The Storyteller Trilogy

by Sue Harrison

  A curse, Chakliux thought, and closed his eyes in the sudden knowledge that the Near River People would blame him as they blamed him for the dogs. Even his brother, Sok, though Sok treated Chakliux with respect, could not hide his growing worry as dog after dog died.

  Chakliux knelt beside the woman, then saw the blood on her back, the wounds. This was no curse. Since when did curses use knives?

  So what should he do? Call the shaman? Tell Sok? Each village had it own ways. What did the Near River People do?

  Tell the husband, Chakliux thought. The men here had louder voices than in his own village. They expected to know things first and to make most decisions.

  Chakliux stood and, in doing so, heard a quiet moan. First he thought it was from Daes, perhaps from her spirit, but when he crouched down, he saw that her little son lay under her. He could not remember the boy’s name. The groan came again, and though Chakliux did not want to touch the dead woman for fear of cursing his hunting skills, he pushed her body aside and drew out the child.

  In dying the mother must have pulled him under her, Chakliux thought, and in that way kept him from freezing. But the boy was cold, his skin white, his eyelashes and brows frosted. The child cried out, and Chakliux saw the knife in the boy’s back, the handle dark with blood.

  No, not a curse, Chakliux thought. Something worse.

  The girl Yaa was the first in the lodge to hear Ghaden’s cry. The sound came from outside. Why was her brother out there? Yaa wondered, her thoughts still mixed with her dreams. She looked over at her mother, but Happy Mouth was asleep, and Brown Water, even if she was awake, would never bother herself over Ghaden. Ghaden’s mother, Daes, was not in her bed. She must be outside with him, Yaa thought, but she wrapped herself in one of her sleeping robes and got up.

  She bent to stir the hearth coals, then heard the cry again. It sounded as though Ghaden was hurt. She went to her mother, shook her awake. She opened her mouth to explain, but another call came—a man’s voice, asking for help.

  Happy Mouth nearly knocked her daughter over scrambling from her bed, and though she motioned for Yaa to stay back, Yaa followed her out the entrance tunnel.

  “Ghaden!” Yaa cried when she saw the boy in Chakliux’s arms. She grabbed her mother’s hand. “Mother, he is hurt,” she said, and pulled her toward Chakliux, but Yaa stopped when she saw Daes, white and frozen on the ground. Yaa had seen dead people before. She recognized the stiffness and pallor of death. Her stomach rose to her throat and she began retching, dry heaves that seemed to turn her belly inside out.

  “Get Brown Water,” her mother said to her, hissing the words. “Do not wake your father.”

  Yaa cupped her hands over her mouth and, sucking in through her fingers, filled her lungs with air until her belly stopped heaving, then she scooted inside. Both Brown Water and her father were awake.

  “Mother,” Yaa addressed Brown Water in politeness, “your sister-wife needs you.”

  Brown Water wrapped herself in a robe and said, “You were foolish. I told you to stay inside.”

  At first Yaa thought Brown Water was speaking to her, but then she realized the woman had tilted her head and was looking around the lodge as though she spoke to someone up by the smoke hole.

  “You think we did not know you were going to the trader?” Brown Water said.

  Yaa looked up toward the top of the lodge. Had Brown Water seen Daes’s spirit floating somewhere up there?

  “What has happened?” asked Yaa’s father, Summer Face, his voice raspy with age and sleep.

  Yaa went over to his bed, a place she was not supposed to be, but this was different. No one had to tell her that Daes was his favorite wife, and of all his children, even those grown and living in other lodges, Ghaden was also his favorite, but that did not bother Yaa. She was her mother’s favorite. Ghaden’s mother, Daes, though she fed Ghaden and sewed his clothing, did not want to hold him or spend time singing to him or telling stories. It was good their father loved him best.

  Yaa knelt beside the old man. He raised himself up on one elbow and looked toward the door. “What has happened?” he asked again. “Where is everyone?”

  “They are outside,” Yaa said, “but I am here with you. I will not leave you. Do not worry.”

  Summer Face squinted and peered around the lodge. The bedding where Happy Mouth and Brown Water had slept was crumpled, but Daes’s sleeping furs had not been unrolled. “Daes, my wife,” the old man whispered, and he raised his voice to ask, “Where is Daes, daughter?”

  “Outside with my mother,” Yaa answered and held her breath. Her heart pounded in her chest as loud as a drum. “Would you like water or food?” she asked, speaking over its loudness. “I can get you something.”

  “Yes,” her father said, and relaxed back into his sleeping furs. “Water. Daes will bring me food later.”

  Yaa left her father and stood on her toes to reach for one of the caribou bladder water bags hanging from the lodge poles. She hoped her father’s eyes were dim enough that he could not see her hands shake. She carried the water to him and waited as he raised himself to drink from the carved wooden mouthpiece. When he had finished, he lay back and closed his eyes.

  Yaa wondered what she should do next. It was strange, she thought, how in some ways her father reminded her of Ghaden—not so much Ghaden now, but Ghaden as a baby, the care he required and how often he slept. Thoughts of Ghaden brought a sting to her eyes, and she turned away. Her father did not need to see her cry, but how could she hold in her tears? Her brother was hurt, and Daes was dead.

  There had been blood, so much blood … and Ghaden had looked so little and white. The Cousin River man had him. Some of the other children said the Cousin River man was cursed. Perhaps he had killed Daes and hurt Ghaden. But no, probably not. Why would he call for help if he had been the one to hurt them?

  She pressed her eyes with her fingertips and tried to push the tears back under her lids. How would Ghaden feel when he found out his mother was dead? He might decide to die himself.

  Yaa remembered the times she had taken the best pieces of meat before Ghaden, with his slower baby hands, could reach them. She remembered yelling at him when she was playing with her cousins. She had not always been the best sister, but she would be. From now on, she would be….

  Brown Water tried to take the boy away from Chakliux, but he tightened his arms and turned his upper body. “I will carry him to the shaman,” he said.

  Brown Water bumped against Chakliux’s weak leg, using the bulk of her body to threaten his balance.

  “If you make me fall, the boy’s wound may start to bleed again,” he said in a quiet voice, though he wanted to yell at the woman for her stupidity.

  “Take out the knife,” she hissed at him. “Take out the knife.”

  “The knife may be holding in the blood. I will take him to the shaman. Is he a healer? Or is there someone else?”

  The question seemed to calm Brown Water, and she backed away, considering. “Wolf-and-Raven knows prayers,” she said. “Yes, take the boy to his lodge, but I will get old Ligige’. She is a healer with plant medicines. She might know something Wolf-and-Raven does not.”

  “Good,” Chakliux said, and turned toward the shaman’s lodge, taking slow steps on the icy path. He saw Brown Water kneel again beside Daes and then with harsh gestures say something to her sister-wife. Happy Mouth went into the lodge. Chakliux supposed she had been given the task of telling the old man about the death.

  Daes had been killed. The thought brought fear. During the short time Chakliux had been in this village, he had paid little attention to the woman, had never known her to cause any trouble. But like him, she was from another place. Perhaps there was one who thought she, too, was cursed. Or perhaps …No, he could not let himself think that anyone from his own village would do such a thing. Not to Daes. Not to Ghaden.

  For a moment Chakliux took his eyes from the path to glance at the haft of the knife protruding from
the boy’s shoulder. The haft was antler, crudely cut and wrapped with long strands of dark hair. He suddenly realized the knife was much like the ones he and several other hunters had bought in trade the day before. If it was one of the trader’s knives, the blade was not long—but long enough to kill.

  The boy suddenly groaned and flexed his injured shoulder. His eyes flickered open for a moment, and Chakliux leaned down over him, at the same time trying to maintain his pace without falling.

  “Be still,” he murmured to the child. “Be still. Be quiet now. Try to sleep.”

  The boy took a long breath and a seep of blood brightened the wound. Then his voice suddenly rose in a piercing wail. The sound brought people from their lodges, women with stirring sticks in their hands, men still wrapped in bedding furs.

  Most only stared, but one man yelled, “You, from the Cousin Village. What is the matter?”

  “The boy is hurt. I take him to Wolf-and-Raven,” Chakliux answered.

  “Whose child?” a woman called, but Chakliux ducked his head and curled himself over the boy, breaking into a limping run.

  Ghaden continued to wail, and Chakliux, speaking in a firm voice, said, “You are a man. Do not cry. Be still.”

  The boy’s wail stopped so quickly that for a moment Chakliux was afraid he had died. He looked down. The boy’s spirit still peered from his eyes, in fear, in pain.

  “Be still. It will hurt less if you do not move,” Chakliux said, though he knew his hobbling run jarred the injury. The boy opened his mouth and his breath came in gasps, but he did not cry.

  Then the old woman Ligige’ was at his side, motioning for people to stay away as she asked, “He is still alive?”

  “Yes,” Chakliux answered. Pointing with his chin toward the shoulder, he said, “A knife wound.”

  “Two more lodges,” said Ligige’, as though she heard Chakliux’s thoughts, understood that he needed to know how much farther to carry the boy. “Do you recognize the knife?” she asked.

  “It was bought from the trader,” Chakliux answered. “It could be anyone’s.”

  “You think the trader …” the woman began, but then they were at Wolf-and-Raven’s lodge. Without scratching at the doorflap, with no clearing of her throat or polite calling, Ligige’ crawled into the entrance tunnel and gestured for Chakliux to follow.

  Wolf-and-Raven was still in his bed, his wife handing him a wooden bowl of food. Bear meat, Chakliux thought, recognizing the rich smell, the melted pools of fat in the broth. Even in the midst of his worry for the child, his stomach growled, reminding him he had not eaten that morning.

  “What are you doing?” Wolf-and-Raven asked, his voice loud with irritation.

  “Be quiet and help us, little cousin,” Ligige’ said, addressing the shaman, not in respect but as child to child. Chakliux waited for the man’s explosion of anger, but then saw the softening in his eyes. So then they were cousins, Chakliux thought, son and daughter of brothers, according to the kinship term Ligige’ had used.

  “The child has been injured. A knife wound,” Ligige’ said. She bent and whispered something in Wolf-and-Raven’s ear, something, no doubt, she did not want the boy to hear, probably that his mother was dead.

  Wolf-and-Raven’s wife quickly arranged a pile of hare fur blankets into a bed, and Chakliux laid the boy belly down on the pelts. The old woman knelt beside the child, but Wolf-and-Raven turned to Chakliux.

  “You saw this happen?” he asked.

  “Fool!” Ligige’ said. The harsh word startled the boy, and he again lifted his voice into a wail, but Ligige’ ignored him and continued to speak loudly. “Most of the blood around the wound is old, dark. This happened last night. The child has lost much blood and he is cold. Call away the spirits of pain while I take out the knife and warm him.”

  Though Chakliux expected Wolf-and-Raven to react in anger, he did not. The shaman went to the back of the lodge and there uncovered several caribou hide pouches, each decorated with the skin of a protector animal—flickers and least weasels. From one he took several folded packets, each filled with a different-colored powder. He mixed the powders with fat into paints to color his face and arms. From another pouch he took rattles and leaves, feathers and shells. Chakliux began to worry that some things were too sacred for him to see. To protect himself and Wolf-and-Raven, he turned his eyes away and watched Ligige’.

  She had wrapped the child in warm fur blankets and was now mixing powdered leaves and roots into a cilt’ogho of water. She poured some of the water on a scraped ground squirrel skin, then with a quick movement pulled the knife from the boy’s shoulder and pressed the folded skin over the wound. The boy made a tiny mewing sound.

  “Hold this,” Ligige’ barked at Chakliux, and Chakliux knelt beside the boy to hold the ground squirrel skin in place. “Press hard,” she said.

  Ligige’ dipped her fingers into the cilt’ogho and dribbled some of the liquid into the boy’s mouth. “It will ease the pain,” she told him.

  She poured a bit more of the liquid around the wound, using another softened skin to wipe away old blood. Finally she motioned for Chakliux to move his hand. She continued to clean the wound, then prepared another folded skin and tied it into place with long strips of babiche.

  Wolf-and-Raven finished his preparations and began a chant, shuffling his feet with the rhythm of his song. Chakliux understood some of what he said, but other words seemed garbled, as though they were not quite The People’s language. Soon Wolf-and-Raven’s forehead was shining with perspiration. The shaman was almost an old man, already with the pouched belly and thin arms of one who mostly sat, but his feet did not stop, and his song remained loud, clear. If his prayers could keep away those spirits that brought pain, the ones that made wounds fester and fill with pus, then perhaps the child would live—if his mother did not call him to follow her into death.

  If that happened, Chakliux doubted that any shaman could do much good. What child would not go with his mother if she asked?

  “If you want to stay, you are welcome,” Ligige’ whispered to Chakliux, “but if you want to go …”

  Chakliux nodded his understanding. “My grandfather waits for me,” he said. “I should go.” He watched for a moment as the old woman smoothed back the boy’s hair with her gnarled hands and covered him with another blanket.

  The child had been a bundle of ice in Chakliux’s arms. It would take a long time for the cold to leave him. Perhaps it never would, lying as he had beneath the dead body of his mother. Who could say what that would do to a child? But as he watched Ligige’ work, Chakliux felt his hope grow. Her hands were quick and without hesitation as she made poultices and teas.

  Chakliux left. Outside, the morning was bright. He walked back toward Brown Water’s lodge. He should tell them that the boy was still alive and the knife out, the bleeding stopped. A crowd of people stood at the lodge entrance, but they parted when they saw Chakliux, pulling back as though he carried the spirit of death with him. He looked down, saw the blood that stained his parka from mid-chest to the wolf fur ruff that ended just above his knees. Then Brown Water was at the entrance, her voice firm as she said to Chakliux, “My husband wants to speak to you.”

  Chakliux stooped to follow Brown Water through the entrance tunnel. Inside, the lodge was large and neat. A caribou hide boiling bag of soup hung near a central hearth fire. The child he had seen earlier when he found the boy—a girl of six or seven summers—was wrapped at the waist with a woven hare fur blanket and sat with an old man, her small hands patting his fur-wrapped shoulders.

  She was the old man’s daughter; she had the same strong bones beneath the half-moon eyes. The same swirl of hair lifted itself in a peak at the center of a high forehead.

  She swallowed, and he saw the dimple at one corner of her lips, like the dimple that had given her mother the name Happy Mouth. It was a face made for someone who laughed often and saw the good things of the earth, and Chakliux was glad the old man had such
a daughter.

  “The boy is alive,” Chakliux said, though the women had not asked, and the old man did not seem to understand what had happened.

  “The knife?” asked Brown Water, then glanced to her side.

  Chakliux followed her eyes and saw that the dead one lay there. The frost and blood had been washed from her face. Long strands of babiche were knotted around the woman’s wrists and elbows, and other strands lay beside her.

  “The knife was one the trader brought,” Chakliux said.

  “I told her she should not go to him,” said Brown Water. Then with widened eyes she looked at her husband, but his gaze wandered as though he had not heard her.

  “There is no way to know if the trader …” Chakliux began, but Brown Water moved her head toward the old man, and Chakliux finished with, “Many men traded for things yesterday.” He pulled up his parka sleeve so the women could see the knife sheathed on his forearm. It was similar to the one now lying in Wolf-and-Raven’s lodge. “I traded for this.”

  “You found her as you were going to …”

  “My grandfather’s. I feed his dogs every morning.”

  “Yes. I have seen you. There is nothing else you know?”

  “Nothing else,” Chakliux said, then looked over at the dead one. He pointed with his chin toward the strips of babiche. “Do what you can to keep her spirit here.”

  Both Brown Water and Happy Mouth raised eyebrows in agreement, then Happy Mouth knelt beside the dead woman, picked up a strand of babiche and tied it at her shoulder joint. Once each joint was tied, the spirit lost power. Then perhaps the child would not be called to follow his mother into death.

  Chakliux left the lodge. The sael of fish lay near the lodge wall. He picked it up. He wondered if the noise and the mourning cries had awakened Tsaani.

  Probably not, he thought. It was early yet, and old men sleep hard.

  Chapter Five

  CEN WAS ASLEEP WHEN they came.

  They did not enter through the door of his lodge, but through the caribou hide walls, ripping the skins with knives and spearheads. Before he could untangle himself from his sleeping robes, the men were upon him, pinning his arms, hitting him, kicking him. Then the women came, tearing at his eyes with their fingernails, leaving long weals in his cheeks and across his bare chest.