by Sue Harrison
Yaa went over to her father, sat down beside him and stroked her hands across his head. He liked that, she knew, having his hair combed, his scalp rubbed. Daes had done it for him all the time. His eyelids fluttered open for a moment, and he looked at Yaa. She thought he tried to smile, but it seemed as though his mouth was too tired even to do that much. He closed his eyes and Yaa used the fingers of both hands to comb through his long white hair. He sighed, and she did not know if it was a sigh of worry, sorrow or contentment, but she saw his lips move again toward a smile, and some of the weight over her heart seemed to lift.
He is too old for these problems, Yaa thought. His bones are too weak. If his heart ached as much as Yaa’s, what would keep his ribs from breaking? Under the edge of his blanket they looked as thin as sticks.
“Yaa!” Brown Water shouted, startling Yaa so much that she caught her fingers in her father’s hair, jerked his head. His eyes opened in surprise. “You are a useless one,” Brown Water said. “Look around you. I need firewood. Go get some and set it inside the door. You know with the snow melting each day, the wood must be left inside to dry.”
Yaa knew there was enough wood—dry wood—but it was useless to say so. She glanced down at her father, saw his lips mouth the word “Go.”
She smoothed her father’s hair one more time, then stood. She had only seven summers, so in the lodge wore nothing but a short apron, something to wipe her hands on and to wrap back between her legs when she sat on prickly-haired caribou hide. Brown Water used full-haired hides on the floor, though the hair shed, getting into their food and bedding.
Yaa had decided that when she had her own lodge she would scrape all the hides, even though it was more work. Her husband would not have caribou hair in every bite of his food.
“You are lazy,” Brown Water said. “Better that knife should have taken you than your brother. At least he might be a hunter someday.”
Yaa was used to Brown Water’s insults, especially when her own mother was not in the lodge, but these words seemed to coil into sharpness and twist themselves down Yaa’s throat. She blinked back quick tears, keeping her head turned so Brown Water would not see. Then she felt her father’s hard dry fingers against her cheek.
“Good daughter,” he said.
Yaa patted his hand and was surprised to see that tears seeped from beneath his eyelids. Then she understood. Her father had taken her tears, had rubbed them from her cheeks and put them into his own eyes so she could meet Brown Water’s insults without the embarrassment of crying.
Yaa raised her head. She looked at Brown Water with eyes dry as stones. Still staring at the woman, she pulled on her parka and leggings, her furred boots. Brown Water tried to turn her head, but Yaa used the power of her eyes to pull the woman toward her. Finally, Brown Water began to screech. She threw a ladle at Yaa, but Yaa was too quick. She scooted into the entrance tunnel, then left the lodge.
She did not like to go out when it was dark, but tonight she was glad to get away from Brown Water. She tiptoed over the place where Daes had died. The body was inside the lodge, but it seemed more likely her spirit was here, where she was killed.
Yaa stood for a time looking down at the dark spot near the lodge entrance where Ghaden and Daes had lain, melting the snow with their own blood.
She almost spoke out loud. She almost asked Daes to allow Ghaden to stay with them in this village, but she was afraid of the woman’s spirit, of her anger at being dead.
So Yaa said nothing, but instead hurried to the path that led to the center of the village. She would bring Brown Water firewood later, dig it out of the snow that covered the branches she and her mother and Daes had piled around the lodge when winter was new.
Now she would go to the cooking fires. She was no longer a baby, no longer someone the old grandmothers would click a tongue over and give a choice bit of tender meat. More likely they would raise a ladle, threaten her with stories of those tailed ones, the Cet’aeni, who carried children off with them into their homes in the trees. But she was very good at getting food, and today the grandmothers might give her something, especially since her little brother was so sick. Perhaps her chest would not ache so badly if her belly was full.
“My father,” Chakliux’s mother cried. “Who would kill my father?”
The first time she asked the question, Chakliux had tried to give an answer, some comfort, but now, after he had heard the same words come from her lips five handfuls of times, he merely sat, his eyes staring at nothing, his spirit roaming beyond the caribou hide walls.
In his mind, he gathered his possessions, furs and skins, even the few things he had left in his own village. He gave everything to the Walrus Hunters for an iqyax. How much, he wondered, did Walrus Hunters want for an iqyax? More, surely, than a man would give for a wife.
He did not know how long he had sat when he began to feel the heat of eyes on him. He looked first at Sok, saw that his brother stared at him, a scowl on his face, his eyes narrowed. Sok flexed his fingers, tightened them into fists.
“I need to kill whoever did this,” Sok said, his words falling between them like sharp rocks.
“When you know who did it, I will help you,” Chakliux replied, and looked down to see that his own hands were also clenched.
“He was a good man, a good grandfather,” Fox Barking said, the first words he had spoken to either of his stepsons since they came into the lodge. He moved his lips to point toward their mother. “He was a good father to her,” he said.
Sok pressed his fist into the palm of his hand, cracked each of his knuckles, popping them loudly. There was a scratching at the door and several women came in. They carried a boiling bag. Red Leaf stood up and helped them hang it from the lodge poles. They looked for a moment at Day Woman, then left, offering no words of hope, none of comfort.
Red Leaf found three bowls, filled them. She gave the first to Fox Barking, then one to Sok, one to Chakliux. Chakliux shook his head, but his stepfather said, “Eat. Both of you. There is something I must say. Something your grandfather told me the evening before he was killed.”
He waited while they ate, leaving his own bowl untouched, watching them as if he were an old woman waiting to refill their bowls. Chakliux finished first. He set his bowl on the floor. Fox Barking glanced at Sok, then turned so he was facing Chakliux.
“Your grandfather asked me to tell you this,” Fox Barking said. He licked his lips as though to pull the words he needed into his mouth. “He was the one who decided to …” He stopped, tipped his head back and rolled it, shoulder to shoulder, then he looked at Chakliux again and said, “You know, when you were born, it was not your mother who left you. Old Ligige’, she came to your grandfather, asked him what to do.”
Chakliux was surprised by Fox Barking’s words. But of course he should have known. With his grandfather dead, a stepfather or maternal uncle would be the one who made the decision about his life. There had been no uncle. His chest suddenly felt strange, as though the bones inside grated against one another, as though they were pressing and grinding.
“Your grandfather said he made the wrong decision. That is why you were found by the Cousin River girl. That is why they decided to keep you as a son, raise you as Dzuuggi. He told me that someday he would do something to make your life better.”
Chakliux looked over at Sok. His brother’s cheeks were full of food, but he did not chew.
“He gave me what I needed,” Chakliux said quietly. “In the short time I have been in this village, I have learned much. All because of my grandfather’s wisdom and my brother’s hunting skills.”
Fox Barking held his hands palms up, as though to show he had no argument with Chakliux. Then, looking at Sok, he said, “Sok, you are to have your grandfather’s weapons. His spears and spearheads, his spearthrower, his fishnets, hooks and throwing stick, whatever his wife does not lay beside him on his burial platform. All that is yours. The lodge, the food in the cache, the baskets and bowls, the bed
ding and furs, all belong to his wife.”
Of course, Chakliux thought. It was strange Fox Barking would even mention such things. Everyone knew the wife owned the lodge, all cooking things, bedding, baskets. It was the same in his own village, but perhaps Fox Barking did not know the customs of Chakliux’s village, and gave an explanation so Chakliux would understand.
“You, my wife’s youngest son,” Fox Barking said to Chakliux, “you are to have what you need to claim a place in this village. Your grandfather wants his wife, Blueberry, to go to you.”
The words were like something hard and cold slicing into Chakliux’s chest. Blueberry was to be his wife? She was a good woman, had been a fine wife to Tsaani, but she was young. She should be free to choose any man in the village. She would not want Chakliux.
“She has said she would be my wife?” Chakliux asked.
“She agreed.” Fox Barking cleared his throat, then said, “This is not the greatest honor Tsaani gave you.” Chakliux saw Sok swallow his mouthful of food, set down his bowl and lean forward.
“You are to have his dogs. He thinks you will be a great hunter. He thinks you will keep the bears coming to this village.”
Sok made a noise in his throat as though he were choking. When he could speak, he said, “Our grandfather gave Chakliux the dogs?”
“Yes,” Fox Barking answered, but his hands moved in a quick nervous dance.
Chakliux looked from his brother to his stepfather. The two men stared at each other, eyes locked.
If Sok wants the dogs, Chakliux thought, he can have them. Blueberry, too. A wife, dogs? I do not need them. If I am not welcome here, I will return to my own village and see what the men there believe. If they think I am cursed, then I will leave The People and go to the Sea Hunters. How can I do that with a wife and dogs?
He looked at Sok. His brother’s face was dark with anger, his mouth twisted in hurt. “All these years I have been the one to care for his dogs. All these years, he has trained me.”
“They are yours,” Chakliux said to Sok. “The dogs are yours. I do not want them. Nor do I want a wife.” He looked at his stepfather. The man’s mouth was open as though he wanted to swallow up Chakliux’s words. “Find someone else for Blueberry. Tell her she is free. Sok, you are a good hunter. You can support a second wife. Blueberry already has her own lodge. You will probably not even need a bride price to claim her.”
Sok and Fox Barking looked at Chakliux as though he were a small and foolish child. “You cannot give away what your grandfather has given you in death,” Fox Barking said.
“Some say you are cursed,” Sok added, his voice rough as stone. “If you refuse Blueberry and the dogs, you will be. You cannot shame our grandfather in such a way.”
But as Sok spoke, he slashed the air with his hands as though to push Chakliux away, out of their mother’s lodge.
“Blueberry must mourn one moon,” Fox Barking said. “Then, you will go to her. If she displeases you, you may throw her away. If you displease her, she may throw you away, but you cannot refuse her. Nor refuse the dogs.”
“The pups,” Chakliux said, looking at Sok and Fox Barking. “I may give away the pups?”
“All of them are already promised,” Sok said. “One goes to Sleeps Long, another to Fox Barking, two to Blue-head Duck and one to me.”
“You will have that one and any others. From any litter,” Chakliux promised. “I do not want our grandfather’s position as chief hunter. You must be chief hunter. You have his weapons.”
“You have his dogs,” Sok said, and spread his hands as though to ask a question. “We will see which of us the spirits choose.”
“It may not be either of you,” Fox Barking said softly, but he laughed when Sok and Chakliux looked at him. “Who can say what the spirits will do? What more can we ask than that the village have meat? With your grandfather dead we must first think of our bellies.”
Yaa ran when she came to Ligige’’s lodge. It was best not to get too close. The old man’s spirit might be lurking, trying to find someone to accompany him to the world of the dead. It was evening, that time of day when spirits grow careless, drawn by the rich smells coming from smoke holes and hearths.
When she was past, she looked back over her shoulder to be sure there was no spirit following. Suddenly she was pushed, hard. She caught herself with her hands, but felt the ache of her fall in her wrists.
“Stupid!” someone yelled. “Where are your eyes?”
Yaa did not have to look up. She knew the voice. It was River Ice Dancer, a boy a little older than she was and twice her size. He leaned down to where she sat on the ground. Yaa said nothing. She had not been watching, but neither had he. If he had, he could have avoided her. She was small; she did not take up the whole path.
“So where are you going?”
Yaa did not answer. She stood up, brushed the wet snow from her rump.
River Ice Dancer was mean. He would get other children to do dangerous things with threats and dares, then, when someone got hurt, River Ice Dancer would go to the old women and tattle.
River Ice Dancer could not run fast or throw far. He was not accurate with his spear, and he had no gift for catching fish, but he knew how to use fear. That of all things, he did best.
“You will not talk to me?” River Ice Dancer asked.
Yaa tried to step around him, but he moved to block her path. “You think you can get away?”
“Leave me alone,” Yaa said. “My mother asked me to bring her something.”
“What?”
“Something we need for mourning.”
She pushed past him, but he caught her sleeve, pulled her back.
“Do not touch me,” Yaa said. “I might have some curse.”
River Ice Dancer laughed.
“It does not matter to me if you catch my curse,” Yaa said.
River Ice Dancer let go, but he leaned his face close to hers and said, “I think you are right. You do have a curse. You must have after Da … you know, that dead one, died in such a way.”
Yaa smiled. “You almost said her name. You almost cursed yourself.”
River Ice Dancer shoved her hard with both hands, but Yaa was ready for him and braced herself so she did not fall.
“Were you in the lodge when she died?” River Ice Dancer asked.
“She died outside,” Yaa said.
“Did you hear anything?” He did not give her time to answer, but instead lowered his voice to a whisper. “I think your mother did it. She’s the ugly wife. She’s the one who killed her.”
His words clogged Yaa’s throat until she began to choke. Her mother was a good and gentle woman. She would never hurt anyone. In anger Yaa looked into River Ice Dancer’s eyes, in anger she drew back her fist.
River Ice Dancer raised his top lip into a sneer, then spit full into her face. Yaa hit him as hard as she could. The blow landed in the center of his nose.
River Ice Dancer screamed, and it seemed as though his cry released a flow of blood. It poured from his nostrils down over his mouth and chin.
“My mother is good!” Yaa yelled at him.
She turned and ran, and did not look back until she got to the cooking hearths. Her heart beat so hard she could feel it in her eardrums, and her fist ached, but the joy of what she had done flowed through her.
She found a place for herself in the group of children waiting for food. Five hearth fires were arranged in a large circle at the center of the village. Beside each one, large caribouskin cooking bags hung on tripods, and the butts of heavy green-wood roasting sticks were driven into the ground. Hares and ptarmigans, dripping with fat, were skewered on each stick.
Several of the grandmothers gave the youngest children bits of meat, but the older children were ignored. The women were too busy cooking for the families in mourning.
Yaa thought of the meat the women had already brought to Brown Water’s lodge, but knew she would get little of it.
Suddenly a
dark shape hurled at the children. Yaa’s first thought was of River Ice Dancer, then of spirits, but as the children around her began to scream, she realized it was only a dog. He was dragging his tie rope as he ran toward the cooking hearths. The women, armed with ladles, started after him, each trying to keep him away from her own lodge, from her husband’s dogs.
The dog flung himself at a large male tied nearby. The two animals twisted and yelped, each going for the other’s throat in a tangle of white and dark fur.
Most of the children followed the women, hooting calls and cheers, but Yaa stayed behind. For a moment there was no one at the hearths. She darted forward and grabbed a roasting stick with a fat hare skewered on it.
The stick was hot, but Yaa held on tightly and ran. She sped through the shadows of the village, holding the hare as close to her body as she could, switching the stick from hand to hand until it cooled.
She did not slow until she came to the black spruce that marked a narrow animal path, hidden under the tree’s drooping branches. She scuttled under the spruce and, waddling in a crouch, finally came to the den she had found several years before. She picked up the stick she always left at the entrance and poked it inside. The den was empty.
The entrance was so narrow she had to slide in on her belly, but once inside she could sit up, squatting cross-legged, her hair brushing the arch of rock and tree roots at the top of the den.
She took a long breath, then sank her teeth into the hot meat. She swallowed, her stomach too empty to wait for chewing. She felt the meat slide down, settle in comfortable warmth just below her ribs.
“I wish Ghaden was here with me,” she said, just in case Daes was listening. “There is enough for both of us. We could have a feast.”
Thinking of Ghaden made her throat tighten so she could not swallow. She turned her thoughts to River Ice Dancer, to the satisfying crunch her fist had made against his nose. She laughed, then her throat opened and she was able to eat.
Chapter Eight
