Under Nushagak Bluff: A Novel

By Mia C. Heavener

“This novel brilliantly explores the lives of one bloodline of Alaskan women struggling to make a home for themselves in a small fishing community.” —Devin Murphy, national-bestselling author of Tiny Americans
 
In 1939, everything changes for Anne Girl when outsider John Nelson grounds his sailboat on the shores, into Anne Girl’s skiff, and into her life during a rare storm in the Alaskan fishing village of Nushagak. When Anne Girl and her mother Marulia find their skiff flattened by John’s boat, Anne Girl decides she both hates and wants him. Thus begins a generational saga of strong, stubborn Yup’ik women living in a village that has been divided between the new and the old, the bluff side and the missionary side, the cannery side and the subsistence side. Under Nushagak Bluff is “an alluring and beautiful story of community and culture . . . a tale that reveals the real heart of Alaska” (Don Rearden, author of The Raven’s Gift). 
 
“Heavener has gifted readers with a story both dreamy and authentic, a story made of many individual stories and celebrating oral storytelling and the value of stories altogether.” —Anchorage Daily News
 
“Honors on every page a combination of sea, sky, beach, and tundra, along with the returning salmon, the crying gulls, and the ripe berries they bear.” —Denali Sunrise
 
“[A] story of generational inheritances and expectations, fate, and loyalty is filtered through the tough voices of Alaskan women.” —Foreword Reviews
 
“An intriguing and important window into life among an Indigenous people and beautifully illustrates the push and pull of assimilation in pre-state Alaska.” —Kirkus Reviews

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Nov 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781597097970

Book preview

One

The tide is still going out, so we may have a while on this sandbar. Not much we can do now but sit and wait, because there isn’t a fishing boat for miles. I don’t see one, do you? Well, don’t blame me. You’re the one who needed to get off shore, who wanted to run from the village. Now here we are—in the middle of the channel with our kicker prop run aground and our hull sucked to the silt. It’s not good to have your stern anchored, but you already knew that. Let’s worry about capsizing when the tide shifts. It will probably happen. I don’t mean to scare you, but it will. You know how it goes when waves hit you from both angles. And all it takes is that one rogue wave. Happened to a crew out in Kvichak Bay last year. Remember?

My girl, I’m sorry. I’ll start with that. One, for maybe cutting your life short. But if we get off this bar there will be a time when you’ll want to know your father. And you will look for him in the eyes of strangers and cannery men to see if they match your own. And you’ll ask and beg me to tell you where he is. You might even want to hit me. But I’ll have to tell you, I don’t know. The story that you are really searching for doesn’t sleep with me. Your story is different, one that could be told by the shape of the beach we just left. It is years before me. And it begins with a storm—one of those kind that everyone remembers.

Yet, few outside the Bristol Bay region in Alaska knew about this rare summer storm that gutted the beach of Nushagak Village during the height of the red salmon season. The rising tide could have washed away the dock and all the homes along the shore, and the reports in Anchorage would have still been about the new air navigation silo that recently opened in King Salmon. The Japanese and the Russians had been seen scouting out the islands farther down the chain, and territory lawmakers were anxious to announce Alaska as the first line of defense.

But all the talk of self-defense and the war coming to the territory matters little to our story. As you know, the war came and went, but on that day it was the storm that brought Anne Girl out of her house. Very few things caused Anne Girl to panic, especially a few droplets of rain. Not even the crossways wind made her shudder. But on that day, in that storm, Anne Girl felt a change coming her way. Perhaps it was the seagulls climbing and diving that made her think of her future. I know it’s hard to understand what I am getting at, but one day you will understand why I am telling you. You will want to know.

Coastal storms bring gifts. For Anne Girl, the sharp smell of salt and bloated salmon brought in from the storm would be forever linked to John Nelson’s stringy, yellow hair. Before she had even met him, she felt his arrival and blamed him for all the scattered driftwood, the knotted net, and her mother’s blunt tap on her shoulder, telling her that it was time to inspect their skiff.

Although downpours and floods were common in the bay, they rarely occurred in the summer when the coast was littered with double-enders and drift nets, when the fish were so thick you could walk across the bay on their dorsal fins. But when the swells curled into themselves and the sky rattled with lightning that only God could have sparked, all the fishermen in the bay, including Anne Girl and her mother, Marulia, pulled up their boats to wait it out.

Around the same time that Anne Girl and her mother were tying an anchor to their coiled net so that it wouldn’t float away, John Nelson grounded his sailboat several miles down the beach. Anne Girl felt the bottom hit and clutched her stomach as the boat skidded onto the gravel, grinding her abdomen into a knot. Her mother nudged her, and said that now wasn’t the time to rest. The water was rising.

Two days after, when the clouds parted and the mountains across the bay could be seen rising out of the silty green water, Anne Girl and Marulia returned to their skiff. Marulia could hardly wait until the whitecaps no longer frothed before gathering her boots and gloves. She poked Anne Girl with a bent finger that was stiff from years of sewing fur parkas. We have to see if we still have a skiff left. The ghosts from the Aleut wars might have sailed off with it. Or maybe they drowned on the way. Better yet, huh.

Anne Girl peered out the window and saw only grayness beyond the waving grasses. Although the beating wind had paused for the moment, the rain still raced towards them like shooting pebbles. There seemed to be a lot more weather coming with the promise of more wind. Even the gulls squawking above agreed with her, but Anne Girl wasn’t about to say anything. Her mother already had her gloves on and a hood wrapped around her face like a tight bonnet. She tapped her finger impatiently on the door frame as she waited for Anne Girl to get ready.

Outside, the air was damp with hints of an early winter—the fire-weeds were bent low and their tips had begun to seed. Anne Girl followed her mother down the grassy path toward the beach. The grass stalks were wet, and she felt the cold rise in little bumps on her legs, numbing her skin. But Marulia walked as if she didn’t notice, as if she were floating across the grasses to the beach.

Marulia’s home was exactly in the middle of the village, in the lower section of the bluff, and from her bedroom window Anne Girl could hear the entire village play out its drama before her. During the summers, when the cannery was open, she could see all the movement in the new part of the village, where the houses progressively grew taller on stilts and the land flattened into a beach that projected out into the bay. Where the houses ended, the cannery began with rows of buildings that always had fresh, painted siding and clean white steps. Even at midnight, Anne Girl could see the cannery working around the clock, taking in salmon and more salmon. And if she shifted her head slightly toward the bluff, she could see the years worn into the grassy paths and trace the village’s movement up the slope as it tried to escape the annual floods. But even with her generous view, she always felt too far from either side of the village. The bluff side and the sod homes with crumbling clumps of grass and dirt reminded her of the tundra across the bay, where it was said that the salmonberries grew so thick that they could not be picked. There was the chapel, a clinic, and newly whitewashed homes that were too square and clean for her. There was an order on that side of the village that made her feel as if her qaspeq was a sloppy shirt rather than a loose pullover that allowed the salt of the bay to move through her.

When the grassy trail met the gravelly beach, Marulia paused in mid-stride. Her eyes fell toward the cannery and the cluster of buildings that were oddly silent on this day. Usually at the height of the summer, the noise was endless, reaching across the bay with an arm of money. As more fish were delivered, the canning machines coughed and steamed all night long, louder than the seagulls who squawked as they claimed the discarded guts, eyes, and heads. It was a never-ending chatter between the cannery and the gulls. Everyone wondered how the missionaries could stand to listen to all the noise rattling their windows. It was worse than the screeching coming from the chapel organ.

Marulia clicked her tongue at the chapel’s growing steeple as if it were a large tooth feeding on the villagers. She wondered why they stayed when their congregation was a rotating tide of drunks and repentant sobers. It made her dizzy just thinking about it.

I hear there’s a new one staying with them, she said, pointing to the missionaries’ home. Got lost or something in the storm. How can anyone get lost here?

Anne Girl made no answer, but she grinned at her mother’s backside, because her senses were correct about the new man in the village. Anne Girl’s abdomen hadn’t stopped fluttering since the day of the storm, and all the teas on the tundra gave her no relief. Of course this had to be because he was staying with the Killweathers. Who in their right mind would want to stay with them? He probably had nowhere to go.

She had been inside the Killweather house only once. When Nora and Frederik first arrived, everyone visited them, brought them akutaq, stinky head, and secrets of the tundra so they could look at Nora’s pale face and Frederik’s glasses. Anne Girl hadn’t brought anything to share, because she had only wanted to see the inside of their home. Nora, with her long skirts that danced around her body when she walked, gave the impression that her house was pink and smelled of June. Anne Girl expected flowers in vases on every windowsill and honey set neatly on the table. Yet, although the missionary’s wife had honey on her table, her house wasn’t nearly what Anne Girl had expected, as the main room was a small, yellow square with a narrow doorway to the kitchen. How much Anne Girl had wanted to see the kitchen, to know if it was as clean as Nora carried herself. She wanted to count how many pots and pans Nora had, to see if it explained the many boxes that followed the Killweathers upon their arrival. But Nora wasn’t giving tours, and all Anne Girl could do was stare at the large cross on the wall and wonder why it didn’t have two crosses like the one she had seen at the cannery store. Marulia had said that the cross was them Russians still praying for fish, since they took all the seals. This cross had been different. Everything about these missionaries was different. They planned to stay.

Maybe he knows them, Anne Girl said, although she didn’t think so. She felt that this new man was an accident waiting to collide, and he probably ended up at the Killweathers’ because he didn’t know any better. She wondered when they would finally meet, because there was no way she was going to invite herself over for tea.

Two steps behind her mother, she walked quickly along the shore, feeling the wind beat against her cheeks, until Marulia stopped suddenly. She pointed at the loose gravel, where their skiff was supposed to be anchored. And it was anchored; it was more secure than they had hoped, and Anne Girl could hear her mother’s teeth grinding in long, slow circles, filing her teeth down to her nerves.

A double ender turned on its side balanced on top of their skiff; the mast dug deep into the gravel as if it had finally found its roots on the beach. A large wave had picked up the boat and placed it perfectly into the bed of their skiff. The wooden frame of their skiff stretched and bowed under the weight, and it appeared that its seams were breaking, flattening the ribs into twigs. A gray seagull with a black-tipped beak strutted along the mast while eyeing the women. Marulia clicked her tongue and tapped the wood.

Some storm to make boats fly like this. Probably had spirits running like crazy. She waved over her head. Funny that I don’t see any other boats on this beach. Marulia sighed and looked up and down. Her hand went to her chest as if to make sure her heart still moved against its cage. It wasn’t the broken shape of the skiff, Marulia knew, that caused shortness of breath. This was different, as if something were growing branches in her body, stretching itself from her chest to her gut. "Akeka," she muttered under her breath.

No, it’s that man’s who’s staying at the Killweathers’. Didn’t even know how to anchor his boat, Anne Girl said. It’s too late in the summer to repair the skiff. Everyone’s fishing and no one is going to want to patch a boat. She ran her hand along the wooden seams of the boat and felt the creases beneath her fingertips eat at her skin. Her hand paused at the wooden cleat that was sheared off, exposing the brightness of the brown grain. She imagined a thin man with long legs that made catwalking up and down the rails easy. He was blond with cheeks that slightly reddened against the wind, and so his skin was smoother than the bay when the water was like glass. He was completely unlike any villager or cannery man with the tough skin, and Anne Girl couldn’t decide whether she should put a hole in his boat or ask him if he wanted to join her at the next potlatch.

He must be pitiful with this kind of boat, Marulia said. Her fingers lingered in the air, painting it. I heard that he don’t know how to fish. I heard he can’t sit still during church.

You hear a lot.

I do, Marulia conceded and tapped her forehead. I hear more than you think.

Anne Girl saw hours of labor wrapped in the coils of rope that were knotted around the sailboat. They definitely would need help from some of the men in town to free the boat from the skiff. It was nothing but a bloated tree. She tugged on one end of the rope, but when it didn’t budge she thought of the Killweathers’ visitor and decided that even if he was good-looking, she hated him.

With her hands still on her hips, Marulia stared at the boat that jammed her skiff into the bank. She ran her tongue over her bottom lip. Makes you wonder why he couldn’t see the cannery. All that wood piling is hard to miss, you know? You need to tell him to get his boat off our skiff.

Two

Despite the storm, the salmon quickly returned to the bay as they always do, and in the next high tide, Anne Girl found her net loaded to the gills. Her skiff was still trapped under the weight of the sailboat, and in order to pick out the salmon, Anne Girl had to pull the net onto the beach. She cursed the tide and John the entire time. That morning, Marulia had woken up ill and her skin was hot to touch, but she pushed Anne Girl out the door so she could make medicine teas. So Anne Girl picked alone, thankful, because she knew that today she would see John Nelson.

Although she was ready to meet him, had him traced out in her mind of how they would look standing next together or lying side by side, she didn’t hear his quiet approach. The salmon had her complete attention. She bent over each one and pulled and yanked them out until silver was flying all around her, raining silver dollars. She would ask him how he came this far north. No, she would tell him that she was going to burn his boat for firewood. No, she would tell him to go home, because they already had too many fishermen in this bay.

You have quite the load there, John said as he approached. He stopped in front of the snaking wooden corks with his hands jammed in his pockets.

You get your boat off my skiff? Anne Girl said without looking up. She continued picking out the salmon and throwing them around her, narrowly missing John.

John laughed nervously. That was your skiff? I haven’t yet, but I’m sure there’s a way we can do it. Frederik was telling me that the cannery has some rollers we can put it on . . .

Anne Girl stood up slowly and stretched her back. She nodded toward John, barely taking him in, and picked up the cork end of the net where a salmon was entangled and handed it to him. And then she returned to where she had crouched before and continued to pull out salmon after salmon.

John took the salmon and turned it in his hands. But when he tugged on the line, it slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground, coating itself in a layer of gravel.

Anne Girl glanced up and saw John redden as if caught in a lie. His cheeks and forehead flushed until it seemed that his blond hair would catch fire too. Watching him, she saw his story in those colors. She knew before he said anything that he had left Seattle, telling everyone that he was going to Alaska to fish the deep waters for salmon or crab or anything that lived beneath the waves. Of course he had read about Bristol Bay and how it was swimming with heads and tails and millions of dollars. Or maybe he thought, because he looked like a Norwegian, that fishing was in his blood. Her stomach sank, because she knew she was stuck with him and that it was going to be a while before she would get her skiff back.

Don’t say nothing, she said, and took the salmon by the gills. She yanked it twice and the fish dropped freely to the ground. She handed him a different section of net.

John took another salmon and mimicked her hands. He pulled hard until the web was securely lodged in the gills. He pulled again and ripped the gills clean off. He held the bloody salmon by its tail fin in front of Anne Girl and smiled.

Once again, Anne Girl stopped and stared at him, her eyes dark and peering as if she were trying to make a decision about this large white man before her. She didn’t have a pretty face, and when she was thinking, her broad forehead became one horizontal crease in the middle. But no one would disagree that she was hard and sturdy. Her skin was light tan, like that of most of the residents in the village, but seemed almost gray against the color of her black hair.

You here to fish? she asked. Her voice carried over the crash of the waves. ’Cause you don’t know nothing about fish. She took the salmon from him and showed him how to pull a salmon from a net without getting its gills further caught or ripped off. Fish are food, uh.

I thought about fishing, but maybe I’ll work for the cannery. John nodded toward the little town on stilts and winked at her.

You don’t want to work for them, she said. See these hands. She took off her gloves and held up her hands. The knuckles were swollen, and the fingers were scarred white where they had been repeatedly nicked and burned.

Oh, you’ve worked then in a cannery, I see. Which one?

No, I never. I still got all my fingers, and they work too. She laughed. You like your fingers? You shouldn’t work in the cannery. She wiped her forehead, leaving a string of slime gleaming on her skin.

Anne Girl saw John’s pale skin become whiter, as if the moon had risen inside of him, making his eyes lighter. He was weak-blooded too, she thought. She laughed again and pointed toward another caught salmon. I jokes. Maybe you can fish. Here, fish with me. She picked up a flounder and traced its white underside with her finger. You know the Killweathers, then? she asked.

Well, not really. We’re accidental friends, John said.

As John recounted his arrival to Nushagak Village, of how he left at high tide from Dillingham and ended up on the beach, Anne Girl kicked the gravel to the rhythm of his speech, enjoying the fact that she was correct about him. Right down to the length of his legs. She almost believed that she had made him appear before her. She partially listened to his story about tea with Frederik and Nora and how their daughter, Kristen, was teething. It was too much detail for Anne Girl. His voice was getting in the way of her thinking. Her foot continued to tap, and her head nodded as a smile played out on her face.

Tap, tap, tap. And here he was.

Three

You see our prop is bent. I am pretty sure of it. Where the hell is everyone? Don’t people fish around here? This isn’t like the old days with the double ender sailboats where we could try to make an outrigger with the mast. We wouldn’t have to worry about capsizing then.

I was talking about Marulia, huh? Yes, there are so many things I wish I could share with you about her, like how she did her hair or whether she loved hard or just enough so it was easy to say goodbye. You might want to know these things about her one day, just as I wanted to know. Yet, your Nan spoke little of her mom. Yes, there were other stories, but not the juicy ones. So Marulia’s story is locked up with the village women, who prefer to talk over smoked fish and a cup of dark tea. The village women, you say? Oh yes. Wait till you meet them. They are round and skinny, loud and quiet. But it is the fat one you will like the most. But I am not there yet. You will meet her in time.

The sailboat remained latched to the skiff until it was clear to everyone that John was not leaving. His presence made Anne Girl restless, but she had always been on edge. Born on the shores of the salty waters in Nushagak, she grew up with mud in her fingernails and tundra leaves in her hair. The farthest she had traveled was to King Salmon, so that she could work in the cannery. She didn’t last long in that village, though. The buildings there were stacked against each other, and Anne Girl couldn’t breathe. It reminded her of flies swarming around a dead fish, and she felt like she was suffocating. She didn’t even make it to the run before she returned home to help her mother put up meat for the winter.

It