To the Bright Edge of the World Read online

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  also by Eowyn Ivey

  The Snow Child

  Copyright

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2016 by Eowyn Ivey

  Illustrations and Map by Ruth Hulbert

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  First Edition: August 2016

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  Photography digitization and manipulation by Stephen Nowers

  ISBN 978-0-316-24285-1

  Library of Congress Control Number 2015953904

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  RRD-C

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  Cover

  Disclaimer

  Also by Eowyn Ivey

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  Part Five

  Part Six

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Dedication

  To Come

  To the

  Bright Edge

  of the

  World

  I looked directly into its eyes and knew that I understood nothing.

   — From Make Prayers to the Raven, by Richard K. Nelson,

  on seeing an Alaska wolverine

  Attention Mr. Joshua Sloan

  Exhibits Curator

  Alpine Historical Museum

  Alpine, Alaska

  Mr. Sloan,

  I warned you I am a stubborn old man. These boxes have the papers I told you about, the letters and journals from my great-uncle’s 1885 expedition across Alaska. I know you said you weren’t able to take them on, but I’m sending them anyways. You’ll change your mind once you read through all this. Truth be told, I don’t have much choice. I never had children of my own, and all the relatives are dead. When my turn comes, these papers will be thrown out with everything else. For most of my life they have been crammed in trunks and boxes, and they show signs of wear. It would be a shame for them to be lost all together.

  The Colonel’s journey was a harrowing one. Maybe it was doomed from the beginning, but I don’t see as to how that takes away from its importance. His expedition is surely the Alaskan equivalent of Lewis and Clark’s, and these papers are some of the earliest, firsthand descriptions of those northern lands and natives.

  Several of his private journal entries are downright fantastical and don’t align with his official reports. Some who have read these pages write off the odder occurrences as hallucinations, brought on by starvation and exposure to the elements. Others have accused the Colonel of embellishing his journals in order to gain notoriety. But I tell you, he was neither a hysteric nor a charlatan. He was a West Point graduate who fought in the Indian Wars and negotiated himself out capture by the Apaches, yet by all accounts he never sought the limelight. I’ve chosen to consider another possibility — that he described what he saw with his own two eyes. It takes a kind of arrogance to think everything in the world can be measured and weighed with our scientific instruments. The Colonel started out with those sorts of assumptions, and as you will see, it did not serve him well.

  Along with the journals and reports, I’m also sending some of my great-aunt Sophie’s writing. There are illustrations and photographs, newspaper clippings — odds and ends I’ve stumbled across over the years. I thought of going through and stripping them all out, but some of it might be of interest to you.

  I won’t yet mail the artifacts from the expedition. I’ve held on to everything I can, but most of them are in a fragile state and might not make it to Alaska and back. I’ve had them appraised, and you’ll find a description of each item and what kind of condition it’s in.

  Read it all over. If you change your mind and see fit to make room for it at your museum, I will gladly send everything I have.

  Sincerely,

  Walter Forrester

  Part One

  Artificial Horizon.

  Mid-19th Century, Unsigned.

  Allen Forrester Collection.

  Original fitted mahogany case with key. Includes cast-iron reflecting tray and mercury bottle, brass-framed glazed pyramid cover. Designed to aid in celestial navigation when darkness, fog, or land features obscure natural horizon. Mercury is poured onto the reflecting tray, so providing a level reflecting surface, and the image is sighted with a sextant to provide a “double altitude.”

  Diary of Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester

  March 21, 1885

  Perkins Island, Alaska

  I do not know the time. The depths of night. It may already be tomorrow. I cannot see my own words, but write as I can by moonlight so as to record my first thoughts. In the morning I may deem it outlandish. For now I am slightly shaken.

  I rose moments ago & left the tent to relieve myself. With the moon, I did not bother to light a lantern. I slid my feet into boots without tying laces & made my way into the trees. The only sound was of the sea washing at the beach. It is true, I was barely awake, my eyes bleary. As I turned to return to the tent, I heard a rustling overhead. I looked up into moonlight broken by silver shadow & black branches. I expected an animal, perhaps an owl roosted, but it was the old Eyak Indian up in the boughs of the spruce. His face was obscured, but I knew his spare frame, black hat atop his head. Moonlight glinted off the strange decorations at his neck.

  He crouched high in the branches, silent. I do not know if he saw me. I made no motion towards him, half fearing he would fall from the branches if startled.

  I would find it a chore to climb the tree, but could if needed. An old man with a lame leg — what could propel him upward? Perhaps he fled from a bear. Could he have climbed the tree in a fit of fear? It does not suit his character. The Eyak seems an unflappable sort. He looked as if he sat comfortably in those branches, perhaps even slept.

  I am left vaguely uneasy. As if I witnessed a bird flying underwater or a fish swimming across the sky.

  March 22

  We leave Perkins Island at daybreak, whether we have the men or not. For too long we have postponed on promises from the Eyaks that their men will return from hunting sea otter to join us. We are left with three young Eyaks too young for the hunt & the crippled old man. They say he knows these waters so can pilot us to the mouth of the Wolverine River. I cannot wait an
other day with the Alaska mainland nearly within our reach. We were weeks delayed by Army affairs in Sitka, only to have fog slow our journey aboard the USS Pinta. All too soon the Wolverine could break free in a torrent of slush, ice slabs, & impassable rapids. If the river runs wide open, we will make it no farther than Haigh’s attempt. I fear already for the ice at the canyon.

  I write at the tent door. Lieut. Pruitt once again goes through instruments. He polishes the glass pyramid of the artificial horizon & rechecks the movement of the Howard watch. It has become a nervous habit of his that I can understand.

  Sgt. Tillman has his own tic. He worries for our food supply. Will we have enough hard tack? he asks three times a day. Says again he is not fond of pea soup, prefers to sledge chocolate up the river. Myself, I pace the shore of this small northern island & look out across the sound. We are men anxious to be about our mission.

  The Eyak watches us from where he sits at the base of a great spruce tree, the same one he roosted in last night. The old man is never without his brimmed black hat & gentleman’s vest, yet he also dons the hide trousers & shift of his people. His black hair is cropped at the shoulders. At his neck is a bizarre ornament, similar in pattern to the dentalium shells many of the Indians wear, but instead made of small animal bones, teeth, shiny bits of glass & metal. As he watches us, his broad face wears an odd expression. Amusement. Ferocity. I cannot make it out. Even the women & children of the island seem wary of him. The old man glowers, says nothing, only to laugh at inopportune times. This morning Sgt. Tillman slipped on the icy rocks near the row boats, fell hard to his knees. The old man cackled. Tillman got to his feet & went to grab him by his vest collar. The sergeant is no small fellow. Built like a brick s—– house, always on the look-out for a fistfight, the general said as way of introduction. I have no doubt he would make quick work of the old Eyak.

   — Leave him be, I said, though I sympathized. The old man sets my nerves on end as well. To see him up in that tree in the darkest hours has done nothing to put me at ease. I would take another guide if given choice.

  The trapper Samuelson will go with us as far as the mouth of the Wolverine. He would be invaluable traveling farther as he knows rudimentary forms of most of the native languages & has traveled much of the lower river. He expects the Wolverine River Indians, the ones called Midnooskies after the Russian, to bring a message from his trapping partner with plans of meeting him at the mouth before they decide where to spend the season. I continue to try to cajole him into joining our expedition, but he resists. No man’s land at the headwaters of the Wolverine, he says. He does not fear the Indians’ vicious reputation but instead the inhospitable terrain, the unpredictable river.

  As to the character of the upper Wolverine River Indians, the white trader Mr. Jenson does his best to terrorize us with stories. He tells of how they slaughtered the Russians while they slept in their sleds, then cut away the dead men’s genitalia to stuff them back in their own mouths.

  Mr. Jenson operates the Alaska Commercial Co. trading store here on the island, claims to keep his own Indians in line only through a tough fist. He is one of the more unlikable men I have encountered. He drinks heavily & trades alcohol with the island natives, only to complain of their drunkenness. He brags of his cunning dealings with the natives, how he undercuts them for prime hides. He then advises us to never turn a blind eye to any Indian, as they are liars & thieves.

  I avoid the trader as I can, but he seeks me out with stories of murderous plots against him. This island village becomes smaller by the day. We pace, check supplies, watch the skies, ask when the otter hunters will return.

  Despite our restless & bored state, we are not untouched by the spectacularity of our surroundings. This land has a vast & cold beauty. Sun everywhere glints off blue sea, ice, snow. The refraction of light is as sharp as the cry of the sea birds overhead. The island is a rough outcropping of gray cliff, evergreen forests, & rocky beaches. Across the sound on clear days, I make out the mountains of mainland Alaska. They are still white with winter.

  Last evening at dusk, a brown bear ambled down the beach, shuffled among our row boats. Today we measured a single paw print in the sand to be as wide as a man’s two hands outstretched side by side.

  My thoughts go to Sophie whenever I am not at work, yet I cannot afford such indulgence. I must keep my mind to the task at hand.

  Special Order No. 16

  Headquarters Department of the Columbia

  Vancouver Barracks, Washington Territory

  January 7, 1885

  By authority of the Lieutenant-General of the Army conveyed this day by telegram, Lieutenant-Colonel Allen Forrester is hereby authorized to lead a reconnaissance into Alaska traveling up the Wolverine River. Lieutenant Andrew Pruitt and Sergeant Bradley Tillman are ordered to report to Colonel Forrester with the purpose of accompanying his reconnaissance.

  The objective is to map the interior of the Territory and document information regarding the native tribes in order to be prepared for any future serious disturbances between the United States government and the natives of the Territory. The reconnaissance will also attempt to ascertain whether and how a military force would be sustained in this region if necessary, including information about climate, severity of winter, and means of communication and types of weapons in possession of the natives. Information should be gathered and documented thoroughly along the reconnaissance in the event that the expedition must be abandoned.

  Colonel Forrester is ordered to make full reports to headquarters, including itineraries, maps, and field observations, whenever possible. If needed, as many as five native scouts may be employed. The expedition party should aim to arrive at the mouth of the Wolverine River by the beginning of March so as to travel up the river by ice.

  Because of the peculiar, unknown circumstances of such a reconnaissance, Colonel Forrester is left to his discretion regarding travels beyond the Wolverine River. At all times, the men will exercise care and strict economy of their stores. Ample provisions have been provided for the journey.

  If the reconnaissance is successful, the party should arrive at the well-mapped Yukon River before winter, where the men might board a steamboat to the coast. Colonel Forrester will then arrange transportation of himself and his men aboard a revenue cutter.

  Best wishes for success and safe return,

  By command of Major-General Keirn:

  Stanley Harter, Assistant Adjutant-General

  USS Pinta

  Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester

  March 23, 1885

  We remain tonight on Perkins Island, but at least we are gone from the village & the trader Jenson. We camp on the northern side of the island, directly across the sound from the Wolverine River. The journey so far seems to drag against our will.

  Jenson warned we would be unable to launch our boats into the waves. This only spurred our determination. We rose for our departure this morning to a dreary rain & rough seas. The trader was out of his bed earlier than I have ever seen him, only to stand watch over our efforts with much naysaying. We loaded the row boats in near dark & divided the men. Pruitt, the old man, two Eyaks & I to one boat — Samuelson, Tillman & the third young Eyak to the other. I ordered the three young Indians to give the final heave-ho & jump aboard last.

  Too busy fighting the oars against the surf, I noticed nothing amiss until Tillman’s bark.

   — Hell! Do we go back for them?

  I looked up. Through the gloom I could just make out the Indians at shore. The waves broke at their knees. They gave no expression. One held up a hand. I could not read it. Did they wave farewell, or were they left against their will? Did they intend to stay behind even as they nodded to my terms? Whatever the cause, I would not retrieve them. We had just managed to clear the surf. I cut my hand through the air, out into the sound.

   — Onward, I said.

  We set into the cold wet gray. Just two strong rowers to a boat. The old Eyak was of
no use. We were undermanned from the start.

  Daylight improved nothing. Waves chopped at the boat sides. Wind kicked up sea spray, drenched the supplies through canvas tarps. We traveled north along the coast of the island. A cluster of rocks rose before us. I called out to veer to open water. The old man spoke for the first time then, a throaty chortle that was meaningless to me. The trapper understood.

   — He says keep close to shore through here.

   — What you say?

  The boats rose, teetered on the waves, & carried us towards the rocks.

   — That’s what he says. Keep close in.

  I looked to where the old man perched in the bow. His vest flapped in the wind. His eyes were wild, & he grinned or grimaced, I could not tell.

   — It’s no good, Tillman hollered into the wind.

  I had to agree. The waves would dash the row boats to bits against the rocks. Why bring the old man if not to guide us? He has known these bays & inlets all his long life. The Eyaks said he could get us to mainland.

  Our boats threatened to turn sidelong to the swells. Waves broke over the gunwales.

   — Do as he says, I called. — Head in.

  I had no time to regret my order. The sea took us like driftwood & threw us to the rocks. We scraped our way past the outcroppings only to be swept up by whirlpools at the base of the island cliffs. The boats rotated, heaved, & creaked. Salt spray blinded us. I thought I heard the old Eyak cackle from the bow. Perhaps it was the gulls. What kind of mad man laughs as he drowns?

  I cannot say how long we battled the sea & cliff face. Tillman stood at his stern, shoved his oar to the cliff to lever the boat. Even his considerable strength was no match for the sea. Pruitt howled as his hand was smashed between bow & rock. Samuelson let out a string of curses like none I have heard before.