CHAPTER 39. AWAKE  

Pain. Severe, stabbing pain.

I come to with a gasp in darkness so deep I’m not sure my eyes are even open. The stabbing, racking, searing in my body nearly eliminates all other senses. My head feels ready to explode, eyes bulging, neck and shoulders dangling over the edge of something achingly solid, torso limp and useless. Mind hazy, ears ringing, blood frantically pounding against my eardrums. 

Each shallow inhale brings assaulting odors. One is unmistakably blood. The other I cannot place, but it stings my nostrils and burns my throat. It is familiar and distressing; a smell I know intimately yet one which sickens and alarms me. My back is slick with sweat.

Breathe. 

The air is nauseating. 

Focus. 

There is nothing to see. 

I try to lift my head but excruciating agony races through my skull and torso—pain, as I’ve never felt before in my life. It radiates from a deep wound in my side, the stabbing spreading with each flex and twinge. No, I cannot lift my head.

Instead, I clutch my left fist to my chest. I shriek in torment, and my hand lands with a thud on my sternum. I inch my fingers toward the chain around my neck, and although I can’t feel the smoothness of the metal through the glove on my hand, I can trace the outline. I know it’s there.

The beginning.  

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The smell of salt air soothes me immediately. I was six years old the first time I scrambled aboard the sea-weathered deck of my father’s fishing boat. 

“River,” he boomed once my feet made contact with the deck, “is the English translation for the Tlingit word ‘taiya’.” He knelt down and held up a small life preserver for me to wear.

“Why would you name us both River?” I piped up, slipping my arms into the vest.

“Ah, my dear Taiya, but neither one of you are named River, now are you?” he corrected gently. He was right, of course. The vessel was The Taiya, and I was simply Taiya. “Your name conveys so much more than the word ‘river’ ever could.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Well, long before you were born, this boat was the most important possession I had. My livelihood. It was how I supported your mother as we bought our first house and I wanted a name that reflected how much I loved your mother and how much I loved our life together. Then you were born, and I suddenly had two favorite people in the whole world, more loved and cherished than anyone else. So, your mother and I extended the name to you, our light and our life, our present and future. Does that answer your question?”

I frowned at his question. “Kinda,” I said slowly. “But . . . why ‘taiya’ exactly?”

He pointed landward and said, “Tell me what you see on the coast.”

Perplexed by the change in topic, I furrowed my brow and scanned the scenery before me. Enormous glacier-covered mountains gleamed in the spring sun, mountains in every direction, a panorama of massive, jagged, intricate, glinting peaks rising three thousand feet above the salt water of the inlet. “I see big mountains covered in snow and ice.”

“Go on,” he urged.

I dropped my gaze slowly. “I see the forest lower down. And houses bunched together over there. I see our house!” I bubbled excitedly, and pointed to the white house with a red roof that served as both our living space and the bed and breakfast my mother managed.

“Keep looking at the coast, little bear, and I’ll tell you why I chose to name you both ‘Taiya’.’”

I peered up at the mountains while my father told me something I was too small to understand at the time, but was too important for me to ever forget. It was the earliest, most formative conversation I could remember, one that inspired frequent reexamination as I grew older and more mature. But this first iteration, I was small and full of wonder, and I listened most intently.

“There is no physical force on Earth more transformative and more life-giving than water,” he began. “All of the ice and snow you see on those mountains are grinding away rock that is millions of years old, wearing the peaks down to dust. Every rainstorm carries the soil farther down the slope toward the sea. Every wave and ripple in the ocean wears the boulders in the bay down to sand. And the river connects each part of this landscape to one another, carrying the mountains to the sea.”

The landscape before me was immense—far too large and dominating for me to fully comprehend. The mountains filled the horizon everywhere I looked and crowded the sun dappled, cloudy sky. They were the omniscient sentinels of my summer life, unmoving and silent, glaciated and majestic. They towered over the small town of Haines, which was nestled securely on an isthmus in the foothills, perpetually surveying the steely waters of the Inside Passage. It was familiarity and mystery blended in equal parts—a beautiful landscape that I had gazed at for untold hours, and an adventurer’s wonderland where every gorge and valley offered a new opportunity.

A hand brushed the back of my shoulder, a hand made strong and rough from years of hoisting and casting nets, yet a hand gentle enough to soothe all of my childhood fears. My father stepped in front of me, and then knelt to my level so that I could peer at his deep, maple syrup-colored eyes set above his full, chestnut beard.

“You are mostly made of water, Taiya. Just like me! And mom, too!” He grinned. “Most of Earth’s surface is covered in vast oceans. So, it’s fair to say that water, and all of the various forms it comes in, is the most important feature of our planet. All living creatures need it to survive and all of the water on Earth is endlessly recycled between living creatures and the landscape.”

He chuckled heartily as my eyes widened in amazement, trying earnestly to process the bounty of new scientific knowledge. 

“So, in a very literal sense, we are all part of the sea, part of the clouds and rain, part of the river. But in a more abstract sense, the river is like us, always changing, never the same as it was just a moment before. It endures in perpetuity, sometimes flowing quickly, and other times slowly. Changing its course, growing, shrinking, adapting. The past informing the present, and the present shaping the future. 

“Rivers are powerful symbols in many cultures and appear in countless stories. But I chose the Tlingit name for river because of where we chose to live. Haines is a very special place, very naturally rich, beautiful, and unique. But the true name for this place is Klukwan. Eternal Village. Lingit Aani. Tlingit Land. This land belongs to the Tlingit people as it has for thousands of years, since time immemorial. We call this place home because we live here and fish in the summertime., but we have no ancestral ties. This land belongs to another people, another culture. We named you Taiya because that is the proper name, given to these rivers by the only people who can rightfully claim this landscape as their own. Always we must be good allies to the Tlingit people. Always we must remember that we are newcomers, arriving in the wake of violence waged for the sake of gold and other resources.”

I exhaled in a huff, my head lagging slightly behind his words, trying to remember it all and make sense of it. I would have plenty of years to grapple with our twenty-first century colonialism as I grew older. After a few moments, when my thoughts were organized, I simply sighed, “That was a lot, dad.”

He barked a hearty laugh at my quip, and I watched the crow’s feet lightly etched at the corners of his eyes grow deeper. I reached out my small hand and tugged gently at the bottom of his beard. “Do you have an easier answer?” I asked.

“Hmm . . .” he droned as he stroked his beard. “What do I do on my boat, little bear?”

I smiled because I knew the answer to this one.

“You catch fish!”

“I do! And where do the fish lay their eggs?”

My eyes expanded with joy, and I understood at least the simplest reason he named his boat The Taiya. “In the river! They lay their eggs around the rocks!”

“Yes! They do! That’s exactly right.” He picked me up under the armpits and swung me around in a circle, eventually resting me on his hip.

“You told me that,” I said, pressing my index finger to his nose.

“So I did, Little Bear. So I did.” He kissed my forehead and set me down on the deck again. 

My father moved about with a grace that was so ingrained in his muscles it required no conscious thought; his motions were fluid and effortless. His strong, weathered hands fluttered before me, tying and untying knots among the coils of rope along the length of the boat, readying us for departure. He entered the cab and fired up the engine, which roared to life and filled me with adrenaline. 

In just a few short minutes, we were coasting through the chilly water of Chilkat Inlet, heading south, a cool breeze whipping around me. When my father went out to fish, he would leave for several days at a time and travel great distances. But today was a day for fun, not work. A rare day of intermittent sunshine in early April, urging us to venture out onto the water and enjoy the splashing sounds the waves made against the fiberglass, the piercing cries of terns and gulls.

I spotted two eagles flying close to the coastline and stretched my hands out to the side, squealing with delight at the sea breeze on my face. I jumped and skipped along the railing, desperately wishing I could fly. My blue jumper fluttered over my leggings as I leaped through the air, my dark curls flickered in the wind.

I caught my father’s eye and returned his grin, but soon he raised an eyebrow and I remembered his warning before I climbed aboard: Walk on the deck, Taiya. I don’t want you to fall overboard! I shuffled back toward the cabin where he negotiated our course through the inlet and crawled up into his lap, gazing up with apologetic eyes.

“Sorry, Daddy,” I mumbled. “I forgot I wasn’t supposed to run while we’re sailing.”

His face softened and he wrapped an arm around me. “That’s all right. You aren’t in trouble, just remember for next time.” His free hand rummaged through his pocket, looking for something. “Are you having fun?”

I nodded vigorously and he grinned.

“I have something for you, Little Bear.” He pulled his hand from his pocket and a silver necklace emerged, glinting in the sun. It slipped from my father’s fingertips—too fine for his large hands to hold—cascaded to the floor, and landed in a tiny coil. “Whoops! Could you pick that—,” he started, but I was already crouched next to it, eager to examine the new gift.

The chain was delicate and so light I could hardly feel it resting in my palm. I plucked up the pendant and brought it closer to my eyes. It was a dark royal blue disk, the color of the ocean at dusk. The outside edge was a silver plate with the letters N, E, S, and W engraved on it. Right in the center was a tiny white arrow with a crimson tip.

“It’s a compass,” I murmured. My father had several, all of them more sophisticated than this pendant, stored in his study among scopes and sextants, maps and seafaring books. I didn’t understand how he used his instruments, but I knew what most were called. “Does it work?” I asked.

My father pulled out his own compass and said, “Why don’t we find out? Walk around on the deck for a bit and point where the needle goes. Then we’ll compare.”

I nodded and promptly turned on my heel, striding back out into the cloud-filtered sunlight. I held the compass flat in my palm and walked slowly, facing starboard, bow, port, and stern. No matter where I went or which direction I faced, the needle pointed slightly to the right of where we had come from, toward neighboring Skagway and the Yukon Territory beyond. The Great North. I pointed and flicked my eyes toward him for confirmation. He was beaming. He held out his compass and as I drew closer, I saw that its needle was pointing in the exact same direction.

“Yay!” I yelled, and threw my arms around his leg. “Now I can help navigate.”

He looked impressed, nodding slowly at me. “Do you know what ‘navigate’ means?”

My smug smile faltered as I looked away to think. I squinted at the tiny blue compass again. Although I hadn’t yet learned about maps or magnetic fields, I knew there was a difference between where the sun rose and where it set. I knew there was a difference between the places “above” and “below” me along the coast of Alaska. I blinked a few times and tried to sort it out in my mind.

“It means . . .” I said slowly, “that wherever you are, you can tell where you’re going. Or figure out where you came from.”

My father wrapped me up in a big bear hug and planted a kiss on my cheek. He held my eyes in his, two pairs of warm, syrupy brown eyes reflecting one another.

“Are you sure you’re only six years old?” he joked, and I giggled. Then he touched his forehead to mine and said more seriously, “It means that you can always find your way home if you get lost, Taiya.”  

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A faint cry escapes me.

Oh, I’m lost all right. And even if I could see through the dark, my decorative pendant wouldn’t help.

Something pinches and nags at the back of my mind, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I see the silver chain slip through my father’s fingertips again, spilling in slow motion, and crumpling at his feet. I can’t shake the feeling that this moment in my memory is indicative of something sinister, but it slips away. 

I bite my lip and strain to find a connection between that day and all of the subsequent life events that led me to this gruesome conclusion, but there is only confusion, impending panic, and the immediate sounds and smells of my environment.

I am fearful of the consequences should I succeed in remembering everything, the pain and sadness I’ll uncover, but I’m even more terrified of the implications should I fail. 

Where am I? Who will find me?

A new wave of pain swells everywhere and leaves nothing untouched. My eyes spring open and I gasp, a scream caught silently in my chest. Before I can release it, I feel the sharp claws of oblivion drag me, eyes first, back down into the depths of unconsciousness.