by Sue Harrison
He did not look forward to the rest of this day when she would learn that he had given her to the Walrus shaman. He would miss her. She was good in his bed, much better than Red Leaf, but with the shaman’s mask, the amulets and feather sax he would get for her, there was little doubt Wolf-and-Raven would give him Snow-in-her-hair. What would be better than to finally have that one who had lived in his heart since she was a child?
The Walrus Hunter Village was as Aqamdax had imagined. Like all children in her village, she had listened to the traders’ stories, had eventually learned enough Walrus words so as an adult she could make trades or even flatter a Walrus man who chose to come to her bed.
When she and Sok beached the iqyax, women and children, as well as hunters, came to help them. Children gathered close to look at Aqamdax, and the women watched her from the sides of their eyes, speaking to one another with hands over lips in words she could not hear.
Finally Sok came to her, untied the hood string of her chigdax and helped her slip the garment over her head, then, clasping her long hair in both hands, he pulled it from her sax and smoothed it down over her back. Aqamdax felt joy in the gentleness of his touch, in the pride with which he turned her to face the people.
“Aqamdax,” he said, giving her name the lilt of the River People language.
She looked at him, her tall, strong husband, and whispered the River word for wife, then also spoke that word in the Walrus tongue. Suddenly the days in the iqyax were worth the joy that filled her.
Then Sok called out, “Where is Yehl?” And though his next words were a broken mix of River and Walrus, Aqamdax understood, and in her horror, could not move, could not speak.
“Tell Yehl I bring Aqamdax. Tell him I have his wife.”
Chakliux turned away and fixed his eyes on the horizon. He could not bear to see the look in Aqamdax’s eyes as she realized what was happening. When Sok told Chakliux that he would give her to Yehl with all the people watching, Chakliux had told him there were better ways, had said that he should speak to Aqamdax privately. But Sok answered, “What woman wants to be dishonored before a whole village? If I announce my intent so everyone hears, she will have no choice but to act as though she came knowing she would be the shaman’s wife.”
And Chakliux found he could not disagree. As wife to the shaman, she would have a place of honor in the village. Living here, she would be closer to her own people, perhaps able to do as Tut did when she grew old—return to the First Men Village. She would also have opportunities to visit with First Men traders, those few who came each year to the Walrus Hunter People, and in that way hear her own language spoken.
In the next few days, after Sok had done his final trading, he and Chakliux would leave for the Near River Village, and, if Chakliux was welcome there, they would not return to the Walrus Hunters. If they found the Cousin River People were still seeking revenge, Chakliux would return here. Either way, Aqamdax would not have to see Sok again. She would not have his face to feed her anger or his voice to bring back memories of times shared as husband and wife.
Chakliux walked up the beach toward the iqyax racks. He needed to oil his iqyax and to repair some of the seams. Sok planned to walk back to the Near River Village, but Chakliux would go by water. Sok had laughed at him, asked him how the iqyax would help him in hunting bear or caribou, but Chakliux had reminded Sok that the few First Men traders who did come to River People Villages came upriver in their iqyan, traveling much more quickly than if they had walked.
Besides, his iqyax was more than wood and walrus hide. It was the way he became true otter. In his iqyax, he was whole and strong. How could he explain such a thing to Sok? How could Sok understand that Chakliux’s iqyax was like another brother?
A sudden shout of laughter made Chakliux turn, retrace his steps. He pushed his way through a crowd of Walrus Hunter People. A fight, Chakliux thought. Someone has started a fight. Probably two young men, then he realized it was not young men who fought but Aqamdax.
He forced his way to the center of the group and saw that she had somehow pushed Sok to the ground and was astride his shoulders, one hand twisted into his hair, the other with the curved blade of a woman’s knife at his throat. One of the Walrus traders had grabbed her around the waist, and he held a blade to her neck. He was shouting a First Men word at her, a word Chakliux did not know, and Aqamdax was shouting back, handfuls of words, full of anger. He saw the despair in her eyes and knew that she did not care if the trader cut her throat.
Sok roared and, with one strong heave, threw both the Walrus trader and Aqamdax backward to the ground. Chakliux placed himself between the woman and his brother. He stepped on her hand, pinned it to the ground as one of the Walrus men pried the knife from her fingers and another checked the sleeves of her sax for other weapons. It took several men to lead her away; one finally brought a rope to bind her hands and hobble her feet.
During the days in the iqyan, Chakliux had begun to realize how strong and determined Aqamdax was, but still, he had not thought she would react in anger, but more likely do as K’os would have—stand proudly, as though she had always known what would happen at the Walrus Village. His Near River mother, Day Woman, might have lifted her voice in mourning, but how many women would have tried to kill their betrayer?
Sok had one hand pressed against his neck, stanching the flow of blood from a shallow cut.
“How bad?” Chakliux asked.
“Nothing,” Sok said, but his words were a growl. He curled his lips to show his teeth. “What man would want a woman like that? She is worse than a dog, that one.”
Almost Chakliux answered yes, but then he knew his agreement would not be the truth, so he kept his words behind his teeth and did not tell his brother that he thought Aqamdax was not dog but warrior.
They threw her into an empty Walrus tent. She shouted out in the Walrus words she knew, filled in with First Men language: “You think you can keep me here? I can tear through these hide walls with my teeth. You think you can keep me in such a place? Your stink drives me from this village. I cannot stand the sight of you. You are like dead fish, white and rotting on the beach. You are dog vomit. Your wives are the feces of seals.”
Her hands were bound, but they had tied them in front of her, so she was able to loosen the knots with her teeth and pull free. She unwound the rope from her ankles and began to rip the furs from the raised bed platforms. She trampled fishskin baskets, unplugged a sea lion belly of oil and poured the oil over the bedding furs. Her insults became screams, then tears, and finally sobbing cries that seemed to tear her heart and rip the breath from her lungs.
Why had she trusted him? Had she learned nothing from Day Breaker? What man had ever been honest with her? What man had ever done what he promised?
For a long time she gave in to her tears, but finally her anger subsided to a slow rhythm, like the throbbing of a wound, and she found herself thinking of the Walrus shaman.
She had seen him at the edge of the crowd, seen his horror as she attacked Sok. He had been wearing many amulets and charms, skins and furs of animals she did not know. Had he thought that would impress her?
He was an old man, but that would not matter, especially if in his knowledge as shaman he could give her a child. Then she realized that it was not the thought of him as husband that fed her anger, but of Sok’s betrayal.
Of course, the first time Sok had come to her, he had asked her to go with him to the Walrus Hunter Village to be the shaman’s wife. In her foolishness, she had believed she had the power to change his mind.
She had bought enough from traders to know they did not cheat themselves, and the shaman had probably given Sok much to bring her here. She had only added to the trade goods by giving Sok nights of pleasure in his sleeping robes.
She thought of Sok’s brother, Chakliux. He was not as large or strong as Sok, but he had a strength of spirit that she liked. Had he known Sok’s plan? How could he not? What had the shaman offered them s
o they would betray her in such a way?
She looked at the mess she had made, then wiped her eyes dry with the edges of her hands, sniffed up the tears that were running down her nose. She had acted like a child. How could she be so foolish? First Men traders came to this village each summer. She could get back to her own people. Surely Qung would welcome her.
Meanwhile, if she did not want to spend her life alone in a Walrus tent, she needed to act like a good wife.
Perhaps before she left this village the shaman would put a child in her belly. Perhaps she could learn to speak the Walrus language well enough to understand some of their stories.
She began to pick up the bedding furs, wiping the oil from those she had doused, then rubbing the excess into her hair and on her legs and arms.
When they returned for her, they would find the tent in good order and Aqamdax ready to go to the shaman as wife, but if Sok ever came to this village again, she would find some way to have her revenge. She would find some way to make him regret what he had done to her.
Chapter Twenty-eight
THE FIRST MEN VILLAGE
CEN PULLED HIS IQYAX above the reach of the waves, then began to unload his packs. He liked this village. The people were strong, healthy; they laughed often and traded well. With his left wrist still weak, it had taken him almost a moon of paddling to get from the nearest Walrus Hunter settlement to the Traders’ Beach, but if all went as he planned, his efforts would be worth it.
The First Men had chosen their village site wisely, so they could hunt both sea and land animals, and fish the inlet as well as the rivers that fed it. But each winter the ice brought new shoals and new rocks. A man had to be careful, always watching as he paddled.
If one of the village hunters saw a trader coming, he would act as guide, but this time no one was on the beach. Cen had paddled in alone. High tide helped him avoid any damage from rocks or sandbars and allowed him an easy landing. He heard voices, looked up to see several elders coming to greet him. Cen met them with palms up and the assurance he had come in friendship. Their language did not sit easily on his tongue, but he knew that a day in their village would bring most of it back to him. His years visiting Daes had given him more than the warmth of a woman in his bed.
“You have come to trade?” one of the elders asked.
Cen answered the man politely, listing some of his trade goods—walrus hides, wolf fur parkas, split willow baskets and large wooden halibut hooks. He did not have as much as he usually did—nothing left from the River People but a few knives.
He had thought his luck was gone, was sure the cache he kept near one of the two Walrus villages where he usually traded would have been found by men or animals, but it had been untouched. The wolf fur parkas, caribou skins, a sael of fat, seal skins of oil, and of most importance, his iqyax, had been waiting for him.
He set out for the First Men Village, not only to trade but to find Daes’s family. She had told him her father was dead, that she had no brothers, but surely she had cousins, and of course a daughter, who by now would have a husband. When Cen explained what had happened to Daes, surely they would come with him to seek revenge. They would help him win back his son, Ghaden.
He straightened, easing the pain of newly healed injuries, rubbed a finger across his nose. It was crooked now, wide and flat. A scar gathered his mouth toward one corner, but in this village it was good he did not look the same. There must be First Men hunters who were not happy that he had taken Daes, those men who had wanted her themselves. If they recognized Cen, they might act in anger before he had a chance to explain why he had come.
Cen had been especially careful when he was with Daes, aware of the mourning taboos that kept her from men. Perhaps that was why she had seemed so desirable—because of the taboos. There were other First Men women he could have chosen, but his eyes had filled themselves with Daes.
It had been a mistake, after bedding her, to return on his way back from his trading farther to the west. But how could he forget her? She still haunted his dreams. He should have stayed with her at the River village. What did it matter to him what village he lived in? His mother had been of the Caribou People, his father of the Walrus, and he had spent summers in River villages as his parents traveled between their peoples. He had grown up speaking all three languages, and easily picked up the First Men language.
He should have lived with Daes, claimed her child, the boy whose face was so much like his Walrus grandfather’s, whose voice held the clear, singing timbre of the Caribou People. But Cen had known that each time Daes looked at him she wished he was her First Men husband. Besides, what trader needs the encumbrance of a wife and baby? He had found her a River elder who was still a strong hunter, who would be a good father to the child and a good husband to Daes.
Though he had left her behind, during the next winter Cen’s thoughts had stayed with Daes. No matter how many Tundra women warmed his bed, the smooth brown skin under his hands had always belonged to Daes. So he returned each year to visit her, and finally she had agreed to go with him. Then he dared to believe that she no longer wished he was that dead husband, that she had learned to care for him because of his own strengths.
All things had seemed so good. His throat ached to think of it. But he would have his revenge, and those River People—the few he allowed to live—would never forget him.
THE WALRUS VILLAGE
Aqamdax expected them to come in the night, so she waited, keeping herself awake with songs and stories, but finally she fell asleep where she sat, leaning against the bedding platform. She awoke in early morning with a stiff neck and cramped legs. The entrance was still braced shut, and Aqamdax, feeling the need to relieve herself, searched the lodge for some kind of urine trough or night waste basket. Finally she squatted over a fishskin container, hoping it would hold her water and that she was not breaking any Walrus taboos.
The oil in the stone lamp was low, and several wicks had gone out. There was a small amount of oil left in the seal belly, and she poured a portion of it into the basin. The fire blazed with greater strength, but still she was cold. She sorted through baskets and hides, searched the walls for a food cache, but found nothing. She seemed to remember from stories that the Walrus stored their food in outside caches, but she was not sure. She had eaten the day before. She would not starve, and there were full water bladders hanging from the lodge poles.
Ah, Tut, she thought, why did I not ask more questions about these people? Surely in refusing their shaman she had insulted the whole village. She would wait one more day, then during the brief darkness of night, would cut her way out using the small skinning knife she kept in the belt under her sax. They had not found that one, and though the blade was short, it was sharp. If she was careful and worked slowly, it might be strong enough to cut through the split walrus hide.
Then what? Without food, without her woman’s knife, what could she do? She would have to find Sok and his brother, beg them to take her with them, or go to the shaman, make her apologies and ask to be given to some Walrus Hunter as wife. She sat on the edge of the bedding platform, stroked the smooth feathers of her sax.
No, she would not return to Sok. Why trust the man? It was better to stay here in this village, closer to her own people. She would offer herself to the shaman. If he no longer wanted her, she would ask to be wife to a hunter, second wife if necessary.
Hii, she had been stupid! But now she would be wise, and if she could keep her anger from directing her hands into more foolishness, she would find her way back to her people.
Chakliux walked through the village to the iqyax racks. During the days it took them to paddle to this village, he had spent much time considering the First Men iqyan and whether he might change his own to be more like theirs—narrower for speed and with a keelson made of three pieces of wood rather than one to allow the iqyax more strength, more flex in the waves.
Perhaps rather than change the iqyax he had, he should make another. Why
ruin something that already worked and worked well? Then he could compare the two, how each rode the waves, how each responded to his paddle in currents and tides, in rips and breakers.
He passed the small tent where they had put Aqamdax. He felt sorry for the woman. She had seemed to care much about Sok, to try in many ways to be a good wife.
He remembered with a flood of warmth how it had been to have Gguzaakk as wife, and remembered the horror of her death. Their son had died the next day, and in his grief, Chakliux had not wanted to live. But what Dzuuggi could choose the luxury of death?
He continued to work for peace, though he knew K’os worked against him. It was not until his grief brought him to visit Gguzaakk’s burial platform that he knew the extent of K’os’s hatred. As he approached the sacred place, he saw K’os there, and he waited, thinking she also had come to grieve. She stooped to lay something on the ground. When he drew near, he saw it was a spray of purple flowers, and knew, as every child knows, the deadly poison of the plant and its hooded blooms.
“My son also?” he had asked her.
“Children die easily,” she had said, and lifted a hand to cover her nose and mouth.
He should have killed her then, but he was unable to move, as though his body, too, had been gripped by that poison that stills the muscles, stops the heart. He went to the elders, the hunters, even his father, but no one believed him. To make his revenge would mean his own death, the whole village against him. Then what chance would he have to work for peace?