‘Waheela’s Whistle’ by Scotty Olsen

What Transcends Words

From Pulp Literature Issue 47, find an excerpt of Scotty Olsen’s story steeped in music, ‘Waheela’s Whistle’, below.

Waheela’s Whistle

by Scotty Olsen

Kôhkom Rose had ancient hands. The backs looked like dried-out rivers. The palms were rough, wrinkled, and calloused from years of working at the corner bakery. Skin so translucent that blue veins shone vibrantly as they worked their way around the knuckles. But her strong baker’s hands could still play the most beautiful keys on a piano. Sitting to her right was her grandson, a very young, blond Indigenous boy with brown almond eyes who watched carefully as the notes revealed themselves. For as long as Travis could recall, he had always sat beside Kôhkom Rose on Sundays, watching those hands dance on the keys.

“These keys are for Kimosôm,” she said, her left hand stretching to the far end of the piano, “and these are for your mom.” She reached around him with a smile. “This is how my mother taught me.” Travis tried his best to memorize the dance those fingers performed. Much later in life, he would recall loving this part; it was their Sunday ceremony.

She smiled softly—“Pay attention”—and paused, then slowed the rhythm down to help him. She repeated the process, then grabbed his hand and placed it under hers. A warm feeling of safety swept over him as her fingers guided his. The melody she played matched the hum and the soft whisper of her voice. She pointed to each key and, aligning each syllable with a note, said softly, “Gentle, whispers, mother’s, song.” Each note, gently pressed, seemed to carry magic. She repeated the process, and he followed; eventually, she released her hand and placed it on his back, encouraging him to master the melody.

When he did, he looked into her olive-green eyes with the biggest smile of success. She rubbed his back and gave him a soft kiss on his forehead to reinforce his triumph. The fresh smell of lemon-scented shampoo filled his nose.

“Can you show me more … ?” he asked.

“What if I show you something truly special?” Kôhkom Rose whispered, her fingers hesitating for a moment over the keys. She then placed both hands firmly in the centre of the piano. The melody she played was well-rehearsed and carried a heavy secret. Travis felt a chill despite the warm tune, as if the notes were whispering old truths beyond his grasp.

“This music holds something special.” Her hands seemed to defy the arthritic pain that had prevented her from baking, and her rhythm, tempo, and endurance surpassed Travis’s comprehension. The sound made the walls vibrate; the notes found their way through the cracks in the floor and the mouse holes in the walls; loose shingles fell from the roof; and an old hearth bellowed, blowing ash into the room. The melody escaped into the avenue and brought colour to the long-dilapidated home in Edmonton’s north end.

Her fingers danced at such a rapid and rhythmic pace that each corresponding note seemed to defy the sound barrier and catch up with older notes as they raced out of the home. Fallen leaves rustled, silver tin garbage bins rolled down the alleyway, and houses along Edmonton’s historic 118th Avenue felt the disturbance and seemed to turn to the tune that they hadn’t heard in decades. This part of the city had transformed so much over the years but still remained the same. Houses that had endured oil booms and busts, and stood when this was just a mystery of a place, the gateway to the north, turned on their foundation to watch the tune whizz by.

Find the full story in Pulp Literature Issue 47, Summer 2025

Scotty Olsen is an Indigenous author attending UBC’s MFA program for creative writing. He was selected for the inaugural Audible Indigenous Writer’s Circle. He was recently published in IHRAM’s quarterly literary magazine Indigenous Voices.