Call Down the Stars

by Sue Harrison

  He had stone and wood for another hook, but what good were they if his line was too short to be of use?

  Suddenly he was angry. No, he wouldn’t cut the line! If the fish would not offer itself as meat, then it should leave them alone, let them catch another who was willing to be eaten. Surely it had recognized his song, knew they were Boat People and that Water Gourd would drop its bones into the sea so the fish could live again.

  It pulled the line under the boat and came up beyond the outrigger, then dove again, carried the line down so far that Water Gourd had to extend his hands into the waves. The fish turned and rose so quickly, releasing the tension on the line, that Water Gourd fell backwards into the boat. The fish jumped and Water Gourd saw it, blunt-nosed, green and black against the misted sky, the mottled skin as shiny as wet rock. It was a fish he did not know, one he had never seen before, nearly as large as a man. Then, as the fish slipped into the water, twisting, the line suddenly went slack.

  Water Gourd cried out at the loss, but quickly wound the remaining line back onto the hand grip.

  “Fish?” Daughter asked.

  “He was too big,” Water Gourd told her.

  “Fish,” Daughter said again and began to cry. “Fish, fish, fish.”

  “Be quiet,” he said.

  He looked up into the gray sky, and wondered whether he were already dead. Was death this: riding forever in a boat that went nowhere? Without food, without water, and all the while watching a child die? Had he been a terrible person to deserve such a death? Had he not respected the small gods and the large ones, the spirits that lived in the grass and earth and sea?

  He remembered times when he had been selfish, had taken more than his share of food or attention. How often had he demanded that his wives do something more than necessary? He remembered waking them in the night to satisfy his needs, for food, for sex, when they had already been up many times with babies. He remembered complaining about food prepared and clothing made.

  But wasn’t that what women were for? And didn’t men work as hard, risking their lives to feed those women and their children? How could a few minutes in the middle of the night even begin to compare?

  And what about Daughter? What had she done that was so terrible to deserve a death of parched mouth and empty belly, of bleeding sores and cracked lips?

  But finally he decided that they were not dead. How could they be? In death a man would see spirits. He would see others who had died before him. Where were Knot Maker and Long Head? Surely they would be here in their own boats, for they, too, had been lost on the sea.

  He was alive, and so was Daughter. The fish had taken one hook. Well, then, he would make another.

  A quiet voice spoke from within his head. “You need bait,” it said, no more than that. No other wisdom.

  Water Gourd had scoured the boat well enough to know there was nothing edible lurking among the shells and ballast stones, but he searched again. There was nothing, not the smallest, hardest bit of fish bone, not even a smear of sea urchin eggs.

  Water Gourd looked at his feet. Surely a man would not miss a little toe. And the pain of cutting it off would be quick. He took a long breath, released it. He had bait.

  Before night fell and clouds darkened the moon so that Water Gourd could not see his own hands, he had finished another hook. He picked up his knife, settled one bare foot hard against the wood of the boat, and prepared to cut.

  But that voice came again, louder this time, and said, “The girl’s toe would be better. It is smaller and so will not hurt as much when it is cut off. Besides, any fish would come more readily to the soft flesh of a baby than to the hard, callused toe of an old man.”

  Water Gourd considered the advice, and thought that it was probably right, but either way, with his toe or Daughter’s, he decided it was better to wait until morning. He did not want to fish at night when he could not see what had taken his line, and a fresh toe was more likely to attract fish than one that had sat with its blood hardening all night.

  Morning then, Water Gourd told himself. Perhaps his mind would be clearer after sleep, though each day without food seemed to muddle his thoughts a little more.

  “I will sleep first,” he told the voice in his head. “Decisions always come more easily after sleep.”

  In the morning, Water Gourd studied Daughter’s little pink feet. Her skin was shriveled by the salt water that always seemed to lie in the bottom of the boat no matter how much he bailed. The toe was so small he knew it would come off quickly. His own feet were hard and bunyoned, crusted with calluses. A toe, even his smallest, would not yield easily to a blade.

  He stuck his little finger in his mouth and bit. The pain was not terrible. He bit harder, until he tasted the salt of his own blood. Still, not terrible. Certainly he could bear the pain of losing a toe. But what if the wound drew spirits of illness? Everyone knew that each opening into the body could allow evil spirits to enter. The nostrils, the ears, the mouth, the anus, the hole in the end of a man’s penis, even the tiny needle dots that let tears come from the corners of the eyes. And, of course, all cuts. How many times in his long life had he seen a person grow sick, burn with fever, and die, simply from a tiny cut in foot or hand?

  What protection did he have in this boat against such spirits? He could not burn sacred grass. He could not have the herb doctor mix medicine for him, or the spirit-chanter sing. And if he died, so would Daughter. Without him, there was no chance for her survival.

  On the other hand, if he took Daughter’s small toe, he himself might be able to offer chants for protection, and if Daughter died, he would still live. With her gone, life for him would be easier. She wouldn’t take a share of the water he melted from rime ice, and he would have her body for bait.

  He tied the new hook tightly to the line, then gathered her left foot into his hand. She curled her toes and turned to look up at him, smiled, and reached to lay one hand against the side of his face.

  It will be quick, Water Gourd reassured himself. He took his knife from its scabbard. Daughter sighed and snuggled back against his chest. He leaned down, set the foot in place against the bottom of the boat, and chopped, hard.

  The stone blade caught for a moment on the bone, and the pain screamed in Water Gourd’s head. He cried out, could barely make himself finish the cut. Daughter looked at him, her eyes round in horror. She began to weep, and Water Gourd reached into the growing puddle of blood, found the toe, old and bent and hard, then pressed a pad of rags against his wound.

  “It ached every time it rained anyway,” he said. Then he rocked a little, turning his mind from the pain. He looked down at Daughter’s two small perfect feet and was glad.

  Two days passed. Water Gourd did not catch a fish with the first toe or the second, though they bit at his line, nibbled until the toes were nothing but bone. Finally, as he prepared to cut away another toe, Daughter held her little foot up to his face. She was very weak, and he knew that he would lose her soon. A baby could not live so many days without food. His own mind was nearly gone, lost in foolish dreams. The second toe had cost him too much blood, and the water he made from rime ice was not enough to soothe the raging thirst that came with the blood loss.

  “My,” she said to him in a soft, tired voice and lay her hands over his knife, shook her head. “Not your. My.”

  He had heard old women whisper that babies carried wisdom from the spirit world. Perhaps Daughter knew better than he did. Perhaps his old flesh could not catch a fish.

  “It will hurt, Daughter,” he told her.

  “My,” she said again.

  “Sleep first,” he said, thinking that it would be easier for him to cut if she were asleep, and perhaps her pain would be blunted.

  He tried to sing, but his parched throat broke around the song, scattering the words into shards of nonsense. But finally as the sea swells rocked the boat, she slept, and then with tears nearly blocking his sight, Water Gourd raised his knife and took off Daughter
’s smallest toe.

  At the pain, her eyes flew open. He looked into their brown depths and saw only understanding. She cried when he pinched the wound to stop the flow of blood, but she clung hard to him, and when he tied the toe on the stone barb of his hook, she raised her tiny chin and said, “My.”

  A fish bit nearly as soon as he lowered the bait into the sea, and Water Gourd jerked the hook, felt it lodge solidly into flesh. He played it for a time, allowed the fish to exhaust itself against the line, then he pulled it to the edge of the boat. The fish flipped once and was still. It was a hake, black and silver, as long and big around as his forearm. Water Gourd lowered a shaking hand into the water, the breath tight in his chest until he was able to hook his fingers into the gills.

  “Now,” he whispered, and tried to heave the fish into the boat. But it was heavy and beyond his strength.

  “My,” Daughter said in a quiet voice, looking over the edge of the boat at the fish. She patted her little foot, bound in bloody rags.

  Water Gourd drew in another breath, pulled again, and this time was able to lift the hake, though not high enough to bring it over the edge. Then Daughter’s small hands were at the bend of his elbow, her fingers splayed out over the sleeve of his coat.

  “Now!” he said again. They pulled, and the fish fell into the boat at their feet.

  “Yours,” Water Gourd told her, and in the foolishness of his old age, he began to weep.

  CHAPTER SIX

  WATER GOURD USED THE hake’s innards to catch more fish, and after a few days of eating, he and Daughter both regained their strength. The currents still moved them north, and each night the water at the bottom of their boat turned into slush.

  Water Gourd began to wonder if perhaps the sea was carrying them to that land where it was always winter. He had heard stories about such a place. Traders claimed it lay north of the Bear-god islands, but others said it did not exist. How could anything live where it was always winter?

  The icy chill of the air seemed to live in fog, and Water Gourd could seldom see much beyond the bow of the boat. The fog not only battened his eyes, but also seemed to press against his ears, and sometimes he thought he could not bear another moment without sun and sky and sound. But one night the fog lifted, the clouds parted, and Water Gourd was able to see the stars. They looked nearly the same as they had from his village, and that comforted him, but there was some difference in their placement—more than just the turning that comes with the seasons.

  They had several days where the sun shone, and he began to hope that the sea had not carried them to the far shores of the winter land, and that summer had actually come. Though Water Gourd and Daughter had to huddle together for warmth during the nights, the sun, even on overcast days, warmed their bones back to living, and the morning frosts were so thin that he could scarcely add to their supply of water.

  He watched for land, and the watching made his head ache, his eyes burn. The pain of his toes had nearly gone, and Daughter’s small wound had healed well, but Water Gourd’s eyes grew steadily worse. He carved a chunk of wood from the inside of the boat, whittled himself a pair of slitted goggles to combat the glare of sun on water, and often, if he was not fishing, he sat with his eyes closed, droning out stories that for a few moments carried him and Daughter back to their own village.

  Daughter, too, was changing. Her delicate baby skin turned dark, and her legs grew thin. Her straight black hair, though tangled and knotted by the wind, now hung nearly to her shoulders. She had learned more words, and sometime during their days together, she had begun to call him Grandfather. He liked the sound of that in her mouth, her little girl voice crowing out when she saw something of interest, or slurring into baby words when she was tired and needed to sleep.

  Though he longed for his village, for old friends and even the sweet-water spring, he could no longer imagine himself without Daughter: her face tipped up to his, her lisping words and bubbling laughter filling his days.

  Sometimes in dreams he saw himself cut and mutilated beyond recognition as he pared himself away into bait. Toes, fingers, nose, and tongue, long slices of flesh all gone, eaten by fish too greedy and selfish to be caught.

  Then he would wake, in gratitude stretch his fingers before him, bent and gnarled, but whole, his feet missing just the smallest toes, his nose and tongue still a part of him, and his body scarred only from the mishaps of a long life. And Daughter, too, was whole, save for that one small toe.

  The morning they woke to see their boat flanked on all sides by sea otters, Water Gourd began to hope that they were near land. They had only three gourds of water left. How many days could they survive once that was gone?

  The otters spread away from their boat in the fog like a brown sea, some jumping and playing, others lying on their backs, babies nursing. One otter, gray of face, swam very near their boat, a rock balanced on its chest, a mussel clamped tightly in its webbed fingers. The otter smacked the mussel against the rock until the shell cracked, then picked out the flesh, ate it in noisy slurps.

  Daughter held one hand out to the otter, said, “My.”

  The animal flipped and slid quickly under the surface, and several otters nearest him did the same. Daughter looked up at Water Gourd, and he laid a finger against his lips to shush her.

  Carefully, slowly, he began moving toward the remaining Bear-god spear that lay in the bottom of the boat. If he could affix his hand line to the spear, perhaps he could use it as a harpoon and kill an otter. He and Daughter were no longer starving, but an otter would have a lot of meat, not to speak of blood they could drink. And then there was the fur. Surely he could scrape a pelt clean enough to use for a blanket at night. There would be sinew also, to make fish line, and bones and teeth to carve into hooks.

  Finally he managed to draw both hand line and spear to his lap, and again, motioning for Daughter to be quiet, knotted the line around the butt end of the spear shaft. It was a thrusting spear and not balanced to throw, but Water Gourd had cast enough spears during his life to compensate for the clumsiness, and if he missed, he would draw the spear back to himself with the line.

  The gray-faced otter again surfaced beside their boat, another mussel clutched in his paws. Daughter was on her knees at the side of the boat, looking over the edge.

  “My,” she whispered and reached toward the mussel.

  Like a child, the otter turned away, hugging the mussel to his side. Moving slowly, Water Gourd set a hand on Daughter’s shoulder, tried to pull her back to sit in the center of the boat, but she jerked away and would not look at him. He saw that she had a section of fish in her hand, and she held it out, offering the fish to the otter. The otter lifted his head, and suddenly Water Gourd was afraid the animal would bite her. Water Gourd lunged forward, but before he could reach her, the otter had taken the piece of fish, and somehow Daughter had the mussel, dark and wet, clutched in her hand.

  “My!” she cried, as the otter dove beneath the surface and swam away. She held the mussel up so Water Gourd could see it.

  He closed his eyes in relief. “Yours,” he conceded.

  As the day waned, Water Gourd watched the otters, waited in hopes that one would again come close enough for him to spear. As he watched, he found himself wondering whether he could use an otter’s shoulder blade as a paddle. The remaining Bear-god spear could be the shaft. Though it was too short and thin for heavy seas, perhaps it would allow him to follow the otters back to land.

  Several times since he and Daughter had begun their strange journey, he had tried to carve a slice of wood from the inside of the boat and make a paddle blade, but the cedar had grown soft and punky in the salt water, and no piece came away large enough.

  Then he had another thought. Perhaps if he harpooned an otter, a strong animal that wouldn’t die from one wound, it would flee toward the safety of land. And as it swam, still tied to them with Water Gourd’s line, its fear would give it the strength to tow their boat.

  Wate
r Gourd watched and waited until the sun, a circle of yellow above the haze, had begun to set. No otters came near, and he had decided to put away his harpoon, pray that the animals would still be with them in the morning. But then a large otter swam close. It was strong and healthy-looking, nearly as long as a man is tall. The animal slipped down into the sea, and Water Gourd watched, leaning over the edge of the boat, finally losing the otter in the depths. But then, suddenly, it emerged, fur streaming, on the other side of the outrigger. It flipped to its back and swam slowly toward the bow.

  Water Gourd bound the harpoon line to his wrist and hefted the spear, ground his teeth at the poor balance of the thing. He needed a stone counterweight for the spearhead. But why wish for what he did not have? He rubbed the hunting amulet he had worn at his neck since he was a boy.

  As he was ready to throw, Daughter lay a hand on his leg, looked up at him. He thought he saw fear in her eyes, but what did a little girl know about hunting? He shook his head at her, upset that she had broken his concentration. No animal would give itself to a man who did not have respect enough to keep his thoughts on the hunt.

  In his mind, he began a chant, a slow rhythm to help still his heart as he waited for the moment of throwing. He shut out Daughter and the boat, all things but harpoon and otter.

  He threw.

  The spear hit and the otter dove.

  The line grew taut, and Water Gourd gripped his right wrist with his left hand, braced his feet, and felt the boat begin to move. The other otters began to dive until the sea was empty.

  Daughter stabbed a finger into the air. “My! My! My!” she shouted and pursed her lips into a pout.

  Water Gourd found the hand grip from his fishing line and managed to twist the line around it once, relieving some of the pressure from his wrist.

  “A foolish thing to do, tying the line to your wrist,” the pestering voice in his head told him. “You should have tied it to the outrigger poles. Now you will lose both spear and fishing line, and maybe your hand. Then what will you do?”