Free Klee Wyck by Emily Carr Page B

Goodnight.”
    Their lantern bobbed over the water, then it went out, and there was not anything out there but roar. If only one could have seen it pounding!
    We lay down upon the bed of rushes that the Indians had made for us and drew the blanket across us. Maria said, “It’s awful. I’m scared to death.” Then she rolled over and snored tremendously. Her heavy hands and feet banged about. The thought of those ankles with no taper from calf to foot made me squirm. Our lantern brought in mosquitoes, so I got up and put it out. Then I went from the tent.
    Where the sea had been was mud now, a wide grey stretch of it with black rocks and their blacker shadows dotted over it here and there. The moon was rising behind the forest—a bright moon. It threw the shadows of the totems across the sand; an owl cried, and then a sea-bird. To be able to hear these close sounds showed that my ears must be getting used to the breakers. By and by the roar got fainter and fainter and the silence stronger. The shadows of the totem poles across the beach seemed as real as the poles themselves.
    Dawn and the sea came in together. The moon and the shadows were gone. The air was crisp and salty. I caught water where it trickled down a rock and washed myself.
    The totem poles stood tranquil in the dawn. The West Coast was almost quiet; the silence had swallowed up the roar.
    And morning had come to Cha-atl.

W ASH M ARY
    Mary came to wash for Mother every Monday.
    The wash-house was across the yard from the kitchen door—a long narrow room. The south side of it was of open lattice—when the steam poured through it looked as if the wash-house was on fire. There was a stove in the wash-house. A big oval copper boiler stood on the top of the stove. There was a sink and a pump, and a long bench on which the wooden tubs sat.
    Mary stood on a block of wood while she washed because she was so little. Her arms went up and down, up and down over the wash-board and the suds bobbed in the tub. The smell of washing came out through the lattice with the steam, and the sound of rubbing and swishing came out too.
    The strong colours of Mary’s print dress, brown face, and black hair were paled by the steam that rolled round her from the tubs. She had splendid braids of hair—the part went clear from her forehead to her spine. At each side of the part the hair sprang strong and thick. The plaits began behind each ear. Down at the ends they were thinner and were tied together with string. They made a loop across her back that looked like a splendid strong handle to lift little Mary up by. Her big plaid shawl hung on a nail while she washed. Mary’s face was dark and wrinkled and kind.
    M OTHER SAID TO ME , “Go across the yard and say to Mary, ‘Chahko muckamuck, Mary.’”
    “What does it mean?”
    “Come to dinner.”
    “Mother, is Mary an Indian?”
    “Yes child; run along, Mary will be hungry.”
    “Chahko muckamuck—chahko muckamuck—” I said over and over as I ran across the yard.
    When I said to Mary, “Chahko muckamuck,” the little woman looked up and laughed at me just as one little girl laughs at another little girl.
    I used to hang round at noon on Mondays so that I could go and say, “Chahko muckamuck, Mary.” I liked to see her stroke the suds from her arms back into the tub and dry her arms on her wide skirt as she crossed to the kitchen. Then too I used to watch her lug out the big basket and tiptoe on her bare feet to hang the wash on the line, her mouth full of clothes-pins—the old straight kind that had no spring, but roundwooden knobs on the top that made them look like a row of little dolls dancing over the empty flapping clothes.
    As long as I could remember Mary had always come on Mondays and then suddenly she did not come any more.
    I asked, “Where is Wash Mary?”
    Mother said, “You may come with me to see her.”
    We took things in a basket and went to a funny little house in Fairfield Road where Mary lived.