WILD WOMAN SELLS THE TOWN by
Don Berry
When I was a young girl, in the early years of the century, there were still three white families at Otter Rocks. Old Man Tsugash says their names were Wilson, Doare, and Bennet.It may be true -- it is just like Old Man Tsugash to keep track of things like that, half a century old. It is equally like him, however, to make it up for free, so I don't know for sure. Whatever their names, by the time I went to the menarche hut for the first time, they were gone from the village.
I believe I saw the whites as a child. I have an indistinct memory of a pale woman with haunted eyes walking down Ocean Avenue holding the hand of a white headed little boy in drab clothing that covered him from neck to ankles; it was always winter where he was. In my memory the woman walks with her shoulders bent. Her posture bespoke a life more difficult than she had bargained for when she decided to be born.
It is also possible that, like Old Man Tsugash, I have made this image up from things I heard about the whites later.
For most of the Twentieth Century the whites lived all along the Oregon Coast. They still do at some places, but not at Otter Rocks. Here we are all K'lamuk people.
The whites were not here for very long. Their lives were simple and hard because they did not know how to live. For about 150 years they cut down the trees of the mountains, and then for about 5 years they stood around and said, "I wonder where all the trees went?" and then they went away where things were easier and they could plug in. I suppose it seemed more complicated than that to them, but that is the real story. They just didn't know how to live.
It was easy for them to forget about Otter Rocks, because they had never made a very large impression here. There was only one road leading down to the ocean from the main highway, and when our young men cut the telephone poles down, and removed the power transformers, and camouflaged the road entrance, no whites ever came to see us again. That is why we still celebrate Cutting the Wire Day in the big long house.
In the meantime, the K'lamuk people began to drift back one by one, family by family, until around 2050 we realized we had at least four families from each of the Four Clans; a fine village.
We had decided before Cutting the Wire Day that each family who wanted to live at Otter Rocks would be responsible for its own power, communications, food and water. We didn't want any more plugging in, because it was pretty clear from those poor white people that it didn't work in the long run. So every family has its own solar array and wind generator for power, a satellite connect for voice and computer communication, and a hefty water storage system to collect the rain the sky gods give us.
Food has always been easy here, and once the whites had clear cut most of the Coast Range, it became the richest pasture for the Elk People you could imagine. The Salmon People were slower to come back, but we observe the proper rituals to encourage them, and they returned as well.
Still, living the K'lamuk way can make you lazy, there's no denying that. And it is never wise to let your present prosperity blind you to new possibilities. The K'lamuk were born to be rich. Everybody knows that.
So, on that foggy September day when the huge black Alouette hovercraft came puffing up on Sandy Beach, spraying foam like two hundred whales blowing all at once, I was interested, and picked up my binoculars.
The fat-lipped hovercraft bow flaunted the gold and blue seal of the European Regency; definitely an upscale business vehicle. Three stunningly pretty women in tight silver jumpsuits leaped ashore. I recognized them -- or, rather, the images they presented -- immediately. These were three of the almost-legendary Eurofems -- the tightest, toughest business-women of the Regency, and judging from the impression they were intent on making, somebody was about to get skinned.
I smile as the glossy jumpsuits walked up the beach and turned toward City Hall. All K'lamuk are born with a profit bump at the back of the head, and mine was beginning to hum. Somebody was going to get skinned, but I didn't think it was me.
I let Old Man Tsugash's satphone ring and ring and ring, until he finally surrendered and picked up.
"What? What?" he hollered into the phone. "Who is this?"
"It's me, Old Man. Mary Xi'lgo."
"Damn your eyes, you crazy woman! Calling me on a foggy day! You got no sense whatever. I'm not even picking up half an amp on my solar panels. You're going to run my batteries dead dead dead, and then I'm going to come and kill you!"
"Tell me something, Old Man," I said patiently. "How much battery you think you just used to cuss me out?"
"That I can afford," he said shortly. "What do you want, you crazy woman?"
"We need to talk, Old Man."
He snorted. "Talk on a sunny day. I tell you for good, Mary Xi'lgo, I'm not going to pick up this phone again unless I'm getting an amp and a half off the solars. You hear me?"
"Your batteries are just fine, you stringy old piece of cedar bark. If you'd get a decent power cell you could quit worrying about charge."
"Nicads were good enough for my grandfather, they're good enough for me."
I sighed. Old Man Tsugash always acted like any communication was just an excuse to run down his charge, and he'd never change. I didn't really want him to change, but I also didn't want to run through the whole damned routine every time.
"We need to talk, Old Man. This is important."
"What you think is important and what I think is important is two different things, Mary Xi'lgo."
"I'll meet you at the big silver log in the cove in twenty minutes," I said.
"I'll be damned if I'm going to -- "
I hung up on him.
I turned to the three European businesswomen sitting in the shabby office in City Hall. They smiled beautifully, pouring on the charm and basic trustworthiness that was their stock in trade.
"Tsugash is the shaman of our tribe," I said. "We call them tamanawis in our language."
"Ah," said the Frenchwoman, whose name was Michelle. "And -- is his agreement necessary? A man?"
"In our tribe we have no prejudice against men making decisions," I said. "But, no. His agreement is not necessary. However, I may need his assistance."
"Très bien," Michelle said. "But we will continue to negotiate with you, is that correct?"
"That is correct," I said, stifling a smile. Yes, you pretty little thing, you will continue to negotiate with Mary Xi'lgo of the South Wind Clan. Good luck, chickie.
"The whole thing?" Old Man Tsugash said.
"The whole town," I said. "Lock stock and barrel. They spotted us on a satellite scan."
"What the hell do they want with a whole town?", he said. "Particularly Otter Rocks."
"They're being cagy," I told him, "but I think I've got a pretty good idea. They say they want to establish a -- retreat -- for European executives. A private retreat. I'm pretty sure it's Club Fem.
"Club Fem? Didn't they make that thing illegal?"
"Girls will be girls, Old Man, law or no law. These European executives do about what they feel like. Club Fem is very private, and very profitable. Point is, Old Man, they're here to do business. They're ready to sign right now."
"But what the hell have we got that they want? What could they do with Otter Rocks? What've we got?"
"That's what I asked myself. And I came up with -- isolation. Isolation and quaint. I suppose these old white people's houses look romantic to them, or something. Living history, that kind of thing."
Ol Man Tsugash snorted. "Run down trash heaps, these houses," he said.
"To us. Maybe not to them. Incidentally, I told them how proud the whole tribe is of our historical roots here, and our spiritual ties and all that."
"That's crap, Mary Xi'lgo," Tsugash said. "Most everybody's built long houses over at the estuary. This was just a white man's town, and I never could figure out why they put it here instead of the other side of the point where it belongs."
"It's not a lie," I said reasonably. "I'm bargaining."
Tsugash leaned forward on the silver log and peered quizzically at me. Finally he leaned back and rubbed his stubbly chin. "Well, you're South Wind Clan. I suppose lying is just in your DNA," he said grumpily.
"Bargaining," I said. "Not lying. Bargaining."
"How much?"
"We haven't talked price. I wanted to be sure I could deliver what I was promising."
"And what was that?"
"They said they wanted staff. Young men. Young strong handsome K'lamuk men. I said we could provide them."
"Hah. That fits about two boys in the whole tribe."
"Well -- " I hesitated momentarily. "That's why I need to talk to you."
"Well, you certainly came to the right place," Tsugash cackled. "Young strong handsome K'lamuk man, that's me."
"Old Man, you're dense as a rock. You're not listening to me. This so-called retreat is Club Fem. Money means nothing to them. And you should have seen them brighten up when I said we could provide young men for staff."
"Well, you can't do it because we don't have them," he said smugly. "So you just go tell them our spiritual life is more important than their money."
"Old Man, I said patiently, "remember who I am. I am Wild Woman. I am the Xi'lgo."
He looked away from my eyes. "That's just your name."
"Xi'lgo is who I am."
Old Man Tsugash didn't look up. He didn't dare.
"Even if you were the true Wild Woman, even She can't make people out of nothing. Not since Myth Times."
"Don't be stubborn, Old Man. Do I have to bite off your penis and throw it in the ocean? Do you want to walk around the rest of your life with no penis and all the People laughing at the fool who made the Xi'lgo angry?"
"You wouldn't do that, Mary," he said faintly.
I spoke then to his inner tamanawis, as I spoke to ordinary persons in the Myth Time.
"I am Xi'lgo. I am a different sort from a real person. Three times my own grandson tore me to bits over the ocean and three times I came back. High Class Crane pushed mountains up in front of me and I leaped them all. The white seagull came to peck my clitoris and went away with my blood marking his beak. Do not anger me, Old Man."
After a while he said, "What do you want me to do?"
I told him.
"Xi'lgo! Nothing like that has happened since the Myth Time! I don't know how to do that!"
I stood up from the age-silvered log and stretched. I looked out at the long straight rollers of the sea, breaking half a mile off shore on the four rugged islets we call Otter Rocks.
"You're the tamanawis man," I said. "Figure it out." I started to walk away.
"Xi'lgo --" he wailed.
"Watch out for your penis, Old Man," I warned him.
He fell silent then, but I think he was ready to cry. I even felt a little sorry for him.
"Besides," I said. "It's a hell of a good trick if it works, isn't it? The K'lamuk were born to be rich."
After a moment he smiled faintly. "Yes. It would be the best trick since Myth Time. Yes. The Four Clans would be laughing for years."
"Good. I'll go tell the ladies we've got a deal."
The Four Clans loved the deal. How could they not? They would get rich, have the best laugh of the Period of Ordinary Happenings, and they didn't have to do a damn thing. The only thing a K'lamuk likes better than being rich is getting rich without actually working at it.
For Old Man Tsugash, of course, things were more difficult. His entire reputation as a shaman was on the line before the tribe. He was also petrified of the wrath of Wild Woman, as he had every right to be. I meant every word I said as Xi'lgo, and he knew it. This was not an opportunity I meant to let go easily.
The Old Man was immensely talented. I had to admit I had always underestimated him because of his cranky behavior in the World of Ordinary Happenings. When he began his spirit travels in the Other Worlds, his power came shining out, clear as the sun breaking through clouds. It may have been the first time in his sixty years that anyone had ever placed deep demands on his tamanawis. I made up my mind that if he succeeded, I was going to get him a full bank of power cells so he could never again complain about dead batteries in his satphone.
I arranged with the Eurofems to return in a week, on the pretense that we needed to gather the "staff" to clean up the village of Otter Rocks. I tried to get a contract up front, but they just laughed. These canny ladies were far too clever for that, but it was worth a try. You never know with white people.
Everything depended on Old Man Tsugash now. Though he was only a real person, he had powers and I had confidence in him.
I sat with him four days and nights while he traveled in the spirit worlds, helping him to find his way back to his body. He traveled in many places he had never been, and never did he falter. Once he was traveling for thirty-seven hours, and when he returned his eyes were still clear.
At the end of four days I knew my confidence in the tamanawis of Old Man Tsugash was not misplaced.
When the sleek black hovercraft appeared again at the beach a week later, the village was a maelstrom of action. At least a hundred young men were working around the old houses with tremendous energy, replacing windows, reshingling the old roofs, painting the old, faded siding. What had been a typically run-down white man's town was becoming a fairy tale paradise. That wasn't accidental. I'd done a little Net search into European folk motifs and had a few suggestions waiting when Old Man Tsugash announced that he had succeeded.
And what a success! The young men were breathtaking. Their sleek brown shoulders glistened in the sun, shining with sweat, muscles rippling beneath the dark skin as the waves rippled up the white sands of the beach.
The sheer vitality of these young brown bodies was awesome. The power of life filled them almost to bursting, and they were never still. They laughed, and sang, and wrestled exuberantly together on the beach, tumbling together in piles of arms and legs and muscular torsos that lost all individuality.
The Eurofems were hypnotized from the first moment they set foot on the beach. They were so horny they would've signed any contract I put in front of them. I couldn't really blame them -- it even took a certain amount of will power for me to maintain a formal, businesslike attitude in the face of such an overwhelming flood of sexuality.
Within forty-five minutes I had negotiated a contract that would keep the K'lamuk tribe rich for a century. It is not appropriate to mention figures, but I will say that the advance alone would let us buy up the whole of the Oregon Coast if we wanted. Which we did not.
The Eurofems were bitterly reluctant to leave in mid-afternoon, but I had counted on the well-known fact that they were always busy, busy, busy, flitting here and there to out-maneuver competitors, gain advantage and generally exploit the indigenous peoples of their world. Once the contract was signed and registered by satellite in Brussels, I didn't really care, but I preferred the light should not dawn on them until most of the K'lamuks were out of range. And I definitely didn't want them around at sunset...
Almost everyone in the Four Clans gathered on Sandy Beach near sunset, preparing for the greatest celebration and dance in the Period of Ordinary Happenings.
As the sun grew huge and smoky red out at sea, I heard a great cheer go up from relatives of mine in the South Wind Clan. I was standing with Old Man Tsugash, watching the K'lamuk begin to celebrate even as the young men stowed away their tools for the day, and begin to return home.
By fortunate chance I saw the first of them go; that was what had caused the cheer.
He strode quickly down to the water, his ebullient energy casting a light on the sand almost as strong as the setting sun itself.
He dove straight into the incoming breaker, and about him the air shimmered like heat waves from a fire. When he surfaced again, his brown-furred head turned back to the beach, black eyes shining with delight, and he emitted a high-pitched chitter. He dove again, and the sleek fur of his back curving above the water glistened like gold in the sunset.
Then they all went, streaming down to the water, filling the air with their chatter, jostling and tumbling with each other, and as each of them touched the water there was the same shimmering uncertainty of form, until the water at the shore was filled with the ancient power of the Otter People.
Then, as one, they surged out to sea, heading for Otter Rocks, leaping and turning and diving as though they had never seen the shore, or known human form.
Old Man Tsugash had tears in his eyes as we watched the irrepressible energy of the Otter People he had evoked from the time of Transformations.
"Was it like this in the Myth Time, Xi'lgo?" he said quietly.
"In some ways." I said. "Real persons didn't count for much, of course. There weren't so many, then."
"So many changes," the Old Man said, almost under his breath.
"Not really," I said . "In the eye of Xi'lgo, things now are pretty much the way they've always been. The K'lamuk have always been rich."
end
Wild Woman Sells the Town
©1995 Don Berry