The Storyteller Trilogy (47 page)

Even if she had known Red Leaf better, it was not a good time for Aqamdax to trust her own insight. Yes, she should ask Chakliux.

“I do not want to embarrass our husband,” Aqamdax said, knowing that Red Leaf did all she could to honor Sok. “I still stumble in my words. I have much to learn.”

“I will try to help you,” Red Leaf said, and again, though the woman looked into Aqamdax’s eyes as she spoke, Aqamdax was not sure she could trust her. “If you do not know a word, I will try to say it for you.”

“Thank you,” Aqamdax answered, but wondered if Red Leaf would risk making a fool of Sok in order to humiliate Aqamdax. Probably not. She seemed to value order and did not often laugh or pull jokes. Her eyes always followed Sok when he was near, and she mentioned him often in her conversations with other women.

Red Leaf’s hands were always busy, and now, even though she had come to Aqamdax’s lodge only to bring a few hare furs for Aqamdax to scrape, she had also brought her sewing. She was making a pair of dance boots for Sok, though the ones he had were new and beautiful. She rolled the caribouskin uppers and slipped her needle into a bit of hide and tucked it into her needle case. She held the walrus hide case so Aqamdax could see it, and Aqamdax, knowing the woman’s pride in it, commented, admiring the sewn pattern of lines and circles.

“I go now,” she told Aqamdax. “I will see you tonight. I will help if I can.” She stopped at the entrance tunnel. “You should have water. How many bladders do you own?”

“Four.”

Red Leaf cocked her head to one side, pursed her lips. “I will bring three. That should be enough.”

She left and Aqamdax sat considering their conversation. It did not seem that Red Leaf wanted Aqamdax to fail in the storytelling. Perhaps she had grown accustomed to the idea that she would have to share Sok, if not with Aqamdax, then with some other woman. Better he have me, Aqamdax thought. As a First Men woman, I will never have the status that one who was born here would have.

She lifted two bladders from the lodge poles. She would take them to the river, fill them with fresh water. She should also gather firewood, have a good heap of it near the door, ready to bring inside if rain threatened, ready to light if insects or cold disturbed their storytelling.

She walked through the village, wondered if Ghaden and his sister Yaa were near. If so, they would see her and come. Yesterday Ghaden had sat on her lap when she told him stories. She loved the weight of him against her chest, the smell of his soft hair, the sound of his laughter when she told a joke. She was also beginning to see Yaa as sister. The girl was an unusual child—an adult in a child’s body—always busy, always serious. If Aqamdax could choose a younger sister, Yaa would be the one.

There were others at the river, some fishing with thin handlines of twisted sinew. Aqamdax still used her kelp line, though some of the women laughed at her. Let them laugh; kelp was strong. She would not have to worry about a broken line if she caught a large fish.

Aqamdax walked to the place where the women filled their water bladders. The bank sloped gently to the river and a curve of sand made a beach large enough to launch boats, a good place to sit and repair nets or wade out in shallow water.

When she heard Chakliux’s voice, she turned and smiled at him. He squatted on his haunches as though he were First Men and offered her a strip of dried fish. She finished filling her bladders, then came to him, took the fish and offered him a bladder of water. He drank, squeezing a bit of water out onto the fish to soften the meat.

She squatted beside him and ate without speaking. When he had finished his meat, he took another drink, then handed her the bladder. She drank, replaced the ivory stopper and set the bladder at her feet.

“You are telling stories tonight,” Chakliux said.

“Yes, but it is too soon,” she replied.

“You tell stories each day to the children.”

Aqamdax laughed. “They tell me as many stories as I tell them. They teach me.”

“They have taught you well.”

“There is much I do not know,” she said. Often she chose the wrong word. Often she had to repeat herself.

“You will have to speak slowly. Some of the old ones who do not hear well, they will get caught by the sound of your First Men voice and in that way lose the River words.”

“I will speak slowly,” Aqamdax said. She was disappointed. She had hoped he would take her side and try to convince Sok to wait. “You are storyteller, as I am. I do not have to explain the magic of words to you,” she said. “But how can I be sure my First Men stories will come out strong and whole when I must use River words to tell them?”

For a long time, Chakliux watched the river. Finally he drew a long string of sinew from a pouch at his waist. He twisted it in his fingers until Aqamdax could see the form of an otter outlined in knots and turns.

“Walrus Hunters use strings to help them tell their stories,” Chakliux told her. “I have heard that Tundra women draw their stories in the snow using knives of wood and ivory.” He reached over and took her left hand in his, looped the sinew string around her wrist and tied it.

Aqamdax’s breath caught in her throat, and for a moment she forgot everything but the warmth of his touch.

“When your words seem thin, remember this sinew bracelet.” He circled her wrist with his fingers. “Remember that it is stronger than it looks. Remember that I am here with you.”

He dropped her hand and stood.

“I still have many questions,” Aqamdax told him. “Do you have time to help me?” She knew she sounded like a child, pestering, but she wanted to keep him beside her, if only for a moment longer.

He looked up at the sun. “Yes. I have weapons to prepare, but I have time.”

“Bring your weapons to my lodge,” Aqamdax told him. “You can work there.”

Aqamdax knew he would tell her of some taboo. He seldom entered her lodge. When he did, he usually brought one of his nephews with him.

“Bring Carries Much or Cries-loud if you want,” she told him, hurrying to get her words in before he could speak.

“I will come,” he said, and then he was gone, striding away toward the village.

“A man like you should have more than one wife,” Sok said, gesturing with the half-empty bowl he held in his right hand. “The old shaman at the Walrus village had three wives.”

“My woman would not be happy,” Wolf-and-Raven said.

Sok lifted the bowl to his mouth, sucked in some broth. Wolf-and-Raven was not a man who easily made up his mind. Even in repeating chants and prayers, it was better if someone told him what was needed.

Sok, like most hunters in the village, often tired of old Ligige’’s loud voice—the woman should have been a man, she was so fond of making decisions—but now he wished his aunt were here. If he had thought she might agree with him, he would have brought her, but who could say what she might decide? He had avoided her since his grandfather’s death. She could talk about little else. She seemed to live that day over and over, as though by her thoughts alone she could change what had happened. If thoughts could change what had happened in the past, there would be much in Sok’s life that would be different. Yes, many, many things.

“Your daughter needs a good husband, someone who might someday be chief hunter of this village,” said Sok.

Wolf-and-Raven slurped noisily from his bowl, then looked at Sok over the rim. “My wife also tells me that.”

“I will be a good husband to her.”

“She would be second wife.”

“I would honor her as though she were first wife.”

“We had this same conversation before your grandfather’s death. I told you then I would give Snow-in-her-hair only as first wife.”

“You know that since she would not take Chakliux, the hunters fear her. They think she might bring them bad luck.”

Wolf-and-Raven raised his eyebrows. “And you are not afraid of her, even though she refused your brother?”

“Why should I fear someone who refused my brother? You think he would curse me? We are hunting partners. He lives in my wife’s lodge.”

“That is true,” Wolf-and-Raven said. “That is true.”

“You know I have much I will give for her, more than just the First Men woman, as much as any daughter could bring.”

“Why do you think I would want the Sea Hunter woman?”

“You must hear her as she tells stories. She has powers you cannot believe. When words come from her mouth, they carry you to other places, other times. She is gifted, that one.”

For a long time Wolf-and-Raven sat without speaking. For a long time Sok waited. He had nearly decided to stand, to leave and tell Aqamdax they would not have the storytelling, but then Wolf-and-Raven spoke, slowly, quietly.

“Say nothing to your wife Red Leaf. I do not want my wife to know yet.”

The words put hope in Sok’s heart, and he leaned forward, gripping the food bowl so tightly the wood groaned within his hands.

“You say this Sea Hunter woman will tell stories tonight?” Wolf-and-Raven asked.

“Yes.”

“I will be there. I will listen. If she pleases me, we will make a trade. Tomorrow, you will give her to me as second wife, but my daughter stays with me during the caribou hunt. You can claim her when the hunt is over.”

No fool, this one, Sok thought. He would have two wives and a daughter to help him butcher his meat and prepare his hides. He would get little help from the First Men woman, but at least she would learn and be ready for the next year. Perhaps Blue Flower would be more willing to teach her than Red Leaf was.

“It is good,” Sok replied. He left the lodge quickly, before Wolf-and-Raven could change his mind.

Aqamdax scattered fresh grass and dried fireweed flowers over the floor. The River People covered their floors with caribou hides, but she used grass as she had been taught. What smelled better than grass and dried flowers? She had brought woven mats with her and hung them against the walls. The pattern of the weaving drew the eye away from the ashes of the hearth fire to the beauty of the lodge walls. The first time Red Leaf had seen Aqamdax’s lodge, she had covered her mouth with one hand, hiding surprise or laughter, Aqamdax did not know, but who could expect these River women to understand something that was beautiful when they made their baskets from fish skin?

There was a scratching at her door, and she bent to call through the entrance tunnel, welcoming the one outside, hoping it was Chakliux.

When she lived with the First Men in the chief hunter’s ulax, she had always been glad when men came to see her, glad to know she would not face the darkness of the night alone. With Chakliux, she felt a different kind of gladness. She wanted to look into his eyes when she told him a riddle. She wanted to hear his voice, deep and full from his chest, when he spoke to her. Even with Day Breaker, she had never felt that way.

She was not sure why Chakliux pleased her. He was not a large man, though his arms were strong. Perhaps it was the power of his otter foot. Perhaps it was the quickness of his mind. Often before she slept her thoughts turned to him, and just as often she told herself she should not think so much about her husband’s brother. But even in her dreams he came to her, and who could control dreams?

She smiled, but her smile changed to a mouth open in surprise when the one who entered her lodge was not Chakliux but one of the old women of the village, one of Chakliux’s aunts, though Aqamdax could not remember her name.

“W-welcome, Aunt,” she stammered.

The woman cocked her head at her as though considering the relationship Aqamdax so easily claimed. “Aunt to your husband, that is true,” she finally said.

There was a sharpness in her voice that drew Aqamdax’s anger, and the words came too quickly to Aqamdax’s tongue. “You are not sure you want to be aunt to someone who is not quite human. According to my people’s stories, we are brothers to the sea otter. Considering your nephew Chakliux, perhaps we are more closely related than you think.”

The old woman narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth, and at that moment Chakliux came into the lodge. Hii! Aqamdax thought, a good way to begin my first storytelling, insulting one of the elders, aunt to my husband. Why do I always speak before I think?

Then, to Aqamdax’s surprise, the old woman began to laugh. It was a deep, rolling laugh, something that might come from a young woman’s mouth, and Chakliux, watching, also began to laugh, until even Aqamdax found her lips curling into a smile.

The old woman sat down near the center of the lodge, near the fire, and Chakliux sat down beside her, his legs crossed. Aqamdax brought them bowls of fish soup and a bladder of water.

The aunt wiped her eyes on her sleeve and accepted the soup from Aqamdax’s hands.

“Red Leaf told you that you need not prepare food for the listeners?” Chakliux asked.

“Yes,” Aqamdax answered, grateful to find out that the woman had told her the truth. “But it is not yet time for stories, and you are family.” She looked into the old woman’s eyes, saw the slight raising of her eyebrows. A good sign.

“This wife of Sok’s,” the old woman said, turning to speak to Chakliux as if Aqamdax had left the lodge, “she has the wrong husband.”

Aqamdax’s hands were suddenly still. Did she know about Sok’s plans to trade her to Wolf-and-Raven?

Chakliux opened his mouth, then closed it again as though he could not decide what to say. Finally he looked at Aqamdax, holding her eyes as he spoke. “My brother has told me of his plans to trade her. Perhaps to Wolf-and-Raven.”

“Wolf-and-Raven could do worse,” the old woman said, “but you are the one who should have her.”

“Yes, I am,” Chakliux said, and did not move his eyes from Aqamdax’s face.

Sok wore his finest parka. Red Leaf had made it of wolf and marten, the lighter, longer-furred wolf skins worked diagonally and alternating with the smooth, dark brown marten pelts. At the center of the back, she had made the sun pattern from pieces of a yellow-white hide Sok had bought in trade. It was so thick and stiff, Red Leaf’s hands had cracked and bled in the sewing. She had decorated the parka sleeves with scraped caribou intestine, some frozen and dried into a pure whiteness, alternating with strips she had dyed red, and others dyed black. The front of the parka was hung with fish teeth, drilled and sewn to dangle in two long rows from his shoulders to his waist, and behind each fish tooth she had hung a dark, iridescent cormorant throat feather.