Brother Wind (62 page)

“Baby blankets,” Grandmother had said. And her small brown face had crinkled into a smile.

Ice Hunter was the first to beach his ik, dragging it up over the ridges of ice that ringed the shore. He was greeted by the chief of the Seal Hunter village, Samiq, and an older man who stood beside him. Other men were also on the beach, their women with them, children playing nearby. It was good to see a village that was growing, a village where people laughed and smiled and were fat from full food caches.

For a long time, Ice Hunter spoke to Samiq. Then Samiq called to the people on the beach, and Ice Hunter gestured for the Walrus men to land their ikyan. The women, too, came in their iks, and Samiq spoke to all, Ice Hunter repeating his words in the Walrus tongue.

Samiq’s welcome found its way into Kukutux’s heart so that it lifted the tiredness from her arms, the burn of sun on water from her eyes. This village would be their own, a place to grow strong children.

Kukutux recognized Three Fish standing among the Seal Hunter women, a baby strapped to her back—Three Fish, that one Kukutux had thought long dead, alive here with the Seal Hunters, a wife, a mother.

Then Ice Hunter was directing the women to unpack their iks, and women, children, and men were given places in the First Men ulas until new ulas could be built.

“And if we build in the manner of the Walrus lodges?” Ice Hunter’s oldest son asked.

“Each man should do what is best for himself and his family,” Samiq replied. Then smiles came, and laughter.

It is good, Kukutux thought. It is good, and she did not let herself think about Waxtal, about a husband who might come and take her away from the Seal Hunter village.

For nearly a month, Waxtal had listened to the words of the carved tusk, listened as a boy listens to his father. The tusk knew the waters here. Why not? Waxtal asked himself. It had once lived in that sea, had been part of an animal that swam in that water. The tusk directed Waxtal to caves and hot springs, to open waters where he could catch fish.

On this night of full moon, they came to a long spit of gravel that extended into the sea, something Waxtal did not recognize, though he knew he had been in this place before. He remembered it without a beach, only the mountains rising straight from the water, cliffs full of birds. But the spit extended out like a giant oar from the land, snow on the blade of that oar, with enough space for a man to stand and walk, enough space for several ulas.

“Here, Waxtal, a place for a man to pray,” the tusk said. “A place for vision fasts, a place for the spirits to show you how to kill a man who needs killing.”

So Waxtal paddled his ikyak onto the spit, dragged it up into the snow, and cleared a place to sit. Then he wrapped himself in warm fur seal pelts, sat down, and began to pray.

His first prayers were curses on Samiq and the First Men, on his dead wife Blue Shell and on Kiin. As he prayed, he rejoiced in his own power, the strength that had brought walrus to the Whale Hunters, the vision that had drawn those people with him to the Traders’ Beach. And finally, within his rejoicing, he slept.

That same night Samiq held Kiin close to him. Though he mourned Small Knife, his joy in Kiin lifted a portion of his sorrow, let him see each new day with hope.

“They are good people, those who have come to us,” Kiin whispered.

Samiq pressed his face into her hair.

“I will give you another son,” Kiin said. “We can give him the name of your Whale Hunter son now in the Dancing Lights. We can draw the strength of that good name back to us. And you can give me a daughter, someone who will have the name used by my mother.”

Samiq could find no words to hold the joy of that hope, and so he tightened his arms around Kiin’s strong body, let his hands speak for him.

Waxtal awoke from his sleep cold, and looking down saw that he sat in water. Night had brought high tide, a full moon drawing the sea. As his eyes followed the path made by the moon’s light, Waxtal saw his ikyak on the waves, moving away from him.

He called out to the ikyak, to that brother he had made with his own hands, called out to the tusk that bore the marks of his own knife, but they went on without him. Then, coming from the ikyak, he heard the voice of the carved tusk. It laughed. It laughed.

Waxtal called until the water reached his shoulders,’ then across the waves there came a bird, a raven, its voice harsh and loud, and as though the cold of the water gave Waxtal sudden understanding, he knew the bird’s call was a rejoicing. Joy over food that would soon be his—the body of a man, fresh liver, soft eyes.

Waxtal swung his arms at the bird, but the raven only flew circles, waiting. Curses came into Waxtal’s mouth, and he spat them out, dark as blood. He cursed all things: people and animals, water and sky, mountains and grass. Finally, the sea numbed him and he could no longer speak.

The curses settled themselves in his throat, and they were so thick, there was no room for breath.

Aunt came to Kukutux in the night, crawled into the sleeping place that Kukutux shared with the Seal Hunter woman Red Berry. Aunt shook her awake and pulled her into the main room of the ulaq, over to the lamp where several wicks still burned. The old woman said, “Your husband, he is dead.”

For a moment Kukutux said nothing, thought nothing. The old woman repeated the words, and finally Kukutux understood.

“Waxtal,” Aunt said, “the sea has claimed him.”

“I have no tears for him,” said Kukutux.

“There are men here who would take you as wife—White Fox or the First Men hunter First Snow.”

“I have a moon of mourning,” Kukutux answered.

The old woman shrugged. “A moon passes quickly.”

“Yes.” For a time Kukutux said nothing else, but Aunt waited as if she knew Kukutux had questions to ask.

“This is called the Traders’ Beach,” Kukutux finally said.

“Yes.”

“Do all traders come here?”

“Most.”

“They come only in spring, only in summer?”

“No, Ice Hunter says they sometimes come before winter, when men are filling caches. It is a good time to make trades.”

“Then I will wait. There is one who may come. …”

“Owl,” the old woman said.

Kukutux’s breath stopped at the roof of her mouth. “You know him?”

“I will,” said the old woman and gave a low chuckle.

“Good,” said Kukutux.

“Yes, it is good,” said Aunt, then reached over to pinch out the lamp wicks and went back to her sleeping place.

In the darkness Kukutux climbed from the ulaq and sat outside in the wind. She clasped the blue and gold beads at her neck and sang a song, something quiet and happy, a song of calling. And the wind took it, carrying her words far.

To a trader’s ik.

C
HAGAK TIGHTENED HER ARMS
around Takha and Shuku. Almost, she could believe she held Amgigh and Samiq. Why did something so long ago seem so close, as though she could reach back at will to days long past?

She closed her eyes and listened to the evening sounds of the ulaq—the scrape of Kayugh’s lava rock against a spear shaft, Samiq’s voice as he spoke to Owl, the clatter of wood dishes as Three Fish, Kiin, and Kukutux put away food. They all carried the sorrow of Small Knife’s death, but with each moon it was better. Who could not feel joy when so many babies had been given them—Shuku and Takha, Many Whales and Hunter, and the new baby that Kiin carried in her belly.

“So tell your grandsons a story, Grandmother,” Kiin said and sat down beside Chagak.

Chagak laughed in her surprise, but who could know what Kiin would ask next? Her joy in being wife and mother seemed to shine out from her face and glow through her words. Each day brought a new idea, some way to make the ulaq stronger, the food better, clothing more beautiful. And now she wanted a story.

“A story …” said Chagak. She smiled at Kiin and at Samiq, at the others sitting in Kayugh’s ulaq. She pressed her cheek against the top of Shuku’s head and closed her eyes. Songs, prayers, and women’s chants came into her mind, but no stories.

“I do not know any stories,” she finally said.

Then the otter’s voice came, a teasing voice that spoke in Chagak’s mind. “Ah, little grandmother,” said the otter, “everyone has a story, and all of us are storytellers.”

Chagak looked up into the shadows that shifted and moved above the oil lamp, then she tilted her head as though she listened to something others did not hear. Finally she spoke, and her words were in the strong, clear voice of a storyteller.

“Six days,” she said. “The hunters had been gone six days, and during that time there had been a storm—rain and a roaring that seemed to come from within the mountains, and waves that swept the beaches bare …”

O
NE OF THE JOYS
that has accompanied the publication of my novels has been the opportunity to travel as a guest lecturer. Because time does not permit me to meet all my readers, I have decided to use these author’s notes to answer the questions I am asked most frequently by lecture audiences: where I get my story ideas; how I developed the “voice” or writing style for each novel; what portions of the novels are symbolic; and why I use an inner voice with some of my characters.

I am sure most authors are asked where they get their ideas, and I am equally sure most authors have many more story ideas than I do. (I seem to have one good story idea about every two years.) Fortunately for me, story ideas abound in Native American legends, myths, and traditions, and I have borrowed from these in developing my characters and story lines.
Brother Wind
, being the last of a trilogy, is of course founded on the legends and stories used as a basis for its predecessors,
Mother Earth Father Sky
and
My Sister the Moon.

These legends include the Aleut sea otter legend, the moon myths of the Pueblo and Osage, the Aleut Raven’s marriage story, the Inuit oral histories of a mother hiding the son of an enemy, blue ice men legends, Ojibway twin sons stories, tiger legends from the Orient (which have counterparts in Aleut whale-hunting traditions), Aleut Shuganan and “Outside Men” stories, various creation legends, and the raven-trickster legends. In addition,
Brother Wind
is also based on a Native story from the Northwest about a one-handed man and a beautiful woman who save their tribe from marauding warriors, and also on Athabascan raven and porcupine traditions.

The “voices” (sometimes called writing styles) I have developed for this trilogy are based on the rhythms and voice patterns of spoken Native American languages. These patterns are quite different from those of spoken English, and especially inconsistent with polysyllabic English words. Native rhythm patterns (let me insert here that there are thousands of Native American languages and I have studied only a handful) are often a basic unaccent-unaccent-accent (for those of you who are poets, an anapestic rhythm), while English is often (but, of course, not entirely) a pattern of accent-unaccent, accent-unaccent (trochee).

The voices I developed for this trilogy pull their language rhythms from this basic anapestic pattern and from the energy which makes oral storytelling a form of theater art.

In the tradition of Native American storytellers, this trilogy is filled with symbolism, from the names of the characters to weapons to sky conditions. All animals, birds, and fish in the trilogy are allegorical according to their habits or to Native legends. In approaching Native American art forms, it is essential to remember that the women and men who live according to Native traditions see life itself as an allegory of the spiritual world.

For each novel in this trilogy, I developed an “inner voice.” In
Mother Earth Father Sky
it is Chagak’s otter voice; in
My Sister the Moon
it is Kiin’s spirit voice; and in
Brother Wind
it is the voice of the carved tusk that speaks to Waxtal. My intention is a circle of voices which defines the experience of the artist. The artistic vision begins in Nature (otter), is internalized (spirit), and is given expression (carved tusk).

Let me say here that in spite of my fascination with symbols, research, and voice, it seems to me that the best literature—from Homer to Shakespeare to Twain—the truly excellent work that survives both time and political clime is that which tells a good story. Native American storytellers knew this very well. Theirs is a fine standard of wisdom.

Let me answer one question about
Brother Wind
before it is asked: Yes, many of the best Native American storytellers and well-known shamans were masters of ventriloquism.

Last in this mini-session of questions and answers: Yes, I have begun research for a second trilogy which will continue the saga of the First Men. Please plan to join me in this next journey!

—Sue Harrison

Pickford, Michigan

A
KA
: (Aleut) up; straight out there.

ALANANASIKA
: (Aleut) chief whale hunter.

AMGIGH
: (Aleut—pronounced with undefined vowel syllable between
m
and
g
and unvoiced ending) blood.

ASXAHMAAGIKUG
: (Atkan Aleut) I am lonesome.

ATAL
: (Aleut) burn, flame.

BABICHE
: lacing made from rawhide. Probably from the Cree word
assababish
, a diminutive of
assabab,
thread.

CHAGAK
: (Aleut—also
cbagagh
) obsidian. (In the Atkan Aleut dialect, red cedar.)

CHIGADAX
: (Aleut—ending unvoiced) waterproof, watertight parka made of sea lion or bear intestines, esophagus of seal or sea lion, or the tongue skin of a whale. The hood had a drawstring and the sleeves were tied at the wrist for sea travel. These knee-length garments were often decorated with feathers and pieces of colored esophagus.

DYENEN
: (Ahtna Athabaskan) shaman, medicine person.

IK
: (Aleut) open-top skin boat.