Brother Wind (4 page)

Kiin went to the food cache and, reaching in over Lemming Tail’s arms, pulled out a seal stomach container of oil.

“You do not ask, you take?” Lemming Tail said, sitting back on her heels to stare at Kiin. When Kiin did not answer, Lemming Tail stood, glanced over at Shuku, and asked, “Where is Takha?”

“At the Dancing Lights with his grandfathers,” Kiin said. “Given to the wind.” She pulled out the ivory plug that blocked the end of the seal stomach, dipped her middle finger into the oil, then smoothed it over Shuku’s legs and buttocks.

Lemming Tail walked over to stand beside Kiin. She watched for a moment, then reached for the oil. “It is mine,” she said and grabbed the container, lifting it so that the soft sides of the seal stomach squeezed in against the oil. Oil squirted out the top opening and onto the bedding furs.

Kiin dipped her hands into the spilled oil and continued to clean Shuku. Lemming Tail carried the container over to the storage cache and squatted there with it between her legs.

Kiin wrapped Shuku in clean strips of sealskin, then she spoke to him, waiting for his eyes to catch her eyes, but he turned away from her to stare at his hands. “He misses his brother,” Kiin’s spirit whispered, and Kiin, pain again rising in her chest, closed her eyes and pushed away her spirit’s words.

Kiin lifted Shuku into his cradle and tried not to remember when Takha’s cradle hung beside Shuku’s, when Takha’s body was a warm bundle stretching the soft sealskin sling of his cradle as Shuku’s did now. Kiin gave the cradle a push so it swung gently from the lodge-poles. She walked back to her pack and picked up her walking stick. She ran her hands down the water-worn smoothness of the wood, then held the stick so Lemming Tail could see its pointed end.

“This is more than a walking stick, Lemming Tail,” she said.

Lemming Tail dipped one finger into the oil container and looked up at Kiin. She smirked and said, “You are telling me it is something sacred, an amulet or a spirit caller?” She licked the oil from her finger.

“No,” said Kiin, “it is a spear. For months before the Raven found me, I lived alone. But I did not go hungry. I was all things on that beach where I lived. I was hunter and I was trader. I was mother and I was grandmother. I was carver and I was shaman. I was chief of my own village.” Kiin braced her legs, standing with feet far apart. She lifted the spear and pointed it at the top of Lemming Tail’s nose, in the narrow place between Lemming Tail’s eyes.

“Do not ever take anything away from me again,” Kiin said.

Lemming Tail’s mouth opened, but she said nothing. Slowly, she pushed the ivory plug back into the seal stomach container. She kept her eyes on Kiin and wiped her fingers over the black tattoo lines on her lower legs. “The oil is yours, my sister,” said Lemming Tail in a small voice.

“Good,” Kiin said, then added, “I give half to you. Perhaps you should use it to fill our lamp. It smokes.”

Kiin spent the rest of that day repairing her suk and unpacking bundles that Ice Hunter had left in the Raven’s lodge. At first Lemming Tail hovered over Kiin as she untied each bundle, but finally the woman sighed and said, “He cares for no one but himself. He promised me necklaces and furs, but see, there is only food, oil, and carvings.”

Kiin did not answer, but worked until everything was put away, then, seeing that Shuku still slept, she picked up a small bladder of oil she had saved from one of the trade packs and said to Lemming Tail, “I go to see the Grandmother and the Aunt. I will be back soon. Watch Shuku.”

Kiin took the long way, walking behind lodges and up around the village refuse pile, so she would not have to talk to other women. Let their questions wait for another day when Kiin’s tears were not so close to her eyes.

She used a branch to scratch at the woven grass door flap of the old women’s lodge.

“You did as we told you,” called out Woman of the Sky, her voice high and thin.

A chill raised bumps on Kiin’s arms and scalp. How did Woman of the Sky know it was her? Kiin crawled into the lodge and stood. She straightened her suk then walked between stacks of death mats to squat before the old women.

Woman of the Sky’s hands stopped their work on the death mat she and her sister were weaving, but Woman of the Sun still wove, and as she wove, she swayed, eyes closed, so that Kiin was not sure she was listening.

“Yes,” Kiin answered. “I gave my son Takha to the wind spirits.”

Woman of the Sky leaned forward, pressed her fingers to Kiin’s lips. “Do not say his name,” she said. “It may bring him here, back to us.”

Kiin stood up. Perhaps she had been foolish to visit the old women so soon after returning to the village. Already she could feel her spirit’s frantic need to leave their lodge. What good would it do to stay here and listen to the old women and their talk of curses?

“Your brother is dead?” Woman of the Sky asked.

“Yes, the Raven killed Qakan and I buried him.”

“Tugidaq,” the old woman said, using Kiin’s spirit name, “why do you say his name? Why take chances with the spirits? He has cursed you enough. What brother should use a sister like a wife? What brother forces a sister to do what only a wife should do?

“But now that your son is with the wind spirits, we are safe; this village is safe. You are a strong woman, Tugidaq.”

Kiin looked long into Woman of the Sky’s face. “Yes, Grandmother, I am strong,” she said. She handed the woman the oil bladder. “My husband brings you oil from the Traders’ Beach,” Kiin said.

Woman of the Sky took the bladder and smiled. “Ice Hunter brought us oil, too,” she said and set the bladder down beside her. She began weaving again, and Kiin looked over at Woman of the Sun. Woman of the Sun’s eyes opened. She smiled at Kiin but said nothing. Kiin sat down beside the old women and for a time watched as their hands, small like children’s hands, wove split grass into the death mat. They did not speak, nor did Kiin, and finally the silence seemed to fasten itself to the ache in Kiin’s chest, enlarging the pain of her loss.

“I am leaving now,” Kiin finally said and stood. Woman of the Sky continued to weave, but Woman of the Sun followed Kiin through the entrance tunnel. As they stood outside, the wind from the bay blowing cold, the old woman reached out, clasped Kiin’s arm, looked deep into Kiin’s eyes.

“Sometimes my dreams are a curse,” Woman of the Sun said. “Sometimes I wish I did not know those secrets the spirits choose to tell me.” She sighed, looked out toward the bay. Finally she said, “What you have done, you have done. My sister does not know and I will not tell her, even if Raven blames us for Takha’s death. I know what it is to have a son. I hold no anger toward you.”

Kiin’s hands clasped over her suk, but her suk was empty, no baby suckling her breasts.

“He is not the one,” Woman of the Sun said, and gestured toward Kiin’s suk as though Shuku were tucked inside. “He holds no curse. It is the other, Takha, but perhaps he is far enough away for us to be safe.”

For a moment, Kiin saw Takha, cradled in Three Fish’s arms, and Kiin’s need for him was like a point of ice piercing through skin and muscle to lodge itself at the center of her heart.

“You are wrong, Aunt,” Kiin said. “I gave him to the wind spirits. He is dead.” And Kiin turned away, walked back to the Raven’s lodge.

L
EMMING TAIL SQUATTED AND DUG
her fingers into the bowl of meat. She looked up at Raven and spoke through the food in her mouth. “It is good, husband. Did you bring me gifts?”

Raven frowned. “The meat is not gift enough?” he asked, but as Lemming Tail pinched her mouth into a frown, Raven squatted beside one of his trade packs and loosened the strings. He pulled out a necklace, something strung with beads of birdbone and shells. He tossed the necklace to Lemming Tail, then reached again into his pack for a second necklace.

“For you,” he said to Kiin and carried it to her, dropping it over her head. It glistened against the bare skin of her chest, drooping into a long loop between her breasts.

Kiin lifted the necklace and studied the beads. Each was a circle cut from whale jawbone. Each circle was drilled with a hole and etched with fine lines. It was beautiful, almost as beautiful as the shell bead necklace Samiq had made her, but the Raven’s necklace felt cold and heavy against her skin.

“Thank you,” she said.

“I see you no longer have your other necklaces,” he said.

“I gave them as gifts.”

The Raven’s eyes hardened. “You should have kept the carving,” he said.

No, Kiin thought, though she did not answer him. I am glad I gave it to Three Fish. It will give her power to be a good mother to Takha.

“That carving could bring us enough meat for the whole winter,” the Raven said.

Kiin lowered her head, and the Raven turned away. She went to the sealskin boiling bag that hung above the oil lamp and dipped out a bowlful of meat. She handed the bowl to the Raven, then filled one for herself and went back to squat beside her sleeping platform. Lemming Tail slid over to sit beside Kiin. She studied her own necklace, then looked over at Kiin’s, and her bottom lip thrust out into a pout.

Kiin did not look at the woman, but suddenly the Raven was standing beside them, a sealskin sewing case in his hands. He gave the case to Lemming Tail and said to her, “Another gift. Keep it or trade it. Perhaps Shale Thrower has a necklace she will give you for it.”

Lemming Tail smiled and, looking at Kiin from the sides of her eyes, slid her tongue over her teeth.

“We brought back other trade goods,” the Raven said to Lemming Tail. “If you go now, you will be first to see what other wives have. You will get the best trades.”

Lemming Tail scooped the rest of her food into her mouth and scurried into the basket corner. She set the sewing case in the bottom of a large basket, then covered it with several fox pelts and a grass mat. She pulled on her parka and, with another smile at Kiin, left the lodge.

The Raven finished eating, then held his bowl out toward Kiin. He looked at her through slitted eyes, and Kiin’s heart hammered in her chest. She knew he wanted something more than food, but she took his bowl, started toward the boiling bag.

The Raven caught the back panel of Kiin’s woven grass apron. “Not yet,” he said and pulled her toward him.

Kiin set the bowls on the floor and waited as the Raven stood and stretched his arms over his head. He pulled off his parka and caribou skin leggings, then moved to stand in front of Kiin. He untied the band that held his apron, letting it fall to the floor.

Kiin looked back over her shoulder toward Shuku’s cradle. But her spirit whispered: “Do not look to your son to help you. You must be his strength. When you left the Traders’ Beach, you knew you would have to be wife to the Raven. If you resist him now, what chance will Shuku have? The Raven might decide to treat him as slave instead of son.”

The Raven reached over, untied Kiin’s apron, let it fall. For a moment Kiin lowered her head, bit the insides of her cheeks, then she made herself look up into the Raven’s face. The centers of his eyes opened, and in the blackness, Kiin saw a reflection of herself, the sharp, clear image of her face, the wide forehead, the small full mouth, but in the hollows above her cheekbones where her eyes should be, she saw only darkness, darker even than the black of the Raven’s eyes. “See,” her spirit told her, “you are the strong one.”

She followed the Raven to his sleeping platform, to the jumbled mound of furs and woven bedding mats. And as though no time had passed, she saw the Raven and Yellow-hair, remembered the afternoons she had found them together in this bed, even after the Raven had given the woman to Qakan as wife. With the vision of Yellow-hair came the echo of laughter, but death had taken Yellow-hair’s voice, and so it was Lemming Tail’s laugh that Kiin remembered, and then the image of the Raven and Lemming Tail during the nights they rolled themselves together in the furs and bed mats.

Kiin sat down on the platform, moved back to make room for the Raven. He reached out, lightly traced the rise of her nipples. He cupped a breast in his hand. Kiin looked down at his fingers, and suddenly did not see the Raven’s hand, but that of her father. She remembered the times her father had sold her to a trader for the night, how she would fight with nails and teeth against the traders touch. Even as the Raven moved over her, Kiin’s muscles seemed suddenly sore with remembered injuries. But she lay down, opened her arms and legs for the Raven’s embrace. He was heavy against her chest, and she shifted slightly under him so his weight did not rest on the tender fullness of her breasts.

The Raven raised up, pushed himself inside her, began the rhythm of man with woman. Kiin closed her eyes, pulled her thoughts away from him and back to the one night she had spent with Samiq.

Almost, she could believe she was with Samiq, and for a brief moment her mind filled with the contentment of Samiq holding her, the joy of their union. The Raven thrust himself against her and moaned, and Kiin’s need for Samiq was suddenly like some sickness inside her, spreading pain from stomach to heart to throat.

“Each time it will be easier,” Kiin’s spirit said, singing the words like a mother comforting her child. “Each time you will feel less pain.”

Herendeen Bay, the Alaska Peninsula

S
AMIQ SAT ALONE
beside his ikyak. The long arms of land around the bay sheltered the Traders’ Beach from the north wind, but the sky was heavy with dark clouds. Samiq wore two parkas, one over the other for warmth.

He unwrapped the sealskin strips from his right hand. During the moon since Amgigh’s death, the wound had healed well. His mother Chagak’s tiny stitches had pulled the skin tightly together so the scar was only a thin pink line on his dark wrist. But the wound had been more than the slicing of skin and muscle. Somehow the knife had cut through into the hand’s spirit, and destroyed its strength. Samiq could tighten his hand into a fist, but could not stretch it out, straight and flat.

He pried back his fingers and fitted them over his long flat throwing stick. His smallest finger curled up over the edge of the stick as it should, but his first finger, the one that must lie flat against the bottom of the stick and point back over Samiq’s shoulder when he cocked his arm to thrust the spear, that finger would not stay straight. The curl of the finger tilted the throwing stick, and each time Samiq threw his spear, the spear made a short arc into the ground. If he tried to adjust his aim, the spear flew high like a boy’s bird dart, then came down straight from the sky.