Ivory Carver 02 - My Sister the Moon (38 page)

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.

IKYAK
, p;.
IKYAN
: (Aleut—also
iqyax, iqyas
) canoe-shaped boat made of skins stretched around a wooden frame with an opening in the top for the occupant; a kayak.

KAYUGH
: (Aleut—also
Kayux
) strength of muscle; power.

KIIN
: (Aleut—pronounced “keen”) who?

QAKAN
: (Aleut) the one out there.

SAGHANI
: (Ahtna Athabascan) raven.

SAGHANI S’UZE’ DILAEN
: (Ahtna Athabascan) My name is Raven.

SAMIQ
: (Ancient Aleut) stone dagger or knife.

SHUGANAN
: (Origin and exact meaning obscure) relating to an ancient people.

SHUKU
: (Ancient Tlingit—pronounced “shoe-
KOO
”) first.

SUK
: (Aleut—also
sugh,
ending unvoiced) calf-length, hoodless parka with a standing collar. These garments were often made of birdskins and could be worn inside out (with the feathers on the inside) for warmth.
TAKHA
: (Ancient Tlingit—pronounced “tawk-
HAW
”) second.

TUGIDAQ
: (Aleut) moon.

TUGIX
: (Aleut) aorta, large blood vessel.

UGHELI
: (Ahtna Athabascan; predicate adjective) a good thing. It is good.

UGYUUN
: (Aleut) cow parsnip or wild celery (Poochki, Russian). A plant useful for food, dyes, or medicine. The peeled stalks when cooked taste somewhat like rutabaga. The stalk’s outer layer contains a chemical that can cause skin irritation.

ULAKIDAQ
: (Aleut) multitude of ulas; group of houses.

ULAQ
, pl.
ULAS
: (Aleut—also ulax) dwelling dug into the side of a hill, raftered with driftwood and/or whale jawbones, and thatched with sod and grass.

UTSULA’ C’EZGHOT
: (Ahtna Athabascan) His/her tongue is crooked. He/she lies.

WAXTAL
: (Aleut) desire; pity.

The native words listed here are defined according to their uses in
Brother Wind.
As with many Native languages that were recorded by Europeans, there are multiple spellings of almost every word as well as dialectal differences.

My Sister the Moon is founded on extensive research, but as a work of fiction is based on my interpretation of the facts and does not necessarily reflect the opinions of those experts who have so generously given their time and knowledge to this project. 

My special gratitude to those who read My Sister the Moon in its various manuscript forms: my husband Neil; my parents Pat and Bob McHaney; my grandfather Bob McHaney, Sr.; and my friend Linda Hudson. Also my thanks to Neil for his computer work on the novel's maps and genealogy. 

A sincere thank you to my agent Rhoda Weyr, who is not only an astute businesswoman, but also a careful and wise reader; and to my editors Shaye Areheart and Maggie Lichota for their meticulous work on this novel. 

I will never be able to express my gratitude to Dr. William Laughlin, who continues to support my work with resource materials and his encouragement. 

A special thanks to Mike Livingston who lent me his extensive library about his people, the Aleuts. Many of these books, long out of print, would have been impossible for me to obtain otherwise. I also appreciate his willingness to share his knowledge about his people, his islands and kayaking. 

My appreciation to those who provided resource materials, both oral and written: Mark McDonald, The American Speech-Language-Hearing Association, Gary Kiracofe, Dr. Greg Van Dussen, Ann Fox Chandonnet, Rayna Livingston, Linda Little, Dr. Ragan Callaway, Dorthea Callaway and Laura Rowland. Thank you, also, to Sherry Ledy for her patience and good 
humor in teaching me basket weaving, and to Russell Bawks for his long hours of typing my research notes. 

Neil and I both extend our thanks to Dorthea, Ragan and Karen Callaway, and Rayna and Mike Livingston for opening their home to us in our recent research trip to Alaska and the Aleutian Islands. 

Thank you also to Dr. Richard Ganzhom and his staff members Sharon Bennett and David Strickland, C.S.T., for answering my medical questions concerning knife wounds; and to Cathie Greenough for her willingness to share the expertise she has gained in her years counseling battered women and children. 

My deepest admiration and respect to those four special women, abused as children, who opened their hearts and told me their stories of pain and fear, endurance and victory. 

Turn the page to continue reading from the Ivory Carver Trilogy

Herendeen Bay, the Alaska Peninsula

K
IIN PUT AWAY HER CARVING TOOLS
. The gray light of early morning squeezed through the smokehole and met the glow of the seal oil lamp.

Sometime during the night, a mist had begun to fall. It had soaked through the skin walls and mats of their shelter into their sleeping robes and clothing until Kiin thought she would never get its chill out of her bones.

We are safe here, my babies and I, Kiin thought. But the cold that enveloped her body came from more than the rain. I should not have let my husband bring me here. My babies and I were safer in the village with our people than we are in this tiny shelter with Three Fish. Even if traders have come to our people looking for wives, they will not bother me.

“No, stay here,” Kiin’s spirit voice said. “You are wife. You must do what your husband tells you to do. Stay here with Three Fish until Amgigh comes for you.”

Kiin took a long breath, but still could not rid herself of the heaviness that seemed to settle over her. She looked across the sodden sleeping robes at Three Fish. The woman was just waking up. She smiled at Kiin, showing the broken corners of her front teeth.

“I am hungry,” Three Fish said. “We should go out and get food.” Her voice was heavy with the accent of her people, the Whale Hunters. “I know where there are crowberries.”

“It is too soon. The berries will not be ripe yet,” Kiin said.

Three Fish shrugged. “Then we will gather crowberry stems for medicine,” she said.

“Yes, good,” said Kiin. “We can go now.”

But Three Fish made no move toward the door flap. “There was a trader looking for medicine for his eyes,” she said. “If I make crowberry stem medicine, he might trade meat or oil for it.”

“Yes,” said Kiin, “you could do that. We can go now.”

But Three Fish continued talking, telling Kiin about the medicines her mother used to make from fireweed and ugyuun root, and about the bitterroot bulbs that grew so well on the Whale Hunters’ island.

As she listened, a tightness grew in Kiin’s throat. This woman is Samiq’s wife, Kiin thought. This woman has been in Samiq’s arms, has shared Samiq’s sleeping place.

But Kiin’s inside spirit voice whispered: “You had the joy of Samiq for one night. Be glad for that.”

And I have Takha, Kiin thought. Because of that night I have Takha, this son who looks so much like his father. She laid her hands against the bulge under her fur suk where Takha lay, held against her chest by his carrying strap. She moved her hand to her other son—Shuku, twin to Takha—also strapped to her chest.

“But remember,” Kiin’s spirit voice whispered. “Amgigh is your husband.”

Yes, Kiin thought. Amgigh. He is a good husband. What woman could want better? And Amgigh gave me Shuku. Who, seeing Shuku, could doubt he was Amgigh’s son?

“Amgigh also gave you the night you spent with Samiq,” Kiin’s spirit voice reminded her. “It was his choice to share you with his brother.”

“I am glad to be Amgigh’s wife,” Kiin said. “You know that.”

But her spirit answered, “Who can explain the difference between something chosen by the mind and something decided by the heart? Words are not kelp string. They cannot bind pain into neat packs to be stored away like food in a cache.”

Kiin wrapped her arms around her upraised knees, cradling Takha and Shuku between her chest and legs. Three Fish was still talking, her words as steady as the wind. Kiin closed her eyes and tried to think of something other than husbands and babies, something besides the rain and Three Fish’s loud voice. But the thoughts that came to her were again worrying thoughts, and a strange unrest beset her feet and hands.

“It is this shelter,” her spirit voice whispered. “The walls are too close. The oil lamp light is too dim. Turn your mind toward sky and sea, toward high mountains and long grass.”

Then there was a pause in Three Fish’s talking, and Kiin realized that the woman had asked her a question. Did Kiin like to sew birdskins more than sealskins?

What did it matter, birdskins or sealskins? Kiin thought, but she said, “Birdskins.”

“Birdskins?” Three Fish said. “But they tear so easily and it takes so many to make one suk.”

“Yes, you are right,” Kiin answered, but wished Three Fish would stop talking. Kiin pulled Takha from his carrying strap. Maybe if Three Fish were holding him, she would be quiet.

Kiin wrapped the baby in one of the few dry furs from her bed and handed him to Three Fish. He opened his eyes, looked solemnly at Kiin, then turned his head toward Three Fish and smiled. Three Fish laughed and again began to babble, this time to the baby.

Kiin sighed and looked down inside her suk at Shuku. He was asleep. Suddenly she heard what Three Fish was saying to Takha: “Your father will fight and you will be safe. Do not worry. He is strong.”

Kiin pushed herself across the bedding to Three Fish and clasped the woman by both arms. “What did you say?” Kiin asked.

“Only what Amgigh told me, that we must stay here because there are men on the beach who want to trade for women.”

Kiin’s heart moved up to pound at the base of her throat. “And Amgigh will fight them?” she asked Three Fish.

Three Fish pulled away from Kiin’s hands and scooted back against the damp wall of their shelter. “He said he might,” she answered. “All I know is that I saw one of them. A man with a black blanket over his shoulders. Even his face was black. I think Samiq and Amgigh were afraid he would want us.”

“The Raven,” Kiin said. “My brother Qakan sold me to him. I was his wife at the Walrus People’s village. He has come to take me back.” Her voice cracked, and the sound was like a scattering of words broken away from a mourning song.

Three Fish stared at her as though she did not understand what Kiin had said.

“Amgigh cannot win a fight against him,” Kiin whispered. The Raven was too strong, too cunning.

Amgigh would die unless Kiin went with the Raven, and if she went back with the Raven, back to the Walrus People, what would happen to her sons? One would die. Woman of the Sky and Woman of the Sun, those two old ones—the Grandmother and the Aunt—they would tell the whole village about the curse.