Ivory Carver 02 - My Sister the Moon

by Sue Harrison

  “He and his brother,” Qakan said and was not afraid to return the man’s slow smile. He did not care if Raven knew he was lying. Raven would repeat Qakan’s claim. Did it not make the knives more valuable?

  “So, do you plan to take Yellow-hair?”

  Qakan drew in his cheeks, turned and spat. “You should know,” he said.

  Raven shrugged. “Why should I know?”

  “She will not go with me. She wants to be your wife again.” Quickly Qakan lowered his eyes. He hoped the man’s spirit did not sense the truth.

  Raven laughed. “I like Kiin,” he said. “She keeps the ulaq clean, makes good food and warm parkas, but Yellow-hair, she is a woman who puts joy into a man’s loins.”

  Qakan made himself smile. Made himself laugh. “Yes, it was a good winter,” he said and watched as Raven turned and left him.

  He leaned down over the ik, packed the last of the baskets, tied them with double strands of kelp line so they would not shift. Yes, he thought, It was a good winter. But I have traded Yellow-hair. To the wind spirits. Now I will see what they will give me for her. Perhaps another woman to paddle my ik. He laughed and the wind took his laughter out over the sea. Perhaps they would give him Kiin.

  FIFTY-SIX

  KIIN LOOKED UP FROM HER WEAVING. QAKAN pushed aside the dividing curtain and stood, arms crossed over his chest, eyes roving the ulaq walls. Kiin was weaving a mat in the manner of the Walrus People women, the weaving done on the lap, two strands of grass twined across a long fringe of warp grass, the cross strands twisting over each warp grass to make a tight, strong mat.

  Qakan had lost weight over the winter, and the bones of his face were sharper, his eyes deeper in their sockets.

  “I have g-given you everything I have to g-give,” Kiin said. “The other b-baskets and m-m-mats are for my husband’s ulaq, and I have m-made no carvings since the babies were born.”

  “I do not need your mats,” Qakan said, spitting out the words, disdain in his eyes. “What good thing can a trader expect to get from woman’s work?”

  “You d-do not need my carvings then,” Kiin replied, her voice even, her eyes on her weaving. “Bring them back. Perhaps m-m-my husband needs them.”

  She did not look up at Qakan, but knew he would be scowling. “You are hungry?” she asked. Sometimes, when Yellow-hair was angry for several days, Qakan came to her to get dried fish or to stay for a night.

  “No.”

  Kiin sighed. “Why are you here?”

  “You should come with me to the beach,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”

  Kiin looked at him, narrowed her eyes. “You are leaving s-soon. To t-trade,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Will Yellow-hair g-g-go with you?”

  “No.”

  “You want m-me to p-paddle your ik.”

  “No,” Qakan said.

  “Do n-n-not take Yellow-hair back to our people.”

  “I told you she will not go with me.”

  Kiin felt the corner of her mouth twitch. Everyone in the village laughed about Qakan and Yellow-hair; everyone knew about their arguments; everyone knew Yellow-hair often kicked Qakan from her bed. Twice Kiin had found the Raven with Yellow-hair in their sleeping platform. Three times Lemming Tail had found them, and though it did not matter to Kiin what the Raven did with other women, each time Lemming Tail found them, she became sullen and angry.

  It would be that way when the Raven finally took Kiin to his bed, Kiin knew. Each night Lemming Tail watched the Raven, and each time he looked at Kiin, Lemming Tail went to him, distracted him with the stroking of her hands, with teasing and giggling. And so the Raven had not yet taken Kiin.

  “Come to the beach with me …” Qakan pleaded, his voice the whining little boy’s voice Kiin remembered from their childhood.

  She set aside her weaving and stood on tiptoe to look into her son’s cradles. They both slept, Samiq’s son sucking on his fist, Amgigh’s son with eyes squeezed tight in sleep, mouth moving in a dream.

  Kiin slipped on her suk and deliberately walked over to the weapons comer and picked up a long-bladed stone knife.

  She looked up at Qakan, saw that his eyes had widened. “It is m-mine,” she said. “M-m-my husband g-gave it to m-me to protect our s-sons.”

  She followed Qakan out the entrance tunnel and into the gray misty rain of the day.

  “To the beach,” he said.

  “N-n-no here,” she answered. “You d-do n-not remember that the Grandmother and the Aunt have s-said one of the babies should d-die?”

  Qakan’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you think I want to talk to you?” he said. “I have heard of their plans. Raven has spoken to all the men.”

  “The Raven?”

  “You think he wants to protect the babies?”

  Kiin held up the knife. “He g-gave me this,” she said.

  Qakan shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then answered, “I do not know, but something has made him change his mind. He has decided Grandmother is right. He thinks one of the babies should be killed. He has made a plan.”

  “So why d-do you tell me, Qakan? What d-do you gain?”

  “You are my sister.”

  Kiin laughed.

  Qakan flushed. “I am the babies’ father,” he finally stammered. “They are my sons.”

  Kiin saw the whiteness in his face, the truth that was in his eyes. Yes, Kiin had been careful not to let him see the babies. He did not know how much they looked like their true fathers. For a moment she closed her eyes. Of course Qakan would believe he was father. Perhaps that was enough to make him want to protect the babies. Babies were not worth much. They could not hunt or fish, but these were sons, bom at the same time. Even the Raven admitted their power.

  So whether as father or as trader, Qakan would want to protect the babies. But Qakan was Qakan. Who could believe what he said?

  “I d-d-do n-not. .. believe you,” Kiin said. “The Raven will protect his s-sons.”

  “They are my sons,” Qakan hissed, “and soon they will be dead if you do not go with me tonight.”

  “You leave tonight?”

  “Yes. Come with me. Bring the babies.”

  Kiin turned away from Qakan. “No, Qakan,” she said. “N-no.”

  “If you do not believe me, then believe this, Raven will tell one of the women to get you, to bring you to the beach. He will say that Lemming Tail is hurt. When you leave the ulaq, Grandmother will come in and kill one of the babies.”

  “Samiq’s child,” Kiin’s spirit whispered. “She will kill Samiq’s child.”

  But Kiin said to Qakan, “You lie,” and crawled back into the ulaq.

  Qakan waited. Nervously, he watched. Raven was fishing, and as long as he stayed away … It had taken two necklaces to coax Lemming Tail to spend the evening in another ulaq, but they were small necklaces. If this did not work, he would have to wait another day, and each day he waited gave more chance that Yellow-hair’s body would be discovered. Yes, as husband he owned his wife. A man might beat his wife, but kill her? No. And who could say what Raven would do when he found out?

  Then Shale Thrower came to the beach, and Qakan knew the spirits honored his plan. Shale Thrower was a young woman, easy to fool, quick to believe what others told her. Qakan flung back the hood of his parka and mussed his hair, then darting out from between the ulas, he grabbed her arm.

  “Quickly, quickly,” he gasped. “Raven says to bring Kiin. Tell Kiin Raven wants her. Lemming Tail has been hurt. They are there, behind the village. He is afraid Lemming Tail is dying. Raven needs Kiin.”

  For a moment Shale Thrower stood and stared at Qakan, her mouth curling into a circle, her eyes wide. Qakan pushed her toward Raven’s ulaq. “Go, now. Tell Kiin Raven needs her.”

  Qakan watched the woman run to Raven’s ulaq, then he walked to the beach. The ik was ready.

  Kiin clasped Shale Thrower’s shoulders and shook her. “It is the Raven who wants m-me
?” she asked. “The Raven?”

  “Yes!”

  For a moment Kiin stared at the girl. So, she thought, Qakan told the truth.

  “G-g-go and tell him I am coming,” she said. “Go n-now.”

  Shale Thrower left the ulaq, and Kiin took a long breath. She pulled the babies from their cradles and slipped them into their carrying straps. “Do not cry,” she whispered. “Do not cry; do not cry,” the words like a song, a lullaby. She pushed a breast close to each baby’s face and waited until she felt each child begin to suck. Then she threw a few of her belongings into a basket—needles, chunks of sinew, coils of kelp twine, the long knife the Raven had given her, a short-bladed woman’s knife. A walking stick, a bag of dried fish.

  Her chest ached with the knowledge that Woman of the Sky and Woman of the Sun would do such a thing to trick her. But she heard the voice of her spirit whisper, “It is to protect their people. Their village. Even the Raven wants to protect his village.”

  Quickly, Kiin crawled out of the ulaq. Quickly she slipped down to the beach. Night was coming; the sun was dark beneath clouds, the sea black. Qakan had said he would not leave until morning. She knew where he kept his Lk. He said he would sleep there for the night. But then she saw the ik, out already into the bay, Qakan alone, paddling.

  Fear grew thick and hard in her chest, clogging her throat so she could not even call out. Once, twice, she waved her hands, then finally found her voice and called to her brother.

  She heard her spirit speak: “He cannot hear you.”

  Once again she called, felt the wind cold on her cheeks, cold on the wetness from her tears. She squatted down. Let the Raven find her here; she had a knife. She would fight for her sons.

  Then she heard a call, coming in from the water. Faint. She looked up. Qakan had turned the ik. He was coming for her.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  “THREE NIGHTS I HAVE WAITED FOR YOU!” THREE Fish yelled. “Three days I have lived here and you act as though I am no longer your wife. That you do not know me.”

  “You are my wife,” Samiq said. “But that does not give you reason to decide where I sleep. You are my wife, and you will do what I say.”

  “I will return to my own people!” Three Fish said.

  “Go. I will not stop you.”

  “Small Knife will go with me,” Three Fish said.

  “It is his choice. Ask him.”

  Her small eyes slid away from Samiq’s face and she muttered, “He will not go unless you say so.”

  Samiq shrugged. Small Knife had already become one of the First Men. Even in the few short days they had been on the island, Small Knife was learning their ways. He was often with First Snow, each teaching the other different skills, both benefiting. Even Samiq’s mother had mentioned that it seemed as though Small Knife had always belonged to them, had always been a part of their village.

  “I will not make him go,” Samiq said to Three Fish.

  “If I go alone, I will die.”

  “It is your choice. You can try to return or you can belong to my people. The wives of the First Men do what their husbands say, and it is an honor to be a good wife.”

  Three Fish narrowed her eyes but Samiq continued to speak.

  “The skills of a good wife are like the skills of a good hunter,” he said. “Does the hunter say to the sea lion, ‘Come to my beach this day or that? Come here and make my hunting easy’? Does a hunter get meat by telling the whale what to do? No. The hunter must go to the animal. And it is the same for the wife. Who brings skins for her clothing, oil for her fire?”

  “Who sews a man’s ikyak cover?” Three Fish retorted. “Who makes his chigadax? Who makes his parka?”

  For a time Samiq did not answer, but instead stared at Three Fish, his anger first directed at Many Whales, the man who had forced him to take this loud and stupid woman as a wife. It would be a good thing to be rid of her, but Samiq would not ask Small Knife to take her back to the Whale Hunters. He would not sacrifice a son for a worthless wife. And so Samiq spat on the ground, near enough to Three Fish’s feet so that she would know his disgust, and then he said, “Perhaps this year a different woman will make my chigadax.” And he walked away.

  Samiq was asleep and the rumbling woke him. He reached for his harpoon and went to his father’s sleeping place. His mother was curled beside his father, the two with arms around each other, and for a moment Samiq hesitated, but then he knelt and grasped his father’s shoulder, gently shaking him awake.

  Kayugh sat up quickly, reached for his spear, but Samiq clasped his arm and said, “It is Samiq. Listen.”

  His mother awoke, sat up and pulled a sealskin around her shoulders. “It cannot be Aka,” she said. “We are too far away.”

  “We are not far enough,” Samiq said as another tremor shook the cave.

  “But we are safe here,” Kayugh said. “A small shaking will not hurt us. Go back to your sleeping place.”

  Samiq felt the burn of anger at the center of his chest. He was not a child to be ordered to his bed. He left his father’s sleeping place and walked to the mouth of the cave. So now the rumbling had reached this small island. What if it grew worse? In the morning he would talk to his father. He must make him understand.

  But in the morning, Kayugh felt the same way. “There is no need to leave,” he said. “We can wait here. There are few whales, but there are seals. Surely before winter, we will be able to return to our own beach. Then you will teach us to hunt the whale, and we will trade again with the Whale Hunters.”

  “The Whale Hunters think I brought Aka’s anger on them,” Samiq said. “They will not trade with us. They will kill us.”

  Kayugh frowned. “Perhaps Aka will kill them and there will be no worry. If not, we will find another place, one nearer the paths of the whales.”

  “We must go now,” Samiq said. “This island is too small. Aka could shake it into the sea. There would be no escape for any of us.”

  Kayugh sat quietly for a time. “You are a man,” he finally said, but did not look at Samiq, “but you are my son. We will stay.”

  Samiq rose slowly to his feet and left the shelter: Yes, he was Kayugh’s son. Kayugh’s son and the son of that one who had been cut apart, buried without honor. Who could say what weakness was passed to Samiq through that one’s blood? Perhaps there was some truth in what the Whale Hunters said. Perhaps Samiq carried evil he did not understand, could not control. If so, who was he to disagree with Kayugh? Instead Samiq should learn from him.

  Who was a better father than Kayugh? Samiq claimed Small Knife as son, and already knew what it was to take pride in Small Knife’s skills. But Samiq, in learning to be father, should remember Kayugh’s example.

  Early the day before, Small Knife had taken a seal in the water just off their beach. “You have brought us luck!” Gray Bird had said to Samiq, and Samiq felt a father’s joy when Small Knife took the hunter’s share of flippers and fat.

  Small Knife had begun work on his own ikyak. He was young, younger than Samiq had been when he had made his first kill, but many things had changed. They lived in a new place. They must accept new ways. There were fewer berry bushes here and the beach was no long stretch of sand and gravel sloping gently into the sea, but a sudden drop, giving few places to find clams or chitons, even at low tide. There was not as much food available for the women to gather and so boys must become hunters.

  But that morning, the falling ash had been worse, and so Samiq and the others had brought in their ikyan soon after Small Knife took his seal.

  Even this morning, as Samiq strained his eyes toward the water, he could see little but gray. And as the women worked, each wore a cap of ash. Samiq heard Crooked Nose exclaim, “In our eyes, in our hair, between our teeth!”

  Samiq smiled. Crooked Nose. Who was more ugly? Who was more beautiful?

  Samiq’s eyes fell on Chagak, tending both the fire and Wren, the tiny girl running among the women, often straying too near the coo
king pits.

  Samiq stood up and stretched, then caught his mother’s eye and motioned toward Wren. His mother picked up the child, and Samiq grinned at the small girl’s scream of protest.

  Chagak hugged Wren then brought her to Samiq. Wren held her arms out to her brother, babbling and giggling when he threw her up into the air and caught her.

  “You do not hunt?” Chagak asked.

  Samiq looked at his mother in surprise. She had seldom begun a conversation with him since he returned from the Whale Hunters. He was now fully a man, a hunter with a wife.

  “Too much ash,” he replied, but he knew that Chagak understood why the men were not hunting.

  She nodded. “Yes, for us also,” she said looking back at the cooking pits.

  Samiq smiled. “I heard Crooked Nose.”

  Chagak laughed but said nothing.

  She stayed with him as he walked to the beach. And Samiq realized that since his mother had spoken first, there was something she wanted to say to him, but when she did not speak, Samiq began to run toward the water, bouncing Wren in his arms. Perhaps his mother only needed him to watch Wren. “I will keep her here while you work,” he called back to his mother.

  But Chagak hurried to Samiq’s side. “I will walk with you,” she said.

  Samiq hoisted Wren to his shoulders, the girl holding tightly to his hair, her legs wrapped around his neck.

  “When I left, she was a baby,” Samiq said. “Now look how tall she has become. Taller than her mother.”

  Chagak looked up at her daughter and laughed. “Yes, but she walks before she talks and that is not good. She gets into everything and understands nothing.”

  “Perhaps it is to her advantage to understand nothing,” Samiq replied.

  “Like Three Fish,” Chagak said suddenly.

  Samiq looked quickly at his mother. There was no laughter in her eyes now, and Samiq waited for her to continue.

  She lowered her head and asked quietly, “If I speak to you about her, will you be angry?”

  “No.”

  “She laughs at Crooked Nose’s jokes, but she always leaves before we begin any hard work. She smiles and takes her gathering bag, pretending there is nothing more for her to do than walk on the beach.