Cry of the Wind (38 page)

“I am Ligige’, aunt to Chakliux. Do you know him?” the old woman asked, and gestured for Dii to follow her through the entrance tunnel.

Dii crawled into the lodge. The hearth coals made a faint red glow in the center of the floor, and Dii could see an old woman sitting up in her bedding furs, a woven hare fur blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Then she caught her breath in gladness.

“Long Eyes,” she said, so pleased to see someone she knew that she forgot to answer Ligige’’s question.

“Who are you?” Long Eyes asked, and Dii was surprised to hear her speak.

“Her spirit has returned?” she asked Ligige’.

“Some think so. Who are you?”

The bluntness of the question matched rudeness for rudeness, and Dii began to apologize.

“She is Sun Girl,” Long Eyes said, answering for her.

“Yes, Aunt, though now I am called Dii.” Then she said to Ligige’, “I know Chakliux.”

“He and all the men in the village and their wives went on a caribou hunt,” Ligige’ told her. “We are just old women here. Were you one of those taken as slave to the Near River Village?”

“I was, I and my mother, though the Near River men killed her.”

“Keep Fish?” Long Eyes asked. “She is dead?”

Dii shuddered to hear her mother’s name called out in such a way. Keep Fish had been a good mother, but surely she would seek revenge for her death. Perhaps she was angry that Dii had become wife to one of the Near Rivers. But then her mother might consider Anaay’s death a fitting revenge. Dii waited for some noise of wind, the voice of animal or bird to give sign that her mother had heard, but there was nothing. Perhaps with her husband and sons also dead, Dii’s mother was content to be as she was—spirit among spirits.

“Be still, Long Eyes,” Ligige’ said. “Do not think about those who have died, be glad rather that this daughter has returned to her own village.”

Long Eyes picked at the fur of her blanket, and Dii noticed that a wide patch of the woven pelts had been picked clean. “My husband once wanted Keep Fish,” Long Eyes murmured. “For second wife. I would not let him.” Her fingers picked more frantically. “Do you think she is mad at me?” She lifted her hands, held them curled like claws.

“No,” Dii said. “She liked you. She told me that.”

Long Eyes nodded and laid her hands on the blanket. Ligige’ raised her eyebrows at Dii, showing her approval, then lifted her chin toward a stack of bowls that hung in a net tied to the lodge poles. “There is meat in the boiling bag, only hare, but it is fresh.”

“Thank you, I will eat after I have seen to my dogs.”

As Dii left the lodge, Ligige’ settled Long Eyes back into her bed, gently scolded her for pulling the fur from her blanket. Then she squatted beside the hearth coals, held her hands out to gather heat into fingers bent and old.

“You ran away or were thrown away?” Ligige’ asked.

Dii lowered the bowl from her mouth. “I ran away,” she said. “Though he was angry enough to throw me away. I was surprised each day that he did not.

“My husband dreamed of caribou and convinced the people to follow him to the North Sea. But when we came to the sea, there were no caribou, nothing but ice and water.”

“You left then?” Ligige’ asked.

“I had dreams of my own that came to me, songs the caribou sang into my bones. The rhythm of their walking was like the beating of my heart. I told my husband, and he was angry with me.”

Ligige’’s eyes gleamed. “You dream caribou?” she asked softly.

Then Dii wished she had not told the woman. What good had ever come from her caribou dreams? “Perhaps my dreams are wrong,” Dii said.

“Perhaps they are not,” Ligige’ whispered.

Dii shrugged. “It does not matter,” she said. “The Cousin men always hunt the same river. They do not need dreamers, and the Near Rivers would not listen to me.”

“When you told your husband, what did he say?”

“He beat me.”

“And you left him.”

“Not until we came to the sea. There he blamed me for his own false dreams. Then I left him. I took his dogs and came here.”

“Your husband, who is he?”

Dii’s skin prickled, and she felt a weight against her shoulders, as though Anaay were standing behind her. “I cannot say his name. He died before I left, and I do not want to call his spirit.”

Ligige’ wrinkled her brow. “Did you…” she began to ask, but then said, “This husband, did he have another wife?”

“Gull Beak.”

Ligige’’s lips thinned into a smile. “How did he die?” she asked.

For a long time Dii did not answer. Her hands had begun to tremble, and when she spoke, her words were broken. “Someone, it was someone who did not know what she did…that one…killed him.”

“This husband who died,” Ligige’ said, “maybe he needed to be dead. Perhaps we should not mourn but celebrate.”

Chapter Forty-three

T
HEY CAME OUT OF
the storm like ghosts. Ligige’ clutched a hand to her breast, dropped the stick she was using to break the ice from the smoke hole of her lodge.

“If you take me, who will care for Long Eyes?” she said to them, but the wind whipped the sound from her mouth, swirled it into the storm as though she had said nothing at all.

She stood defeated, without protection of stick or words, but straightened her shoulders and waited for what would come. After all, she was old. She had known death was watching her. Many people died in storms, not only the old, but young, strong men, new mothers, children. Why should she expect to be favored?

They carried packs, these ghosts, so with sorrow Ligige’ realized she would be traveling far. She had hoped the journey to the spirit world would be a quick one, easy on an old woman’s bones.

“Aunt,” one of them called, and lifted a hand in greeting.

She glanced down at herself, wondering if she was already spirit. Her arms and legs looked the same, but the ghosts were around her, laughing, lifting packs from one another’s backs, and she recognized Sky Watcher and his wife Bird Caller, the old man Take More, and Aqamdax. She opened her arms to Yaa and Ghaden. The boy’s dog, Biter, packs still strapped to his back, knocked her down with his jumping and licked her face until Ghaden pulled him away.

“You dog turd, Biter!” the boy yelled out, his voice loud even in the wind.

Then Ligige’ knew they were not ghosts, and she added her laughter to theirs.

“So they stayed with the dead one,” Ligige’ said, for once following respectful ways and not saying Snow-in-her-hair’s name.

“They said four days, then they would come,” Aqamdax told her, and Ligige’ saw that her fingers trembled. Aqamdax picked up the empty bowl she had set on the floor mats, wrapped her hands around it.

“You would like more?” Ligige’ asked, pursing her lips toward the bowl.

“No, I have had enough.”

“It is good to see smoke coming again from all the smoke holes in this village,” Ligige’ told her, and waited for Aqamdax to say something.

Aqamdax was not one to sit and talk when there was work to do—food to put in caches, hides to stack in lodges, firewood to dig out of the snow, parkas to repair—so much work that the women would not finish it until winter was nearly over. So why was she here? And why, when Ligige’ introduced Dii, had Aqamdax shown only politeness, no delight that Dii had returned to their village, no mention of the other women who had left their Near River husbands?

Ligige’ felt the silence press in against her, as though the walls of the lodge were suddenly too close, but finally Aqamdax said, “Long Eyes is better.” She turned her head and lifted her chin toward the old woman. Long Eyes sat beside Dii, legs crossed, a boot in her hand. She was sewing the sole to the upper, threading a length of sinew through awl holes.

“She is much better,” Ligige’ said. “Sometimes she speaks, and if I give her simple tasks, she almost always does them. But she has had to learn everything again, even her own name, and she still does not sleep well at night.”

“Star will take Long Eyes into her own lodge tomorrow after the hearth fire has warmed and dried it,” Aqamdax said. “She wanted me to tell you that.” Then, as though she had said nothing about Long Eyes, Aqamdax leaned forward and whispered, “I have a problem, Aunt. I need your advice.”

Ligige’ raised her eyebrows to show her willingness to listen, tried to be still and patient while Aqamdax made several beginnings, struggling for words. Finally she sighed and said, “I want to throw Night Man away.”

Ligige’’s only surprise was that Aqamdax had waited so long to do it. A husband who kills his own son is not a man any woman should keep. But Aqamdax had asked for advice, not agreement, so she asked, “Where would you stay? You have no lodge of your own.”

“I have a share of caribou skins from the hunt, and before then I had two hides of my own, already scraped and sewn together.”

“You know that winter is not a good time for a woman without a husband.”

“I have lived through other winters without a husband,” Aqamdax answered.

“You know there are not enough men in this village.”

“First Eagle will take me as second wife.”

Ligige’ studied Aqamdax. “But you have another.”

Aqamdax’s cheeks reddened.

“Chakliux?” Ligige’ asked.

“Yes.”

“Will you leave your husband before Chakliux returns?”

“I do not want to stay with Night Man until then. I do not want another of his sons in my belly.”

“So you have come here.” Ligige’ turned her back on Aqamdax and addressed Long Eyes. “What do you think, Sister? There is too much throwing away of husbands and wives among our children.”

“Yes,” Long Eyes said, her voice without inflection, her head still bent over her sewing.

“Throwing away is not a good thing.”

“Yes.”

“Husbands and wives are better to stay together. There are fewer problems that way.”

“Yes.”

“He killed our son,” Aqamdax said, interrupting the strange conversation.

Ligige’ looked at her. “If he was my husband, I would throw him away. Tomorrow, when Long Eyes goes to live with her daughter, I will have room enough in this lodge. Then come and stay here.”

THE FOUR RIVERS VILLAGE

In the daylight, K’os counted the packs, recounted the dogs. Three handfuls of packs, eight dogs. There were six travois altogether, and she still did not know how River Ice Dancer could have controlled so many dogs. The storms had been in his favor. Otherwise, the Near River hunters would have surely caught him, though he raided their caches on a moonless night, and so had a start on them before they realized what had happened.

Much of what he brought was meat—smoked salmon; dried muskrat; goose meat packed in fat; caribou, some frozen, some dried; moose; small bales of blackfish; spruce grouse stored whole in oil and packed into large caribou bellies. But he had also managed to get bundles of hides: caribou, wolf, fox, lynx. There was a sack of beads, another of spearheads, several pairs of boots, two summer parkas and, best of all, a lodge cover, the hides fresh, newly sewn together and ready for lodge poles.

She and Sand Fly packed the meat and hides in K’os’s entrance tunnel. When that was full, they took most of the remainder to Tree Climber’s caches. River Ice Dancer did not do much to help them; he was too busy telling everyone the tale of his journey: how he and the dogs had waited out storms, that they made a false trail toward the Cousin River Village.

When all things were put away, K’os told Sand Fly her plan to have a giveaway. How better to share her bounty with others and to celebrate her marriage? Then K’os went from lodge to lodge bringing the news.

She saved Red Leaf’s lodge for last. Cen himself beckoned K’os inside, but he stood while she spoke, though K’os settled herself comfortably beside the hearth fire, acting as though there were no enmity between them.

She told them that River Ice Dancer had won permission to live in the village as her husband. She had to bite her cheeks to hide her smile when she saw Red Leaf’s relief. The woman would not be rid of her so easily.

When she said there would be a celebration, a giveaway, both Cen and Red Leaf had many questions. How had River Ice Dancer managed to bring so much wealth to the village? How had he controlled eight dogs? With ropes and harnesses, K’os told them, but more than that she did not know. It was River Ice Dancer’s story, not hers. He would tell it the evening of the celebration.

When K’os left the lodge, Red Leaf, in politeness, went with her to the entrance tunnel. There K’os leaned close, whispered that it would be good if Cen would help River Ice Dancer set up their new larger lodge, if he would help find long, straight lodge poles. She leaned back, looked into Red Leaf’s face, was pleased to see that the fear had returned to Red Leaf’s eyes.

THE COUSIN RIVER VILLAGE

Night Man nodded toward the dwindling pile of wood, and Star hissed at him. “You are the one who sits doing nothing,” she said. “Who brought all our supplies into this lodge? Who started the fire and hung the cooking bag? Who brushed the snow from your parka? You go get the wood.”

They were alone in the lodge; Yaa and Ghaden had been sent to help others unload supplies and fill caches. Night Man leaned close to his sister, lifted her chin with forefinger and thumb, pinched. Star pulled away from him.

“You spend so much time thinking about yourself that you do not see what is happening around you,” Night Man told her. “Why did Aqamdax leave this lodge as soon as her packs were in the entrance tunnel? She is planning something.”

“A new lodge. That is what she plans, lazy one,” Star said. “A wife should be ashamed to live with her husband’s sister.”

“You think those are her only plans?” Night Man asked. “Nothing more? You have not noticed that Chakliux’s eyes are always on Aqamdax, and that she mentions him as often as she can when she speaks?”

“You lie,” Star said, her voice low, shaking.

“Why would I lie? Do you think I want to see my sister hurt? Do you think I want to lose my own wife?” He brushed the fur of his inside parka. “Look,” he said. “She made this. She made me sealskin boots. Is there another woman in this village who knows how to make waterproof clothing?”