmen pushed their canoes into knee-deep water and steadied the sterns while the others climbed in. The paddlers and the non-paddling children squirmed to adjust themselves, kneeling, sitting, or half-sitting against cross braces. The steersmen shoved the canoes out and jumped in. Bano led, followed by the second and third canoes. Then Hawl's. MeTonn trailed so he could keep an eye on things, as a good leader should, with harsh words for any paddler who slacked off.
They formed up single file and slid along the shore. The creature, still in position, watched. As they drew away from the smoldering campfires, it left the forest edge and walked along the beach. When the paddlers reached their rhythm, it broke into a run. Com, facing the stern, called, “Look. Look. It's the creature. Following us.” The creature kept to its business, negotiating rocks, depressions, driftwood, checking the canoes to make sure it was keeping up.
At that, MeTonn turned toward the creature and glowered. “Faster! Faster! Dig! Dig!” he bellowed over the water. “Fast-tuh. Fast-tuh,” Hawl echoed. The canoes surged ahead. But however fast the paddlers pushed their canoes the creature matched them. After their initial thrusts, the paddlers eased off. “Dig! Dig!” MeTonn bellowed again. He beat the canoe side. Boom! Boom! The creature broke into a flat-out run, flying over rocks, jumping driftwood, its feet sending up splatters of sand.
Bano's canoe reached the island's tip. Without hesitation the creature ran into the water and swam for the canoes. Swam? Hardly. It fought its way through the water, churning legs providing both floatation and forward motion. Bano's canoe left it behind. Number two slipped past. Number three. The creature persisted, angling toward Hawl's. “Ge-wa-way, beast,” Hawl growled. Netti, amazed and delighted, urged the creature on - to what end she did not consider - slapping her hand on the water and crying, “Here, creaty-creature. You can do it.” Org, in the bow, said nothing, but, after looking over his shoulder, paddled slower. Still, the creature could not close the gap. The sisters waved laughing good-byes as their canoe pulled away.
With this, the creature sighted on the last canoe and paddled even harder, spreading a V-wake behind. MeTonn pried his paddle, trying to steer away, but the creature had the angle and intersected the canoe. “Off! Off!” he yelled. Com stuck out his hand to pat its head. MeTonn raised his paddle, ready to strike. But before he swung, Ziiza leaned over, caught the creature by its bony underbelly and lifted it into the canoe. MeTonn's bloodshot eyes bugged. His cheeks showed red. He screamed, but no words came. Rocked forward, then back, clutching his throat, apoplectic. “Get that - that - that - thing - out of my canoe.” He sucked in a breath, then another. “How dare! How dare!” he spouted, gagging on his words. The creature cowered against the side. Com reached back to pat it. It rumbled low in its throat and he jerked his hand away. Fixing its eyes on Ziiza, the creature lay still.
MeTonn dug hard, lifting his paddle on each return in exaggeratedly high arcs. Hawl, looking back, saw him and continued on. MeTonn scowled and held his paddle over his head with both hands, horizontal to the water. Hawl still did not comprehend. “Hawl!” MeTonn yelled in exasperation, waving his paddle in the air. Hawl looked hard as if to say, now?
Hawl stowed his paddle, crouched, and moved forward. On his touch, the paddler in front bent over to let him to pass. He gripped the sides, stepped over a bundle of robes, and pushed between the girls. The next paddler, now aware of Hawl's movement, fell back against the robes. Hawl threw himself at Org, crashing his head into his back. Jamming his huge paws into Org's armpits, he lifted, shouldered, and shoved him half out of the canoe. He reached down, grabbed a leg, and flipped him into the water. “Pad-dle! Fast!” he ordered. The girls sat rigid in disbelief. Hawl's enormous hand crashed into Netti's face. He jerked her up and tumbled her over the side. Milli yelled, “No!” and went limp. Hawl picked her up and dropped her in.
At the moment of Hawl's attack, MeTonn swung his paddle at Ziiza and hit her ear. He lunged forward, seized her waist, and threw her overboard. He turned, grabbed Govvi by the hair, and flung her in. Com followed his sister. Little Edu hung onto the cross brace in a grip of terror. MeTonn jerked him away and threw him over the side. To finish the job, he took the offending creature by a leg, and, ignoring its snapping teeth, flung it into the Sea.
“Out! Gone! Done!”