The Storyteller Trilogy

by Sue Harrison

  Tut told Qung, and the old woman raised her head, lifted her brows and smiled.

  “Does she want the answer?”

  “Let her think about the riddle for a time,” Tut said. “The First Men are a quiet people. They use up most of their words in their thoughts. She will ask if she wants to know.”

  Qung pointed with her lips toward his foot, and Tut said, “She is grateful you let her see the foot.”

  Then Qung turned and walked back into the fog.

  “They ask about you,” Qung said as she worked her way slowly down the climbing log into the ulax.

  Aqamdax looked up from the seal skin she was piercing with a birdbone awl. “Who?”

  “Those Walrus traders.”

  “They are the same ones that were here about a moon ago?”

  “Two are.”

  They had probably been told that she took many men into her bed. Aqamdax wondered what baubles they would offer her, then shook her head to rid it of such thoughts. There were still times when she could not sleep, but they had become fewer, and now that the village was about to have three story nights, she did not want the interference of men to pull the new stories she had learned from her mind.

  “I do not want them to come here,” Aqamdax said.

  “Even the two that are from the River People?”

  Qung’s words jerked Aqamdax’s head as though it were an air-filled seal bladder tied on a string. “Two are River People? Do they understand our language? Did you speak to them? Do they know anything about my mother?”

  “You ask too many questions,” Qung said, and stepped down from the last notch of the climbing log. She settled herself on a pillow of fox fur stuffed with goose feathers and said, “The big one and the small one, they are brothers. They are River. The small one has some special gift. His foot is like an otter foot with toes webbed, and he is a storyteller among his people. He Sings says the man is almost as good in an iqyax as a First Men hunter. The tall one I do not know much about. Some of the women say he wants a wife. Basket Keeper said he asked about you.”

  “No one has asked about my mother?”

  “Who would ask about your mother except you?”

  “They understand the First Men language then?”

  “No. I spoke to the otter one. The woman who came with them, Tutaqagiisix, she is one of us, married to a Walrus Hunter before you were born. Her brother is Small Lake. She has come back to stay with him. She translated the man’s words for me, and mine for him. He gave me a riddle. Do you want to hear it?”

  Aqamdax folded away her seal skin and slipped the awl and finger protector into her ivory needle case. “Are the River men on the beach?” she asked.

  “You do not want to hear the riddle?”

  “The riddle?”

  “The otter-foot man told me a riddle. It is a puzzle of words.”

  “Yes, but not now. Save it for me.”

  Aqamdax put on her sax and started up the climbing log.

  “You should take something to trade. Traders give nothing away, not even information.” But it seemed that Aqamdax’s ears were closed to anything but her own thoughts.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “TWO,” THE WALRUS TRADER said. “That is all. Look, the otter skin is old.” He held it to his nose, sniffed. “I can trade it to the Caribou People. They will not know the difference, but Walrus Hunters, other First Men, and even the River People will know. How could I give you more when I will get so little for it myself?”

  White Hair lowered her head. Aqamdax had watched traders deal with old women before. Village hunters made sure they did not starve, but because their husbands were unable to hunt, the best animal hides no longer came to them. The women gradually traded off their best pelts—even those they had kept for themselves. If they had done a good job scraping and softening, and stored the pelt carefully, an old one was nearly as valuable as one that was new, but why tell the man that? If he was any trader at all, he would know.

  And, of course, he had not lied. Walrus Hunters and First Men would know the pelt was old, but they would also know its value.

  “How much do you eat, grandmother?” the trader asked.

  The old woman rubbed her hands over the surface of the dark dense fur but did not answer.

  “Not much,” the trader said. “Two seal bellies of oil will last you a long time. Longer than it would have when you were young.”

  “I have a husband,” White Hair said.

  “Here then.” The trader pulled a thin ivory nose pin from one of his trade packs. “Take this, too. He will be happy.”

  The woman reached for the nose pin, but Aqamdax clasped it first. The trader looked up into her face.

  “Yes,” she said. “My uncle will like this.” She took the pin and dropped it into the old woman’s hands. “What did he offer you for that pelt, Aunt?” she asked.

  “Two bellies,” White Hair said.

  Aqamdax snorted. “You can get four, five caribou skins for this, can you not?” she asked the trader.

  “It is old,” he replied, but stepped away from her, from the truth of her words.

  Aqamdax picked up the fur. She held it to her nose, then turned toward the women closest to her. “Do you smell any rot?”

  Several women stepped forward, fingered the pelt, sniffed it.

  “No rot,” Calls Loud said. She was a bold woman, usually the first to cry out nasty names when Aqamdax passed her ulax, but now she smiled, a sly gladness in her eyes, a quick lift of her chin to show Aqamdax her approval.

  Aqamdax pushed the fur into the trader’s face, held it against his nose. “Do you smell any rot?” she asked.

  The trader pushed the fur away. “Take it. I do not want it,” he said.

  “I would think this is one of the finest furs I have ever seen,” Aqamdax said. “I would think just to see this fur would be worth something.” She looked over her shoulder at Calls Loud, at Grass Eyes and Spotted Leaf. They murmured their agreement.

  She stepped closer to the trader, again raised the fur to his face. “Two bellies of oil, just to see it, I would think,” she said.

  Again the women murmured their agreement, several of them calling out, “Two bellies, yes. Two bellies.” Others came and added their voices to Aqamdax’s.

  The trader opened his mouth to speak but then looked at the women.

  “There are many of us,” Aqamdax told him. “And we have all brought things to trade. I am sure if you treat our elders well, we will continue to welcome you to our village.”

  “Two bellies?” the trader asked.

  Aqamdax nodded.

  “He says two, Aunt. And also the nose pin?”

  “What is happening here?”

  Aqamdax recognized Day Breaker’s voice.

  The other women parted to allow him through to the trader, but Aqamdax stood her ground.

  “This man is a good trader,” she told Day Breaker. “He has offered our aunt two bellies of oil and a nose pin just for the chance to see this otter pelt.”

  Day Breaker looked at the trader, then at Aqamdax.

  “That is true?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the trader said. His voice was weak. He cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said again. “Two bellies. The nose pin is a gift.”

  Day Breaker nodded, but he fastened his eyes on Aqamdax, raised one eyebrow at her, a look that pulled at her heart, a look he now usually saved for his wife. “I will send other people your way, trader,” he said, then picked up the pelt and two seal bellies of oil and escorted White Hair back to the village.

  Chakliux and Tut sat together in the lee of the iqyax racks, watching and listening as the storyteller Aqamdax dealt with Cormorant, first helping one of the old women, then trading for two birchbark saels, two caribou skins, necklaces and a few dyed porcupine quills.

  Several times Chakliux had to hold his laughter in his mouth as Tut translated the storyteller’s words. She was a woman who knew how to get her way.
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br />   When she was done trading, Qung, the other storyteller, came. Cormorant and Red Feather gave her good deals. A caribou hide and some dried fish for a small seal skin and coil of sinew. A necklace thrown in as a gift, which Red Feather himself fastened around her neck.

  After the old woman left, Chakliux let his thoughts dwell on Aqamdax. Her storytelling was a gift. He wondered if she knew how good she was. Sok had boasted to Chakliux that if Yehl did not take her, he would keep her himself. Why not? He could probably get trade goods from those who came to listen to her. Trades for the words that came from a woman’s mouth. What could be easier than that?

  The Walrus traders had set out their goods earlier than Sok thought they would. When he woke, it was to the sound of men and women dickering, voices rising and falling, making offers, rejecting and accepting. He had hurriedly put out his goods, the few things he owned himself, things he had not set away as bride price for Aqamdax—things that would not mean much to River People but perhaps would have some value to Sea Hunters.

  The first to look through his trade goods were several young girls, each full of giggling and with nothing to trade, but soon one of their mothers walked over. She called to others, and finally the crowd around him was nearly as large as the one around the Walrus traders.

  The old storyteller came and, with her, Aqamdax. Sok tried to keep his eyes from Aqamdax but found himself watching the graceful movements of her hands as she picked up a hare fur blanket. She bent down to whisper into the old woman’s ear, and they both studied the weave of the blanket.

  She was a good woman to look at. No wonder the men came eagerly to her bed. He wondered if they gave her trade goods in exchange for their pleasure. In some villages, women got many things that way—furs and necklaces, oil and meat. According to the Walrus Hunters, the practice was not common among the First Men. The men did not share their women except with hunting partners or a brother who had no wife, and not even a husband could make his wife go to a man she did not want. But Aqamdax was no one’s wife. She had no brother, no father, no uncle to speak for her. And worse, she was barren.

  So what would happen if Sok asked her to come with him and be wife to the Walrus shaman? What woman, even a storyteller, even one who readily shared her bed, could survive without being a wife? It would not be long before she was old. Then what? Who would want her? Besides, what would he lose by asking?

  From the corners of his eyes, Sok watched her. She stroked the weasel furs and looked through a birchbark sael full of quills. She picked up a fishskin basket, then joined several women in derisive laughter. Sok ignored their ridicule.

  He had used rocks to make a platform and set the trade goods on the rocks. Though the rocks were uneven, it was better than having things flat on the ground. Men and women were careful, but children, in the excitement of trading, often started to run and play. Cormorant had told him he had lost more than one fishskin basket to a child’s feet.

  Aqamdax finally came to him. She offered a shell necklace for a handful of carved soapstone beads. It was a good trade for him. The Caribou People would give much for a shell bead necklace. “How many?” he asked her, speaking the words in Walrus.

  She held up five fingers twice. “Take more,” he said. He smiled as she lifted her eyebrows in surprise. She picked up three more beads and he nodded at her, then accepted the necklace.

  Tut pushed through the crowd, squeezed around the trade goods and back to where Sok stood. “Do you need help in knowing what they say?” she asked.

  “Yes, yes,” Sok said, then looked back at Aqamdax.

  She had already turned her back and was standing on tiptoe to look over people’s heads toward the other traders. He could not be rude, reach out and clasp her arm, so he spoke, leaning forward across his trade goods.

  “Your stories,” he said, raising his voice over the babble of women. “They are very good.”

  Tut also leaned forward, spoke the words in the First Men tongue.

  Aqamdax turned and looked at Tut, then at Sok. Her smile made her beautiful, smoothed the creases between her brows, and pushed her eyes into shining crescent moons. He had thought Daes was beautiful. This woman was better. Yes, the Walrus shaman would be pleased, especially if no one told him she was barren.

  “I did not leave a gift last night. Could I come by later, when the trading has ended, and bring something?”

  As Tut spoke, Sok saw surprise in Aqamdax’s face. She opened her mouth, then hesitated.

  “Is there something you or your husband would like, something you see here?” He extended one arm out over his trade goods.

  “My husband?” she asked. “Ah,” she said, “he has always wanted a good fishskin basket.” She laughed and several women beside her also laughed.

  As Tut translated, a wedge of anger forced its way into Sok’s chest, but he said, “I will save him one,” and took the largest basket, crouched on his heels and filled it with skins, furs and necklaces. Then standing, he said, “I will bring it to him tonight. You live in the storyteller’s ulax?”

  “Yes,” Aqamdax answered, looking first at Tut, then at Sok. She said something else, and Tut translated, explaining that Aqamdax had no husband, but Sok looked out over her head at the hunters who waited. Cormorant had told him they would not come until the women left, that then Sok should bring out his weapons and chert. He pretended not to hear what Tut was saying, and instead rearranged the chert and the seal skin floats he had brought from the Walrus Hunter Village.

  Aqamdax hugged the beads to her chest and backed out through the women, allowing others to take her place. She got more than she had hoped for, beautiful beads from the River trader, necklaces and birchbark containers from the Walrus men, and the River trader was going to bring a gift, though part of that gift was a fishskin basket—something she deserved, she told herself, for making a joke at the man’s expense. Most men would have lashed out with angry words or retreated into a seething silence.

  She was already walking back to the village when she remembered that Qung was still trading. Aqamdax should have waited for her, should be there to carry whatever the old woman got. The traders had been generous with the old ones since Aqamdax had stood up to the one they called Cormorant. She pursed her lips to hide her smile. It was good to do something that helped someone.

  She quickened her steps toward the ulax. She would carry her own trade goods home, then return to help Qung. She cut up over the small sand hill that separated the village from the beach. Four women walked ahead of her—Basket Keeper and her older sister, an aunt and the woman called Mouth. Mouth was not a good one to have as enemy. Her words were as sharp as winter-dried beach grass.

  Aqamdax slowed her pace so she would not have to walk with them. The wind had grown since early morning, pushing a line of thick gray clouds in from the horizon. It molded her birdskin sax around her legs, and, as she walked down the back of the sand hill, it also brought the women’s words to her ears.

  Basket Keeper was whining, as she usually did, about too much to do. Aqamdax shook her head. Compared to most wives, she did little. She had given her husband only one child, and all the women in the village knew that her sister-wife did most of the sewing and cooking.

  Basket Keeper’s sister laughed. “You are lazy,” she said. “You should live with my husband, then you would know what work is.”

  “Or live through a year when the salmon are plentiful,” her aunt added. “There are so few this year, I have filled only two drying racks.”

  Mouth snorted. “What do you expect? We have a curse. We are lucky to have any salmon at all.”

  “There are good years and years not so good,” the aunt said.

  “I do not argue with that,” said Mouth, “but no one, not even the oldest among us, remembers a year with so few fish. There is always a reason for such things.”

  Basket Keeper hummed an agreement. “The Two-beach People have a strong shaman….” She waved a hand west toward their village. “P
erhaps he can tell us why this has happened.”

  “Hii! I do not need a shaman for something as simple as that,” Mouth said. “Only one thing has changed in this village since last summer. One woman who is honored and should not be. One woman …”

  “I have been a good wife,” Basket Keeper said. “Ask my husband. All things I do to honor—”

  Mouth’s snort cut off her words. “Little fool,” she said, bending to look into Basket Keeper’s face, “do you always think everything is about you? Who lives now with Qung? Who has been honored with knowledge not even our elders know?”

  Mouth’s words cut like knives into the happiness of Aqamdax’s trading. The carved beads were suddenly sharp in her hands, the new necklaces rough against her skin.

  “Ah,” Basket Keeper said.

  “Ah,” said her sister.

  Angry words pushed into Aqamdax’s mouth, slid over her tongue as thick as oil. Almost, she shouted out to the women; almost, she told them what she thought. But what good would anger do? Perhaps only prove Mouth’s accusation. What was more rude than to listen to others’ conversations? What was more rude than interrupting?

  Instead, she quickened her steps, strode up to them and passed, calling out a greeting. She turned, walking backward, her arms full of trade goods, a smile on her face. “It is a beautiful day, is it not?” she said.

  They blinked at her cheerfulness, and finally Basket Keeper stammered out, “The sun, the sun is good.”

  “The wind carries rain,” said Mouth.

  Aqamdax shrugged. “We have had rain before,” she answered. “Truly we are a village blessed by good fortune.” Then she turned toward Qung’s ulax and walked on, closing her ears to whatever they said as they walked behind her.

  “I told you he is coming,” Aqamdax said, and set out more fish, another pile of sea urchins. “He is coming to see my husband. He would not listen to me when I told him I was not married.”