by Sue Harrison
Brown Water tried to take the boy away from Chakliux, but he tightened his arms and turned his upper body. “I will carry him to the shaman,” he said.
Brown Water bumped against Chakliux’s weak leg, using the bulk of her body to threaten his balance.
“If you make me fall, the boy’s wound may start to bleed again,” he said in a quiet voice, though he wanted to yell at the woman for her stupidity.
“Take out the knife,” she hissed at him. “Take out the knife.”
“The knife may be holding in the blood. I will take him to the shaman. Is he a healer? Or is there someone else?”
The question seemed to calm Brown Water, and she backed away, considering. “Wolf-and-Raven knows prayers,” she said. “Yes, take the boy to his lodge, but I will get old Ligige’. She is a healer with plant medicines. She might know something Wolf-and-Raven does not.”
“Good,” Chakliux said, and turned toward the shaman’s lodge, taking slow steps on the icy path. He saw Brown Water kneel again beside Daes and then with harsh gestures say something to her sister-wife. Happy Mouth went into the lodge. Chakliux supposed she had been given the task of telling the old man about the death.
Daes had been killed. The thought brought fear. During the short time Chakliux had been in this village, he had paid little attention to the woman, had never known her to cause any trouble. But like him, she was from another place. Perhaps there was one who thought she, too, was cursed. Or perhaps …No, he could not let himself think that anyone from his own village would do such a thing. Not to Daes. Not to Ghaden.
For a moment Chakliux took his eyes from the path to glance at the haft of the knife protruding from the boy’s shoulder. The haft was antler, crudely cut and wrapped with long strands of dark hair. He suddenly realized the knife was much like the ones he and several other hunters had bought in trade the day before. If it was one of the trader’s knives, the blade was not long—but long enough to kill.
The boy suddenly groaned and flexed his injured shoulder. His eyes flickered open for a moment, and Chakliux leaned down over him, at the same time trying to maintain his pace without falling.
“Be still,” he murmured to the child. “Be still. Be quiet now. Try to sleep.”
The boy took a long breath and a seep of blood brightened the wound. Then his voice suddenly rose in a piercing wail. The sound brought people from their lodges, women with stirring sticks in their hands, men still wrapped in bedding furs.
Most only stared, but one man yelled, “You, from the Cousin Village. What is the matter?”
“The boy is hurt. I take him to Wolf-and-Raven,” Chakliux answered.
“Whose child?” a woman called, but Chakliux ducked his head and curled himself over the boy, breaking into a limping run.
Ghaden continued to wail, and Chakliux, speaking in a firm voice, said, “You are a man. Do not cry. Be still.”
The boy’s wail stopped so quickly that for a moment Chakliux was afraid he had died. He looked down. The boy’s spirit still peered from his eyes, in fear, in pain.
“Be still. It will hurt less if you do not move,” Chakliux said, though he knew his hobbling run jarred the injury. The boy opened his mouth and his breath came in gasps, but he did not cry.
Then the old woman Ligige’ was at his side, motioning for people to stay away as she asked, “He is still alive?”
“Yes,” Chakliux answered. Pointing with his chin toward the shoulder, he said, “A knife wound.”
“Two more lodges,” said Ligige’, as though she heard Chakliux’s thoughts, understood that he needed to know how much farther to carry the boy. “Do you recognize the knife?” she asked.
“It was bought from the trader,” Chakliux answered. “It could be anyone’s.”
“You think the trader …” the woman began, but then they were at Wolf-and-Raven’s lodge. Without scratching at the doorflap, with no clearing of her throat or polite calling, Ligige’ crawled into the entrance tunnel and gestured for Chakliux to follow.
Wolf-and-Raven was still in his bed, his wife handing him a wooden bowl of food. Bear meat, Chakliux thought, recognizing the rich smell, the melted pools of fat in the broth. Even in the midst of his worry for the child, his stomach growled, reminding him he had not eaten that morning.
“What are you doing?” Wolf-and-Raven asked, his voice loud with irritation.
“Be quiet and help us, little cousin,” Ligige’ said, addressing the shaman, not in respect but as child to child. Chakliux waited for the man’s explosion of anger, but then saw the softening in his eyes. So then they were cousins, Chakliux thought, son and daughter of brothers, according to the kinship term Ligige’ had used.
“The child has been injured. A knife wound,” Ligige’ said. She bent and whispered something in Wolf-and-Raven’s ear, something, no doubt, she did not want the boy to hear, probably that his mother was dead.
Wolf-and-Raven’s wife quickly arranged a pile of hare fur blankets into a bed, and Chakliux laid the boy belly down on the pelts. The old woman knelt beside the child, but Wolf-and-Raven turned to Chakliux.
“You saw this happen?” he asked.
“Fool!” Ligige’ said. The harsh word startled the boy, and he again lifted his voice into a wail, but Ligige’ ignored him and continued to speak loudly. “Most of the blood around the wound is old, dark. This happened last night. The child has lost much blood and he is cold. Call away the spirits of pain while I take out the knife and warm him.”
Though Chakliux expected Wolf-and-Raven to react in anger, he did not. The shaman went to the back of the lodge and there uncovered several caribou hide pouches, each decorated with the skin of a protector animal—flickers and least weasels. From one he took several folded packets, each filled with a different-colored powder. He mixed the powders with fat into paints to color his face and arms. From another pouch he took rattles and leaves, feathers and shells. Chakliux began to worry that some things were too sacred for him to see. To protect himself and Wolf-and-Raven, he turned his eyes away and watched Ligige’.
She had wrapped the child in warm fur blankets and was now mixing powdered leaves and roots into a cilt’ogho of water. She poured some of the water on a scraped ground squirrel skin, then with a quick movement pulled the knife from the boy’s shoulder and pressed the folded skin over the wound. The boy made a tiny mewing sound.
“Hold this,” Ligige’ barked at Chakliux, and Chakliux knelt beside the boy to hold the ground squirrel skin in place. “Press hard,” she said.
Ligige’ dipped her fingers into the cilt’ogho and dribbled some of the liquid into the boy’s mouth. “It will ease the pain,” she told him.
She poured a bit more of the liquid around the wound, using another softened skin to wipe away old blood. Finally she motioned for Chakliux to move his hand. She continued to clean the wound, then prepared another folded skin and tied it into place with long strips of babiche.
Wolf-and-Raven finished his preparations and began a chant, shuffling his feet with the rhythm of his song. Chakliux understood some of what he said, but other words seemed garbled, as though they were not quite The People’s language. Soon Wolf-and-Raven’s forehead was shining with perspiration. The shaman was almost an old man, already with the pouched belly and thin arms of one who mostly sat, but his feet did not stop, and his song remained loud, clear. If his prayers could keep away those spirits that brought pain, the ones that made wounds fester and fill with pus, then perhaps the child would live—if his mother did not call him to follow her into death.
If that happened, Chakliux doubted that any shaman could do much good. What child would not go with his mother if she asked?
“If you want to stay, you are welcome,” Ligige’ whispered to Chakliux, “but if you want to go …”
Chakliux nodded his understanding. “My grandfather waits for me,” he said. “I should go.” He watched for a moment as the old woman smoothed back the boy’s hair with her gnarled hands and c
overed him with another blanket.
The child had been a bundle of ice in Chakliux’s arms. It would take a long time for the cold to leave him. Perhaps it never would, lying as he had beneath the dead body of his mother. Who could say what that would do to a child? But as he watched Ligige’ work, Chakliux felt his hope grow. Her hands were quick and without hesitation as she made poultices and teas.
Chakliux left. Outside, the morning was bright. He walked back toward Brown Water’s lodge. He should tell them that the boy was still alive and the knife out, the bleeding stopped. A crowd of people stood at the lodge entrance, but they parted when they saw Chakliux, pulling back as though he carried the spirit of death with him. He looked down, saw the blood that stained his parka from mid-chest to the wolf fur ruff that ended just above his knees. Then Brown Water was at the entrance, her voice firm as she said to Chakliux, “My husband wants to speak to you.”
Chakliux stooped to follow Brown Water through the entrance tunnel. Inside, the lodge was large and neat. A caribou hide boiling bag of soup hung near a central hearth fire. The child he had seen earlier when he found the boy—a girl of six or seven summers—was wrapped at the waist with a woven hare fur blanket and sat with an old man, her small hands patting his fur-wrapped shoulders.
She was the old man’s daughter; she had the same strong bones beneath the half-moon eyes. The same swirl of hair lifted itself in a peak at the center of a high forehead.
She swallowed, and he saw the dimple at one corner of her lips, like the dimple that had given her mother the name Happy Mouth. It was a face made for someone who laughed often and saw the good things of the earth, and Chakliux was glad the old man had such a daughter.
“The boy is alive,” Chakliux said, though the women had not asked, and the old man did not seem to understand what had happened.
“The knife?” asked Brown Water, then glanced to her side.
Chakliux followed her eyes and saw that the dead one lay there. The frost and blood had been washed from her face. Long strands of babiche were knotted around the woman’s wrists and elbows, and other strands lay beside her.
“The knife was one the trader brought,” Chakliux said.
“I told her she should not go to him,” said Brown Water. Then with widened eyes she looked at her husband, but his gaze wandered as though he had not heard her.
“There is no way to know if the trader …” Chakliux began, but Brown Water moved her head toward the old man, and Chakliux finished with, “Many men traded for things yesterday.” He pulled up his parka sleeve so the women could see the knife sheathed on his forearm. It was similar to the one now lying in Wolf-and-Raven’s lodge. “I traded for this.”
“You found her as you were going to …”
“My grandfather’s. I feed his dogs every morning.”
“Yes. I have seen you. There is nothing else you know?”
“Nothing else,” Chakliux said, then looked over at the dead one. He pointed with his chin toward the strips of babiche. “Do what you can to keep her spirit here.”
Both Brown Water and Happy Mouth raised eyebrows in agreement, then Happy Mouth knelt beside the dead woman, picked up a strand of babiche and tied it at her shoulder joint. Once each joint was tied, the spirit lost power. Then perhaps the child would not be called to follow his mother into death.
Chakliux left the lodge. The sael of fish lay near the lodge wall. He picked it up. He wondered if the noise and the mourning cries had awakened Tsaani.
Probably not, he thought. It was early yet, and old men sleep hard.
Chapter Five
CEN WAS ASLEEP WHEN they came.
They did not enter through the door of his lodge, but through the caribou hide walls, ripping the skins with knives and spearheads. Before he could untangle himself from his sleeping robes, the men were upon him, pinning his arms, hitting him, kicking him. Then the women came, tearing at his eyes with their fingernails, leaving long weals in his cheeks and across his bare chest.
He kicked the women away as the men held him, then screamed out to ask why they were attacking him. He was a respected trader. For many years he had come to this village. Had he ever cheated anyone? Had he ever abused their hospitality?
His last question seemed to renew their anger, and one of the women shouted at him, “What about my sister-wife? What about her little son? You kill them, then say you show respect?”
He knew the woman, her loud voice, her harsh ways. She was Brown Water. Her words pierced his eardrums like birdbone needles. What had she said about killing? Did she mean Daes? Ghaden?
“Who is dead?” he shouted out, but his question brought more screaming, more anger. Several men hit him—hard, heavy blows to his face and belly, so that he curled his body to protect himself. His thoughts swirled as though he lived a dream. He raised his head for a moment to look back at his bed, almost expecting to see himself lying there asleep, dreaming the pain.
Chakliux had watched the Near River hunters and a number of women, Brown Water leading them, leave the village. He knew they were going to the trader’s camp. Several men motioned for him to join them, but he shook his head. Because Daes was killed by a trader’s knife, they thought the trader did it? What man would be so foolish as to leave such a clear sign?
Chakliux had watched the trader, had seen how skillfully he bargained, how well he judged men. If he had murdered someone, he would not leave his knife behind. Chakliux wanted no part of whatever they planned to do to the man.
“You heard what happened?”
Chakliux turned at the sound of his brother’s voice.
“I found her,” Chakliux answered.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“She was dead when you found her?”
“Yes, and the boy nearly dead.”
“Do you think he will live?”
“Ligige’ stopped the bleeding, and the shaman prays. Perhaps he will live, perhaps not.”
“They think the trader did it?”
“One of the trader’s knives was still in the boy’s shoulder.”
Sok snorted. “Cen is not stupid,” he said. “If he killed someone, he would not leave his knife.”
“You think they will kill him?” Chakliux asked.
Sok lifted his hands, fingers spread. “Who can say?” he answered. “They will probably bring him back to the village before they decide what to do.”
“Should we wait for them?” Chakliux asked. “A man should not be killed for what he did not do. If we talk to them …”
“I will wait for them. You should not,” Sok answered, then said, “You know what some people say about the dogs.”
Chakliux nodded. “Yes.” How many had died since he came to the village? Seven, eight? They blamed him. The Near River dogs had been strong and healthy until he came.
“If they blame you for dogs, they might blame you for other things as well,” Sok said. “I will wait for them, try to talk to them.”
Chakliux turned toward their grandfather’s lodge, took several steps along the path before his brother called out to stop him.
“Where are you going?”
“To feed our grandfather’s dogs.”
“You have not yet fed the dogs?”
“No.”
Sok clicked his tongue as though Chakliux were a child to be scolded. “I will do it,” Sok said. “Go. Leave the village for the day. Do whatever it is you like to do, but leave the village.”
Chakliux could see the irritation in his brother’s eyes. Feeding dogs was usually a boy’s job. Chakliux did it because he liked being with Tsaani. How else could he show his gratitude for the man’s patience, his willingness to accept Chakliux without sympathy or fear of his difference?
Chakliux walked back toward Red Leaf’s lodge. His brother was right. He should leave the village, stay away until night. Red Leaf would not be sad to see him go, even just for a day. He was one more to feed, another man to sew for. She was a good wife t
o Sok and a good mother to Sok’s sons, but she did not try to hide her resentment of Chakliux.
Red Leaf was a large woman, as tall as Chakliux and wide of hip and shoulder—a woman who would give a man large, strong sons. Her face was as square as her body, skin dark and smooth. When Sok came into the lodge, Red Leaf’s eyes never left him. Her hands, usually capable and strong, fluttered when he spoke, and when she brushed the snow from his parka, her fingers lingered against the fur.
Any acknowledgment of Chakliux came with the downward curl of her lips, the narrowing of her eyes, but this time she smiled and gave him a bowl of meat and broth, then circled to brush snow from his parka.
“You were the one who found her,” she said from behind his back. “Do you think spirits killed her?”
Chakliux tipped the bowl to his mouth and drank. He wiped his lips with his hand and said, “Spirits do not use knives.”
“You did not see anyone? Someone who might have killed her?” Chakliux squatted on his haunches beside the hearth fire. Red Leaf knelt beside him and whispered, “Night Walking says Brown Water herself might have done it.”
“I saw no one,” Chakliux answered. “She had been dead a long time when I found her.”
Red Leaf’s lips tightened.
Chakliux set the bowl on the scraped caribou hides that covered the floor. “I will hunt today,” he said, but did not look at the woman. What was wrong with her? This was not a celebration. Daes was dead; her child was badly hurt, perhaps dying. Worst of all, someone had done the killing.
In his own village, Chakliux had been taught the stories of his people, stories to pass down so certain things would not be forgotten. In several of those stories, people had killed others, but that had been long ago, when animals and men could talk to one another. This killing was now.
Chakliux took his weapons and hunter’s bag. He pulled his parka hood snug around his face and left the lodge. When he reached the edge of the village, he heard the sudden noise of raised voices, the mourning cries of women. Their songs were like ice against his teeth. The child has died, he thought, and felt his anger rise against the one who had done such a thing.