Ivory and Bone

by Julie Eshbaugh

  Just as there are differences in the space, there are also differences in custom. Unlike home, there is no music, no singing. A solitary drum calls people to the evening meal. Even conversation is muted. At home, some people in my clan—especially my mother’s family, who tend to be big in size and big in voice—greet each other at the evening meal with an enthusiasm that suggests they haven’t seen each other in days, when it’s been only since morning, if that long. In contrast, the few bits of conversation I catch among your people are exchanged in hushed, polite voices—a comment on the hearty fragrance of cooking meat coming from the kitchen, a question about how a sprained ankle is healing.

  At least the children are a bit noisy. I overhear a trio of boys chattering about the traps they set this morning. One boy brags that he has already caught a squirrel, and I smile, thinking of me and my brothers at that age. Pek was always the one bragging.

  Once we are all collected under the roof, your brother Chev motions for us to be seated. Pelts have been scattered across the sandy soil, and I find myself sharing one with my mother and Roon. Kesh and my father sit beside us. Your clan is bigger than ours—maybe thirty to thirty-five people, counting babies and small children—where our clan is twenty-four in all. With so many people crowded together, I lose sight of you once we are seated, but I know you are somewhere at the opposite edge of the crowd where I’d noticed you standing with Seeri. Pek is not far from you, seated with strangers he must have befriended while he’s been in your camp.

  When everyone sits, I notice the towering lattice of firewood arranged in a large hearth between the edge of the canopy and the kitchen. At home such a large fire would be considered extravagant, even wasteful, an affront to the Spirits of the trees. But here, wood is much more plentiful, and the tree Spirits more generous.

  Chev signals to the drummer, who resumes the slow, even beat that called us to the meal. From the kitchen, two figures emerge, each wearing a huge mask of carved wood—so huge they cover their bodies from head to waist. I’ve never seen a mask of wood before—Urar makes beautiful masks of bearskin and walrus hide painted with ocher—but these are so different, so fierce and intensely foreign, a shiver runs over my skin. The face depicted on each mask suggests a cat—a square nose dug out of the center, narrow eyes and sharp whiskers carved at opposing angles, slanting away from a wide mouth framed by long, curved teeth. Each of the masked figures carries a burning torch. As they circle the hearth, moving with exaggerated steps in time to the beat, they set their torches to the kindling at the base of the firewood.

  “Spirit of the cat,” the masked figures chant in unison, “climb this smoke to the Land Above the Sky.” They chant in low, furtive whispers, but I recognize the voices of Ela and Yano. “Climb this smoke. . . . Climb this smoke. . . . Climb this smoke. . . .” They circle the hearth once as the flames catch and travel over the branches. The chanting stops, but the drumbeat quickens. They circle faster and faster, their steps becoming leaps, the flames climbing higher, billows of smoke rolling outward and under the roof. I pull in a deep breath of soot and a wave of nausea crashes over me. The beat of the drum grows louder, faster, louder still, my heart races and my head swims, until I slump against the bearskin on the ground. My eyes fall shut, but instead of darkness, the fire’s glow presses against my eyelids, surrounding me in white light.

  Then all at once, the drumming stops. My eyes open. Ela and Yano are gone, leaving only Chev beside the towering fire. I sit up groggily, as if waking from a dream.

  “Friends,” Chev says, raising his hands, “the Divine continues to make this a prosperous clan. We thank our visitors from the north, from the clan of the Manu, especially Kol, who with his skill and strength has slain the man-killing cat.”

  As these words echo in my head, my younger brothers, Kesh and Roon, pat me on the arms and make a scene of congratulating me. “Quit showing off,” I say under my breath. “It’s bad manners.”

  “Kol,” Chev calls. “Come take your place at the head of the line.”

  I search the periphery of the crowd until I find my brother Pek. He looks back for a moment—I know he’s seen me—but then he turns away.

  All his life he’s out-hunted me. Now when it really matters, I’ve come and shown him up.

  As I try to shake off the feeling that I’ve let my brother down, a girl of about twelve comes up to me and takes me by the arm.

  “Kol?” she says. “I’m Lees. Chev is my older brother. They wouldn’t take me along when my siblings visited your clan, but I’m happy to meet you now.”

  Lees looks like a miniature version of Seeri—her face is crowded with wide eyes and a broad smile. She rounds up my family—all except for Pek, who I see across the crowd has joined up with you and Seeri—and steers us into line ahead of everyone else.

  After a short time under Lees’s supervision we each have a mat containing bison meat, roasted water parsnips, and a small portion of the meat from the cat so that we may each take in a bit of its Spirit’s strength. But making our way back to sit, we are stopped frequently by members of your clan who introduce themselves and wish me well. Everyone is friendly and polite, but I can’t shake an eerie sense of disconnection that started when I first saw the masks—a disorienting sense of being outside myself, looking in. It’s as if the Spirit of the cat still claws at me, as it makes its way to the Land Above the Sky. I cough, and the acrid taste of smoke fills my mouth.

  At last, Lees leads us to a place to sit, right beside her brother Chev and her sisters—you and Seeri. Pek is beside Seeri, and although I attempt to take the place on the opposite side of him, Lees takes it herself and I find myself seated between your brother and my father.

  Sitting beside Chev, I notice his demeanor is subtly changed. Maybe it’s because we are in your camp. An aroma of sweetness wafts from his breath, and a skin lies on the ground beside him. Is he already drinking mead? A large knife made of a heavy point hafted to a bone handle rests to the right of the skin. Surveying the group seated around him, Chev lifts the knife and with it skewers a piece of bison and stuffs it into his mouth. He turns toward me and a hazy lack of focus clouds his eyes.

  His cheeks flush red as he smiles at me.

  “Let me introduce you, our visitors from the north, to one of my oldest friends, Morsk.” He stands, and with the knife he points to a man of about his own age seated directly across our small circle from Seeri and Pek. “He is Seeri’s betrothed.”

  My mother’s eyes blink rapidly before her head spins toward Pek, who looks away. My father swallows hard and then coughs into his fist. Like the day we were all introduced in the meadow, a taut silence fills the space between us. And like that day, I am tempted to fill that silence with tradition.

  I could get to my feet and move to Morsk’s side. We exchange nods—the customary formal greeting. I could introduce my parents and my brothers Kesh and Roon. I could break the growing tension.

  But is that best?

  I have spent long stretches of time with my father, learning what the Divine expects of a leader, what qualities she will bless and honor. I know that I need to show patience in the face of anger. I know that harmony needs to come before my own pride.

  Sometimes these qualities are easy to embody. But not today.

  I hope that harmony is not what the Divine requires here, because I cannot bring myself to work for it. Not now. Looking at my parents’ stunned expressions, I see that Chev has used the fact of Seeri’s betrothal as a weapon. He has claimed control over this meeting between our two clans, but my father will not allow him to keep it.

  “We were not aware that Seeri was betrothed,” he says. If he’s trying to conceal his shock at this news and his sense that Pek has been cheated or led on, he doesn’t succeed. It’s quite clear he is offended.

  He turns in his seat and scans Seeri’s face as well, though she has turned her attention to her food and seems to have no intention of ever looking up again. My father lets his eyes rest on her l
ong enough that his glare comes across to all the rest of us as an accusation. “How long has this arrangement been in place?” he asks, his eyes never leaving the top of Seeri’s head.

  “For years,” Chev says, stuffing another large piece of meat into his mouth with his fingers. “As a brother, I want the best sort of husband for my sisters, Seeri included.”

  “And what makes the best sort of husband?” my mother asks.

  They are so bold. They are teetering on the edge of rudeness, but I can’t blame them. Chev has set them up, and they are right to fight back.

  “Well, in this case, I would say the best sort of husband is one who is familiar. Morsk has been my friend my whole life. We learned to fish sitting side by side in the same boat. I can trust him. There’s no dark history between our families that has yet to be resolved.”

  I startle at this mention of history. Could Chev be using Seeri’s betrothal to Morsk to provoke a discussion of the past? I turn my eyes to you, remembering what you said to me about the specter of distrust and resentment that will forever overshadow our two clans. Are you glad the past is being dragged out into the light?

  It’s impossible to tell. Your head is down. At least for now, you do not intend to join the conversation.

  “Plus, Morsk is a skilled craftsman,” says Lees, too innocent, perhaps, to understand the tone of the conversation she’s joining. “He built this roof we’re sitting under. He’s excellent with wood. He can make a canoe out of the trunk of a single tree. He can build anything.”

  “So he can make things out of trees. So what?” says Roon. Pek’s eyes leap to our youngest brother’s face. Though he’s the same age as Lees, Roon is not as naive. He gets the subtext of this discussion, and he intends to jump into the fray. “My brother Pek can hunt down a mammoth, skin it, butcher it, and make a boat from the pelt and bones. Can your friend Morsk do that?”

  Lees doesn’t reply. Instead, she just stares at Roon as if she’s just noticed him for the first time. But if she overlooked him before, she makes up for it now. In all the ways she resembles her sister Seeri, she looks at Roon in the same way Seeri looks at Pek—with a look of sudden recognition. It’s as if she’s always known him and is somehow surprised to find him here—right here, in front of her—right where she left him before time began. “I’m sorry, what was your name?” she asks. A miniature version of Seeri’s smile blooms across her lips, and the trancelike expression I’ve seen on Pek falls over Roon’s young face.

  My eyes sweep from Roon to my mother, who sits beside him. Her lips press into a thin line, and her usually bright eyes are dim with hurt.

  That’s all I can stand. My mother’s pained expression pushes me to speak.

  “These are all strong traits to find in a man—familiarity, friendship, family ties, and as the children pointed out—talents and skills in craftsmanship are valuable, too. We are fortunate to have not just one man, but several like this in our midst.”

  “This is true,” says Chev. “Several men seated here would make very worthy husbands.”

  These words of Chev’s are ambiguous, of course. He could mean Morsk and Pek, or he could mean only men of his own clan. But it is a bit of a concession, and my father seizes it.

  “I agree,” he says.

  “Yes, several indeed,” adds my mother.

  I draw in a deep breath as the tension eases, if only a bit. Voices fall quiet as everyone eats.

  But it doesn’t last long. My second bite of bison is still in my mouth when you speak.

  “What about women?” you ask. No one replies at first, and I wonder if maybe I imagined your voice. But then you continue. “We’ve talked about the traits that make a man a good choice for a mate. But I wonder what might the necessary female traits be?”

  “Well,” I say, without looking up. I shoot a quick glance at my brother Pek, hoping for help, but his eyes are averted.

  Of course they are. Why should he help me? He probably blames me for all this—for coming here and killing the cat before he could.

  Beside me, my father clears his throat. Could he possibly know about the friction between you and me?

  I wedge my hands, palms down, under my legs, digging my fingers into the fur of the bearskin that covers the ground. The fur is coarse on the surface, but underneath, closer to the hide, it’s soft. My mouth has gone dry, but I force myself to swallow before I speak again. “The traits that make a woman a good choice for a mate . . . That list could include many things: even-temperedness. Cooperation. Patience.” I try to look at you—it would be rude to reply to your question while staring at my food—but I can’t force my eyes to meet yours. Instead I study a pendant you wear, a carved white disk of bone or maybe ivory that lies against the base of your throat. It hangs on a simple cord strung with a few bright white beads. “Above all, a lack of a certain kind of arrogance that might cause her to assume that every offered word or gift—whether a simple pouch of honey or the pelt of a cat—is meant as a bribe.”

  I wonder if I’ve gone too far. My gaze finally flits up to meet yours. No discreetly dropped eyes—instead, you are watching me with a piercing stare. You are game for this exchange.

  “That’s truly a shame,” you answer. Your eyes darken, but a fleeting twitch tugs at the corners of your mouth before you purse your lips, banishing any hint of a smile. “If those are the standards by which a woman is to be judged, then I will certainly never find a mate.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. After all, every man is unique. Every man would have his own answer to your question.”

  “I can only hope to find that to be true,” you say. The curl returns to the corners of your mouth—the most cryptic smile I’ve ever seen. Are you mocking me? Baiting me? My eyes drop back down to your necklace, lingering on the curved lines of your throat. My heart jumps around in my chest like a startled bird, its wings hammering against my rib cage.

  Everyone continues eating, and I do the best I can to finish my food. Lees scrambles up from the ground and begins to collect empty mats. Roon and Kesh get to their feet to stretch, and Chev excuses himself to fetch another skin of mead. If his conversation during the meal was a bit inhospitable, he clearly intends to make up for it in the sharing of drink.

  “I’d like to go down to the shore and take a look at the boats,” says Roon.

  My father weighs this request as he climbs to his feet, and I wonder if he thinks acknowledging their craftsmanship might give Morsk too much credit.

  “Take Kesh with you,” he says finally. “Even with that cat dead, we don’t know this land. I don’t want you wandering off alone.”

  As the meal ends and people get to their feet, several of your clan’s elders greet me with the customary nod. They congratulate me and introduce themselves. Though I try to learn their names, my head buzzes like a hive. I return their nods and smile, hoping my distraction doesn’t show.

  Chev comes back from the kitchen, a bulging skin full of mead slung over his shoulder. You stand and announce you will bring cups from the kitchen for us to drink from.

  Watching you stride away, I wonder what side you fall on in the matter of Pek and Seeri. Do you want to see them together and happy, or do you believe Seeri should follow through on her betrothal?

  “I think you’ll be impressed by this mead,” Chev says, interrupting my thoughts of you. Had he seen me watch you walk away? “It’s unlike any I’ve ever had in the north—it will fill you with the warmth of the Divine from the inside out. There is a berry here in the south that grows on a climbing vine—a bright red berry with a strong flavor. It makes all the difference.”

  You return with the cups. Like my mother’s bison skull bowl, these cups are carved from the skulls of some smaller prey—small enough to fit perfectly in the palm of a hand, but large enough to hold a generous portion of drink. Your brother circulates, dispensing the mead, releasing the heady scent of honey. A cup is poured for my mother, my father, Pek, Morsk, and Seeri. Kesh pushes into the circle,
a cup in his extended hand.

  “Wait,” I say, glancing around when I don’t see Roon. “Where’s your little brother?”

  “Calm down. I didn’t leave him alone. He went off with that girl. She followed us down to the beach with a waterskin of mead she snuck from the kitchen. Anyway, they seemed more interested in each other than in the boats, so I came back. They kept talking about going exploring.”

  Sometimes, I am jolted out of a sound sleep by the sensation that I am falling. It always happens the same—one moment I am on solid ground, and the next, everything beneath me disappears.

  This is the feeling I have as I process what Kesh is saying.

  He’s left Roon and Lees alone in the murky twilight of a summer night, when the ghostly pale sky conceals the stars and the unbroken shadows make it impossible to judge direction. Roon—a boy whose favorite activity is to explore the coast alone. Home he would be safe, but here? And what do we know of Lees? By now she could be back in her hut, and Roon could be just realizing he’s lost.

  I glance from face to face. My father, my mother, Chev—everyone is distracted, chatting about the craftsmanship of the cups, the quality of the mead. Only you have a look of alarm on your face that matches the feeling in my gut.

  “Let’s go,” you say.

  You stride off, turning back only briefly to glare at me and Kesh and our empty hands. “Neither of you has a spear?”

  “Who brings a spear to a meal—” Kesh starts.