by Sue Harrison
Then Owl was between them, pulling Spotted Egg’s hands from Hard Rock’s suk and circling the wrist of Hard Rock’s right hand, forcing the knife away from Spotted Egg’s neck.
Hard Rock stepped back, twisted his wrist from Owl’s grip. “You brought Waxtal,” he said. “He is one of you.”
“He claims to be your brother.”
“Only in the way that all Seal Hunters are brothers to all Whale Hunters. Only that.”
Spotted Egg snorted and turned back to the ik.
“I will have my women help you repair your ik,” Hard Rock said.
“We have four seal bellies of oil here,” Owl said and pointed at the oil Waxtal had left on the beach. “I will give two for a woman—one who has no babies to care for—to help us with the ik. And to warm our beds at night. Be sure she can cook and sew.” When Hard Rock said nothing, Owl patted the strands of beads at his neck. “She will have some of these necklaces, too,” he said.
Hard Rock looked up toward the sky, then down at his feet. He scraped at the beach gravel with one heel.
“She can be old. We do not care,” Owl said.
“Not too old,” Spotted Egg added.
Hard Rock nodded. “I will try to help you,” he finally said. “One thing we have in this village is women.”
He went back to his ulaq. The length of shell beads that Waxtal had given him in the night was cold and prickly under his suk. He went into his sleeping place, to a back corner where the sod was soft between wall rocks and rafters. He pulled off the necklace, coiled it into a ball, and stuffed it into a crevice. He covered it with sod and a handful of thatching grass. Better to wait until the traders had left the island, then bring out the necklace, give it to one wife or another, perhaps to honor the birth of his next son.
The words of his chants had warmed him, and Waxtal, his mind full of the pictures of what he would be, reached for the carving knife he kept in a packet at his waist. It was a beautiful knife, made for him three years ago by Amgigh.
“A gift from my daughter’s husband,” Waxtal said aloud, bending the words so they became part of his chant. Then he included a song to himself for the bravery he had shown in saving Amgigh when a whale almost took his life. But what good had it done, saving the man? The spirits had marked him for death.
Probably because of Kiin. Kiin was Waxtal’s daughter, yes, but what man would wish such a daughter for himself? She had been cursed from the day of her birth. The first time Waxtal had looked into the girl’s eyes, he had seen that there was nothing there, no spirit, no soul, nothing but the emptiness of greed.
Waxtal ran his fingers carefully over the carving knife’s obsidian blade. The blade was half as long as his smallest finger, and pointed at the end, on one side flaked to sharpness. He had retouched the blade often, and now it was very thin, side to side. Someday he would have to find another blade knapper, someone as gifted as Amgigh, and have another blade made. He would not replace the handle. It was ivory, made from whale jawbone, and during the years Waxtal had used it, the handle had seemed to mold itself into curves and hollows until it fitted his hand as well as his fingers fit together, side by side, long bone to knuckle.
Waxtal held the knife until it warmed to his touch, and then he pulled the carved walrus tusk across his lap. He let his fingers follow the lines of his carving until he came to the place where he had stopped, the place of Kiin’s birth. He had carved the wedge shape of Blue Shell’s woman part, and a circle above it that was the bulge of her belly.
At first, he had intended this portion of the carving to show his son Qakan’s birth. He had meant to forget Kiin, but if he forgot Kiin, he must also forget Amgigh and Raven, two powerful sons that were his because of one cursed daughter. Perhaps the spirits did repay in some ways for the suffering in a man’s life. And who had caused him more suffering than Kiin? Even Samiq’s anger was because of Kiin.
When Waxtal had finished the circle and wedge that were Blue Shell, he had not been able to decide how to carve Kiin, so he put away his carving knife, hoping some idea would come to him from dream or spirit. This day, in his chanting, he suddenly knew what he would do. He bent over the tusk, leaning close into his work. He moved his knife so the point made another wedge, sign of woman, but he drew it with pointed side up. Then he drew a line that came from Blue Shell’s wedge to this new one. He drew lines crossing the new wedge to show the disfavor of the spirits. When he had finished, he rubbed his hand over the ivory and smiled. It was good.
He closed his eyes and lost himself again in the chant. As he sang, he let himself see what joys would be his as chief of the First Men. He would have wives and ikyan, the softest furs for his bed, many parkas and a fine feather suk, warm leggings of caribou skin and a feather cape like Raven’s. He would have a new woman whenever he wanted one, and the food cache would overflow with seal bellies of meat and fish and oil.
He lived in his dreams for much of that day, but then his belly began to ache with hunger, rolling and twisting until it pulled him from his chants. He opened his eyes and looked out toward the sea. It had darkened as it always did when the sun began its fall down the western side of the sky.
Waxtal looked at the tusk still cradled in his lap. In surprise, he opened his eyes wide, then opened his mouth in a wail of harsh words. There beside Kiin’s wedge were other lines, circles and slashes, scored deeply into the ivory, as though someone had done them in anger. His breath caught in his chest, pressed against his heart until it ached more than his belly. The fingernails of his right hand bit into his palm, and he realized that he still held his carving knife tight in his fist. He opened his hand, dropped the knife. He had not made those lines. They were bold and deep, different from what he had done before.
He pushed the tusk from his lap and stood up, looking to see if there were signs of other men—grass crushed by feet, an ikyak on the beach far below. But there was nothing.
He sat down slowly and reached for the tusk, but could not make his hands close over it. Again he stood. His breath came too quickly, as though he had been running. He wrapped his suk closely around himself, then left the tusks and his hunter’s lamp, his thick fur seal pelt. He climbed farther up the side of the mountain. He kept looking back until he could no longer see the tusks, then he settled into the wet grass, crouching so he could tuck his feet into the warmth of his suk. He bent forward and wrapped his arms up over his head.
He wanted to chant, but was afraid the spirits that had carved his tusk would hear and come to him, so instead he held a chant in his throat, like an amulet, to protect the path to his heart. He let its words fill his mind until they pushed the fear down into his belly, where it burned like fire on bone.
Hard Rock paused at the top of the ulaq and called. She Cries answered him, then came to the climbing log and looked up.
“Come in. I have food,” she said, and as Hard Rock climbed down, She Cries pressed close to him and whispered, “My husband is not here.”
Hard Rock nodded. She Cries picked up her baby and handed him to her husband’s daughter. “Go outside,” she said and pushed the girl toward the climbing log. Hard Rock stepped aside, making room for the scowling girl, the whimpering baby.
She Cries pointed to a floor mat near the largest oil lamp and went to the food cache, brought out a section of smoked fish, and laid it on the floor mat in front of Hard Rock.
Hard Rock grunted and broke off a piece of the fish, ate slowly, without speaking. He pointed to a water bladder that hung from the ulaq rafters, and the woman pulled it down for him, waited while he drank, then hung the bladder again.
“You said when I arranged for you to be wife to Wind Chaser that you would help me when I asked.”
She Cries smiled slowly and combed her fingers through the hair at the sides of her head. “Do you want my husband to know?” she asked.
“Why should I care if your husband knows?” Hard Rock asked and broke off another piece of fish.
“He does not sha
re well,” She Cries said. She lowered her eyelids to look at him through her lashes.
Suddenly Hard Rock laughed, spraying fish from his mouth. “I have four wives, woman,” he said. “Do you think I need someone else in my bed?”
She Cries clamped her mouth shut. She drew in a long breath that flared her nostrils and puffed out her chest.
Hard Rock wiped fish from his chin and said, “I need you to talk to Kukutux.”
She Cries turned her head away, and Hard Rock sighed. He took another bite of fish. “It is not an easy thing I ask. That is why I come to you.” He paused, and when She Cries said nothing he continued. “We need oil. Even if we bring in several whales this summer, we need oil now. I do not have to tell you this. The traders have oil. They ask that they be given a woman while they are here. Someone to take care of their ulaq.”
She Cries drew in her breath. “And you will give them Kukutux? Why Kukutux? Why not Long Wood? Why not Blue Hair? They have no husbands.”
“They are old.”
“Why not Round Eyes?”
“She has children to care for.”
“Do they know about Kukutux’s arm?”
“No,” Hard Rock said, “but why worry? She paddles, sews, fishes. What difference does her arm make?”
“There are scars.”
“So, she will keep her suk on.”
“When she shares their beds?”
“Who sees scars in the darkness of a sleeping place? Besides, I have been in her ulaq when she was not wearing a suk. The scars are not terrible.”
She Cries shrugged. “If they do not want her, I will go to them,” she said.
“You will not miss your husband?”
“How different is one husband from another? I can sew, prepare food, and weave baskets. I am careful not to offend the spirits. I am strong and make strong babies. What more does a man need?”
“You already said your husband does not share well,” Hard Rock answered. “And you have children. Kukutux does not.”
“My children can care for themselves, and my husband will share—if he knows he will get oil.”
“Then help me,” Hard Rock said. “The traders have offered two seal bellies of oil for Kukutux. I will give you one.”
For a time She Cries said nothing, then she smiled slowly, slowly nodded her head. “I will help,” she said. “What do you want me to do?”
CHAPTER 35
The Alaska Mainland
FOR TWO DAYS, KIIN walked back toward the Walrus People’s village. The tumpline of her storage basket had rubbed the skin of her forehead raw, and the pain made her head ache, but as she looked out over the lowlands, she knew that she had walked farther than she had dared hope. She crouched down, removed the tumpline and shoulder straps that held the basket to her back, and set it on the ground. It did not seem so heavy when she started walking in the morning, but by evening her back and shoulders ached as though she had been carrying a basket of rocks.
She pulled Shuku from his carrying sling and set him down. Feeling the firmness of the ground against his feet, he clapped his hands and took two quick steps before falling to hands and knees. He looked up, saw the basket and chortled, then crawled toward it.
“No, Shuku,” Kiin said and swung him up in her arms, laughing as he kicked his feet in protest. She set him down again and then sat on her haunches, draped her arms over her knees, and closed her eyes for a quick moment of rest. She thought of the Traders’ Beach, lifted those thoughts up toward the sky. Perhaps some spirit would see what she wanted and guide her feet. She knew from listening to the Raven and various traders who stopped at their village that she could walk to the Traders’ Beach from the Walrus People’s village without having to cross any part of the sea in ik or ikyak.
It was strange how much more the Walrus People—even women like Lemming Tail—knew about the earth than the First Men did. What had her mother told her when she was a child? That around everything was the circle of the sky; within that circle was the ice, then the sea, and finally the land. A man could take his ikyak and paddle days, even months, and not come to the ice, but if he went far enough, following signs of stars and sun, he would come to the end of the world, the great ice walls that were the barrier between the earth and the Dancing Lights. The First Men’s island was one of many that stretched in a long line from ice to ice, and the islands’ mountains were like the giant spine of some animal sleeping beneath the sea. But Lemming Tail laughed when Kiin said such things.
“Who does not know that your island is only a small stone in a river, like a rock that a man steps on to get to the other side?” Lemming Tail had said. “Who does not know that the earth stretches far beyond what a man can walk in his lifetime and that there are people, so traders say, who live beyond the ice walls?”
Perhaps Lemming Tail was right. The First Men traded only with the Walrus People and the Whale Hunters, but the Walrus People traded with the River People and the Caribou People and with people who, Lemming Tail said, lived in a land of standing wood, a place where giant logs—like those that sometimes came ashore after a storm—grew straight up from the ground like huge ugyuun plants.
But who cared whether First Men or Walrus People were right? Perhaps the spirits, knowing the inside thoughts of each trader, each hunter, allowed every man to see what he wanted to see. Who could say where thoughts ended and land or sea began? But if that was true, then it was good that Kiin believed she could walk back to her own people. What else mattered except living with her own people? What else mattered but having her sons safe, growing up with Samiq as their father?
Kiin’s thoughts slowed, and she allowed herself to remember Samiq, the sound of his voice, of his laughter. She saw him with Takha in his arms, the boy strong and sturdy. She wished Samiq could see Shuku, could know that he was strong and well. She reached for Shuku, but her carrying strap was empty, hanging slack at her side. Her heart trembled within her chest, and she suddenly understood that she had allowed herself to be taken by the spirits into dreams.
“Shuku,” she whispered, and opened her eyes, jumping to her feet. She scanned the tall grass that made everything on the hillside seem the same, one flowing sea of green. He was not there, not anywhere.
“Shuku!” she screamed. She listened, but the wind had grown stronger, and she could hear nothing but its voice and the rustle and sway of the grass sea.
She searched until the sun was only a half circle on the horizon, called until her throat burned, but still she found nothing. The fear that had started as a small catch at the bottom of her throat spread to encircle her chest, and with each breath it seemed as though a giant hand were squeezing against her ribs.
At first, she had run back toward the bay. She knew, even running, that it would take her until long into the night to reach the shore, but thoughts of Shuku drowning filled her mind. What mother did not fear the water spirits that called to young children, luring them to rocky places where waves could knock them down and draw them into the sea? As she ran, she found nothing, no marks from hands and knees. She heard no sounds of a baby crying. But who could hear anything over the wind?
She lifted her voice to call out to the wind spirits, in anger to cry against the loudness of their voices, but the wind continued to blow, and Kiin remembered how often she had told people that she had given Takha to the wind. Had the spirits, angry at her lies, angry with broken promises, taken Shuku instead?
She ran farther toward the bay, through long grass and into the heather of crowberries, then into a tangled growth of willows, but still saw nothing, heard nothing. She dropped to her knees, wrapped her arms up over her head, and began the slow ululations of a mourning song.
But then a voice came to her, her own spirit speaking, though it had been silent during her search: “Kiin, get up. Get up, Kiin. In all your years living with your father, through all the beatings, through the pain, is this what you learned? To quit? To cry and live without hope?”
Kiin rai
sed her head. “I have lost my son!” she said, screaming the words, suddenly angry with a spirit voice that held no sympathy.
“Kiin,” the spirit voice said, stern, like the voice of grandmother teaching granddaughter. “You ran toward what you most feared and did not think. How far can a baby go, one who can barely walk? Could he have come all this way? Go back to the supply basket, back to where you started, and begin there. Circle the basket and then circle it again. Make a wider circle with each pass. The grass is too high for you to see Shuku even if he is only a little way from you.”
“I would hear him cry!”
“What if he is asleep?”
“There are sinkholes. …”
“Yes, and if he fell into one, he is dead. But what if he did not? Will you leave him while you cry? Will you let wolves find him before you do? It is the Moon of Birds Coming Back. The sun is long in the sky. You have light enough to see. Go look for him.”
Kiin wiped her hands over her cheeks and stood up, then walked over the hills to the place where she had left her supply basket. When she reached the basket, she began walking in circles, wider and wider, calling and walking, sending prayers up to the mountains and to the wind, begging for her child to be given back to her. The circles stretched until she was at the crest of the hill. She stopped, looked up to the mountains far beyond and then down the other side of the hill.
The sun was settling into its bed in the sea, and the light was dimming, but it was not the black dark of a winter night. She called, but heard nothing except the echo of her own voice. The wind blew in a sudden gust, cold against her back, and parted the grass, as though the wind spirits were men, walking. She watched, following the wind paths with her eyes, then caught her breath as the grass split over a dark bundle huddled on the ground at the bottom of the hill.