“Have you ever seen him, Chief?” I questioned.

“No,” he answered simply.  But I have never heard such poignant regret as his wonderful voice crowded into that single word.

THE LOST ISLAND

“Yes,” said my old tillicum, “we Indians have lost many things.  We have lost our lands, our forests, our game, our fish; we have lost our ancient religion, our ancient dress; some of the younger people have even lost their fathers’ language and the legends and traditions of their ancestors.  We cannot call those old things back to us; they will never come again.  We may travel many days up the mountain-trails, and look in the silent places for them.  They are not there.  We may paddle many moons on the sea, but our canoes will never enter the channel that leads to the yesterdays of the Indian people.  These things are lost, just like ’The Island of the North Arm.’  They may be somewhere nearby, but no one can ever find them.”

“But there are many islands up the North Arm,” I asserted.

“Not the island we Indian people have sought for many tens of summers,” he replied sorrowfully.

“Was it ever there?” I questioned.

“Yes, it was there,” he said.  “My grandsires and my great-grandsires saw it; but that was long ago.  My father never saw it, though he spent many days in many years searching, always searching for it.  I am an old man myself, and I have never seen it, though from my youth, I, too, have searched.  Sometimes in the stillness of the nights I have paddled up in my canoe.”  Then, lowering his voice:  “Twice I have seen its shadow:  high rocky shores, reaching as high as the tree-tops on the mainland, then tall pines and firs on its summit like a king’s crown.  As I paddled up the Arm one summer night, long ago, the shadow of these rocks and firs fell across my canoe, across my face, and across the waters beyond.  I turned rapidly to look.  There was no island there, nothing but a wide stretch of waters on both sides of me, and the moon almost directly overhead.  Don’t say it was the shore that shadowed me,” he hastened, catching my thought.  “The moon was above me; my canoe scarce made a shadow on the still waters.  No, it was not the shore.”

“Why do you search for it?” I lamented, thinking of the old dreams in my own life whose realization I have never attained.

“There is something on that island that I want.  I shall look for it until I die, for it is there,” he affirmed.

There was a long silence between us after that.  I had learned to love silences when with my old tillicum, for they always led to a legend.  After a time he began voluntarily: