Beluga Fall

Published in Explorations, ©Jerry D. McDonnell, 2000

Anchorage, Alaska; September. 1993

He said he was sorry. Some people believed him. The judge didn't. He was still a teenager . . . eighteen.  They gave him sixty-five years. No trial.

West of Dillingham, Alaska; March 1976.

The view from under the bed is limited: six shoes on the bare boards,  the empty whiskey bottle spinning crazily. The gun-shot explodes; cringing, he holds his ears, his mouth frozen open. A body slams to the floor. The bottle stops spinning against the fallen face of his older brother whose cheek is smashed up against his eye, his tongue hanging from the open mouth. A second shot rocks the bare, wood walls of the tar-paper shack; he flinches, banging his head on the bed springs and bites his tongue in terror tasting his own blood. Another body shakes the room as it hits the floor; the face of his older sister twitches as it hammers into the bare wood. 

Dead, his brother stares at Joseph under the bed.  His sister is still alive  . . . bleeding badly from the wound in her chest. The last set of shoes staggers out of the room.  His sister looks at him with indifference. He could tell she was in pain, but she didn't ask for help. With a final breath she whispers to him.  He tilts his small head to hear her last words, "Stay hidden." 

And that is the end of Joseph's fourth birthday party.

Anchorage, Alaska;  Sept. 1993

"He is very dangerous but not a lunatic," the judge said before he pronounced the sentence.   Joseph pleaded no contest and took the sixty-five year cap. 

Igushik River, Alaska; July 1992 

The Alaskan grass is tall, four feet and more, tall enough to camouflage a bear lying in hiding . . . or asleep, not tall enough to hide Joseph unless he squats. Joseph approaches the moose carefully, alert for bear sign, stopping to listen for sounds above the whispering of wind through the alders and the scant spruce trees. Still 40 yards away all he can see is the quiet tip of antler, unable to tell if the young bull moose has merely stopped struggling in the snare and didn't sense him or if the snared bull has drawn a bear to the trapped prey.  The grass dances playfully with the breeze. Joseph waits, watching, smelling, listening.  

Ravens circle overhead; he hears the faint call of a loon up-river.   Joseph concentrates on the variance in sound of the river and the sound of the wind through the trees like his father had taught him, lessons learned from tens of thousands of years of experience passed down from being to being. He filters out the constant sounds and listens with the senses of generations long past. Scanning the brush, he feels himself becoming part of the surroundings: his heart beats with the rhythm of the earth beneath him; his blood flows with the swaying grass.

The village life of Joseph and the school of the pale skin gusiks slips away. It is the place without words. It is the world of wholeness. Joseph, following the teacher’s instructions, once wrote a poem in school to describe something he felt.

I am part of the whole.

I am the hunter.

I am the meat.

I am grass.

I touch the earth and it feeds me

I exist only as long as I am a part of the whole.

I am no longer I

Joseph is gone, there is only the whole. 

The teacher corrected some puncuation, said he liked it. Joesph watched the ripped up peices blow away across the tundra when he got it back with the grade on it. Driven by the wind, the tiny pieces flew like a wounded ptarmigan dipping and diving close to the ground, .

But Joesph wasn’t thinking those words at this moment. He wasn’t thinking with words at all.

The moose, trying to stand, struggled in the snare, and looked toward Joseph. Life and death are part of the whole. It is the way of things. Joseph raised the rifle.

The young bull briefly struggled in panic. Then, just before the shot, with great composure, the bull looked directly at Joseph. For Joseph the moment lingers, the moment when all anger and pain is accepted, absorbed and one is content, fulfilled, the world is one . . .  this was not words for Joseph, as with many things there were no words in his Yup'ik language for this. It was deeper than thought, deeper than belief; it merely existed and left one feeling complete, yet at the same time joyful and sad. It is beyond life; it is the dream-life.  One knew it was correct . . . and modest. As all his ancestors had told him: it is a worthy life to be passed on.

 Joseph thanked the moose for its life and the land for allowing him to be a part of it; he cut the warm, dead moose loose from its snare, quartered it and began hauling the parts to the skiff tied in the river.

Negotiating the last rapids out of the mountains, he sat back, steering the skiff down the meandering river that traversed across the tundra toward the Bering Sea.

Nearing the village, the river slowed and widened. Last month Joseph and Frank caught a beluga whale in the river below the village and towed it to the boat landing with the skiff. It had been many years since a beluga had come this far up river chasing the smolt. The village had rejoiced. Kids learned how to cut the muktuk into small squares.  An elder showed them how to cut the small slit in one side to put the fingers through for carrying.

"It is like the old days," an elder remarked. "This is the thing the gusik calls culture."

Approaching the village, the cold wind hardens Joseph's face. Three bends up from the village, he stoically watches a Cessna land on the dirt airstrip. Beaching the borrowed skiff at the village, several people are there to help before he has killed the kicker.

"Joseph catch a moose!" several young people shout.

"Sometimes a person is in the right place," Joseph says quietly while handing out pieces of meat to several elders.  The meat is gone in a matter of minutes.  Someone says Joseph shouldn't give so much away. But they don't say too much because they know how quickly he becomes angry. He is a great hunter, but he is known for a quick temper. Some people say Joesph must restrain his anger when he is hunting because angry people cannot catch meat. 

Joseph places the quarter of moose on Audrey's table and lights a cigarette.   

"Joseph, you had a call from Dillingham," Audrey says as she slices a piece of moose with her ulu knife.

"My mother?" Joseph asked hopefully.

"Your parole officer. He says he has news for you about the Job Corps."

"Meaning I can leave school?" Joseph asked, trying not to act excited. 

"You must talk to him."

He looked at the sky and picked up the telephone. "Manokotak Air? This is Joseph Monavitch in Manokotak. I wish to go to Dillingham right away   . . . Yes, just one seat. One hour? I will be ready."

"But you have school tomorrow," Audrey says sternly. "Call back and cancel your reservation on that flight!"

"I didn't go to school today. I need to go to town tonight. I have quit school."

"No, Joseph . . . I told your mother I would take care of you."

Joseph bangs his fist on the table, "I am a man now.  I make my decisions." 

" . . . with the permission of the parole officer,"  Audrey says quietly. 

Anchorage, Alaska.  May 1993

"Joseph has been in and out of about 20 foster homes since 1980," Joesph's parole officer told the judge. 

"I would have taken him myself . . . but I had two kids, girls,"  his  gusik elementary teacher said. 

Dillingham, Alaska:  Oct. 1992, 9:00 P.M.

Joseph hangs up the phone in his mother's apartment. She is an attractive woman who wears sadness grimly; her wrinkles that shouldn't be there for many more years are crevices. Less than forty, circumstances have aged her greatly. Hung over, she sips on a can of beer. Joseph opens a beer without asking and joins her. "Now he says I cannot go," Joseph says.

"Is this bad?  Where would you go?  Stay in . . . " she pauses with a vacant look.  "Where you now?"

"Manokotak."

"Yes Manokotak, you stay with . . . " her face goes blank.

"Audrey." 

"Yes, Audrey. How is Audrey?" her eyes begin to close.

"She is fine." Joseph thought of how it would be to give her a hug. "I wanted to go to the Job Corps. They said I could learn to drive the big cats."

"Good.  Stay with Audrey," Her head begins to nod.

"But they won't let me stay. Maybe they will move me back to Ekwok or Togiak with someone else, or up river to one of the other villages, like they have done since I was young."

"Are things well in Manokotak?" her hand holds the beer can, but her head starts to droop.

"Frank and I catch a beluga below the village." She doesn't seem to hear.  Joseph wants to shake her and make her listen. "I need some money."

"Money, what is money?" Her chin stays on her chest.  "Money is gusik thing. Your father told you . . . " A tear slides down her cheek.

Joseph fell silent, remembering.  Ever since the murders of his brother and sister and then his father getting run-over by a pickup more than a dozen years ago in Dillingham she has not been whole. She has gone the gusik way but does not understand it. “None of us do. It is a crazy way,” he whispered.

“What did you say,” his mother asked.

“Nothing. Go to sleep.” Joseph pulled a blanket up around her. “You will be better tomorrow.”

Joseph's father had lived in the bush. He was one with the land. Seldom was he in the house. At dawn each day Joseph's father left the small, tidy, two room house his wife--Joseph's mother--kept. His name was Ivan . . .  his gusik name. He kept his Yup'ik name quiet. It was known only by the elders of the village and close relatives and a few others. He would tell it only to those he trusted. Ivan hunted and fished almost everyday of the year. Before Joseph's fourth birthday, Ivan began taking his young son with him into the bush. They would come home late at night, most days bringing meat or fish.  Mother protested at first, saying something about pre-school, but when she saw how much Joseph adored his father, how much Joseph was like his father, she kept quiet.

Joseph learned from his father in the Yup'ik way. By demonstration and action, with very little talking; Ivan taught him skills. He took the silent lessons from his father at a very young age. Everyone was amazed how one so young took so readily to the lessons. While most children wanted to play, Joseph would try to mend a fishing net, try to make a snare to catch a moose, watch a ptarmigan build a nest in the tundra, follow the flight of eiders. It pleased Ivan that Joseph could--before he was four--sit patiently and watch the sky move or study a track in a land that leaves few tracks. Joseph could make a ptarmigan snare before he was four. A snare that was considered woman's work, but Ivan let him do this until Joseph actually caught a ptarmigan. Ivan thought these were good things, and he was pleased because his other son, now a young man, had shown no interest in learning the old ways.  The other son had taken to modern things and liked to watch TV, go to town, ride around the village on a machine. But still Ivan worried some about Joseph because this young son was so intense at each thing he worked at.

Ivan went to town on a certain day to sell some beaver pelts and took Joseph with him. Their business done, Ivan and Joseph went down to the bay where the river comes out and were watching a large pod of belugas roll their white backs through the dark water in melodic waves. "They eat smolt," Ivan said to his son in Yup'ik. A Yup'ik word for "come join us" was spoken as four people Ivan knew from other villages came to the beach. They offered Ivan whiskey. Not wanting to be rude, he took a small sip from the bottle, handed it back, said thank you in Yup'ik and got up to leave. "Stay and talk with us," one said. Ivan nodded, sat and they continued to speak in Yup'ik. The bottle was passed to Ivan again. He said thank you and passed it on without drinking. 

"You may have a much as you want," the one said being polite,"we have more money." 

Ivan replied,"Sometimes a person has to make different choices." Ivan had tried drinking in the past and decided he did not want to do that anymore. His older son had made a different choice. Ivan was respected as a man who did not drink himself but did not dictate to others what to do. 

"It is good a person knows his way," the one said, not taking offense.

Ivan sat and talked with them for awhile. Joseph watched the belugas and listened to the men talking quietly.

 Three gusik men came walking down the beach carrying a cooler. Even Joseph could read the disapproval on their faces as they walked by nodding patronizingly with wooden smiles.

The six natives quietly watched the belugas move up into the river. A flight of trumpeter swans circled and then headed north. The gusiks threw a rock into the water, swigged on beer and laughed crudely, one glancing over his shoulder towards Ivan.

Ivan took his leave, and he and his son walked back into town. The drunk, gusik commercial fisherman who hit and killed Ivan that afternoon said Ivan had walked out in front of him. The police report said alcohol was detected on Ivan's breath and he was dead when they arrived. Joseph was lying on the side of the dirt street where his father had thrown him out of the path of the speeding, reckless pick-up truck. Joseph was being held in a small room at the hospital. He wouldn't talk to the white nurse or psychologist. The Yup'ik one on the beach who had offered the whiskey came into the room. He wasn't drunk. He held his hand out to Joseph. Joseph took it and walked out of the hospital with him.

          

His mother's head is down on the kitchen table, her left hand still around the beer and soon she is snoring.

Joseph goes through her purse and her dresser, noticing how neat and clean her house is, the same as when he was growing up, the same as when Ivan and his brother and sister were alive. He found money, much money. He only takes two-hundred dollars and thinks about calling his uncle to ask why he sends her so much money from his commercial fishing. He knows what she does with it. She needs to get well. The money is not helping. When she does not have the money she laughs and sings. She does not hear him leave.

It is too late to get anything to eat, the restaurant is closed. Joseph goes to The Sea Inn, buys some peanuts and tries to get a shot of whiskey with a beer back. They will not serve him. He is too young. The bartender has thrown him out before. 

Anchorage, Alaska.  May 1993

"He was certainly trying to kill the other officer who was behind the corner of the building,"  the judge said. "He is a nice looking young man, with a lot of potential, and this case will not leave me."

 Dillingham, Alaska:  Oct. 1992, 11:15 P.M.

Joseph sits on the beach. Anger defeats him: The only thing we do know is that the gusiks are crazy and worship money. A person has to have this money to live in their world. A person can do anything if they have this money. There are no rules for persons with money . . . and little honor. This they teach us everyday by their actions. The gusik man who killed my father by running over him with a pickup truck was drunk. He is still alive and fishing out of Dillingham.  He is a friend of many people here, including some police, I think. He still drives. He still drinks. He has money. He is a very rich fisherman. The neighbor who killed my brother and sister is dead. Someone killed him in prison in Anchorage. He did not have money. The gusik world is clear. 

It didn't take Joseph long to find someone to buy him a bottle of whiskey.  Breaking into the hardware store was easy.  It is a warm, quiet place to sit and think while drinking. 

The night sky sparkled. A light summer breeze whispered against the wood building. Joseph took a rifle from the many on the racks on the wall. He caressed the smooth finish of the stock, admired the wood grain. Holding it to his shoulder he felt the power of such a small thing that throws such a tiny piece of lead. 

Putting the rifle to his shoulder he drew a bead on the full moon. The night was clear. A chill draft through a crack around the window touched his cheek. Joseph took sight on stars, dry-firing the unloaded rifle. He pulls the dead trigger time after time.  Sighting carefully, letting out half of his breath and then hold, pull. Breathe in, exhale, hold, pull. One by one Joseph shoots the stars and imagines them falling. And then a miracle. A shooting star races across the sky and then another, and another. Joseph follows the streaks of light across the dark, clear sky with the rifle, leading them as one would with a shotgun leading a duck. Pull the trigger, follow through.

This is too easy, Joseph thinks, I need bullets. Finding the right caliber he loaded the 22-250 rifle and went back to the window. The sky was static.  No more shooting stars. He waited and watched. Then he saw it. A satellite. It moved much slower than the shooting stars. Not much of a challenge. He took a long swig from the bottle of whiskey, then leveled the rifle. 

The shot shatters the silence. Joseph jumped back in fright, brushing pieces of glass off his arm, feeling a few small pieces hit his cheek and then he laughed. He had forgotten about the window being closed.

He had shot at ten stars, between swigs on the whiskey bottle when he heard a voice shout. "Hold your fire in there . . . police!" Joseph couldn't see the person behind the voice, but it was a gusik voice. Joseph became angry and did what he did best; he became the hunter.

Joseph loaded another rifle, a larger caliber, and then another. Five rifles lay loaded on the counter. Waiting for the moon to rise higher in the sky he thought of the moose in the snare, the moose that now was food for his people. The life of the animal is now part of the whole, but Joseph is not proud of the taking of this life.

The gusik can not understand this. The gusik has lost all this and reduced the hunt to a sport . . . “game” he calls the creature; he is rude and disrespectful to the animals--and to himself--by bragging of the taking of life, bragging of being better than others.

The taking of life is a natural thing, he thinks as he points the rifle out the broken window. Catching meat is correct. Meat to share with the village. Meat to sustain life. Is it the same as when a Gusik makes a great deal of money and then gives it to someone else? The Bible said something about this giving but I have never seen it . . . this giving away of money. The gusik worships this money. It is all they think about. 

A figure steps into moonlight. Joseph's shot is, as usual, well placed . . .

Anchorage, Alaska.  June 1993

"I've never seen him so angry or vehement that he was innocent,"  the parole officer said before the trial.

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