excerpt, A Killing at Easter Hill, autofiction by Alex Rose
On a street pitched past grief, we sat in a bar for the railroad men
Days of glory gone.
Peeling sepia prints of mighty locomotives and cheap gin now, terry cloth and memory
One old man in the corner.
Thorkild and I had been hired to edit an academic report.
“Straight forward,” he said. “Another pipe-bender, granulated dogshit for Professor Land. Lard it up. You know.”
“Want to hear some music now?”
Thorkild’s 17th floor apartment fronted the Fraser River; we stepped out on the balcony to take the afternoon air.
Look hard and look true, he said, everything below us moving fast.
No, not just the current and churn of back eddies, rafts of boomed-up logs, serious-looking tugs, speedboats pitching wildly in a sloppy grey chop.
Along the quay a parade of joggers, flaneurs, hobos and the young in one another’s arms.
A Max Beckmann painting, he said, with everything set in motion, everywhere aslant, so much detail in the torqued contrast of a September afternoon, all coming apart.
More drinking. Spoonerisms. Scabrous vituperation. Couldn’t beat Thorkild when it came to close editing. Detail, detail. King of commas, master of the semi-colon. Thorkild picked LPs for the gramophone: Arvo Part, Steve Reich, Sonny Boy Williamson and some early Stones:
“Since I was young I’ve been very hard to please/And I don’t know wrong from right…”
“Want to show you something,” he said, disappearing into the bedroom.
To re-emerge wearing a Viking amulet around his neck. Pewter. Bit of runic. And in the palm of his hand, a hedgehog named Taavi.
My tiny dappled thing — “though in no way diminished” he said — bending down to release it on the carpet after shutting the patio door. We watched Taavi for a while. It crouched at his feet before working its nose across the dirty carpet to hide behind a bookshelf stuffed with dictionaries and reference texts.
We drank more beer, listened to more music and I began to think, at some point, Thorkild might tell me how much he loved Taavi— though he never did. Not a word.
Among the many extraordinary and colorful characters who represent the braiding of diverse strands of British Columbia history into our present multicultural narrative – legendary First Nations chiefs, iconic maritime explorers, flamboyant fur traders, avaricious prospectors, shrewd Chinese business magnates, Jewish entrepreneurs, Black industrialists, artists both indigenous and not, colonial bureaucrats clawing their way up the social ladder, South Asian timber barons and assorted saints, sinners, spies and outlaws – one of the most interesting is the son of a greengrocer from a remote Scottish island.
James Alexander Teit was born in 1864 on the Shetland Islands to small merchant John Tait, a fervent advocate of public education in a day when notions of providing the tools for learning to the working class was still a radical idea in some quarters. Perhaps the enthusiasm for schooling was amplified by his wife, Elizabeth Murray, who had been a governess before marriage.
After leaving school at the age of 16, young Teit worked briefly in his father’s store, soon took a position at a local bank – he’d won prizes for mathematics, German and “general excellence” – before abandoning his traditional inheritance of the family property to a younger brother and leaving abruptly for the colonies while still a teenager, perhaps to dodge the fallout from a paternity suit brought just a few months after his departure by a woman 15 years his senior.
In any event, he arrived at Spences Bridge on the Thompson River, the major tributary of the mighty Fraser, in the spring of 1884, invited to take a position with his maternal uncle John Murray’s trading post. It’s difficult for contemporary British Columbians to imagine the province’s Interior 135 years ago.
The only road of any significance was a rutted wagon track the led from Vancouver, a still unincorporated sprawl of tents, log shanties and saloons, to the gold fields of the Cariboo. An unimpressed Frederick Seymour – he swiftly drank himself to death — who had come to the colonies in hope of advancement, found himself presiding over a long stretch of rough road with a gold mine at one end and a seaport under a different government at the other.
And the seaport at the other end, well, it would burn to the ground in less than 30 minutes a scant 18 months after Teit’s arrival when an ill-tended brush fire got away. In a region roughly the size of Western Europe there was the road, one railway and a few shallow-draft paddle steamers which worked the largest lakes and navigable portions of the great rivers.
To make things worse for Teit, about the same time Vancouver burned down, the railway construction crews finished and pulled out of Spence’s Bridge. Business crashed. He still had a job but his uncle could no longer pay his wages.
But luckily for posterity, Teit was a young man of astonishing adaptability. From the get-go he had felt the lure of the surrounding landscape and the indigenous peoples who inhabited it. Many traded at his uncle’s post. He admired and respected their cultures, not from a lofty pinnacle of ethnocentric superiority, but for the rich texture of their ways of living, the stories they told about themselves and the world.
Teit, it turned out, had the linguistic skills of a polymath. He quickly absorbed indigenous vocabularies, grammar and syntax. He was soon fluent. He proved an adept trapper and tireless hunter to supplement his income. Quickly he was in demand guiding big game expeditions for wealthy sporting types. He didn’t hesitate to sweat in farm fields or orchards or even coal mines when there was work.
And, it seemed, the indigenous people he met liked and respected him, too. In the second year after he arrived he began living with Lucy Susannah Antko, a Nlaka’pamux woman from Nkaitu’sus, a remote village northwest of Spence’s Bridge.
He married her formally in 1892 at a ceremony witnessed by two First Nations friends, Hiawhatlah and Quilumjoot. But while the union welcomed him into the indigenous community, it got him ostracized in the racially stratified culture of colonialism. Indeed, Teit later itemized the pejorative terms directed at those like himself who took an indigenous wife: “squaw man,” “siwash man” and so on. To marry outside the draconian racialized norms of the day required courage, determination and the commitment of genuine love.
It proved a happy marriage. When she died pneumonia in the early winter of 1899, Teit described it as “a great blow.”
Teit’s greatest contribution to British Columbia, indeed to Canada and the wider world, began in 1894 when he encountered a young German – and Teit spoke German – physicist who, on a science trip to the High Arctic had been sidetracked from his research by a fascination with Inuit culture. He gave up the hard sciences to embrace the emerging social science of anthropology.
Franz Boas quickly established himself as an ethnologist of remarkable breadth, energy and intellect. And in Teit he found a fellow soul, perhaps a little rougher around the scholarly edges. Teit, with his access to Interior First Nations and his own respectful fascination with them, became one of the most important anthropological informants in the history of the discipline.
He collected stories, genealogies, myths, spiritual beliefs. Between 1900 and 1912, Teit produced four astoundingly important reports that helped preserve Interior culture in the aftermath of epidemics, economic disruption and social upheaval. One was a comprehensive record of Salish basketwork complete with detailed notes on construction methods. He collected and recorded traditional tools and clothing that were even then passing from use and memory. He helped create a detailed study of Athapaskan languages. And he collected songs and stories that were stored only in the memories of those who had survived the tumultuous upheavals of the previous 50 years. He even carried an early wax-cylinder recording device into the bush to collect songs in the voices of the actual singers whom he then identified with the use of another revolutionary technology, the photograph.
And thus we have the songs, voices and faces of the artists and story tellers from a culture that was largely oral in its traditions. By the time he was done, writes retired University of Victoria historian Wendy Wickwire, he’d produced 2,200 pages of published research and another 5,000 pages of raw data in manuscript that hasn’t been published.
Then, when his indigenous friends asked for help, he became an important assistant in organizing First Nations leader in their developing activism over displacement from lands, unextinguished aboriginal title, federal and provincial policy critiques and direct petitions to government for redress. He convened a meeting of 450 chiefs at Spence’s Bridge over land rights, accompanied chiefs to Ottawa and in 1916 First Nations elected him to serve on the executive committee of the Allied Indian Tribes of B.C.
We know much of this because of Wickwire’s remarkable new biography of this figure so critical to the shaping of the province and who, indeed, helped set it on the trajectory toward reconciliation that is now reshaping its future.
Teit, like environmental writer Roderick Haig-Brown, another man now lionized in a society which once dismissed his conservation ethic as an eccentric aberration, is a bit of a tourist marketing phenomenon in the communities of Merritt and Spence’s Bridge, Wickwire observes. Yet it’s fair to say that he remains under-appreciated in the broader Canadian memory.
Her biography At the Bridge: James Teit and the Anthropology of Belonging, just published by UBC Press, sets out to redress that. It is a remarkable book about a remarkable man and deserves a place on the bookshelf of everyone who understands that knowing where we’ve come from is essential to navigating our course to somewhere else and to somewhere that we hope to make better rather than worse.
It’s the fascinating story of a fascinating man, of course. Giants of early anthropology, from Boaz to Edward Sapir and from Charles Hill-Tout to Marius Barbeau, keep Teit company. Yet while this biography of a remarkable if over-shadowed citizen scientist is meticulous in its historic scholarship, it also offers the rich granular detail that brings a particular narrative to life.
And it’s a vitally important narrative in this time of the dismantling of colonial institutions and the attitudes upon which they are founded. Reconfiguring the colonial mental landscape is not just an issue for increasingly enlightened members of the settler society that has superimposed itself upon the indigenous societies that preceded it. It’s also one for those upon whom that settler society imposed social and economic marginalization, political injustices and cruelly insensitive assumptions with all the consequences of language loss, displaced belief systems and disrupted community and family adhesion that accompanied them.
Teit was a man not merely of two worlds but of many. He had one foot in the realm of hunting societies and one in the world of high science. He spoke the languages of both. But where scholars like Boaz thought they were dealing with vanishing cultures, Teit saw them as vital, living, evolving. His work was both for science and for the people he worked with by creating an indisputable text-based record that would prove an essential tool in what was to come. He recorded oral history and laws, mapped place names that proved prior occupation and title. He’s largely overlooked today but he was a critically important force at the very nexus of the indigenous political resistance in British Columbia that was coalescing at the end of the 19thCentury and during the early years of the 20th.
Wickwire’s book captures that sweep and drama. It’s not just another dry scholarly dissertation; it’s the lively, colorful, robust story of a man who helped to channel the historical forces that now shape the moral landscape and ethical future of the emerging British Columbia that everyone will have to share.
Fifty years ago, a hereditary chief observed that people in B.C., both indigenous and settler, had better learn one important truth: there’s only one canoe – and we’re all in it together. We either learn to paddle together or we capsize and drown together.
That chiefly analogy might well apply to Teit’s view of the world, too. Wickwire limns that wise view with skill, grace and a writer’s fine crafting.
Stephen Hume began writing more than 50 years ago about the emerging future of indigenous political self-determination and what it might mean for British Columbia. His first book on the subject, the award-winning Ghost Camps: Memory and myth on Canada’s frontier, was called a masterpiece of its kind by journalist and historian Bruce Hutchison. Hume’s most recent book is A Walk with the Rainy Sisters.
Its death decreed with nauseous insistence, the stuff simply won’t die. In fact, it can be argued that poetry is being reborn today as spoken word, folk-song, open-mic rap, text message and audiobook. Taking us back to poetry’s oral origin: the sound of the human voice in Homer, Ovid, Indigenous myth and Norse saga.
American composer Virgil Thomson — a famously difficult and take-no-prisoners critic — sets out six insights into the role of the poet in modern society:
Society today has no place for poets. Science, computing, big data, artificial intelligence, journalism, fiction, religion and politics – ancient bailiwicks all – are now closed to them.
Poetry doesn’t pay anything at all, of course. It won’t buy a beer, subway or bus fare, drugs or Netflix. Nor does it prevent the darkest despair from seizing them when all alone.
Everything poets do is desperate and excessive. They eat like pigs; starve, tramp, get arrested, steal, abscond, betray, blackmail and dope. They come down with every known disease, not the least being solitary dipsomania.
But some poets are truly brave with incredible loyalty; they are the last of honour and chivalry.
Some people think poets are just being fanciful when they talk magic and sorcery. Not so. Poets are the only people in the world with any profound prescience about the unchaining of the dark forces that have so shaped and shaken the modern world.
The poet’s chief utility is to help us to fight those dark forces with evolutions not only picturesque — but sometimes salutary, instructive and grand.
Excerpts, Survival of an Earlier Civilization or Shades of Poets Dead and Gone
Harry Redl had a keen eye for cultural dissonance.
An Austrian serving with the German navy in the Baltic Sea, Redl was captured by the Americans in 1945. After the war, he emigrated to Canada, taking various jobs in Vancouver: waiter, logger and shipping clerk. In 1956, hoping to freelance as a photographer for Life magazine, he bused to San Francisco, ground zero for the Beat Generation.
Redl was astonished by the energy swirling around him there and stayed to set up a studio in North Beach, where he befriended and photographed the angel-headed geniuses who rejected the button-down repression of post-war North America. Brandishing his $100 Rolleiflex, Redl would take more than 8,000 photographs over the next three years (1957-60). His black-and-white portraits—natural light and settings—document the now-famous bohemians in their habitat.
In a 1957 shoot, Redl snuck his camera into the visitor’s room at San Quentin to snap a wary Neal Cassady, then serving three years for possession of marijuana. Cassady was no intellectual, Redl recalls in an interview in his West Vancouver studio, “but was the bisexual bad boy of the Beat Generation—a good-looking truck driver and conman who liked to fuck.”
Cassady was the muse who had driven Jack Kerouac to his typewriter to depict the exploits of his friend. In his book, The Long, Slow Death of Jack Kerouac, Jim Christy describes their first meeting in 1946: “ ….a maniac of energy, and just a plain maniac. His name was Neal Cassady. When the two men met, each met his other half, and they handed each other the ticket to mortality.” One year later they hit the road together in a journey since raised to myth.
Kerouac’s book On the Road brought Cassady into the pantheon as “that mad Ahab at the wheel,” who compelled a generation to do the same. Redl recalls how the cult picked up elements of jazz, the drug culture and the normal rituals of adolescent seeking which grudgingly admitted to its ranks a few young women (then called “chicks”) wearing black turtlenecks and sandals.
The poet Allen Ginsberg and Kerouac competed with each other for Cassady’s bed. Madly in love, Ginsberg won out and said so in his poem The Green Automobile, “honking my horn at his [Cassady’s] manly gate.” In a time long before AIDS, Cassady slept with hundreds of partners, male and female.
Ginsberg was the star attraction of poetry festival held at the University of British Columbiain 1963. My father, Ron Rose, was sent to cover the story for The Vancouver Sun. But, the young reporter was able to file just three inches, “because every other word out of Ginsberg’s mouth was fuck.”
Redl soon met poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti, whose bookstore, City Lights, published Ginsberg’s first book, Howl(1956), an angry indictment of America’s false hopes and broken promises. Howlwas seized by the U.S. government under obscenity charges, but the charges were eventually dropped.
Redl was there to capture it all: the mysticism, energy, the sense of being alive—even if served up with an insistent and self-referential homoeroticism that seemed to exclude most women. Most of all, Redl was struck by the spontaneity of his subjects and their new world. Ginsberg’s doctrine of “first thought, best thought” encouraged him to see as poems all sorts of prose jottings and notebook scribblings, and his belief that poetry ought to provide seamless transcriptions of the mind encouraged him to publish the jottings and scribbles. Far more than window dressing for youthful rebellion, the Beats utilized a new kind of free verse, accompanied by jazz, to proclaim the virtues of sex, drugs and Buddhism.
Not surprisingly, they offended the literary gatekeepers of the time. Harold Bloom’s The Western Canon has but two passing references to Ginsberg, who died in 1997; none for Kerouac and the Beats. But today a new generation of young hipsters in Brooklyn, San Francisco and Vancouver is revisiting aspects of Beat cosmology and art, appropriating and tailoring older ideas for a digital world.
“Back in those days, Ginsberg was rail-thin,” Redl recalled in a 1999 interview with me. “Allen was such an honorable man, filled with compassion and caring, so convinced of the genius of his friends that he dragged them on to the stage with him so they could make a living.” In retrospect, Redl believes, the Beats rejuvenated literature by returning to the oral tradition. “When Ginsberg stood up and read his poems—such vitality, such rhythm—people sat up in their seats.”
Readings at New York’s Village Vanguard in 1956 attracted a young Canadian student named Leonard Cohen, then studying at Columbia University. One year later, he was on stage at Dunn’s Steak House in downtown Montreal putting his own poems to music, writing morose ballads about love and death in a deep, rough-hewn voice that would change pop music forever.
But promiscuity, recklessness and madness do not necessarily equate with sunny enlightenment. At least not for Kerouac who, despite new-found fame, rejected the advances of the girls who waited in the pubs — choosing instead to spend most of his time at mom’s house. When Kerouac died, he left everything to the woman he most loved throughout his live — his mother, Gabrielle.
What sad decline. Old friends shook their heads at the fat and surly recluse who seldom ventured out of the house unless to trade punches at the local bar. When Cassady landed in jail, Kerouac refused to send bail money. “I’m no psychiatrist but I think Kerouac was afraid of the feelings he had for Cassady,” Redl says. “It must have tormented him that all his favorite people were all homosexuals, yet he lived with his mother.”
Cassady died in 1968 at 42. His heart exploded as he ran alongside a train in Mexico. Kerouac himself would die two years later, at 47, of complications from alcoholism.
Sadly, Redl remains largely invisible to many Canadian curators, perhaps confused by the fact that almost all his portraits are Americans. With sneering vituperation, Redl recounted the politically correct parochialism of one North Vancouver gallery director who, after leafing through the archive, had the audacity to say: “Beautiful work. But have you got any more Canadians?”
Redl died in Vancouver in 2011. In the end, he returned again and again to a subject that haunts any serious artist. Redl dreamed that one day, his astonishing portraits of the Beats would be bound and published in a book—so that a new generation can see for themselves the poets who turned the modern world on its ear.
Excerpt, A Killing at Easter Hill, a serialized novella by Alex Rose
That morning we met Miro, the caretaker who lived in the cabin one cove over. He must have been briefed by the colonel because he was friendly and accommodating from the first, helping us move in and get the babies settled.
Miro seemed to understand we had come to the island to rest, to get away from people all July and August. But by the end of the first week, we had questions about the colonel’s log home, about the property and best place to fish. As if on cue Miro would appear, his Mannlicher-Schoenauer bolt-action rifle in hand.
He knew we were curious about the rifle and said he used it to hunt wild sheep and deer that lived on the island.
Over the summer we heard rumours about Miro: that he had been a Czech freedom fighter, that he was an expert marksman and that the colonel hired him as a warning to the drug dealers who grew marijuana in the fields across the road. (The islanders tell the story of how one dealer, who after betraying his family, had been strapped to the engine block of a rusting car and pushed off the cliff and into Johnstone Strait. Police divers never did find the corpse.)
That summer at Squitty Bay, it was fine and hot. While Beatrice worked on her manuscript, I hiked and swam with the children and learned to fish for salmon and rock cod.
One afternoon on a bluff looking across the strait to Mount Washington, I fell asleep to wake up with the sense a rifle sight was aimed at my head.
Miro invited me to go hunting. We followed the rocky trail across the granite shale at the base of the cliff before heading back up another trail, one groomed by wild sheep and Fallow deer. Weeds broke into blossom in the heat of the afternoon. Miro waved me into a kneeling position behind a favourite tree stand. He loaded one bullet into the chamber before passing me his rifle. I was to kill the animal with a single bullet into its “boiler room,” the heart and lungs.
Sometime later a Fallow deer wandered into the clearing.
I took the shot but missed. The bullet ricocheted off a rock. The deer leapt up and bolted into the scrub.
Next afternoon, Miro arrived with a rack of wild lamb; we cooked it over an open fire — with fresh rosemary and tomatoes and beans from the colonel’s garden.
Excerpt, A Killing at Easter Hill, a serialized novel by Alex Rose
We met Tal in journalism school and he was just the thing for it. Short, pugnacious, he was a revving engine of a man with a shock of blonde hair falling into his face.
Tal had gone to an elite prep school and was a close reader — devouring the books we loved but on a level deeper — and employing a convoluted academic theory to investigate construals of truth — actually his longing for a kind of innocence and transcendence beyond the profane world he claimed we live in.
He was a great talker, our Samuel Taylor. Tal knew every lyric of Astral Weeks, every Eliot Christian reference and — in our heaviest rotation — all smut and scandal of Larkin, Joyce and Ginsberg. On long rambles through the crunch of Vancouver’s leafy West Side we chortled at Pynchon’s world of paranoia, sex, conspiracies and shadowy government agencies so persuasive that, under Tal’s tutelage, we began to see such signs and signifiers everywhere.
Tal had written a paper on Lawrence and surprised us by saying the poems were better than the famous prose. Tal hammered home the Lawrence dictum that ours is essentially a tragic age — so we refuse to take it tragically.
But life intervenes. I introduced Tal to Florian and he was smitten instantly. He fell hard, his world turned aslant. Florian had inherited heaven’s graces and then some. Tall and handsome — a Byronic crown of curly black hair — all the girls and more than a few of the boys clamoured for the pleasure of his company; the mystery, the wit and inclusive humour that could turn cruel for no reason whatsoever. (Combing though a psychoanalytic dictionary, we chanced upon an entry that described Florian’s seductive personality — but were never able to find it again).
In Florian’s company Tal turned coquette and suitor — despite himself, despite his intellectual rigour. A man in love unknowing, he turned silly and fey — turning up at Florian’s flat at Alma and 2nd unannounced, every and all hours.
Flattered at first and amused by Tal’s exculpations, Florian soon enough began diluting the experience making Tal ever more determined in wounded pursuit.
One Saturday morning, I was witness to a humbling contumelious. I came up the stairs to hear Tal whining, begging for comfort, for Florian’s approbation. ‘I’m fat,’ he sobbed.
Florian had turned his back, a slim silhouette looking down into the street.
‘What can I do? Look at my fat,’ grabbing at a great loose gut spilling out over his belt. ‘Help me, Florian — please.’
‘You are fat. Too fucking fat. And a vexation to my spirit,” said Florian, holding the door.
‘Don’t you understand you’re not my problem.’
Some time later Tal and I worked the Monday night council beat at the New Westminster Columbian newspaper, a farm league for the big-city papers. Forty bucks a story.
It was a tawdry affair with bad flourecent lighting that helped hide the burned out lives hunched over cheap computer screens driven by a flickering orange curser. Hacks, liars and toadies toiled away while diminishing time before deadline became more and more valuable. Cursing, sarcasm and threats ruled the rim as the younger reporters — or those who still gave a shit about municipal politics — tried hard to believe they were professionals, not just scum.
I was updating a Port Moody sewerage story when Tal sidled up to my desk. Greying teeth, cascading dandruff, soiled gym socks and more than a whiff of failure.
‘What’s up? What’s your story?’ I asked.
‘Nada. No news from Surrey,’ Tal said.
‘Whoa. You got to come up with something, buddy. A feature on the farmer’s market, the wrestling champ from Queensborough — the bore who collects classic cars, anything. The editors expect it. The game, you know.’
‘No. Nothing. Not any more,’ Tal said, storming out.
After he was fired, Tal quit journalism and embraced his true calling — a kind of intellectual Christianity. And flacking for a non-demoninational charity he met and married a woman priest — an expert on Elaine Pagels — and moved to Foul Bay.
Fifteen years ago they bought the bishopric near Lime Kiln Point on San Juan Island and have lived there ever since. Before retirement, Denise commuted every week to Seattle Medical Centre, where she worked as a psychiatric nurse. Monday to Friday she stayed at her mother’s home on Capitol Hill while Piers stayed on the island, working as a “mediation consultant.” (About his actual occupation there was an insistence of whispered innuendo — gigolo, grifter, con man — but here on the Coast with few real jobs, such talk is common enough.)
A tall man with close-set eyes who marched along in an exaggerated show of vigour, Piers was born in Argentina and came to the U.S. as a teenager. As an ice-breaker, he describes himself as “more Brit than the British.” He has the plummy accent down, using it to great effect when the local theatre stages My Fair Lady and Major Barbara. He was also elected councillor for the Islands Trust, coming alive in public Q & A sessions.
Over the years, the two built a working garden with fresh vegetables to get them through the year. A handsome border of flowers — each coming into bloom in sequence — completes the picture, alongside a maze of deer netting, de rigeur on all the Gulf Islands.
They also built a pond and, over time, stocked it with exotics such as Green Spotted Puffer fish, Sting Rays — all brightly-coloured, shimmering. Late in the afternoon, sipping gin and wine, they sat beside the pool, luxuriating in the pride of their accomplishment.
But the fish proved easy picking for raccoons and herons. A series of nets and traps were deployed to thwart the marauders but were less than successful: the Blue heron with its dagger-like beak.
One day, as Denise came up the long driveway to the bishopric, she heard the blast of a shotgun. Pulling into the driveway, walking round back, she saw Piers standing by the pool, a dead heron in one hand, a smoking shotgun in the other, his face beet red and wreathed in triumph. As if in supplication, he held it up to her — that bleeding and broken thing.
For the first time, Piers had killed for her. And they were both very happy indeed.