by Sue Harrison
She would stay a few days at her old shelter in the spruce forest, take those things she had left there that might be of use to her, then she would go upriver. If she was lucky, she would find a place before the snow came. Already this year summer and autumn had been unusually warm. That was good for now, but a warm fall often meant more snow in winter, so she must find a secure place to make a camp, perhaps near a lake where she could fish through the ice.
She went to the back of the lodge, the area where Cen kept his supplies. She was careful not to touch his weapons. Why leave him a curse? He had been good to her. She found a double pack sewn to a band that would fit over a dog’s back. It looked sturdy, though she knew Cen would have taken his best packs with him on the hunt.
Red Leaf held the pack up to the light that came in through the smoke hole. The packs were made of caribou hide, soaked and scraped only enough to take off hair and flesh, then bent into shape, allowed to dry stiff and hard. They did not stink with rot or mildew, but one of the lacings was broken. She pulled out her sewing supplies, found a roll of rawhide, cut a length and softened the end in her mouth, twisted it until it was pointed and would fit through awl holes.
Though sewing gave her great pleasure, she did not enjoy repair work, especially on packs, but she told herself there were many things worse than fixing a seam, and began working.
She thought of the parka she had made for Cen. He had taken it with him on the hunt—a sign of respect to the animals. For what caribou would not give itself to a hunter whose wife was as skilled as Red Leaf?
For Sok, she had sewn a sun motif on each parka and many of his boots, but Cen’s name brought to her mind the colors of the tundra, grays and golds, dark shadows that put the grasses in high relief. So she had made the back of Cen’s parka in two pieces, each cut into long sharp fingers like blades of grass. The blades coming from the bottom half of the parka were dark, fashioned from mink skins, nearly black. The top half of the parka was fox fur, reds and golds, and she had trimmed the fur until it was the same length as the mink, those two pieces intersecting, the fingers sewn into one another as though the mink were grass, dark in shadow at the approach of night, standing in contrast to a sunset sky.
When she gave Cen the parka, he had taken her to his bed, caressed her as though she were a young girl, a delight to a man’s eyes. And she had known then that Cen understood something Sok never had—what she could never be with face or body, she was with the skill of her hands.
Again, she knew the burn of tears. Two strong husbands, and now she had lost both. She sighed, set her lips in a hard line and back-stitched the rawhide lacing to hold it in place.
She heard someone scratch at the side of her entrance tunnel. Quickly she set aside the pack she had filled, draped a caribou hide over it, piled fishskin baskets in front of it. The clutter of Cen’s lodge had bothered her when she first came, but now she was grateful.
She pulled aside the inner doorflap, called out a welcome. She expected to see old Brown Foot and his wife. The two, living from the generosity of others, came often to Cen’s lodge, where they knew they could always get a bowl of soup or stew. Red Leaf went to the cooking bag. In her hurry to pack, she had done nothing with the boiling bag but to stir it once, dip herself a bowl of food and keep working. She should have filled her water bladders. Most were empty, but she was afraid to risk going out more than necessary. She had taken advantage of the dim light of sunrise to carry food in from the cache and to feed the dog.
She scraped the bottom of the boiling bag to get several chunks of meat, softened by long days of cooking, but then looked up to see that it was not Brown Foot but Sand Fly who had come.
Red Leaf raised her eyebrows in greeting, said, “Sit down by the fire. It is cold today.” She was about to ask if the old woman wanted food but then saw that Sand Fly was not alone, and the words died in her mouth.
“I have brought a friend,” Sand Fly said, and held one hand out toward the Cousin River woman K’os.
THE NEAR RIVER HUNTING CAMP
If anything, Dii’s pain was worse, especially her back. She had cleaned the blood from her face, but during the night more must have crusted around her nose and mouth.
Anaay took one look at her, refused the bowl of food she held out to him and left the tent, glancing back over his shoulder to say, “Go wash yourself. You will curse us all.”
She pulled her parka hood forward so the ruff hid her face and walked in slow steps to one of the small ponds that dotted the tundra. She broke the ice webbed over the water and crouched to splash her face. As water dripped from her fingers, she saw her reflection in the pond, her nose swollen to twice its size, her eyes ringed with black, a cut on one cheekbone, her bottom lip thick and crusted with blood.
The water felt good, and she drank some, hoping the cold would reach her bones and deaden the pain.
She turned and looked back at the camp. How foolish she had been to stay when she could now be with her own people. Had the Cousin hunters returned to their winter village yet or would they still be downriver, butchering caribou and scraping hides? If she left now, she would reach their camp in only a few days.
She held her breath at the thought of leaving the Near Rivers, of going on her own. But what if the Cousin People had left? And what if Anaay came after her? If he had beaten her for the mention of a dream, what would he do if he caught her after she ran away?
Dii walked back through camp to her tent. Women who came close to greet her looked quickly away when they saw her face and did not stop to talk.
Later that morning, Anaay told the people his dream of caribou singing, how they must travel west toward the sea, how their traveling would not only bring them close to the caribou but also to their winter village. And when the women began taking down their tattered tents, Anaay came over to help Dii, did most of the lifting and hard work, so that Dii, even through split and swollen lips, made herself smile at him.
THE COUSIN RIVER CAMP
Aqamdax hoisted the pack to her back and secured the chest and belly straps—a tumpline around her forehead to help carry the heavy load of meat. Even the men carried large packs, and all but two dogs pulled travois.
She stayed at the back of the group. A woman who had spent the night in the moon blood lodge did not walk close to men, but in traveling the rules were not as strict as in the winter village, so she spoke to other women, laughed at the antics of the boys and helped Bird Caller when one of Sky Watcher’s dogs got tangled in his harness and threatened to overturn his travois.
Even under the weight of the pack, her heart sang. Though she was careful to do all that was proper for Night Man and took care of his dogs, now that they were walking, she could not keep herself from watching Chakliux. Once he stopped and looked back at the women. When he saw her, he let his eyes linger, and she did not look away.
Snow began to fall at midday. There was little wind, and soon the snow had made a white layer over the ground so that all things looked alike. What dogs and children could walk across, men and women could not. They stepped into boggy places where red moss grew, unable to see the color that would warn them of water beneath.
Aqamdax watched carefully, trying to choose the best path, following the footprints that had not filled with water, but finally, she, too, fell through, felt water seep in through the seams of her boots. For a time her feet burned with the cold, then they ached, but finally it seemed as though she walked on stumps of wood, her body ending at her ankles.
Finally Chakliux pointed out a high ridge the men knew from other hunting trips and told the women to make camp. The village was only five, six days’ walk, and if it took a little longer, why worry? They had meat—more than they had hoped. The butchering had gone well, and they had won back some of their women from the Near Rivers.
He smiled at the Near River hunter, First Eagle, and said, “We have a strong man who has joined us to add his skills to ours. Why walk when our feet are wet? There are trees on th
at ridge, willow and birch. We will make fires, dry our feet, eat and rest.”
He lifted his head until he saw Aqamdax, called her name. She lowered her eyes in embarrassment that he should seek her out so openly. Then she saw Night Man’s scowl and held her head high. If this was the time, if Chakliux wanted her to throw Night Man away, then she would not be ashamed.
But Chakliux said, “Aqamdax, perhaps you have stories you could tell us this night.”
It had been a long time since the Cousin women had allowed themselves the pleasure of a storytelling evening. The River People did not gather together to listen to stories as often as the First Men did. Usually the men and boys met in the hunters’ lodge and shared hunting stories, and grandmothers and aunts told girls the stories passed down to teach wisdom and respect.
“There are many stories that need telling,” Aqamdax answered, her words loud, nearly boisterous. “Too many for one storyteller. Perhaps someone else, a Dzuuggi among us, will also have tales to share.”
She knew her words carried a teasing sound, but in the joy of the moment, she did not realize her foolishness until Night Man came to her and, careful to stand an arm’s length away, said, “You do not bleed, do you? You only told me that so you would not have to share my bed.”
“I do not yet know all the customs of your Cousin River People,” Aqamdax said. “I will not share stories if some blood curse will come of it. Ask Chakliux for me. Tell him I bleed.”
“I do not need to ask Chakliux,” Night Man said. “I am your husband and I tell you. You cannot be that close to the men. Stay in the moon blood tent. Listen to Chakliux’s stories from there. Listen and remember that he is the one who killed my brothers. He killed many of the warriors from this village. And though he denies it, I believe he also killed my father. Listen and remember.
“Or you might decide that you are not bleeding, that you can spend the evening telling your stories. They say you are good, though I have heard only those silly things you tell Yaa and Ghaden. Show me how good your stories are, then come to my tent and sleep in my bed.”
In anger Aqamdax answered him, in disrespect she looked into his eyes. “I will stay in the moon blood lodge,” she told him. “I will stay there and listen to Chakliux’s stories, and I will remember that you are a man who killed your own son.”
She turned her back on him and walked away.
Chapter Thirty-five
“I SAW YOU OUTSIDE when Aqamdax left my tent,” Night Man said, his face pushed close to Chakliux’s. “And I have seen you watching her. How strange that you did not notice where she went. She is in moon blood time. Why do you think she walked behind us today and not with the other women? She cannot tell stories tonight.”
Chakliux was surprised at his own disappointment. It had been a long time since he and Aqamdax had shared a storytelling. He knew she had left Night Man’s tent but doubted that she was in moon blood. If that was the way she had chosen to avoid sleeping in her husband’s bed, then he was glad for her choice.
“I have enough stories to fill an evening,” Chakliux answered, refusing to return Night Man’s insults. “Sok and Sky Watcher are good at reliving hunts. Perhaps the people would like to listen to them as well.”
“There are many stories that should be told,” Night Man said. “Perhaps we should remember what happened to our men during the fighting with the Near Rivers.”
“It is best forgotten,” Chakliux told him.
Night Man shrugged and turned his back. As he walked away, he said, “See you do not forget one thing, Otter Foot. Aqamdax is my wife.”
THE FOUR RIVERS VILLAGE
“I think we have met before,” K’os said, and nodded her head in greeting.
“I hate to think I have so poor a memory,” Red Leaf said. “So perhaps we have not.” She murmured several compliments as though soft words about K’os’s face and clothing could blind the woman’s eyes to truth.
“You are Red Leaf from the Near River Village,” K’os said.
Red Leaf ignored her, but inclined her head toward the boiling bag, and when Sand Fly raised her eyebrows in agreement, she gave them bowls of meat and broth. They sat down on padded mats, and Red Leaf scooped out meat for herself. She knew she could not eat, but she wrapped her hands around the bowl and the warmth calmed her.
“As a girl, I lived in the Near River Village,” Red Leaf said. “Perhaps you remember me from that time. I have a cousin there. Some say we look alike. My name is Gheli. My husband was a trader.” She turned and looked at her baby in the cradleboard. “He filled my belly with a daughter, then did not want her. With winter approaching, the child and I were starving, so I set a small camp near this village, hoping I could find someone who needed a wife. Cen took me and my daughter as well.”
“You are fortunate,” K’os said. She raised the bowl to her mouth and looked at Red Leaf over the rim as she ate. When she finished, she wiped the corners of her lips with her fingertips. “This other woman, Red Leaf, I cannot truly remember the story, but there was some reason she and her husband left the village.”
“K’os was a slave at the Near River Village,” Sand Fly said.
Red Leaf had heard that K’os was among the women who went to the Near River Village, but she opened her mouth as though in surprise, then asked, “Then someone here in this village bought you from them?”
K’os’s smile turned cold. “I escaped. I am here as you were, looking for a husband. If there is no man in need of a wife, then I will ask the elders to allow me to live here with some family until I have enough caribou hides to make my own lodge.”
“You hunt?” Red Leaf asked.
K’os laughed. “I am a healer. There is always some need for a healer in a village as large as this one.”
“Perhaps Cen could use a second wife,” Sand Fly said.
“I am sure, if I was your sister-wife,” K’os said slowly, her eyes on Red Leaf’s face, “that I would never again mistake you for the woman Red Leaf.”
“It would be good to have a sister-wife,” Red Leaf said softly. “It is lonely in this lodge when my husband is away.”
Sand Fly chortled, showing a gap between her front teeth. “But stay with us until Cen returns,” she said to K’os, laying a veined hand on K’os’s wrist.
Red Leaf noticed that K’os flinched under Sand Fly’s fingers, but who would not? The old woman was too forward in her touching, in her meddling.
“Yes. It is a decision that Cen must make,” Red Leaf told K’os.
“Men are like that,” Sand Fly said. “They do not like women to tell them what to do.”
K’os’s eyes glittered, dark as obsidian. “Until then, Gheli, I call you sister in my heart, and I will carry the hope that Cen chooses to take a second wife.”
THE COUSIN RIVER PEOPLE
Chakliux began the stories with that tale, nearly as old as the earth, of the raven and the porcupine. He told of the race between them, and how the porcupine, though much slower, used his wisdom to win. Then he changed his stories to those of lynx and wolf, bear and fox, but though his words seemed to catch the interest of the boys, the men began to talk among themselves, and Chakliux felt as if the stories went from his mouth and fell to the earth so quickly that they did not even reach the ears of those nearest him.
Finally he spoke to the men, using a loud voice of celebration, and asked if anyone wanted to tell a hunting story. They were in a camp, without their best clothing and sacred objects, so the stories could not be acted out in the parts of bear and hunter, caribou and wolf. But still, there were new tales to be made from the joy of this year’s hunt, and there were always old stories worth repeating.
None of the men stood, and Chakliux called out to Sok, reminded him of the bear hunt they had made with their grandfather, but Sok shook his head slowly, and Chakliux suddenly knew that that story was one Sok could never tell again, not when it was Red Leaf who had taken their grandfather’s life.
“Sky Watcher, y
ou have stories. What about that dead caribou that nearly floated you with it downriver?”
That brought smiles, and Sky Watcher told the story, laughing as he spoke. Hunters had drowned in such a way, but how better to rise above fear than with laughter? The story made the people forget their tiredness, and Chakliux could feel their excitement pushing against him.
That lift of joy was one of the things he loved most about storytelling. He began a tale of his own, something passed down from their grandfathers’ grandfathers about those warriors who came from the north and tried to destroy the River People. Joining together from their small camps and villages along the rivers, The People had defeated those ancient enemies, but again, it seemed as though Chakliux’s words did not reach the Cousin People’s ears. He wondered if the recent fighting was still too close in their minds. How could they celebrate past victories when they still mourned a defeat?
He wished Aqamdax was able to tell her stories. With the voices she could draw from her throat—a different sound for each person or animal that spoke—she would be able to hold the attention of the hunters as well as the youngest child.
Finally he decided to tell the people that the storytelling would continue when they celebrated their hunt with a feast at the winter village.
But as the last words of his story came from his mouth, Take More spoke out, his voice belligerent. “We have a Near River hunter here among us,” he said, and he turned toward First Eagle. “Perhaps he has stories to tell. How many of our young men did you kill? Perhaps my sister’s son.”
Then the women began to murmur, but Night Man stood up, looked down at Take More. “You forget who started the fighting,” he said. “If we condemn the Near Rivers, then we must also condemn ourselves.”
For all the resentment Chakliux held against the man, he could now feel only gratitude, but then Night Man held a hand out toward Chakliux. “A riddle, Otter Foot,” he said.
Even though the night had settled around them, even though the fire cast as much shadow as light, Chakliux could see the malice in Night Man’s eyes, and so he answered, “We have far to walk tomorrow, and heavy loads. It is time for stories to end and riddles to wait.”