by Sue Harrison
In her joy, Daughter found herself thinking about the grandfather. He would be happy for her. She had no doubt of that, and somehow she knew what he would say.
“Do not question your joy, but be careful about telling K’os. She is not a woman who delights in the happiness of others.”
Ever wise, Daughter thought as sleep claimed her. The grandfather had always been gifted with more wisdom than other men. How good that death had not taken his wisdom from her.
Daughter’s sleep was deep and hard, a sleep without dreams, and she did not wake until she felt Ghaden’s arms tighten around her. She smiled, thinking that he wanted her again, but when she moved a hand toward his groin, he trapped her fingers in his own and said, “Listen.”
Even through the thick ulax walls, Daughter could hear the moaning of the wind as it ripped at the sod.
“A storm,” she said, and tucked herself close to Ghaden.
He pulled away from her and sat up. Her disappointment was a weight in her chest, and she could not help but remember White Salmon, how he always lost interest in her once their lovemaking was finished. Ghaden’s gentleness had allowed her to hope that he would be different.
“My father,” he said.
Then Daughter was ashamed of her selfishness. A wife should always consider her husband first.
“When did he leave?”
“Yesterday morning, early.”
“They went to trade at another First Men village?” Daughter asked, and without giving him a chance to answer, said, “How many days travel to that village?”
“Two.”
“They would have spent the night on a beach?”
“No,” Ghaden said softly. “I have heard other traders talk of the journey. Unless you stop after a half-day’s travel, there are no good beaches between this village and that. During the night they tie their iqyan together with their paddles so each man can have a little sleep while the others watch.”
Daughter heard the fear in Ghaden’s voice, and she clasped her amulet, cupped it in her hands, and pressed it close to her husband’s chest.
In spite of the sand it held from the Boat People’s beach, it was still just a woman’s charm, at best only strong enough to help her find a few sea urchins, to keep tussocks of basket grass alive through the winter, so new grass would grow up from the old. Nothing powerful enough to save a man’s life.
But Ghaden curled his hands over hers and held the amulet with her, so Daughter began to hope that their prayers, rising together, would be stronger than either one could offer alone.
Herendeen Bay, Alaska Peninsula
602 B.C.
As soon as the last words were out of her mouth, Qumalix stood and stepped away from Sky Catcher. Before he could give voice to much complaint, Qumalix raised one hand and said, “You see those clouds? They are full of rain. You do not even have a wife here to take care of your sax if you get it wet.”
“I am not helpless,” he said, curling his lips into a pout. “I know how to take care of a wet sax.” But he got to his feet, and when Qumalix started walking toward the village, he followed.
“I want to know what happened to Cen,” he called to her. “Did he die in the storm?”
“That is something you will have to find out the next time it is my turn in the storytellers’ ulax.”
He caught up to her, nudged her aside into the longer grass so he was walking in the center of the path.
“You could always tell me the story. We can find a place to be alone. I have a trader’s boat we can sit under and stay dry.”
She cupped a hand over her mouth and coughed, cleared her throat, and spat into the grass. “I have done enough telling for one day,” she said. “My voice needs a rest.” She dropped back behind him on the path, felt a splatter of rain hit her face. “Hurry,” she told him, though she was not much concerned about getting wet. The puffin skins of her sax shed water well.
Sky Catcher broke into a slow lope, and she did the same. The rain split the clouds, poured down heavy and cold. Sky Catcher began to run, but Qumalix kept her pace slow and thanked the skies.
Yikaas crawled out of the sleeping place, shook his head against the giggling foolishness of the two sisters. He had found release in their bodies, but he felt uneasy, an ache in his gut as if he had gorged himself beyond his needs, and shamed himself by his greed. How could he think he was wise enough to be a storyteller if he took more than his share, even of women?
Worse, how would he get rid of these two? Every night he spent during his visit here, every time he came to their village, they would have a claim on him. What if Qumalix found out?
He pulled on his parka and adjusted his caribou hide leggings. You worry about Qumalix? he asked himself. Why? She’s a storyteller, nothing more. Besides, she had chosen to spend the day with Sky Catcher. Perhaps even as he himself was pushing his way into the fat sister’s chisum naga, Sky Catcher was doing the same to Qumalix.
The thought thrust a spearpoint of anger into Yikaas’s chest.
“You have no claim on her,” he said, and did not realize that he had spoken aloud until the thin sister placed a hand on his back and leaned forward to look into his face. She asked some question in the First Men language. Yikaas shrugged and shook his head to show he did not understand. He was usually more polite to women who had allowed him in their beds, but what could he say to a girl who did not understand the River language?
He pulled two necklaces out of a packet at his waist. They were nothing special, birdbone beads cut long, and he could see a quick shadow of disappointment in her eyes, but he gave her the necklaces, and raised his hand toward the climbing log. He tried to smile, but his face felt stiff. He clambered up the log quickly, moaned when he saw that it was raining.
The grass growing on the ulax roof was slick, and when he walked to the edge, his feet went out from under him and he slid to the ground, landing hard on his buttocks. He heard laughter, turned his head, and saw Qumalix. Water dripped from the feathers of her sax.
“You’re wet,” he said to her, and she arched an eyebrow at him.
“I’ve been outside telling stories.”
She looked up as the sisters peered over the edge of the ulax. They wore only their grass aprons. The thin one said something, thrusting out her narrow chest as though she were proud of herself.
Qumalix translated for Yikaas. “She says, it is too bad you are not as good on your feet as you are in a bed.”
Yikaas stood, wiped a hand down the front of his parka. “You were with Sky Catcher,” he said, but as soon as the words had come from his mouth, he wished he could take them back.
“What do you mean by that? If I would have been here, that I would have been the fortunate woman to share your bed?” Qumalix turned her back on him and the sisters and walked toward the storytellers’ ulax.
The sisters called down to him, but he ignored them. “Qumalix!” he shouted. “Qumalix, wait!”
She did not slow her pace, only lifted her hands over her head as though her fingers could shield her from the rain.
Yikaas heard someone behind him and turned, ready to rebuff the sisters, but found himself looking into Sky Catcher’s face.
“She is not worth your worry,” he said, his words in the River language, stilted and broken. “That one thinks about nothing but stories.”
Yikaas nodded grimly, but as soon as the man walked away, he could not help but let the smile that was lurking behind his teeth out of his mouth.
The heavy, cold rain brought the traders from the beach, and the place smelled of wet parkas and mud, for the men’s feet had stirred the hard-packed floor into a thick dirt soup.
“Sit down!” Qumalix shouted, raising her voice into a screech. She was disappointed with Yikaas, and angry at herself for being so. What better way to shed some of that anger than in trying to make order out of the chaos in the storytellers’ ulax? “Sit down,” she shouted again. “Does anyone need water?”
A
s quickly as she started passing water bladders, others dug into packs and bags for smoked fish and sweet dried berries. Before long, the damp and the dirt were lost in the laughter of people who have decided to make a celebration out of misery. Qumalix raised an arm to gesture toward Yikaas, who had just entered the ulax.
“You need to tell a story,” she said, then stood on her toes to look over the crowd. “If you don’t want to, Kuy’aa is here also.”
“I’ll tell a story,” said Yikaas.
“About bedding First Men women, no doubt,” Qumalix snapped.
“We have mostly traders here,” Yikaas said, ignoring the barb. “Perhaps they would like a story about one of their own. I know a good one.”
Qumalix lifted her fingers and flicked them toward Yikaas, almost an insult. “Tell your story. I will be glad to hear it.”
But the clamor in the ulax had again grown loud, so Yikaas pressed the biting edges of his front teeth together and blew out a short, sharp whistle.
The whistle brought silence, and Yikaas said, “The young woman beside me asks to hear a story about traders.”
As if speaking in one voice, the men in the ulax shouted their agreement.
At that moment, Sky Catcher started down the climbing log. His sax was soaked, and his legs were spattered with mud. The men sitting near the log raised protests as he sluiced the water from the sax.
Sky Catcher acted as if he did not hear them. “Yikaas’s story will be about River traders,” he said. “How many of you are River?” He stood with his chin outthrust, labrets bristling like tusks. “You want a story. I will tell you a story, and it will be about First Men traders.”
A low grumble swept through the ulax, First Men and River traders arguing. Qumalix’s heart lurched in her chest. How could a woman handle a fight between men?
“Yikaas first,” she called out. “Because he was asked first.” But her voice was drowned in the arguing. Suddenly she was very angry. She made her way through the traders to the climbing log, grabbed one of Sky Catcher’s dirty ankles, and yanked him down. It was not a far drop, and he landed easily on his feet. Before he could react, Qumalix scrambled up the log until she was a head taller than any man in the ulax. She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, but still no one seemed to hear.
Suddenly Yikaas’s piercing whistle again cut its way through the noise, and in the moment of silence that followed, Qumalix said, “You traders have come to hear a story, but what you forget is that we are in this ulax because of other people’s hospitality. We drink their water and muddy their floors and leave the stink of our parkas in these walls.”
Though there had been a gruff laugh when she began, now the men were quiet, and one of the few traders’ wives in the group batted her husband with the back of her hand and said loudly enough for everyone to hear, “How would you like it if all this mess was in your lodge?”
They began to give apologies, but Qumalix said, “No one asked you to be sorry, only to be polite. Yikaas was invited to tell the first story. After he is done, Sky Catcher will have his turn. The clouds are too thick for this rain to leave us quickly. We will have a long time for stories.”
She nodded at Yikaas and said, “We are ready.”
Yikaas saw the weariness in her face and wondered how long it had been since she had slept. Don’t pity her, he told himself, fool that she was to go with Sky Catcher. Yikaas pulled his thoughts away from her and brought into his mind the remembrance of hard seas, lashing winds. He closed his eyes, waited until he could see the storm, hear it, feel it; and when he began the story, Yikaas had become Cen.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The Bering Sea
6435 B.C.
CEN’S STORY
THEY HAD LASHED THEIR iqyan into a raft of three, Dog Feet with his larger iqyax in the center, Cen and He-points-the-way with theirs tied to each side. When the only beaches were more treacherous than the sea, how else did traders ensure their safety for a night?
Theirs was the gift of clear skies, and they saw no sign that would lead them to fear a storm, no haze of approaching rain, no thin white lines at the edges of the sea to suggest a far-off wind kicking up white-caps. Even the smell of the air was that of fish and sea animals rather than any taste of forests or strange lands brought by foreign winds.
They had chosen He-points-the-way to watch as Cen and Dog Feet slept. Well into the night, Cen heard him wake Dog Feet for the second watch. Cen roused himself enough to look out over the blackness of the sea. He rubbed his eyes and squinted up at the sky. There were no stars, but that was no surprise. What clouds did not hide, fog often did. A thin wind had begun to blow from what he assumed was the west—without stars or a clear vision of water currents, it was difficult to tell—but the sea was nearly calm, lifting and dropping in a gentle rhythm that lulled him back into sleep.
Later, when he heard Dog Feet’s voice, he thought it was his turn to watch, and so he was surprised to see that the skies were still black, not even the hint of dawn to the east. Dog Feet must not have taken his full turn. Cen did not know the man well, but he must not be much if he cheated on the length of his watch. Still, Cen told himself, it was better to have slept a little than not at all. He had made the same journey alone, catching only a few blinks of sleep now and again during the long beachless night between the Traders’ village and the cluster of First Men villages two days west.
“My turn?” he asked, and tried to keep the disgust out of his voice.
“No,” Dog Feet answered, and in the darkness Cen heard the dripping of the man’s paddle as he lifted the blade from the water. “What do you think of that?”
Cen pushed himself upright in his iqyax. He could see nothing but darkness.
“What?” he asked, and this time he did not try to hide his exasperation. Dog Feet was a young man, probably given to all kinds of fears. He had listened to too many stories about blue ice people and sea monsters.
“Listen.”
At first Cen heard nothing but the waves against their iqyan, but then, rising over those gentle voices, came a howling, sprung from many throats.
“Wolves,” he said. “We must be close to land.”
“No, listen!” The young man’s voice was tight with worry.
He-points-the-way called from the far iqyax, “What is the matter? Be quiet, both of you. I need to sleep.”
“Listen, those are not wolves,” Dog Feet said. He pointed toward a white blur coming at them across the water. “See?”
Cen’s throat constricted, cut off his breath. If they had been in that sea that lies south of the First Men’s islands, he would have thought it was a tidal wave, but there were no such waves here in the North Sea, though quakes could raise the water to a height that would swamp most boats.
He-points-the-way shouted, “The wind! Look! It drives the sea toward us.”
Cen began to unlash the paddles that held his iqyax to the others, but Dog Feet protested.
“We will have a better chance against it if we stay together.”
The wind had grown so loud that Cen could barely hear what Dog Feet said. “In a storm, yes,” Cen shouted, “but with a wave like this, we are better to drive our iqyan through it rather than try to ride it.”
“You are a fool!” He-points-the-way said, and in the noise of water and wave, his voice seemed to come from a long way off.
“Do what you want,” Cen told them, “but I will face this alone.”
In the darkness, it was difficult to judge how close the wave was—closer than Cen had first thought; that, or it was traveling much faster than any wave should. He cut the remaining lash, reclaimed his paddle, and thrust it into the water. He pushed back from Dog Feet and He-points-the-way. Cen knew he could never outrun the wave, but he paddled hard.
The water roiled under him, grew choppy, as if the sea itself were afraid. Cen looked back and saw that the sky had opened, the dark clouds split. He could see stars in the break, the last faint light
that shines just as dawn brightens. They gave him his bearing, and he knew he was paddling toward land. Not good. The wave would smash him into the shallows or against a cliff. He turned and started out to sea. The wave was coming from the north, and he headed his iqyax west.
The chop became swells. Cen paddled over them, careful to keep his bow straight so he did not roll. He needed to stay upright until the moment the wave caught him. He looked back over his shoulder, hoping to see that Dog Feet and He-points-the-way had decided to cut their iqyan apart. A wave lifted them into view, and Cen realized that he had come farther than he thought. They were so small to his eyes that by raising a hand he could cover them with his palm.
“Cut loose! Cut loose!” Cen yelled at them, but he knew that his warning would not be heard above the wind.
He turned away. The wave was close enough that it looked like a mountain rising in the sea. Once on one of his trading trips, a whale had breached near his iqyax. Cen had been young and numbed with fear, but watched as the whale approached, pushing a mound of water ahead of it. Finally the animal had rolled and turned, one long flipper flailing at the sky. Its wake had caught Cen, skipped and skidded his iqyax across the water like a flat stone.
This wave was larger than the whale’s swell, but it looked as if some power lived beneath it, forcing it forward.
“I’m too shallow,” Cen hissed under his breath, and continued to paddle toward deeper seas. If the wave remained merely a mountain of water, there was some chance he could go up and over it, but if in gaining mass and speed, it grew so tall that its roots touched the bottom of the sea it would curl and break. Then Cen’s only chance would be to turn his iqyax upside down, allow the bottom of the boat to take the brunt of the breaker.
Bound together as they were, Dog Feet and He-points-the-way would have no chance to do that, and even if the iqyan in their own wisdom turned, the men would never be able to right themselves before they drowned.