The Storyteller Trilogy

by Sue Harrison

  “Someone,” Chakliux said carefully, “knows his brother is an honored hunter.” He looked at Sok and smiled.

  Sok returned his smile, and several of the men called out boisterous praises.

  Chakliux continued: “Someday someone will honor him with stories that will stay on men’s tongues for a winter of nights, but when a man does not yet know all the ways of a village, it is too easy to curse when praising.”

  Chakliux looked at the men, met their eyes, saw their eyebrows raised to agree with him.

  “In the Cousin River Village,” Chakliux said, “there is a tradition started by storytellers. Riddles. I tell you what I see, and each man must search within his own thoughts to know what I speak about. Even grandfathers teach grandsons with riddles. So listen, and try to decide what I speak about.”

  Chakliux looked at the circle of men. More had come, gathering two and three deep with Chakliux and Sok at the center. Most had bowls of meat, most wore parkas, but some were wrapped in fur blankets, as though they meant only to get their food, then return to the warmth of their lodges. Chakliux looked into each face, not to show disrespect but so they knew he felt himself equal with them, hunter to hunter.

  “Look! What do I see?” he said, beginning in the traditional way of his village. “It runs far, singing, and Sok’s is the first to fill its mouth with meat.”

  Chakliux waited. In his own village, where men knew how to unwind a riddle, the answer would have come quickly. What hunter has not heard the voice of his spear as it leaves the spearthrower?

  Several men began to grumble, voices low and almost angry, so that Chakliux asked himself whether in avoiding one curse he had walked into another.

  “Now,” he began, speaking over the discomfort of the Near River hunters, “there is a secret to every riddle. I will tell you this one, and you will be among the few men who know.”

  Then in the same way that Chakliux had heard grandfathers talk their grandchildren through a riddle, he explained his puzzle to the Near River men. “All hunters know the voice of their spear as it leaves their hands,” Chakliux began.

  Several men laughed, the boisterous laughter of sudden understanding.

  “And what eats first?” Blue-head Duck asked. “Even before the hunter.”

  “His spear!” several men cried out.

  “So the answer is Sok’s spear,” Dowitcher said.

  One by one the hunters began to laugh, a laughter that told their hearts were lifted by new understanding. Then Chakliux slipped from among them, whispering to Sok that he would go and visit their mother and also Blueberry.

  “Take food,” Sok told him, so Chakliux went to one of the older women, the one who seemed to tell the others what to do. He asked her for food, something to take to his mother, something else to give to Blueberry. The woman filled two small caribouskin bags with meat and broth, then dropped a hot rock from the hearths into each. The stones sizzled and popped as they sank into the meat.

  Chakliux held the bags before him as he walked. When he came to his mother’s lodge, he scratched and called out, then crouched to slip through the entrance tunnel.

  His mother was sitting in darkness, the hearth fire only coals, the soot of previous fires black on her face. She turned her head to watch as he hung the caribou bags from a lodge pole. He scooped out a bowl of meat and handed it to her.

  “Eat,” he said. “Even in mourning a person should eat.”

  His mother took the bowl but did not raise it to her lips.

  “It is not mourning that keeps food from my mouth,” she said. “It is fear.” She looked up at him. “For you.”

  He squatted on his heels beside her, dipped two fingers into her bowl and took out a piece of meat. He pressed it between her lips. Slowly she began to chew.

  “You know I go only to the Cousin River Village,” he said. “Nothing will happen to me there.”

  A tear dripped from her left eye, fell to her cheek. “What if they have found out that you are …” She stopped speaking, wiped her cheek against her shoulder, then said, “You told me that they think you are animal-gift. What will happen if they find out …”

  “If they do not already know, I will tell them,” Chakliux said. “I am the same person. I still know the stories of The People; I still know how to swim; I still carry the mark of the otter. If what I tell them makes them angry, then I will come back here. If I am not wanted here, I will find another village. There are many villages. More than a man could visit during his life.”

  Chakliux pressed another piece of meat between her lips. “You think it will make me stronger to know my mother is in her lodge, starving herself? You think it will make my journey easier?”

  She seemed older than when Chakliux had first come to the village. New strands of white dimmed her hair. But even though her face was lined, her hair graying, her beauty was strong, the bones standing taut beneath her skin.

  “This is something we do in the Cousin River Village,” Chakliux told her, and he pulled several hairs from his head, rolled them together in his hands, then twisted them into a knot. He pressed the knot into his mother’s palm. “Put this into your amulet. Keep it there. It will draw me back.”

  She clasped the hair in both hands.

  Chakliux stood. “I must go now to Blueberry,” he said, and did not miss the quick look of concern that crossed his mother’s face.

  Yes, what mother would not worry, Chakliux thought, when in little more than a moon, two women tell your son they do not want him as husband.

  After his wife Gguzaakk had died, Chakliux seemed to feel nothing—not even the need for a woman. But as the moons passed, the pain subsided into a dull ache, something he could live with. Once again he ate and enjoyed his food; he hunted and celebrated each kill; finally, he again felt the need for a woman.

  Both Blueberry and Snow-in-her-hair were good to look at. He could not deny his desire for them, but still, that desire was not as strong as it had been when he was younger. Now, he could wait. He would not marry only to have a woman for his bed.

  Blueberry’s lodge was well-lit, and when Chakliux scratched she called out in a glad voice. When she saw him, she seemed surprised.

  Her face was clean, and she wore good clothes, nothing torn or soiled for mourning.

  So then, Chakliux thought as he hung the bag of meat from a lodge pole, she was expecting someone. “The women sent food,” Chakliux said, and nodded toward the pouch.

  “You want some?” she asked.

  Chakliux looked at her for a moment. “Someone else is coming?” he asked.

  “No,” she said.

  “You no longer mourn your husband?” He raised his eyes to her clean face, her brushed and braided hair.

  Blueberry covered her cheeks with her hands, then slid her fingers to her braids. She bit at her lips and said, “A dream came to me last night. It was from your grandfather. He told me he did not want his wife dirty. He said he wanted her to be beautiful so everyone would know he had a good woman.”

  Chakliux listened, saw the too-quick movements of her hands, the many times her tongue came out to lick her lips.

  “I am hungry,” Chakliux said, and squatted on his haunches as she filled a bowl. The broth slopped over onto his fingers when she handed it to him.

  Chakliux said nothing. He wiped his hands on his leggings, fixed a smile on his face. He ate, finished the bowl and handed it back to be refilled.

  “You have heard I go to the Cousin River Village?” he asked.

  She filled his bowl and gave it to him.

  “Yes,” she said. A sly gladness came into her eyes.

  Chakliux tipped his bowl to drink the broth. He stood and walked to a pile of furs stacked on one side of the lodge. He took several from the pile, arranged them into a bed near the back of the lodge. “It is custom among my people before a journey to sleep in the bed to which you hope to return.”

  “It … it is not a custom here,” Blueberry stammered out.
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  But Chakliux lay down on the furs, wrapped one over himself and closed his eyes. It was not long until he heard a scratching at the door flap. He opened his eyes, saw Blueberry hurry toward the entrance tunnel, but he rolled quickly from the furs and was there first.

  The man Root Digger stood outside, his mouth open in surprise. Chakliux remembered him from the bear hunt.

  “Blueberry waits for you,” Chakliux said to the man, but Root Digger backed away, mumbling. He slipped in the snow and finally scrambled down the slippery path on feet and fingertips.

  Chakliux crawled into the lodge. Blueberry stood with her back to him.

  “Do you think I am a fool?” Chakliux asked her. “I saw what you planned as soon as I came into your lodge.”

  Blueberry said nothing.

  “So,” said Chakliux, “I will not sleep here tonight. I do not think I want to return to this lodge or to your bed. Do you think Sok will be interested to hear what has happened? You know he searches for the one who killed your husband. Ask Root Digger if he has lost a knife.”

  He left the lodge, skirted the village so he did not need to walk through the crowd near the cooking hearths. Already the drums were beating; the sky was darkening. If he was to leave in early morning, it would be better for him to sleep rather than dance.

  He went to Red Leaf’s lodge. It was empty. He unrolled his bedding, lay down in the furs. He tried to relax into sleep, but thoughts crowded away his dreams.

  Had Blueberry truly been a good wife to his grandfather, or had she been sneaking Root Digger into her lodge whenever the old man was somewhere else?

  If she had been, Chakliux hoped Tsaani had not known. He sighed. He would worry about her later, after he returned. At least he had reason to throw her away. At least there was one less thing to tie him to this village. The woman was not worth thinking about.

  The journey to his own village was more important. He looked forward to seeing his father, Ground Beater, and he needed to speak to his mother K’os. In the morning, before he left, he would go to Blue-head Duck. Perhaps the man had some wisdom that would help Chakliux deal with his mother. He needed to know if she was the one behind the murders here at the Near River Village. He did not think that she herself had actually killed Tsaani or Daes. If she wanted it done, it was more likely she had enticed some young man to do it for her. But who could say?

  After all, she had killed Gguzaakk.

  Chapter Nine

  YAA LIFTED HER HEAD and stared hard at the smoke hole. Perhaps the sky was lightening, at least a little. She had lain awake all night, drifting in and out of strange half thoughts that were not quite dreams.

  She had tried all the things she usually did when she could not sleep: counting, naming her friends, remembering games and telling herself stories. Finally she had crawled from her sleeping furs and sneaked to the boiling bag. If she had just a little to eat, she thought, that might help. But even in the darkness, Brown Water had seen her.

  She had bounded out of bed, snatched up the ladle and cracked Yaa’s knuckles with it. So Yaa lay, not only trying to sleep, but also trying to ignore the throb of her hand.

  In just one moon, there had been many changes in their lodge. First Daes had been killed and Ghaden taken to live with Wolf-and-Raven. Then, just five days ago, Yaa’s father had died. The ache of that death was still so fresh that it hurt worse than her hand.

  The first night after his death, Yaa had dreamed of her father and of Daes. They had called her to join them. Since then, it had been difficult for Yaa to fall asleep, and when she finally did sleep, she would jerk awake in sudden fear, her heart beating so hard it felt as though it would break out through her chest.

  During the day, Yaa dragged herself through her chores, earning blows and scoldings until her back ached and her ears were too tired to hear the words Brown Water yelled. But yesterday, Wolf-and-Raven had visited the lodge, had told Brown Water that Ghaden was ready to come back to them. After a night of songs and prayers, he would bring Ghaden to Brown Water’s lodge.

  Wolf-and-Raven’s words lifted the gray of Yaa’s world. Her hands and feet were suddenly able to do things in the old way, without stumbling or tangling.

  She had helped her mother prepare Ghaden’s bed. They had aired out his hare fur blankets and tucked good luck charms under the woven grass sleeping mats.

  When they finished, Yaa’s mother turned to her and said, “Now go get your own bedding and put it here beside Ghaden’s. Brown Water and I have decided that you must be the one to take care of him. It will soon be spring, and we will be too busy.”

  She had smiled at Yaa then, and a great lump came into Yaa’s throat. That night, Yaa was sure she would sleep, but though she willed herself into dreams, it seemed that her muscles danced under her skin. Now it was nearly morning, and Yaa was sure she had been awake all night.

  She heard Brown Water clear her throat of the hearth fire’s smoke, and she squinted to see through the dark of the lodge as the woman got up and stirred the coals. Yaa tightened her eyes against the firelight, and in that moment must have fallen asleep, because soon Brown Water was shaking her awake, calling her a seagull, a lazy bird that robs cooking hearths and meat racks.

  Yaa’s eyes popped open and she jumped up, pulled on her parka and ran outside to bring wood. She bumped each piece against the ground to shake out loose snow. Three days before, they had had a storm, but since then there had been only thick frosts that crackled on the caribouskin lodge covers and sparkled in the clear morning light.

  Each day the sun came earlier. Yaa could tell the difference in the air, as though the trees were letting out the first smell of promised leaves from their bare and brittle branches.

  She carried in six armloads of wood, then went out for another when Brown Water called out, “Enough!” and tilted her head toward the boiling bag so Yaa knew she was supposed to eat.

  Yaa finished a bowl of meat, then settled down to weave a grass mat. Weaving was not her favorite thing. The dried grass always seemed to grow sticky under her fingers, and her eyes burned as she strained to see in the smoky lodge. But, she told herself, it was better than sewing.

  Her favorite morning work was tending one of the boiling bags at the village hearths. She liked to hear the old women talk. They spoke with giggles of their husbands, so Yaa learned secrets about many hunters, men walking with chins held high, wearing parkas beaded with shells and adorned with feathers.

  Old Blue-head Duck, honored for killing many caribou, liked to have his buttocks scratched before he went to sleep at night, and Dowitcher, whose nasty temper kept children away from him, was afraid of voles.

  But this morning Yaa needed to stay in the lodge. If she was to care for Ghaden, she should be there when he came home.

  Ghaden awoke to the sounds of Blue Flower laying out food. It smelled good. He was hungry. He rolled to his side and carefully pushed himself up.

  The pain was there, catching at him like sharp-nailed fingers, but it was not as bad as it had been. He still hated to take long breaths. Each day the old woman Ligige’ came, made him stand and fill his chest with air until he could do nothing but cough. Sometimes, when he heard her coming, he would pretend to be asleep. At first, that had worked. The old woman had gone away, promising to return the next day, but now, if he pretended, she merely shook him until he decided the shaking was worse than the long breaths.

  It helped him, Happy Mouth said, and told him he must obey Ligige’, and that he must eat, even if he was not hungry. Then he would get strong enough to return to their lodge. Then he could go home. Yes, he wanted to go home, more than anything, even more than having the pain go away.

  “Ghaden, you are awake?” Blue Flower asked.

  Ghaden smiled at her. She reminded him a little of his mother. “Hungry,” he said.

  “Hungry! Good!” She filled a bowl and handed it to him.

  Ghaden crossed his legs and set the bowl in his lap. He fished his fingers into the b
roth and pulled out a piece of meat.

  “Today?” he asked Blue Flower.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Yes, today,” she said.

  His laughter rose like small round drops and popped from his mouth like the spit bubbles he and Yaa made with their lips. Today he could go back to Brown Water’s lodge. Today he would see his mother.

  Wolf-and-Raven did not come until the sun was high in the sky. By that time the waiting had made Yaa’s skin feel as if it would crawl from her body. She jumped to her feet when she heard the scratch at the door, but Brown Water motioned for her to sit down. She sighed and drew the mat back onto her lap, wove another strand through the weft grass and used a notched bird bone to push it tightly into place.

  Brown Water welcomed Wolf-and-Raven. To Yaa’s disappointment, he did not have Ghaden with him, but after a few words of politeness, he ducked his head into the entrance tunnel and called to his wife. She came in carrying Ghaden.

  Ghaden’s face was a pale white circle swathed in furs. He seemed tinier than Yaa remembered him, though she had visited him often.

  Brown Water gestured toward the boy’s sleeping place, and Blue Flower carried him there, settled him into the blankets.

  “Yaa,” Brown Water said, and pointed with her chin toward the boy.

  Yaa gratefully rolled up her mat and went to sit beside her brother. Blue Flower patted her on the head and left them, joining the adults at the hearth fire. Brown Water offered them food, and Happy Mouth filled bowls, then turned to Ghaden and asked if he was hungry.

  He shook his head but struggled to sit up. Yaa scooted behind him to prop up his shoulders. “He says no,” she told her mother, then leaned forward to catch the words Ghaden was mumbling.

  “My mother,” he said. “Where is my mother? Where is she?”

  Yaa opened her mouth but did not know what to say. Had no one told him that Daes was dead? Had no one explained that she would not be here? Yaa looked at Wolf-and-Raven, at the important feathers he wore in his hair, at the amulets he had at his neck. His wife was dressed beautifully in a wolverine parka, the shoulders decorated with insets of white weasel fur. The woman was telling a joke. Brown Water laughed and so did Yaa’s mother.