by Ken Altabef
“I knew it!” said Itoriksak.
“The sight of her … inflames my senses.” Iggy rolled his eyes comically, but his voice held a note of frustration.
“Hah boy!” said Itoriksak. He slapped the haunch of meat playfully.
“Go to her, then,” advised Alaana plainly, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “Tell her.”
“I try. She turns her ears away.”
“Maybe more than words are needed,” suggested Itoriksak, who had been married for three years already. “Show her what you want. Grab her and put her on your sled. That’s what I’d do.”
“I couldn’t,” whined Iggy. For all his great size, everyone knew him to be painfully shy.
“Maybe that’s for the best,” said Itoriksak. “That girl is bad luck.”
Tikiquatta’s past history was well known to them all. She had been married twice already. Both times the husband had died before the marriage was even a single year old, leaving her with two young daughters, one by each man. No one else dared approach her, despite a shortage of available women. Some years ago, around the time Alaana and Iggy had been born, the Anatatook had suffered a deep hunger period and many mothers could not keep their girl children. Consequently, few of the young men had brides promised to them.
“She’s good to look at, but dangerous,” continued Itoriksak. “I think it’s because of her hair.” Tikiquatta was unique among the Anatatook women because of her long, flowing hair which had a light color like fine beach sand. “Fair hair and smooth white skin, it’s all a trap meant to lure men to their deaths. She’s cursed.”
“I don’t believe that,” said Iggy. “There’s nothing wrong with Tikiquatta.”
“I agree,” said Alaana. “Why don’t you visit her house? Talk to her father Putuguk.”
“I do,” said Iggy. “We talk often. About hunting, the dogs, the weather.”
“But do you talk about the girl?” asked Itoriksak.
Iggy’s eyes bulged. “I can’t!”
“You’re hopeless,” said Alaana. “Does she say anything when you visit?”
“Of course she doesn’t say anything,” answered Itoriksak for Iggy. “She’s not going to say anything there inside the iglu. But women talk with their eyes. What do her eyes say, Iggy?”
Iggy shrugged. The sight of those massive shoulders shrugging was pitiful indeed. He sat down beside Alaana and the snow pack thudded as if a mountain had been brought low.
“Well, how does she treat your clothes when you go over there?” asked Itoriksak. “When you take off your outer coat? That could mean something.”
“She handles them gently,” returned Iggy.
“She likes you, then,” concluded Alaana hopefully.
Iggy half-shrugged again. “I don’t know. I left her a gift at the start of winter, a pair of ivory combs for her hair.”
Alaana remembered the combs. Her father had carved them from scraps of antler during the long chill of the previous year.
Itoriksak leaned forward, very interested. “That should do it!”
“Does she ever wear them?” asked Alaana.
“No,” admitted Iggy.
“Not ever? Well at least they weren’t rejected.”
“Maybe Aquppak threw them out of the house,” suggested Itoriksak. “You know him. He hates any kind of charity.”
“He didn’t used to hate it,” said Iggy. “I remember him going around from tent to tent in the mornings begging for a spare fish for Putuguk.”
“No, you’re wrong,” said Alaana. “He always hated it.”
“Is he against you courting his sister?” asked Itoriksak.
“I don’t know,” said Iggy. “I can’t speak to him about it. Every time I try, ugh, the words don’t come out.”
“It’s Putuguk you have to deal with,” said Itoriksak. “He’s the father, not Aquppak.”
“It’s Tiki that matters. Can’t you sway her heart, Alaana?” asked Iggy.
“I can talk to her,” she said. “That’s all.”
“I think Aquppak would be glad to marry her off,” suggested Itoriksak.
Alaana shook her head. “Maybe not. Who would sew for him and Putuguk?”
“She can sew for them forever,” said Iggy. “I don’t care. I’ll wear rags.”
“Boy, he is far gone,” laughed Itoriksak. He had finished chopping the meat, and scooped it into a large sealskin bag. “And what about you, Alaana?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you,” replied Itoriksak. He smiled wanly. “It’s been a few sleeps since you brought that man here. And both of you sleeping in the same room…”
“With the old lady sleeping between them, I’ll bet,” laughed Iggy.
“Ben has his own place, I have mine,” said Alaana.
“Well, he doesn’t talk to any of us,” said Itoriksak. “But I suppose he has eyes for you? What does he say?”
“He doesn’t say much of anything. He doesn’t talk much. Not to me. He talks to Higilak mostly. I don’t think he’s interested in getting a wife.”
“Oh,” said Iggy, although he had never heard of any such thing.
Itoriksak snickered. “He looks like he’d bite you if you got too close.”
“He did,” said Alaana.
Itoriksak’s eyes went wide. “He bit you? What were you doing?”
“I wasn’t doing anything. I was reaching for the tea pot in the dark.”
Now it was their turn to laugh and leave Alaana squirming uncomfortably.
“Biting can be a very good sign,” said Itoriksak. “That’s what father told me and he was right. Agruta sank her teeth into me more than once when we were courting, and it all turned out well.”
“It’s not like that,” insisted Alaana. “We’re not courting. I just startled him, that’s all. He doesn’t sleep very well. It was dark.”
“I always thought you would marry Mikisork,” said Iggy.
Alaana frowned. She had thought the very same thing. Miki had been promised to her since before any of them could remember. They all played together as children. It was always Alaana and Iggy and Miki. And Aquppak. Alaana had often held Miki’s hand, back in the carefree days of childhood when the simple gesture had little meaning outside of a warm friendship. But then, Alaana’s new role as shaman had frightened the superstitious Mikisork, ruining any chance for them to marry. They had spoken little since.
“I heard Miki’s father arranged to get him a wife from the Chukchee,” said Itoriksak.
Iggy ignored him. “Maybe you still have a chance, Alaana.”
“Listen to you,” chided Itoriksak. “Iggy, you gossip like a romantic old fishwife.” He squinted at Iggy. “A gigantic, hideously ugly fishwife…”
“Miki’s not for me,” said Alaana flatly. “That’s already settled.”
In a haughty voice, Aquppak related the events of the hunt. He framed an imaginary musk ox between cupped hands as he spoke. “It was a difficult shot,” he said, “Shoom! Right into the kill point behind the shoulder. A risky shot at best, but there’s a trick to it. You have to get the rhythm just right. When the ox runs, its shoulder bobs up and down and the kill point dips below the bone. You have to time it just right.”
Putuguk listened intently. Aquppak spoke as if he’d just discovered the technique, and Putuguk listened as if he hadn’t been familiar with that principle since he’d been a young man himself. He admired the handsome lines of his grandson’s face, his strong sharp chin, the unruly locks of thick black hair that strayed in front of his face.
“I used to hit that spot,” he said softly.
“When was that?” asked Aquppak. He was irritated at having his story interrupted. “Before I was born?”
“Yes,” said Putuguk.
“That’s too far back for anyone to remember,” said Aquppak. “Or prove true.”
“Don’t talk like that,” said Tikiquatta. “I believe him.” She smiled at her father as she ladled some warm broth into a wo
oden bowl set before him on the table. The table, a narrow flat of driftwood set across two high stones in the center of their tent, rocked dangerously as her two young daughters leaned on the far side.
“Careful, girls,” said Tiki. “You’ll spill the soup.”
“It doesn’t matter who believes what,” said Putuguk. “Like the boy says, it was too long ago. I’m glad that we have Aquppak now. I’m proud of you, son, as your father would be if he were still with us. He was quick with the bow as well. You have your father’s eye.”
“I have my own eye,” said Aquppak. He thought very little of his father, a man who had died shortly after he was born. Aquppak’s disdain stemmed from the stupidity of his father pitching his tent in the wrong place and getting caught in a snowslide which had killed both of his parents.
Putuguk raised his bowl to sip at the oily brown broth. He enjoyed musk ox soup greatly since it had such a strong, salty flavor. His sense of taste seemed to be slowly growing dimmer and dimmer as he became older and older. Since he had too few teeth left with which to chew, there were no chunks of meat floating in his bowl.
“It’s not just the eye, grandfather,” Aquppak added. “I spend a lot of time practicing. I deserve to be the best.”
“I suppose it’s a lot easier to be the best now, with Kanak gone,” said Tikiquatta. Both her daughters were sharing soup from the same bowl and she cautioned them not to argue over the tasty morsels of meat.
Aquppak smarted at the comment. “You’re a bit too free with your words, aren’t you? You don’t know anything about it. You don’t know anything about the hunt or the hunters.”
“Kanak was a good man,” said Putuguk softly. He didn’t want them to argue over it. He wanted to suggest that they eat quietly and enjoy the meal. He wanted to watch his two young granddaughters sip their soup as they giggled and made faces at him. He delighted in almost everything they did, their animated expressions, their cute little voices.
“He was a good hunter,” continued Aquppak, “but he always cut in front of the others. No wonder he got more than his share of kills. I stand out in the open. I don’t get in anybody’s way.”
“And I’m proud of you, my son,” said Putuguk.
Aquppak didn’t reply. He raised his bowl disinterestedly and drained it to the bottom.
One of the children asked for more soup.
“Eat your fill, girls,” said Aquppak. “You don’t have to want for anything. You won’t have to do the things that I had to do. You won’t ever have to beg.”
Putuguk felt his cheeks flush a little at this slight from his grandson. Or perhaps it was just the warm soup filling him up. It didn’t matter. He loved each of his grandchildren more than he could say, and he was particularly glad now that Aquppak had come into his own with the other men. Perhaps the boy was justified in complaining about the miserable childhood he’d suffered, perhaps not. Putuguk didn’t feel like arguing about it.
And Aquppak did treat Tikiquatta’s children very well. He showered them with attention and small gifts, and refused to see them dressed in rags or not fed enough. Tiki’s girls were always dressed in bright new furs, although their mother still went about in worn old things. Aquppak had often remarked that there was no use wasting good clothes on a woman no man would want to marry. Tiki, whose duty it was to sew all the clothes, did not object. She only wanted the best for her children.
“You’ll never go hungry,” Aquppak assured the girls, “Not while I’m the man of the house.”
“You go too far,” said Tikiquatta. Now her cheeks flushed crimson against her pale skin. “My father Putuguk is the head of this house, and he should have more respect.”
“It’s all right, Tiki,” said Putuguk.
“Respect?” said Aquppak. “He can’t hunt. He can barely walk.”
Tiki, who had been cutting up the meat for Putuguk to eat, paused. The knife was still held tightly in her hand. “It’s not his fault. Time has stolen so much. He’s done a lot for this family, and don’t you dare forget it.”
It seemed for a moment that Aquppak might slam his bowl down on the table, but at the last instant he slowed his hand and placed the empty vessel gently down. He smiled at the girls, then turned toward Tiki and said, “He never did anything for me. Just embarrassed me, that’s all. That’s all.”
“I won’t have you saying such cruel things—”
“Shut your mouth, woman,” said Aquppak. He kept his voice even, but his gaze bored hotly into her.
In contrast, Tiki’s tone reached a shrill pitch. “Don’t speak to me that way. I’m not your wife, I’m your aunt! Don’t forget that.”
“I don’t forget anything,” growled Aquppak. “But you do. This is the way you talk to me? If it weren’t for me you wouldn’t have skins on your back. Or food on the table. Are you going to depend on him? He can’t even chew the meat unless you cut it up for him. He can’t even cut it up for himself. He used to be a great hunter?” Aquppak shrugged. “Used to be.”
“Aquppak is right,” said Putuguk. “I’m not the man I used to be. Aquppak is right. What would we do without him?”
She could do very well without him, Tiki thought. If only she could get married. She wondered at her father’s forbearance, recalling all the tragedy the old man had faced. His physical limitations, the loss his wife so many years ago, the deaths of his son and daughter-in-marriage to the landslide. And yet he showed nothing but kindness toward Aquppak and everyone else. His eyes were clouded to so many things now, but surely he could see Aquppak’s arrogance and cruelty. He seemed to have eyes only for the children.
Millik and Inaloo finished their soup and found their way onto Putuguk’s lap. The old man had just enough strength in his arms to give them both a little squeeze.
Wind rattled the tent flaps. Putuguk shivered, suffering a stabbing pain in his hip and shoulder joints. After the warmth of a well-packed iglu, life in the tents made early spring feel even more chill than winter.
“Tiki,” he said, “would you widen the flame in the lamp? I still feel winter in my bones. Thanks to Aquppak, we have plenty of oil.”
“Don’t use too much,” said Aquppak.
Tiki shot Aquppak a withering glance. “It’s not his fault,” she said, but all the fire had gone out of her voice now. There was little else for her to say. She resumed cutting the meat into small pieces for Putuguk.
“That reminds me,” said Aquppak, looking at the cut-up meat, “I have to go feed the dogs.”
CHAPTER 11
OF SKINS AND SECRETS
The corpse’s frozen eyes were flat and hard as stones. They stared acidly back at Alaana from a face withered beyond expression, half sunken into the skull itself. Brittle, grayed skin flaked away at her touch. She would have thought the starving animals of the taiga would have stripped away every bit of flesh by now, but even the carrion-eaters knew to avoid the shriveled husk with its taint of corruption.
Alaana looked away.
When she had last visited this camp, during the somber depths of midwinter, the woods had loomed dark and foreboding. Now the sun was high in the sky, painting the conifers in vivid browns and greens, revealing them as sparse growth rather than gloomy forest. Layers of ice encrusting the rocky cave had been peeled back, giving way to beds of lichen in startling sea-green and yellow. A hopeful slush carpeted the ground, and the melting snow left the air thick with a chill vapor that spoke of the renewal of spring.
Alaana couldn’t help but think fleetingly of Ben. Although she had known him only a short time, the image of his face was never far from her thoughts. That particular combination of strong nose and full lips, his rounded chin, his quiet soulful voice and unassuming gaze, made her feel a whirlwind of possibilities and hopes. There was a fierce glow in those eyes, and in their light she saw a promise of joy and happiness.
She heard a special quality in Ben’s voice on those rare occasions when he did speak to her in the darkness, or more often, when talking to the
old woman with words that she understood were meant for her to hear. And then there was the music. Ben carried with him a musical instrument, a hollow tube of walrus tusk. He blew into the flute to make music. Alaana had never heard a melodic instrument before, had never heard notes before. The Anatatook had the drum, which sounded a single note only, and the rattle. But Ben’s instrument had a voice.
He didn’t know many songs, he’d explained. He had been only a child when he left Louisiana, and his songs were mostly ones he made up himself. And this made his music beautiful in a whole new way. In the music Ben shared a lust for life and an appreciation for beauty that Alaana knew well. He made songs for all the beautiful things that she knew, even the bergs and the river. And his song for the river didn’t sound much different than the actual voice of the river itself. Ben found music in all things, just as Alaana saw their souls..
There was music in his voice too, she thought, and then laughed at herself. She was certainly foolish when it came to thoughts of Ben. It was clear he wanted nothing to do with her, and she knew precisely why. She was the shaman, a dabbler in spirits who walked with ghosts. She’d learned this lesson the hard way, from the heartbreaking look in Miki’s eyes those few years ago. Nobody wanted her for a wife. She was the shaman.
On that thought, she returned to the grisly task at hand, digging among the corpses of her foes. Their dried flesh had long since merged with the bones, but the dead men’s furs still lay where they had fallen, untouched. The animals wanted nothing to do with them either. Alaana gathered up the lice-infested skins of timber wolves, tanned for use as garments.
She felt as if she had delayed her return to this place for too long. It had taken a full moon to nurse Maguan back to health. His headaches had finally subsided and he was now able to stand and walk, well on his way to becoming his old cheerful self again.
In the distance, Alaana heard the lonely whine of a wolf.
The horror of what she had seen at this place haunted both her dreams and also her waking mind. Men, donning the skins of wolves to become twisted abominations of nature, taking the shape of the wolf, exaggerated in bulk and ferocity, but retaining the cunning of man. Transformed in that way, these men had raided her settlement, preyed upon her people, murdering innocents in their beds, and feasted on the flesh of children. She had no pity for them but she could not leave this task unfinished.