An Introduction To The Story Of The Silent Brothers:
An Excerpt
Chapter I
On a cool and windy morning, in the deep canyons of Arizona, a whisper
of voices carried, hauntingly, across the undulating river; irregular
outcroppings of massive rocks protruding through the icy-blue waters,
adding the weight of years and memory and adding, also, to the majesty
that was the Grand Canyon. It was my first prolonged trip to this area of
my homeland, although I had driven through it many times; it was now that
I found myself amongst some of the oldest of memories – the great canyon,
made by extreme force, pressure, and violence was now peaceful, tranquil,
and created a sense of beauty and harmony.
The year was 1980.
I had traveled here with family members, and was now encamped on a
large plateau of volcanic stone and fissures winding their way through and
down smaller canyons, ending in beautiful and blue-green pools, rising
steam could be seen in the early morning light. Horses were nearby, and
they pawed the ground in anticipation of the coming day. It had been a
spiritual time, surrounded by such primitive environments, and I reveled in
its simplicity and harsh reality. It seemed, perhaps, that this was the perfect
idyllic setting, the primal setting of a better relationship with nature and
humanity.
Such are the dreams of youth and romantic idealism
The rough speech of the native Indian population, although spoken in
English, had the rough accents bred with a people who had their own
language, their own culture, religion, world-view, and independent destiny.
They knew this. They lived this. It was not taught them by the State, nor
was it taught them by the ‘white man’s schools’, but passed on to them,
spoken aloud by their Chiefs and Medicine Men. This Race-Culture
belonged to them without fear or favor, it belonged to their blood and
bone.
There was no deep longing in my soul to be like these souls, to straddle
both the ‘east and the west’, as many of these individuals attempted to do,
fighting against their natural instincts to remain as their ancestors had been
while, at the same time, trying hard to imitate, to get along with, that most
compelling force, that ineluctable stream of civilization, of the West and
her children who, unlike most here, did not know or understand this
simple, complex, and powerful emotion – that of tribe, brotherhood, ethnic
determinism and a sense of identity which marked them forever different,
proudly different.
As the horses neighed and whinnied, pawing the ground in hastening
agitation, saddled, and prepared for the day’s movement into the backcountry,
I motioned to one that I had come to see, and to call, Crow Face
who, upon hearing his new name, scowled, and waved me away with a
whoop. He was a good rider, but over-bold, and more confidence than
horsemanship coursed in his veins; this was a continuing competition
between the two of us. The family dog, an Elkhound, beautifully golden brown,
with a curved and fluffy tail, had already been embroiled in several
fights with the dogs of this village, and had received grudging respect from
the men of the village and, finally, most of the tribal dogs as well.
While getting my personal belongings rolled and tied to my saddle, my
thoughts drifted from the night’s setting of voices, campfires, and the
spiritual setting of Family, pitted against the brisk morning sky, sun bright
but cold, taking in and observing, the marked difference between the two
groups present: Indian and White.
There were, of course, similarities, and tremendous differences; the simple
act of preparing the horses was, for myself and my family, utilitarian,
mixed with sensitive remarks and gestures to the individual horses, not so
with the young indian boys, who were rough, making sure that their
‘charges’ knew who was the boss – after all, these were lesser beings than
The People – that ancient and telling story of the beginning of Man, the
true Men of the universe.
Funny, I thought, as I mounted the large Bay, which had been loaned to me
by the Chief of the village (in fact, all five had been loaned, and not
without some disagreement by some of the others in the village, but that
had passed quickly), that there were so many things which separated each
of us, one to the other, that it stuck in my mind, clarifying many things
which I had observed sporadically over the years – that, truly, we are
unique, all of us, one to the other and so, are the races of men. The mode of
dress, of speech, of faith, all were different, or suspect upon close reflexion
and analysis – at least to myself, as my family members were, more or less,
enamored with the spectacle of their surrounding, with the spiritual sense
of nature, as opposed to their lives lived within boxes and concrete, yet
they were not held in high-regard, as the distinct flavor of accommodation
seemed, to these villagers at least, to be of lesser stuff than them.
I was left alone.
*****
Robert Mathews was driving down the road, thinking of how he was going
to prepare his family against that rising tide of colour which, he knew, was
growing like a cancer, preparing to move northward, into his peaceful and
serene valley of Metaline Falls, Washington, the place where he had
chosen to move, where he had brought the woman he loved, Debbie
Mathews (McGarrity), a down-to-earth, soft-spoken girl, pleasant-faced,
and bringing with her the americana of a more traditional life; she knew the
boundaries of men and women, but also knew the way to a man’s heart
was through his stomach – and with this power, she could win the day, no
matter the occasion – excepting, perhaps, Robert’s fiercely understood
passion for his native soil, his country, and his People.
This was 1980, and many things had transpired since his arrival here, in
Metaline.
In the ‘southern half’ (this being the designation of everything below the
Oregon border, and everything east of the Dakotas), there was talk of crime
waves, of struggle and conflict between the races, rapes, murder, robbery
and the appropriation of Land by those whose ancient memory of
nationhood, Azatlan, was being stoked by certain politicians and catholic
spokesmen who, one and all, were actively abetting these ideas and, like
Aristotle to Alexander, were mentoring numerous individuals and groups
to ‘take back’ their ancient tribal homelands – mostly in what we know as
California and Texas.
Bob knew this feeling, Homeland, and felt just as passionate and bitterly
opposed to giving up territory, that real and physical mark of sovereignty,
as this was, in his mind, the ultimate mark of a weak and cowardly people
– having once held this in trust – now, willy nilly, giving it away to those
who had not even fired a shot. He had promised himself, a long time
before, that as long as there were men like him, and red blood in their
veins, this would not be allowed to happen, could not be allowed to
happen.
The old truck was worn, but not out, and slowly he made it up the grade,
down-shifted, and let the engine whine and brake itself as the view of his
‘homestead’ came into view.
It was a modest home, a small out-building was being framed and the
plans were for it to house hay, and miscellaneous food and material for his
Galloway cattle, which he had chosen for their hardiness, as well as the
fact that his Scottish heritage made it a commonsense decision – as
Scotland offered much of the same cold and temperate climate.
After settling on the land, Mathews had brought the first Scottish Galloway
cattle into Pend Oreille County. Angus are bred by Galloways, and Bob
erected a sign at his fence, complete with a painting of a hefty bull, saying,
"Selkirk Mountain Galloways, Hardy & Thrifty Scottish Cattle." He knew
with their thick coats, the Galloways consumed much less feed in the
winter, making them better suited for the climate than the Herefords almost
everyone else raised in the valley. His bull was named MacGregor. The
bull and a cow, Bonnie Lass, sired a calf, Rob Roy. Bob’s sense of his
heritage was rich, robust, and a little humorous to many who knew him.
Debbie was waving at the doorway to welcome him home; he dreaded the
evening conversation, that Debbie was unable to bear children, and that
Bob was determined to have a Son – adoption was being discussed, and a
close friend, some have said his closest friend, Ken Loff, and his wife
Marlene, who had bought property in 1973 in the same area, were having
another child, and the four miscarriages that Debbie and Bob had suffered,
were wearing on the both of them. Bob, of course, wanted as many
children as he could manage safely – that is, afford – and the remorse
which Debbie had often felt, not so much guilt as simply knowing that Bob
wanted his own ‘about him’, in the traditional Celtic fashion of the Irish
and Scots, and she was determined to work something out for the two of
them. This was the traditional American way, it was about Family, and this
had been passed down by the rich Germano/Celtic traditions of the early
American settlers, and Bob and Debbie were true sons and daughters of
this stock.
As old Hooknose, a well-known mountain peak, belonging to the Selkirk
Mountain range, laying north of the modest homestead looked on, he
parked and got out of the truck; he paused, thinking of many things, and
foremost among them, was the time when Bob first spoke to his Father,
Johnny Mathews, about helping him purchase ‘Mathews Acres’, a 60 acre
plot of land, off Boundary Dam Road, a full 480 feet above the township,
and how he felt that the whole Family, not just him and Debbie, should
leave Arizona and come up for good. It was thickly wooded, with a 60-foot
drop on the north side to Beaver Creek, which cascaded down to the river.
It was almost directly across the river from Bunker Hill Mine, a local
business ,which employed many in town.
Johnny Mathews' ancestors left the Scottish Highlands to settle in North
Carolina. He was born in 1915 in Atoka, Oklahoma, while his father ran a
store there. However, the business failed and the family went back to North
Carolina before finally moving to Detroit when Johnny was nine. His dad
had gotten a job running the dining room at the Ford Motor Company
training school. The rest of the time he was busy meeting people and
making lifetime friends; he brought with him a sense of community and
social responsibility.
The Mathews Family was the prototypical all-American clan of the 1950s.
They came from hard-working, idealistic European stock. In the early
1950s, Johnny not only was Mayor of Marfa, a very small Texas town, but
Chamber of Commerce president, upstanding businessman, and scout
leader. Una Mathews, his charming, loving wife, took on the role of the
town's ‘den mother’ and matriarch of her brood—three boys, spaced four
years apart. By the early ‘60’s’, the paint on this idyllic portrait was
peeling: the American ethos of Rockwell having faded, like a rotting
canvas.
In 1930, at age fifteen, Johnny ran away to Arizona, where he found work
on a ranch near Red Rock, in the hot terrain of widely spread and deeply
etched valleys, halfway between Phoenix and Tucson. There, he was
impressed with the wide open spaces of the Arizona desert. The sparse
hills, bereft of vegetation, the blistering sun and freezing nights, were far
different than the humid laden Blue Ridge mountains of North Carolina;
rather more like Texas. There were no dense stands of old-growth trees,
and here one could see for hundreds of square miles at a single glance. The
sky, an unspoiled sapphire, a vision hauntingly different than smoggy
Detroit, or any metropolis of medium to large size. It was cleaner here,
than Johnny remembered of Texas – it must have been something in the
breeze, passed down from the large mountains looming in the distance – a
scent of Pines was always in the air.
He and Bob had spoken many times about the move in which Bob had
taken his family, with his father’s help, to Washington State; now, Bob
was imperative about Una, his mother, as well as his father, traveling up to
the ‘northwest’ and planting roots – Bob had made it clear that this was a
good move, a smart move, for all of them to share land together. In this
way, each would be responsible for the other in a true, and real sense. He
finally agreed.
This had changed Johnny’s life. Ken Loff as well.
A few years earlier, while Bob was working his land, a car with California
plates rolled into the valley, and soon was parked next to Mathews’ Acres.
Ken Loff was a native of New York, via his home in California, and he
struck Bob as someone who might be lost, but soon found out that Ken had
purchased the land next to his. Ken was easy to talk with, his easy manner,
lacking in the usual sharp-edged ‘new yorker’ attitude, put Bob at ease and
they quickly became friends.
Ken Loff was an unlikely contemporary man for the north woods. A local
resident of this area, would have given odds that he would be a ‘big-city’
man his whole life, if they had seen him walking the streets of the old
towns in this area – he had an ‘air’ about him…