Brother Wind

by Sue Harrison

“More?” Hard Rock asked.

  Kukutux reached for the bowl and took another mouthful.

  “So you have decided you like the traders,” Hard Rock said.

  “No,” Kukutux said and licked her hand and the oil that had coated her lips. “But I have no choice. If I do not go to the traders, I will starve.”

  “You did not realize this when I spoke to you before?”

  Kukutux shrugged. “Sea otters have come and eaten most of the sea urchins,” she said. “The berries and bitterroot bulbs are not yet ready. I have no ik for fishing or to take to the bird cliffs.”

  “So you will go to the traders. Good!” Hard Rock said and stood up. “I will tell them.”

  Kukutux held up one hand. “Wait,” she said. Hard Rock crouched down. His woven grass apron touched the floor as it hung between his legs. He leaned his elbows on his thighs and looked at her.

  “How much oil will you give to She Cries if I go?” Kukutux asked.

  “Why should She Cries get oil?” said Hard Rock, with a short laugh.

  “You think I am a fool?” Kukutux said. “You think I do not understand the woman who for three summers was my own brother’s wife? You think she is wise enough to keep me from finding out, one way or another?” Kukutux echoed Hard Rock’s laugh, short, rude. “They offered you oil if you got them a woman to care for their ulaq and warm their beds. You went to She Cries and offered her a share of the oil if she would help you.”

  “How do you know this?” Hard Rock asked.

  “She Cries is a boaster. It is not difficult to find out what she is doing. There is always someone who will tell.”

  “So you want her share?”

  “Yes,” Kukutux said. “Her share. Two bellies.”

  “She lies!” Hard Rock said. “Her share is one belly.”

  Kukutux shrugged. “One then,” she said.

  “You want it now?”

  “No. Save it for me. It will be the beginning of my winter cache. It will be safer here than in my empty ulaq, where anyone can come in and take it.”

  “I remember when the only thieves were gulls stealing from drying racks,” Hard Rock said, and his voice was soft. Kukutux, looking at him, wondered if he expected her to answer, but his eyes were those of one seeing far off, and so Kukutux said nothing, only sat and waited until the man finally stood.

  Then Kukutux said, “I, too, would steal—for my children. Perhaps what I do now is for my children, those I will have someday.”

  Hard Rock walked to the climbing log as though he did not hear what she had said. Kukutux followed him.

  At the top of the log, he stopped and looked back at her. “Who told you about the oil?” he asked.

  Kukutux smiled at him. “People talk,” she said.

  CHAPTER 39

  “SO THIS IS WHAT YOU BRING US!” Spotted Egg said, his voice too loud in the small ulaq.

  Kukutux lifted her head, looked boldly at both of the traders. They were young—Caribou People, Many Babies had told her. Spotted Egg was wide of shoulder and tall. Though the storytellers always said Caribou men were tall, Owl was not. Still, he seemed to be a gentle person, someone who listened before he spoke, who saw beyond a man’s words. Kukutux thought she might like Owl the best, though who could say? Both had cheekbones that rose to make ledges on the sides of their faces, and Owl had tattoos across his cheeks, like the lines Whale Hunter boys put on their chins when they become old enough to hunt.

  The traders’ eyes were round, and their chests were the thick, heavy chests of men who spend much time paddling an ikyak, who need to hold the wind near their hearts as a buffer against the sea.

  “She is a strong one, a good worker,” Hard Rock said and pointed at Kukutux with his chin.

  Owl bent his head over his work, using an awl and a stiff piece of sinew to bind two lengths of sea lion hide into a storage packet. Spotted Egg stood and walked around her, reaching out to run his hands down the back of her otter skin suk, to lift the ends of her short hair.

  “Your hair is cut,” he said.

  “I mourn,” Kukutux answered.

  She moved away, but Spotted Egg reached out and clasped her arms. “Take off your suk,” he said.

  The tone of the man’s voice made Kukutux angry. Harsh words rose to her tongue, and she looked back at Hard Rock. He mouthed the word “oil.” Kukutux clamped her teeth together to hold in her words. She pulled her suk up over her head and stood before the two men in her aprons and the necklaces her husband had given her before she became his wife.

  Again Spotted Egg circled, this time nodding. When he came to her left arm, he stopped, gently circled her wrist, and pulled the arm away from her body. He looked carefully at her elbow, ran his fingers over the three jagged scars that went from forearm to upper arm. “This happened when the mountains … ?”

  Kukutux nodded.

  “Does it hurt?”

  Kukutux almost smiled. “Why should you care?” she asked. “You cannot feel my pain.”

  Owl blew out a quick snorting laugh, and Spotted Egg’s face darkened.

  “She uses the arm,” Hard Rock said quickly. “She fishes and paddles and sews as well as any woman.”

  “And in bed?” Spotted Egg asked.

  “Whether or not I come to your bed will be my choice,” Kukutux said. “I have agreed to cook and sew, bring in fish and eggs, dig clams. I promise nothing more.”

  “So this is what you bring us,” Spotted Egg said again.

  Kukutux pulled her suk on over her head—a good way to hide her face when the man’s insults came to her ears. She pulled down the suk, smoothed it over her breasts and belly. Then she moved her eyes up to Spotted Egg’s face, stared hard, and circled him as he had circled her. She made a small clucking noise under her tongue and shook her head, then she walked around the ulaq, peeking into the sleeping rooms. “Perhaps you do not need a woman,” she finally said. “Better to bring in terns and gulls. What woman would want to clean up this mess?”

  Again Owl snorted out his laughter, but Spotted Egg said, “You expect us to clean? We are traders. Waxtal used to do the women’s work, but now that he is gone …” Spotted Egg shrugged.

  Ah, the old one is not with them, Kukutux thought. Many Babies had said he was one of the Seal Hunters who fought against the Short Ones. But that had been long ago, before Kukutux had reached the age of knowing, and though Waxtal might have once been a great warrior, he was now like a withered root, dark and full of wrinkles. His eyes seemed to hold no wisdom, and without wisdom where did an old man get his strength? He carved, Many Babies said, though no one had seen his work. Perhaps, Kukutux thought, he carried his wisdom in his hands. Perhaps, in judging him by his eyes, she was too harsh. Still, it was good there were only two traders in the ulaq. What woman would complain? Fewer traders meant less work.

  Kukutux went to the food cache, pulled back the curtains. She was surprised to see it was almost empty, but who knew where traders kept their supplies? She pulled out a storage container half filled with dried fish. With her woman’s knife, she began to chop the chunks of fish. At the back of the cache, she found a tightly woven basket of dried berries and another of hardened fat. Using her fingers as a scoop, she took out a handful of berries, then broke off a chunk of the fat. She chopped the fat into fine slices and said, “So you have your father do women’s work?”

  She did not look at Spotted Egg, but could sense his anger. “Waxtal is not, he is not …” he said, his words stumbling over one another.

  “I understand why he left,” Kukutux went on, holding a smile tightly between cheek and teeth, speaking quickly so Spotted Egg would not have space to tell her what she already knew—that Waxtal was not their father. “We of the Whale Hunters treat our fathers with respect,” she said and looked up at Hard Rock as if expecting him to confirm her words. She set down her knife and again went to the cache. “You do not have much food,” she said, and felt the laughter leave her mouth. Were the traders nearly as
hungry as the Whale Hunters? Perhaps that was why they had stopped on this island. Perhaps that was why they stayed.

  “Waxtal is not our father,” Spotted Egg said. “We are Caribou. Who can say what he is? No one wants him.”

  Kukutux looked at Hard Rock. The man’s mouth was open as though to speak, but he said nothing.

  Kukutux crumbled the dried berries between her fingers, then used the flat of her blade to mix the berries with fat and fish. She found four wooden bowls in the cache and divided the food among them, then handed each man a bowl and kept one for herself. She squatted down and, holding the bowl close to her lips, pushed the food into her mouth.

  When the men had finished eating, Owl turned his head to nod at Kukutux. “She is good enough,” he said to Hard Rock. Then he said to Kukutux, “We know what is here in this ulaq, and we expect you to guard it while we are gone. Eat what you must eat and keep oil in the lamps, but everything else must be here when we return.”

  Almost she asked the man where they were going, but then told herself there was a time for politeness, a time to respect others, and this man had not treated her rudely. So she nodded, finally asking, “When do you think you will return?”

  Owl shrugged. “Who can say?” he answered, speaking those Whale Hunter words with a Caribou tongue, the rhythm so different that Kukutux could hardly keep a smile from her lips.

  “You go now?” Hard Rock asked.

  “Long Wood and Old Goose Woman repaired our ik,” said Owl.

  “We have a better chance to catch Waxtal if we go now,” Spotted Egg said. He turned to Kukutux. “Make more of that,” he said, lifting his bowl. “It is good.”

  Kukutux worked as the men gathered their things, and when they were ready she gave them a seal bladder she had filled with the mix of fish, fat, and berries. Spotted Egg and Hard Rock left the ulaq, Owl close behind them. At the top of the climbing log, Owl stopped and looked back at Kukutux.

  “There is basket grass from the Walrus beaches in my sleeping place. I have heard you have little on this island. Use it if you want.” Then he, too, left the ulaq.

  For a time Kukutux waited. When the men did not return, she began looking into sleeping places, counting and stacking furs and mats, making sure she knew what the traders had. She found the basket grass, fine and strong—all of it the white inner mother grass that is best for weaving. Then she went to her own ulaq, gathered basket and sewing supplies, sleeping furs, fishhooks and line, and brought them back.

  She put her things in the one empty sleeping place. In the food cache, she found a good piece of dried seal meat. She stuck it into her mouth to soften and sat down with the basket grass and a bowl of tepid water.

  She would worry about the traders when they returned. For now, all was good. What more could a woman want than food and oil, a quiet ulaq, and a lapful of basket grass?

  CHAPTER 40

  IT CAME BEFORE SUNRISE, and it was a new voice, something Waxtal had never heard before. It seemed to come not through his ears but through his fingers, carried not by the wind but by his blood.

  At first he could not make out the words—as though he were listening to men speaking at a distance. Then the words became clear, a chant, a song he did not know. It spoke of the sea, of sand and mud and fish. It spoke of walrus pups, newborn, and of cold water, of warm sun on old rocks. Until finally Waxtal understood that the song was a walrus song and it came from the carved tusk.

  The song flowed up through his arms and gathered in his chest. It seemed to cradle his heart in gentle hands, to lift it in joy so that he opened his mouth and sang word for word whatever the tusk sang. “This is why I have come,” Waxtal whispered, interrupting the song. “This is why I am here, in rain and cold.”

  He settled more deeply into his suk, lifting his shoulders so the collar rim slipped up over his ears. He flattened his palms against the carved tusk, again felt the song. He closed his eyes and listened. He rubbed the tusk, thought of the power it would bring him, of the trades he would make. Every man, every woman on all the beaches of the world would know his name, would honor him, would wish they had his power.

  Yes, as soon as it was morning, he would leave. He would not go back to Hard Rock, but to Tugix’s island, to the old village there. He would see what was left. Perhaps the old man Shuganan, many years dead, would have something to tell him. Perhaps the old man’s spirit, seeing Waxtal’s carved tusk, would give him another portion of power. Then Waxtal would go on to other villages, until he had gathered enough power to go to Raven. They would meet—shaman to shaman, trader to trader—and as father of Raven’s wife, Waxtal would ask for help in killing Samiq. Then all things would be his.

  Waxtal laughed, then listened for the tusk’s song, but the song had faded so that Waxtal was not sure if what he heard was song or wind, so he slept.

  Words woke him, and first, still caught in his dreams, he thought the tusk was speaking again. He opened his eyes.

  Owl and Spotted Egg stood over him, each man with a knife clutched in his right hand. Almost, Waxtal reached for his sleeve knife, almost. But age had slowed him. Perhaps in his youth, he would have had a chance, but now, against two, it was better to fight in a different way.

  He turned his eyes toward the sea. It was calm, and fog lay heavy against the water. Waxtal’s gaze was drawn to the brightest part of the sky, that place where the morning sun struggles to pull itself up out of the waves. That brightness gave him the strength to raise his voice in the chant the tusk had taught him, the walrus song that had come from his carving.

  From the edges of his eyes, he watched Owl and Spotted Egg, watched and waited as the two men slowly lowered their knives, stood listening. Then finally, Waxtal said, “I was given a vision.”

  For a time neither man spoke, then finally Spotted Egg said, “Come with us to the beach.”

  “This is a sacred place,” Waxtal said. “I cannot leave without many prayers.”

  “Pray then,” Spotted Egg said, his voice low and hard. “We will wait for you beside your ikyak.”

  “I have many things here,” Waxtal said, spreading his hands palm up over his hunter’s lamp and tusks.

  Owl made a rude noise at the back of his throat and picked up the carved tusk. Spotted Egg reached down and jerked the fur seal pelt from under Waxtal, then picked up the other tusk. “Come soon,” Owl said, and the two men turned their backs and walked away in long easy strides.

  Waxtal closed his fingers over the emptiness where his tusks had been. He stood, adjusted his suk, then squatted down again. He tried to remember some song or prayer, a blessing for the sacredness of the earth, but he could think of nothing except the cold that seeped up from the ground. Then he remembered a song of thanksgiving, something First Men hunters sang to animals they had taken. He opened his mouth, but instead of thanksgiving, his words came as a request for protection, something sung in a wavering voice. As he sang, pictures came into his mind, and he saw Owl and Spotted Egg with his tusks, taking his ikyak to leave him here on this beach with no food, no oil. He saw his tusks given in trade, to someone who would steal the power meant for him.

  So Waxtal ended his song, scooped up his hunter’s lamp, and ran until he caught up with Owl and Spotted Egg. He followed them to the ikyak.

  Kukutux stood and stepped back, flexed her shoulders. She tilted her head to see her basket from all directions, to check for the smoothness of the stitches, the slope of the sides. “It is good,” she said aloud, then pressed her fingers to her lips. “It is good you are alone,” she said. “It is good that no one else heard you praise your own work.”

  After eating her fill from the cache, she had stayed up late to work on the basket. It was a large basket, and now, nearing the second night, she had almost finished it. She had eaten twice this day, and again she was hungry. She smiled, thinking of how many days she had been happy to eat one poor meal. But what would Owl and Spotted Egg think when they returned if they found an empty cache? She must bri
ng in some food, if not sea urchins, then clams and ugyuun stalks.

  She pulled on her suk and, snuffing out all but one of the oil lamps, left the ulaq. She went back to her own ulaq, now dark except for the small square of light coming in through the roof hole. But she knew the ulaq well and found the large slice of gray slate set in its place against one wall.

  Kukutux rummaged through the storage cache and brought out a gathering net. She strung it on her arm, picked up the slate clam scoop, and left the ulaq. She hefted the slate to the top of her head, held it there with one hand, and walked to the clam flats. The morning had started out with much fog, but the day had warmed until now it was good to be outside, a day for gathering and fishing. Several women were at the clam flats, each of them bent over their shale diggers, scooping out sand to uncover small, fat clams. Many Babies was there, and She Cries. Many Babies came over to Kukutux and pointed to a section of beach near the high-tide line.

  “Dig there,” she said. “No one has tried there yet.”

  Kukutux merely smiled and shook her head. “Save it for another,” she said, knowing well that whoever dug there would find little. She walked near the edge of the water, ignoring Many Babies’ protests, and heard She Cries say to Many Babies, “Why should she dig at the high-tide line? She wants clams, not stones.” Then Many Babies was quiet.

  As though the spirits favored her, Kukutux found many clams, even when most of the other women had few. Kukutux had nearly filled her carrying net when she heard Speckled Basket cry out, “Traders. I see their ik.”

  The words were like rocks in Kukutux’s chest, and she looked up, shading her eyes. Yes, Speckled Basket was right. It was the traders’ ik. “An ikyak, too,” Kukutux said.

  “The same traders or different ones?” Speckled Basket asked.

  “The same,” Kukutux said.

  “You should go back,” Many Babies said to Kukutux. “You are their woman now.”

  Kukutux turned away from Many Babies’ words and continued to dig. Why should Many Babies tell her what to do?