The Storyteller Trilogy (63 page)

Now her father was in his daughter’s lodge insisting that Sok throw away his good first wife, a woman who had given him two strong sons, boys who already showed promise as hunters—a woman who had not screamed once in delivering those two boys.

They were alone, Sok and Wolf-and-Raven. Sok had stayed in his wife’s lodge for the night, a custom in their village, a way to lend Snow-in-her-hair strength during her labor. He did not look forward to facing the other men in the village, or the women, their sly looks of disdain, the laughter they would pretend to hide behind their hands. Better to stay inside for a while, he had thought, but then Wolf-and-Raven had come.

“She is second wife. She will stay second wife,” Sok said, his voice a warrior’s voice.

Then Wolf-and-Raven stood, and as though he had come for no other reason, he said, “Your brother has asked for a meeting of all people in the village this evening.”

“Chakliux has?”

“He has.” Wolf-and-Raven jutted his chin toward Sok. “Few hunters will come. What has Chakliux to tell us that carries any importance?”

“I will be there,” Sok said.

Wolf-and-Raven left the lodge, and Sok lay back on the hare fur blanket that Snow-in-her-hair had made him. It was thin and poorly made. Red Leaf’s blankets were woven so tightly that even the smallest shaft of light could not pass through them.

He heard a scratching at the side of the lodge. “Come!” he called, his voice gruff. It was probably Wolf-and-Raven with another piece of foolishness.

Red Leaf came in carrying a boiling pot. “My husband,” she said in a quiet voice, “I am glad to hear of your new son.” She left the lodge without looking at him.

C
HAKLIUX COULD FEEL THE
men’s hostility. Who was he to call the whole village together, ask them to listen for an evening? There were many things to do this time of year—nets to mend, knives to knap, blades to retouch. They did not have time for the foolishness of a Cousin River man.

But they came. Grumbling, frowning, they came. Even the children seemed to feel the irritation of their parents; squabbles broke out among them and had to be quelled by adults; babies cried. Chakliux closed his eyes and reached for the peace he always felt when he was in his iqyax, when the only sounds were those of water and birds and wind.

Ligige’ had prepared the balls of fat, coiled bone or ivory in each, two handfuls in all. She had wrapped them in thin pieces of dried and softened gut, then placed them in a fishskin basket. He was careful to keep the basket beside him but not too close. He did not want the heat of his body to soften the fat and release the coils.

They gathered outside the elders’ lodge. The young men had made a large hearth fire, and the elders sat in the circle closest to the flames.

The hunters were next, in order of their age, then the grandmothers, women with babies, and last, unmarried women and the children. The women had brought food, but the elders had turned it down, as did most of the hunters. The children begged for the leftovers, and a few grandmothers complied, adding to the confusion as scuffles broke out among the children who had food and those who did not.

Chakliux, sitting with the hunters, waited until Wolf-and-Raven stood, until with a loud voice he told the children to stop fighting. When most of the noise had died away, he looked at Chakliux and said, “Tell us now what you have to say.”

Chakliux walked to the center of the circle, stood with his back to the elders’ lodge, his face toward the people. The spring evening was still light, the sky a deep blue, shadows long. Firelight touched the people’s faces, and he searched for Ligige’, Fox Barking, Sleeps Long, Blue-head Duck, Dog Trainer, Root Digger, Sok.

“I have asked you to come so we could talk about your dogs,” Chakliux began.

A low murmur came from the hunters, and Chakliux heard Ligige’ say: “Be still. Listen.”

The murmuring stopped, and Chakliux continued. “You know that another dog has died. It died of the same sickness that has killed many of our dogs. It is a sickness that none of us could understand until Ligige’ discovered what was wrong.”

Many turned to look at Ligige’. She held her chin high, kept her eyes on Chakliux.

“Ligige’ has asked that I tell you.”

There was sudden quiet. Even the children’s voices were still. Chakliux reached for the basket at his side. He lifted one of the fat balls.

“Root Digger!” he called out. The man looked up at him, and Chakliux threw the ball. Root Digger caught it, held it up so others could see.

“Sok!” Sok also caught one of the fat balls, raised it to his mouth as if to bite into it.

Ligige’ called out, “No. Do not eat it. Wait.”

“It is poison?” Sok asked.

“No,” Chakliux said. “It is not poison.”

He threw fat balls to Fox Barking and Sleeps Long, to Dog Trainer, even to the boy River Ice Dancer. They sank fingers into the balls, sniffed them.

Finally there were only two left, yet Chakliux had not found the reaction he had hoped for. He looked at Ligige’. She met his eyes with a clear, steady gaze and lifted her hands, cupped them together. He threw one of the balls, and she caught it easily, then, leaning on the shoulder of the woman next to her, she pushed herself up, and standing, she tossed the ball to Wolf-and-Raven.

He bobbled it, dropped it to the ground and allowed it to lie there.

“Pick it up, Little Cousin,” Ligige’ said to him, and the people smiled, holding in laughter at the diminutive she used to address him.

He picked it up, held it so others could see, then again set it on the ground.

“It does not kill unless it is inside, Little Cousin,” Ligige’ told him, and Chakliux heard the terrible sadness in her voice.

There was a sudden yelp from Root Digger. The heat from his hand had melted one side of the fat ball, had allowed one end of the coil to pierce his thumb.

“What is it?” he cried out, and dropped the ball to the ground while sucking at the puncture wound.

“Blue-head Duck took pity on an old woman,” Ligige’ said. “He gave me a dead dog. When I butchered the animal, I found this.” She held up an ivory strip. “It was in the belly of the dog. There were many of them, more than a handful.”

Chakliux noticed that the others had set their fat balls on the ground as Wolf-and-Raven had. He handed the fishskin basket to one of the women. “Pick them up and bring them back to me,” he told her. “We do not want our dogs or our children to get them.” He turned to Wolf-and-Raven. “You would not hold the fat ball. Why?”

“I do not trust a man from the Cousin River Village,” Wolf-and-Raven said. “That is why.”

Chakliux turned to the elders. “I accuse no one,” he said. “Decide for yourselves who killed the dogs. You saw what the coil of bone did to Root Digger’s hand. Think what they do inside a dog’s belly.”

There was a rise of sound—a growl of anger, men’s and women’s voices together.

“Why?” one of the hunters asked. “Why kill our dogs? We need them for hunting and for food. Why would anyone do this?”

A woman at the back of the circle stood up. Chakliux did not realize it was Wolf-and-Raven’s wife until she spoke.

“For power,” Blue Flower said. “Only for power. To be able to accuse others of causing such a curse, and then to say he himself was able to stop it.”

“I throw you away,” Wolf-and-Raven screeched, jumping to his feet and thrusting his walking stick toward his wife.

“No,” she said to him. “I throw you away. Get your things out of my lodge. I do not want to see you again.”

Then everyone was speaking, shouting, arguing. Most raised angry words at Wolf-and-Raven. Some shouted at Chakliux, others at Ligige’. Wolf-and-Raven had worn his shaman’s headpiece, heavy with beads and raven beaks. He took it off and held it toward anyone who drew near, sweeping a path through the people as he stomped away. Some of the men shouted out their disagreement with Chakliux. Others came, clapped hands on his back, thanked him, peered into the fishskin basket at the fat balls, then, shaking their heads, walked away.

Soon everyone was gone except Chakliux and Ligige’. She was huddled on the ground, her blanket pulled up over her head. Chakliux knelt beside her. “Aunt,” he whispered softly. “Would you like to stay in Red Leaf’s lodge tonight?”

“I do not think Sok would want me there,” she said, her voice trembling. “I have destroyed his wife’s father.”

“Wolf-and-Raven destroyed himself,” Chakliux said, and helped her to her feet.

“I think I will go to my own lodge,” Ligige’ told him. “I think this village has heard enough of my voice.”

“Then could I stay with you?” Chakliux asked her.

“Yes, come and stay.” She blinked away tears and put a sly smile on her face. “The old women say you have more seal oil. They say it is very good on dried fish.”

Chakliux also smiled. “Yes, Aunt, it is very good, as you shall see.”

THE COUSIN RIVER VILLAGE

Cen did not want to go with them. He had not yet mastered their bow weapons. Besides, he was trader. What trader wanted to encourage fighting? But the Near River People were the ones who had killed Daes. They were the ones who had almost killed him. Even yet his ribs ached on cold days, and his left wrist would never be as strong as it once was.

He had considered Aqamdax’s words. She had gone lodge to lodge, pleading with hunters, telling them the Near Rivers were a good people, urging them to take only one life for the boy who had been killed. But even Ghaden had gritted his teeth, raised a fist and screamed out his anger against the Near Rivers for killing a boy who had been a friend.

They took no dogs with them. Only packs with food and supplies. Only weapons. Bows and throwing spears, arrows and knives.

Cen had a bow, but still his left wrist buckled when he pulled back the string. Better for him to use a spear. At least his right wrist was strong, his throw far and accurate.

It usually took three days to make the journey to the Near Rivers’ winter village from the winter camp of the Cousin River People, and that was with dogs carrying packs. But anger seemed to lend strength to the men’s legs, and at the end of the first day they found themselves already at the Near River. They slept through a night of wind and snow, the last bite of winter as it was defeated by the new strong sun.

The second morning, they began early, and by midday they moved from the river ice into the forest, then made a camp near the village. Now all they could do was wait for morning and hope some hunter would come from the village to be their first kill.

The day had faded to dusk when that one came—a man alone, not even a dog at his side. He carried a large pack, as though he were a trader. He carried a spear as walking stick.

Cen was sitting on a fallen tree, had brushed the snow from the trunk and cushioned the wet bark with a pad of caribou hide. His thoughts were not on the battle, the attack that Tikaani and others had decided would begin in early morning. His thoughts were instead on K’os. She was a woman, like Daes, who seemed to push wisdom out of his head, who made him act without thinking, without considering consequences. Now that he was away from her, when her face did not cloud his thinking, it was a good time to decide what to do.

Even if she became his wife, she would probably still invite many men to her bed. He had heard the stories about her two husbands. Both had died in terrible ways, the first man consumed by some sickness that seemed to eat away his belly until all he could do was vomit blood. The other was killed in a fire that K’os herself escaped. Surely some spirit of bad luck followed K’os and would soon attack anyone she took as husband. Some of the hunters said K’os was old, too old to give children. That was difficult to believe. Her face said she was young, but she seemed to be barren.

Cen was grateful for Ghaden, but he wanted more sons, even a daughter. What was better for an old man than a daughter to take care of him in his last days?

He could marry Star, but he did not want a wife who whined and threw tantrums like a child. There was also Aqamdax. She looked much like Daes and was a hard worker. The First Men claimed she was a storyteller. She was wife to Night Man, but who could expect him to live long? The night Cen had stayed in Star’s lodge, he had had to turn away when Aqamdax changed the poultice on Night Man’s shoulder, the flesh was so rotten.

When Night Man died, what would Aqamdax do? Perhaps Tikaani would take her, but he was chief hunter now. It would not be wise for the chief hunter to take a woman from another village for first wife. Who would want the trouble that could cause?

Cen was drawn from his thoughts by a soft hiss that passed hunter to hunter among the Cousin River men. He crouched beside the log, reached for his spear, tucked it close to his shoulder, point out.

Suddenly arrows were flying, some ricocheting off trees, others flying true, their voices higher, thinner than the voices of spear and spearthrower.

Cen heard screams, then the cries of the Cousin River men calling out as though they had made a successful hunt. He stood, still clutching his spear, then went to see what had been killed. An animal, he thought, perhaps a bear just coming from its winter den. What better sign of favor?

No, it was a man. A heavy pack, bristling with arrows, was on his back, and his legs and arms leaked blood into the snow. Then Cen saw the medicine bundle, the skin of a river otter, and another of a wolverine. A flicker wing hung from the pack, and a beaded head covering.

“Wolf-and-Raven,” he said.

Some of the men near him gasped; others, the younger men, drew brows together as though they were puzzled.

“A shaman,” Tikaani said.

Some looked at Cen for confirmation. “Yes, a shaman,” he answered.

“Cut his joints, quickly,” one of the young men said.

Tikaani looked at the man, really yet a boy, and handed him his knife. Clasping his amulet, Tikaani walked away, a thin chant rising from his throat. The others did the same, leaving the boy there alone. Finally, the boy dropped the knife, backed away, lifted his hands in signs of protection, held his amulet high over his head.