The Storyteller Trilogy (28 page)

Yaa watched the Cousin River People until they disappeared down the bank that led to the river, then she scooted back under the spruce tree. She had to eat quickly. She had been gone a long time, too long for only gathering firewood. She took another few bites, then tucked the rest of her meat inside her parka.

She came out from under the spruce tree and fitted her feet into the prints left by the Cousin River woman, walking the path toward the village. Yaa sighed. It was a sad thing for that woman. At least old Blue Jay had given her a gift, Yaa thought, but it was not much in exchange for a husband.

SUMMER, 6460 B.C.

I
N ANGER I BROUGHT
her into my lodge—into the warmth of my seal oil lamps, the safety of my thick ulax walls. I say this to make you understand that I did not want the path set before us. So do not tell me how an old woman gets her way by whining.

Our path was chosen by the chief hunter of our village and by the women of his ulax. They were given the same dream, each of them, those sister-wives, on the same night. Four women dreaming the same dream. Who can deny the sacredness of that?

Their dreams said that Aqamdax, daughter of Daes—one of those honored as a granddaughter of Shuganan—should come to me, sister of her father’s grandmother, so that Aqamdax could learn to be the next storyteller.

For five tens of years, I have told the old and sacred tales of our people. How else would anyone know about the grandfather Shuganan and the warrior Samiq? From my mouth only came the stories of the otter-caller Chagak, of the trickster Raven and the carver Kiin, and of Kiin’s grandson Ukamax, who gave the First Men their sacred dances. These stories have been passed down, storyteller to storyteller, from a time so distant that no one can count the years.

Those sister-wives, they said the spirits told them Aqamdax was the one. Hii! Their husband may believe them, but I do not.

He is a good man, and so he took the mother and child into his own ulax. Who else would take them with their husband-father dead, cursed by sea animals in his hunting? But did the woman show her gratitude? No.

Soon after her mourning had ended, she took a River People name—Daes—and ran off with a trader. They say she lives now with the River People. Fish-eaters who do not even know how to hunt sea animals!

Hii! What else should you expect from Water Slapper’s daughter?

So listen to what I tell you, for I say the truth: those wives, the chief hunter’s women, they had had enough of Aqamdax’s quarrels, enough of her tricks. What better way to be rid of the girl than to give her to me? Have I not prayed for years that the next storyteller be revealed? Have I not set my eyes on each baby born and begged that it be the one? So how can I dispute the spirits’ decision? After all, Aqamdax is a beautiful woman.

You would not know by seeing her that she is merely a seal bladder nayux, her skin given shape by the breath of her hate.

THE FIRST MEN VILLAGE

BIRD CALLER SHUDDERED AND
released her. Aqamdax reached for him in the darkness, longing for the weight and warmth of his body, but he crept out of her sleeping place without a word. He was no different from the others. Once they were satisfied, they left.

What was he worried about, that the old woman would hear them? You had to shout to get anything into her ears.

There were other men. Aqamdax could fill her nights with them. She rolled herself into her bedding furs and wrapped her arms across her chest. Yes, she would do that. Some evening she would do that. She would get six men, perhaps seven, and all night she would have someone close to her, someone to hold her. Then the cold would leave her bones, and she would be warm like she had been when her father was alive, when the earth was as good and shining as her father’s smile.

The young man walked through the ulax to the climbing log, but Qung pretended she did not see him. They thought she was stupid because she was old, but she saw who came to Aqamdax and how often.

It was almost night. Qung wondered if some other man would come or if Aqamdax would be content with only one. The girl was just like her mother. It would be a blessing to the whole village if some trader would come and take her away. Qung sighed and rolled up the grass mat she was weaving. It was a coarse mat, nothing like the ones she had made when she was young, but her finger joints were swollen and ached so much she could no longer weave split grass.

Until Aqamdax did something—took a husband or left the village—Qung had to teach her, and Aqamdax did not like to be taught. She was quick; it did not take her long to learn a new story. But she could not sit still. She paced as Qung taught her, so that Qung, in turning her head to keep track of the girl, often became dizzy.

Aqamdax practiced the stories; Qung had to admit that. She had even learned to throw her voice, making it seem to come from roof hole or sleeping place, oil lamp or rafter, and she was almost as good at it as Qung herself. But Aqamdax was prone to anger when there was no reason for anger, to throwing things and to pouting.

Aqamdax had lived with her for more than three moons now, and still Qung was not used to the girl’s outbursts. During the first few days, Qung let herself feel hope each time a young hunter came to visit the girl. Aqamdax did have fifteen summers. Most women at that age were married, had children. Now Qung realized there was little hope Aqamdax would find a mate.

Why trust a woman who slept with any man who asked? Besides, what hunter would want a woman who, having had so many opportunities, had not yet become pregnant? And who would want a woman who was always angry, always fighting?

Qung sighed. She was old but still strong. She should live quite a few more winters, but what joy was a long life when you shared your ulax with someone like Aqamdax?

Qung pushed herself slowly to her feet, pinched out several wicks in the large oil lamp, leaving one burning. She waddled to her sleeping place, the lamplight throwing long shadows of her humped shoulders and thin arms on the wall before her. As she pulled back the grass sleeping place curtains, she heard a noise and turned. Someone was coming down the climbing log. Salmon. Why was he here? He had two wives.

Qung clicked her tongue in disgust and waited until Salmon saw her. She shook her head at him, and he looked down, avoiding her eyes. How did these men hope to have any luck hunting when they took so many women to satisfy their desires? Did sea animals respect such weakness? How did Salmon expect to keep his iqyax from becoming jealous when he came to it each morning with the smell of a woman on his hands? Someday it would flip him into the sea. Then who would hunt for his wives and their babies?

Qung settled herself into her sleeping place, taking care to wrap her feet in the thickest fur seal pelt. Old ways were being forgotten. Old taboos ignored. What good was it, being a storyteller, if the people would not listen and learn?

Qung turned herself so her back was to the grass curtain. Perhaps the people were tired of listening to an old voice telling them how things should be. Perhaps it was time to hear the stories told in new ways, by a strong, young voice. But what would happen to those sacred stories when they came from Aqamdax’s mouth? Were they strong enough to keep themselves pure, or would Aqamdax’s disrespect twist them like a woman twists a ptarmigan’s neck?

“I
T IS LONG-SUN
feast tonight,” Qung said.

“I know,” Aqamdax answered, and bit her tongue to stop the ridicule that came too easily into her mouth. Everyone knew it was long-sun feast.

“You have food prepared?” Qung asked.

Aqamdax raised her brows in surprise and spread her hands out over the dried fish and peeled iitikaalux stalks she had layered on grass mats.

Qung nodded as if she had just seen what Aqamdax had done. “Take some of our eggs,” she said.

Again Aqamdax was surprised. The eggs, stored in seal oil and buried in sand, were Qung’s favorite. She did not share them, and even Aqamdax had to sneak to get one from their store, though she had been the one who climbed the cliffs to gather them.

“Eggs?” she repeated, to be sure she had heard the old woman right.

“Eggs. I said eggs,” Qung answered, her voice rising into annoyance. “Take eggs.”

“Yes, Aunt.”

“It is a celebration, you know.”

Aqamdax smiled. “I know.” Long-sun day always brought hope, and the First Men tried to show the sun that they appreciated its rising each morning. If they did not do such a thing, if praises were not made, who could say? Perhaps the sun would choose to stay wherever it went during the night and never return.

“The First Men will have a new storyteller.”

Aqamdax opened her mouth but did not speak. A new storyteller. Qung must mean her, but did she know the stories well enough? What if the people would not listen when she talked? How could she hope to carry their respect as Qung did?

The men came willingly enough into her sleeping place, but she knew what was said behind her back. She understood the anger of wives and mothers. It was one thing for a man on a long journey to take his pleasure with a woman who was willing, but to have such a woman in their village, ready whenever a wife was not …If Aqamdax was wife, she might feel the same resentment.

Yet, she had never been claimed as wife, and each month her bleeding came. So how could she hope to be wife? Why give a bride price for a barren woman when she would welcome you into her bed anyway? Why have to worry about feeding her?

So, would the people listen to someone like her? How would they feel when their sacred stories came from her mouth?

“You are ready,” Qung said. “I know. You are ready.” She said the words with an assurance that settled the anxiety fluttering in Aqamdax’s chest.

“I am ready,” Aqamdax answered, and tried to make her voice sound as sure as Qung’s. She smiled at Qung, at the face so lined with wrinkles you could hardly see the eyes. “Do you think our people are ready for me?”

She laughed when Qung did not answer her, then lifted her head. It would be no different than when she gathered clams with the women or joined the chief’s wives to fish pogy. She was good at ignoring barbed words, sly smiles, narrowing eyes. If she told the stories well enough, perhaps they would forget who was telling and think only of what was being said.

The dancing did not end until the sun had sunk behind the northwest edge of the earth. Qung had kept the ulax dark, lighting only a few wicks in one oil lamp, and Aqamdax wondered if she had done that in hopes the people would forget who was speaking.

Aqamdax had left on her feathered sax, the long, calf-length coat that most First Men wore only outside the ulax. She wished she could wear a winter parka, the hood over her head to protect her from the people’s thoughts. At least the sax hid her belly and breasts, caressed by too many men.

She had not participated in the dancing and had eaten very little during the feast. It seemed as though the people of her stories were alive in her mind, dancing, singing and shouting out their own celebration, whispering into her ears, pushing their songs into her mouth until she was so full of people inside she could not bear the company of those around her.

She had hidden outside in the shadowed lee of the ulax farthest from the celebration, crouching there to listen to the chattering in her head until she finally realized she was leaning against the death ulax.

Aqamdax had stood up to leave, but then decided she would stay. Here she would be left alone. No one would interrupt her as she retold the stories. Perhaps those bones inside the ulax would enjoy hearing the old stories once again.

She began with the Maker’s stories, told how all things were created—sea and sky, earth and animals and man. Then she told of times long ago when sea otters and First Men were brothers. She told how a brother and sister, cursed by sleeping together, became the sun and moon. You could see them still, chasing one another across the sky. She told those stories and stories more recent, of hunters and warriors, of hard winters and good summers. Finally, when the sun had dipped into the earth, she returned to Qung’s ulax.

Qung was waiting. The thin slits of her eyes sparked when Aqamdax climbed down into the ulax. Aqamdax wondered if the old woman would tell stories also, or if she wanted Aqamdax to do all the telling. Usually, when a village had more than one storyteller, they took turns, one telling, then the other, each spinning stories from what had already been told.

They sat in silence for a time, then Qung said, “I will tell the first story. When I have finished, it will be your turn. If anyone objects, do not stop. I will do whatever has to be done.”

“Does anyone know I will be …”

“I have told the chief hunter. Perhaps he will tell his wives. Perhaps not, but what can they say? They are the ones who dreamed you here.”

Aqamdax laughed. Yes, they had dreamed her here. What else could they have done with her? She needed to be a wife. If not that, then why not storyteller?

“Be still, Aqamdax,” Qung said, and Aqamdax realized that she was pacing, moving in long, quick steps from one side of the ulax to the other. She made herself sit down, but her feet jerked and her knees twitched and the muscles of her legs danced under her skin.

“Here,” Qung said, and slipped something into Aqamdax’s hand. The girl opened her fingers. It was a whale’s tooth, carved into the whorls of a shell. Smooth and cool, it lay as though it had been shaped to fit into a hand. Aqamdax’s fingers followed the curves of the whorl, stroking. The nervousness seemed to slide out of her body as her fingers moved, slowly, slowly over the lines of the whale tooth shell.

“It is yours now,” Qung said. “I do not need it.”

Aqamdax was surprised. She had certainly given Qung no reason to offer gifts.

“Shuganan’s?” Aqamdax asked. Her mother had had several of the man’s ancient carvings, but she had taken them with her when she left the First Men.

“No, not Shuganan’s,” Qung answered. “One of his granddaughter’s.”