You would never guess it was a cemetery. Death had not spoiled it at all. It was full of trees and bushes except in one corner where the graves were. Even they were fast being covered with greenery. Bushes almost hid the raw, split-log fence and the gate of cedar strips with a cross above it, which told you that the enclosed space belonged to the dead. The land about the cemetery might change…
At five o’clock that July morning the sea, sky, and beach of Skidegate were rosily smoothed into one. There was neither horizon, cloud, nor sound; of that pink, spread silence even I had become part, belonging as much to sky as to earth, as much to sleeping as waking as I went stumbling over the Skidegate sands. At the edge of the shrunken sea some Indians were waiting for me, a man and his…
“We have a good house now. We would like you to stay with us when you come. My third stepfather gave me the house when he was dead. He was a good man.” I wrote back, “I would like to stay with you in your house.” Louisa met me down on the mud flats. She had to walk out half a mile because the tide was low. She wore gum boots and carried another…