Cry of the Wind (55 page)

Chapter Sixty-four

THE NEAR RIVER VILLAGE

K
’OS STOOD AT THE
ridge that ringed the Near River Village and looked down on the well-made lodges. Woodpiles were stacked high, and banks of snow pressed against the lodge covers to protect against winter winds.

She heard a rill of laughter, and three boys ran out from between two caches, each brandishing a stick. Their game carried them through the village and earned them a scolding from one of the grandmothers at the cooking hearths. K’os smiled. How good to return to this place, not as Gull Beak’s slave but as River Ice Dancer’s widow. Silently she counted the lodges: five handfuls, another five handfuls; fifty, at least. And how many warriors in each? One, two? Sometimes more.

The walk had been difficult. Her lips had split and bled in the cold; her fingers were so bent and swollen that she could hardly fasten the travois straps. She needed a warm fire and some goosefoot and willow bark tea.

She called the dogs forward and led them to the elders’ lodge. The battle between the Near River and Cousin People had cost almost all the old men in this village their lives. Only Sun Caller, that stutterer, and Fox Barking had survived, and, of course, Giving Meat, but his mind was less than that of a child. Surely by now Dii had killed Fox Barking, and probably been killed in return by the Near Rivers. Pity. She had been an interesting companion.

K’os hoped that the middle-aged hunters of the village had taken their places as elders. Of those men, there were only a handful she had not pleasured when she was a slave. Wolf Head, River Ice Dancer’s father, was one she had not yet taken to her bed, but he was her best chance for revenge. In his sorrow, she would win him to her cause. They would avenge River Ice Dancer’s death at the Four Rivers Village, then, with their success giving them strength, would go and finish off the Cousin People.

K’os removed her snowshoes, tied them on the travois, and stepped into the entrance tunnel. She brushed the snow from her parka and leggings, pushed back her hood and used her walking stick to scratch at the inner door. She recognized Sun Caller’s voice as he stuttered out a welcome.

K’os had spent much time considering a greeting that would establish her place in the village and put thoughts of revenge into the minds of the Near Rivers, but when she entered the lodge, she stood with her mouth open, her fine words forgotten. Ringing the hearth fire, each sitting in a place of honor, were the old women of the village—Vole and Blue Flower, Lazy Snow and Three Baskets. Two others sat on either side of Giving Meat, feeding him as though he were a child, one wiping his chin with a scrap of grass matting. Beside them was Sun Caller.

He nodded at her, opened his mouth to speak but could not get his first word past his tongue. He lifted his chin toward the woman at the back of the fire, the place given the chief elder. The hearth smoke was a cloud that blocked K’os’s vision, and so she took a step to the side, then stopped in disbelief. The chief elder was Gull Beak.

THE GRANDFATHER LAKE

Aqamdax had worked long into the night setting up her tent, digging the fire pit and lining it with stones. She had arranged her packs and Snow Hawk’s travois across the open side of the lean-to in the best way to protect against wind. She banked snow high on the sides of the tent walls. Finally, she had allowed herself to sleep, but her dreams were full of her dead baby, living now somewhere in the Grandfather Lake, and when she awoke, she was not sure where she was.

She listened for Carries Much, his early-morning cries for milk, then she felt the soft emptiness of her breasts, and suddenly the blackness of her grief broke over her. She turned her head into her bedding furs and wept. Chakliux was dead. Her son was dead. Ghaden, Yaa, and Sok’s sons were all lost to her. She cried first in sorrow, then in anger—at Night Man, at Sok and at Snow-in-her-hair, at Star and the one who had killed her, even at Chakliux for leaving the village to go with Sok. She cried until her throat was raw, and when she had used up all her tears, she lay still and spent, breathing hard, as though she had run a long way.

Then in her mind she heard the quiet voice of the old First Men storyteller Qung. The tale was one that Aqamdax knew well, about a young woman who had been sold as a slave by her brother, a woman who had found her way back to her people by walking the shores of the North Sea. Aqamdax began to repeat the words, first in a whisper, then more loudly. She sat up and began to pitch her voice differently for each of the people and animals in the story, sometimes bringing the words from her throat in the way Qung had taught her, so it seemed that they spoke from outside the tent, or from the hearth or a tree. How long since she had told stories in such a way?

She had been forbidden to do so in the Near River Village when the shaman decided her story voices were a threat to his own powers. And in the Cousin River Village, she had told her stories mostly to the children. Now, here at the Grandfather Lake, she was alone, telling stories with no one to listen.

Then suddenly she felt the smallest flutter, like a feather brushing inside of her belly. She held her breath. The baby? No, she told herself, it was too soon. Then she felt it again, the lightest touch, less than a breath of wind. She smiled and continued her story, twining her fingers over that little one who listened from beneath her heart.

THE COUSIN RIVER VILLAGE

Chakliux stood in the sacred woods and stared at the death scaffolding. She was there now, Star and that daughter they had made together. Star had not been a good wife, and his life would have been easier without her, but his mourning for her had somehow tangled itself into his remembrances of his first wife, Gguzaakk, a woman he had loved. And his sorrow at losing Star’s little daughter seemed to renew his anguish at the loss of the son Gguzaakk had borne him, and that baby Night Man had killed.

Had his prayers and chants, his willingness to fight for Sok’s life, not lifted the curse he had brought upon himself and Aqamdax? What good were those rituals, and even the stories he had learned as Dzuuggi, if they could not give a man the chance to live each day anew? Was there nothing stronger than those spirits that seemed to find joy in destroying a man’s life?

“So then,” he cried out, lifting his voice beyond the bones of the dead, shouting to be heard above the trees that protected Star’s body, “if there is one out there, some spirit who is great enough to lift the curse I have brought upon myself and my family, then I ask your help in finding my wife Aqamdax.”

He waited but felt nothing except the darkness of his despair, the fear that he had lost more than even those he now mourned. He made a chant for the dead and turned back toward the village. After a night of sleep, he would go look for Aqamdax, and he would not return until he found her or her bones.

He started back, cutting across a clearing he had skirted on his way to the death platform, leaving a trail marked by the webbed circles of his snowshoes. Then suddenly a flock of ptarmigan, their winter plumage as light as the snow, broke up through the crust of white and rose into the winter sky. Chakliux thought of a riddle he had learned as a child.

Look! What do I see? White hidden by white.

Then he asked himself, “Why do you think everything should be easy to understand? Have you forgotten that the gift of each riddle is its unraveling?”

And as he walked back to the village, he prayed for the vision to see what was hidden, for the wisdom to understand the riddles that bound his life to the earth and the prayers that would open his eyes to the truth.

THE NEAR RIVER VILLAGE

“I come as wife, not slave,” K’os said.

Gull Beak raised her eyebrows. “Anaay told me he would take you as wife sometime during the caribou hunt. Where is he?”

But before K’os could answer, Blue Flower asked, “And that other wife he took, the Cousin woman, where is she?”

“I do not know,” K’os told them, and tried to hide her confusion. Was Fox Barking still alive, then, or had Dii somehow been able to hide his death? K’os nearly smiled. Perhaps the girl was more cunning than she had thought. “I was one of those women who left the hunting camp and returned to my own people,” she said. “There are men in this village who can tell you that.” She lifted her chin at Sun Caller. “My son Chakliux bought me from Anaay.”

Gull Beak snorted. “You think, then, that we would consider you no longer a slave? A Cousin woman owned by a Cousin man? You are less than a slave.”

The other women murmured their agreement. Anger rose bitter in K’os’s throat, and when she spoke again, her words seemed honed by the edges of her teeth. “Perhaps that is true,” she said, “but there is something more. As I told you, I was wife. A man of this village paid a bride price for me.”

“Who?” Gull Beak asked.

“River Ice Dancer,” said K’os, and watched as the women looked at one another.

Sun Caller coughed, and Gull Beak’s face was suddenly pinched and white.

“We left the Cousin River Village together, my husband and I,” K’os said, “and we went to the Four Rivers Village. We had lived there only a little while when someone in the village killed him. I had taken medicine to a sick woman and stayed with her for the night. When I returned to my lodge, my husband was dead, killed with a knife. There are Four Rivers men who claim close ties to the Cousin River People. I think one of them killed him. I came here to find my husband’s father, Wolf Head, and plan vengeance on those who took my husband’s life.”

The women began to murmur among themselves, and Sun Caller stammered out a few words of polite concern, but K’os lost patience with them. What group of women, in making a decision, ever acted quickly? They could spend days debating whether or not anyone in the village should help her. So without giving Gull Beak a chance to reply, K’os left and led her dogs to the fine strong lodge where Wolf Head lived with his two wives.

Chapter Sixty-five

THE COUSIN RIVER VILLAGE

T
HE SLEEP THAT CLAIMED
Chakliux was so quick and so deep that when he heard the voice calling, he knew he was living in his dreams. He sat up and saw Long Eyes standing beside his bed.

“Rekindle your hearth fire,” she said to him, her voice strong.

And because it was a dream, Chakliux did what she asked, bringing the fire into a blaze so the flames lit Sok’s lodge.

“I was surprised you decided to sleep here,” Long Eyes said to him.

She settled herself beside the fire, sat straight, her shoulders back, as though she were a young woman. He saw that her eyes were clear, without the confusion that had clouded them since her husband’s death. But why should he be surprised? He had asked that hidden things be revealed. How better than in a dream?

“This is my wife’s lodge,” he said.

Long Eyes laughed. “But you are alone. She is not here, nor is your brother.”

“He sleeps in the hunters’ lodge.”

She nodded as if she knew, then said, “They say you mourn my daughter.”

“She was my wife. I mourn her and the child she carried.”

“It was your child,” Long Eyes said.

“Yes.”

Though the lodge was warm, she still wore her parka, and like a mother with a baby, she had tied a band around it just under her breasts. “I would have carried that child on my back,” Long Eyes said. She patted the band. “I made myself this belt to hold her in place.” She reached into a pouch that hung from the band and pulled out a ball of sinew thread.

“I did not know your words could be so clear, Mother,” Chakliux said.

She looked at him with narrowed eyes. “No one knows,” she said. She twisted the thread around her fingers, made a web between her hands. It caught Chakliux’s eyes, and he watched as she knotted the sinew into shapes: a tree, a circle.

“You are surprised?” she asked.

“I saw storytellers from the Walrus Hunter Village do that. They taught me.”

She nodded. “That other wife of yours, the Sea Hunter woman, when she first came to my lodge as Night Man’s wife, she had a bracelet made of knots. It was an otter. You think I did not notice that? When I saw it, I knew you had made it. Who else? Is there another otter anywhere in this village? Perhaps you did not know that my mother was Walrus, raised by those people before she was given as wife to my father. She taught me some things.

“When I was still a girl my father traded me to my husband for three yellow-eyed dogs. My father made a joke. He said I should change my name to Three Dogs. He was a foolish man, but I got a good husband, and four strong sons, then my daughter, Star.” She held her hands apart, let Chakliux see the knot at the center of her web. “This, you see, is Star’s child.” She jerked her hands and suddenly the knot was gone. “Children die too easily,” she said.

She looked at him and laughed. “Children die too easily, but I would have kept all mine, and my husband, if it were not for you.”

“I did not kill your husband,” said Chakliux. “It was River Jumper, and he was sent by K’os.”

“I have heard your story. My daughter told me. She loved you, so she believed you. You remember my sons? Tikaani was the oldest. Perhaps you did not kill him, but you are to blame for that war between our villages. You were supposed to stop the fighting, remember? Then I had Caribou and Stalker, a year apart, those two. The old women said they would die. They said I would not have milk enough for both. But they grew to be strong, healthy boys. Do you claim you did not kill them? Now Night Man is dead. They think I do not know, but I hear their whispers. Four sons dead, a husband dead, and my daughter and her baby.”

“I did not kill your daughter.”

Long Eyes began to laugh.

Yaa drifted in and out of sleep. She was spending the night in Star’s lodge, watching over Long Eyes. The old woman had a habit of wandering at night, but to Yaa’s surprise, this night, Long Eyes had fallen asleep slumped over her work, the sinew thread she had been twisting still dangling from her fingers. Yaa had spread bedding furs beside the old woman and gently laid her down and covered her.