by Sue Harrison
Even now, as a man, Ghaden could feel the sorrow he had known at the loss of that spear. When he had taken it back to Cen, expecting to be scolded, Cen had merely grunted, then whittled Ghaden another. Ghaden had made his first kill with that spear, though by then Cen had left their village.
Months later, Cen had returned and stolen Ghaden and his older sister Aqamdax. He took them to the Cousin River village, a village that had eventually been destroyed in the battle between the Cousin River and Near River People.
Somehow during that battle Cen had disgraced himself. Ghaden had heard the people discuss how Cen had run even before the fighting began. Ghaden had always wanted to talk to him about that, but how does a son bring up his father’s cowardice? Ghaden wanted denial, or at least an honorable reason for Cen’s choice, but what if Cen had no reason other than his own fear?
When Ghaden’s mother Daes had been killed, and Ghaden had been knifed and left for dead, Cen was blamed. At the time, the people of the village had nearly taken Cen’s life in revenge, but Cen had stood before them all, asked if his son Ghaden still lived, and, grabbing a knife from one of the men who held him captive, had cut off his own finger as a sacrifice for Ghaden’s recovery. How could a man who had the bravery to do that be afraid of battle?
Cen was no coward, and he would have faced the storm in strength. If anyone could have survived, Ghaden assured himself, it would have been his father.
A shout from one of the other men pulled Ghaden from his thoughts. The hunter used a paddle to point toward the beach, and Ghaden saw another heap of broken wood. The tide was low, but there were few rocks and the sea broke gently against the shore, an unlikely place for anything to wash up, but in a storm any beach could become treacherous.
One of the men was Dog Feet’s oldest brother, a Walrus trader with perhaps eight handfuls of years. The others—three of them—Ghaden knew only as First Men hunters, and he was even unsure of their names, but they were so skilled with their iqyan that by watching them, Ghaden had added to his own abilities.
Dog Feet’s brother had already turned his iqyax toward land, and Ghaden followed. When the sea was shallow he loosened the spray skirt that made a watertight seal around his coaming and jumped from his iqyax before it ran aground.
The sea was cold against his bare feet and ankles, but it felt good to stand after such a long time of paddling. He looked up into the sky, tried to make out the position of the sun, but the mist was too thick. The color of the light that squeezed down to them let Ghaden know that the day was near its end, and that they might be wise to consider staying on the beach for the night.
One of the hunters, now in shallow water, held up a stringer of fish, kelp greenlings he must have caught sometime during that day of traveling, but Ghaden did not remember seeing him trail a handline.
“I am hungry,” the man called out. “Will you eat with me?”
Each of the others held up something, a pouch of dried fish, a net of sea urchins. Dog Feet’s brother, standing atop a foothill that browed over the gravel tide flats, called, “There is iitikaalux here.” He pointed to several tall, thick-stalked plants that towered above the grasses.
Uutuk had given Ghaden a belly of smoked fish and another of seal oil, and her mother had added a packet of dried fireweed leaves for tea. He pulled the storage packs from his iqyax, and Dog Feet’s brother—striding down the hill with the iitikaalux bundled in a sheaf of grass—cried out his readiness to eat. But suddenly the man’s voice broke, and he made a sound as though he were choking. He ran to the heap of driftwood and began digging through it, wailing as he worked.
The others, still out on the sea, dealing with the undertow of waves and the few rocks that studded the shallow water, did not seem to notice, but Ghaden heard the despair in the man’s voice and felt his own heart clutch within his chest. He dropped his packs and hurried toward Dog Feet’s brother.
When Ghaden saw the arm, he added his own groan of agony, and began throwing aside the driftwood. Days in the sea had bloated the body, turned the skin as white as the underbelly of a fish. When Ghaden saw the body’s left hand, the smallest finger missing, he was sure it was his father. But then he realized that the finger and much of the hand had been eaten away. He looked at the chigdax, still mostly intact, and knew the man was not Cen. Dog Feet’s brother turned and retched, and when he was heaving up nothing but his own sorrow, he managed to choke out, “It is my brother. I know his chigdax.”
Ghaden squatted beside him, placed an arm over his shoulders, and helped him to his feet, drew him to where the wind blew away the stench of the dead.
When the others beached their iqyan, they lifted their voices together and sang the mourning songs as best they could without women to make the high ululations that reach beyond wind and sky to the dancing lights where Dog Feet would hear and know that he was honored.
They made a burial of stones. Dog Feet’s brother laid one of his own harpoons over the body so Dog Feet would have weapons in the spirit world. Ghaden gave a sleeve knife; one of the other hunters offered a handline and hooks, another a hunter’s lamp.
“He will be glad for your gifts,” the brother said, forcing his words past a throat that sounded raw with pain.
Afterward, as Ghaden sorted through the rubble of driftwood at the water’s edge, he found nothing that belonged to Cen, and so although he mourned Dog Feet he felt relief that he could still cling to some hope.
They made their camp far enough from the burial that they could not see the mound of stone, and so that any spirit lingering, called to the beach by Dog Feet’s death, would not easily see them. They set out food but ate little, spoke little before rolling themselves into sleeping furs for the night.
Ghaden woke often, plagued by dreams of death and drowning. The next morning, Dog Feet’s brother had traded sorrow for anger, and his loss had sharpened his tongue.
“Your father, too, is dead,” he told Ghaden, “and so is He-points-the-way. No man was better in his iqyax than my brother. If he is dead, then all are dead.”
Ghaden, his spirit still possessed by his dreams, was convinced by the man’s words. So that day on the sea, Ghaden sang mourning songs, and in his thoughts laid stones, one by one, over Cen’s body as they had over Dog Feet’s, and when after three more days they found two paddles drifting, Ghaden was not surprised to see that both belonged to Cen.
He buried one on shore that night, made chants in hopes that the paddle would find its way to Cen in the spirit world, and he also buried a knife, a harpoon, a sax, and a pair of seal flipper boots he had brought in hopes of finding his father, new clothes to take away the bad luck of the old.
They found nothing of He-points-the-way, but how could that trader have lived when the others did not? And so the next night they made mourning and burial for him, offering more weapons and a belly of oil. Then they turned back toward the Traders’ Beach, and when they arrived, the village again mourned the three men lost, made gifts of food and clothing and weapons, so Cen and Dog Feet and He-points-the-way would have what they needed to keep them strong in that other world where they now lived.
Chapter Thirty-one
CEN’S STORY
THE SEA HAD STOLEN everything he needed to survive: both his paddles, all his harpoons. Somehow it had even ripped the hood from his chigdax and pulled his sleeve knife from its sheath. Cen’s ribs were broken, both his own and those of his iqyax. Each breath Cen drew rattled, as though the wind were throwing gaming bones in his chest.
But far worse, somehow the sea had taken his hearing. Even yet, a whole day after the wave had passed, new blood still oozed into the crust that blocked his ears. He remembered elders whose inner ears had dried up with age. They complained of hearing nothing, but Cen’s ears were filled with the roar of that wave, as though it had taken all the sounds of the earth and replaced them with its own voice.
The sea had battered his head so that his eyes were swollen shut and his nose was broken. He had lost
two teeth, a dog tooth and the one behind it. That tooth was not entirely gone, but what was left ached more than his nose. Long ago, when the Near River People had accused Cen of killing Daes, they had beaten him and smashed his nose, splintering the bone. Somehow over the years the nose had sewn itself into a hump. Now it was flat again, but he had long ago learned to breathe through his mouth.
The pain he could live with. What trader does not learn to accept injury as a companion? But when a man has no paddle, when his iqyax is held together only by its seal hide covering and his chigdax can no longer hold out the sea, what does he do? He listens, and when he hears the birds, kittiwake, and gull, then he directs his iqyan with movements of his legs, by paddling with his hands, until, if he has good luck, he is caught in a current that brings him toward shore. If his luck is bad, he is thrust by breakers into cliffs, though at least there is a chance for him.
But a man without hearing, how does he even know which way to direct his iqyax? By watching. When he sees those gulls, he follows them, but a man who cannot see and cannot hear, what does he do?
Cen asked himself that question many times, and the answer that came to him was this: A man has two choices. He can quit and wait to die, or he can sing. For there was always the chance that some hunter or trader would hear his voice and come his way. Even if that did not happen, the songs might please the spirits so they themselves would direct his iqyax. And of course, if he lived long enough, his eyes would most likely open again, for when he pried at the lids, he could see light, and so had hope that the injury would heal.
The wave had taken much, but it had also left him a little, too. He still had dried fish and two bladders of water. His hands were cut and sore, but no fingers were broken, and his arms were strong, his legs also. The spray skirt of his coaming was still watertight, and he drew it as high as he could under his arms.
He lifted his voice and sang, but without his ears, he did not know whether he sang loudly or only in whispers, for his lungs screamed agony with each breath and his throat was rasped raw by the sea water he had swallowed. But still he sang, praises mostly to the earth and the sea and the One who created them, for Cen was not sure which spirits hovered close, if any, but none of them should be insulted by songs lifted to the Creator or to the earth or even the sea. So he sang and waited, trailing his hands in the water to catch any change in direction by his iqyax. And while he sang he raised prayers that a good current would push him to a safe beach where he might wait until his eyes could see again.
The Traders’ Beach
DAUGHTER’S STORY
During the days Ghaden was gone, Daughter found many reasons to work near the beach. She needed to watch over her husband’s trade goods and those of his father. She needed to collect sea urchins, and to fish with a handline from the shore, or to wade out and cut limpets from rocks at low tide, to dig for mussels. But even as she worked, her eyes were always on the bay, always searching the horizon, hoping to see her husband and his father in their iqyan.
The day Ghaden did return was full of fog, so that although she was on the beach, Daughter did not see him until he was already out of his iqyax and dragging it ashore. She had a moment to study his face, and so knew that Cen was dead. It was not until several women began wailing a mourning song that she managed to make her feet move toward her husband.
Even as she walked, she found herself pondering the pain that enveloped her. She had been wife only a short time, yet it seemed that a strong tether already bound her to him, her agony a reflection of Ghaden’s own. Why else would she mourn a trader she hardly knew?
Then Ghaden saw her and pushed his way through the wailing women, past the men who called out questions, the children who danced and chanted, because they understood only the excitement and not the cause. Among the First Men, husbands, when they were with others, did not often show their affection for their wives with touching and holding, but Daughter decided that River People must be different. For Ghaden grabbed her and pulled her into a rough embrace. He still wore his chigdax, and the garment was wet to her touch, cold, even through the feathers of her sax.
“Did you find anything?” Daughter asked.
Ghaden tried to speak, but his voice cracked and broke. He coughed and began again. “Only Dog Feet’s body,” he said. “Not He-points-the-way, but we found pieces of his iqyax, and we found my father’s paddles.”
She felt him shiver, his arms trembling even as he held her. “Ghaden, my husband, I am so sorry,” Daughter whispered.
His arms tightened around her so that she could scarcely bring in a breath. “All this day, as we traveled, some spirit taunted me with the thought that I had lost you as well, that I would return to this beach and find you gone.”
Daughter pulled away from him, looked into his eyes, saw the weariness there and the pain. Her throat tightened with tears, but she said, “You think that I would leave you so easily? I promised to be your wife. You think I would forget that promise?” She forced a smile. “I remember when my grandfather died how I was afraid of losing others, my friends and my mother.”
Daughter felt someone stroke her head, and at first thought it was Ghaden, but then knew the hand belonged to K’os, the fingers stiff and knotted. She turned in her husband’s arms to see her mother standing behind her.
“Come with me,” she said to Ghaden and Daughter. “Seal will take care of your iqyax.” Her eyes were hard and dry, and she asked no questions, as though she had known long before the men returned that Cen was dead.
Ghaden trudged behind her up the beach, an arm around Daughter’s shoulders. He leaned on her so hard that Daughter was afraid the journey and his mourning had taken all his strength, but when they came to Qung’s ulax, he was the first to climb up, and he reached down to help each of the women, pulling Daughter up so effortlessly that her feet barely touched the sod.
“Are you hungry, husband?” she asked.
Before Ghaden could answer, K’os said, “Of course he is hungry. Go down into the ulax and help Qung with the food. Seal will be here soon, and probably others.”
Daughter wanted to stay close to Ghaden, but he said, “I am hungry, wife. We did not eat this morning.”
She started down the climbing log, but even when Qung began to ask questions, she remained for a time standing just below the roof hole, listening to what K’os was saying. She asked about Cen, and Ghaden told her what he had said to Daughter about the paddles, about finding Dog Feet’s body and pieces of broken iqyan.
Qung came to the bottom of the climbing log, started shouting her questions, as though Daughter had not answered because she could not hear. Daughter clasped Qung’s arm and walked her to the oil lamp, told her what Ghaden had said.
“I thought I heard mourning cries.” Qung twisted her hands together until Daughter heard the joints groan and pop.
“Ghaden is outside, and he needs to eat.”
Qung’s face cleared, and she gave a quick, short nod. “Then why do we stand here doing nothing?” she asked, and pointed a crooked finger at one of the food caches. “Bring me oil and fish, and be quick.”
Daughter hurried to the floor cache, set aside the wood cover, and knelt to reach inside.
“Is Seal coming?” Qung asked.
“Seal and probably others as well.”
Qung clicked her tongue. “It is sad that they cannot leave Ghaden alone to grieve. But no, everyone has questions. Everyone wants to know what happened. And then everyone wants to tell him how they were such good friends to the dead one.” Qung flung her hands up in a gesture of helplessness. “All people are the same. They never change. There is no hope for it. He will have to listen and pretend that what everyone says is important to him.”
“Perhaps it will be important,” Daughter said. “When my grandfather died, one of the old women in the village had just the right words for me.”
Qung shrugged. “Some people do. Other people say all the wrong things.” She sighed, then pointed with
her chin at the food caches, and Daughter set out bellies of oil and fish, a packet of dried caribou meat.
Qung hobbled over to stand beside Daughter, then her old face crinkled in on itself, and she said in broken words, “He gave me that caribou meat. He did not need to do that. I was glad to offer my hospitality. Who could guess that I would be feeding it to those who mourn him?”
Still on her knees, Daughter pulled the old woman into her arms, patted the hard lumpy bones of her back.
“Aaa, we do not have time for this!” Qung said, and brushed at her eyes so fiercely that she raised welts on her cheeks. “Stop crying and get the food ready. You think you will help your husband with your tears?”
Daughter raised her fingertips to her eyes, found that she had been crying, the tears seeping, her face wet.
When K’os and Ghaden entered the ulax, Daughter glanced up from the food she was arranging on mats and wooden dishes. Ghaden’s face was drawn and gray, his weariness even more pronounced. Had K’os said something to add to his sorrow? Or had Daughter’s first joy in seeing him dimmed her eyes so that she had not fully realized how much his pain had marked him?
He came to her, stood close, as though to draw strength. She tucked an arm around his waist and ignored K’os’s raised brows. What did it matter with only K’os and Qung to see? If her touch could help, then she would forget the normal ways of politeness. He raised a finger to stroke the thin braid that Daughter had tucked into the bun at the back of her head, and she wished that she had braided her hair like River women. Such a small thing to please a husband.