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…From the Chemainus Valley Courier
Then she thought of the cedar cones and seeds. They could be stored away for a long time, she imagined, then if they were given air, soil, water and sunlight, they would germinate and grow. That’s what Uncle means, she thought – that the spirit of cedar and of the cedar cape lived on in the hearts of her people and would not be extinguished. The conditions of renewal and revival would be achieved.
“Weave!” he had urged her, and so she would.
From that day, and for two-years after, she worked on the last cape she would ever weave. She and her uncle set out to find the choicest trees within their territory. He traded for the best goat’s wool that could be found, and the finest sea otter pelts. And the craftsman of their village built a magnificent bent cedar box to store the cape in.
“This cape shall not be worn until the box is opened and it is discovered by our descendants,” the weaver said when she was finished.
“It will be worn once,” her uncle corrected. “And you shall be the one to dance this cape and bring the energy and spirit of our people into it.”
And so she did. She danced for the assembled families of her village; danced as they watched in wonder; as the spirit of drumming, music and singing drenched the cedar, goat’s wool and otter’s fur that made up the cape.
“I have become an ancestor,” the weaver said, when she was done.
“We are all ancestors,” her uncle agreed.
And the cape was put away for the day when it would be danced again by their descendants.
