People came to be here then, and they have been here since, the ones who will continue being born here. They were listening to myths back then, and they are thinking of them still. The land and the myths have grown together this way from then until now. Now almost all those myths are disappearing.

Shlawtxan, native shaman 1928  

Prologue

Muffled, incessant scratching rents the air. The abandoned village of Ninstints lies hidden in the fog. In the security of the cedars, a totem stands apart from the rest. Face gaunt, eye sockets empty. A man on the verge of dying. Raven’s razor-edged beak gleams menacingly, his talons wrapped around the human’s midsection. The human’s hands clamp Raven’s throat. Trapped in eternity’s grasp, myth and mortal struggle endlessly, locked in boughs of wood. A caw echoes, a flutter of large black wings breaks the darkness. The human turns and flees. There has to be a way out. Sobs tremble from within the wood.  

There is a wind that blows through these islands that blows nowhere else. It blows in from the East in the fall bearing the sghaay haw (spirit-beings) and leaves in the spring. It gives this land its richness, its culture, its trees, its vitality. Most of all, the spirit wind gives our people the strength to return to the land, its old ways and to change with the new. It gave us the spirit-beings, Raven, Thunderbird, Foam Woman and all that followed. Through the vision quests and the winter dances we find our sghaay haw and reconnect to the spirits. It is this wind that sings our song, our birthright. The Windsongs of the Haida gives us our soul.

Charlie Stillwaters, Haida Skaga

Chapter One

There is no death, Only a change of worlds.

Seattle [Seatlh] (1786-1866) Suqhamish Chief

Thick sap oozed from the Golden Spruce, congealing like blood. The death chant of Gordon Chatwick’s axe shuddered through the tall tree. Amidst this forest of varying shades of green, the Golden Spruce was unique. Its needles of gold were viewed as a hybrid to the scientists, a precious jewel to the natives. The oral stories spoke of a prince trapped within it. The axe bit one last time, cutting past the cambium membrane. Gordon paused to swipe at the sweat burning his eyes. The chainsaw had sweated the hard part; now he wielded the axe. There was only an hour of darkness left before the chance any tourists would arrive and discover what he’d done. But before that, the winds would pick up and send the ancient Golden Spruce crashing to the earth. His opposition to the continued raping of the planet’s resources would soon be complete. Overhead, the tree groaned under its own weight, protesting its demise. Sap flowed down its gouged sides, sticking to Gordon’s boot as he moved. Damn, this goop is everywhere. Never seen a tree bleed this much. Then again, I’ve never cut a Golden Spruce. Good. This will get their attention. Gordon pinned the note he’d scribbled to the base of the trunk. The handle of the axe stuck to his fingers as he gathered his knapsack. Every step was hampered by the gummy sap sucking at his feet. I got this stuff all over me. Better burn my clothes back at camp. The public will not let this damage go unnoticed. The fight to save the forests continues. The Golden Spruce cried in agony. Haunting, piercing screams of an ancient being having its existence ended splayed the air. Splintering cracks echoed as the wind increased. Gordon swallowed hard, the iron taste of fear clinging to his mouth. A former logger, he’d cut down many trees in his day, but this was more like murdering a living being. “Oh God, I’ve killed something beautiful.” He rushed to its aid, trying to support the groaning trunk. Muscles strained, tears streaked the sweat on his cheeks. “It is alive? What have I done?” With his hands covered in warm sap, and the winds picking up, it was too late for remorse. “I’m so sorry.” He retreated to the bank of the Yakoun River, where his kayak waited to whisk him to the ocean waters of Masset Inlet.

* * *

Brook Grant stared at the ‘Dear John’ letter Georgina left last month. Her empty closet and dresser answered any questions he might have had about a possible reconciliation. To distract himself, he flipped through the pages of his journal again, trying to retrace his footsteps at Ninstints. The totems had intrigued him then, filled him with an ache for what was lost. How could the vibrancy of the Haida and their artistry be reduced to yellowed photographs consigned to musty books? Reading his entries brought the realization he’d lost that feeling of living on the edge, like walking between worlds. Georgina’s departure left him feeling empty. Adrift, with no compass to guide him. She was supposed to be his one true love. Soulmates. But somewhere, between the illusion of commitment and his belief in the relationship, he let it all slip away, including the romance. Just like the Haida at Sghaan Gway, where now only enigmatic gods etched into cedar remained; she was gone. Where had he gone wrong? Seeking the answers, he’d come across the memoirs of his trip to the Charlottes. How could you let her go? How did you not see this coming? Did you care? Evocative memories, yet none bringing him any solace.

He’d written, ‘There are nights on the West Coast, particularly on the mist-shrouded isles of the Queen Charlottes, when the fog rolls in so thick it mutes the background thunder of the surf. Nights when, if you look closely enough, wavering shapes emerge in the full moon’s shimmering light. A breath of cold wind brushes against your face and you shiver, believing as the Haida do, that you’ve been caressed by the spirits. Soon you begin to understand why they say everything has a soul and that we are anchored to this realm and to our physical bodies only by tenuous threads of waangaay, of spirit. The Haida call this place Xhaaydla Gwaayaay, the Islands on the Boundary between Worlds.

Brook set the journal down on his nightstand and shut off the light. He lay, eyes wide, his mind whirling. The Islands on the Boundary between Worlds. Ninstints, the totems, their connection to earth and home. Returning to roots. Somehow that was important. Tonight his dreams would be full of ghosts, insistent, summoning voices, the round eyes, calling him. Calling, but to what? A line from a familiar song played in his head: only time can mend a broken heart. Then how do you fill a gaping hole in your soul? The three Watchmen squinting out from under top hats of outlandish ferns, bearing coats of moss and lichens, staring with empty eyes and mute tongues. Eternally watching. The totems towered in his memory, silent faces full of voices speaking to a quiet place inside him where he was unbroken. The place he needed to return to. As sleep finally came, Brook remembered the peace of that Ninstints morning.

* * *

In the vanishing darkness, the sap from the Golden Spruce congealed into two body-shaped pools. Solidifying and expanding, filling with more substance than the sap alone could account for. The fresh aroma of spruce spread thickly across the glade, mingling with other smells that didn’t belong. Putrid, nauseating odors of animals and vegetation decayed during eras forgotten in the vaults of time. Shapes began to emerge in the muck, one taking the form of a young male warrior. The other was leaner, more avian. Feathers adorned this one’s body. Long black feathers.

As if the spruce sensed its demise, more sap gushed from its wounds, flowing like a watery vein into the two still figures, imbuing them with substance. Both cocooned forms jerked and kicked at the same time, struggling to grasp at the strings of life, of breath, of leaving an arcane reality and entering a former one. The figure bearing the feathers kicked violently; it, of all beings, had been tricked into being trapped in this tree. It had to be the first to emerge. It had to be. There was no other way. The young male fought against the insanity haunting his mind. He’d spent many lifetimes trapped in dimensions not meant for humans. A final cannon-ball crack shattered the morning as the wind gusted and the Golden Spruce was disconnected, for the first time in its life, from the earth. A final lilting voice fades into the mists as the umbilical cord severed, freeing the two trapped within. The male’s lips parted, freed for the first time in nearly a hundred and fifty years, he cried out.

* * *

Some say Raven walks among us still. Brook stared at the words on his computer screen, the same words he’d written in his journal eight years ago. Words uttered by Tom Wilson, the Haida Watchman he’d met at Ninstints. The endless drone of office fax machines, ringing telephones and chattering people faded into the background. Brook stared at the line in the article he was proofreading. Raven. Raven-colored hair. It was almost three months since Georgina left, and still Raven and the totems invaded his dreams. Which was okay, since it helped take his mind off her. Three months and still the emptiness tasted bitter like seawater on his tongue. He’d even chucked his job with the Toronto Star and accepted a temporary position with the New York Times, hoping that being away from TO and any connection to Georgina would be a good thing, like chasing wasabe with chili sauce. But, damn it, nothing seemed to ease the pain. Brook shook his head and refocused on the article on the screen. Haida Gwaii. About the only thing he could put any real emotion into lately. The Haida were suddenly a big news item, even in New York. Recently, they’d come to the American Museum of Natural History and asked for the bones of their ancestors back. Bones stolen from their graves in the late 1800s when the Haida were dying from smallpox, TB, and other white-man afflictions. The Americans were astounded at the audacity of the Haida, not to mention concerned about the ramifications for museum collections across the country. With the treaty negotiations relating to Haida Gwaii going sour as well, he was compiling a major news article, along with some lighter tourist pieces. He’d missed so much the first time he went there. Brook hoped this article could shake the images out of his head, only all that shaking seemed to stir up more ghosts to steal at his dreams. Some say Raven walks among us still. Brook ended the article with the same words he’d started it. One thing he knew for sure: Raven and the totems were definitely walking through his head. Maybe the images were calling him to Ninstints again?

* * *

As Prince Kiidkayaas cried out, gurgling on amniotic fluid, a black wing tore free from the ooze. With a horrible sucking sound, Raven stood up on his two spindly legs. The prince continued to wail as Raven shook himself free of the gooey sap. Raven had landed himself into many predicaments, but being trapped inside a tree wasn’t something he ever wanted to do again. He hopped over to where the prince was now fighting to escape from the cloying webs. “Caw,” he crowed. “So, you thought you could defeat me, silly boy.” He leaned forward and deftly tore into the prince’s body. A gush of blood spurted skyward as he yanked the beating heart free and flung it into the boughs of a nearby cedar tree. Needles, still falling from the Golden Spruce, fluttered downward, covering the heart, which spewed a fine spray of crimson droplets before lying still. The prince’s lifeblood mixed with the sap oozing into the folds of the cedar. Raven watched the body convulse twice and slump to stillness. Satisfied the prince was dead, he sauntered over to where he had flung the heart. He would devour it and the soul of its owner, ensuring not only his victory, but also gaining the spirit and attributes of such a brave warrior. Alas, the scattering of needles carpeted the heart. "Where is it?" His eyes still blurred with tree sap and fluids found it hard to focus. Too impatient to search, Raven cawed to himself. He didn’t have time for this. What he needed was a decent meal and to find the reason he was trapped in this tree with the prince. “No matter,” he thought. “I’ve won, after all this time. I’ve won and defeated you, brave prince.” He snickered as he strutted back to his adversary’s messy remains. Robbed of their soul, they were quickly returning to the puddle of sap that had temporarily infused them with life. Raven searched for the reason he’d originally become trapped in the Golden Spruce with Kiidkayaas. Squinting in the dim light he was unable to spy what he sought. He rubbed his wing over his eyes, only to make everything even blurrier. His immortal stone ... where was it? Did the prince realize how close he had come to winning? Raven shuddered. He’d almost lost to one of the people that he, himself, had created. What irony, he crowed. Frustrated again, he straightened and sniffed the air. Late summer, the winter spirit winds would arrive soon. Only something was different. The scent of metal ore stung Raven’s nostrils as he strutted around the base of the conifer, an odd smell in the middle of the forest. The Golden Spruce had been felled by human means. How grand the tree had grown since he and the prince had been trapped in it. How many cycles of life had passed? He glanced around, noticing the crush of moccasin prints in the soft earth. The tracks of whoever downed the tree? He sniffed again; something unnatural. First, before he told any others, he had to find the one that had freed him. A trail of crumpled vegetation led to the heavily wooded banks of the Yakoun River. The first rays of sunlight, brilliant in their hues of vibrant pinks and reds, tried to penetrate the mists. A slender canoe, carrying a lone figure, bobbed where the craft exited the freshwaters and entered the brackish currents of Masset Inlet. Raven’s immortal stone could wait; he had more pressing business to attend to. He didn't want anyone to announce his freedom. No yet anyways. Time to reward the human for freeing me, he thought, closing his eyes. His sleek body shimmered, shades of white and brown bubbling to the surface as Raven shifted into a large bald eagle. With a hunting cry he lifted skyward, reveling in the sheer strength of his wings before focusing on the odd-looking canoe below.

Gordon stared in awe as an eagle screamed its shrill hunting cry from the vicinity of the felled Golden Spruce. Smiling, he marveled at its grace and magnificence as the bird rose. Cunning, efficient hunters, bald eagles could lift many times their weight in prey. They had a regal, don’t dick-with-me haughtiness in their eyes. This one turned in a lazy circle rising with the wind currents until it began its descent, towards the kayak. Too bad he didn’t have his camera with him. “What the …” he muttered, his smile turning into a frown of bewilderment as the predator swooped down towards him with ever-increasing speed, its wings folded in. Trepidation ripped through him as the eagle’s sharp cry again broke the serenity. The largest eagle he’d ever seen, sporting a six to seven foot wingspan, and the killing machine was diving straight at him. Gordon froze in fear’s icy grip, his fate shimmering in the glint of razor sharp talons and the steel-eyed depths of the hunter’s chilling yellow gaze. Terror, the sheer panic that numbs the mind and steals away at will, pistol-whipped him. This can’t be for real. The size of the raptor was fearsome. He raised his paddle in scant defense, hands sweaty, slipping on the paddle grips. There was no place to go except into the water and he didn’t have time to untie himself from the kayak. For a split second he peered into the emotionless stare of the predator’s yellow eyes and knew how it felt to be prey. Adrenaline flooded his system, time gearing down, slowing to a crawl. Wood splintered the air. He cried out. Talons crushed into his chest. Blood sprayed the kayak and the waters of Masset Inlet.

Raven dove toward the upturned face of the human, meeting his gaze, before the outstretched talons found their mark. Blood cascaded up the human’s throat as he went limp. Raven lifted both man and canoe skyward, claws ripping the canoe’s skirt away from the dangling body. The vessel tumbled to the sea. He made a large turn over the inlet and shook the figure once. His talons accurately penetrated vital organs, and another rain of red peppered the blue-gray surface far below. Certain the human was dead, Raven released him. As the body fell, he noticed for the first time the male was extremely pale skinned, not the darker hue of the Haida. Lungs pierced, the corpse sank quickly. He was theirs now, in the realm of the Kushtakas, the sea otter people. Weariness seared his wings as Raven headed towards the Golden Spruce. He glided most of the way; each stroke from those enormous wings a huge effort. Tired, why was he so tired? With a thump he settled on the branch of a cedar by the river’s edge. He closed his eyes and struggled to shift to his true self. Slowly, the feathers of the eagle flushed to black and the majestic white plumage on his head shimmered and darkened. Razor-sharp talons and mighty wings shrunk until he was Raven again. He yawned, weariness sucking at his consciousness. Raven’s eyelids fluttered as he fought to stay awake. He’d been in limbo for so long, perhaps that was what made him weak. Weak and hungry, but then again, he was always hungry. An unending appetite was his curse to bear. Sleep first, he thought, ignoring his growling stomach. He’d have to find food before returning to the Golden Spruce to retrieve his immortal stone. The light would be stronger then and it would be easier to find. He steadied himself on the cedar limb and sniffed the air again. Something was definitely different, not right, though he still didn’t know what it was. Surely things couldn’t have changed that much since he’d last walked this land? He wasn’t used to tiring so easily. The shape changing took too much energy. Shifting would have been as easy as picking ghals from the beach before. Hmmm. Delectable blue mussels and clams, preferably cooked over someone’s open fire, preferably stolen from that person, since Raven didn’t know how to cook. In fact, he feared fire. Smart things, the humans he’d created. How much smarter had they become since his entrapment? Not crafty enough to out-think me, he thought with a smile as he dozed off dreaming of juicy clams and other delicacies, cooking in a pot over a hot flame.

* * *

Freed from his body Prince Kiidkayaas floated in wisps of mist and light above the carnage. This was his soul essence? Was he dead? His heart had landed with an unpalatable splat in the bough of a great cedar. Golden spruce needles rained down, covering the heart like a warm blanket, hiding it from Raven’s gluttonous hunger. If Raven devoured his heart before his soul could be released, he’d be part of Raven now. Kiidkayaas sent a mental ‘thank you’ to the great tree spirit. The prince stared at the scene below. What happened? The corporeal body wasn’t real flesh and blood, but composed of matter from the spirit of the spruce tree. Someone, or something, must have released him and Raven from their imprisonment. Groggy, he remembered the long journey, the trials, the matching of wits, how Raven had originally tried to trick him, in order to get back his immortal stone. The stone — where was it? A fleeting image of it covered in golden needles flashed into his mind. It was safe, for now. Weary of fighting, Kiidkayaas stared skyward. He wanted only to go to the land of his ancestors. His people … what had become of his people? He’d been unable to save his village and that could only mean one thing. He continued to gaze upward, troubled, as his heart began to dissolve, merging into the sanctity of the wood, back into the earth that had spawned him. Where were his people? If he was truly dead now, he would soon find out during his journey to the afterlife. A tug from below as something wound around him, what? He tried to lift from the clearing. Tenuous threads of spirit, of waangaay, reached up anchoring themselves to his heart. First one, then another … the threads wound around his soul. It was indeed too late to do anything. His heart began to dissipate Prince Kiidkayaas tried to scream but couldn’t. He had no mouth. He swirled earthward, dragged into the confines of the great cedar and of the Earth. A figure shimmered into view. Pure white, it stared at the remains of the prince and at the shattered cedar. He glimpsed upward, catching the black Raven asleep on a branch overhead. Clacking its beak, the bird lifted itself on white shimmering wings, looking for food. Knowing it had begun at long last.

* * *

“Well, hello, Tom Wilson.” Someone spoke beyond the partition that marked the edges of Brook’s office. Tom Wilson. Images of a native elder sprang to mind, long braid white against the blue of his denim jacket. What would a Haida Watchman be doing in downtown Manhattan? Brook looked up, hoping to see the Watchman he’d met at Ninstints eight years ago, but instead a white man in a suit, bearing a briefcase, met his gaze. He sank back into his chair, yawning. If the dreams of Georgina weren’t haunting him every night, native images swirling in his sleep were. Why were the images of Ninstints so strong? Why wouldn’t they let him go? Evocative eyes; silence in the mouths carved from the cedar, yet full of words; plaguing him with unanswered questions. Grabbing his coffee, he called up the Associated Press website and keyed in his password to check the latest news stories. About halfway through, a headline snagged his attention: Environmentalist fells rare tree on Queen Charlottes. The swig of coffee nearly choked him. Haida tongues chattered in his brain. Totems leered at him from the edge of his vision, pulling his attention away from the screen and filling his head. His heart pounded in rhythm to native drums. Golden Spruce axed at dawn. Environmentalist takes the blame. Brook scrolled through the breaking news story, scanning until he came to the section reporting the note the environmentalist pinned to the tree. My actions are to express my abhorrence of the crimes that so-called experts are perpetrating on our environment. Wholesale logging, mass destruction of our forests cannot continue. How can those who travel to this tree ignore the genocide going on all over our planet? We, the people, must first express our outrage, and then take action to support our beliefs. Today, I am making a stand against the unholy clearcutting that is tearing our ecosystems apart and destroying the life dependent on them.

I apologize to the Haida for my actions. Gordon Chatwick Concerned citizen and Greenpeace member

So much for the tree huggers, Brook thought. But was this a Greenpeace sanctioned environmental protest, or something more? Was it somehow connected to the treaty negotiations for Haida land claims settlements? A bit of a leap, perhaps, but he was intrigued enough to read further. Shortly after the incident, an abandoned kayak was found between Port Clements and Masset. Owner’s identification sought. Stains on kayak, possibly blood. Results of investigations awaited. His breath caught in his throat. At this point the two events weren’t being officially linked, but his reporter’s intuition said different. Brook brought up the RCMP website and navigated to the press release section, where he found one from the Queen Charlotte City division. Investigation ongoing. Chatwick's whereabouts unknown. Believed to be camped in area. It then reiterated some basic information. RCMP press releases tended to stick to facts and not possibilities. Brook’s hand shook as he set down his coffee cup. Too much caffeine? More like too much racing through his head. Facts, let’s deal with facts. Tree chopped down, environmentalist’s note, possible bloody kayak, but no body found. He could turn up the home address of Gordon Chatwick. Was he native or white? An experienced kayaker? Brook knew from experience, the currents of Masset Sound could be pretty brutal and the weather unpredictable. However, there was always the possibility Chatwick might have run into foul play. Suicide seemed unlikely. Would the Haida do Chatwick in? There was no real mention of them, or their reaction, in any of the stuff Brook had found so far. Would they get involved? That wouldn’t exactly help the treaty negotiations. Or maybe they set the whole thing up in the first place? Make it look like a white guy did it and use that to weight the treaty talks in their favor. No, that seemed way too far off base. True, the Haida were once feared warriors and were proving themselves to be fairly aggressive in dealing with territorial and heritage issues. Still, that didn’t mean they’d go so far as to do away with a guy just because he’d cut down some tree. They were generally law-abiding people. The prince, it is whispered, is trapped in a Golden Spruce tree up north. The words tumbled into Brook’s head, out of nowhere. The words of the Watchman at Ninstints, eight years ago. A strange sadness filtered through Brook. Could it be the same tree? If it was, then it wouldn’t be just any old conifer. It would hold great religious significance to the Haida. But would they kill Chatwick just to avenge the dead prince? The totem. The human and the Raven locked in eternal combat. Adrenaline flooded Brook’s veins. Intuition screamed at him. A story lurked here, but what? He sure as hell wanted to head up to the Charlottes to find out. Aside from the BC treaty negotiations, repatriation issues, land battles over pipelines, aboriginals and native militancy were hot news these days. Together with the articles he was already working on, it could make a great basis for an exposé. All he had to do now was convince his editor of that. Too many questions and no answers. “Ach, ya, unt vhat makes you tink, big news story, ja,” Brook muttered to himself in a poor German accent. He suppressed a thrill. Too many things were coming together. His journal, the dreams of the totems, uttering ancient tongues that as hard as he tried, he couldn’t decipher. Yet a part of him understood that somehow, he needed to be there again. There was no such thing as coincidence. Everything, he knew, entered his life for a reason. Only he’d no time for figuring it out right now. Time for action. He missed that fire, the zeal of sifting through information and finding the kernel of truth. It was why he’d become a reporter. He needed to tackle this story head on. He hit print and glanced at his watch. Plenty of time to catch a flight out of JFK to Vancouver. Meanwhile, he could throw a few things into a backpack and do some nosing around. Brook rose from his desk and headed towards his editor’s office. Stan could be a downright bastard and had given him a blast about how his work sucked recently. But at least the guy admired tenacity, the balls not to take no for an answer and to continue probing. And when it came to digging up a story, Brook Grant was born with a pen in one hand, shovel in the other. Besides, he needed to get away from the non-stop action of the city that never slept. There was something to be said for just being in his kayak at Haida Gwaii. Maybe he could begin to forget about Toronto, Georgina, and their life together. Somehow, he had to convince Stan to let him investigate this story about the dead environmentalist. He shrugged as he punched the elevator button. Let’s see, the Haida were scheduled to head for Chicago to ask for more of their ancestral bones. And what about the angle of stirring up the Haida population in Alaska … until now they’d been pretty quiet. He dredged his brain for every conceivable angle. Maybe the story wouldn’t amount to much, but then again … what if there was a dead prince trapped in the tree, and like a mummy he came to life, and murdered Chatwick? Brook laughed at his own craziness. He hadn’t laughed aloud in months, and it felt good. “Who dares, wins,” he muttered as the elevator arrived at Stan’s floor. Well, he hadn’t been daring lately. And he hadn’t been winning either.

* * *

Ethereal gusts howled past, reminiscent of eagles’ chants. A hawk’s cry died on the stillness. The warrior-born closed his eyes, allowing his mind to quiet in its panic. He no longer bore the body of a prince, like in his former imprisonment. Raven didn't exist here, but there was life. There were others, many others in this peaceful darkness. Memories of a former life, of his way of existence, cowered, shrinking away in this sea of dark firmament. What he was or was becoming the prince didn't know, except that he knew he wasn't dead. No body but a spirit that still reeked of dignity, of fearlessness, and of pride. Was this the mother earth that nourished him? So hard to focus. He closed off senses that held no use here, yet there were new ones instead. Was this evolution? He simply quit being and just was. His soul stole at the solitude, allowing prevailing winds to peel him through unending canyons of ebony. Floating, bobbing along; a seed of aura borne away on harsh breezes. This way, that, the whisper of worlds adrift in interstellar currents, pulling at him. Evoking sadness, tearing, until, like bones baked to dust under a sun’s brutal gaze, he finally crumbled, like bones baked to dust under a sun’s brutal gaze. Fingers of draft tore at each sundered section and stole them away. Scattered, flung into the sea of dark nothingness. Somewhere a tear floated. A dream, gone. Whisked away. All that remained of what once was, washed into the ether.