Brother Wind

by Sue Harrison

  “Animal teeth for carving, and …” For a moment Kiin paused, unable to remember the word she wanted.

  “Yes?”

  “I have heard they have … trees.” She stopped, thought for a moment. “Yes, trees.” She lifted one hand up above her head. “Tall, very tall. They grow like the willow and alders that are here, but the wood is stronger.”

  “Lemming Tail has told you this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Against she is wrong. There are places like that, with many kinds of trees, but the River People’s trees are like ours.”

  Kiin shrugged. “Well, if you see any different kind of wood, bring it. Only small pieces—to carve.”

  The Raven grunted, nodded his head, and again Kiin went back to setting out food, chopping hardened fat into dried berries, mixing in sandwort greens she had cooked and allowed to sour.

  It seemed strange to Kiin that at one time she had carved only because she could get goods in trade for her carvings. Now the carving was a need, something as important as her songs—something that brought peace to her, so that she could lose herself in the work, as though she slipped into a world apart from that of Lemming Tail, the Raven, and the Walrus People.

  A scratch at the dividing curtain called Kiin from her thoughts, and she looked up to see White Fox, Ice Hunter’s oldest son, enter their side of the lodge. He carried a cooking bag that filled the lodge with the rich smell of ground squirrel stew.

  Kiin took the bag from White Fox and hung it from the lodge rafters over the oil lamp so the food inside the bag would stay warm.

  The Raven smiled at the man. “Tell your wife I will bring her something in my next trading trip,” the Raven said. He motioned to the sleeping platform where he sat, and White Fox sat down beside him.

  Kiin filled two bowls with stew and handed them to the men. They ate without speaking.

  When his bowl was empty, the Raven wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Kiin lifted the dripping caribou-scapula ladle from the cooking bag and raised her eyebrows. The Raven nodded. She took his bowl and filled it again. She looked at White Fox, but he shook his head, settling his empty bowl into his lap.

  The Raven tilted his bowl and used his fingers to push meat into his mouth.

  “I plan to trade with the River People, those who live in that village at the mouth of the Great River,” he said as he chewed. He licked his fingers, and when White Fox said nothing, he continued, “I need men to go with me. Your brother says he will go.”

  “He speaks their language,” White Fox said.

  The Raven shrugged. “So do I.”

  White Fox frowned, and the scar that curved from his eye to his chin pulled taut.

  “But not as well as your brother does,” the Raven added.

  “We will get a share of the trade goods?”

  “Everything except what I get for my wife’s carvings.”

  White Fox nodded. “How long will we be gone?”

  “Only two moons, maybe less,” the Raven said. “It is not far to the River People.”

  “You say my brother plans to go with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “My father?”

  The Raven shrugged. “Who can say? He has a new wife. His bed holds more interest than trade goods.”

  White Fox smiled. “If my brother is going, then I will go,” he said.

  “Good.” The Raven held out his bowl, and again Kiin filled it. White Fox nodded toward his bowl, and she filled his as well. Then she went to her basket corner and sat twisting sinew until White Fox had eaten and left the lodge.

  “Your brother White Fox is going with me,” the Raven said to Bird Sings.

  Bird Sings, Ice Hunter’s younger son, had come to the Raven’s lodge after White Fox left. He also brought food—a thick fish soup that often earned his wife praise in the village.

  Bird Sings raised his eyebrows and frowned. “To the River People?” he asked.

  The Raven nodded and held his bowl out to Kiin. She filled it again with the soup.

  Bird Sings pointed toward the bowl. “Blackfish—fresh,” he said. “My wife catches them all winter, you know.”

  The Raven nodded and raised the bowl to his mouth.

  “I will come if I can bring my wife,” Bird Sings said.

  “Would she prepare our food?” the Raven asked and belched his appreciation of the soup.

  “Yes.”

  “Bring her.”

  “Then I will go.”

  “Good, I will tell your brother.”

  When Bird Sings left the lodge, the Raven went, too. Then Kiin helped herself to the fish soup. Shuku woke from his nap, crying and cross. Kiin took him down from his cradle, settled him on her lap, and used her finger to scoop some of the soup into his mouth. He bit down hard on her finger, and Kiin snapped her thumb against his lips. His chin quivered, and Kiin hugged him to her until he pulled back to smile. He pointed at her basket corner and began to babble in baby words.

  “The Raven had hunters come,” Kiin said, speaking to her son in the First Men language. She gave Shuku several more mouthfuls of soup, then sat on the edge of Lemming Tail’s bed and turned Shuku toward her to nurse.

  “He tricked them, but that is how he does all things,” she said aloud to Shuku. Then Kiin remembered her promise to the Raven to swallow her words, and so she said nothing more to her son. But she could not keep herself from wondering why the Raven would plan a trading trip in early spring, when people had less food, less oil to trade. And why would the trip have such importance that he would lie to White Fox and Bird Sings to get them to go with him?

  Then came the whispering of her spirit’s voice: “Whatever his reason, the Raven does nothing to help anyone except himself.”

  And even with Shuku warm against her, dread settled like ice in Kiin’s heart. She wrapped her arms more tightly around her son and rocked him as he nursed.

  CHAPTER 18

  The Whale Hunters

  Yunaska Island, the Aleutian Chain

  KUKUTUX WOKE FROM HER SLEEP and knew it was morning. Men and women were outside, greeting the sun. Their greeting songs should be to the mountains, Kukutux thought. Did they think the sun was stronger than the mountains? How could they forget that the mountains’ ash had hidden both sun and moon, had even blanketed the sea?

  The women of the village had laughed at her, at the little woven grass apron Kukutux had made to cover her nose and mouth when the ash was still falling. They laughed, yet they wore grass aprons to cover their genitals, a protection against those spirits of disease that enter through the openings of the body. They laughed, but now, even after much of the ash on beach and rock had been taken by wind and sea, they were still coughing, as though they could rid their chests of the spirits they had breathed in. And how many children, how many babies, had died from the ash? Even Kukutux’s son had died, though she had covered his face as much as she could.

  “Kukutux!” The voice broke into her thoughts. “Wake up!”

  The sleeping place curtain was thrust aside, and She Cries bent over her, pulled against her left arm, so that Kukutux was forced to her feet.

  “Just because your husband is dead, do you think you can spend your days in bed?” She Cries asked.

  Kukutux jerked her arm from She Cries’ grasp.

  “You did not see me sleeping my days away after your brother died, did you?” She Cries asked. “I was left alone, without husband or children, just like you. And I had my mother to worry about. What good is an old woman to bring in meat or oil? You are better off than I was, but still I did not waste my days sleeping. I found myself another husband.”

  She Cries continued criticizing until finally Kukutux raised her voice to ask, “What do you want, She Cries? Why are you here?”

  “Wind Chaser asked me to come and tell you good news.”

  Kukutux walked over to the food cache and pulled out a grass bag filled with dried fish. She offered a piece to She Cries. The woman settled
herself cross-legged on a floor mat near the oil lamp, and Kukutux squatted on her heels beside her.

  “You should eat some,” She Cries said, holding out the piece of fish Kukutux had given her.

  Kukutux shook her head.

  “I do not pity you, Kukutux,” said She Cries. “Every woman in this village has lost husband or children, mother or father. Yet you are the one who carries the scars of mourning.” She pointed with her chin at Kukutux’s arms, then tilted her head and said, “You should not have cut your hair. How do you think you will get another husband now that you are so ugly? And with your arm, too.”

  “I am strong enough,” Kukutux said. She cupped her left elbow with her right hand. “And my hair will grow back. I had a good husband. I have chosen to honor him. I do not care what you think, or what anyone thinks.”

  She Cries snorted. She took several bites of fish, then said, “How can we help you if you do nothing for yourself?”

  “I did not ask for your help,” Kukutux said.

  She Cries blinked, lifted her chin, and said, “I did not come to argue with you. Wind Chaser told me to tell you that something good has finally happened to this village.” She patted her belly. “I carry a child. A son, I am sure.”

  Kukutux made herself smile. Almost she opened her mouth to ask if it was Wind Chaser’s child. Who did not know that She Cries, in trying to find a husband to replace Kukutux’s dead brother, had slept with nearly every hunter in the village? But why exchange rudeness for rudeness?

  “I am glad for you and for Wind Chaser,” Kukutux said. “I will hope with you that the baby is a son, if that is what you want.”

  She Cries raised her eyebrows. “You know his other wife has given him only daughters, and all of them but Snow-in-her-hair are dead. I have promised him a son. Snow-in-her-hair will be a good help. She is nearly old enough to marry. Wind Chaser says Red Feet’s youngest son wants her.”

  “He is still a boy,” said Kukutux.

  She Cries shrugged. “Old enough to hunt. And Wind Chaser says he will make the boy come live with us. Then we will have two hunters in our ulaq.”

  “Good,” said Kukutux. “You will not want for meat.”

  She Cries drew herself up to sit very straight. She was a small woman with tiny round eyes and thin legs. She reminded Kukutux of a kittiwake, that quick and sharp-beaked bird.

  “Even if that happens, do not think we can help you,” said She Cries. “Wind Chaser says that since your brother is dead, you are no longer my sister. He says we owe you nothing, but Wind Chaser is a good man. He says you may still fish with me in my ik, and also that he will give you a widow’s share—double portion—from his next sea lion. But do not ask for more than that.” Again she patted her belly. “I must have enough food to keep this son strong and healthy.”

  Kukutux wanted to tell She Cries to leave her ulaq, that she did not need meat from Wind Chaser’s next sea lion, but then she remembered something her mother had once told her “The foolish woman cuts off her own thumb to punish her hand.” And so, Kukutux thanked She Cries, then sat and listened in politeness as the woman berated her for all her many faults.

  CHAPTER 19

  The First Men

  Herendeen Bay, the Alaska Peninsula

  THE SOUND BROUGHT SAMIQ out of his dreams, and for a moment he did not know where he was. Then he felt Three Fish’s gentle breathing, saw the bulk of her body in the shadows of the sleeping place. The sound came again, a calling, a sadness in the voice, and Samiq did not know whether it was animal or spirit. He pulled on his parka and climbed from the ulaq to stand on top of the sod roof.

  Again it came—a long cry like a woman’s mourning song. The moon was round in the sky, giving light that let Samiq see as though it were day. The voice called again, and Kayugh, Big Teeth, and First Snow came from their ulas.

  A second and a third voice joined the first, blending and turning, twisting the calls into one song.

  “It does not come from the sea,” First Snow said.

  Kayugh pointed toward the hills behind the ulas. “Wolves,” he said. “I have not heard them since I was a young man.”

  Then Samiq saw the wolves lined against the sky, faces pointed up, noses like long seal snouts. “Wolves,” he whispered.

  “They are big,” First Snow said.

  “Some grow to be nearly as large as a man,” said Kayugh, turning toward Samiq as he spoke, and Samiq remembered the stories his father had told him as a child, Walrus People stories, of wolves who were wiser than the wisest hunter.

  “Why have they come?” First Snow asked.

  “Perhaps to show us where to hunt,” Kayugh said.

  “Perhaps to follow us and take a portion of the caribou we cached,” said Big Teeth.

  But Samiq said, “Who can know why they are here? Perhaps for many different reasons, a different reason for each one of us.” Then he sat down on his ulaq roof and watched the wolves, listened to their crying, until the moon moved across the sky and made room for the early sun.

  It seemed strange that Three Fish was the one to see them. She was on the beach, the other women in their ik fishing, the men atop ulas watching sky and sea and sometimes turning to study the hills where the wolves had been the night before.

  “Whales!” she called, and at first Samiq was angry.

  “What foolishness is this, wife?” he called out, standing to give his words strength. “There are no whales in this shallow bay.” But as he stood, he, too, saw what Three Fish had seen. Whales, three of them, bowheads, with their double spouts, one already tipped sideways on a bar of gravel in the shallow center of the bay.

  He called to the other men, called as he ran, called as he pulled on his chigadax. He grabbed his ikyak from the storage racks, pushed it out into the sea, and pulled himself in, fastening the chigadax to the ikyak coaming even as he began to paddle.

  Fumbling with kelp lines and floats, he started toward the nearest whale. His anger rose against his right hand, useless except to hold his paddle as he tied knots with his left hand and his teeth.

  Then Kayugh and Small Knife were beside him in their ikyan, both watching Samiq, doing what Samiq did, tying floats to harpoon lines.

  “Be ready to turn your ikyan,” Samiq said. He stopped to pry his paddle from his right hand and replace it with his throwing stick, but he dropped the stick into the sea and nearly upset his ikyak trying to retrieve it. Finally he threw his whale harpoon with his left hand.

  The harpoon fell short. He coiled the harpoon line in toward himself, drawing the weapon back to his ikyak. He flipped the harpoon up from the water to the deck of the ikyak, then watched as his father and Small Knife threw their seal harpoons. Both harpoons lodged in the side of the whale, but they were small and carried no poison. The whale turned but could not dive in the shallow bay.

  Samiq pulled the obsidian tip from his barbed whalebone harpoon head, took a pouch from around his neck, and smeared aconite poison under the tip. He paddled close to Kayugh and handed his father the harpoon. “You throw it,” he said.

  Kayugh fitted the butt of the harpoon shaft into his throwing stick, pulled back his arm, and threw hard. The harpoon hit just under the whale’s flipper.

  “He is ours,” Small Knife said.

  Samiq drew in his breath against his son’s words, but said nothing. If the whales were offended, they were offended. There was no way to take back the boy’s boast.

  They paddled away from the whale, then Samiq heard Big Teeth’s cry, saw the man point his paddle toward the second whale, saw Big Teeth’s harpoon embedded in the whale’s side. Samiq patted the pouch at his neck. “You used poison?” he called to Big Teeth.

  The man held up a pouch.

  First Snow’s harpoon took the third whale, then the hunters separated, staying at a distance, but watching the whales.

  “There is a good chance they will wash up on our beach,” Small Knife said to Samiq, but Samiq did not answer the boy, did not let the bo
y know he had heard. Why anger the whale spirits by telling them what should happen?

  Then Kayugh brought his ikyak near and called to Samiq, a father’s praise.

  “My harpoon took no whale,” Samiq called back, but there was only light in his heart. If they had meat and oil enough for the winter, what did it matter whose harpoon made the kill?

  “Go now, be alananasika,” Kayugh said. “Become the whale as you told me the alananasika must. Let the whales know we have need of their meat and that we honor their spirits. You called them. Your power brought them to us.”

  Samiq nodded and turned his ikyak toward the shore. As he paddled he remembered his grandfather Many Whales telling him the same thing when he had lived with the Whale Hunters. That summer had been a summer of whales, more whales than the hunters had ever seen before. “My people believe your power brought the whales to us,” Many Whales had told him. But they had also believed his power had called Aka’s fire to move the earth and destroy the Whale Hunter village.

  “No,” Samiq said, as though his words could go back through months and death to his grandfather, the old man now with the spirits at the Dancing Lights. “I do not have that kind of power,” Samiq whispered, and his voice was as quiet as his breathing. “My only strength is my concern for my people. What power does that hold except the power to bring tears to a man’s eyes, to lay sorrow over his heart? What strength does that carry’ except the strength of hope?”

  CHAPTER 20

  The Bering Sea

  WAXTAL’S ARMS ACHED from paddling, and the muscles in his chest were so tight that he could scarcely breathe. It had been seven days since he left the village. He should have caught up with the traders by now. An ikyak was faster than an ik. But there were two of them, and they were young, strong.

  “Besides,” he said aloud, “I do not have food.” He rested his paddle across the top of his ikyak and looked out at the North Sea. “Do you hear that?” he called. “You spirits out there, do you hear that? I am a hunter and a carver, yet they sent me away without food. They gave me no oil. It was Samiq, the crippled one. If you have a curse to give, curse him. If you have a blessing, bless me. I am a hunter and a carver. I honor all sea animals. Help me find the traders.”