Brother Wind (51 page)

“Maybe it is not Shuku, just some child who looks like him.”

“Two children who look exactly alike? Not even Shuku and his brother Takha looked that much alike.”

Lemming Tail shrugged. “All First Men children look alike.”

“I will return to the Ugyuun when I leave here,” Raven said his words so quiet that Lemming Tail leaned toward him, tilted her head.

“You said?”

Raven pointed at Shuku. “I said, ‘How much medicine did you give him?’”

Lemming Tail looked at him with raised eyebrows. “What you told me to give him. You were the one who got the medicine from Grandmother and Aunt. Did you tell them it was for a baby?”

Raven closed his eyes, let a long breath out through his nose. “How could I tell them it was for a baby? They would have asked questions.”

“You should have told them Mouse was not sleeping.”

“It was better not to mention babies to them. Who knows what they see in their dreams?”

“If we gave him too much, will it hurt him?” Lemming Tail asked.

“Only make him sleep,” Raven answered, though he did not know. Why give Lemming Tail one more thing to worry about, another reason for anger?

“How long?”

“For tonight,” Raven said. “That is all. Long enough so that the old man will not notice so much difference between the two boys. They should be more alike. The Ugyuun baby was about the same size as Mouse.”

“And you think the old man would not have noticed that the child was cursed by some spirit? Then what would I do? His anger would be at you, but I would be the one to face it.”

“You are good at lies,” Raven said.

“Mouse is big. Each day he grows. He will soon be the same as Shuku.”

“It is not only his size,” Raven said. “Shuku will talk sooner. Shuku already walks.”

“You think all babies do things at the same time?”

“You think the old man …”

The noise of someone at the entrance tunnel made Raven stop. It was one of Dyenen’s wives, his youngest. A new baby in a carrying basket was strapped to her back. “My husband says you are to go now to the traders’ lodge to spend the night. You and the woman. You are to come back here in the morning.” She looked at Lemming Tail, narrowed her eyes.

Lemming Tail raised the carving in her left hand, turned the carving, and lifted her head. She smiled, then looked at Raven, pointed at the woman. “What did she say?”

“That we are to go to another lodge, a place to stay for the night.”

“It is comfortable here,” Lemming Tail said.

“The trade is not yet complete. You cannot stay with Dyenen.”

“The old man will stay here?”

“It is his lodge.”

“It is the best in the village.”

“Yes.”

“Then I will stay here.”

Raven shrugged. “Why should I care? You are the one who will carve for him tonight. You are the one he will ask about the babies.”

Lemming Tail was still for a moment, then she put the carving in her basket, gathered up her tools and a pack. She held the pack out to Dyenen’s wife, then pointed at her two babies.

“I cannot carry it all,” she said.

“She is asking for your help,” Raven said to Dyenen’s wife, and waited as the woman reluctantly took the pack. They followed her to the traders’ lodge. Raven closed his ears to Lemming Tail’s whining complaints about the smallness of the lodge, the smoke of the hearth fire, and the mosquitoes that hummed in the dark corners away from the smoke.

Dyenen waited until he saw Raven and the woman leave. That she was Raven’s wife he had no doubt. There was an easy way between them, questions answered with one or two words, a rise of an eyebrow or a nod of the head. It was not unusual for a man to trade his wife, especially for the powers that Raven assumed he would acquire. But two sons? Two sons who came from the same birth? No.

Dyenen snorted out a quick breath of laughter. Raven was a fool. Anyone could see the babies were not his. Mouse looked much like the wife, but the other looked like neither. The boys were not even brothers, he was sure. They were about six, eight moons apart in age. Dyenen had not been blessed by sons, but he had many daughters. Boy or girl, babies grew in much the same way—sitting, standing, crawling, walking. Mouse—Takha—crawled, and he was a strong boy, one any man would be glad to call son. The sleeping baby, the one called Shuku, he could walk. The feet of his leggings were worn, one foot with a hole at the toe.

The old man laughed again. Still, a good woman—one who carved—and two boy children. It was not a terrible trade, especially considering what he would give Saghani in exchange.

The chants were sacred, but those most sacred he could not give. A man must find those for himself, seeking and praying and fasting.

“Besides,” Dyenen whispered, “things of the soul cannot be traded for packs of dried meat, seal oil, or embroidered parkas. When a man finally comes to that place of respecting the spirits, trade goods hold little importance in his life.”

So he would give Saghani a few chants, a song he had himself bought in trade from another shaman, a little knowledge about animals, and the secret of the voices. Those few things were worth a strong woman, one who carved and who might give him sons.

O
N THE FIRST DAY,
Raven learned chants and songs. On the second, he listened to old men of the village tell him the many things they had learned about animals during their years of hunting. Both days he spent much time listening to Dyenen say few things in many words. But this third day was the day Raven had waited for. This day Dyenen would teach him to call the voices.

Though it was morning, clouds kept the day dark. Inside Dyenen’s lodge, even the hearth fire did not pull the damp chill from the air, but Raven gathered his feather cloak more tightly around his shoulders and did not complain.

Dyenen wore leggings and loincloth, no parka, no robe. His chest and belly were white compared to his dark, weathered face. His only ornament was an amulet made of fishskin and decorated with the black-and-gray feathers of a flicker.

Dyenen gestured for Raven to sit beside him. Raven sat.

“Close your eyes,” Dyenen said.

Raven closed his eyes.

“Be still and listen,” Dyenen said.

In the silence Raven held his breath, waiting, listening. Then the voices came—soft and loud, old and young, male and female. Some spoke in one language, some in another, so that Raven would not have been surprised to open his eyes to a lodge full of people. But when Dyenen told him to look, the lodge was empty, though Raven was sure he could feel the fullness of spirits pressing against him from all sides.

The lodge walls shook, once, twice, then Dyenen turned to Raven and said, “They are gone.”

Raven’s breath came in short, quick gasps, and his arms trembled as much as the lodge walls. A man who had the power to call spirits could own all things on earth.

“Bring them back,” Raven whispered.

The old man laughed.

“You cannot?”

“I can whenever I want,” Dyenen said.

“Is there danger of a curse?”

“Only if you deserve it, Saghani.”

Raven waited for a moment, then said, “I have done nothing that deserves a curse.”

“Saghani,” Dyenen said, “all men deserve a curse. All men have hurt other men. All men have done things in carelessness. All men have acted in selfishness. What man thinks of anyone besides himself when his belly is empty?”

“Why is it so terrible for a man to want a full belly?” Raven asked.

“Saghani,” Dyenen said, “most men have so many bellies to fill.”

Raven sighed. More words. “Will you call the spirits back?” he asked.

“Listen,” Dyenen said. He cupped both hands to his ears and nodded, then Raven, too, heard the voice, a quiet voice, the voice of a child, a voice that spoke in the River language. “I am Shuku.”

Raven’s throat tightened and his bowels began to ache. “Call other voices, different spirits,” he told Dyenen, his words as tight and dry as his throat.

“I am Shuku,” the voice said again. “Why do you say Mouse is my brother?”

“What spirit is that?” Raven asked, taking a long breath, making his words loud as though he were not afraid.

“What voice do you think?” Dyenen asked.

How close was Dyenen to the spirits? Did spirits come and go at his bidding?

Dyenen said, “Here, feel.” He grasped Raven’s hand and set it on his throat, then the old man spoke words of politeness, as though the two had just met. Raven felt the vibration of the words in the man’s throat.

The Shuku voice came again. It called from the smokehole, as though the child knelt at the top of the caribou skin lodge. At first Raven thought only of Shuku’s words, but then he realized that his hand, still at Dyenen’s throat, again felt the vibration of words, that the voice of Shuku was coming from the throat of the old man.

Relief, then anger flooded through him, until a thin bubble of laughter rose up and broke out over all.

“It is a trick,” Raven whispered.

“It is a trick,” Dyenen said. “Trick for trick.”

Raven laughed, laughed so that his belly ached, and his eyes squeezed out tears.

“The medicine bag was the true power,” Dyenen said.

But Raven, wiping his eyes, only said, “Teach me.”

“It will take practice, long days alone.”

“I have already pledged myself to fasting, to vision quests.”

“This is not the same.”

“It is more difficult,” Raven answered.

“No,” said Dyenen. “It is more difficult to fast, to pray. Listen. When a man speaks, he lets his throat open wide so words can come out. To do as I do, you must tighten the throat, pinch it down so the words come out slowly. The mouth is almost closed, and the tongue, draw it back. It does not move, except for the very tip. Here”—he laid one hand around his neck—“it is very tight. The farther away you want the voice to sound, the tighter you must be.”

Again the old man placed Raven’s hand at his throat and spoke in a voice that was thin and far away. “Feel?” he asked. “Now you try.”

Raven moved his hand to his own throat, narrowed his mouth, pulled his tongue back, and let his words come slowly.

Dyenen cocked his head and listened. “No,” he said, “but you are close. If you continue to work, you will be able to make the voices. Today and tomorrow we will practice together.”

“And you will teach me to move the lodge walls?” Raven asked.

Dyenen chortled, flipped up a floor mat where he sat. Raven saw four strings, knotted together, joined like the rays of a spider’s web. Dyenen slipped his hand under the knot and pulled. The lodge walls shook gently. “The strings connect to the lodgepoles here behind me.”

Again Raven laughed. “Another trick. What is greater than the power of that? So a man sees what he does not see and believes what is not true.”

“Sometimes it is necessary,” Dyenen said.

“Some men would not think so,” Raven answered.

“And you?”

“I believe anything that brings me power is necessary,” said Raven.

Herendeen Bay, the Alaska Peninsula

T
HE TRADERS CAME
, from First Men villages and the lodges of the Walrus People, from the shores of the Great River and the inland tribes of the Caribou People. They came, filling the beach with their trade goods, filling the sky with their voices.

First Snow spoke to each group of Walrus People, asked which village they were from, what shaman they called their own. Finally he found men from Raven’s village. There were three men, one woman with them. Chagak remembered them, especially the tall one, Ice Hunter, who had stopped Samiq in his fight against Raven. Seeing Ice Hunter, Chagak’s fears for Blue Shell lifted. He was a good man, fair, even in dealing with traders from other tribes.

She hovered near when First Snow met with the men, she and Three Fish working together, offering bowls of warm broth to the traders as they sat with their trade goods, for the wind blew in from the water, cold and carrying a mist that soaked through all things.

“A handful of shell beads for your food,” one trader called out, and Three Fish dipped a bowl into the cooking skin Chagak carried, handed the trader the broth, and took the beads.

Chagak stood with the cooking skin, as near to First Snow as she could get, listening to whatever words the wind did not catch away.

“A good woman I bought from the Ugyuun,” Chagak heard First Snow say.

Ice Hunter mumbled a question that Chagak could not hear, but she heard a portion of First Snow’s answer—“… you know they cannot feed …”—then nothing more as Three Fish came to dip out another bowl.

“How much?” Ice Hunter asked.

Chagak knew First Snow would not give a quick answer. The trading might take all day, and she could not stand and listen forever. There was too much to do. So when no more traders wanted food, she and Three Fish returned to the ulas, each to her own work, Three Fish to Samiq’s ulaq, where Kiin was watching Takha and Many Whales.

In Kayugh’s ulaq, Chagak took out sinew and needles, but could not seem to make her fingers work. The stitches she made were like the stitches of a child, as bad as what Wren would do, and finally she put away her sewing and went to Big Teeth’s ulaq. Both Crooked Nose and Blue Shell were there, both women working, sewing, talking, laughing, as though the men were only out hunting and not trading away a wife as slave.

Big Teeth came to Kayugh and motioned with his hand for Kayugh to follow him. The two walked away from the village, up from the clatter of trading and into a thicket of trees, where the leaves, moving in the wind, would disguise their voices.

“They will take her?” Kayugh asked.

“Yes,” Big Teeth said. “They did not want to, but once First Snow brought her out, once they saw her …”

Kayugh laid his hand against the man’s shoulder. How many times on hunts had Big Teeth’s quickness and his strength kept Kayugh safe? How many times had Kayugh done the same for Big Teeth? Yet now Kayugh could find no words. How could words explain the bond between hunting partners? Finally, he curled his right hand into a fist, pressed it against his chest, and said to Big Teeth, “Here, like a spear …”