Foragers

by Charles Oberndorf

  The Seventh Day

  The healer woke up first; Lightfoot Watcher and her daughter were still fast asleep. The light was dim in the early-morning haze, and there was only a vague hint of the day’s warmth. The voices of insects and animals, silent during the storm, now filled the air. I walked far behind the hut, near to where she tossed all the leftover parts of animals and fruits, and near there, but not too close, she emptied her body. At the river, its newly rushing water cold to the touch, she washed up. She watched fish swim by, but she didn’t have the patience to catch any.

  The strips of meat she had left hanging over her cooking fire were tasteless. If Lightfoot Watcher and her daughter had not been sitting outside her camp, intruding upon her solitude, she would have remembered to take them in. She ate a second strip.

  She left out six strips hanging for when they awoke. The remaining strips she placed in her kaross.

  On her way to the clearing she chose a thin animal trail that would take her by some snowmelt bushes that should be fresh in bloom. The snowmelt turned out to be empty. Broken fruit, lined white with mold, was scattered around the path. I left the trail for the brush, walking carefully, for every touched tree limb or shrub brought a short, sudden downpour of last night’s rain. She eyed the ground carefully, avoiding crawlers and itch moss, and she finally found the springleaves. She pulled up several plants, plucked the leaves, dusted the dirt off the tubers, and ate the bitter food.

  By the time she had reached the clearing, it had started to drizzle. The darkened ground was scarred the color of mud where water had rushed through it toward the brook. But the boulder didn’t look wet at all, not the way rock and ground would darken with water. The water ran straight off it, splashing light musical notes into puddles that lengthened away from the boulder. The animal was probably as dry as a nightskin inside a cave. Maybe dryer. I envied the animal its perfect solitude and dryness.

  At the bottom of the hill slept Roofer, curled up by the remains of a fire doused by the rain. Old Sour Plum and Hugger were nowhere to be seen. She made sure she walked toward him just loud enough to awake him. He sat up and positioned himself to watch the boulder as if he had been watching it all night. He smelled of wet hair and damp skin.

  “Are you protecting us?” she asked after some thought. Too much talking, like too little distance, made Roofer very nervous.

  “No. I want to see the animal before Old Sour Plum does.”

  I walked to a respectful distance from Roofer and sat down. The ground was soft and wet, soaking into her pubic skirt. She did not look over at Roofer once.

  “Old Sour Plum,” said Roofer, “is so solitary that he no longer hungers for knowing. I think he will kill the animal next time it comes out, and I think that is why the animal stays in there.”

  Although Roofer was nowhere near as strong as the old man, Sour Plum would avoid fighting with a man from the area. “Have you been here all night?” I asked.

  “Yes. And the night before.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Childless brought me fish, but I did not eat it.”

  “Would you like some meat?”

  “Yes. I am tired of berries and nuts and roots.”

  “I have meat but it has no taste.”

  “It is still meat.”

  She handed him one strip at a time. “This is for watching. This is for respecting my solitude. And this is a gift because the roof you made kept me dry last night.”

  Roofer showed his respect by saying nothing and by sitting still while I stood so close to him. Once he had grasped all three strips of meat, I stepped back to a respectful distance and looked away from him.

  The dampness had sunk deep into I’s bones, and she couldn’t imagine ever feeling comfortable again. The ones who had come from the river’s mouth and the ones who had come from elsewhere looked equally miserable. They wrapped themselves in sodden hides and waited for the sun to become generous. Another almost-a-man, this one with scars along one arm stretching from elbow to wrist, paced back and forth, keeping near to the ashen remains of the fire which Far Hunter had built. Nearby Chest Scars and Arm Scars were huddled by their fire. Arm Scars’ two sons and Far Hunter were nowhere to be seen.

  Later in the morning the sun appeared, but it was stingy with its warmth. A mother with scars across her shoulders and her waist-high son stood at the crest of the hill. While the mother leaned against a tree, the son walked to the edge of the woods, yelled at the boulder, then ran back to his mother’s side, his feet sometimes slipping upon the muddy ground. Wisdom was sitting against the same old thickbark tree, and she told I that earlier that same morning Childless Crooked had passed by, and she was being ardently followed by the almost-a-man I called Newcomer and by Flatface’s almost-a-man son. “Now, what does her son want to do with Childless?”

  Chest Scars approached I. “I am here,” the woman from the river’s mouth said.

  “I am here,” said I. “I have no food to share.”

  “I have some words to share.” She told I the animal had not come out of the boulder to see the rains or to see the sunrise.

  They shared some more words until I felt comfortable enough to ask about the almost-a-man who had scars that went from elbow to wrist on one of his arms.

  “One or another call him Clever Fingers. There was a man who no woman wanted to live near the river’s mouth, and Clever Fingers fought off the man. The scars are to mark that he could be as brave as a woman.”

  The idea was unsettling. I did not like the idea of a man fighting another man at a woman’s bidding. Nor did she like the idea of praising brave men, as if brave men were needed to make karosses and build huts.

  I left and returned that afternoon. Roofer was pacing back and forth farther back in the woods. Off near where the stream cut through the woods, Hugger was also pacing. Each worked hard to ignore each other. Along the hillside the woman with the knee-high son still leaned against a tree. Her son was curled up by her feet, napping upon her kaross. I could now see the angled scars along her shoulders; she, too, must live near the river’s mouth. Chest Scars and Arm Scars sat by their fire. Clever Fingers now walked back and forth behind them. Wisdom was sitting against her thickbark tree. Lightfoot Watcher and her daughter were sitting by the hearth they had built two nights ago. I tried to ignore them, but every time she looked, the daughter was watching her, eyes wide and warm.

  Later there was shouting that could be heard from where the clearing overlooked the lake. The shouting came closer, belonged to two voices, one man and another, who called to each other to stay away, not to come too close. Each came over the crest of the hill and stood in the clearing. The first one looked like a man who had just started to grow, with darker skin and pouches on his neck. The second one, who topped the hill a bit later, looked just the same. Only the way the mud had splattered on their legs looked different. I’s mother had told her a story of a mother who had given birth to twin sons and who did not bury the first child. The first always wanted the same as the second; the second always wanted the same as the first. They reached for the same thing at the same time, and they always ended up mating close and angry. One day each was so angry at the other that they each took the knife they used to cut and fashion a kaross or a carry bag and stabbed the other in the heart. Now, seeing twins for the first time, I was astounded, and a bit scared. What if they came to blows here? I kept her back to Lightfoot Watcher.

  The twins looked at the boulder for a bit, then looked at each other. After a few whispered words, they walked to different sides of the boulder, called to it, demanded that the animal come out, pounded on its sides, the slaps resounding in the woods. I couldn’t help but be impressed; no man who lived near Winding River had walked this close to the boulder, no man had touched it. They walked around it, calling to each other to stay away, the call becoming a screech the one time they came around the boulder from opposite directions and almost walked right into each other. The sun had become generous,
and sweat shone on their skins. The twins finally left the way they’d come, heading down the hill and out of sight, each one’s voice calling to the other to come along but stay away.

  With the two men now gone, Lean Against Tree’s waisthigh son started once again to run to the clearing and yell at the animal inside the boulder before running back to his mother. She was once again leaning against a tree and watching.

  Huggable’s daughter arrived. She ran to a respectful distance from I, stopped, averted her eyes, and said, “Has anything happened yet?”

  “Nothing has happened,” said Lean Against Tree. “I walked two days to watch my son run back and forth.”

  Huggable had reappeared too. She still wore her kaross so that it covered both her teats, and over her shoulder hung a quiver full of arrows and a light bow. Standing by her daughter’s side, she said to Lean Against Tree, “I am here.”

  Lean Against Tree looked away. “I am here,” she said, the words hard and carrying no respect.

  Huggable looked to Chest Scars and Arm Scars. “I am here.”

  Neither woman answered; neither woman looked in her direction.

  Far Hunter was heard before seen, calling out in her loud female voice that she had food. With her came Flatface’s eldest daughter and Squawker. Along their shoulders was a long pole of wood, huge flanks of meat hanging over it. Flatface soon followed with an infant on each hip, both reaching for her withering teats. The other children followed, running around trees, screaming out that there was meat, fresh meat, that the woman from the river’s mouth was the best hunter ever.

  Far Hunter was the one to cut up the meat and divide it, and I and each woman watched her carefully. The first cut went to Wisdom, of all people, the second to Flatface. Flatface said something to Far Hunter, and an even larger portion was handed to I, who had no children or men to pass it on to. She cut off for herself what would be filling, and she carried the rest to Lightfoot Watcher in hopes that after such a gift the woman would not be able to ask another favor of her.

  After Far Hunter had given portions to each woman who lived near the river, she gave portions to each woman who came from the lake, then to each remaining woman. Each woman gave portions to each child, and every now and then an older child would be sent off with a portion to some man who was walking through the woods, calling out softly, keeping each one aware of his presence.

  As the meat was cooked, as it was eaten, there was the feeling of happiness, of nourishment, and there were jokes and mother’s stories retold, but there was also an air of tension. One should be sitting by her cooking fire with another woman, perhaps a chest-high boy running off with a girl who shared his mother to give a portion of meat to someone farther off. Here there were too many people, and only because of the boulder. A kill this size would be shared across an area, with enough meat left over to smoke and to eat later. Here it was hard to keep your distance, to show respect.

  There was a yelp, a few words shouted, and a crying boy ran to his mother. He had stepped too close to an older man. Maybe Old Sour Plum had been right, but not in the way he had meant to be right. The animal in this boulder was harmless. It was her presence here that caused the harm.

  “I deserve a portion of meat.”

  It was Huggable’s voice. She faced Far Hunter from a respectable distance, her teats still covered, the quiver and bow still slung over her shoulder. Huggable’s daughter was sitting next to Lightfoot Watcher’s daughter, and she was chewing on some meat and laughing.

  “I am the only one who did not get a portion of meat.”

  “Give her some,” a woman yelled.

  “I have some,” said Lightfoot Watcher.

  “She has some,” said Far Hunter.

  “I want you to give me a portion.”

  “Your daughter is being fed.”

  “You divided the meat. You gave me none.”

  “You do not share a mother with anyone who lives near the river. And you do not share a mother with anyone who lives along the river’s mouth.”

  Huggable gestured toward Lightfoot Watcher.

  “Neither does she.”

  “The healer gave her that meat.”

  “I once lived by the lake. I once lived at the river’s mouth. You once gave food to me.”

  Arm Scars and Chest Scars looked away.

  Far Hunter said, “You have done nothing to deserve the meat. I am tired of talking.” Far Watcher sat down by her fire. Clever Fingers, the almost-a-man with scars from elbow to wrist on one arm, stood behind Far Hunter and chewed on some meat she must have handed him.

  I considered returning to her hut to get her gzaet and bring it back. Perhaps some music carefully played would ease what was wrong here.

  But she didn’t leave. She stayed on because another child got too close to another adult and was slapped away. Squawker took offense at something Lean Against Tree had said, and Flatface did her best to separate the two, to get them talking so much that they would prefer to walk away rather than let their anger take them mating close. Huggable remained in the spot where she had argued with Far Hunter, and she stared hard at the woman from the river’s mouth, who worked hard to ignore Huggable.

  Only Lean Against Tree had really been watching when it happened. “The rock’s opening,” she yelled out.

  Conversations stopped. Running children stood still. Heads turned.

  The animal stepped onto the muddy ground. She wore something different to cover her hips, and a strangely colored hide covered her teats. She closed her eyes against the light, then shaded them with a hand, and she peered up at them. Right at them. What did she think of all these people here? Did she feel threatened? She just stood there. What did she make of it when one by one all the voices from the hill disappeared into the air, leaving only the breeze and the way it brushed the leaves together? She stood there for the longest time. Her solitary’ gaze made I pity her.

  “She’s as uninteresting as the rock,” said Lean Against Tree.

  And while one or two others began to talk, the animal must have turned, because when I looked at her again, she was stepping back into the boulder.

  “Come back!” a child yelled. The voice sounded like it belonged to Lean Against Tree’s son. “Come back. I am not scared of you.” Then the boy ran down the hill in long strides, dodging the trunks of trees. The animal stopped in the boulder’s opening and turned. The boy had slowed down, but he was at the edge of the clearing. Twenty, thirty steps, and he would be impossibly close to the animal. Why wasn’t his mother chasing him? Or at least calling him to come back? The animal watched him, just standing there. If the animal felt threatened, the boy was in danger. I started to run forward, but she stepped far too close to someone, because an arm flailed out, struck her in the chest, and knocked her to the ground. She yelled, sat up, getting ready to stand when she saw that Roofer was already running into the clearing, one arm reaching around the boy’s back, the other scooping up under his bottom while the animal stood there with her arm out, calling out something that I couldn’t hear because now there were more than one or two voices. The animal stood there, looking up at them, and I watched them until she heard one voice, Lean Against Tree’s, cut through all the other voices. “I have never visited people with so little respect. What kind of man are you? Where’s your solitude?”

  I walked toward the voice, moving carefully between others, and soon saw that the boy was with his mother and Roofer was walking away. The mother was walking behind Roofer, delivering one blow after another on Roofer’s back. “No man where I live would pick up a woman’s son. How could you? My son was fine. He was being brave.”

  I tried to follow them in order to mediate the argument before Roofer had to speak, but she was too late. Roofer turned on Lean Against Tree. The first blow landed on her face. The second on her shoulder. The third struck her chest. Huggable was stepping closer, the bow no longer slung over her shoulder; rather, it was now in her hand.

  Lean Against Tree
was raising her fist to strike back, but I grabbed hold of her arm and twisted it to make the woman drop back to the ground. She looked up at I, her shock clear upon her face, blood pouring from one nostril.

  Roofer just stood there. He wouldn’t crouch down and get mating close to hit someone. The woman’s mouth and chin were covered with blood. Her son was crying. He ran up and hit Roofer. Roofer slapped the son away. Huggable was pulling an arrow from her quiver. Lean Against Tree was from the river’s mouth, and Huggable was going to take action for her. Roofer had already turned to the woods. He walked away as if the mother and the boy no longer concerned him. Huggable was not a good shot, or she wasn’t trying to be. The arrow missed Roofer, but it cut right into someone else’s thigh.

  An almost-a-man fell to the ground. He clutched the shaft and screamed out in pain while Huggable ran off into the woods. I ran over to the fallen almost-a-man. It was Clever Fingers, who had the scars from elbow to wrist on one arm. He, too, was from the river’s mouth. The arrow was lodged into the thigh, right near where it joined the body. Blood had soaked through his breechclout‚ had poured onto the wet muddy ground. I forgot all modesty. She removed her pubic apron and was ready to tie it tight above where the blood shot out in tiny spasms. But when she knelt down beside him, Clever Fingers yelled at her to go away. She ignored him, but this time he struck her, causing her to sprawl to the ground.