The Talisman

By R.L. Kasprzycki

Deep within the wilderness of British Columbia, John and Marie Eagleton shroud a mysterious gift sculpted from ivory centuries ago. While John believes in the legend of this talisman, and is adamant that its presence never be revealed, Marie is far more skeptical and impulsive. Forsaking her Native American past to fund her sons' future college educations, Marie dares to negotiate its sale.

But Marie's decision to divulge the talisman's existence to an outsider will ignite a series of tumultuous events. The family she is so intent on safeguarding will be thrust on a fateful journey. What must they endure to survive? What will she forfeit? Can they find their way back?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543978438

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©All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Print ISBN: 978-1-54397-842-1

eBook ISBN: 978-1-54397-843-8

Preface

Acknowledgements

Dedication

An Additional Interest

Tumbler Ridge

Visit to Prince George

Unbound by Time

The Gift

The Connection

Interpretation

Discovery

The Accusation

Encounter

A Broken Spirit

A Broken Man

The Ceremony

The Dedication

The Find

First Nations’ Rendezvous

Respite

Departure

The Journey

Pursuit

Oblivion

The Crossing

Encounter

The Awakening

The Chinook and the Raven

Sunset

Preface

This novel’s plot though focused on Inuit myths and beliefs, can be applicable to many other Native Americans. One year in researching the content, drawing upon both Native and non-Native American authors, I had visualized the novel’s ending and decided that the talisman could be used as the vehicle to bridge the conclusion. Inuit customs, beliefs, and myths were studied over this time.

With great respect, I have read about, observed, listened to, conversed with, and visited Native Americans at events and museums. I do not pretend to communicate their complex experiences but can try to communicate their strength of character. So much has been written about the peoples who inhabited this land at the time Europeans set foot defiantly and made an imprint upon their cultures, from a singular point of view. This, somehow, was the start of their history. However, Native Americans have not but one story to tell, but many, quite different than those told in our history books.

This novel is about a struggle of one family, trying to embrace their past while facing an uncertain future. Themes include generational, trust, the concept of progress (is technology the only metric for progress?), the concept of success (by whose standards?), loss (what happens during and after?), and paths (following vs. deviating from - walking the circle of life).

Woven throughout is the symbolism of the Chinook salmon, while the wilderness of British Columbia forms the backdrop. The places cited are actual locations in British Columbia. The plot and characters are fictional. This is a story of hope and faith vs. deceit and greed… a story of culture, of the essence of who we are… a story about the talisman.

Acknowledgements

Special thanks to my parents who gave so much of themselves for me. I considered using a pseudonym, however, I thought that my father, especially, would have been proud to see our name.

Dedication

For Native Americans and indigenous peoples everywhere.

Ten percent of profits from this book will be donated to selected Native American charities.

Whenever you have an opportunity, reach out to our first peoples to discover their multitude of cultures, love for nature, persistence, and depth of character.

An Additional Interest

From an early age I have been drawing and painting. I have a Website illustrating scenery, nature, and other subjects. You may see the influence of my efforts to merge my fine art background with my attempt to visualize in this novel. If you have the opportunity, please visit my fine art Website: https://kasprzyckiartistry.com/

I hope you enjoy reading this novel.

Chapter 1

Tumbler Ridge

The pearlescent haze that enveloped the snowy peaks was suddenly torn open by the sun’s squadrons of diagonal rays, sweeping across the rocky crags. Soon, the hunter green treetops would be visible again. It was November 24th, and John Eagleton was anxiously planning a modest birthday celebration for his wife. The Eagletons had spent a full year at their new home in Tumbler Ridge, on the eastern fringe of the Rockies, and hers would be the first birthday they would celebrate there. With the morning air a brisk 38 degrees, John decided to get a quick cup of coffee, so he parked his pickup and quickly bounded up to his favorite eating place, Skytop Diner. He paused for a moment at the oak door where soft yellow light sifted through the frosted translucent panes, exhaling warmth onto his cold, stiff fingers. The diner was very busy in the mornings; a welcome sign wasn’t necessary.

Although the diner’s exterior was ramshackle and rough-hewn, with siding of different colors pieced together like patchwork, a woman’s touch was apparent inside, from the white lace-framed windows to the pale blue doilies that graced the tables and countertop, accented by fresh flower arrangements that were sprinkled with white Autumn Magic, cornflower, and purple foxglove. John made his way past the crowded aisle and tables to the blue vinyl-topped stools at the fifties-style, chrome-banded counter, which separated the crowd from the immaculate stainless steel backdrop of cookware that covered the wall like armor.

Good morning, Kate, prompted John.

Hi, John, how are you doing? chimed Kate.

Well, I’m on a trek to Prince George. Hope to be there by one o’clock, replied John.

That’s about 180 miles from here, isn’t it? Why are you headed out there? Can’t find everything you need right here in Tumbler? Kate asked.

Funny, Kate. I’m looking for a special gift for Marie.

As John claimed the last remaining seat at the counter, a deep voice bellowed his name out from a table hugging the wall. John turned and recognized Ted Skinner, one of his boisterous hunting companions, in a green woolen cap and heavy blue flannel shirt. Ted held an 8 x 10 photo high up over his head.

That’s him, John. That’s the one you missed, beamed Ted.

Hearty laughs rose up around him. John smiled, shook his head and turned to Kate. Meanwhile, Ted stood and flashed the photo to his left and then to his right, so the entire diner could benefit. John fidgeted with the menu, rotating his seat side to side, anxious to continue his trip, so Kate quickly reached out to pour him a cup of coffee. The scent of slab bacon, fresh sourdough and pancakes with maple syrup filled the noisy room, while Kate, in her late twenties, beamed with all the exuberance of a child on Christmas morning. Her auburn hair bouncing in a ponytail, red cheeks, and buoyant personality disguised a shyness that was apparent only in her cobalt eyes. Everywhere that Kate moved, an ambience of fresh flowers followed.

Well, Marie deserves it. She’s a wonderful woman, and if I might say so, you’re blessed to have her, said Kate, reaching into the display case and pulling out a muffin, which she placed on a plate and slid his way.

You’re right. She’s the best. I don’t know how she does it. Any suggestions on what to get her? asked John. As several more customers arrived through the front door, which was weary at the hinges from continuous traffic, Kate excused herself and had to move on.

Looking back, she yelled, Keep it simple!

After draining the last drop of coffee from his cup and finishing the blueberry muffin, John couldn’t delay any longer – he stood up, smiled and waved goodbye to Kate. She returned the smile and, for a brief moment, admired his handsome, six-foot-three stalwart frame. His Inuit and Cree ethnicity blended with deep brown eyes and high rugged cheekbones, his face reminiscent of the weathered terrain to which he was so closely bound. Recovering from her momentary distraction, Kate refocused and cheerily addressed her entourage of customers.

What can I get you? she asked.

***

In his pickup truck, John turned left onto the gravel road heading southwest, with a view so magical that perhaps only Van Gogh could have recreated it – autumn’s spectacular mosaic of deciduous alizarin crimson, cadmium orange and yellow. How easy it must be for God to render this creation, he thought, and yet for man, any creation is possible only with persistence, focus and effort. John recalled the years before their transition to British Columbia from Alaska – his family certainly knew the value of sacrifice and endurance. He felt drawn to his culture, yet he could not forget the squalid conditions of his past. He recalled the multicolor prefab three-room houses within coherent whispers of each other. The wood stove served as the focal point for discussion and gatherings. Beyond that, for entertainment, there was only a small television and infrequent visits to the community house for a movie or a wedding. The harshness of the surroundings united the families, yet it tended to take a toll on the community, where boredom, an outgrowth of misshapen dreams, often led to alcoholism. The struggle to sustain a diminishing culture while striving for progress was frustrating and chaotic. Many of the young could not live with the old ways, and yet, at the same time, they could not survive in a world where new skills were required and where their culture was called into question. This necessitated an ironic dependence upon the new culture for educational sustenance. John grappled with these struggles in his own way, declining a pipeline job that paid twice the wages he earned as a pilot. He felt that the environment of which his people were always a part would eventually pay a price. A human price for progress already had been paid. With this scenario, he would not be compliant.

He believed in the old ways, so much so that he wanted his sons to understand and in some way be included, yet once the family moved closer to the white man’s ways, he knew this affiliation would become difficult at best. Regardless, his family came first, and the result was a desire to improve their lot – thus, their long journey to Tumbler Ridge.

His people faced a series of paradoxes. Deep within himself, he wondered why must one choose between tradition and progress? Why must one choose between cultures? Man is man wherever one goes. Isn’t this true? Isn’t the question more about adaptation to one’s surroundings and to others? No, he thought. It is more. The white culture speaks of ‘success’, but the Inuit thinks of community, of spirit, of an inner being. It is more than talk, more than communicating. So, ‘success’ is not being one of the few but one of the many. Life, however, challenges our values, our inner spirit and our direction – a complex scenario. Have I been true to my past or am I forsaking the past for the future? Perhaps the path is like undulating snow flowing over and around a crevasse of endless depth, or like the firn line on a glacier where snow turns to ice.

Turning his Dodge Ram through the labyrinth of curves, he thought about how dog sleds had been replaced by snowmobiles. Had life really improved for his people? Where caribou, grizzly, polar bear, moose, whales and salmon once cherished their freedom, ‘progress’ impeded. And where the Inuit, Aleut, Inupiat, Yupik, Kutchin, Koyukon, Tanana, Loucheux, Inuvialuit, Hare Slavey, Dogrib, Chepewyan, Chukchi, Athapaskan and Cree once roamed freely, a different man entered and changed their world.

***

The roar of the river resounded through the lodge pole pines. A startled deer glared and then quickly bounded across the road. Marie had just arrived at the Peace River Hatchery. Although it was customary for most Inuit women to toil at home, she felt that the goal she and John had mutually decided upon required two providers. Also, Marie truly enjoyed this job more than any other. She smiled as she greeted her co-workers. Everyone was always amazed how high her spirits were, regardless of her difficult circumstances. Her exquisite beauty and femininity complemented John’s ruggedness perfectly. Dedicated to a number of charities, Marie was admired throughout the community for her generosity. She was a doer, contributing to youth groups and seniors alike. One would think that other women would be envious, but they were not; they enjoyed being in Marie’s company and associating with her. Putting on overalls and wrapping her silken black velvet hair in an amber and blue band, she could have easily won any beauty pageant.

Stepping down, she approached the rough timber rails that spanned the fish stations. Here, her primary responsibility was to weigh and remove the tags from the female salmon, ripe with roe, on their journey to their home. When visitor volume demanded it, she also led tours. As chance would have it, the fishery manager called for her and asked her to take the morning tour. This was her favorite task. Marie dropped the remaining tags in bins and stood.

Excuse me, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Sabrina. Where are you from? a young voice asked from behind her.

Tumbler Ridge, Marie answered, turning.

Well, I mean, are you originally from this area?

We’ve lived here for about a year, originally from Fairbanks.

Still inquisitive, Sabrina asked, Did you do the same thing in Fairbanks?

A little surprised by her continual volley of questions, Marie smiled politely and responded, Actually, I used to work at a cannery.

What a switch, Sabrina commented. Both women laughed.

Well, yes. There, I harvested salmon, an unpleasant task, and processed them. Sabrina fiddled with some papers in her pocketbook. Pensive, Marie thought of how she once was responsible for ending the salmon’s life – a job she truly disliked – of how the fish were caught, gutted and salted. But now, how rewarding this job had become – to provide a new beginning for a creature, an entire species, part of their rejuvenation.

She uttered, Hope.

Sabrina asked, What did you say?

Oh. I was just thinking out loud. I would like to think that, in a way, we provide hope for them to continue onwards. We replenish their supply, and in that sense, we help make their future possible.

A large foray of salmon swirled from the fish ladder, plunging into the holding tanks, interrupting their conversation and distracting them momentarily. Sabrina had felt that it was just a decent-paying job, so Marie’s outlook intrigued her.

You are so right, said Sabrina, Without us, there might not be future generations of sportsmen and tourists to enjoy this resource.

Marie disguised her disappointment with Sabrina’s interpretation by absorbing herself in the activity of tracking the finned newcomers, only to be interrupted again by the fishery manager’s voice.

Marie, can you prepare for the visitors? Todd asked.

She quickly scampered to the ladies’ room, washed, removed her overalls and, slightly canting her head, swept her hair over her shoulders. She slipped into a teal dress. Adding a woolen sweater with a diagonal teal and mauve pattern, she slowly applied a hint of lipstick, her long slender fingers sweeping in a small arc in front of her face, as she lightly pressed her lips together. Her bronzed skin deeply contrasted with her gleaming green eyes and red lips. She exchanged her heavy boots for unfrequented high heels. Gliding her hands down to her waist, she shifted the sweater with a twist and briskly ran up the steps, heels echoing, to the lobby.

The main entrance, which exuded the aroma of cedar, was expansive and decorated with an array of local paintings that flanked the golden log walls. Adjacent to each wall of the pentagon-shaped room, there stood large tanks with live specimens twisting as if to shake free of their wide-ranging pigmentation. A light cajoling, bubbling sound could be heard while shafts of sunlight, entering through the cathedral ceiling’s central skylight, diffracted through a magnificent glass sculpture of an arched Chinook, four feet in length and suspended seemingly in mid-air above a glass and chrome base. Embossed detail rippled over the form, which came to life as it glinted in the sun. As the sculpture’s prisms flooded the room with beams of light, Marie slipped forward, her eyes glinting like sparks, into the dappled diamond-like light that danced across her body.

The visitors had been asked to sign in and help themselves to refreshments, but as they entered, they could not conceal their awe. The tour began without anyone listening, their senses distracted by their spacious surroundings.

Her brilliant white smile transformed into a soft-toned voice, We are so pleased to welcome all of you here. Quad speakers couldn’t have commanded more attention. I think you will be very pleased by the number of visitors here today, Marie paused, I’m speaking about our swimming sisters, of course. Before we begin, though, it would be nice to find out more about you. Sir, can you tell us your name and where you are from?

Dale, from the state of Washington, the man responded.

Catherine from Trenton, New Jersey, a woman stated.

Marie raised her eyebrows and remarked, Wow, that’s some distance. Welcome.

The introductions continued until another woman remarked, Prince George.

Marie remarked, Now, that’s close to home. For the rest of the audience here, Prince George is a very pretty town, about 4 hours away. Looking down, Marie couldn’t help notice a little girl wrapped in a fluffy white-hooded jacket, about 5 or 6 years old. Before saying a word, Marie knelt down, extended her hands palms up and prompted, What is your name little girl?

The girl sprang forward as if Marie were a long-lost relative. She brought her tiny hands up from her sides to touch Marie’s, saying proudly, I’m Molly.

You are so very pretty, commented Marie. Molly, where are you from?

Well, I’m staying here with my Aunt Sarah in Prince George, but I’m all the way from California. Do you know where that is? queried Molly.

Marie responded, I sure do and that probably accounts for your tan and wonderful smile?

Yep, replied the girl.

Well, I hope everyone has helped themselves to refreshments. Please make sure you wear your coats, because we’ll be going outside soon to see the fish ladders.

As she walked, the entourage followed, like a wedding gown train. Many of the visitors lost their customary wariness and thought about what a personable and beautiful woman she was. Marie pointed to the 200-gallon tanks, remarking that they contained the species found at Peace River, including everything from Chinook or King Salmon, Coho, Sockeye Salmon – a brilliant red fish, as you can see – to Steelhead, which are these silvery fish here at my right. Steelhead follow the salmon up rivers every year to feed on their young. Our goal is not to contain these fish, but to help them reproduce. We want to ensure that, in years to come, our children will be able to appreciate these wonderful living creatures. The scientific names for salmon are very long and I’m not sure I can pronounce them correctly, so I won’t bore you. At least one of the salmon names, the Chinook, has its derivation from an Indian tribe of the Northwest Plateau.

The Chinook spawn in the fall soon after arriving at their spawning grounds, here for instance, in the upper Peace River. They return to their home spawning grounds after three to seven years of age. Sadly, both female and male die within weeks after their spawning ritual. The Pacific variety of salmon like we have here can travel more than 2,000 miles.

How do we know this? Marie wanted to make sure everyone was listening. She waited for an answer. Molly raised her hand from a bench where she was starting to lay down. Yes, Molly.

Someone follows them in a boat? asked Molly.

Well, not exactly, said Marie smiling. We do follow them, but in a different way – with electronic transmitters, using our tagging methods.

The Chinook salmon can grow quite large. The largest sport catch recorded was ninety-seven pounds. Instead of ears, salmon have lateral lines on their sides that help them to ‘hear’ or feel vibrations. Also, the salmon’s sense of smell is so extremely keen that they can detect one part per million – more powerful than just about any living animal.

How many of us here are fishermen? A few raised their hands. For those who are fishermen, color is one way to tell if the fish is fresh from the sea. Chinook fresh from the sea are silver, like the sample right above Molly’s head. Marie pointed. But, they soon turn black in the river after a few days. She walked over to Molly, noticing that soon after she had cuddled up on the bench, she had fallen asleep.

I hope that Molly is just tired from her long journey, said Marie as she gently pulled Molly’s coat up around her shoulders. Marie paused momentarily, then turned quickly to the audience, saying, I hope I’m not boring you too! Turning red, she was greeted by laughter. Taking a deep breath, she added, We see as many as 25,000 fish come through this hatchery by the time the runs finish in December.

"Please watch your step as we walk down to where the real work is done. This area is where the female eggs are seeded. You can see, over there, the man with the red-checkered shirt, Todd, he’s the fishery biologist, and he’s examining some samples for growth and epidemiological studies. Later, you can ask Todd what that last word means because I certainly don’t know. Since it is still somewhat early in the spawning run, there are only a few hundred young salmon here. After one to two months, there will be more and we will free them to begin their journey to the sea. They will usually stay, at least the Chinook, for about one year in fresh water."

Within a little over three years, the ocean will provide enough sustenance for them to reach the size of the fish that you will soon see at the ladders. At the fish ladder, the salmon coming upstream are segregated below by two channels. One leads to the hatchery, the other to the fish ladder, for those continuing their journey. This way, we can control the volume of fish entering the hatchery. As we approach the fish ladders, you’ll probably have difficulty hearing me, so stay close and watch. The fish ladders help these salmon reach above and around obstructions. They are designed in such a way so as to give the salmon the opportunity to move at their own pace, rest, and eventually reach the stream above.

Across the holding pools, silver streaks could be seen in the distance, jettisoning upstream – salmon vaulting with athletic prowess, wrenching and thrusting tails, mustering prolific power, defying gravity, the climax to their spawning urge. Loud pounding turned to thunderous roars as the group approached the river, converting all conversation to pantomime. At times, the twenty-five pound silver torpedoes would leap several feet, the burgeoning force of white foam suspending their motion. Falling back, the muscular leviathans persistently charged forward until they reached the waters above. Beyond the misty clouds, regiments of Chinook could be seen down the river, their dorsal fins exposed shark-like, so many that a pulsating live bridge was created. At one point, an aggressive salmon lunged out of the water onto gravel. Marie quickly kicked off her heels and ran gingerly to the dry-docked fish. Placing her hands first in the running water, she knelt down and slipped her fingers beneath, and with one swift motion, returned the contorted Chinook to its life source, brief though that life may be. As she rushed back to