The Storyteller Trilogy (44 page)

She had never been one to rush forward, to greet traders or hunters until she decided what kind of men they were. Once such foolishness had cost her much. She would not repeat her mistake. She crouched between her dogs, an arm around each animal’s neck, and spoke in a stern voice until their barking had faded to thin, high whines.

When the man finally drew close enough for her to see his face, she remembered him, recalled inviting him into her bed. He had been in too much of a hurry for her taste, but had been generous in his trading. His face had changed—more than what would be expected only from the passing of years. His nose had been broken and a scar drew his mouth into a pucker, but still his eyes and the bones of his cheeks were the same.

The shaman He Talks puffed himself up to hold his shoulders straight, his sagging belly in. He approached the man, soon was arguing with him, telling him that he had never been to their village. K’os drew her mouth into a smirk. What did He Talks know?

K’os rose, walked slowly toward the trader. He had set down his boat, and she could see that he wore a peaked hat. It seemed to be made of wood, thin and bent into the shape of a woman’s breast, but large enough to fit over a hunter’s head. It was waterproofed with strips of gut. She could understand the reason for such a thing, especially on the sea. It would shade the eyes and even protect against rain. It might be something a hunter would wear, or a shaman. Either way, it must hold power. She wanted it, and by the time the trader left them, she would have it.

“He has been here before,” K’os said to He Talks.

He Talks turned to her, and K’os saw that his eyes were dark in anger. He did not like her. She was a woman, and younger than he was, but her power was greater. He was afraid of her. He had been the first to throw accusations against her in Gguzaakk’s death, the first to withdraw them after three nights of stomach pains and loose, bloody stools. He had not even had the decency to thank her for the medicine she had given him, a medicine that took away the pain almost as quickly as it had come.

“He has been here before,” she repeated. “He was a guest in my fish camp lodge, a friend of my dead husband.” That reference to Ground Beater should be enough to convince those few who still doubted. Who would risk mentioning someone dead unless that mention carried great importance?

She stepped forward and looked into the trader’s face, so close that the beak of the hat extended forward over her head. Yes, he was the same one. She was not wrong. Ah, but what was his name? Something about the earth. Yes, tundra—Cen.

“What happened to your face, Cen?” she asked, and smiled at her boldness.

Her question surprised him. She was not a young woman, but a man would have difficulty knowing such a thing. Her face was beautiful, but who could have accumulated the cold knowledge in those eyes without living a long time?

He almost answered her with a joke, but for some reason the words that came out of his mouth were harsh, angry. Words that told the truth.

“The Near River People killed my wife and nearly killed me,” he said. “They still have my son—unless they have killed him also.”

More people had gathered now, the hunters crowded so close that they pressed against him on all sides. They spoke to one another quietly, their voices like a low rumble in the throat of a dog. He pulled up his sleeve so they could see his misshapen wrist.

The growl rolled into a deep roar of anger, but the woman who stood before him lifted her voice to call out, “We have a common enemy. They steal our fish and curse our hunting. They have turned my own son against us.”

Cen saw several elders step back, pull at young men in the crowd, but the hunters pushed them away.

“Do you seek revenge?” she asked, hissing the words into his face.

“Yes,” he told her. “And I want my son.”

She turned with arms spread, and in that way widened the circle of people. “You see,” she said, “we are not the only ones the Near River People have cursed.” She looked over her shoulder at Cen. “Those with the same enemies should lend their strength to one another. Our winter village is three days’ walk. Will you come with us?”

He looked at her. The question was more than something asked in hope of trading.

“There is a traders’ lodge where I might stay? I no longer have my own lodge poles.”

“There is a lodge where you can stay,” she said. Then she clasped his left hand, pushed up his sleeve, her hand hovering for a moment over the haft of the blade he had sheathed there. She ran strong fingers over the wrist, palpitating the swelling that extended up his arm.

He noticed that her hands were the hands of an old woman, with pocked skin and large purple veins. He wondered how far that oldness extended—to her breasts, her belly? Or was her body young like her face?

“I have something that will take the pain from your wrist,” she said.

“I can bear the pain, but I need to regain my strength.”

“I may be able to help with that,” she said, then shrugged. “And I may not, but pain weakens the will.”

“I will go with you,” Cen replied.

The woman left then, and again the hunters crowded close, asking questions about the First Men hat he wore and about the seal flipper boots on his feet.

He had been wise to come to these people. If nothing else, he would make good trades. He lifted his eyes to where the woman had been sitting. But he might gain more than that. Perhaps much more than that.

THE NEAR RIVER VILLAGE

GREEN STRIPE GIGGLED, AND
Best Fist said, “Dats’eni.”

“Dats’eni,” Aqamdax said, correcting herself.

“You are getting better,” said Best Fist.

Aqamdax smiled at her and said, “Because you help me.” Best Fist, a girl who had not been blessed with comely face or quickness of hands, straightened her back and lifted her eyebrows at Aqamdax, and Aqamdax continued her story. It was about a duck and a raven, one of the few the River children had told her. She had made it her own by adding voices and giving the duck a good amount of wisdom as weapon against the raven’s cunning.

When she finished the story, one of the children sang out a request for another. “The last one,” Aqamdax told them, though she truly enjoyed telling stories, and the telling did not slow her fingers as she sewed a caribouskin parka for Red Leaf’s youngest son.

More than two tens of children had gathered to listen to her stories that day. Even a few of the oldest boys stood at the edge of the group, each with a practice spear or bola in his hands, as though he had stopped for only a moment.

First the children had merely watched her when she sat outside her new lodge to sew or scrape hides. She had tried to speak to them, but found they slipped away if she looked at them. So one day she did not lift her eyes from her sewing, but began to sing songs using the few words of the River language that she knew. One day she began to tell stories, simple things about animals or plants, speaking as though she talked to herself.

Finally the children grew bold enough to sit near her, and then to tell her stories as well, and to correct her words, to answer her questions about the way things were done in the village.

She found they were remarkable teachers, and so during the two moons she had lived in the village, she had already learned much of the language. It was good, too, to have the children as friends. Now that she had her own lodge, she was often alone, though Sok came some nights to share her bed, and each day Red Leaf brought her more work to do.

Usually Chakliux came each morning, at first to share new River words and perhaps a bowl of food, but now they were friends. She told him about her people, and she, too, was a teacher, sharing First Men words as Chakliux shared his language with her.

For the past four days, Chakliux had been away hunting bear, and soon, after a short time home, he would leave for the caribou hunt. She would not go on that hunt, Red Leaf had told her, though Red Leaf, Sok and their sons would go. Someone had to stay with the dogs left behind. Someone had to watch the lodges. It did not matter to Aqamdax. Having never been on a caribou hunt, she would be like a child, always in the way.

She was glad Red Leaf was going, but she would miss Chakliux. Even now, with him away on the bear hunt, she felt a small ache under her ribs each time she thought of him. He had taught her not only River People words, but also some of the riddles spoken in the Cousin River Village, the village where Chakliux, though he was brother to Sok, had been raised.

Aqamdax ended her story and stood up, bringing groans and sighs from the children. “Come tomorrow. There will be more stories then,” she said.

“A riddle before we go,” pleaded Yaa, a girl whose little brother sat with his face hidden against her chest each time they came.

“Look,” Aqamdax said, beginning as Chakliux had taught her, “I see something.”

“A bird,” one of the boys called out before she could finish.

“A cloud,” said Best Fist.

“A dead animal, stinking,” said River Ice Dancer, a boy Aqamdax had learned to ignore.

“It brings a feast,” said someone behind her.

Aqamdax turned at the voice, a sudden gladness in her heart. “An easy riddle,” she said, then asked, “You bring meat?”

“If the riddle is so easy, why do you ask?” said Chakliux.

He looked thinner than he had when he left, and his parka needed to be brushed, one of the sleeves was torn at the seam, but his eyes were bright and he was smiling.

“Hunters are back?” several of the children asked, then bounded off to tell the news.

“It is good my lodge is here at the edge of the village,” Aqamdax said. “I am first to learn good things.”

“You speak well, Aqamdax,” Chakliux told her. “Even in these few days I have been gone, you have learned more, though you still speak your words like First Men do.”

“I
am
First Men,” she said softly. “I will always be First Men. I will not change. I will learn, but I will not change. You, Otter Foot, should understand that as well as anyone.”

He smiled at her, and she looked into his eyes, found she had to look away. It was not good to have her heart quicken for Chakliux when she did not feel that way about Sok.

She turned as though to enter her lodge, but looked back over her shoulder to ask if Chakliux was hungry.

“We have spent the last day eating, honoring the animals we have taken, and tonight, I am sure, the women will prepare another feast, though only with the meat the women can touch.”

Aqamdax shook her head. There were strange taboos among these people. Some were what anyone would expect—the burial of bones, the honoring of animals. Others, such as the eating and preparation of bear meat, the use of certain birds and animals, seemed strange and senseless. But who was she to comment? She was a woman of the First Men, and Sea Hunters seldom took a bear.

“They will cook the meat at the hearths?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Are there taboos I should know?”

“Do you have a new ladle or stirring stick?”

“I can get a stirring stick,” she said.

“Good. Bring that. I told you women should not say the name of the animal?”

“Yes.”

“Remember that, and also, do not eat until Red Leaf has eaten.”

Aqamdax raised her eyebrows. “It is taboo?”

“It is a custom of politeness.”

Aqamdax felt the first stirrings of anger, like the anger she had often known when she lived with He Sings’s wives and their foolish rules.

“Perhaps I will not go. I have good food here.” She nodded toward the food cache near her lodge. It was a high platform that held a small square of logs where she kept meat and dried fish, berries saved in oil, and the few bellies of seal fat she had brought all the way from her village. “I have walrus meat, too,” she said, though Chakliux himself had been the one to give it to her.

Chakliux looked away, and she thought she saw disappointment in his eyes. No, she told herself, do not believe he cares for you. You have a husband. He has given you your own lodge. Perhaps someday you will have the good luck to bear children.

But as Chakliux walked away, he said softly, “Two of the animals are mine.”

“Perhaps I will have the honor of preparing their meat for you,” Aqamdax called after him.

THE COUSIN RIVER VILLAGE

Cen held his breath, pulled back the bowstring and loosed the arrow. It flew toward the tree, hit hard against the grass-stuffed goose skin the hunters had hung from a low branch.

Tikaani let out a shout of approval. “Soon you will be as good as any of us,” he said, but Cen knew the words were an exaggeration.

Though his first shots were usually accurate, the longer he practiced in any one day, the worse he became. Finally, his left wrist would throb so hard from the strain of holding the bow, his eyes could no longer guide the arrow to its target.

He shot again, but the arrow flew wide to the left, his wrist buckling as soon as he released the string. “Enough,” he said, and did not miss the sly smile that twisted the side of Tikaani’s face.

Why fault the man? They shared an uneasy peace, the two of them, united by their need for revenge, he for Daes, and Tikaani for two brothers who were dead and another who might as well be, one of his arms crippled, his body weakened by whatever spirit had come in through the wound to fester in sores and lumps.

They also both shared K’os’s bed. No one man could keep K’os as his own, but Cen was not sure Tikaani understood that.

Cen did not hold the same feelings for K’os that he had for Daes, but with his wrist aching, his thoughts had already strayed to K’os’s fingers kneading away his pain, layering hot wet strips of ground squirrel hide tightly over his hand and wrist, the smell of partner grass pungent in the lodge.

“You are ready to go with me,” Tikaani said.

“You are going somewhere?”

“K’os has not told you?” he asked.

She had, but Cen was wise enough to feign surprise. “Told me what?”

“That the hunters are almost ready, that they want us to go first, to scout out the best place to stand for attack. Perhaps we will be able to bring back your son.”