Isaac, visiting Olympia as a north Puget Sound representative, had seen her at the funeral and, from that first moment, knew he had to have her.
For a very young woman of twenty-one, she carried herself with repose and dignity, and she was absolutely stately in black.
From a discreet inquiry, he learned that she was a well-born Boston Irish, who had rounded the Horn with her new husband, an ambitious, wealthy, and extravagant dreamer, twenty-five years her senior. The gossip was that they had shown little affection for each other, and some thought she was lonely out here in the cold, wet green, despite the wealth his venture had brought. She would head home after this, taking her infant child back to a wealthy civilization.
So, Isaac did what he had learned worked for him when he needed something badly. He took a gamble, sending a card to her the following week, asking to speak with her.
Emmy came to the door at the cedar-clad home by the mill she now had to dispose of, expecting another solicitation for purchase of its fallow equipment.
Instead, Isaac, hat in hand, offered her a large bouquet of white roses and told her, “My name is Isaac. I live up north on Whidbey Island where I have staked out the prettiest, most fertile land in this entire Northwest. I am a strong, prosperous man. Please. Please do not return to Boston. Stay here. With me.”
That was the hardest and most insane thing he had ever done in his life. But it was the best thing he had ever done as well, because she took the roses.
Watching Emmy’s quiet movements, he tried to remember the fragrance of those roses as he closed his eyes, knowing he was drifting off now and, because he was so very tired, he would sleep well for the first time in many nights.
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About two o’clock in the morning, Isaac awakened from a dream that left him in a cold sweat.
In the dream, he was running down a long beach after a woman. It was Emmy. She had turned and looked at him in horror.
“Wait, Emmy. Can’t you see it’s me? Wait!”
Then she got that look only she could have. Fierce. Resolute. That was all he could remember as the scene faded away.
It was then that he heard Rowdy barking, behind the late October night wind that had started up again. Sometimes Rowdy would holler at raccoons or deer wandering up from the beach. But this time it was persistent and anxious in a way that frightened Isaac fully awake.
He reached over for his shotgun and remembered he had lent it to Tom Iserson for his watch last week and Tom had brought it back with a broken hammer.
So, stuffing his nightshirt into his pants, he picked up a large walking stick and felt for the bedroom door.
Emmy was awake then, asking after him.
“Isaac?”
“Rowdy is making a lot of noise,” he said, descending the stairs to the front door.
He looked out the window onto the porch.
“Visitors,” he said.
He lit a lantern, picked up a knife from the kitchen table, then opened the door and stepped out onto the porch.
Chapter Fourteen
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Anah
Jim Thomas was almost finished mending his fish net when the old Indian man and woman came down the path from Isaac’s house. They walked fast and passed him without words or thanks, pushed their small cedar canoe into the light surf, and turned it about, heading north.
They were out of sight within a few minutes, and Jim thought nothing more of it as he gathered up his thread and netting. Only a few days were left to get into the water before the cold November swells would be too big to fight.
Three miles from the beach, out of sight of the small settlement, the Indian couple turned shoreward and found a quiet cove, not dissimilar from the one Isaac had settled. There they met up with a medium-sized war canoe, ten warriors, and Anah.
The old man and woman beached the canoe, stripped off their long pants and shirts, and reclaimed their jerkins and furs.
Anah and the warriors intently watched the old man—Klixuatan, the clan’s shaman—who seemed in no hurry to impart news. Then the old woman, his remaining wife, started to chant, and Klixuatan began a song and did a small five-step dance.
They were singing to the raven god for a new special strength, and then all the warriors knew they had found the big tyee. A few minutes later, the sun dipped below the Olympic Mountains, casting a red hue onto the water.
Anah knew the omen was good. Blood on the water.
Over the next five hours, they chanted quietly to a clan song led by Klixuatan, “Moon bird running quick, bringing back the day and all our children. Water giving moon a second life.”
When the half-moon showed itself, Anah and four of the warriors stripped naked and painted themselves with bear grease and red ochre from head to their ankles. They pulled the ornaments from their labrets, whet their knives on beach stones, rechecked their powder, and then pushed off southward in the larger canoe.
The cold would keep them alert.
They did not sing any of their clan songs en route, instead, each warrior had his own private song that he hummed to himself, synchronized by Klixuatan, who tapped the side of the canoe with each dip of his oar.
Anah had moved into a trance during this part of the journey, and while he paddled, the ugly events of the past year rushed past him. Forging the coalition with other tribes had proven more difficult than he had anticipated, partly because so many of them also had been devastated by the smallpox scourge, but also because, under his leadership, his own clan’s predatory actions over the past ten years had diminished the
