Page 71 of A Winding Wave of Magic
— JONATHAN SWIFT
When we pulled up to the trailhead at Oswald West State Park, the same place where I had been caught surfing just a few days before, but instead of going down toward the beach, I led Jonathan to another trailhead that wound around the cliffs, and then up the Neahkahnie’s north side to the summit. The sun was making vain attempts to persist through cloud cover, but the cold and damp February air required layers. I had been able to find enough things appropriate for a hike: a baggy red fleece that used to fit my high school swimming shoulders, a pair of ragged hiking boots, and a wool beanie that reeked of juniper berries. On top of that, I wore my father’s old Marine-issued poncho that flapped around my hands and reached nearly to my knees.
Jonathan was dressed in casual clothes and a Barbour jacket, but in contrast to me, he looked as if he had walked out ofa catalog instead of a rummage sale. Even his Gore-tex pants seemed neatly pressed, hardly making a sound as we padded up the soft dirt trail.
I set a decent pace on the switchbacks, and Jonathan followed easily. Slightly annoyed—did he have to be good at everything?—I picked up my speed, balancing on my toes against the steepening incline, practically jogging up the trail. It suddenly seemed imperative that I get to the top of the mountain as soon as possible, and definitely before the sorcerer behind me.
“‘She lives in storm and strife,’” he murmured as one branch slapped me in the face.
“You’re a Yeats fan on top of science and the law?” I asked.
His eyebrows rose. “Everyone should be a Yeats fan.” He nodded toward the ocean. “It fits.”
“Right,” I said. “But you’ve got it all wrong.”
“I have?”
“Of course,” I said, breaking off a lacy frond from one of the great evergreens we passed. “Cedar, not oak. And no one here is looking for a proud death. We’re looking for life.” I smiled and tossed the frond at him.
He took it and smiled back. “So we are.”
I picked a few leaves off a salal bush growing from an ancient cedar stump and tucked them into my pocket except for one, which I popped into my mouth. The bitter taste made my lips pucker slightly, but I chewed it to a paste for a few minutes before spitting it out.
“What was that?” Jonathan asked behind me. “It looks like a heather, but it’s different from the sort that grows in England.”
“Salal leaves,” I said. “Good for cramps.”
I glanced over my shoulder, prepared to smirk at the cringe most men wore when menstruation came up. But Jonathan’s face was placid.
“You’re indisposed?” If anything, he looked confused, like he should have known.
“No, I just get a fussy stomach when I’m stressed.”
The winter clouds had returned, but so far the worst we faced was a mild wind and misty rain. A downpour was always possible, but that was what the raincoats were for. The air felt heavy and vigilant, and there was no one on the trail but us.
“This place is strange,” Jonathan remarked behind me as we wound around the massive trunks and dormant ferns. “Something happened here.”
The trail was wet and muddy. Our feet squelched loudly with every step.
“This mountain has a long history,” I said, stepping over a fallen fir tree. “The Tillamook named it after Ekahni, which is either the ‘supreme god,’ the fire god, or an incarnation of Coyote, the trickster, depending on which story you read. I think the last two make the most sense. The mountain tends to play tricks on people.”
“How so?”
“Spanish gold, for instance.”
I could feel Jonathan’s eyes nudging me in the back, urging me to continue.
“There used to be shipwrecks off the side of the mountain,” I said before hopping over one particularly muddy patch. “The wind would blow them right onto the rocks, and they couldn’t see the mountain at night. Legend says that one of the ships carried bullion. And that when the Spanish brought it ashore, the captain killed a slave to protect it with a ghost, and then hid the gold somewhere on the mountain.”
A loud snort emitted behind me. “And I suppose people are still searching for it. Fools.”
Vaguely miffed, I wondered why he should be so condescending about a myth that, by all local accounts, couldvery likely be true. I, of course, had it under good authority from Gran that the mountain held absolutely no memories of the event in question, buthewouldn’t know that.
“Well, the most anyone has ever found is a few gold coins and some wax, more likely dropped by travelers during the nineteenth century than a Spanish pirate centuries earlier. But still, you never know.”
“Yes, you do.Youknow as well as I do that sort of thing leaves marks on a place,” Jonathan said. “You grew up here. You’ve never Seen evidence of the story yourself?”
I pushed aside an empty alder branch and looked back at him. “I’ve Seen a lot of things on this mountain. But no pirates.” Something else occurred to me. “What would you See? Ghosts? How can sorcerers See memory at all?”
