Here a dark house cached in a deep, dark wood when the wind awakes.
Spiralling unlikely in the riled air, torn switches of cedar and fir ride the bluster, ripped and rising and falling, brief and tiny brooms to sweep the fitful air nonetheless ordained to meet the littered ground. The roar through lashing branches primal, the howl of some great maddened deity, a shriek of tragic choruses, oceanic, passionate of its ownself, nonchalant of all others.
It’s like we forgot the incendiary pulse of fire. Forgot the faces of our grandfolk.
Forgot that balance isn’t symmetry, and all the rest.
***
This isn’t my apocalypse. I don’t know why it’s fallen on me to tell it. But tell it I might.
Nothing happens for any reason whatsoever. It’s all just fluke. Finding these legal pads and a clutch of old lead pencils was a random thing. But it ended up conferring something on me. Like, the tribe has spoken and I am its scribe, or some such portentous bullshit. No, it’s fluke. It’s chance. It’s stupid.
***
I dreamed of Tekahionwake. She and Chief Capilano were seated in a longhouse at a large elliptical table filled with a great spread: venison, buffalo, succulent salmon, steaming bannock. Quiet people moved in the shadows. At the table, the two great friends were discussing Emily Carr in a way that made me feel strange and uncomfortable. At last I spoke up.
“Emily isn’t here to defend herself,” I said, keeping my tone neutral.
“Did you know my given name is also Emily?” asked Tekahionwake.
“I didn’t. You mean English? I thought it was Pauline. But wait, no, I kind of did. E. Pauline, right?”
She didn’t say the word itself, but her face was eloquent enough. “Precisely.”
And already she was lost in another of Joe’s big tales. Already I’d forgotten why I’d cared. I only know a poet must be treasured by her tribe.
Awake, if pressed, I’d guess this dream related times long gone and now forever lost.
***
No one stands alone.
This place. This dark and shining place. This arid dripping place. This flat and craggy place. The Salish Sea to the Kootenays, the Chilcotin and the Cariboo. Haida Gwai to the great Peace River. Similkameen. Musqueam. This edible grass that grows in the sea. At last we can drop the quotidian and give it the name it always craved.
I hereby name you Konaway Tilikum.
“Every people.”
The forests sigh in relief. The mountains sigh in relief. The inlets and islands sigh in relief. Orcas filter dawnlight through expelled mist. The small coastal wolves do a shuffle on the pebble beach. The spirit bear yawns and licks her lips and walks the balance beam of a downed hemlock. The sockeye dream of a comeback. The monarchs too. The raven chuckles and nods. The eagle ignores it all. Silverthrone awaits his day.
The role of storyteller dismembered, parcelled off, each character its own perspective, as it always was. The mosses. The sword ferns. The nurse logs. The living green breath of the understory.
No one will ever paint this now. No one will know what a painting even is.