Confluence at Little Skookum

( A True Story )

Whose ancestors are these? you ask

Who watch

from the waters

on which we glide

Our two paddles carved

from one supple green day

without appointments to keep

Some say that blood is thicker than water

Thick with the mineral muck of the forest

Thick with the salty good sense of the salmon

returning from distant constellations

Here where even a sapling betrays

the many new circles of stories to come

Here where our murky reflections

take flight on ripples of wing and cloud

For I dreamed

a dream here long ago

Which in the course

of all journeys we dream

is not so long ago at all

I dreamed

of a young girl

carefree and brave

who climbed into a cedar bark basket

and floated away on a moonless spring tide

Accompanied by wolves

How strange

that wolves should prance across water

How strange

that I would know such a dream

so far away yet frightfully near

For this young girl

was never known to speak

She was never given to telling stories

Never

Instead

she would sit

at the edge of her village

beating a drum to her heart's content

Instead

she would dance

through the darkest of wood

on footsteps light as a sunbeam

Her drum was small and very sweet

Decorated

with feather and bead

with root and leaf from the tree of life

A drum like no other that I have seen

And stirring with mossy-lush voices

Which is why the young girl never spoke

Or so it was assumed

Which is why

she spent the whole of her days

beating the drum with a black bear claw

Deeply

Steadily

Ever so sweetly

So sweetly that none of all her relations

would ever withdraw whence the drumming did come

Would ever fret for the sound of the beating

But that was before the seasons grew heavy

Before the world became dreadfully silent

Before the young girl would float away

to find a home in a distant land

More distant than any dream of mine

And yes, accompanied by wolves

Being a stranger to this place

and something of a fool for my ways

steering a course by my singular compass

blind to the guides that were given me

I dreamed

within my waking dream 

of setting out in an old canoe

Just as we have done today

if only to find some secret place

For I sometimes believed

that I heard the drum beating

calling to me from some distant shore

that somehow, someway, was still within reach

That somehow I was meant to discover

But whenever I hurried down to the landing

never was there a canoe to be found

Never

Imagine

Trapped in my dream without a paddle

Without having learned how to prance across water

the way that the wolves in my dream could do

Then one day

while tracking a trail by the sea

I stumbled upon a shadowy cove

A cove I had known many times before

if always by some other name

And there

on the mudflat

I met an old woman

harvesting seaweed and blue mussel shell

Whose ancestor are you? she asked

Her skin was wizened like cedar bark

betraying old circles of stories to tell

Embarrassed

I smiled back reluctantly

unable to contain my amazement

For the old woman

raised a drum in her hands

and held it before my startled eyes

The drum had called but you did not come

The drum was here for one and for all

The small, sweet drum of the girl in my dream

A drum like no other that I have seen

Hidden?

Lost?

Abandoned?

Forgotten?

By me?

By the young girl?

By one and by all?

So the woman began to beat the drum

And the drum

began to sing its song

In joyous, dark ripples

In mossy-lush tones

Into the stillness

and through the fog

as if it had never been silent at all

And out of the fog

there arrived nine canoes

from the many a strange and distant land

that always escaped my wildest dreams

The canoes were filled with gifts of the ages

Accompanied by all our relations

And kinfolk

from the nearby village

welcomed the guests with much ado

Cooking a kettle

of fresh salmon stew

with camas and nettle and bitterroot

A fine-feathered feast if ever there was

With oyster and berry

With dancing and singing

With praise and refreshment

With gratitude

For all who attended

For all who inquired

For all who chanced upon the scene

Not least of all Raven

His belly plump

His appetite sated

His gumption for guile replete

How happy he was to be blessed with such peace

after so many clever undertakings

How happy he was to surrender all pride

to the incoming tide of the most patient night

in a longhouse of his own creation

Without appointments to keep

For they say that blood is thicker than water

Thick with the mineral muck of the forest

Thick with the salty good sense of the salmon

returning from distant constellations

Here where even a sapling betrays

the many new circles of stories to come

Here where our murky reflections

take flight on ripples of moon and star

Whose ancestors are these? you ask

The wind might reply: not yours, not mine

But the wind is keen on posing riddles

So breathe deep the cold mist around your face

Let the smoke pour out from between your lips

before you find some good reason to speak

And know it is time

that we paddle on home

laughing and smiling along the way

Wise for not knowing all that awaits us

Lloyd Vivola

Thanksgiving Day 2011

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Two Videos:

Little Skookum - Cycle-Song Dance 

Canoe Journey: From Cedar Films