Brother Wind (15 page)

Now at last it was spring, and they were at the Whale Hunters’ island. Waxtal scanned the beach, pointed with his paddle toward the rise of ulas at the back of the beach. “See?” he called to Owl and Spotted Egg. “The village.”

He guided his ikyak toward shore, ahead of the ik, to show the traders where to land. He stepped from his ikyak and waited as the traders beached their ik.

“I told you I was here before,” Waxtal called out, but then he saw the frown on Owl’s face, the man’s sudden narrowing of eyes.

“You said it was a strong village,” Owl said to Waxtal.

Waxtal turned, his eyes following the trader’s gaze, and he saw that several of the ulas were without roofs, rafters broken and rotting through the sod. Spotted Egg pointed at the ikyak racks. There were only three ikyan on the beach.

“What has happened here?” Owl asked.

A sudden heaviness in the air seemed to push against Waxtal’s chest. He rubbed his amulet with one hand and squatted down to grope inside his ikyak until he found one of the walrus tusks. The surface of the tusk was cool, and a calm spread from his hand to arm and chest, moving his heart into a steady rhythm.

Then from between the ulas he saw a man. Someone old, he thought at first, because of the slowness of the man’s walking, the hunch of his shoulders, but as the man drew near, Waxtal saw the face, and knew it was Hard Rock.

Waxtal held out his hands. “I am a friend, I have no knife,” he said. “I am Waxtal of the First Men, once from Shuganan’s beach.”

Hard Rock stopped and frowned.

“Remember?” Waxtal said. “We came to your village and helped you fight the Short Ones. Remember, I was the one who saved you. I was the one who thought to put two climbing logs in each ulaq’s roof hole so hunters could go up back to back to fight.”

“Gray Bird?” Hard Rock said.

Waxtal smiled. “Yes, then I was Gray Bird,” he answered. “I have taken the name Waxtal in mourning for my son.”

Hard Rock nodded, then looked past Waxtal at the traders.

“I have brought you traders,” Waxtal said.

“We cannot feed you,” said Hard Rock.

“We came to trade, not to eat,” Owl said.

Hard Rock shrugged. “We will share what we have, trade what we can,” he answered.

“Whales will be coming soon,” said Waxtal, his words a rush.

Hard Rock looked at him, raised his eyebrows. “You think you understand the ways of whales?” he asked.

Waxtal turned away, his face red with the heat of Hard Rock’s words.

“We are cursed,” Hard Rock said. He stepped close to Waxtal, pressed a finger against Waxtal’s chest. “Yes, you Seal Hunters saved us. But then one of you cursed us. See what we have become. If you think you can take what we have—our women, our food—you will find that we still know how to fight.”

Waxtal felt a lump of anger rise into his throat, but looking back at the traders, he said, “Hard Rock, the Whale Hunters and Seal Hunters have always been brothers. Why do you say we cursed you?”

Hard Rock stared into Waxtal’s eyes. “It was our fault as much as yours. That one who cursed us was grandson to the old man who was our chief.”

Many Whales, Waxtal thought. The old chief Many Whales.

“At least he who cursed us, the one who called fire from Aka and then Okmok, he is dead also. Soon he will choose to rise to the Dancing Lights so he can be there with others like himself, and the curse will lift.”

Waxtal’s mind cleared, and he realized that Hard Rock spoke of Samiq.

Samiq! Waxtal thought. So that is why Samiq left the Whale Hunters. And these people think he is dead.

Waxtal opened his mouth to speak, to tell Hard Rock the truth, but then said nothing. Better to wait, to see what Hard Rock would give for such knowledge. A good way to spend the nights, deciding how to punish Samiq for taking Waxtal’s ulaq, his food, his wife. Suddenly laughter bubbled into Waxtal’s mouth so that he had to lower his head and press one hand across his lips.

Owl stepped forward and said to Hard Rock, “We bring no curses, only strength, the power of amulets and shaman blessings, fair trades.”

And Waxtal, head still bowed, followed the traders as Hard Rock led them into the village.

H
ARD ROCK HANDED WAXTAL
the harpoon head. After four days of waiting, four days of politeness; Waxtal had finally been invited into Hard Rock’s ulaq. Waxtal had not minded the wait. He had needed the time to plan, and he had planned well.

Now the trading begins, Waxtal thought as he studied the harpoon head. It was made of whalebone, barbed on both sides, and as long as Waxtal’s outstretched hand. The end was blunt and slotted to hold poison under a small triangular obsidian tip. The harpoon head was old, the bone yellowed, and one of the four barbs, one near the tip, was broken off. The workmanship was good, but Waxtal had seen better. Whose harpoon heads could compare with those made by Amgigh?

He looked into Hard Rock’s face. How many years since the last time Waxtal had seen him? Three, four years? In some ways, Hard Rock had not changed since then. He was a powerful man, short, with thick arms and legs, his wrists nearly as wide as Waxtal’s ankles. His teeth were straight and even. His coarse black hair lay in a fringe over his forehead; at sides and back it hung to his shoulders. His eyes were cold, flat. A man could not look into those eyes and see Hard Rock’s thoughts, but a good trader had many ways of knowing what another man felt. Who could hide anger under a slack jaw? What man could keep desire from showing itself in a twist of lips, the quick blink of an eyelid?

Waxtal closed his fist over the harpoon head. “You have more?” he asked. At other villages, trading with other men, Waxtal would have thrown the harpoon head to the floor in feigned disgust, but there was something about the way that Hard Rock sat, his shoulders drawn in toward each other, his arms crossed, his hands clasping his elbows, that made Waxtal decide to treat Hard Rock’s first offer as something to be considered.

“A few,” Hard Rock said.

“For this and three more like it I will give you a seal belly of oil,” Waxtal said.

Hard Rock straightened. He raised one eyebrow, looked into Waxtal’s eyes.

Waxtal understood. What man, watching, would not think Waxtal offered the oil in pity? Though Hard Rock had told Waxtal and the traders that most of his men were away hunting, anyone could see that there were few hunters. Ulas stood unrepaired, good rafters left to rot. In the four days since he and the traders had come to this island, Waxtal had seen more people crippled in some way—hand, eye, foot, leg—than he had in all the years of his life.

How could anyone doubt that the Whale Hunters were cursed? Waxtal saw these things and felt the beginning of fear. He needed Hard Rock to be strong. But he reminded himself that a man’s strength is more than the favor of spirits. A man’s strength—and his weakness—is what he believes it to be. Waxtal made himself remember Hard Rock’s hatred for Samiq, and smiled. Yes, it would happen as he planned, but until then, he must try to keep Owl and Spotted Egg away from Hard Rock. Waxtal did not want them to fear the curse Samiq had put on the Whale Hunters’ village.

Waxtal was glad that Hard Rock had given Owl and Spotted Egg each a woman for nights spent on the Whale Hunters’ island. Waxtal had held his smile inside his cheek when he saw the wanting in the traders’ eyes, and he told himself, as he often did, that young men should not be traders. They thought too much of quick pleasures and let the pull of their loins block out wisdom. Still, he hoped Owl and Spotted Egg would enjoy their days with the Whale Hunter women. Perhaps they would leave sons to grow into hunters, children who would give strength back to these people who understood the secrets of whales. Even now both traders were with their women rather than seeking out good trades. But though Waxtal would complain to the men later, he was glad. It was better for him to be alone with Hard Rock in this ulaq, alone and trading without interference.

He looked again at Hard Rock’s face, saw the flush of the man’s anger, the tension of jaw and brow. Waxtal reminded himself that Hard Rock was not a foolish man. If Hard Rock took Waxtal’s oil, he was admitting his village’s need. Yet how could Hard Rock refuse? Most Whale Hunter children were as thin as blades of grass, the women worse.

Waxtal leaned forward, lowered his voice. “You think I am a foolish trader,” he said, then allowed himself to smile slowly. “You think I do not know that my oil is worth more than four harpoon heads?” He leaned back, flexed his shoulders. “In other villages, yes,” he said. “But this is the Whale Hunter village. The Whale Hunters must stay close to their island during the trading months. They must be prepared for whales, so they cannot send traders out except to the closest Seal Hunter villages. You do not know what those Seal Hunters do with the harpoon heads they receive from you. You do not know that the River People will give two women for each Whale Hunter harpoon head. The Caribou People, who live almost at the edge of the world, they will give parkas and boots, well sewn and decorated with teeth and colored sinew. All for only one or two Whale Hunter harpoon heads. You do not know this, and the traders will not tell you. Why tell when they can get so much for so little?”

Waxtal watched Hard Rock as he spoke, watched as Hard Rock raised his eyes to stare into Waxtal’s face—as if he could know the truth of Waxtal’s words by seeing them as they came from Waxtal’s mouth.

“If this is true,” Hard Rock finally said, “why do you tell me? Why not take what you can get and leave as other traders do?” He stopped, his words broken by a cough, then asked again, “So why do you tell me?”

“Because we are brothers,” Waxtal said.

Hard Rock narrowed his eyes and leaned toward Waxtal. “You are not my brother.”

“I am a Seal Hunter, of the First Men,” Waxtal said. “You are a Whale Hunter, also of the First Men.” He paused, watched as Hard Rock leaned back, sucked in his cheeks, tilted his head. “The Whale Hunters and the Seal Hunters have always been brothers,” said Waxtal. “Our long-ago grandfathers are the same. They live together now in the Dancing Lights. We marry your women; you marry ours.”

Hard Rock nodded.

“Those men I am with,” Waxtal said, pointing with his chin toward the top of the ulaq, “those men are Caribou People. They do not think as I think. They do not see as I see. We are together only for this trip, then I will go alone or with some First Men trader. How can I let men who are not my brothers cheat someone who is a brother?” Waxtal met Hard Rock’s eyes and did not look away.

Slowly Hard Rock smiled, slowly he said, “Tell me then why those people, those who name themselves Caribou and River, why do they want our harpoon heads? Do they hope to hunt whales?”

Waxtal laughed. “They will never hunt whales. Some live away from the sea, so far away that they cannot even hear its voice. But they visit the sea. They have seen whales. They are skilled hunters, taking caribou and bears, so they have some understanding of the power it takes to hunt on the sea.” Waxtal leaned far forward. “You kill whales. What man has more power than that?”

For a moment, Waxtal looked away, then he held up the broken harpoon head. “This,” Waxtal said, “you think they will use it as a weapon?” He laughed. “No.” He rubbed his fingers over the broken barb. “This harpoon head has been used against a whale. Some hunter will have it as an amulet.” Waxtal smiled and slipped the harpoon head into a pouch at his waist. “Perhaps I will keep it myself.”

“Ho!” Hard Rock said. “Two seal bellies of oil, then!”

And though he had expected the man to make such an offer, Waxtal raised his eyebrows to show surprise. For a moment, he chewed at his bottom lip. He patted the pouch. “For this and three others,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Two seal bellies then, but also a woman for my bed tonight.”

“Done!” said Hard Rock.

Waxtal stood, but Hard Rock reached out, pointed to a food cache dug into the wall of the ulaq. “A good trade should end with eating,” he said.

Waxtal waited while the man sorted through sea lion belly containers. Finally Hard Rock brought out dried fish and whale meat. When he saw the whale meat, Waxtal thought of his son Qakan. Qakan had liked whale meat. How good if Qakan could be here to watch his father trade.

In his mind, Waxtal spoke to Qakan, as though Qakan were beside him in this Whale Hunter ulaq: “The secret to a good trade is knowing what is truly wanted—not the oil, the meat, the weapons. Those are outward things. They are only symbols of what a man really wants. A good trader sees through these things as though he were looking through water. A man like Hard Rock, one who has lost his pride, is the easiest of all men to understand. He wants that pride back, and to get it, he must first have power, then revenge, and in his old age, honor. Remember what I tell you, Qakan. Perhaps someday you will be a trader at the Dancing Lights. Who knows what a trader can get there?”

Then Hard Rock gave Waxtal a piece of dried meat. Waxtal used his sleeve knife to cut off a chunk. Smiling at Hard Rock, he held the meat up as though he passed it to invisible hands.

USING THE CURVED BLADE
of her woman’s knife, Kukutux slit the belly of the cod she had just caught and cut out a portion of the gut to use as bait. She handed a strip to Many Babies and wrapped some around her own hook.

“He was a big man, not like the three traders now in our village,” Many Babies said. “He wanted me and told Hard Rock he would give me anything for sharing his sleeping place.” The woman laughed. “That was how I got this fishhook and also my seal tooth necklace. But I worked hard. He was wanting it all night long.”

Kukutux tried to smile. Many Babies’ stories of the men she had pleasured were like the stories old hunters told of long-ago hunts. The woman meant only to bring back memories of good times, but the stories filled Kukutux with sorrow as she longed for nights with her husband, his arms tight around her, his words of caring whispered into her ears.

Many Babies squinted at the sky, pointed with her chin toward a ruffle of clouds that spread toward them from the west. “Storm,” she said and bent over her hook.