by Sue Harrison
“I will return what you have given.”
Hard Rock waved his hand toward the North Sea. “How will I find you? I am not a trader. I do not know the sea paths that lead to the Caribou People and the Walrus Men.”
“I will stay with you until the curse is lifted,” Waxtal answered.
Hard Rock grunted, looked at the other men.
“What will you give me?” Waxtal pressed.
For a time, Hard Rock sat and said nothing. Waxtal’s stomach rolled, and he wished he had eaten before coming. He had thought to save his own food for later. Hard Rock’s wives always had meat ready, but this morning there had been nothing except a blessing asked by Hard Rock and the promise of continued fasting.
“What do you want?” Hard Rock finally asked. “An ikyak? Furs, sealskins? Food, oil?”
“All those,” Waxtal said, “and a woman.”
“You expect all those things?” Hard Rock asked.
“Not an ikyak,” said Waxtal. “I have a fine ikyak. But something from each man—food, fur, oil, perhaps only a gathering bag of sea urchins.” Waxtal slowed his voice, lowered his head, and looked up, moving his eyes around the circle of hunters. “Whatever each man feels his hunting is worth. That and a woman.”
“I gave you a woman,” Hard Rock said. “Where is she?”
Waxtal shrugged. “She returned to her own ulaq. I do not know why. I want her back. Or else another woman. Someone young who is good at fishing and sewing.”
“I will get her back,” Hard Rock finally said. “Tell us now what you have to tell us.”
“Bring me first what you have to bring. Then if what I tell you to do does not lift the curse, you may take back what each man gives.”
Waxtal’s stomach growled. Why stay here in this ulaq without food, he thought, when my own ulaq has meat ready? I do not need to fast. I am not cursed. He stood and said to Hard Rock, “Bring what you have to bring—to my own ulaq. Then I will tell you.”
Kukutux teased away two strands of sea lion sinew from a chunk she kept in her storage basket. She dipped her fingers in a wooden bowl of water and moistened the sinew, then began to roll it on her thigh.
“Kukutux!” It was Hard Rock.
Kukutux ignored the voice and pulled the sinew, checking length and twist, then rolled it again.
Hard Rock descended halfway down the climbing log and jumped to the floor. In two long strides he was at her side. “I called,” he said, his words an accusation.
Kukutux shrugged. “I am working,” she said, and raised her left hand, the long twist of sinew thread hanging from her fingers.
“Why did you leave the trader?” he asked.
“He is not a good man,” said Kukutux.
Hard Rock’s eyes widened, as if he could see, just by looking, the spirits that her words might offend.
“He is shaman!”
“He hit me!”
“Perhaps Seal Hunter men hit their wives.”
“I am Whale Hunter!”
“You are what your husband is.”
“I am what I choose to be! What Whale Hunter woman does not choose her own husband? Every Whale Hunter man knows that he shatters his own spirit when he hits his wife.” Kukutux set down the sinew and stood to face Hard Rock. “He is not my husband.”
“Lucky for him!” said Hard Rock. He paced the length of the ulaq and back. “He has promised to tell us how to break the curse if you return to him.”
“That is all he wants?” Kukutux asked.
Hard Rock stammered over his words, finally saying, “That and a few trade goods. Something from each hunter.”
Kukutux let a smile lift one corner of her mouth. “A few trade goods,” she said, mimicking Hard Rock’s voice.
Hard Rock sighed. “So, I should tell him you will not come?”
“Tell him.”
“I should tell him you do not care if more hunters are cursed. If more young men like Pogy’s husband—like your husband—die?”
Kukutux turned away. “And if he does not know how to lift the curse?” she asked.
“You can come back to your own ulaq, live without a husband or choose someone else.”
Kukutux turned and looked into Hard Rock’s eyes. “Do you believe he can lift the curse?”
“I do not know,” he said slowly. “But what if he can? How can I refuse to let him try?”
Kukutux wrapped the sinew into a coil and set it into her sewing basket. “If the curse is not lifted, I can choose my own husband?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone?”
“Yes. You will go?”
“I will go,” Kukutux said, “but do not forget your promise.” She began to gather her things.
From oldest to youngest, they came, beginning with Fish Eater. He brought a seal belly of oil, old judging by the stink of what had seeped from the stoppered end, but for Fish Eater it was probably much to bring. Oil to light lamps for many days. Big Ears was next with seal fur pelts, then Fish Swimming with a sea lion belly of dried fish, three bladders of rendered seal oil, and a sleeping robe of pieced otter pelts. Then Hard Rock came, with arms laden.
To honor the alananasika, Waxtal stood. Hard Rock laid at his feet a harbor seal parka with hood made in the manner of the Walrus People; two spear shafts, straight and strong; three ivory harpoon heads, each in a black basket of woven whale baleen; and two sea lion bellies of fresh seal oil. Waxtal kept the smile from his lips, but nodded and sat again to await the trades of younger men, each of whom tried to outdo the others.
Waxtal pressed his lips together in satisfaction. Who could put an adequate price on a man’s hunting skills? So each trade was better than the last until only a few boys were left. They had little to offer except what they had begged from mothers and grandmothers—baskets, gathering bags, sinew, braided kelp lines. But what trader turned away such things?
When the goods were gathered in piles at the corners of the ulaq, Hard Rock brought Kukutux, the woman with sullen face, her arms loaded with all things a woman deems important—baskets and needles, furs and water bladders. Waxtal did not look at her, did not let her know he even knew she was in the ulaq, but from the corners of his eyes, he watched for her reaction when she saw the piles of goods. But she looked past them, as though everything the hunters had offered had always been there. She set down the things she had brought with her and went to the food cache, began to prepare food.
Waxtal realized the men were watching him. He realized that the ulaq was quiet, the silence broken only by the noise of Kukutux’s knife, the woman doing whatever women do to prepare food. And in this she was like all women, thinking that there was nothing more important in the world than the small things a woman does.
Waxtal stood, held his hands out over the men, closed his eyes, and started a chant. It was a chant of blessing, and though he began in the words of the Walrus People, to give some sense of mystery, he soon changed to First Men words so the Whale Hunters could understand what he said, could know that he invoked blessings. He moved his hands and then his feet in slow rhythm with the words. Their gifts had earned them more than some quick statement. What hunter did not enjoy ceremony?
So Waxtal chanted, and finally when he saw through the slits of his eyes that some of the men were restless, he went to the trade goods. He laid his hands on each thing offered and mumbled words of blessing, then picked up a seal belly of oil that one of the younger hunters had given and held it out, the belly heavy enough to make his arms tremble under its weight. He held it and said to all the men, “The spirits say this seal belly goes to the new widows, the wives of the one taken by the walrus. The spirits say it is the first sign that the curse will be lifted from this island.”
A murmur swept over the circle of men and He Swims, brother of Pogy, stepped forward and took the sea lion belly from Waxtal’s arms. “For Pogy, I thank you,” he said, his eyes lowered in respect.
Waxtal answered, “Do not thank me, thank the spirits.” He wai
ted until the young man had again taken his place in the circle of hunters, then said, “I have promised I would tell you what the spirits have said to me. Listen and do not speak. Listen and hear, for it will not be easy to lift this curse, and some may not want to do what must be done.”
He looked around the circle at each man, tried to see each hunter with harpoon and spear in hand, tried to see which men could act against other men, tried to remember which of the older hunters had fought best against the Short Ones. Then he began: “Two, three summers ago, a young man of the Seal Hunters came to this beach. He was grandson of the Whale Hunters’ alananasika, that old one now dead and honored among those in the Dancing Lights.
“That old one, he wanted the son of his granddaughter to learn the ways of the Whale Hunters. Who would not? Why let a grandson, skilled with harpoon and ikyak, live among the Seal Hunters? Who believes that a Seal Hunter is more skilled, more powerful than a Whale Hunter?”
There was a murmur of agreement before Waxtal continued.
“Even the boy’s mother, the woman Chagak, though daughter of a Seal Hunter man, wanted her son raised by his grandfather, to know the strong ways of the Whale Hunters. But this woman Chagak—in her dreams of the power that would come to her son—lied to her grandfather, did not tell the truth to the old man. The boy Samiq …” A sudden hush of breathing made Waxtal hold up one hand and say again, “This boy Samiq was fathered by a Short One, one of the enemy who came to this island. And while the Whale Hunters rejoiced after the battle with the Short Ones, the Short Ones’ spirits, defeated on this island, gathered their power into one man, then only an infant suckled by a Seal Hunter woman.”
The hunters whispered, heads nodding, eyes flashing anger, so that Waxtal had to hold up both hands, wait until silence again settled before he could go on. He opened his mouth to speak, but one man interrupted.
“How do you know this?” a voice said from behind him. It was the hunter Dying Seal.
“Two ways,” Waxtal answered. “First, because I was with the Seal Hunter shaman, Shuganan, when he died. At that time his powers became my powers.” Waxtal drew a carving knife from a sheath at his waist and held the knife out flat on the palm of his right hand. “His gift to carve became my gift. He himself told me about Samiq. He himself feared what the child might become.
“And second, because Samiq told me.”
“He knew when he came to this island? He knew he was enemy to us?” one of the younger men asked, the one called Crooked Bird.
Waxtal shook his head. “No, he did not know until he was back with his own people, until he challenged his father for leadership of the Seal Hunters and took them east to the Traders’ Beach.”
“No,” said Hard Rock. “The young man you speak of, he is dead. He died here on this island, crushed under the rock of a ledge, he and his wife and a boy from this village.”
Waxtal smiled. “He is alive. I have seen him, talked to him. He rules my village, and his power is an evil power. Why do you think that I, no longer a young man, left my own people to trade?”
“How do we know you are telling us the truth?” Dying Seal asked.
“If my words were not true,” Waxtal said, turning to face Hard Rock, “would I so easily say Samiq’s name?”
“You claim to be a shaman. Shamans have powers. You say the old one’s name, the Seal Hunter shaman.”
“Shuganan lives through me,” Waxtal said. “We are one.”
The men spoke among themselves, and watching, Waxtal saw the doubt in their eyes. He laughed and said, “You will not accept the knowledge of a shaman. Will you accept the knowledge of a Seal Hunter?” He paused and said, “The woman that he brought back with him is Three Fish. The boy is Small Knife.”
As though they were women, the hunters lifted fingers to mouths, covered their surprise with cupped hands.
Hard Rock said, “Tell us what we must do to break the curse.”
Waxtal felt his spirit lift, as though something bound too tightly had been released. The freedom made him laugh, and through his laughter he said, “Kill Samiq.”
Kukutux offered food, but the men refused it, so she sat and listened and waited. They planned and talked, spending most of that day discussing a journey to the faraway Traders’ Beach, a place where none of them except Waxtal had ever been. The men were like boys in their excitement, hands waving, eyes snapping. Only Dying Seal was quiet, the man so still that if his eyes had not gleamed from the dark corner where he sat, she would have thought he slept.
Finally the planning was finished, all words spoken, and the men, even Hard Rock, left. Kukutux sat with her hands in her lap. Yes, if it would lift the curse, she would be wife to the trader. There were worse things. It was worse to see the children in the village hungry, to hear their cries for food, to see sorrow in the eyes of young mothers, to hear the mourning songs of widows.
Finally Waxtal came to her, stood over her.
“You want food?” Kukutux asked.
Waxtal said, “You are my wife.”
“Yes,” Kukutux answered, but did not lower her eyes in respect, did not bow her head. The man’s fists clenched.
“There is food in that sleeping place,” he said and pointed with his chin toward the sleeping place nearest his own.
She got up and went there, sure that Waxtal had lied. Who kept food in a sleeping place? He only wanted her to go easily, willingly. Then he would come in, demand his rights as husband. But there was food—a boiling bag of stew, the meat and broth cold and covered with a hardened layer of fat. “Do you want some of this?” she called out to Waxtal.
“Yes, I am hungry.”
“If you wait, I will take the stew outside and warm it,” Kukutux said, carrying the bag suspended between her hands.
Waxtal shook his head and instead brought two bowls, dipped each into the meat, broke some of the fat into each bowl. “Hang it up over an oil lamp. It will gradually warm,” he said.
She hung the cooking bag, then squatted beside him. He handed her a bowl. “Eat,” he said.
She waited until he took the first bite and then ate. When her bowl was empty, he asked, “Your husband was killed hunting?”
“Yes.”
“You are ready to be wife again?”
When Kukutux did not answer, he asked, “How long has he been dead?”
“More than a year now,” Kukutux said.
“Long enough,” said Waxtal.
He stood up and extended one hand to her. His fingers looked old, knuckles swollen, but in her mind she saw his hand wrapped around a walking stick, saw the fingers tighten as he raised the stick to strike her.
“You have another wife?” she asked as she stood, ignoring his outstretched hand.
“She is dead.”
“We both mourn.”
“You will not have a terrible life,” said Waxtal and spread his arms as though he would embrace the stacks of trade goods. It is not mine.
“You are a woman. What woman expects to have all of this?” He laughed. “But I will give you something because you are my wife,” he said. “Choose.”
“Anything?” Kukutux asked.
“Anything.”
Kukutux looked long at all the furs and skins, the meat and oil. Finally she pointed at Waxtal’s chest, at the blue stone necklace that Owl had given her.
“That,” she said.
Waxtal narrowed his eyes, hesitated, but finally took off the necklace and handed it to her. Then she went with him into his sleeping place.
CHAPTER 62
The Alaska Peninsula
KIIN PEELED THE SHELL from an egg and held the egg out to Shuku. He curled his lips and turned his head away. “It is better than nothing,” Kiin told him. But she held it up to her nose and knew why he refused it. Too many days had passed since she had gathered and boiled the eggs. Mold discolored the white and had begun to eat into the yolk.
Kiin sighed and looked out over the North Sea. She should fish. The shore
here dropped steeply from the beach. She could use a handline to catch pogies and perhaps even cod. She glanced up at the sky, at the position of the sun. Better to wait until low tide, she thought, then gather sea urchins or dig for clams. She lifted the carrying basket from her back and sat down. She did not let herself remember that she had said the same thing the day before, and yet during low tide had done nothing.
She had been walking steadily for two months and knew she must be more than halfway to Traders’ Bay. If she could make herself keep walking, in less than two moons, she would come to the mouth of the Traders’ Bay. Then she would be close enough to sit and wait for one of the First Men hunters to find her.
In the time since she had fallen, Kiin’s hands had healed, leaving only small pink scars against her brown skin. Her fingers where the nails had been torn away were tender, but already she could see the thin ridges of new nails growing in. To protect her fingertips, she had carved wooden nails for herself, thin slices that she tied to her fingers each day to protect the soft skin of the nail beds.
But each day walking became more difficult. Angry red lines had crept up from the cuts on her feet, and now reached nearly to her knees.
Each morning, Kiin wrapped her feet in sealskin strips before she put on her boots. Each night she unwrapped her feet and washed them with seawater. But every day, she had to stop sooner, to allow herself more time to rest. Two days ago, she had walked only to the next hill, and then had stayed, moving once to the beach to gather a few pieces of driftwood that had floated in from the North Sea, and to dig clams. Yesterday, she had done nothing.
She reached into her carrying basket beside her in the beach grass and found the seal belly storage container. The container, once bulging with fish, was now flat, empty. Three pieces of fish hung drying on the outside of the basket.
“Three pieces,” Kiin said, looking at the fish, and the words were like stones in her chest. She handed one piece to Shuku. I should eat, she thought, but she was not hungry. Her face was hot, even in the cold wind, and her eyes seemed to see too much too quickly, making her head throb and her stomach ache.