The Storyteller Trilogy

by Sue Harrison

  CEN PUSHED HIS WAY into the thick brush that grew on the riverbank, then crouched down until his heart slowed. There was no sense in hiding. The soft snow made his tracks easy to follow, but when he rested, he felt safer away from the river. He inhaled the clean smell of the willow around him. The yellow bark was changing to the gray-green of spring, and leaf buds had begun to swell, though the snow had not yet melted back from each thumb-sized bole.

  Gripped by the need for sleep, he closed his eyes, but after a moment he jerked himself awake. He needed to get as far from the village as he could. He tightened his right hand on a short stabbing knife. What remained of a throwing spear was slung over his shoulder. If they tried to take him, he would kill at least one of them.

  After the River People let him go, Cen had cleaned his wounds, but he knew he still smelled of blood. Wolves are more dangerous than the River People, he told himself. What pack would hesitate to attack something wounded? He had hung amulets around his neck, the amulet his uncle had given him at his birth, and others he had bought in trade from villages as far away as the Great River. Perhaps they would be enough to deter animals.

  He wished he had an amulet from the First Men, Daes’s people. They had power, those Sea Hunters.

  The River People had kept him one whole day, making him wait at the center of the village until the elders decided he could go. Fools! He would never kill Daes or his own son. It was hard enough to leave the village without knowing whether the boy would live or die. But why risk that the elders would change their minds or that some other person would be found dead? Whoever had killed Daes and the old man was one of their own.

  During the day he was captive, Cen had been given nothing to eat. Without food, the cold had sunk deep into his bones, but during any distraction, he had moved gradually closer to the hearth fires. There was no chance he could steal food, but the warmth eased his pain, and he was able to inhale the steam that rose from the cooking bags. Shamans said the spirits themselves lived on the smoke from burning fat. If the spirits could, perhaps men could also.

  When they finally untied him, small boys and their dogs chased him from the village. Before he had reached the edge of the trees, he had fallen twice, had felt the lashes of the boys’ sticks across his arms and legs, had been bitten once on the hand, again on the ankle, but finally they had turned away, allowed him to go the short distance to his lodge. There he found his packs had been scattered, most of his trade goods and weapons taken, and the shaft of his one remaining spear broken. They had left him a handful of dried meat that he stuffed into his mouth even before using his fire bow to relight the hearth.

  His warmest blankets and robes had been taken, but they had not touched his sacred bundles or flicker skins. His best parkas were gone, the heavy one of wolf skin and the lighter ground squirrel parka. The hood of the ground squirrel parka had been pieced from tiny patches of fur taken from ground squirrel heads, each head fur only the length of a little finger.

  Whoever had taken his parkas had left him an old parka of wolverine fur. It was weak with mildew, would fall apart on his body if he did not move carefully, but it was warm.

  He had melted snow in a bag on a tripod and drunk the icy water. Then he went to the back of the lodge, lifted an old moldy mat he had purposely put in that place. He had thawed the ground there with fire, staying awake his first night in the lodge to keep the coals burning until the ground was soft enough for him to dig into it. He had made a hole, buried a bag of meat and berry cakes, a small supply of obsidian in a grass basket.

  Cen went back to the fire, hunkered over it, allowed himself two berry cakes. The stump of his severed finger throbbed, and each breath tore into his chest like a knife. His left wrist was swollen almost to the width of his hand. He packed snow around it, and over his face, hoping to bring down the swelling that nearly closed his eyes. Pain muddled his thoughts, but he forced himself to decide what he must do next.

  Most of his trade goods had been taken, but because of his injuries, there was still too much for him to carry.

  He was strong, able to pull heavy loads on a sled made from his lodge poles. He had carved wooden braces that allowed him to lash the lodge poles together into a sled, and had faced several of the poles with strips of ivory to make runners. Now he could not pull a sled. It was difficult enough to walk. He had to leave everything, even the lodge, taking only food and his amulets.

  Cen had gathered what he would take and wrapped it in one of the mats they had left him. He secured the bundle with several of his lodge pole bindings, then he had curled around his fire and let himself sleep. Why not? If they came for him, what could he do?

  He had awakened when his fire burned low. He put a coal in a hollowed knot of wood, slung it around his neck, then strapped the pack on his back. It was still night when he left the lodge, though he could see the first edge of dawn above the trees.

  He had taken short breaks, ate, once even slept, then forced himself to continue.

  Now again he heaved himself to his feet and pushed through the brush to the bank of the river. He walked until in his exhaustion he could no longer think, until his feet were like things that did not belong to him and he could not feel the ache of the bones in his wrist. Then suddenly he was on his knees and could not remember how he had fallen.

  He forced himself to stand and turned his mind toward Daes. She had been a good woman—too good to die in the Near River Village, where she had no one to mourn her.

  Anger gave him strength. His steps were again firm against the snow. He would have his revenge, and in that way Daes would be mourned. She did have a daughter. Daes had spoken of her often. Cen thought he remembered her. She had been a girl of ten, twelve summers then. By now she was a woman and probably had children of her own.

  He should go and tell her that her mother was dead. Cen fixed the image of the daughter in his mind. She had looked much like Daes. Yes, he must go to the First Men, must tell them about Daes, about Ghaden. Perhaps some of the hunters would be willing to help him avenge his woman’s death.

  The day after the burial ceremony, Chakliux went to Blueberry. Without Tsaani, the lodge seemed empty, cold.

  Blueberry did not look at him. With her head lowered, she motioned toward the back of the fire, toward the place where Tsaani always sat, but Chakliux did not want to assume an honor that was not his. Blueberry brought him a bowl of warm meat, the broth dimpled with melted fat and flavored with sour dock leaves. Chakliux raised the bowl to his lips, pushed meat into his mouth with his fingers.

  “Good,” he said. “Very good.”

  She looked at him then, and he saw that her eyes were swollen and red, that she had cut her hair so it stuck out in uneven tufts around her ears.

  Chakliux’s chest ached with the young woman’s pain. “I share your sorrow,” he told her.

  Blueberry scowled. “Why?” she asked. “Your grandfather’s death has given you a wife. You think I do not hear the women’s laughter? You think I am proud to be given what Snow-in-her-hair did not want?”

  Chakliux could not answer. During the short time he had lived in the Near River Village, he had often visited this lodge. Blueberry had seemed to be a quiet woman, not one to throw insults.

  It is her sorrow, he told himself, and said, “I do not pretend to be what your husband was, but I have always been a hunter. I will bring food to the lodge. You and your children will have enough to eat.”

  “Those children,” said Blueberry, “will they be otters or people?”

  Chakliux, suddenly angry, said, “No one will force you to be my wife.”

  “You think I will displease my husband, dishonor him by refusing to do what he asks?”

  “How does it honor your dead husband when you treat his grandson with scorn?”

  She narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth to speak, but at that moment, there was a scratching at the doorflap. “Come!” Blueberry called, anger still loud in her voice.

  Sok came in. Fo
r a moment he crouched at the end of the entrance tunnel, watching them both. Blueberry turned her back on the men and went to the woman’s side of the lodge.

  Sok curled his lips, and as though she were not there, he said to Chakliux, “It is cold in here. What happened to the woman who owns this lodge? Can she not keep a hearth fire going?” He picked up several pieces of wood, fed the fire into a blaze, then motioned for Chakliux to sit beside him.

  Chakliux sat on his haunches. “Let her mourn,” he said in a quiet voice.

  “She does not want to be wife again?” Sok asked.

  “Not to me.”

  “Young women are often foolish,” Sok said, but he spoke loudly, turning his head to direct his words toward Blueberry’s back.

  “There is food,” said Chakliux, and nodded toward the boiling bag.

  Sok picked up a bowl and filled it, then squatted beside his brother. For a short time, he ate, then he said, “It does not seem right without our grandfather.”

  Suddenly Blueberry turned, her face dark, her teeth clenched. Rudely, she raised her arm to point at Chakliux; rudely she spoke, using his name in boldness. “Chakliux, there is something you should know. Your grandfather was the one who chose to leave you. He was the one who took you from your mother and left you to die. Do you know that?”

  “I know,” Chakliux said softly.

  She stood, mouth open, then grabbed a woven hare fur blanket and wrapped it around herself. “He did not think you should live,” she said. “He wanted you dead. So why would he tell me I must be your wife?”

  She flung the last words over her shoulder as she left the lodge.

  Sok reached out, laid a hand on Chakliux’s shoulder.

  “I cannot be her husband,” Chakliux said.

  “You would dishonor our grandfather by refusing her?” Sok asked. “Leave her alone. Do not come to this lodge except to bring meat. In time, she will realize our grandfather was right.”

  Chakliux pressed his lips together. Now, more than ever, he wanted to return to his own village, his own people. Should he stay where he was not wanted, tied to a place by dogs and a woman who hated him?

  “There is something else to think about,” Sok said, and his words were slow, sad, so that Chakliux sucked in his breath as he waited for what Sok had to say. “More dogs have died.”

  “Whose?” Chakliux asked.

  “Blue-head Duck’s.”

  Chakliux rubbed one hand across his face.

  “The elders are meeting now to decide what needs to be done. They have asked me to come to them at midday. To hear what they have to say.”

  “Tell them I will leave this village,” Chakliux said. “I have had enough. I will be glad to go back to my own people.” He did not look at Sok, did not want to see if there was hurt in his brother’s eyes.

  Sok stood in the midst of the elders. Each was respected in some way, for some skill, some wisdom.

  Dog Trainer spoke. He had more dogs than any other man in the village. Of the elders, now that Tsaani was dead, Dog Trainer was recognized as the one who knew most about dogs.

  “We have had many dogs die, many who were not sick or old or injured. Puppies are born dead or too weak to live. We had no problems like this until your brother came among us. We were told by the Cousin River shaman that Chakliux was a man of animal powers, a gift from animals. But we in this village remember your mother giving birth, remember her sorrow when she had to give up a son because he would not be able to walk or run.

  “We think he must leave our village. We think he might be the cause of our bad luck with dogs. People also say that someone from his village, some hunter wanting to stir our young men to attack, killed your grandfather and the Sea Hunter woman.”

  “My brother is aware of everything you have just said,” Sok answered. “He does not want to make problems here. He came to work for understanding, so his village and ours could continue to live together in peace.”

  “Some of us think your brother must leave our village,” said the elder who called himself Blue-head Duck. Blue-head Duck had many children, all living. He looked at Dog Trainer, though he spoke to Sok. “But some of us think he has power. A child left to die, who does not die, has some favor of the spirits. A child who should not be able to walk, but as a man can walk, has somehow overcome his curse.”

  “But the dogs die,” Dog Trainer said. “You think this village will survive if our dogs die? What if we have a starving winter, what will we eat? How will we move to fish camp? You want our women to carry everything?”

  “You know I want our dogs to live,” Blue-head Duck said patiently. “But why throw away power?”

  “My brother is different from the rest of us,” Sok said. His words were careful, slow. “He has powers we do not understand. Is that a reason to blame him for what has happened? Instead we should consider how he can help us. You know we have often tried to get the Cousin River People to trade us one of their dogs—those golden-eyed dogs their grandfathers bought in trade from the caribou followers who live far to the north. What if Chakliux can get one of those dogs for us? Perhaps that would be enough to break this curse.”

  For a long time no one spoke. Finally Dog Trainer said, “Tell your brother to come to me. I will ask him to visit the Cousin River Village and to make good trades.”

  Fox Barking raised his eyes from the hearth fire. “It sounds like foolishness, this plan,” he said, snorting out the words. “What will Chakliux trade? He has nothing but his grandfather’s dogs and his grandfather’s wife.”

  “My granddaughter will not go,” another of the elders, father of Blueberry’s mother, said.

  “Then Chakliux will go alone,” Dog Trainer said, “and we will all give him trade goods, so each of us will have a share in the luck.”

  It was a good idea, Chakliux thought. If he was successful, he would return in one moon, and he would bring dogs from his village for the Near River men. The dogs raised in his village were larger and stronger than those raised here, yet not so given to fighting. Those few marked with golden eyes were known to have special powers, but the hunters of his village did not part easily with them.

  A man could get almost anything for a litter of golden-eyed dogs. Anything but a Sea Hunter iqyax, Chakliux thought. Traders said the Sea Hunters did not have dogs. Why should they? They were not like Caribou People, following the herds as they moved spring and fall; they were not like this Near River Village, using dogs to hunt bear. They did not starve in winter and use their dogs for meat. Who starved when there were whales to hunt?

  The Near River elders told him they would be satisfied with one golden-eyed dog. Male or female, old or young, as long as it was not too old to mate. Now as Chakliux stood in Sok’s lodge, he sorted through the trade goods they had given him, all packed in fishskin baskets, their seams strengthened with welts of caribou hide and decorated with the green head feathers of the male merganser. Some baskets were filled with pelts from beavers trapped in early winter when their fur was thick and shining; others held berry cakes, dried meat or smoked fish.

  Blue-head Duck had sent three fine wolfskin parkas edged with wolverine fur; Sok had given caribouskin leggings, shell beads and a handful of narrow chert blades a man could insert in a sharpened length of bone or ivory to make a spearhead that would draw much blood, kill quickly. Others had brought willow bark fishnets and woven hare fur blankets, jade knife blades, caribou antler snow goggles, scrapers, women’s knives, bone and ivory fish lures, even a fire bow. Enough to buy several dogs, Chakliux was sure.

  Sok had lent him his sled. It was strong and sturdy with frame and runners carved from birch, the body woven of split willow roots. The runners were sheathed with walrus ivory Sok had bought in trade. On the coldest days, when the snow was like sand, or in warmer times, when it was sticky, a man could urinate on the runners. When the urine froze it made a thin layer of ice that moved easily over any kind of snow.

  Chakliux tied everything he had been gi
ven on the sled, then he added the extra boots, parka and throwing spears he would need for traveling. He also tied on a bundle of his own trade goods. Perhaps he could bring back a dog for himself.

  K’os’s cousin, Cloud Finder, had several golden-eyed dogs. He might be willing to trade, and that would be one way Chakliux could get an iqyax, at least from the Walrus Hunters. Their iqyan, it was said, were not as good as those made by the Sea Hunters, but unlike the Sea Hunters, the Walrus men kept dogs.

  “You are ready?” Sok asked as he came into the lodge.

  “Yes. I plan to leave in the morning.”

  “Red Leaf is at the cooking hearth. She and many of the old women have prepared a feast. Everyone will eat together. Come, there will be drums and dances. What you are doing gives us reason to celebrate.”

  Chakliux followed Sok to the cooking hearths. He would stay for a little while, then he would go see Day Woman before he left. And also Blueberry. Neither visit would be easy.

  An old woman offered Chakliux a bowl of food, but most of the people stood at a distance, watching him from the edges of their eyes. Chakliux took the bowl, then went to find Sok.

  He was at the center of a group of men, telling hunting stories. He paused when he saw Chakliux, motioned for Chakliux to join him, then began to boast of his brother’s skills.

  In politeness, Chakliux listened, but found he could not look at those around him as Sok spoke. He was not used to having others speak about his hunting. It was good to be known as a hunter, though. He was gifted with his spear, had practiced hard as a boy, thinking a strong arm would make up for his weak leg.

  Finally Sok finished. The men looked at Chakliux, and he realized he was expected to tell a story about Sok.

  He had hunted several times with his brother, and Sok had done well, acted bravely, though he was harsh with his dogs. Chakliux could speak about these hunts, but in telling such a story, there were many ways a man could be trapped in disrespect. Each village had its own way of praising.

  Better to speak truthfully, Chakliux thought, than risk cursing his own brother.