by Sue Harrison
Aqamdax looked up at the Walrus man who guarded them. He was a young man, his face made dark with a line of tattoos across his nose and cheeks. He had pushed back the hood of his parka, and Aqamdax could see that his hair was greased and pulled into a tight braid on either side of his head.
She began to speak, knowing her words might bring the spear, but perhaps they would also float to her village, so Qung would understand she must teach another to be storyteller.
“I am here, Qung,” Aqamdax said, speaking in the First Men tongue. “It might soon be said that the Walrus killed me. It might soon be told in ulas that I am dead.”
The Walrus Hunter growled out in anger, but Aqamdax spoke more loudly, and when she had finished her message to Qung, she began to tell stories. If she must die, then why not die as storyteller?
From the edge of her eye, she saw the Walrus Hunter move his spear close to her face, but she did not stop speaking. Her words were in her own voice, then in the voice of sea otters and of the wind, in the voice of children and hunters. She closed her eyes so she would not see the spear, closed her eyes so she would not stop speaking when the clamshell cut into her throat, so her words would flow even as her blood spilled.
PART THREE
I LISTEN TO SOK, this man I must again call husband. His face is layered with a thick coat of grease. He hates the gnats, he says, though there are not that many of them. A person can scoop a hand before the eyes and clear a path for seeing. Who needs more than that?
Gnats stick to his face like knots of black hair, and I hate to hear him call me to his bed.
I try to see him as he was in my village, his hair smooth and shining, his arms sleek with muscle, legs as thick and strong as the driftwood climbing log that leads from Qung’s ulax.
On the journey to the Walrus village, we slept under his iqyax, its curved back like the shell of a clam, shiny and wet from the tide flats.
But now I see myself as clam, dug up and waiting. His hands seek their way through the feathers and skins of my sax, under careful seams and small stitches to my bare legs. He enters me, devours me, then he sleeps, head resting on my head, his grease-killed gnats pressed into my hair.
Chapter Twenty-nine
THE NEAR RIVER VILLAGE
CHAKLIUX HAD TAKEN HIS iqyax up the Near River, waited two handfuls of days for Sok and Aqamdax, who had walked with the dogs from the Walrus Hunter Village. They had camped with him last night. This morning, after Chakliux had hidden the iqyax high in the sheltering branches of a black spruce and covered it with bark, they started out together to the Near River Village. They had less than a day’s walk, most of it along a trail the Near River People had made through the brush that grew beside the river.
Sok told him that Aqamdax had been no trouble, that though at first she was afraid of the dogs, she soon learned to secure their packs and to tie them so they wouldn’t gnaw away their ropes, how much to feed them so they wouldn’t be lazy the next day. Already, she knew the River words all dogs understood. But though Sok spoke of his wife with praise, Chakliux did not have to look hard to see the anger in Aqamdax’s eyes, the disdain. When she accepted something from Sok’s hands, or followed him meekly to his sleeping blankets, he saw that she mocked him with curled lips and slitted eyes.
What else should Sok expect? Chakliux asked himself. Aqamdax had been tricked into becoming wife, had been given to a people who almost killed her, and even then, Sok had done nothing to save her.
Though her mockery displeased Chakliux, he, too, found reason to praise her. How many women—how many hunters—would have thought to join the mourners’ song when their lives were threatened? When she was accused of causing the death of that old one they called shaman, she had not denied it, but used her storytelling voices to show the people her powers.
How could the Walrus Hunters risk killing her when she might be able to seek revenge? Without their shaman to guide them, how could they protect themselves?
Chakliux had seen the dead man. He had been curled like a child, hands clutched over his chest. There was no mark of fire or knife, no fear caught in the open eyes. He had been an old man. Old men die. Why think Aqamdax did it? He had said as much to Sok when Sok did not want to take Aqamdax with them, had reminded Sok that if the woman truly did have powers, most likely she would have killed them rather than the shaman. So to save her life, and perhaps theirs as well, they agreed to leave, agreed to take back all their trade goods, even Snow Hawk and Gray, the dogs they had brought from the Near River Village.
Old Tusk told Chakliux that they would place the shaman’s body in the lodge where Aqamdax had stayed, then would burn the place over him when the days of mourning had ended. If a woman could kill a shaman, what hope did anyone have of standing against her powers? Had she not walked across the floor of that lodge, her power seeping out at each step? Better to send that power away in smoke so it would settle far from the Walrus Hunters, who always tried to live lives of respect.
Yaa was the first in the village to see them. She was checking her mother’s trapline, the one she set for hares near the riverbank. Ghaden trailed behind her, Biter at his side. The boy was as quiet as a shadow, crowding close each time she stopped and staying three steps back when she walked. She had just found the second hare, the animal strangled in the trap’s clever sinew loop, when she heard the sound of brush snapping. Her first thought was of bears, so she pulled Ghaden close to her, crouched down, gripped the scruff of Biter’s neck and clamped his muzzle closed with one hand.
Then the leaves parted and she recognized Sok. The Cousin River man, Chakliux, walked with him, and behind them was a woman, tall and dark-skinned, who wore a strange feathered garment. Almost, Yaa called out to them; almost, she spoke a welcome, but then did not. She did not know the woman. With her dark-feathered parka, she might be some relative of Raven. Why draw the attention of one so powerful as that? Yaa let them pass.
Once they were gone, Yaa wanted to run and tell everyone in the village what she had seen, but she knew Brown Water would scold her for leaving without checking and resetting the traps. Even her mother would be angry with her. There were only three more. She looked back to be sure Ghaden was following her. He walked with one hand entwined in Biter’s fur, the other rubbing his eyes. She stopped, knelt down in front of him.
“Ghaden, are you hurt?”
He looked down, shook his head.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he murmured. He took a long shuddering breath.
She knew him well enough to guess that more questions would do no good. What boy ever admitted he was crying? She reached for his hands, turned them over, pushed his hair off his forehead, then ran her fingers down his leggings to his feet. No blood. Probably a bruised foot from a stick or rock hidden in the riverbank sod. She slowed her pace but went on to the next trap. At the last trap, they would rest, but even a little boy had to learn to finish his work. If hunters stayed home each time they got hurt, who would feed the people?
Aqamdax was glad when the path led out into an open space of grasses. The trees were taller here than where her people lived. Though their branches were high over her head, it seemed as though they pressed against her shoulders with whatever thoughts and powers trees had. Some were so large that they blocked out the sky. When she looked up at them, she felt as though they pulled her spirit out through her eyes and into the hidden places of their dark boughs.
The open grasses were better. Though there was little wind and a river instead of a sea, it seemed more like her home. How could a person know what was happening in the world if the sky was covered by trees? How could anyone know of storms coming or rain? Snow or sun?
The men had stopped, and Aqamdax, seeing them, stopped also. She lay a hand on each of the dogs’ backs to be sure they did not run on ahead. They had learned to obey her, these dogs, but sometimes they seemed to turn wild, even snarling at Sok’s commands. She could not blame them. There were times when she, too,
wanted to run, to leave the packs she was carrying, to forget the many River taboos Chakliux had taught her.
First Men taboos made sense, but the taboos she must follow now that she had a River husband—ways of cutting meat, words that must be said when she took water or something from the earth—were foolish. Would not her own words be better? Now that she was River wife, now that she was here in the place where River People lived, did that mean the First Men taboos, First Men wisdom, should no longer be followed? Finally, she had decided to follow both ways. She spoke First Men chants and River chants, followed First Men taboos and River taboos, but their weight was like the heaviness of the tree branches, and she found herself watching the birds, following their flight, and wishing she, too, could soar above trees and earth, taking nothing with her but a cloak of feathers and the wind.
“Aqamdax! Come.” It was Sok. He gestured for her to join them, and so she walked to his side. He held out one arm, fingers splayed, and she saw that he was pointing toward a village, the ulas crowded close in a valley that was shaped like a bowl.
Aqamdax could not hide her curiosity. Who could believe how many different ways people made ulas?
“Listen, you can hear the dogs,” Sok said.
Aqamdax nodded. Looking back at Snow Hawk and Gray, she saw their ears were pricked forward, bodies stiff.
“This is your village?” Aqamdax asked, then realized she had spoken in the First Men tongue. She searched for River words, lifted her chin toward the village, then pressed fingertips against Sok’s arm and asked, “Your?”
“Yes,” he answered.
Chakliux stepped forward, told her the River word for “village,” and corrected her pronunciation when she repeated it.
They started again, Sok walking so quickly that Aqamdax saw Chakliux had difficulty keeping up. Finally Chakliux dropped back to walk beside her, and she slowed her pace. What did it matter if Sok arrived first? She had many days to live here in this village, time to learn their language and then to find her mother, a long time to devise a way to return to her own people. She thought of Tut, who had grown into an old woman before she got back to the First Men, and wondered if she, too, would be old before she found her way home.
They went first to the elders’ lodge. They set their heavy packs at the entrance, left the dogs and Aqamdax outside.
Dog Trainer greeted them, and when Chakliux’s eyes adjusted to the smoky light of the hearth fire, he saw that Wolf-and-Raven, Blue-head Duck, Fox Barking, Sleeps Long and Camp Maker sat at the back of the lodge. Fox Barking rose and made much of seeing his wife’s sons again, but after his greetings, Chakliux heard the man’s greed as he asked subtle questions about dogs and trade goods.
Finally Sok interrupted him. “Yes, we have trade goods,” he said, “but most important, we must know if my brother is welcome in this village.”
“You are both welcome,” Blue-head Duck said. “In this lodge and in this village. Sit down and I will tell you what has happened.”
They sat, and soon Blue-head Duck’s wife came carrying a boiling bag of thick, hot stew. They ate before they spoke, the hot food filling Chakliux with contentment, and he hoped that Blue-head Duck was not being only polite when he said they were welcome in the village.
Finally, when he had emptied his bowl, Blue-head Duck said, “After you left, a woman and her husband and two young hunters came from the Cousin River Village.” He looked at Chakliux. “She claimed to be your mother, and the man said he was your father. They brought golden-eyed dogs to help you in your trading. We told them that you had never arrived here, that you must have gone on to trade with the Walrus, or perhaps to other River villages.”
“They did not seek revenge?” Sok asked.
“They only seemed concerned for Chakliux’s safety,” Blue-head Duck said.
“My mother,” said Chakliux. “K’os?”
“Yes,” said Blue-head Duck. “It was not easy to pretend you had never come to the village. She was afraid for you, that you might be dead. It was a hard time for her. She found much sorrow here during her stay.”
Fox Barking leaned forward, used his bowl to point at Chakliux. “Now you have only one man to call father,” he said. “Be grateful your mother Day Woman has a husband.”
At first Chakliux was puzzled by Fox Barking’s words, but as understanding came, his breath seemed to leave him, and he could not speak.
“You are telling us that Chakliux’s father is dead?” Sok asked.
Blue-head Duck looked at Fox Barking. “There are better ways to tell such a thing,” he said, then reached out to clasp Chakliux’s arm. “I am sorry. In the few times I traded with him, I found your father to be an honorable man.”
Chakliux’s voice returned, and he asked softly, “How did he die?”
“A fire,” said Blue-head Duck. “Your mother and father were staying in an elder’s lodge, with his wife, that one who was always singing. The lodge burned in the night. Your father and the two old ones, they died. Your mother spent mourning days here, then went back to her own village.”
“She was not hurt?” Chakliux asked.
“No, she alone survived.”
Chakliux kept his face still, did not show his anger or his grief. Of course his mother had survived. Of course. And the two elders who died—he remembered the woman, Song. And her husband was … Blue Jay. Yes. There were many reasons for his father Ground Beater to die, many ways he might have displeased K’os. But why kill the two old ones? Perhaps only to cover her part in Ground Beater’s death. Perhaps only that.
“Brother,” Sok said, “I share your sorrow.”
Chakliux looked into Sok’s eyes, and grief tightened his throat so he could only nod acknowledgment of his brother’s words.
“Blue-head Duck,” Sok said, “there were no others who came from the Cousin River Village? No one seeking revenge? No one who asked about Chakliux and where he had gone?”
“No one.”
“Who were the two young hunters that came with Chakliux’s mother and father?”
“Tikaani and Snow Breaker,” Blue-head Duck said. He looked at Sok. “You know them?”
“No,” said Sok.
“I know them,” Chakliux said softly.
Yes, he thought, and if they were the two who came with his mother, they came seeking revenge. Perhaps, though, they believed what the elders told them, that Chakliux had not returned to the village. But there are many people in a village, old ones, wives, children. Someone might have told them that he had stopped, then gone to the Walrus. Either way, the elders did not seem to think the Cousin River People planned any revenge.
It was best, then, to stay for a while, Chakliux decided, at least until he saw what happened with Aqamdax. Besides, someone had to keep watch. Who could say what plans K’os had made? There should be someone in the village with eyes open.
“You are welcome to stay here with us. We need a good storyteller in this village,” Blue-head Duck told Chakliux.
The others murmured their agreement, and Camp Maker said, “You should know that your mother left your father’s bones in our burial place.”
The man’s words gave comfort. His father’s bones—another tie to hold him to this village. “I will stay,” Chakliux said.
Yaa pulled Ghaden into the lodge’s entrance tunnel. She was close to losing her temper with him. He had kept up with her as long as they followed the trapline, but on the way back to the village, he kept lagging behind until finally she had to carry him. He was in his fourth summer—too big to expect her to carry him, too old to act like a baby. She stuck her head out of the entrance tunnel. Brown Water was sitting inside the lodge, poking holes in a caribou skin with a birdbone awl.
Yaa turned and pulled Ghaden’s thumb from his mouth, then crawled into the lodge. Ghaden followed her, sliding across the floor on his knees, then flinging himself into the rolls of bed mats. He curled up with his back toward Brown Water, and Biter flopped down beside him.
> Yaa held out the two hares, but Brown Water ignored her to say, “Hunters do not curse their throwing sticks with wet thumbs.”
Ghaden lay still, and Brown Water sighed, then turned her eyes to Yaa. She looked at the hares, then said, “Did you reset the traps?”
The question was an insult. Of course she had reset the traps. Even Ghaden knew better than to leave trap strings loose. “Yes,” she said.
“Gut the hares and skin them,” Brown Water told her. “Then take them to the hearths. Sok and his brother are back, and they have brought a Sea Hunter woman. Wolf-and-Raven has decided to show her that we are a strong village. She was a storyteller among her own people, Sok says.”
Yaa widened her eyes and looked over at Ghaden. They loved storytelling evenings, but Ghaden lay still, as if he were asleep.
“She is Chakliux’s wife?” Yaa asked.
“Someone said she is Sok’s wife.”
“But Sok already has a wife, and Chakliux has none.”
Brown Water shrugged her shoulders, then said, “You talk too much. Do your work. If every woman in this village was like you, we would never have anything to eat.”
Chakliux waited outside Red Leaf’s lodge with Aqamdax. His nephews had run out to welcome him, the youngest with a wild fling of arms and happy chatter. The older boy had greeted Chakliux with a shy smile and then questions, many questions—about the First Men, how they hunted, about their iqyan, their weapons. All the while, Aqamdax waited, crouched on her haunches beside the dogs, her eyes straight ahead. She said nothing, though soon a crowd of villagers, mostly women, had gathered, pointing at her with pursed lips and chins outthrust, speaking about her as though she were not there to hear their words.
Of course, Chakliux thought, she would understand little, which was good since they were not always kind, though all spoke in awe of her feather sax.
When Sok finally came outside, several women rudely asked questions, but he did not answer. He leaned over to clasp Aqamdax’s arm, then to gesture for Chakliux to follow them inside.