Secrets
Page 28
“Stop it!” shouted Alaana.
“Just say you’ll come with me,” said Aquppak.
He pulled back his fist, this time slow enough that Alaana had time to react. The situation had changed. Aquppak smiled grimly, no longer the hunter combating his prey; he was now already the victor, tormenting his kill. Alaana grabbed for his arm but Aquppak’s fist surged forward again. This time it came back dripping with Ben’s blood. Aquppak stared at the red smear on his fist for a moment then straightened himself up.
“You’re coming with me,” he said flatly. “If I have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are coming with me.” He grabbed her by the wrist.
Both Maguan and Kigiuna were rushing to the scene, shouting and trailing a score of men, but it was clear neither could reach the conflict in time. It had all happened so fast.
“What’s going on here?” Kigiuna demanded to know.
“I’m taking Alaana for my wife. You know, the old fashioned way. It’s the same way you carried off your own wife, and half the men here.”
It was true. Alaana had heard the story often enough. But usually such things were arranged ahead of time and the woman’s resistance merely for show.
Aquppak turned Alaana by the shoulder and grabbed her hair. She resisted, trying to spin herself out of his grasp. Aquppak snickered, his eyes raking across the crowd of people who had gathered.
“Let them all see a man take his wife,” he said, a smirk on his face. He grabbed a handful of her hair, wrapped it around his fist and pulled.
Alaana yelped. The crowd burst forth in a torrent of startled gasps and murmurs, mixed with an occasional cheer of approval. Aquppak grabbed her by the waist and tried to throw her up on his shoulder.
Ben rose to his feet, though he felt lightheaded, blood dripping from his nose and split lip. He made a move to take the fight to Aquppak again but a hand on his shoulder held him back. It was Kigiuna.
He stepped forward, leveling his blue eyes at Aquppak. “I don’t think my daughter wishes to go with you.”
“You can try and stop me, Kigiuna,” said Aquppak. “But she’s mine.” He turned toward Alaana and said, “I don’t mind if you struggle just a little. You must demonstrate your virtue, after all.” The smugness of his tone stabbed at her heart.
She twisted to the side, drawing the small paring knife she always kept concealed in her boot. She ran the blade hard across the back of Aquppak’s hand.
With a howl of pain and surprise, Aquppak dropped his prospective wife into the snow.
“I belong to no one,” she spat, recovering herself.
Aquppak’s face flushed. Some resistance was expected. A woman might bite an ear or press a finger into an eye, or perhaps scratch the face or bloody her suitor’s nose as her family’s honor demanded.
But a blooded knife was real trouble.
No man would want for a wife someone who might be crazy enough to stab him in the night.
Alaana glared at him. No one was going to take her against her will. That was certain. To her, Aquppak was now revealed as a bully and a wretch.
“Is this the kind of woman we have here now?” asked Aquppak. “She comes at a man with a knife?”
The crowd fell back. The fight over, they sought to ease the embarrassment of their favorite son. From what Aquppak could hear of their mutterings his reputation was still mostly intact.
“She’s not just any woman,” said Kigiuna. “You don’t carry off the shaman.”
CHAPTER 27
PUTUGUK
It was a bright summer day.
The sun rose gloriously, heading straight for the apex of the sky. It might not set again for a full turning of the Moon. Putuguk felt its warmth on his face even as the morning air chilled his weary bones. Dressed in a light summer parka he trudged through the soft trail, marking time as he left the Anatatook settlement behind.
Progress was slow going uphill. His legs carried him reluctantly up the slope, knees screaming their protest at every step. Also he suffered pains in the chest — it seemed he could barely move the air in his lungs sometimes.
I can still walk, he thought. I can still walk away.
It would have been easier with a harpoon stick to lean on but he couldn’t hold anything in palsied fingers. Today, his hands shook uncontrollably. And his legs were not much better. Struggle. Each step was a struggle. But he was used to struggle. All his life.
He was glad no one witnessed this pitiful effort, his shaky crawl up the ridge. The band would be moving away soon. He only needed to get out of sight so that Tiki wouldn’t come after. He couldn’t stand it if he heard her voice calling out to him just now, looking for him; he couldn’t bear that.
His stomach growled its displeasure. There had been no breakfast. Summer caribou meat was so lean and tough, impossible for him to chew. And he dare not awaken Tiki to cut it up and pound it for him. So he walked alone, with empty stomach.
Yipyip trailed at the old man’s heels. Putuguk chased the little black dog away with a feeble kick that was only a whisper movement of leg. Offer of company refused. “Now I go alone.”
Putuguk had no dogs of his own. What kind of a man is that, Aquppak had griped at him often. What kind of life is that? A damn good one, thought Putuguk. A damn good one. And Aquppak would have plenty of dogs of his own in time.
Mounting the crest was hard, painful work. At the summit of the hill Putuguk stared out anxiously at the long flat snow plain below. His breath caught in his throat. He was actually going to go through with it. About to leave life. Abandon the world that was so beautiful.
He pulled a deep breath into his tightening chest. Yes, he was going to do it.
His aching back begged to lie down and legs yearned to fold themselves beneath him. Despite the sun, the cold had already seeped into the folds of his summer parka. The garment was badly worn, so thin and almost without any hairs left. But he hadn’t wanted to take any of the good clothes. Just a little way farther, he told himself, and they would never find him.
A handful of lemmings ran past. They erupted from the snow bank, frightened out of their burrows by his clumsy passage. A pair of the creatures paused for a moment, their pointed noses and tiny charcoal eyes fixed on him. With an indignant flash of whiskers they ran on.
Putuguk overbalanced on the way down the slope and fell into the icy slush. Not yet, he told himself. He had not gone far enough away. But it was so difficult to raise himself up. His back aching. Violent pains in both knees and hips. He pushed at the sun-thawed snow like a baby, his arms useless.
Grunting softly into the morning air, Putuguk raised himself up. He leaned forward, putting all his weight directly above the knees. What he wouldn’t have given at that moment for a sturdy tent pole and a good arm with which to use it. No matter. With the utmost exertion he could make his legs stand up. He knew that. He could still do that.
But he could not go much farther.
An icy wind bit at his face, but it was welcome. It worked behind him, wiping away the tracks of his passage as he walked on.
He imagined his grandchildren coming after him, heard an echo of their laughter, their dull footfalls in the snow. Millik. Inaloo.
“Are you leaving now Papa?” they might ask him. But that was just imagination, no need to answer. Can’t bear to answer. They weren’t really there anyway, he knew. So why answer?
He thought of his father Patagona and his mother Nannua and how much he had loved them. He remembered his two brothers and sisters, also long gone. Having lived so many years he had left so many treasured people behind, including his son and his lovely wife, killed in a landslide. His dead wife and children — the knife never dulls, does it? But now, Putuguk told himself, he would suffer the knife thrust of their loss one more time and once more only.
Looking back, he recalled a long stream of those left behind. While Putuguk thought it was nice to think about them som
etimes he believed one must not spend too much time looking over one’s shoulder. Looking forward there were also a stream of people — the new people. Children and grandchildren and loved ones down the line whose acquaintance he had not even made yet. And never would. But they follow all the same.
Again he thought he heard the voices of his two sweet granddaughters asking, “Are you leaving now, Papa?” Yes, he thought to answer. Yes, I am.
Putuguk felt the soft snow slap his face. He rolled onto his back.
It felt good for legs and back to lie down. It was a relief to know he would never have to get up again.
He remembered. He remembered being a child, a young boy playing in the snow — it might have been this same snow, this same hillock; he didn’t know. He had a particular dog that he loved, a stark white huskie his father had named Arouk, but which he called White Snow. As a boy of six winters he was almost the same size as Arouk as the two of them rolled in the snow. The big dog loved to play and nipped only rarely, just a gentle bite on the bottom. Putuguk felt its cold wet nose against his cheek, its rough tongue lapping his face. His father always took White Snow away on his journeys because he was such a very good lead dog. But the best part of playing with White Snow was that whenever White Snow was there, Putuguk knew his father was home.
Putuguk laughed, thinking of the warm fur, the wet tongue brushing his nose.
He remembered a great feast in mid-winter. It happened only rarely — two bands coming together by chance, their paths crossing on the tundra. And when it did happen there could be one of only two results — bloodshed or a really, really big feast. They came out of the wind and a light snow, these strangers from the north. They had different customs and dress; their bulky furs made them look fierce. Still, Putuguk’s people greeted them cordially. The leader of the strangers complained about the rough weather and the headman of Putuguk’s people insisted that they shake hands. This was a new custom, slowly making its way up from the south and the people took to it with a sort of merriment, making sure to shake everyone’s hand vigorously including all of the giggling children. It was great fun. And all manner of good things were brought out to eat, and Putuguk had his first taste of mattak, which was fermented narwhale skin, and it was good. They were friendly people and for all the differences they even knew some of the same songs. He remembered the children singing together, the same familiar childhood songs.
He caught sight of a girl, glimpsed only once and in passing. She seemed the cutest little thing, and shy and well-mannered. He remembered her smile. He remembered her mouth, the curve of her lips. He made a vow to himself. In a year or two he would go and find her again and make her his own. He would go and find the Anatatook, these strange band of northerly people, and he would live among them.
“Ah,” mumbled Putuguk, “my sweet Halona.”
Halona turned out to be not so shy after all, and skilled in everything a woman was supposed to do. She was so very adept at the dance of the walrus hunt, Putuguk came to believe that no ill omen could befall him out on the ice.
Putuguk hunted the walrus always in a pair with his friend Ulruk. It was Putuguk’s task to approach the beast as it lolled happily on the ice floe. He had no hope of killing it, in fact his clumsy attack was meant only to startle the animal so that it would head for water. Ulruk would be positioned near the water, lying in wait with a white sheet draped over his parka so that he appeared a harmless crest of ice. Ulruk was the faster of the two and was sure to catch the animal before it could submerge. Walrus were clumsy on land and fairly slow.
This one lay asleep, a shapeless brown lump on the ice. Putuguk noticed how its clouded breath rose straight up. A good sign, indicating no wind would betray his scent. He crept closer. He hefted his spear. Should he take the chance? This one time maybe he might claim the kill.
The ice floe cracked. The bull looked up. Putuguk wondered briefly what a walrus might be dreaming of, lolling in the mid-day sun. This one must have been enjoying himself, because he woke up angry.
The beast decided to charge, coming straight at Putuguk with a bellow of rage that shook the ice.
He thrust out his harpoon. The weapon was smacked away by the tusks. And Putuguk knew he was going to die then. The enraged beast lunged forward, an unstoppable juggernaut of blubber and muscle. Putuguk had a good look at its face – he saw every crack and scar. Old and grizzled, this bull had lived a long full life and was not ready to surrender.
Ulruk came running as fast as he could. He launched himself atop the animal. He stabbed his dagger into the soft flesh at back of the head. He was laughing. Putuguk, hearing that sound, suddenly knew he was going to be all right. The animal rolled across Ulruk with a crushing bulk that could kill a man as surely as the rending tusks. Putuguk seized the moment and drove home his spear. He felt no elation in the killing, no surge of victory as the hot blood splashed up his arm. The bull’s head floundered toward him, its years basking in the waters of Nunatsiaq now drawn to a violent end. But it offered no final look of defiance or surrender; its eyes had already gone empty and dead.
He feared now that Ulruk was also dead. But his friend’s eyes rolled open, and he groaned deep. He proclaimed Putuguk an idiot for not sufficiently scaring the beast, and thanked him for saving his life. “But really,” added Ulruk with a smile, “look at those skinny legs and that pitiful face, that pointy nose. He probably thought you were a tern or some other type of long-legged bird! That’s not scary at all. You must try and do better. Make some noise next time.” He laughed again, a sound of pure merriment, the same sound that had saved Putuguk’s life, fortifying him to make the kill.
And later, in the quiet time after they had dined on fresh liver and kidney, Ulruk admitted that he sometimes laughed out of fear.
Putuguk chuckled softly to himself, alone on the ice. His shoulders shook with a deep, wracking shiver. It was cold. But what of it? He would never have to feel the cold again. Just this one last time. He tried to turn over onto his side but his legs, completely numb, could no longer shift the weight of his body. He might as well just go to sleep.
But he didn’t want to sleep. His thoughts were not tired. He still wanted to look at the sky – so blue and white — and taste the air. Now he knew he looked upon this place for the last time. This most beautiful land.
What had he told Kigiuna? Memories become a burden, he had said. Such a thing could not be farther from the truth, he realized now. Memories are a comfort, a great comfort. Well, what do you know, he thought. He was not yet too old to learn something new.
He remembered the arrival of his son, Piuvkaq. He stood outside the birthing tent, listening as Halona’s screams of pain transformed into peals of joy. He felt again the thrill of sweet, nervous anticipation. Piuvkaq had always been such a mellow child. And playful. Or was that Aquppak’s little head peeking out at him from his mother’s amaut? Little Aquppak, a boy who would never allow childhood adversity to keep him or his family down, a young man who could never be kept from greatness, the skilled hunter and benefactor of the less fortunate whom Putuguk believed was destined to one day become the headman of the Anatatook. Would mild-mannered Piuvkaq have attained those heights, if he had lived? It didn’t matter. He loved them both the same.
He noticed Yipyip’s slender, dark outline on the ridge. The little dog was looking out for him, perhaps keeping scavengers away.
A gentle breeze rolled down from the slope, not the savage wind which had cut him so often, slashing his face out on the hunt. Not today. Just a gentle hand blowing some snow over. A soft white blanket that felt almost warm against his cheek and neckline. His hands and arms so numb he couldn’t brush the snowdrift off. No need.
His mother had told him the story. Born on a stormy night. How the winds blew and howled that night, she’d said. The snow came down in sheets, the drift nearly burying them in the iglu. But the snow was shoveled away and life went on. Putuguk had been born on a stormy night, he had lived well and long, and he
would die in the sun.
For some strange reason he suddenly remembered the taste of the giviak from Maguan’s wedding. The tender bird meat, so sour and good. Washing over his tongue, his lips puckering. It made his mouth water just thinking of it. Yes, that giviak had tasted wonderful. Just wonderful.
His empty stomach growled. He tried to satisfy it with another memory. The rich fatty taste of warm marrow freshly stripped from the long bone. So sweet. So satisfying. To his amazement the hunger went away, and he realized he would never have to feel hungry again.
It wasn’t so bad being alone at the end. If he could have someone, just one, to be with him he would have chosen Halona. She was the only girl he had ever desired to marry, the only one clever enough and warm and affectionate enough and the only one beautiful enough. To this day he still held those same sentiments as far as Halona was concerned. But she had gone on ahead and could not be here with him.
Still, he heard her voice, asking, “Are you coming now, Papa?”
“Yes,” he says. “Yes, I am.”
CHAPTER 28
A GOOD WIFE
“Why are you crying, Mama?”
Tikiquatta brushed the tears from her eyes in a ridiculous attempt to hide them from the girls. She exhaled slowly, releasing a conspicuously shaky breath. “It’s all right, Ina,” she said. “I was just thinking of something sad. Eat your soup.”
She honestly didn’t know what she was going to tell them. She hadn’t yet given up hope. But she was nearly there.
Tiki had been searching for Putuguk all day. First she scoured the camp but no one had seen him all morning. It was a special morning, marking the dawn of the longest summer day. A full turning of the Moon before it would grow dark again, a time of excitement and energy. So much work people could do in that long day. So much they could accomplish. The men would hunt until they fell from exhaustion, the children would play as long as they wanted.