All Night Salmon Leap the Falls

Evening Star kindles himself in the sky and sends his reflection to the surface of the river. On the eve of the spring salmon run, he flares in the purple twilight. He glances toward the growing light on the eastern horizon, anticipating the rising of the full moon. For centuries beyond remembering, native Takelmas have called this moon, "When the Salmon Have Sore Backs." Evening Star listens to the drumming of the falls swelled with snowmelt, and the barking of geese as they glide in and settle for the night. The moon clears the ridge and sends light flooding up and down the river, calling the sore-backed salmon home.

Evening Star gazes onto that place near the falls where the ancient village of Tilomikh once thrived. He sees thousand-year-old shadows of native people walking from plank house to house, preparing for the salmon ceremony ... a net tossed in the rapids, the glint of a spear, the drying racks laid out ... and around the glimmer of many fires, the sharing of stories and songs that celebrate the arrival of the Salmon People....

The moon travels the sky. The first salmon of the run strains his battered sides against the force of the falls. In sheltered nooks and crannies, the geese drift toward dreams.

Evening Star blazes in the sky and on the water. He listens to age-old whispers that linger in the shadows and to the unceasing pounding of the falls. Under his watchful eye, nighttime floats downriver as salmon strain against the current.

* * * * *

The old wood and brick house looks abandoned, bathed in what bit of moonlight finds its path through the overlapping branches of oaks and madrones. At the suggestion of Coyote, the place looks haunted. As Coyote and I approach the house we see the yellow light of an oil lamp burning in the attic window.

Coyote glowers at the light and says, "This place starts all my dogs barking."

"It's about time," I say. "Not all of them have been awake at once for quite a spell."

"Just the same," whines Coyote, "this place wakes up my fleas and makes my fur crawl."

"Easy, boy, nothing here to fear."

"Are you crazy? We are going into an abandoned house on a full moon night in search of some poet's old scribbling, and already there's a light in the attic as if we are expected. I'll take an old graveyard over this spooky house in these dark woods any night. At least we'd be in the open."

"Ah, yes," I say. "The power of a century of stories about this place. You think you see everything, don't you? Well, don't let those doggie eyes of yours see more than is there. Perk up your ears. Sniff the air. See for yourself. The light looks friendly. And aren't you curious, you of all dogs?"

I push on the front door and it creaks open.

"Classic," whimpers Coyote. "We might as well be in some horror film. Been nice knowing you, Mister Storyteller."

Once inside, Coyote expects to see dust and cobwebs, peeling wallpaper, rotting floorboards, a scuttling of critters from spiders to snooty mice to who-knows-what disgusting, coyote-gnawing, bloated bugs, and eyes -- huge eyes -- glowing out of the shadows ... any scrap of haunted-house lore Coyote's uneasy imagination might conjure up. But what he sees inside fails to match the spirit of what he saw outside. The rooms are clean and tidy. No cobwebs. No dust anywhere, not even on the furniture. And it appears that Coyote is the only critter in the house.

We draw deep breaths as we make our way up the stairs toward the attic. We pass an open window and night sounds drift in: the dry-leaf crackle of deer walking through the woods, the hoot of a barn owl from out back, the distant whoosh of the falls.

We walk into a flood of light in the attic. The roof is low and there are boxes stacked along the walls. Near the window is a wood table with two chairs. An oil lamp burns in the center of the table, and near the lamp is a small box without a top. Inside is a stack of handwritten manuscripts.

"Whoa," says Coyote, glancing through the room with a worried look. "This is too weird. What a set up!"

"Perfect," I say. "An attic that lives up to its best reputation."

"Which is?" asks Coyote.

"A model of the world. Just listen and look around. Everything is here. There are sounds from outside ... the river, animals in the woods.... And here's this room that looks like any cozy shelter from any corner of the world in any century, with moonlight coming through the window. In the shadows are boxes packed with the debris of humanity. Might as well be a trash midden at the edge of some ancient village site. And look here, a hearth in the form of a lamp -- warmth and light to keep at bay what looms beyond what we can see and understand. And here's a poet's table, a place to create stories of who we are and what we've done and seen, and a stack of manuscripts to give us a glimpse into a time we have almost forgotten. Pay attention, Pooch. This is not some spook playing a trick. This room might be a cave with a fire blazing and ancient writings painted on the walls. It's an invitation. Let's have a look at these papers, eh?"

Coyote and I sit in the chairs. I pick up a page yellowed at the edges, and read out loud....

"A river at night and a mood that is dearly secret, pleasantly sad, are they not one? The dark water whispering under the stars, while the stars are floating in it, and the breath of the current rising in slim and twirling wisps of vapor. A river is very secret then, with its own dreams in thought. The trees beside it are plumes of sable, and the moon parts them with a blade of silver. The half moon, risen from the crouching nearness of the massed and shadowed hills. What bird was that? Silence. Most strange to hear are the voices of waterfowl when night and the river are one. Mysterious and mournful voice. What bird was that? Silence."

Coyote and I gaze at each other. We nod without a word as if we had discovered a voice as familiar as our own, and friendly words about a place we know well. I continue....

"Who has heard the conversations of water, the whisper of lakes, the beat and thunder of the sea, the laughter and shouting of rivers, without remembering for so long as he is given to memory? These are agreeable sounds. They touch the heart with a hand primordial. They are timeless and yet they belong to the beginnings. Song across water, if heaven is good to the listener.... These are sounds quite beyond our praising."

I pause and look at Coyote. We are both aware that there is a second voice in the room, speaking softly, matching word for word what I am reading. A bit hesitantly, I read a few more words, and the second voice grows louder....

"Nothing is like to the way of a river at night. Not anything. Unless it be a mood that none may name...."

Coyote and I turn in our chairs and look toward the sound of the voice. Beside a stack of boxes, barely visible in the interplay of shadows and moonlight and flickering lamplight, an old man stands with his hands in his pockets, smiling. He wears a white shirt with suspenders, dark wool trousers with cuffs, and a long, black overcoat. His eyes are friendly, and shine in the faint light.

We watch the man, amazed, unable to speak. The man smiles and says, "You read well. You seem to know the words as though they were your own." He stops and looks toward the window. Everyone listens. The sound of drumming drifts into the attic.

"The salmon are coming," says the man. "Let's go have a look." He glances at Coyote. "You do like salmon, don't you?"

Coyote nods. Not knowing what else to do, and sensing no danger, we follow the man toward the attic door.

As we leave the room, Coyote asks, "Who are you? What's your name?"

The man looks back toward the lamp as they start down the stairs. "Lampman," he says. "Just Lampman."

As we step out the back door and into the woods, Lampman says to Coyote, "I once had a dog, and he was as fine as any man I ever knew."

Lampman leads the way into the shadows of the woods, toward the river, Coyote trotting at his heels. I bring up the rear.

* * * * *

No light comes through these woods. Utter darkness brings a timelessness of all nights made into one, and this night might be any night in the history of forests. Not even the light of the full moon finds its way past the canopy of trees. I am thinking that were Lampman not with us, I would never find even a trace of this woodland path. I follow Lampman and Coyote not by sight, but by sound, and our walking is not the only sound. Despite the darkness, the forest breathes life. The overhead maze of twisted branches is a sanctuary for birds. As the three of us walk through the woods, the songs and calls and stirrings of night birds float out of the trees. They mix with the cool air and swirl around them like a gentle breeze, or air moved by the soft-feathered wings of birds, or the breathing of ancient trees. Each step is a step out of time and into the depths of nighttime as it has always been.

As we approach the edge of the woods we see a glimmer of moonlight, and an orange glow from the fires at the village of Tilomikh. We walk out of the trees and into a meadow. The sounds of the village are distinct. We hear the singing of each word of each song, each drumbeat, the foot-stamping of dancing, choruses of conversation.... The night pounds with the electric pulse of a village celebrating the arrival of the salmon.

Lampman breaks the silence of their voices. He turns and asks me, "Have you heard stories of the Salmon Ceremony?"

"Sure," I say.

"And being a storyteller, you are aware of the power of stories to take us beyond what we might imagine?"

"And more," I say.

"Good," says Lampman. "Then let's walk into this story. If we pay attention, we'll be different people by the time this story ends."

"Talk, talk, talk," says Coyote. "Are we there yet? When do we get to the salmon?"

"Patience, my hungry friend," I say. "We've got all night, and more."

Coyote bounds toward the river and I follow. Lampman pauses at the edge of the meadow, looks back to the trees, and speaks softly to himself....

"Sometimes you have heard the grouse in the shadowy forest, with a sound like the beating of a great heart, or on the prairie with the sound like that of a drum -- if the sound of a drum might be beautiful. Have you ever forgotten?"

Lampman crosses the meadow and joins us. We climb down the steep bank to the river and enter the old time village of Tilomikh.

* * * * *

The village is swelled with people, those who live here as well as visitors from other villages ... Daldani, Gwenpunk, Didalam, Hagwal, Gelyalk....

At one of many fires, an elder woman of the village speaks to a gathering of travelers who have just arrived. She wears a traditional basket cap and buckskin dress decorated with beads and dentalium shells. A shawl covered with drawings of dragonflies is draped over her shoulders. She leans on a carved wooden cane. Her speech is a mixture of formal Takelma, Chinook Jargon and native sign language, flowing together in a way that makes clear the meaning and poetry of her message. Her speech is ancient and stylized. Only elders know how to do this well.

Coyote and Lampman and I join the others and listen.

"This river is Gelam, and we are Takelma, the people of the river. The salmon are our relations. Each year the Salmon People come to our village during this moon when their backs are strained. Like you, they have traveled along creeks and rivers. And like people everywhere, they have suffered. By the time the salmon reach this middle stretch of the river, they look battered. Their fins are torn and their sides bruised. They've struggled against miles of strong rapids and leaped many a waterfall on their journeys upriver. By the time the salmon reach our village of Tilomikh, their backs are sore, at the very least. This is a triumph, and a time of celebration.

"As they pass our home, we pray and we sing for the salmon, we dance for the salmon, and we tell stories of the Salmon People. We also fish for the salmon. But in taking, we give back. The first salmon who offers himself to the net is caught and gutted and put on a drying rack. For as long as it takes for that salmon to dry, no more salmon are taken from the river. Thousands leap the falls and continue their journey to the beginning of their world. Like us and all our relations, they want to live a long time. To the sounds of flutes, divers return the bones of that first salmon to the bottom of the river. As soon as he has dried, the fishing starts again. And that night, we feast."

Coyote and Lampman and I walk into the heart of the village. All night the drums beat, feet stamp, voices sing the old songs in honor of the Salmon People. Evening Star blazes bright in the sky. The moon travels overhead. The drumming of the falls fills the air. And all night salmon leap the falls, dancing their dance of survival.

We walk past several plank houses. Singing and firelight spill out and flood the night. We walk past outdoor fires where more people gather. Some play guessing games, tossing gambling bones and singing. Some spin stories. Others gossip and talk with folks they haven't seen for a spell. Coyote and Lampman and I make our way to the edge of the river and sit on the sand.

An old man sits on a stone chair. He trained for five days to be the salmon myth teller, and now a crowd gathers to listen to his stories. The old man glances across the river to the rocks below the falls. As he watches two men lower a net into the river, the old man tells -- with fluid gestures and a voice as full as the falls -- the myth of the salmon.

"Evening Star and Morning Star were the first owners of this place. They wrestled everyone who came here and killed them. They allowed no one to fish."

The old man describes how Elder Dragonfly, one of the culture-bringing brothers, pinned the two stars to their present places in the sky and made the salmon free to all the people.

"Later on, the Dragonfly Brothers came across Coyote here at the falls. Coyote had snatched up a fishing net and was thinking, 'I shall catch salmon in the river.'

"Coyote tossed the net into the river and pulled it out, but the net was full of mice. He threw the net back in and drew it out, but gophers were all he caught! Again, he tossed the net. 'Rabbits?!'

"Younger Dragonfly laughed so hard the ground was shaking.

"'Say, Coyote,' said Elder Dragonfly. 'It is not your place to catch salmon. People will net and spear salmon. They will catch salmon here at the falls where the river runs fast. And you, Coyote, you shall eat mice and gophers and rabbits as long as the world goes on.'

"Coyote went on his way, poking his nose into holes, looking for someone to eat, and thinking that someday he was going to change all that."

The listeners laugh and laugh at Coyote's antics, and then the old man points to the falls and says, "Look, the first visitor has arrived!"

In the spray of the falls, two men pull the first salmon from the net. They carry him to a drying rack on the rocks. Others gather around and help prepare the fish.

As the old man stands up and starts to walk away from the story chair, he turns and says, "Does anyone else want to share a story?"

Coyote starts to stand up but a glance and a gesture and a whispered "wait" from me holds him back. Several people aim encouraging nudges at their friends, but it is Lampman who finally stands up. He looks at the people, nods and smiles, and then gazes at the river. He walks to the chair, sits down, and with incredible skill, he weaves his story of the salmon coming up the river....

"Central in the river, cleaving its current, joyous with the taste of the hills, he felt the rain that came so quietly to the stream -- the rain that fell so lightly to be lost in the river. And it was as though it entered his silver flanks with gentleness and made its way with gentleness to his chill heart. It seemed the flow of the river ran through him, snout to fin, and washed away the sea. Thus he swam upward and was glad.

"Now he remembered the river, cranny and swirl and sedge. It was like yesterday. Now he remembered the ancient foundations of the hills, that make a music of hasty waters. The long and undulant rapids that wreathe the black rock. The fir that fell so long ago it always has been thrust between boulder and the sheer and changeless shore. The place of the heron. The drowned leaf that twirls with the restless flow of the river. The lifting wing of the wood-duck. Now he remembered all these -- as though the sea was not.

"And the voice of the sea was lost to him, and all the strength and striving of the sea were less than dream, and he was one with the river, and the world concentered there. For this was as he remembered, and to remember was to forget."

There is a long silence as the words settle into the hearts of the listeners. Then people start to whisper, and slowly, conversation grows back to normal. Lampman gets up and walks back along the river.

Coyote says to me, "Now that's a good story. Much better than the other one."

"What's the matter?" I ask. "Were you a bit bothered by the story about you having to eat rodents and rabbits for every meal and every snack?"

"Yeah," smirks Coyote. "We had it rough in the old days. But I'm a thoroughly modern Coyote and I buy my salmon at the co-op, not to mention other goodies that I fancy."

"Well, at least you're not diving dumpsters along the river for fish heads!"

"Hmmm," ponders Coyote. "Now that's an idea. Well, enough of this, I want to hear all about Lampman's dog. There are worse critters than poets who like dogs."

Before Lampman can launch into his favorite dog story, the drumming around the fires suddenly stops. Singing stops. Talking stops. Except for the rush of the river, the village is quiet. People listen. Faint at first and then growing to fill the silence, the sound of flute music drifts across the river and into the village. The people at Tilomikh look to the slow-flowing water above the falls. They watch in silence as five young men leap into the icy water. Each one dives deep and places the bones of the first salmon in the gravel of the river bed. This sacred gesture is as ancient as the river itself and all people born at Tilomikh are born with paintings of that moment already vivid in their memories.

Coyote and Lampman and I spend the night walking from fire to fire, listening to stories, dancing the old time dances, singing songs that praise the salmon. As night grows old, each person in the village casts an inward eye to the night when the salmon feast begins, especially Coyote. He figures that he'll blend in just fine with the rest of the people and stuff himself with salmon till his doggie sides bulge. "This is better than the old days," Coyote whispers to himself.

At the edge of the village, in a quiet moment by himself, Lampman stands on the sand and speaks to the river....

"Have you heard birds at morning, the half of an hour before sunrise, when they awaken? Very sleepily they begin the praise of creation and of the creator, and dawn comes out of the mystery that was night, and the sky is made to seem an awakening wonder while these voices take up the praise of the giver."

* * * * *

In the dim moments before dawn, the fires burn low. The people at Tilomikh gather in close circles and speak prayers to the coming sun. Morning Star kindles himself in the sky. The moon disappears over the ridge, and the purple light of sunrise grows in the east. Geese wake up and take flight in a clamor of splashing and barking and flapping of wings. Under Morning Star's watchful eye, morning floats downriver as salmon continue their struggle against the strength of the falls.

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