The Storyteller Trilogy (101 page)

But finally Sand Fly’s words slowed, her eyelids drooped, and she asked, “You think it is time for sleep now?”

“Yes, time for sleep,” K’os said. She banked the coals, then guided Sand Fly toward her bed.

“You are a good woman,” Sand Fly said to K’os. “It is too bad that other one came. Cen should have you as wife.” She squinted and looked up into K’os’s face. “Maybe he will throw her away when he sees you. You are prettier. Gheli is a quiet one, and not too friendly. What man wants a wife like that? She probably isn’t too friendly in his bed, either.” Sand Fly cackled, and K’os forced herself to join her laughter. “Of course, she sews well, that one. You should see the parkas she makes for Cen and the blankets she has for her baby.”

“Already, they have a baby?”

“She came with the baby. A girl, though, but big and strong like her mother. But those parkas…I wish I had one myself.”

K’os pressed a hand against the old woman’s mouth. “Hush now, Aunt. Your husband is sleeping, and you should be also.”

She helped the woman into her bedding furs, covered her, then lay down in her own bed.

A wife…Gheli. Under her breath, K’os cursed the woman and her daughter. At least it was a daughter, that child. The wife could sew. Well, K’os had yet to see any woman who was more gifted with awl and needle than she was, not even Gull Beak…not even Red Leaf.

K’os sat up in her bed. Red Leaf. The first woman she had met in the village. She was tall and wide like Red Leaf. She had carried a baby under her parka, the garment cut large through the neck and shoulders. And that parka…She remembered admiring Red Leaf’s parkas during that brief time she had spent in the Near River Village the winter before the fighting.

K’os crawled from her bed, shook Sand Fly awake. Sand Fly looked at her, blinked as though trying to remember who she was.

“Tree Climber is sick?” she finally asked.

“No. He is asleep.”

“Why do you wake me?”

“I…I was afraid I had made your tea too strong. You slept so quickly, but I see you are fine.”

Sand Fly patted K’os’s hand. “Yes, I am fine,” she answered. “You should make yourself some tea for your hands, you know. It might help.” Sand Fly closed her eyes. “Some tea, some kind of tea,” she mumbled. “I wish I knew of some kind…I wish…”

“Aunt,” K’os asked, pinching the woman’s arm to bring her back from her babbling, “did Cen’s wife go with him on the caribou hunt or is she still here in the village?”

Sand Fly’s eyes fluttered open. “Cen’s wife? Cen’s wife? Oh, she is here. He wouldn’t let her go, you know. With the baby. She is here. I can take you to her. Tomorrow, we will visit her.” Sand Fly’s eyes closed, and she slept.

THE COUSIN RIVER CAMP

C
HAKLIUX CREPT INTO HIS
lean-to, saw with a rise of irritation that Star had not unrolled his bedding furs. His lean-to and Star’s faced one another, their open sides nearly meeting around a small warming hearth. Ghaden and Biter were already asleep in the back of the lean-to. Chakliux peered through the smoke haze of the fire, thought he could see Star and Yaa both asleep, Star in front, closest to the hearth, Yaa behind her.

Chakliux had returned to camp well before dark, but he had sat on the leeward side of his lean-to, his hands working over a spear shaft, until the sun set. His thoughts, strong and shining, had been on Aqamdax, and he had to keep his mouth shut against songs that would betray his joy.

When darkness settled over their camp, Sky Watcher came, asked Chakliux to join the men, tell hunting stories from years past. Chakliux went to the men, raised his eyes toward the night and offered a silent prayer. Then he settled himself on a pad of caribou hide and began a litany of stories.

He had told those same stories many times before, but this night his tongue was thick, his words slow and clumsy. The men grew restless, and finally he asked Sok to tell tales from the Near River People. Take More began to grumble, but Sok stopped his complaints with the assurance that he would tell only stories of that time when the Cousin and Near River were one people.

When Sok finished, each man returned to his own tent. The sky was black—no stars, no moon—and Chakliux found his way by the light from hearth coals that glowed red at each lean-to. He looked up, wondered if those grandfathers Sok had spoken about had somehow closed up the holes that let men see the light of the spirit world. If Chakliux had brought a curse on himself, that was something he deserved, and he would bear it in exchange for his time with Aqamdax, but what if he had cursed other men? What if his storytelling from now on was always slow and cumbersome? And what if Aqamdax carried that same curse?

He unrolled his bedding, lay down for a time but could not sleep. He went outside, sat in the darkness and watched Aqamdax’s tent. He asked himself why he should carry any guilt. Night Man had killed Aqamdax’s son—a healthy child. Surely that was worse than anything Chakliux had done.

Perhaps he should tell Aqamdax to throw Night Man away even before they began their journey back to the winter village. But what if the Near River men were waiting for them, planning an attack? It would be difficult enough for the few Cousin hunters to defend themselves and their women without enmity between Chakliux and Night Man.

Better to wait. He tried to lift prayers to those spirits that lived in the earth and sky and water but was not sure if they could help a man who had cursed himself by breaking the promises of a marriage bond. How could caribou spirits help? How could otter? Did bear spirits understand such things? Could they forgive? What about the spirits of those who were Dzuuggi before him? Would they understand or condemn?

Aqamdax lay still when Night Man came into his lean-to. She would not go to him, even if he demanded. How could she bear his hands after knowing the joy of Chakliux’s touch? She wished she had left Night Man before the hunt. How could that have brought a curse? Caribou were good mothers. They kept their calves close and defended them against wolves. They would have no difficulty understanding a woman who did not want to lose another child. Surely they would not expect her to keep a husband like Night Man.

“Aqamdax,” Night Man said.

Aqamdax felt her chest tighten, and it seemed as though her heart slowed almost to stopping. “You are hungry?” she asked in a small voice.

He made a harsh sound that was nearly a laugh. “Hungry, yes,” he said. “Not for food.”

Aqamdax lay very still, said nothing, and Night Man moved as though to come to her bed.

“No, stay there,” Aqamdax said. “I will come to you. Lay down. Let me rub your back.”

She waited for his answer, holding her breath. He groaned, rolled over. “Be careful. My shoulder was worse today.”

He did much for having little strength in his left arm, Aqamdax thought, and knew she had to give grudging respect for that. Sok had worked with him, helped him relearn the use of spear and thrower, even without the balance of a strong left arm and shoulder. He could not throw his spears as fast as another man, but at least he could again consider himself a hunter.

She lay a hand on his shoulder. It was hot. The wound seemed to keep the fever of its illness within itself, but for two moons now there had been no sign of drainage from the scar, and the lumps under his arm seemed a little smaller.

Aqamdax moved her hands to his back, kneaded the muscles. She felt as though the touch of Night Man’s skin soiled her. It was one thing to show concern for his wound, something much different to give him pleasure.

“I have caribou leaves we can heat as a poultice for your shoulder,” she said.

He snorted. “You are worse than a mother.”

Aqamdax got up, felt her way into the darkness at the back of her tent, groped into one of her packs until she found a short-bladed knife, two ground squirrel hides and a cilt’ogho of caribou leaves. She picked up another cilt’ogho, much similar to the first, and held them toward the hearth so he could see them both.

“I have two here, but it is too dark for me to tell which one has the caribou leaves. Perhaps the moon has risen and will give enough light to show me.”

“There is no moon,” he said, and began to complain, but she crawled out of the tent before his complaints turned to demands. She looked toward Chakliux’s lean-to, was sure she saw him sitting outside, his back to Star’s warming hearth. She pulled up the sleeve of her parka and she cut her forearm, watched the blood well. She wiped the wound with a ground squirrel hide, and tucked the bloody hide between her legs, then went back inside the lean-to, knelt beside Night Man.

“It is good I went outside,” she told him. “The hearth light showed me that I have begun my bleeding. I must leave. This container is full of caribou leaves if you want them.”

She set the cilt’ogho beside him and went to her bed, rolled several blankets, picked up a pack of supplies.

“It is too soon,” Night Man said. “Your last bleeding was at the full moon.”

“It is like that for a woman who has just given birth,” Aqamdax replied. “Especially when the baby dies and she does not have another child to take her milk.”

He followed her from the lean-to, stood beside the warming fire. His eyes were dark slits.

“I ask you into my bed, and you suddenly discover you are bleeding,” Night Man said.

“I will come to your bed if you want,” Aqamdax told him. She set down her pack and lifted her parka, pulled the bloody hide from between her legs, held it up with two fingers so he could see the stains. “I am not the one who will be cursed.”

Night Man muttered an insult, then went back into the tent.

Aqamdax walked through the camp to the small tikiyaasde, a tent set aside for women in moon blood. Chakliux had told her that they would leave for the winter village in a day or so, and because she claimed to be bleeding, she would have to walk behind the others, make a separate camp at night. It was something the women spoke about with dread, that separation for bleeding, or worse, giving birth when traveling, but it was better than having Night Man in her bed.

THE NEAR RIVER PEOPLE

Dii’s eyes were on Blue Flower’s back as the woman trudged in front of her. Blue Flower was a good one to follow, knew how to pick her way through the tundra bog. They had begun in early morning, but now at midday the sun had softened the ground. At least it was not cold enough to freeze wet feet, but Dii wished for a night of deep cold that would harden the tundra, ice the marshy ponds and small rivulets that wound their way through the moss and tussocks.

Anaay sent hunters ahead of the people and to each side. The men returned to camp each night after the women had set up the lean-tos. Dii knew they would see no caribou. It was strange, that knowing, and she had finally come to the place where she no longer questioned herself. The caribou were a day’s walk east, the herd moving south just as the Near River People moved south.

She had told no one except K’os about hearing caribou songs, and she knew that even K’os had not truly believed her. She missed K’os. The woman’s words were often sharp and disdainful, and she was one to give insults as quickly as others made greetings, but she had much knowledge of plants and medicines. During the journey to the hunting river, she had filled the long walk with explanations of which plants were useful and when to take them from the earth, how to make roots or leaves or flowers into medicines, even dyes.

K’os spoke quickly and sometimes under her breath, as though what she said was more to help herself than Dii, but Dii had stayed close, listened carefully, and each night repeated in her mind what K’os had said. Now, as she followed Blue Flower, she watched for plants, saw many that were familiar, remembered how to use them.

They made camp that night on a small rise crowded with willow, alder and resin birch. Except for demands for food and the repair of his clothing, Anaay had ignored her during much of the hunting trip. This night he was more gentle, and she was not surprised when he pulled her into his lean-to even before most of the people had left the cooking fire. He took her quickly, not even pushing up her parka. After he rolled away from her, she tried to straighten his clothing, lifted bedding furs over him.

He grunted at her, then said, “I have decided we will not yet return to the winter village.”

Dii felt her heart drop. Even the Near River Village would seem good after this hunting trip. She was ready to spend her days setting out traplines, learning sewing skills from Gull Beak, gathering those few plants that K’os had said could still be taken before snow covered them. Soon she would give Anaay K’os’s medicine, then perhaps she would have the good fortune of giving birth in the summer, when babies had the best chance to grow strong.

“Why?” Dii asked. “The women need to get back. We must be ready for winter.”

“You are foolish enough to ask why?” Anaay demanded. He sat up in his bed. “How can we return? We do not have enough meat. The Cousin River People cursed us.”

A sudden thrust of anger filled Dii’s mouth with insults about Anaay’s choice to hunt at another people’s river, but what wife would venture to say such things to a husband?

“For the last two nights I have dreamed of caribou,” Anaay said.

Dii’s hopes rose. Perhaps he knew the caribou walked close to them, people and caribou, like rivers running parallel courses.

But then he said, “They are west of us, a day’s walk, perhaps two. That is all.”

It was true that the Near River People told stories each year of a herd of caribou that claimed the land close to the sea, walking the shores, each track like two curved moons in the gray and yellow sands.

Anaay spoke then of the herds he had dreamed, of bulls and cows, of calves that shadowed their mothers as they followed the shores to that land where the Sea Hunters made their villages.

Dii had heard the Sea Hunter woman Aqamdax speak of caribou. Perhaps Anaay was right, but there was a fearful knowing in her mind that he was not.

The dark of the tent gave her courage. It was always easier to speak when others could not see your face. So in quiet words she began, first describing her dreams, so her husband would know that she spoke not as a child but as someone who had experienced the same knowing he had been given.