Chapter One
Kinship In the early morning before the wind of the day wakes up, before the Push of the tide changes to the Pull, there is nothing to stir the mist that floats above the water. Nothing but me. My family is sleeping, all rising and breathing together after a weary night of searching for, and not finding, salmon. I swim beside them and roll belly up, just below the surface. Each beat of my flukes makes a ring of ripples on the still water. The ripples nudge the mist. It swirls up and away from my path as if I am some giant thing, a rising tide or a storm wind. I am not so big. Not yet. For now, I am just a daughter—not strong enough to be a savvy hunter like Mother, nor wise enough to be a master wayfinder like Greatmother. I am not old enough to be a mother like my cousin Aquila, and not young enough to delight my family like the younglings do with their games and sweet chirping voices. They say I will be a brilliant wayfinder someday. But I cannot imagine them following me. When I am dancing with the mist of early morning, I do not care. I roll again and let my fin break through the skin of the sea and split the fog in two. I huff a great chaaaah out of the breather on top of my head. The sun lifts above the ridge of mountains, casting a golden glow across the Salish Sea. I turn downward, darkward, gathering speed, and then lift my head skyward. I beat my flukes hard against the grip of the earth and the weight of water, tucking my flippers close to my sides. I burst into the air and imagine myself turning into a raven and soaring among the clouds. I arch over and hit the water with a satisfying smack and a happy fizz of bubbles. When I rise to the surface again, Greatmother is there, watching me. “Beauty is the food of the mind,” she says. Wayfinders are like this. They say nonsensical things. I was trying to forget about food. I was hoping to want it less. But now Greatmother has reminded me, and my hunger comes roaring back like a winter storm. “Eat a little beauty every day, my Vega, my bright star,” Greatmother says. She comes over to nuzzle me. “It will give you strength.” That makes no sense at all! is the thing I do not say out loud. Nobody questions the wayfinder. We follow. Always. But while the rest of my family is waking up, I chase the last wisps of fog and bite into them. Just in case. They are nothing but a drizzle of rain on my tongue. We gather around Mother and Greatmother, shaking off sleep, ready to follow them. “Our Chinooks will return to us,” Greatmother says firmly. “They always have. Since the time of ice.” She leads us on, choosing a path around the islands and inlets of our home waters. Mother travels shoulder to shoulder with her. Mother is the wisest of hunters. If she cannot find our salmon, no one can. And none of us needs our salmon more. Her belly is broader every day. When I make a click-stream, I can see the shape of my soon-to-be-born sister inside her. It has been a hard year, a lean year. But babies are always good luck, and she is the sister I have been waiting for my whole life. We fall into our usual places. Greatmother leads us. Mother nudges the younglings, Deneb and Altair, to the middle, where they can be well looked after. Uncle Rigel swims on one side of them, Aquila on the other. I do not have a particular spot, so I tag along behind where I can hear and see everybody, but they will not pay attention to me. We are a thing to see when we travel. One fin after another cuts through the water, rising like an ocean wave, fast and sleek and strong. Sharks head for the shadows when we come around. Eels slide farther into their caves. Gulls scatter. Seals watch us from their resting spots with wide brown eyes. All day long Mother sends her click-stream into shallows and under stone arches. She circles underwater rock spires and forest-covered islands, looking for our salmon. We all search. The sea is full of fish, but none are big enough, meaty enough, rich enough. None are salmon. Pull changes over to Push. The younglings are ready to eat anything that moves. “Fish! Fish! Fish!” Altair chants while Deneb flushes out one of the spiky fellows hiding in the rocks. I have already learned my lesson about those. I am not surprised a moment later to see the youngling boys spitting out the pointy bits and finding not much left to swallow.
