The Storyteller Trilogy

by Sue Harrison

  Aqamdax looked at the woman for a long time, clasped her amulet, then fingered the whorls of the whale tooth shell she wore at her waist. She believed Brown Water, but there was some evil here she did not understand.

  “You think the boy, Ghaden, is safe?”

  “As safe as Wolf-and-Raven can make him. As safe as I can make him. Why?”

  “Tell him I am not the ghost of his mother,” Aqamdax said softly. “Tell him I look like that dead one because she was also my mother.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  CEN SLIPPED THE PARKA hood back from his face. The fur blended with the grays and yellows of the autumn grasses, but he was too hot. Tikaani had insisted they wear hare fur parkas, but except at night, when the warmth was welcome, they made Cen sweat. Better to have worn ground squirrel, he thought, warm but not hot, and lightweight. But perhaps Tikaani’s suggestion was a good one, he told himself. Each morning small puddles of water had thin crusts of ice at the corners. There might be a day when he was glad for the warmth of hare fur. They had come without dogs, and through some magic that still made Cen cringe when he saw his face reflected in calm water, K’os had made a salve to darken and wrinkle the men’s faces. With her clever needle, she had sewn white tufts of caribou hair into their braids so they looked like old men, not hunters, not warriors. She had shown them how to wad grass in the bottoms of their boots, so they walked like old men, though they had not used the grass until they were within a half day of the Near River Village. She had also given them something to drink that scalded their throats and left them hoarse and soft-voiced.

  She had turned them old and assured them she had the power to make them young again. Cen did not doubt that she had the power. Whether she would choose to make them young again, that was his concern. And what price would she ask in exchange?

  Now they hid in the dark woods at the edge of the village under branches of black spruce. With leaves stuck into their clothing, they lay at the rim of the earthen bowl which cradled the Near River Village. They watched as women and children passed, and they counted warriors as K’os had told them to do. During the night they had scaled each food cache to see how much fish the people had for winter, but they took nothing, did nothing to let anyone know they watched.

  During the next two days, Aqamdax did not speak to Sok, avoided Chakliux. In that time, she won Ghaden as brother, gave careful explanation to Brown Water, Happy Mouth and Yaa, and tried to keep from accusing her husband of deception. After all, perhaps she had not told him her mother’s name, though she thought she had.

  In the five years since Daes had left the First Men Village, Aqamdax had held much anger against her mother. The woman had left her, forced her to live with those who did not want her. Now, at least, Aqamdax understood what had happened.

  The First Men mourned their dead four tens of days, and after that a widow was expected to stay away from other men, to show her respect to her husband, for four moons. The traders had come about two moons after Aqamdax’s father’s death, and her mother, like Aqamdax, had not been able to bear the emptiness of nights alone. She had given herself to a trader, become pregnant, then left with him to protect the village against the curse of broken taboos. To protect Aqamdax.

  “She spoke of you often,” Happy Mouth said. “She wanted to go back to you and her people.”

  Aqamdax glanced at Brown Water, saw the surprise in the woman’s face, though she tried to cover it with narrowed eyes and nodding head. Yes, Aqamdax thought, she, too, would confide in Happy Mouth, but never in Brown Water. Who could trust the woman’s thin, harsh mouth, her angry words?

  The day that Aqamdax told Ghaden she was his sister, he only looked at her from the safety of Yaa’s lap, but gradually he began to watch her without fear. This morning, three days later, when she came into the lodge, he ran to her, showed her a ball Yaa had made him of rawhide strips wound together to the size of his fist.

  “Biter, get!” he cried, and threw the ball, sending the dog in a scramble to the pile of baskets where the ball landed.

  “Better to play outside,” Yaa warned, and flashed her eyes to where Brown Water usually sat.

  Aqamdax praised both dog and ball, then took Ghaden and Biter to the edge of the village, where they played together until Yaa came and got Ghaden to help her carry wood. Then Aqamdax went to Red Leaf’s lodge. She had practiced her words and built her courage to the point of speaking to Sok, and she planned to do so before another day passed. She found Sok still wrapped in his sleeping blankets, the lodge empty except for him.

  “Red Leaf is at the cooking hearths,” he told her, mumbling the words with closed eyes.

  “I came to see you and your brother,” she said.

  “Three, four days we will leave for the caribou hunt. You cannot let me sleep knowing I will get little rest during this next moon?”

  As though he had said nothing to her, Aqamdax asked, “Why did you let me think I would find my mother if I came with you?”

  Slowly, Sok opened his eyes.

  “You and Chakliux knew my mother was dead.”

  He sat up. “Who told you she was dead?” he asked.

  “My brother, Ghaden.”

  He grunted, stood, kicked his sleeping furs over toward the neat rolls piled at the back of the lodge.

  “I cannot talk to you now,” he said.

  “Where is Chakliux?”

  “He did not know,” Sok said. “At least I never spoke to him about your mother. Did you?”

  “No.”

  “Then keep your anger for me, not him.”

  For some reason, his words calmed her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Would you have come with me if you knew your mother was dead?”

  “Perhaps not. But if I knew I had a brother …”

  Sok shrugged. “Sometimes brothers are good things; sometimes they are not. How could I know how you would feel about him? He is only a child.”

  “Surely you knew I would discover my mother was dead once I got here.”

  “I did not intend to bring you here. I brought you to the Walrus shaman.”

  “I did not kill him,” Aqamdax said.

  “Do you think I would take you as one of my wives if I believed you did?”

  “So then, what did that shaman offer to make you travel to my village? Why did he want me?”

  “Do not pretend you are ignorant of your powers. What better wife for a shaman than a storyteller?”

  “Perhaps,” she said softly.

  Again Sok shrugged. “He wanted you, and he offered me something useful.”

  “What?”

  “Many things. Many trade goods.”

  “And for that you would chance the seas, a man who had little experience in an iqyax?”

  “I do well enough in an iqyax.”

  She snorted. “For one who hunts caribou.”

  “You do not want to be my wife?” he asked.

  She took a long breath. “No.”

  “What if another man offered for you?”

  “Who?”

  “Someone honored in this village. Someone whose powers are as great, perhaps greater than yours.”

  She held her breath. Almost, she spoke his brother’s name. Almost, she said her hope out loud, but too many times she had seen hopes vanish. It was always easier to lose a dream when no one else knew.

  “Who?” she asked again.

  “The shaman, Wolf-and-Raven.”

  Suddenly she understood. Snow-in-her-hair. Why else would Sok risk his life for trade goods? He needed a bride price.

  “So now, with the Walrus shaman dead, I am to be bride price for Snow-in-her-hair.”

  “You do not want to be a shaman’s wife?”

  “I am not one to want power or to think power over spirits is a desirable thing. It is too often misused.”

  “Wolf-and-Raven is not like that. He is a respectable man.”

  “Strong? A good hunter?”

  “Good enough.”


  “If he is a man of so much power, why would he be interested in my poor storytelling? I am not one of your people. Why would a shaman want a wife who is not quite human?”

  Sok began to pace in quick hard steps from one side of the lodge to the other so that Aqamdax wondered whether he had yet spoken to Wolf-and-Raven, if he had made any offer to the man.

  “Among my people,” Aqamdax said, “a woman chooses the man she will have as husband. A father or uncle might promise her, but if she does not want to go, no one forces her. And a woman whose husband is not good to her or to her children, she can leave him and choose another.”

  “I would expect such a thing among people who are not quite human,” Sok told her, and stopped pacing long enough to look into her face. “You are not among your people. You are here. You are my wife. You will do as I say.”

  “If you must give me to another, give me to your brother.” She spoke the words quickly, before she lost the courage to say them.

  “Chakliux?”

  “Yes.”

  Sok threw back his head and laughed. “He does not want you. Besides, he has nothing to give as bride price.”

  “He has dogs and his iqyax.”

  “You are fool enough to think he will give those things for you!”

  The words stung, and Aqamdax cursed herself for her foolishness. Once a person knows what you care about, he also knows how to hurt you.

  “You are like your mother, without respect, without honor. She dishonored her husband and went to the trader Cen. What did he give in return? A knife, death. If you are not careful, you will earn the same.”

  “A trader killed her?” Aqamdax asked.

  “Some say he did.”

  “Brown Water says spirits killed her.”

  “I do not know who killed her. Whoever it was also killed my grandfather. If I knew who it was, they would be dead by now.” He pawed through a pile of clothing and pulled out a pair of caribou hide leggings. “What you must know,” he said, glancing up at Aqamdax, “is that if you have no husband, there is no one in this village who will protect you. What if I throw you away? What will you do?”

  Aqamdax realized he was right. She must make her own protection by finding a good husband, having sons, and strengthening the tie between herself and Ghaden, but all those things would take many years. Now she had no one, and nothing to barter except her willingness to help Sok get what he wanted.

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked softly.

  “I want the people to hear your stories, to see your powers.”

  “You will arrange a storytelling, then?”

  “Chakliux and I will ask for such an evening, a way to show respect and gain honor before we leave to hunt caribou.”

  “And I will also tell stories?”

  “Yes.”

  “Once Wolf-and-Raven hears my stories, you think he will want me?”

  “He will see your powers, then I will speak to him of a bride price for Snow-in-her-hair.”

  “And if I do this?”

  “You will have a new husband.”

  “I want more than a new husband.”

  “What else do you want?”

  “I want to keep my lodge.”

  “No. I have promised it to Snow-in-her-hair.”

  “Let her build another.”

  “What choice do you have?”

  “The choice of telling stories or saying nothing.”

  “The choice of dying or living.”

  “I want my lodge.”

  “Perhaps Wolf-and-Raven will want you to stay in Blue Flower’s lodge.”

  “He has only one wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think he will risk displeasing her?”

  “I think she will understand the powers he might gain by taking you as second wife. I think she will be pleased to have another woman do some of the work.”

  “What if I tell Wolf-and-Raven that I will not be wife without my own lodge?”

  Sok tilted his head and looked up at the smoke hole. “You have not been an easy woman to have as wife,” he said.

  Almost, Aqamdax smiled.

  “If Snow-in-her-hair wants your lodge,” he said, “you must leave it, but I will give you enough caribou hides to make another.”

  “And you and Chakliux will help cut the lodge poles?”

  “We will help.”

  Aqamdax laughed. “You promise your brother’s help without asking him?”

  “I gave three, four moons of my life to see him safe among the Walrus Hunters until we knew the Cousin River People would not try to kill him. He can give me a few days.”

  “I will tell stories,” Aqamdax said. “I will show these people the powers of a First Men woman. Let them think about that and be glad they do not call the First Men enemy.”

  The third day of watching, Cen saw him. Ghaden, taller and thinner than he remembered, but Ghaden. The sight of the boy was like a fist to Cen’s belly, knocking away his breath so that at first he could say nothing to Tikaani, only watch, eyes caressing. He had never totally believed that the boy was alive, and now told himself that the knife might have left Ghaden with some deformity. But as Cen watched, he saw that the boy did not limp, and though it was difficult to tell from this distance, his face did not seem to be scarred. He had a dog and was throwing a ball in high arcing curves, laughing when the dog caught the ball, scolding if the animal did not drop it at his command.

  Cen opened his mouth to tell Tikaani, but tears filled his throat. He had to swallow, and when he finally did speak it was with the quiver of an old man. K’os’s throat-scalding tea, he told himself, and would not admit to the tears that burned his eyes.

  “My son,” he said, and extended one arm to point.

  “You said he was injured,” Tikaani said. He watched the boy for a while. “He seems strong.”

  “Watch. He throws the ball with his left hand,” Cen said. “He carries his right shoulder higher, sometimes presses his right arm to his side.”

  “He did not always favor his left hand?”

  Cen shook his head.

  “A warrior should hunt with his right hand. It is the way things should be done.”

  Ghaden picked up the ball, threw it with his right hand. The throw was not as hard, and the ball did not curve as high, but it was a good throw. “He needs a man to teach him,” Cen said. “That is all. Do you know the woman who is with him? It is not one of his mother’s sister-wives.”

  Tikaani was still but finally said, “I was in the village with K’os at the end of last winter, but I do not recognize her.”

  “Perhaps one of the men brought her from another River Village.”

  “She wears a strange parka.”

  The words brought the truth in suddenness to Cen’s mind, but he did not say anything to Tikaani until he watched her for a time, saw, with heart beating hard in sorrow, how much she looked like Daes, even in the way she walked, the way she pushed her hair from her eyes. Then he whispered, “It is a First Men sax, made of bird skins. I know her, though she has changed in four years. She is Aqamdax, Ghaden’s sister.”

  “A First Men woman? Your … the dead one’s …”

  “Daughter.”

  “Not your daughter?”

  “No.”

  “How did she get here?”

  “I do not know. Perhaps looking for her mother. I was told she took a River trader as husband.”

  “At least she is someone to take care of your son.”

  “How can I let him grow up with the people who killed his mother?”

  Tikaani looked at him, smiled slowly. “We must leave soon, tomorrow, the next day. You want to take him back with us?”

  Cen pulled the knife from his arm sheath, thrust it into the soft sod where they lay. “Yes,” he said. “I want him. I would kill every man in this village to get him.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  “HE WANTS A STORYTELLING tonight?”

&nb
sp; Aqamdax nodded. “Should I provide food? I do not have much in my cache. Do the people eat seal oil?”

  “No food,” Red Leaf said. “Let them eat at the cooking hearths. It is not a recognized celebration, only a time for people to gather before the families leave to hunt caribou. Besides, on a caribou hunt usually the women go, too. How can we get ready to go if we have to give a feast? We will have the feast later—when we bring back the meat.”

  Aqamdax carefully watched Red Leaf as she spoke. She wished she knew the woman better. It was difficult coming to a new village. She had not realized how much knowledge a person gathered during childhood years. In her own village, she had been able to tell by the tone of a voice or the expression on a face each woman’s true thoughts. Here among the River People, it was difficult to know. Only a few days before, she had realized that they expressed agreement not with words but with raised eyebrows.

  Now, as she listened to Red Leaf, Aqamdax reminded herself that the woman did not like her, would probably dislike any sister-wife. So then, did she speak the truth about the food, or did she hope to shame Aqamdax by telling her to do something that was not according to village traditions?

  To be safe, when Red Leaf left Aqamdax would find Chakliux and ask him.

  Since she had discovered that her mother was dead, it seemed as though her mind was not clear. She had made her own mourning, singing the First Men death songs alone in her lodge, and Happy Mouth told her that she and Brown Water had made chants and songs during the four days after Daes’s death. Still, it seemed as though Aqamdax’s thoughts were as frayed as old sinew threads.

  Even if she had known Red Leaf better, it was not a good time for Aqamdax to trust her own insight. Yes, she should ask Chakliux.

  “I do not want to embarrass our husband,” Aqamdax said, knowing that Red Leaf did all she could to honor Sok. “I still stumble in my words. I have much to learn.”

  “I will try to help you,” Red Leaf said, and again, though the woman looked into Aqamdax’s eyes as she spoke, Aqamdax was not sure she could trust her. “If you do not know a word, I will try to say it for you.”

  “Thank you,” Aqamdax answered, but wondered if Red Leaf would risk making a fool of Sok in order to humiliate Aqamdax. Probably not. She seemed to value order and did not often laugh or pull jokes. Her eyes always followed Sok when he was near, and she mentioned him often in her conversations with other women.