by Sue Harrison
But no, Chagak told herself. This is Kayugh. This is Kayugh. His body smelled warm, rich like seal oil. She touched the pink shining scar where he had been wounded, and felt a keen gladness that the shoulder healed so well.
Should she tell him about Man-who-kills? No, why take the chance that everyone would know? Why take the chance that Samiq might face scorn, perhaps even death. But still, Kayugh must be given some explanation. Some part of the truth.
Chagak leaned away from Kayugh’s chest and looked up into his eyes. “Samiq’s father hurt me,” she said softly, and she saw the surprise in his face, then the anger.
“He should be glad he is dead,” Kayugh said, then he pulled off her suk and laid it beside them. He put his hand under Chagak’s chin and raised her face to his. “I will not hurt you, Chagak,” he said. He pressed her to his chest, the warmth of his skin hot against Chagak’s breasts.
Chagak put her arms around his neck, felt the joy of his closeness. Kayugh stood and picked her up, then carried her to his sleeping place.
He laid her on the furs there and sat down beside her. “I will be a good husband to you, Chagak,” Kayugh whispered. “I will never hurt you.” He slid his hands down Chagak’s arms, felt her fingers close over his.
There was a shivering inside of Chagak, something pulling her to him, but the fear was still there, and in the darkness Chagak reached out to touch his face, as if to assure herself that it was Kayugh who was with her, Kayugh who touched her.
He stroked her arms and legs, then moved his hands to her belly, touching her in the same places Man-who-kills had touched her, but with gentleness, fingers moving slowly.
It is what Shuganan wanted me to understand, Chagak thought. That there would be another beginning. Another and another. For each ending a beginning. For every death, new life.
And when Kayugh finally moved over her, lying his full length upon her, Chagak was not afraid.
GLOSSARY OF NATIVE WORDS
AKA: (Aleut) Up; straight out there.
AMGIGH: (Aleut—pronounced with undefined vowel syllable between “m” and “g” and unvoiced ending) Blood.
BABICHE: Lacing made from rawhide. Probably from the Cree word “assababish,” a diminutive of “assabab,” thread.
CHAGAK: (Aleut—also; chagagh) Obsidian. (In the Aleut Atkan dialect, red cedar.)
CHIGADAX: (Aleut—ending unvoiced) A waterproof parka made of sea lion or bear intestines, esophagus of seal or sea lion, or the tongue skin of a whale. The hood had a drawstring and the sleeves were tied at the wrist for sea travel. These knee-length garments were often decorated with feathers and pieces of colored esophagus.
IK: (Aleut) Open-topped skin boat.
IKYAK, pl.IKYAN: (Aleut—also, iqyax, pl. iqyas) A canoe-shaped boat made of skins stretched around a wooden frame with an opening in the top for the occupant; a kayak.
KAYUGH: (Aleut—also, kayux) Strength of muscle; power.
SAMIQ: (Aleut) Stone dagger or knife.
SHUGANAN: (Origin and exact meaning obscure) Relating to an ancient people.
SUK: (Aleut—also, sugh; ending unvoiced) A hood-less parka with a standing collar. These garments were often made of birdskins and could be worn inside out (with the feathers on the inside) for warmth.
TUGIX: (Aleut) Aorta, large blood vessel.
ULAKIDAQ: (Aleut) A multitude of dwellings; a group of houses.
ULAQ, pl. ULAS: (Aleut—also, ulax) A dwelling dug into the side of a hill, raftered with driftwood and/or whale jawbones and thatched with sod and grass.
The native words listed here are defined according to their use in Mother Earth Father Sky. As with many native languages that were recorded by Europeans, there are multiple spellings of almost every word as well as dialectal differences.
AUTHOR’S ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Mother Earth, Father Sky is not only my book. It belongs to all those who helped me through their encouragement and by sharing their knowledge, special skills and abilities. Though I have done my best to ensure the accuracy of Mother Earth, Father Sky, any errors are not the fault of those listed below, but the result of my own interpretation of the information given to me.
My appreciation and my thanks go first of all to my husband, Neil Harrison, who is my partner and closest friend. Without his encouragement I would not have had the courage to continue to believe in myself and my work. Also, my heartfelt appreciation to our children, Neil and Krystal, for their pride in my work and their tolerance of late suppers and a mother who, though sitting beside them, was often nine thousand years away.
My thanks to my parents, Bob and Pat McHaney, who gave many helpful suggestions about the manuscript and taught me to love books and wildlife. To my grandfather, Bob McHaney, Sr., who was my inspiration for Shuganan, my love and thanks.
My sincere gratitude to Dr. William S. Laughlin, author of Aleuts: Survivors of the Bering Land Bridge, whose dig site on Anangula Island was the basis for the fictional village site in my novel, for his graciousness in sending me information and answering my questions concerning his work and his discoveries.
Also my thanks to Mark McDonald, who was an exploration geologist for Tenneco Oil and is now with Scripps Institution of Oceanography. Mark spent many hours answering my questions about geology, topography and climate.
To others who gave time and interest to my project, my thanks and highest regards:
Dr. David Knowles for his help explaining topographical maps;
Joan Harrison Morton and Linda McHaney Shelby, both nurses, who answered medical questions;
Jack McDonald, who took my husband and me on an excursion to collect flint;
Ruth Neveu, who spent much time finding and ordering research materials through the Lake Superior State University Library;
Artist Cynthia W. Hook, who drew a map for the novel;
Tom Harrison, my brother-in-law, a master carver;
Linda Hudson, also a writer, for her suggestions on the manuscript and her encouragement;
Gary Kiracofe, scrimshander, for sharing his knowledge about his craft, his collection and his books;
Forbes McDonald, Dick and Carol Beemer, Dick and Jan Johnson, Richard Hook, Patricia Walker, James Moody, Dennis and Jody Harrison and Jaynce and Gerri Leach who lent me resource materials;
The writers and staff of the Bay de Noc writers’ conferences.
Finally, my most sincere admiration and appreciation to my agent,
Rhoda Weyr, and my Doubleday editor, Loretta Barrett. Without them, Mother Earth, Father Sky would still be stuck in a desk drawer, a small embarrassment to the author, a book that was rejected numerous times by many people. Everyone has days that are very special to them and are remembered each year. This past year I have added two such days to my calendar, January 16, the day that Rhoda called to tell me she would take me as a client, and April 26, the day that Loretta acquired Mother Earth, Father Sky for Doubleday.
Turn the page to continue reading from the Ivory Carver Trilogy
PROLOGUE
SUMMER 7055 BC
Chuginadak Island, Aleutian Chain
Prologue
CHAGAK SAT AT THE roof hole entrance of the ulaq, on the thick sod that was the ulaq roof. She was scraping the last bits of flesh from the inside of a fur seal skin. Samiq and Amgigh nursed beneath her birdskin suk, each baby cradled in a sling that hung from Chagak’s shoulders.
Kayugh’s daughter Red Berry played with colored stones at the grassy edge of the beach. Now and again, the girl called to Chagak, but the waves hissing into the dark gravel of the shore drowned out her tiny voice.
Chagak wished the noise of the sea would also cover Blue Shell’s sobbing, but she could still hear the woman weep.
She thought of Blue Shell’s new baby daughter, and for a moment she stopped her work to fold her arms over Samiq and Amgigh. Two fine, strong boys, she thought. And though Amgigh was Kayugh’s son, not hers, it seemed that Amgigh belonged to her as much as Samiq did. I
t was her milk that gave him life. But why did the spirits bless her and not Blue Shell? Why was one woman chosen to receive sons, another given only daughters?
“A son!” Gray Bird had shouted at Blue Shell when the first pains of Blue Shell’s labor had begun, and Chagak had resented his words. Did any man know the pain a woman endured to give birth? If Gray Bird had suffered in the birthing as Blue Shell had, would he now be so anxious to kill the child?
“I have had enough sorrow,” Chagak said, boldly directing her words toward the sacred mountain Aka. But then she heard voices raised in anger, and Kayugh and Gray Bird came from Big Teeth’s ulaq.
Kayugh scanned the beach, and in long, quick strides he overtook his daughter. He pulled her into his arms and held her against his chest. Red Berry clung to him, her small face white against his parka. Then Kayugh turned to face Gray Bird.
For a moment the two men stood without speaking. Kayugh was two hand-lengths taller than Gray Bird, and the wind ruffling the feathers of his parka made Kayugh look even larger than he was.
His jaw tightened and he said, “Have you forgotten that we are the First Men? Have you forgotten that we have begun a new village? Do you think you can have a village without women?” His voice started out low and soft, but as he spoke, anger began to edge his words.
Chagak did not look at Gray Bird. Instead, she kept her eyes on Kayugh’s face, ready to grab Red Berry from his arms if Gray Bird attacked.
“Who will bear your grandchildren?” Kayugh shouted. “That?” He pointed to a rock. “That?” He pointed to a tangle of crowberry heather growing near the ulas.
Kayugh clasped Red Berry at her waist and held her out toward Gray Bird.
Do not cry, Chagak pleaded silently with the child. Please, do not cry. But Red Berry held herself stiff and still, her eyes shifting between Gray Bird and her father.
“She brings me joy,” Kayugh said. Then in a voice so low that Chagak strained to catch the words, he added, “Her mother was a good wife to me. Her spirit is with this child. I would kill any man who tried to harm my daughter.”
Slowly he set Red Berry down. The child stood for a moment looking at her father. Chagak held out her arms. Red Berry ran to her and climbed into her lap.
Then Gray Bird spoke. “If Blue Shell’s daughter lives, I will have to wait three, perhaps four more years for a son. The seas are rough; the hunts are hard. Perhaps I will die before then.”
Chagak looked at Kayugh. Would Gray Bird’s words soften Kayugh’s resolve? But Kayugh did not speak and Gray Bird continued, his voice like ice in the thin, cold air. “Each man rules his own family.”
Kayugh took one step forward, and Chagak began to slide slowly back, holding Red Berry against her with one arm.
“Chagak!”
Chagak jumped then rose slowly, searching Kayugh’s face.
“Give me my son.”
She did not want to obey. Amgigh was too small to be caught in a fight between two men. She hesitated and Kayugh called again. Chagak pulled the baby from beneath her suk and quickly wrapped him in the furred skin she had been scraping.
She took the child to Kayugh. Red Berry followed her, one hand clinging to the back of Chagak’s suk.
Chagak handed the baby to Kayugh and he held the child toward Gray Bird, opened the fur wrapping so Gray Bird could see the baby’s well-formed legs and arms.
“I claim Blue Shell’s girl child as wife for my son,” Kayugh said, then he turned and held the baby toward the island’s mountain Tugix. “I claim Blue Shell’s daughter for my son.”
Gray Bird spun and strode to his wife’s birth shelter.
Chagak thought that Kayugh would go after him, but he stood where he was, Amgigh now wailing in the chill of the wind. But soon, Gray Bird returned. He held Blue Shell’s baby wrapped in a coarse grass mat. He opened the mat and turned the child so Kayugh could see her tiny body. In the coldness of the wind, the baby’s skin quickly mottled and turned blue.
“Wrap her,” Kayugh said. “She will be wife for Amgigh.”
Gray Bird wrapped the child, moving her too quickly to his shoulder. The small head jerked against his chest.
“If you kill her, you kill my grandsons,” Kayugh said, and he stood with his eyes fixed on Gray Bird until the man returned to the birth shelter. Then Kayugh thrust Amgigh into Chagak’s arms, hoisted Red Berry to his shoulders and walked to the beach.
The summer was nearly over when Blue Shell came to Kayugh. Chagak, now Kayugh’s wife, watched from the corner of the ulaq as the woman lifted her suk and showed Kayugh the daughter suckling at her breast. But Chagak also saw the bruises on Blue Shell’s face, a long cut that ran across her belly.
“She is alive,” Blue Shell said, her voice low. “But Gray Bird has told me I must stop nursing her.”
Kayugh sighed. “Big Teeth says I was wrong. I should not have promised Amgigh, forced Gray Bird.”
Blue Shell shrugged. “I will do my best to keep her alive.” She pulled down her suk, tucked it around the baby. “Gray Bird will not let me name her.”
Chagak drew in her breath. The child would have no protection without a name. She would not even have a soul. She would be nothing.
And Gray Bird’s promise to give the girl as wife for Amgigh, what of that?
Blue Shell turned to leave, but then looked back at Kayugh. “Gray Bird says that he has given his promise, and so he will not kill the child, but he says that you do not have to keep your promise. He says you should find another wife for Amgigh.”
When she left, Kayugh paced the ulaq.
“You cannot change him, husband,” Chagak said. “Gray Bird is Gray Bird.”
“Big Teeth was right. I should have let the girl die. Now I cannot keep my promise. I cannot give my son a wife who has no soul. Who can say what spirits may come to her, to live in the emptiness she will carry?”
For a long time, Chagak said nothing. When Kayugh finally sat down, she went to the food cache and brought him a piece of dried fish. “There is a chance that Gray Bird will decide to give the girl a name,” she said to Kayugh. “Perhaps he will see that a child without a name is a curse to his ulaq, or perhaps he will name her if he thinks he can get a good bride price for her.”
Kayugh smiled, a half-smile that told Chagak of his frustration. “So Gray Bird will let her live. And he knows that each time I see the girl, I will remember that he is keeping his promise and I cannot keep mine.”
SPRING, 7039 B.C.
Chuginadak Inland, Aleutian Chain
1
LIGHT FROM THE SEAL oil lamps caught the shine of the trader’s eyes. Blue Shell’s daughter shuddered.
“A good way to use the night,” her father said, and he reached over to cup his daughter’s left breast. “One seal belly of oil.”
Blue Shell’s daughter held her breath, but she made herself look at the man, made herself meet his eyes. Sometimes that worked. Sometimes they saw the emptiness in her eyes, saw what her father would not tell them: that she had no soul. And a woman without a soul—who could say what she might do? Perhaps pull away bits of a man’s spirit when he was lost in the joy of her thighs.
But this trader’s eyes were dull, greedy for the touch of her. And the girl was afraid he would see only the shine of oil on her arms and legs, the length of her black hair. Nothing more.
“She is beautiful,” Gray Bird said. “See, good dark eyes, good round face. Her cheekbones are tall under her skin. Her hands are small; her feet are small.” He said nothing about her mouth, how words came from it broken and stuttering.
The trader licked his lips. “One seal belly?”
He is young, Blue Shell’s daughter thought. Her father liked to trade with younger men. They thought more of their loins than their bellies.
“What is her name?” the trader asked.
Blue Shell’s daughter caught and held her breath, but her father ignored the question.
“One seal belly,” he said. “Usually I ask t
wo.”
The trader’s eyes narrowed. “She has no name?” he asked and laughed. “One handful of oil for the girl.”
Gray Bird’s smile faded.
The trader laughed again. “Someone told me about your daughter,” he said. “She is worth nothing. She has no soul. How do I know she will not steal mine?”
Gray Bird turned toward the girl. She ducked but was not quick enough to avoid the hard slap of his hand against the side of her face.
“You are worthless,” he said.
Gray Bird smiled at the trader and gestured toward a pile of sealskins. “Sit,” he said, his voice soft, but Blue Shell’s daughter saw the tightness of his lips and knew that he would soon be biting the insides of his cheeks, shredding the soft skin of his mouth. She had seen him spit out clots of blood after a bad trading session.
The girl stepped back against the thick earthen wall of the ulaq and worked her way toward her sleeping place. She waited until the two men were engrossed in their bartering, then she slipped through the woven grass dividing curtains that separated the space where she slept from the ulaq’s large main room. She could still hear her father’s voice, now low and whining, as he offered her mother’s baskets and the skins from the lemmings her brother Qakan had trapped.
She knew Qakan would still be sitting in the corner, that he would still be eating, grease dribbling from his chin to the bulge of his fat belly, his small dark eyes blinking too often, his fingers stuffing his mouth with food. But he would be watching. The one time Qakan seemed to take interest in anything besides food was when their father bargained with traders.
She heard her father’s giggle, almost a woman’s laugh, and knew that he would now work on the trader’s sympathy: Here he was, a man trying to provide for his family. See what had happened to him because of his generosity, because of the softness of his heart.