The Storyteller Trilogy

by Sue Harrison

  “What happened to Ghaden?”

  “According to most storytellers, he had broken ribs, and he carried the scars of the bear’s claws and teeth all his life. He must have been a man who understood how to show respect. A bear that powerful would have cursed him had he not followed all the taboos.”

  “Taboos? What taboos?”

  Yikaas was surprised by her question. Anyone who did not respect a brown bear was a fool. “The same that all people follow,” he said. “A hunter can scarcely say the animal’s name, and as a woman, even though you are a storyteller, you dare not. Only an old woman is allowed to eat bear meat, and then just certain parts. The hide must be scraped out by a man, and left to hang for a summer or two before it can be used. Some people cut it into little pieces and bury it. That’s how much life is in the animal. Even the hairs can curse you. The First Men do not know these taboos?”

  “On the island where I live there are no …” Qumalix paused. “Large animals,” she finally said. “Perhaps the hunters who live on the Traders’ Beach know about taboos. I have heard them say there are such animals in the mountains here, and some that even live beside the streams.”

  “You have no bears on your island?”

  “None.”

  “Caribou?”

  “No.”

  “What do your men hunt?”

  As soon as he asked the question, Yikaas realized it was a foolish one. The First Men were sea hunters. They took seals and sea lions and walrus and sometimes even whales.

  “Our hunters take sea mammals.”

  There was no hint of derision in her words, and he appreciated the gentleness of her answer.

  “But tell me more about Ghaden,” she said. “What happened to him after the fight?”

  “Ghaden’s sister scraped out the dog’s skin, and for the rest of his life, he wore Biter’s fur as trim for his parka hood. The old ones say that the dog continued to protect him, for Ghaden lived long and became chief hunter for his people.”

  Qumalix stood up and shook the sand from her sax. “That’s a good ending. Too many stories end with sadness.”

  Yikaas shrugged. “Any story can end with happiness or sadness, depending on where the storyteller chooses to stop.”

  She smiled. “I see why they chose you as Dzuuggi,” she told him. “You should tell Ghaden’s story tonight. The men will like it.”

  “And not the women?”

  “The women, too, but men are more difficult to please.”

  She spoke a few words in the First Men tongue, then switched to the River language to say, “Those are the First Men’s words of leaving. I said, ‘I am going now.’”

  Yikaas repeated the phrase, purposely twisted some of the sounds. Qumalix cocked her head and said the words again. Yikaas hid a smile in his cheek at her patience, for she corrected him until he had them right.

  As the next long day colored toward night and its promise of brief darkness, the people left their fishing, and those hunters who were not out in iqyan joined the women and children in the storyteller lodge. This time a hunter from another First Men village spoke first. He wore a whaling hat, brightly painted in reds and blues, with eyes drawn on each side and a long prow that extended beyond his forehead like the snout of an animal.

  He did not have the River tongue, so Qumalix translated his words. Yikaas felt like a young man sharing his wife for the first time, and his skin prickled at the thought of the hunter’s words flowing from Qumalix’s mouth. Finally he could no longer watch, but had to close his eyes and only listen.

  The stories were about hunting, and Yikaas waited in hope for the man to boast of his own success, but he seemed to have no faults, telling only the stories of others and telling them with great respect.

  Some of the stories were funny and made the people laugh; others brought tears. If Qumalix paused in translating, Yikaas found himself holding his breath until he heard what was going to happen next. But even so, the Sea Hunter’s success with his stories grated as harshly as lava rock against Yikaas’s spirit.

  Between stories, he thought back over all the tales he himself told. Most were about people who lived in ancient times. Sometimes those stories were not much to hear, but what Dzuuggi could allow that knowledge to die? None of his stories were funny, but it would be good to have tales that brought laughter rather than only solemn agreement or careful thought. Kuy’aa should have told him such stories; surely funny things had happened to River People, too.

  At least the Sea Hunter man spoke only in his own voice, did not send his words to the top of the lodge to echo from the smokehole, did not speak harshly to mimic a hunter or raise his voice to show he spoke for a woman. These were all things that Yikaas did and did well. And there were no riddles. Of course only River People made riddles, but these Sea Hunters might enjoy them, too. They were thinkers. Their silence proved them so, and often they said something very wise, words that Yikaas took into his heart to remember.

  Finally the Sea Hunter’s stories ended, but before he left the center of the ulax, he reached into a pouch that hung at his waist and pulled out a necklace of bird bone beads, handed it to Qumalix. Yikaas had to turn his eyes away from her joy. He wondered if such giving was customary among the Sea Hunters. If so, his rudeness was already noticed. It would do little good to give her something now. Better to wait until all the storytelling was over, then give her a large gift, something a woman would value. He could ask Kuy’aa what that might be. Perhaps Qumalix would like one of the parkas he had brought to trade.

  Kuy’aa was sitting beside him, and she bumped his arm to call him from his thoughts, then pointed with her chin toward Qumalix. Qumalix gestured for Yikaas to join her, and he made his way to the center of the ulax, took his place beside her. She spoke for a moment to the people in the lodge, then leaned close to whisper that she had explained about Ghaden’s story, and they were ready to learn about this man and his brave dog Biter.

  Yikaas used his voices to tell the story, and though he had no jokes, the people laughed when the dog’s barks came from the ulax roof. Even Qumalix laughed, hard enough that she had to stop in her translating, and Yikaas thought that she might be showing a little more joy in his stories than she had with the Sea Hunter’s tales.

  He wondered for a moment what it would be like to have Qumalix as wife. She was good to look at, and they could share one another’s stories, but he reminded himself that most Sea Hunter women would rather be wife to a First Men hunter than a River man. River People and First Men looked at life so differently. Then he remembered the stories of Aqamdax and Chakliux. What man and woman had ever been happier together? And Aqamdax had been Sea Hunter, Chakliux River. Perhaps their differences had not mattered so much because they had both been storytellers.

  The thought lifted his heart, until some commotion at the back of the ulax interrupted Qumalix’s translations. She stopped, and the grandfather who had come with her stood and began to scold a man and woman for their rudeness. Qumalix leaned toward Yikaas and told him that they were husband and wife, known for their squabbles.

  The husband stomped up the climbing log, hissing insults as he left. Then Yikaas asked himself why he should even consider taking a wife. He was young yet and had many years before he had to make such a difficult decision, choosing one woman above all others. What if he and Qumalix turned out to be like that man and woman—a joke in their own village? Why not just see if she was willing to come to his bed? He was Dzuuggi. Women never refused him.

  Suddenly he realized that he had paused in his storytelling. Qumalix was looking at him with questions in her eyes. He made an apology and continued, living the story again as the words passed from his mouth. When he told of the bear’s attack, the people were so quiet, he could hear their breathing. When Biter died, some of the women wept, and men cleared their throats, made remarks about bears in gruff voices, low and soft.

  Then the Sea Hunter storyteller rose from his seat and asked if he could tell ano
ther story. Yikaas wanted to hear one of Qumalix’s stories, and several of the people in the lodge seemed to feel the same way, for two of the women nodded their heads toward her. But in politeness, Qumalix gave her place to the Sea Hunter storyteller and again translated his words so the River People could understand.

  Yikaas sat down in disgust. The man had had his turn. Qumalix deserved her chance. Yikaas’s anger grew as he listened, but dissipated when the Sea Hunter tried to lift his voice to the top of the ulax as Yikaas had, tried to speak in various voices and so become animal, woman, or man. He was not good at it, and some of the people in the back of the ulax began to grumble. Others left, but Yikaas sat very still, listened very hard, and learned how not to tell a story.

  Finally the man was done, and the people, as though speaking in one voice, asked for Qumalix. Yikaas saw the disappointment on the Sea Hunter’s face, and he wondered if he had looked the same way when the people were dissatisfied with him. It was not a good thing for a storyteller to act like a child, pouting over criticism. How better to learn?

  Kuy’aa leaned against him, and he thought perhaps that she was weary and wanted to leave. He felt his heart drop in disappointment, but he smiled gently at her and said, “Aunt, are you tired? I will take you to the lodge where you are staying.”

  “No, no,” she said impatiently, as though he were a troublesome child. “What storyteller gets tired listening to others’ tales?” Then she added, “You did a good job. I was proud of you. You see that Sea Hunter storyteller?” She tilted her head toward the man and lowered her voice to whisper, “He’s jealous. He knows your story was better than his.”

  “His hunting stories were good,” Yikaas said.

  “Of course they were. When he told them, he was thinking more about the stories than himself. The second time he spoke, he was thinking about himself, and about you and about who was best.

  “When a storyteller pushes himself forward like that, above what he is saying, then the story no longer lives. It is only told.”

  It was wise advice, as was nearly everything Kuy’aa told him, and Yikaas opened his mouth to thank her, but she lifted fingers to her lips and nodded toward Qumalix.

  Qumalix had begun to speak, explaining that her new story about Daughter took place five summers after the grandfather’s death. The people murmured their understanding, and she began.

  Chapter Twenty

  Yunaska Island, The Aleutian Chain

  6435 B.C.

  DAUGHTER’S STORY

  THE WIND BLEW OVER them, whining, keening. Early summer grass grew strong from the hummocks left by previous years’ growth. Daughter’s sax was still rucked up around her waist, White Salmon’s broad back and strong arms bare to the cold. She tucked her head against his shoulder. Their lovemaking had been quick, distracted, and she knew he was thinking about the evening ahead when he would speak to K’os and Seal about her brideprice.

  She had given herself to him nearly a year ago, and during that time had prayed to make a baby. She could think of no reason for K’os or Seal to refuse White Salmon’s offer, but a child would bind them beyond any objections her parents might raise.

  White Salmon’s brideprice offer was generous, surely more than most young men would give. No one could deny that she was skilled with a needle, that she was a hard worker and quick to smile, but she was not truly First Men. Who could say what her children would be like?

  When young men began claiming Daughter’s friends—a year after their moon bloods had begun—Daughter herself had little hope that any hunter would consider her. Perhaps for a night, but as wife? No. She was too different. When White Salmon first came to her, she refused him. Why give herself to a man who would only use her? If he had been old, a poor hunter, weak in some way, she might have considered it, but why suffer the hope that his attentions would lay in her heart? Better to ignore him, pretend he had no interest. Then her soul would not be eaten with bitterness after he had forgotten her.

  But he had persisted, and finally she had given in. They had climbed into the hills above the village, had lain together among the clumps of wide-bladed grass, the tall, thick stems of iitikaalux. She had used all the skills K’os had taught her, ways of pleasing a man, and she had seen that he was surprised, first at her knowledge, then, upon entering her, to discover that she had been unspoiled. He had been gentle with her that night, and Daughter had allowed herself the joy of their union. But the next day, she treated White Salmon as though nothing had happened between them. Only after he had come to her again and again, had begun visiting her in Seal’s ulax and made no secret of his intentions, boasting of the brideprice he would pay for her, only then had she allowed herself to hope that she might have a young hunter like other girls in the village, that she would be more than some old man’s second wife, slave in bed to her husband, slave in work to a sister-wife.

  “I must go now. I have everything ready,” White Salmon told her. His voice was firm, and scattered any doubts Daughter had. K’os and Seal would have a difficult time finding a better man for her.

  He sat up and pulled on his birdskin sax. Daughter had sewn him a fur seal parka, something she had kept secret and would give him tonight after he and Seal decided on the day their marriage feast would be held. Soon, Daughter thought. In three or four days, long enough for her and K’os and Eye-Taker to prepare the food. Long enough for Eye-Taker’s children to gather enough sea urchins and dig enough clams, catch enough pogies.

  Seal had had little luck this summer in his hunting—another reason to be glad for a son-by-marriage to help bring in enough meat for the winter to come. But White Salmon had promised to provide the seal and sea lion meat for the feast, even to give some of the whale he had taken that spring, a fine humpback.

  Daughter stood to brush the grass from the back of White Salmon’s sax. He clasped her hand quickly, then strode away. She watched until he disappeared in the fold of a valley, then turned and went the opposite way, to the place where she and K’os had buried her grandfather.

  “He has gone to ask for me now, Grandfather,” she said and knelt beside the mound of rock that covered his body. She had carried most of the gravestones herself, bringing them up from the beach, hoping that the water that had rounded and smoothed those stones had once touched the shores of the Boat People’s island, hoping that her grandfather would feel some comfort in those sea-worn rocks. “Perhaps next time I come, I will be a wife.”

  The words added to her hope, and she felt the same fluttering tightness that came to her belly each time White Salmon looked at her. She lifted prayers—for White Salmon and their marriage, for her grandfather—but finally she stood and started toward the village, walking in the long shadows of the evening, back through the grasses and the wind.

  Daughter waited at the top of the ulax. She could hear their voices rising, Seal’s and White Salmon’s. Once in a while K’os would speak, but Daughter could not make out their words. There were many things to settle in a marriage agreement, not only brideprice, but living arrangements and hunting agreements. Daughter had told White Salmon that she would rather live with his family, and he had agreed, promising that once she had given him a child they would have their own ulax. Until then Daughter wanted to be out of K’os’s ulax, away from Seal and his groping hands, away from K’os’s jealousy as the years stole her beauty, but added to Daughter’s.

  White Salmon was inside a long time, and while Daughter waited, the wind grew so strong it seemed to push the stars away, made them so small that they were mere pinpricks in the sky.

  When White Salmon finally came up the climbing log, it was too dark for Daughter to see his face. She stood in the grass thatching and held out her hands, whispered his name, and when he did not respond, she clasped his arm. He said nothing, only jerked away from her grasp and jumped down from the ulax, strode into the night. Daughter stood in the wind trembling.

  When she went inside, Seal bared clenched teeth in a smile that made her shudd
er. K’os had her back to the climbing log, but she must have heard Daughter, for she said without turning, “Some men think they can have what they want without paying its worth. Some men are foolish, and foolish men do not make good husbands.”

  Daughter’s fear, her disappointment, changed into anger, and though usually she did not answer K’os’s criticisms, this time she said, “Mother, do not speak about your husband in such a way. For at least he has brought us a seal to eat, two since winter.”

  She heard K’os hiss and was wise enough to leave. Even boys of ten or eleven summers had already taken five or six seals. K’os’s angry, scolding voice followed Daughter as she slid down from the ulax roof. What could they do to her if she and White Salmon simply decided on their own to be husband and wife? No brideprice. No hunting agreement.

  She went to White Salmon’s ulax, stood outside for a long time, hoping that perhaps he would come out, that they could talk this through. He was a proud man, and she had no doubt that K’os and Seal had insulted him. How had K’os convinced Seal that he was better off without a son like White Salmon? Of course Seal’s sons, now grown, were generous and, unlike their father, good hunters.

  Daughter climbed up to the ulax roof, took long breaths, inviting the wind into her chest to give her courage, and called down to White Salmon’s family. At first there was no response, but finally White Salmon’s mother stuck her head out the roof hole. The light coming up from the ulax made her face look like a mask worn by dancers to ward off evil and scare away spirits. Something broken after use, burned to keep those spirits from returning.

  “Why are you here?” she asked. Her voice was hard and angry.

  “I need to speak to White Salmon,” she said, nearly whispering.

  “Leave him alone. He does not want to see you.”

  “Please …”

  “Go away.”

  The woman climbed back down into her ulax, but Daughter stayed, waited, hoping that White Salmon’s anger would fade, that he would come to her. When the cold of the night ate into her bones and she could do nothing but shake, she left. Why stay when she knew she could not even open her mouth to speak without shredding the words through chattering teeth?