The Storyteller Trilogy (58 page)

Red Leaf had claimed that she took Chakliux’s iqyax. Who even knew Chakliux had an iqyax? It was hidden in the forest, Sok had said, but why did he hide it? It would be safer in the village.

After a few days, Red Leaf had changed her story. Walrus Hunters had taken Aqamdax, the woman said, in revenge for something she had done. If that was true, what chance did Aqamdax have of survival? If that was true, why would they have also taken Ghaden, and what had happened to Yaa?

Brown Water said Yaa had not been right in her head since Chakliux had found her, and no one knew how she had gotten hurt. Most of the women thought she had been hit by a falling branch and that after Chakliux had left the village, she had probably just wandered away on her own. Someday a hunter would find her bones.

Once Chakliux was gone, the elders claimed there was no more reason to worry about dogs. They were safe. But even without Chakliux in the village dogs were dying again. Now the people blamed Sok. They said he was not as powerful as his grandfather, that he did not know how to protect the dogs. She had heard some of the men speak out against the Cousin River dog, Snow Hawk, and the four pups Chakliux had brought from that village. Some said those dogs should be killed, but they were healthy dogs, and their owners wanted to keep them. Two had already delivered litters of strong pups, and some of those, Ligige’ had heard, were also golden-eyed.

Besides, did those elders forget that the first dogs had died when Tsaani was still alive? Perhaps she should remind Blue-head Duck. He seemed to be the elder with the loudest mouth, and usually the wisest of those men whose age had earned them the respect of the village.

Strange that all the animals had died in cold weather. Strange, too, that most had seemed healthy. The ones that died were often the favorites of their owners. If there was some curse, even if it was something the spirits sent as punishment for disrespect, it would seem that the old and weak would still be the first to die.

Ligige’’s thoughts began to circle, twining themselves into confusion. Her eyes burned from spending the whole day in the smoke of her lodge.

“Well, old woman,” she said out loud. “You need to do something with this dog.” She seemed to recall that the other dogs that died had not been eaten. Some were burned, and the pups were buried. Perhaps Blue-head Duck was afraid that the waste of meat had angered the spirits. Perhaps that was why he gave her the dog.

If she ate it and the spirits were pleased, then perhaps the deaths would stop. If she ate it and the spirits were angry, then she would be the one to suffer—she, and not some hunter or a young woman who might yet have children. The thought made her angry, then she reminded herself that this was a way to help everyone. Why complain?

She found a knife with a sharp, newly retouched stone blade. She was not strong enough to lift the carcass, to hang it from a tree limb; besides, it was too cold and dark for her to work outside. She pulled out old mats to set under the dog, then rolled it to its back and made her first cut, throat to anus. She would eat the liver and kidneys, pancreas and heart, but would set aside the intestines and belly to clean outside. Otherwise the stink would never leave her lodge.

Ignoring the pain in her joints, she worked to free the organs, then carried the belly and intestines into the entrance tunnel. They would stay cold there until she was ready to work on them. She gave the bundle one last heave to clear the inner doorflap, but lost her balance and fell forward.

She landed face down on the viscera, and cried out in disgust as the thick smell of fecal matter filled the entrance tunnel.

“Fool, fool, fool,” she screeched at herself. “You should have waited until morning. There are plenty of young girls who would have helped you.”

She pushed herself up, winced. She had fallen on something sharp, pierced her left hand. She crawled back inside her lodge, pulled down a bladder of water and washed away the dung. Her hand was bleeding, a puncture wound. She found a clean knife, made the cut larger. She had lived long enough to have seen such wounds fester, especially when they did not bleed enough. She washed the hand again, then sucked at the wound, drawing out more blood. She heated water, made a salve from fat and dried violet leaves, then bound it to her hand with a thick pad of caribou hide.

She pulled the dog’s remains into the entrance tunnel and left them there. Enough, she told herself. Time for an old woman to sleep. She would decide what to do with the dog in the morning.

THE COUSIN RIVER VILLAGE

Two tens of days had passed since Night Man had taken Aqamdax as wife. During that time, she had gone to his bed only once, three days after their marriage ceremony. During those first three days, Night Man had grown stronger, and Aqamdax had waited for him to ask her to his bed, but when night came, he said nothing, so she went to the women’s side of the lodge and rolled out her sleeping furs beside Star and Long Eyes.

The third day she had come in from gathering wood. She had brushed the snow from her parka and hung it from a lodge pole. She was cold, and she held her hands to the fire. Ghaden and Yaa were outside playing, and Star, too, was away; only Long Eyes sat, singing her strange song, staring at the lodge walls.

Night Man called Aqamdax, and she left the warmth of the hearth fire with regret.

“You want food or water?” she asked.

“No food, no water,” he said softly, then held out his good hand. She knelt beside him, and he stroked her cheek.

“Are you cold?” he asked softly, then said, “It is warm here, in this bed.” He lifted the furs that lay over him and held her eyes with his own. She slipped in beside him, felt herself relax as the warmth of his body enveloped her. She lay still, waiting, not sure if he wanted her body or only the comfort of having her beside him.

He turned so he could look at her, and she saw the pain his effort cost him, so she raised herself on one elbow, pressed him back against the bedding furs, and began to stroke his good arm, then his uninjured shoulder, gradually moving her hands down his body. She drew back the blankets, saw that he was ready for her, even before she touched him. She slipped off her shirt and leggings, and he raised his hand to her breasts, trailed his fingers down over her belly.

Their touching became a rhythm, and soon she moved over him, murmuring her delight, praying that somehow the joy of this union would drive away the evil of his sickness.

For two days, she thought it had. For two days, he seemed to grow even stronger, sitting up for most of each day, and once, with Tikaani’s help, walking to the hunters’ lodge.

Aqamdax waited in eagerness for Night Man to invite her back to his bed. She even sat down in his furs, began the first tentative strokes of lovemaking, but he only smiled, made no move to encourage her, and so to hide her embarrassment at his quiet rejection, she had moved behind him, kneaded the muscles of his back and neck, then returned to the women’s side of the lodge.

Six days after their marriage ceremony, she had awakened to find Night Man frantic with strange dreams. His skin burned to the touch and his lips were cracked, scored with dried blood. Star, also awakened by Night Man’s cries, piled furs and stored food, much of what was left after the marriage feast, and over Aqamdax’s protests, took it to K’os’s lodge.

K’os came that night. She brought one of her medicine bags—a river otter skin, the bones of the skull still in the head, the empty eyes refilled with glittering black stones, the belly bulging with packets of roots and dried plants.

“You have been giving him the medicine I sent?” she asked Aqamdax.

Before Aqamdax could answer, Star said, “I have. She was throwing it out. I saw her take it to the midden pile, so I followed and brought the packet back. I made my brother hot teas whenever Aqamdax was outside.”

K’os looked at Aqamdax through half-closed eyes, curled her lips into a smirk. “You do not trust me?” she said. “You know I am a healer. I would not hurt anyone.”

“You have forgotten that I lived with you, K’os,” Aqamdax replied. “You will not touch my husband.”

“Star?” K’os said, holding her hands out, palms up.

“Do not leave. I will get Tikaani.”

Star went to the hunters’ lodge, and while she was gone, Aqamdax stood over Night Man, guarding him. When Tikaani came, he asked K’os to give Night Man medicine. Aqamdax argued, then pleaded, and all the while K’os worked, boiling powders into teas, mixing roots with fat, pulling away the heat of Night Man’s skin with her raven feather fan, directing it to the hearth fire smoke so it rose out of the lodge.

The next day, Night Man seemed stronger, and his fever abated, but he no longer spoke, seldom opened his eyes. Sometimes, seeing him lie so still, Aqamdax bent close until she could feel his breath against her cheek and reassure herself that he was still alive.

THE NEAR RIVER VILLAGE

Ligige’ awoke from dreams of dead dogs. With glazed eyes and swollen tongues they performed one of The People’s dances to appease those spirits that steal souls. They did not wear the large wooden masks of death dancers. Instead their dog faces were bare to those who watched, both the living and the dead, and their feet sank into the earth with each step, as they reached down to pull power from the ground.

Ligige’ awoke breathless, and the parody of that dream-dance pulled away the sight of her lodge, its caribouskin walls strong and real.

She shuddered and pushed herself from her bed, hissing when she leaned against the palm of her left hand. She peeled away the strips of caribou skin she had used to cover her wound. A dark scab had already begun to pull the raw edges together, and no red lines told of poison trying to find its way to her heart.

She had to get the dead dog out of her lodge. She had been foolish to allow it to stay for the night. Who could say what spirits it had drawn, lying there in her entrance tunnel? She took a long breath, pushed her fingers into her stomach to see if there were any lumps or pains that had not been there the day before.

She felt nothing, only the ache of hips and hands, knees and neck, pain that comes to everyone with age, pain she had learned to live with long ago. She felt her anger rise at Blue-head Duck. What foolishness to give her the dog.

She pulled on leggings and boots, parka and mittens, then went out into the entrance. She dragged the carcass outside. Let Sleeps Long carry it away. He was strong. She was just an old woman. She returned for the innards.

They were bulky, and when she got outside, she slipped in the snow. She fell heavily on her knees, then pitched forward to her hands. She had closed her eyes when she fell, now opened them and saw that a long strip of what looked like ivory protruded from the dog’s belly.

Ligige’ pulled and it came out easily. It was nearly the length of her forearm, as thin as a fingernail and sharpened on both ends. One end curved up, as though it had been tightly coiled. She crawled back into the lodge, found a long-bladed knife, then came outside, squatted down and cut into the belly.

She found three strips like the first, one still partially coiled in a ball of hardened fat. She took off her mittens, pushed her hands into the belly contents, and pulled out four balls, each no larger around than a child’s fist. She set them in the snow, then called to the first woman who passed by.

“Go get Blue-head Duck. Tell him Ligige’ needs him. Tell him he must come now!”

The dog was not killed by spirits or disease. Did spirits wrap something as wicked as these ivory strips in fat and set them where dogs would swallow them? Did disease do such a thing?

Then Blue-head Duck was there, sputtering his outrage at being called from a warm lodge early in the morning.

“Shut your mouth and look at this,” Ligige’ told him.

Still muttering, he squatted beside her.

“Look. This is what killed the dog.” She held up one of the balls of fat, and he took it from her, turned it in his hands.

“This? Is it poison?”

“Break it open.”

He took off a mitten and stuck his thumbnail into the fat. He jumped as the coiled ivory suddenly straightened, flinging bits of fat and the sour contents of the dog’s stomach into their faces.

“Have you ever seen anything like it?” Ligige’ asked him.

“I have heard of it. North Tundra hunters use them to kill wolves. Wolves eat like dogs. They swallow without chewing. The heat of their bellies melts the fat and releases the strip of ivory. They bleed to death, if they are lucky. Sometimes the wound festers….”

Ligige’ nodded. “So there is no evil spirit killing these dogs,” she said.

Blue-head Duck studied the ivory, plucked at the sharpened point with his thumbnail. “Do I tell the elders?” he finally asked.

“If you tell the elders, then soon whoever did this will know that you know.”

Blue-head Duck nodded. “Perhaps I will wait, though it might cost our village more dogs. Will you keep the ivory for me, and these?” He pointed to the balls of fat that were still intact.

“I will keep them.”

“Someplace cold.”

“I am not a fool.”

“No,” he said. He smiled at her. “You are not a fool.” He stood and poked at the dog with his foot. “I will get my daughter’s husband to take this outside the village … unless you want the meat.”

“No,” Ligige’ said. “I do not want the meat. Tell your daughter she can have it. She is carrying a child. I have only myself to feed.”

When Blue-head Duck left, she placed the ivory strips and balls of fat in an old fishskin basket. She set the basket just inside her entrance tunnel, packed snow around it, then went into her lodge.

Ligige’ was hungry, and her bladder was uncomfortably full, but she sat for a long time beside the hearth fire, staring into the flames.

THE NORTH SEA

HE HAD LEFT BEFORE
they said he should. The ice in the bay had gone out, driven into the North Sea by high storm winds, but when the hunters took their iqyan beyond the inlet, they said the ice still floated in chunks the size of an ulax roof. They told Chakliux there was a slush between the floes that a man could guide an iqyax through, but wind at the wrong time, in the wrong direction, might drive the floes together, crush an iqyax as if it were no more than a sea urchin shell.