Legends of Vancouver | Page 7

But the tall, grey column
of stone will still be there--a monument to one man's fidelity to a
generation yet unborn--and will endure from everlasting to everlasting.

THE RECLUSE
Journeying toward the upper course of the Capilano River, about a mile
citywards from the dam, you will pass a disused logger's shack. Leave
the trail at this point and strike through the undergrowth for a few
hundred yards to the left and you will be on the rocky borders of that
purest, most restless river in all Canada. The stream is haunted with
tradition, teeming with a score of romances that vie with its grandeur
and loveliness, and of which its waters are perpetually whispering. But
I learned this legend from one whose voice was as dulcet as the
swirling rapids; but, unlike them, that voice is hushed to-day, while the
river, the river still sings on--sings on.
It was singing in very melodious tones through the long August
afternoon two summers ago, while we, the chief, his happy-hearted
wife, and bright young daughter, all lounged amongst the boulders and
watched the lazy clouds drift from peak to peak far above us. It was one
of his inspired days; legends crowded to his lips as a whistle teases the
mouth of a happy boy; his heart was brimming with tales of the
bygones, his eyes were dark with dreams and that strange mournfulness
that always haunted them when he spoke of long-ago romances. There
was not a tree, a boulder, a dash of rapid upon which his glance fell
which he could not link with some ancient poetic superstition. Then
abruptly, in the very midst of his verbal reveries, he turned and asked
me if I were superstitious. Of course I replied that I was.
"Do you think some happenings will bring trouble later on--will foretell
evil?" he asked.
I made some evasive answer, which, however, seemed to satisfy him,
for he plunged into the strange tale of the recluse of the canyon with
more vigor than dreaminess; but first he asked me the question:

"What do your own tribes, those east of the great mountains, think of
twin children?"
I shook my head.
"That is enough," he said before I could reply. "I see, your people do
not like them."
"Twin children are almost unknown with us," I hastened. "They are
rare, very rare; but it is true we do not welcome them."
"Why?" he asked abruptly.
I was a little uncertain about telling him. If I said the wrong thing, the
coming tale might die on his lips before it was born to speech, but we
understood each other so well that I finally ventured the truth:
"We Iroquois say that twin children are as rabbits," I explained. "The
nation always nicknames the parents. 'Tow-wan-da-na-ga.' That is the
Mohawk for rabbit."
"Is that all?" he asked curiously.
"That is all. Is it not enough to render twin children unwelcome?" I
questioned.
He thought a while, then, with evident desire to learn how all races
regarded this occurrence, he said, "You have been much among the
Palefaces, what do they say of twins?"
"Oh! the Palefaces like them. They are--they are--oh! well, they say
they are very proud of having twins," I stammered. Once again I was
hardly sure of my ground. He looked most incredulous, and I was led to
enquire what his own people of the Squamish thought of this discussed
problem.
"It is no pride to us," he said decidedly, "nor yet is it disgrace of rabbits;
but it is a fearsome thing--a sign of coming evil to the father, and,
worse than that, of coming disaster to the tribe."

Then I knew he held in his heart some strange incident that gave
substance to the superstition. "Won't you tell it to me?" I begged.
He leaned a little backward against a giant boulder, clasping his thin,
brown hands about his knees; his eyes roved up the galloping river,
then swept down the singing waters to where they crowded past the
sudden bend, and during the entire recital of the strange legend his eyes
never left that spot where the stream disappeared in its hurrying journey
to the sea. Without preamble he began:
"It was a grey morning when they told him of this disaster that had
befallen him. He was a great chief, and he ruled many tribes on the
North Pacific Coast; but what was his greatness now? His young wife
had borne him twins, and was sobbing out her anguish in the little
fir-bark lodge near the tidewater.
"Beyond the doorway gathered many old men and women--old in years,
old in wisdom, old in the lore and learning of their nations. Some of
them wept, some chanted solemnly the dirge of their lost hopes