Cry of the Wind (12 page)

THE FOUR RIVERS VILLAGE

Red Leaf burst up through the snow, stabbing with her knife, screaming. One of the wolves yelped in pain, then Red Leaf heard the surprised voice of a man. She stopped, planted her feet firmly over the pile of snow that had sheltered her and faced him with the knife in her hand. She moved the blade toward a growl that came from her left, then saw that it was only a dog, gray and black. A slash at the top of the animal’s head bubbled blood.

“Tracker!” the man yelled at the animal. “Be still.”

The hunter held his hands palms out. “I will not hurt you,” he said, and Red Leaf nearly laughed. He stood without a knife. His spear and a fire bow weapon—like the ones the Cousin River People had used against her village—hung on his back. His hood was pulled far forward, shielding his eyes from the sun on the snow, so she could not see his face.

“I thought your dog was a wolf,” Red Leaf said. “Get him away from me.”

The man lifted his chin at the mound of snow. “You slept there?” he asked.

“The storm caught me. What choice did I have?”

“You are not from the Four Rivers Village.”

Red Leaf almost said she was Near River, but there were always those who considered people from one village or another as enemy. Why say something that could be used against her?

“You are Four Rivers?” she asked.

He shrugged. “This winter I am.”

“You should see to your dog. The cut still bleeds.”

“Head wounds bleed much,” he told her, but he walked over to the dog, used his gloved hand to stanch the flow, then wiped the blood on the snow.

“There is somewhere you need to go?” he asked her. “I can help you.”

“My lodge is not far,” she said. “I can travel by myself.”

“You have no snowshoes?”

“When I left my lodge there was no snow,” she said, and tried to smile, but her lips stretched and cracked until she could taste blood. “Go wherever it is you are going. I have a few supplies to gather.”

She stooped as though to crawl back into her snow cave, but he did not move.

“Someone took food from my cache,” he said. “A full caribou hide packed with fat. I am a trader. I need that fat. What I do not eat this winter, I will trade in spring.”

She kept her back toward him, but he continued to talk.

“It might surprise you what people will give in those starving moons for a taste of fat. Parkas heavy with embroidery, burial moccasins with beaded soles, such things are not of much value to an empty belly.”

She turned her head to look over her shoulder at him. “Then you best go quickly and catch that one who took it.”

The dog growled again, and Red Leaf lifted her knife toward him.

“Tracker says you are the one.”

“I have nothing except my own supplies.” She patted her chest. “A cilt’ogho of coals, some dried fish. You would take that from me?”

“I take only what is mine,” he told her, then he shouted at his dog, and before Red Leaf had time to protest, the animal knocked her back into the snow. The trader grasped her knife hand, wrestled away the weapon and held it to her neck until Red Leaf cried out, “Call off your dog and I will give you what I have.”

He spoke to the animal, the words in a language Red Leaf did not understand. The dog backed away, but his lips were still drawn back from his teeth. Red Leaf began to roll from her back to hands and knees, but the dog growled again, lunged forward.

“This will not take me long,” the trader told her. “But I would lie still if I were you.”

He hacked at the crusted snow with a walking stick until he came to the caribou hide. He ran his hands over the lacing.

“It is mine,” he said.

“I found it,” she told him. “I was battling the storm and I found the hide. It was partially buried in the snow. It made a good shelter, but it is not mine. If it is yours, take it with my gratitude. It served me well.”

“What of the fat I had stored inside?”

Red Leaf shrugged. “The hide was empty when I found it.”

Again she rolled to her side, tried to stand. Again the dog growled. “I have no weapons,” she said. “Tell your dog—”

“Tracker!”

The dog sat back on his haunches, whined, and Red Leaf stood up, backed away.

“Tracker!” the trader called, and pointed at the snow cave. “Here, dig!”

Red Leaf began to walk. Perhaps the man, in finding his slabs of fat, would not think it worth following her. She hated to lose the knife. She had only one other, and that was a woman’s knife with a curved blade. But better to save her life than stay hoping he would return the weapon.

The man called out, but she did not look back, did not slow down. The snow was deep and soft. With each step she sank past her knees, but still she walked. Then she felt a hand grab her hood. She tried to jerk away but could not. She turned to face the trader, and he waved a hand-sized chunk of white fat in her face.

“What of this?”

“Where did you find that?” she asked, trying to act as though she were surprised.

“In the hole you dug.”

“I wish I would have known,” she said. “I would have feasted during that long storm.”

He pushed his parka hood back to his ears, and for the first time, Red Leaf saw him clearly. Her chest squeezed tight in surprise.

He was Cen, the trader who had brought the Sea Hunter woman Daes to the Near River Village. Though Daes had given birth to the boy Ghaden several moons after Cen had left her at their village, most of the Near River women thought he was Ghaden’s father.

Cen’s face had changed since the last time she had seen him. His nose was crooked, and a scar drew up one side of his mouth, but Red Leaf knew he was Cen. Did she not see his face most nights in her dreams, the man accused of what she had done? But how could Cen be alive? Surely he had died from the beating he received when the people thought he had killed Sok’s grandfather Tsaani, and also Daes.

“I did not take it. I found it,” she said again.

“What were you doing out in the storm?” he asked.

“My husband is a trader of sorts,” she said, mumbling the first thing that came to her mind. How could she tell him her name? He might have already heard that she was the one who killed Daes and Tsaani. If he had cared for the woman, he would want revenge. Even if he had not, surely he would kill her for the wounds his son Ghaden had suffered, and for his own injuries.

“Your husband is a trader?” he asked, speaking slowly. “Where is he now?”

“He is lazy. He stayed in our lodge, and I went out to check my traplines. The storm caught me before I could get back.”

“I have never known a trader who was lazy.”

“Then you must not know my husband,” Red Leaf said. She turned and started to trudge away, but called back over her shoulder, “I am sorry about the caribou pack being stolen from your cache. It is good I found it for you.”

She continued to walk, hoping he would stay with his pack, but suddenly his hands were on her shoulders. She lost her balance and fell backward into the snow. Cen knelt beside her, loosened the drawstring at her hood and pulled it back from her face. He stared at her but finally shook his head and said, “I see too many women in my trading.”

Red Leaf, realizing he did not recognize her, tried not to show her relief.

“I know you took my caribou pack and the fat I had stored. My dog caught your scent on the cache and brought me to you.”

Red Leaf laughed. “What dog could do that?”

“This dog can.” Cen tilted his head as he looked at her. “I thought you would be a man. The pack is heavy.”

“I did not take it,” Red Leaf said again.

But Cen continued as though she had said nothing at all. “You are a big woman, though. Strong.” He pulled her to her feet, then pushed up one of her parka sleeves, looked at her arm. “You haven’t eaten much lately. Who are you?”

Why not tell him a good story? Red Leaf thought, and she began to speak, spinning out lies. “For some years,” she said, “until I was almost a woman, I lived in the Near River Village. Then my father died and my mother married a man who did some trading with the Near River and Cousin Villages. That is how we lived. One day he brought a man for me to marry. I became a wife then and had a baby. A daughter.”

She stopped and realized that Cen was looking at her again, his eyes squinted, and she hoped that her mention of the Near River Village did not suddenly remind him of who she was.

“So you are going back now to your husband?” he asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He did not want a daughter. He decided to give her to his sister who lives north on the Great River. She has many sons but needs a daughter to care for her in her old age. I have run away so I can keep my baby.”

Suddenly the child let out a cry, and Red Leaf loosened the drawstring at the neck of her parka so Cen could see the baby.

“Where do you live?” he asked.

“There is a spruce forest less than a day’s walk from here. I made a shelter in the roots of a fallen tree.”

“What is your name?”

Fear twisted itself into her belly, and she could feel her hands tremble. He did not remember her face, but what if he knew her name? Her daughter seemed to sense Red Leaf’s fear and again cried out, this time in loud, long wails, so that Red Leaf crooned to the child and fussed getting her to accept a breast. She moved slowly, rocking her body and humming a lullaby, all the time thinking of names.

“Gheli,” she finally said.

“Gheli?”

“Yes, my name is Gheli.” Let him think she had been named that, by father or uncle, in honor of what she was. Would a woman named Gheli—good, true—steal from a cache? Would she kill?

“Gheli,” Cen said, and lifted an arm toward the snow cave. “Repack my caribou hide.”

She considered refusing, but he had her knife. How could she fight him? Besides, she might have a chance to slip a piece of fat into her parka sleeve.

She walked back to the pack, pulled it from the snow, then beat it with her hands to loosen the ice that had formed from her breath, crusting the inside. She repacked each piece of fat, watching Cen from the coiners of her eyes, twice pushing fat up the sleeve of her parka. When she finished, she dragged the pack to him.

“The lacing is cut,” she said.

Cen pulled a coil of babiche from under his parka and used it to bind the bag, nodding when Red Leaf stooped to help him. She thought he would tell her to carry the hide, but he heaved it to his own back and began to follow his trail through the snow toward the Four Rivers Village.

Red Leaf watched for a time, then started in the opposite direction. She had gone only a few steps when she heard him call.

“Gheli!” he said. “I have a warm lodge, and I need a wife.”

She turned and looked at him. It would be a dangerous thing to have Cen as husband. Someday he would find out who she was and what she had done, but what chance did she have living alone, with no food? Perhaps she could stay with him long enough to set aside meat and hides, cache them away from the village, so she could survive if she had to leave quickly.

She made her way toward him. His snowshoes packed the snow so Red Leaf’s feet did not sink so far with each step. And so they walked, Cen, Gheli and the dog, Tracker, to the Four Rivers Village.

Chapter Thirteen

THE NEAR RIVER VILLAGE

D
II HUNG THE BOILING
bag from a lodge pole. It was heavy, full of fat and meat from the moose two hunters had taken several days before. She gathered an armful of wooden bowls and filled them. She offered the first to her husband, Anaay, but he waved it away. She gave it instead to Sun Caller, then set another beside Giving Meat. Giving Meat tipped the bowl over, then began to eat the stew with his fingers, scooping it from the floor, smearing it on his face. Dii looked away, pretended not to see. It was like that for an elder sometimes, and only a fool would ridicule. Who could say? She herself might someday be the same way.

Gull Beak and K’os came to the lodge carrying more cooking bags. They hung them near the door and began to help Dii. Anaay stood, and Dii watched her husband in pride, her eyes caressing the new parka he wore, her hands remembering the warmth of his skin when she had joined him in his bed that morning.

She felt a glow in her belly and wondered if they had begun a child this day. She had been drinking the tea made from raspberry-leaves K’os gave her. It would, K’os promised, strengthen her womb. What a wondrous child she and Anaay would have, conceived while the sound of caribou still shook his parents’ bones.

Anaay began to speak, and his voice filled the lodge. “I have dreamed caribou songs,” he said.

Several of the youngest hunters lowered their bowls and lifted their voices in a quick hunting chant, a cry that made Dii shiver in joy. She had not wanted to come to this village, had not wanted to belong to Anaay. Life had been easier living with her mother and father, with her brothers and uncle. But now she was a wife, and what more could she ask than to be the wife of Anaay, a man who dreamed caribou?

“I called the animals, and they come to us. We must leave our village and prepare to meet them.”

As Anaay spoke, the men continued to eat, and soon the meat stew was gone. Gull Beak nodded toward the entrance tunnel so Dii knew the woman wanted her to go to the hearths and get more food. Dii had hoped to be in the lodge when Anaay explained where the caribou were. Like Anaay, she carried the knowledge in her bones, and it quivered inside her, needing to be told.

But Gull Beak was first wife, and Dii must do as she asked. Sighing, she left the lodge. If she hurried, perhaps she would not miss much of what her husband had to say.

K’os watched in satisfaction as each of the men ate the stew. This night they would get little sleep. She tucked her laughter inside her mouth and passed a water bladder to one of the younger hunters. She had pleasured him twice during the past moon, before preparations had begun for the caribou hunt. He was named River Ice Dancer, and he was a young man full of himself. During their coupling, he had pretended he knew what he was doing, but his touch was rough and his attempts to enter her were fumbling and unsure. K’os blinked her eyes at him, and he puffed out his chest.