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  Praise for

  Down to a Soundless Sea

  “These are inspiring stories about hardy individuals who confront hardship, loss, and the potent power of nature with remarkable fortitude and grace. A notable addition to the Steinbeck legacy, this collection is enthusiastically recommended.”

  —Library Journal

  “Reading Steinbeck is like drifting back in time … The stories in Down to a Soundless Sea float effortlessly across the decades and conjure up images of N.C. Wyeth paintings come to life.”

  —Pages

  “Steinbeck writes about a bygone era with a passion for language, the lost land, and the unfathomable sea.”

  —The Oregonian

  “Thomas Steinbeck’s collection … proves that here the apple does not fall far from the tree.”

  —Dallas Morning News

  “Steinbeck’s naturalism and his accomplished voice make it clear that the family’s literary legacy is in very good hands.”

  —Publisher’s Weekly

  “Drawing on Monterey County’s rich history and culture, Thomas Steinbeck’s collection of short stories … evokes the storytelling skills that made his father, John Steinbeck, one of America’s most lauded authors.”

  —Monterey Herald

  “Thomas Steinbeck has found his own voice, and his own words … if Down to a Soundless Sea was written by John Smith, it would be worth picking up, and reading.”

  —Bookreporter

  “The stories … have a rhythm and tone apart from most contemporary writing. Steinbeck’s writing has a plain, simple but specific voice.”

  —Pittsburgh Tribune

  “A first collection … [that] proves [Steinbeck] a worthy literary heir to dad John. [The stories] are solid narrative feasts.”

  —Fort Worth Morning Star-Telegram

  “In … an intriguing debut collection of short stories, Thomas Steinbeck walks the same ground covered by his famous father. Drawing on local folklore and stories he heard while growing up, the author celebrates the offbeat characters of Big Sur and the sumptuous landscape of early Monterey County, its fishing villages and rolling hills.”

  —San Jose Mercury News

  “[This book] is like reading a delightful history … Once you’re in, you’re hooked, eager to discover what happens next. [These] are simply stories about simple people, told in that wonderful storytelling type of way.”

  —Arts & Entertainment

  “[These stories] are entertaining, and, yet, tell us more of the character and experience of the people who lived [on the Monterery coast] than any history book could.”

  —The Historical Novels Review

  “Superb writing … [Steinbeck’s] phrasing and imagery are truly distinguished and distinctive. This is storytelling at its best. This is true literature.”

  —Carmel Pine Cone

  “[These] six short stories and one novella are as rich as any minstrel’s art… [They] are richly detailed.”

  —Seaside Coast Weekly

  “Steinbeck gathers together history, folklore, and old-fashioned yarns and weaves them into heartwarming portraits of humble people bravely battling a rough environment, hardships, and losses.”

  —Orange Coast

  Down to a Soundless Sea is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A Ballantine Book Published by The Random House

  Publishing Group

  Copyright © 2002 by Thomas Steinbeck

  Readers Guide copyright © 2003 by Thomas Steinbeck and the Random

  House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright

  Conventions. Published in the United States by The Random House Publishing

  Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc. Ballantine Reader’s Circle and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  www.ballantinebooks.com/BRC/

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available from the publisher upon request.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-45867-4

  v3.1

  The deepest roots sustain the greatest trees.

  —J. E. S.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Map

  Author’s Note

  The Night Guide

  The Wool Gatherer

  Blind Luck

  An Unbecoming Grace

  The Dark Watcherz

  Blighted Cargo

  Sing Fat and the Imperial Duchess of Woo

  A Reader’ Guide

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  When I was young I discovered, as all children must, that certain venerable traditions connected to family life required total participation. Most families maintain these fabled customs one way or another and, for the most part, they are obscure in origin. If one is fortunate, these rituals have, at their core, a modicum of wit and entertainment.

  My brother and I were particularly blessed with a family convention that involved storytelling. We sprang like noisy chicks from a gaggle of writers, composers, and entertaining raconteurs. My father, the ancient gander of our flock, was particularly fond of a ripping good yarn cleverly and deftly told. Even his taste in friends and acquaintances ran to the tall-tale-spinners and those whose recollections included great and elusive fish.

  In our particular rite anyone could play, family or not, but it was understood that the participants had to share in my father’s passion for skill. For it wasn’t just the story itself that would come under close scrutiny, but also the ability of the storyteller, which often commanded the critical balance in the final reckoning.

  Storytelling efforts were usually called forward at the dinner table, though almost any impromptu gathering might inspire an eruption of, “Did your Mom ever tell you the one about cousin Fanny and the King of Tonga?” Family and guests would be cajoled into imparting “that yarn about Grandma Olive and the mountain lion” or “the one about Ernie Pyle and the North African bedbug that won the Purple Heart.” It made little difference what the story entailed or whether we had heard it before. The joy of the game always revolved about the mastery of the teller, and of that we never tired.

  Like most youngsters, my brother and I always called for stories of far-off ranches, rugged shores, and the inspired exploits of our ancestors. Of course, we loved the funny stories, but there were others that would send us to our beds with chills of foreboding. Like most children, we secretly relished the mysterious, eerie, and hair-raising chronicles best.

  I was drawn to stories of my father’s youth and the history of the period, anything that depicted the backdrop of his narratives. It became an effortless practice to immerse myself in the details of life in Monterey County from the turn of the century through the 1930s. It appeared to me as a singular time to have lived, and I envied every kaleidoscopic recollection of my father’s youthful adventures.

  As children we had often visited relatives in Salinas, Monterey, and Watsonville, and in my youth, these places held great charm.

  Every craggy mountain, rolling pasture, and rock-bound cove came alive because of the stories I had heard from native relatives. I discovered in later years that I had accidentally assimilated more knowledge about the Monterey coast and its history than 90 percent of the people who actually lived there. The bulk
of this incidental information was metabolized in the form of oral histories that were, for me, pure entertainment.

  In this short volume I have attempted to carry on the tradition of telling the old stories, informally of course, as family custom dictates. As in the past, the entertainment is best served with a home-cooked meal and in the company of like-minded listeners. But stories transmitted in an oral tradition have an aura of performance, a flavor of language, and a sense of period that is difficult to reproduce on the printed page. The vernacular of an anecdote being told by a person old enough to remember its origins is quite different from the language employed by those of later generations who retell it. Yet it is the mode and color of the original narration that contributes authenticity, historical bias, and tonality to such annals.

  It is, therefore, always a painstaking maneuver to attempt duplication of language used by the original participants and make it ring true for the modern ear. Despite the improbability of success in this arena, I have nonetheless jumped into this linguistic pit armed only with a well-tutored ear and the knowledge that my critics are no better equipped to render judgment than I. There was also the matter of background particulars to be considered. When a story has been told and retold numberless times, the thorny problem of accuracy arises. The tangible who, where, what, and when of any specific account has a habit of getting mislaid in the excitement of the telling. This problem is often amplified by the number of different versions of the story in circulation.

  Any competent police investigator will attest to the persistence of this problem. If there are ten witnesses to an incident, that investigator is more likely than not to be saddled with ten different accounts of that same event. Being a writer of historical fiction and not an officer of the law, I have invariably shown a shameless propensity for the most entertaining and morally illustrative narratives. But I also respect the underlying accuracy of detailed facts, and for those I have always gratefully depended upon the dedicated research of qualified regional historians.

  I encourage my readers to pass along these stories in the spirit with which they came to me, for they belong to anyone who finds some small merit in the lessons they impart.

  THE NIGHT GUIDE

  Eighteen fifty-nine was the devil’s own year for gales along the Sur coast, but their raucous zenith was registered near the end of April. Crashing up from the south-southwest with piratical ferocity, the cycle of gales unburdened enough water to send the Little and Big Sur Rivers four to six feet over their banks. The runoff from Pico Blanco alone kept the Little Sur at near flood for two weeks.

  Sadly, every mortal creature that made the rugged coast a refuge suffered from the shattering blows of an outraged sea. Cresting rollers twenty feet high and two miles long mined into the impenetrable cliffs and rocks for days on end. Inevitably, every rookery, bower, haul-out, and nesting sight on the Monterey coast was swept away. The corpses of every known species of coastal life littered what shore there was left. The sharks enjoyed abundance for days after each gale.

  The evidence of destruction was to be had from all quarters. Salmon Creek to Santa Cruz reported roads, byways, and trails strangled in mazes of uprooted and shattered trees. The prodigious rains, sometimes so heavy and horizontal that simple breathing became hazardous, drilled the soil so incessantly that broad landslides were abruptly carved from the mountainsides. Several large rockslides unalterably isolated the more remote mining claims.

  It was during a blessed lull between the repetitive coastal tempests that Boy Bill Post moved his wife from Monterey to a newly purchased piece of land bordering Soberanes Creek. His land formed a part of the old San Jose y Sur Chiquito land grant, and he had fixed it in his mind that his acres would be prime for cattle. There appeared to be abundant grazing in the hills and pastures, and the splendid ocean views gave him constant pleasure.

  Serious anxiety regarding the recent inclination of weather set Boy Bill Post to hurriedly construct a cabin to shelter his new family. This urgency was magnified by the impending birth of the Posts’ first child.

  Boy Bill Post had married a handsome Rumsen Indian girl. Her name was Anselma Onesimo and her people had lived along Carmel Valley and its bountiful river for centuries. According to Anselma, her tribe had sprung from beneath the earth on the day of creation. The Rumsen people considered the Sur Mountains as spiritual ground and spoke of Mount Pico Blanco as the navel of the world.

  The constraints of time were suddenly made more pertinent by the return of the southern gales. Bill’s plans for their cabin were instantly altered to accommodate present needs and it quickly became a slant-roofed, one-room hut near Soberanes Creek. This proved not to be the most favorable of locations.

  The expectant father desperately hand split cedar shakes by the hour without recourse to food or rest. Anselma’s lying-in time was uncomfortably close at hand, and Boy Bill Post raced his hammer against the lightning-rent tempest that momentarily threatened to descend upon their heads.

  Anselma’s cries from within the rude shelter informed Bill Post that his firstborn and the gale might possibly arrive simultaneously. Then a sudden explosive crash of thunder heralded the initial, pelting pebbles of rain. It also proclaimed the welcome cries of his first child.

  Post managed to secure the last few cedar shakes to the roof just in time to greet Charles Francis Post. Bill’s gift to his burgeoning family was a tight shelter and dry stores. Not much in the way of a defense against the wrath of God perhaps, but better than canvas and poles in those wilds.

  March 1, 1859, the day the majestic gales attended the birth, also marked the sad loss of four sound ships. To seal the bargain, the coast of Monterey was sorrowfully altered by rock-grinding waves and carnivorous tides. There were other unique signs accompanying the birth, according to the mother, but it wasn’t for some time that anyone realized that young Frank was also the first child born in the high Sur under the American flag.

  In any event, the child’s nativity was accredited as genuinely auspicious, and it was noted by family members that unusual events occurred on the anniversary of that particular date every year.

  By the first of June that same year, Bill Post had built his new family a credible home higher up on the banks of the Soberanes, and he had begun to move on a few head of livestock to see how they fared before establishing a larger herd.

  Bill Post had grown into a man of relatively broad experience. He was the son of a successfully retired sea captain from New London, Connecticut, and the family counted itself honored to have had ancestors aboard the Mayflower. A typical Yankee, both innovative and practical, Bill always felt equal to any task he set for himself.

  In 1858 Bill Post had had the good sense to marry Anselma, and though he appraised his life as rich in experience, nothing had quite prepared him for fatherhood. He found himself looking for direct reflections of his own instincts and manner in the person of the child. This seemed only natural to Anselma, though Bill’s observations took on an unsettling character the more he studied the matter. Baby Charles Francis Post seemed remarkably self-absorbed and uncommonly introspective for an infant.

  Anselma quietly insisted there was absolutely no reason for concern. It was the child’s Rumsen Indian blood at play. Indian babies were rarely clamorous unless soiled or left without proper attention. Indeed, Anselma exhibited great interest in her child’s reflective temperament. She said it was a sign of great insight. This did little to assuage his father’s concern, however, and Bill continued focusing closely on his firstborn for signs of some subtle indisposition.

  Bill never ascertained anything beyond his own overanxious concerns, for Frank bloomed quite normally, though he remained quiet when he had nothing of importance to say. The child retained information easily and brought a fixed and patient concentration to every new experience. By the time the boy was three, Bill Post was forced to accept Anselma’s elementary appraisal of the situation. Little Frank assuredly perceived and understood more than most
tykes his age, but he kept his insights to himself, as did all his mother’s people.

  Little Frank loved to trail behind his mother as she drifted off into the barrens or high passes on one of her herb and medicine-gathering expeditions. Sometimes they would come across other parties of foraging Rumsen and happily move along together for a day or two exchanging news, gathering pine nuts and birds’ eggs, and hunting small game when the opportunity presented itself.

  This singular practice made Bill Post extremely uncomfortable from the outset, and he voiced innumerable objections to the custom. But if he thought for a moment he might discourage his wife’s basic Indian compacts and traditions, he was pitifully mistaken. Anselma considered foraging as an important part of an ancient and magic family responsibility. The very process required vast knowledge and humble reverence, and heaven help anyone who interfered.

  After a while Bill came to see that thorny point for himself and, with his usual Yankee practicality, let Anselma do as she pleased. He just got used to it, as he was meant to. He also became acclimated to little Frank, who sometimes looked at his father as though they had met somewhere else, in another time—a very disconcerting air when adopted by a child.

  Bill also became accustomed to his son’s long, ruminative pauses when asked a question. Little Frank seemed to ponder every inquiry seriously, regardless of magnitude. He always answered with disarming simplicity and truthfulness. These were not qualities Bill Post necessarily wanted his son to disavow in favor of thoughtless social spontaneity, so he adopted a circumspect manner when conversing with the child on any important subject.

  From little Frank’s perspective the whole world made sense. A moment’s balanced reflection always served to place every reality on an even plane. The truth always made itself brightly evident to him. Even awash in a sea of distortion, the truth was easily defined and understood. His reluctance to speak about all he knew was bred in the bone, as his mother had always contended. The fixed symmetry evident in all things, spiritual and physical, was perfectly resolved to little Frank’s way of thinking.