The Storyteller Trilogy

by Sue Harrison

  Chakliux noticed that the others had set their fat balls on the ground as Wolf-and-Raven had. He handed the fishskin basket to one of the women. “Pick them up and bring them back to me,” he told her. “We do not want our dogs or our children to get them.” He turned to Wolf-and-Raven. “You would not hold the fat ball. Why?”

  “I do not trust a man from the Cousin River Village,” Wolf-and-Raven said. “That is why.”

  Chakliux turned to the elders. “I accuse no one,” he said. “Decide for yourselves who killed the dogs. You saw what the coil of bone did to Root Digger’s hand. Think what they do inside a dog’s belly.”

  There was a rise of sound—a growl of anger, men’s and women’s voices together.

  “Why?” one of the hunters asked. “Why kill our dogs? We need them for hunting and for food. Why would anyone do this?”

  A woman at the back of the circle stood up. Chakliux did not realize it was Wolf-and-Raven’s wife until she spoke.

  “For power,” Blue Flower said. “Only for power. To be able to accuse others of causing such a curse, and then to say he himself was able to stop it.”

  “I throw you away,” Wolf-and-Raven screeched, jumping to his feet and thrusting his walking stick toward his wife.

  “No,” she said to him. “I throw you away. Get your things out of my lodge. I do not want to see you again.”

  Then everyone was speaking, shouting, arguing. Most raised angry words at Wolf-and-Raven. Some shouted at Chakliux, others at Ligige’. Wolf-and-Raven had worn his shaman’s headpiece, heavy with beads and raven beaks. He took it off and held it toward anyone who drew near, sweeping a path through the people as he stomped away. Some of the men shouted out their disagreement with Chakliux. Others came, clapped hands on his back, thanked him, peered into the fishskin basket at the fat balls, then, shaking their heads, walked away.

  Soon everyone was gone except Chakliux and Ligige’. She was huddled on the ground, her blanket pulled up over her head. Chakliux knelt beside her. “Aunt,” he whispered softly. “Would you like to stay in Red Leaf’s lodge tonight?”

  “I do not think Sok would want me there,” she said, her voice trembling. “I have destroyed his wife’s father.”

  “Wolf-and-Raven destroyed himself,” Chakliux said, and helped her to her feet.

  “I think I will go to my own lodge,” Ligige’ told him. “I think this village has heard enough of my voice.”

  “Then could I stay with you?” Chakliux asked her.

  “Yes, come and stay.” She blinked away tears and put a sly smile on her face. “The old women say you have more seal oil. They say it is very good on dried fish.”

  Chakliux also smiled. “Yes, Aunt, it is very good, as you shall see.”

  THE COUSIN RIVER VILLAGE

  Cen did not want to go with them. He had not yet mastered their bow weapons. Besides, he was trader. What trader wanted to encourage fighting? But the Near River People were the ones who had killed Daes. They were the ones who had almost killed him. Even yet his ribs ached on cold days, and his left wrist would never be as strong as it once was.

  He had considered Aqamdax’s words. She had gone lodge to lodge, pleading with hunters, telling them the Near Rivers were a good people, urging them to take only one life for the boy who had been killed. But even Ghaden had gritted his teeth, raised a fist and screamed out his anger against the Near Rivers for killing a boy who had been a friend.

  They took no dogs with them. Only packs with food and supplies. Only weapons. Bows and throwing spears, arrows and knives.

  Cen had a bow, but still his left wrist buckled when he pulled back the string. Better for him to use a spear. At least his right wrist was strong, his throw far and accurate.

  It usually took three days to make the journey to the Near Rivers’ winter village from the winter camp of the Cousin River People, and that was with dogs carrying packs. But anger seemed to lend strength to the men’s legs, and at the end of the first day they found themselves already at the Near River. They slept through a night of wind and snow, the last bite of winter as it was defeated by the new strong sun.

  The second morning, they began early, and by midday they moved from the river ice into the forest, then made a camp near the village. Now all they could do was wait for morning and hope some hunter would come from the village to be their first kill.

  The day had faded to dusk when that one came—a man alone, not even a dog at his side. He carried a large pack, as though he were a trader. He carried a spear as walking stick.

  Cen was sitting on a fallen tree, had brushed the snow from the trunk and cushioned the wet bark with a pad of caribou hide. His thoughts were not on the battle, the attack that Tikaani and others had decided would begin in early morning. His thoughts were instead on K’os. She was a woman, like Daes, who seemed to push wisdom out of his head, who made him act without thinking, without considering consequences. Now that he was away from her, when her face did not cloud his thinking, it was a good time to decide what to do.

  Even if she became his wife, she would probably still invite many men to her bed. He had heard the stories about her two husbands. Both had died in terrible ways, the first man consumed by some sickness that seemed to eat away his belly until all he could do was vomit blood. The other was killed in a fire that K’os herself escaped. Surely some spirit of bad luck followed K’os and would soon attack anyone she took as husband. Some of the hunters said K’os was old, too old to give children. That was difficult to believe. Her face said she was young, but she seemed to be barren.

  Cen was grateful for Ghaden, but he wanted more sons, even a daughter. What was better for an old man than a daughter to take care of him in his last days?

  He could marry Star, but he did not want a wife who whined and threw tantrums like a child. There was also Aqamdax. She looked much like Daes and was a hard worker. The First Men claimed she was a storyteller. She was wife to Night Man, but who could expect him to live long? The night Cen had stayed in Star’s lodge, he had had to turn away when Aqamdax changed the poultice on Night Man’s shoulder, the flesh was so rotten.

  When Night Man died, what would Aqamdax do? Perhaps Tikaani would take her, but he was chief hunter now. It would not be wise for the chief hunter to take a woman from another village for first wife. Who would want the trouble that could cause?

  Cen was drawn from his thoughts by a soft hiss that passed hunter to hunter among the Cousin River men. He crouched beside the log, reached for his spear, tucked it close to his shoulder, point out.

  Suddenly arrows were flying, some ricocheting off trees, others flying true, their voices higher, thinner than the voices of spear and spearthrower.

  Cen heard screams, then the cries of the Cousin River men calling out as though they had made a successful hunt. He stood, still clutching his spear, then went to see what had been killed. An animal, he thought, perhaps a bear just coming from its winter den. What better sign of favor?

  No, it was a man. A heavy pack, bristling with arrows, was on his back, and his legs and arms leaked blood into the snow. Then Cen saw the medicine bundle, the skin of a river otter, and another of a wolverine. A flicker wing hung from the pack, and a beaded head covering.

  “Wolf-and-Raven,” he said.

  Some of the men near him gasped; others, the younger men, drew brows together as though they were puzzled.

  “A shaman,” Tikaani said.

  Some looked at Cen for confirmation. “Yes, a shaman,” he answered.

  “Cut his joints, quickly,” one of the young men said.

  Tikaani looked at the man, really yet a boy, and handed him his knife. Clasping his amulet, Tikaani walked away, a thin chant rising from his throat. The others did the same, leaving the boy there alone. Finally, the boy dropped the knife, backed away, lifted his hands in signs of protection, held his amulet high over his head.

  Later, as the others slept, Cen crept away through the forest. He walked the river ice all night
and all the next day, then continued north toward the Great River and east toward the villages of the Caribou People.

  THE NEAR RIVER VILLAGE

  Chakliux thought the sound was part of his dream, but then he heard a voice, and pulled himself from sleep. He sat up and remembered he had decided to spend the night in Ligige’’s lodge.

  The hearth coals were only bits of glowing red, but he could see well enough to tell that Ligige’, too, was sitting up.

  “It is Wolf-and-Raven,” she said. “I know his voice.”

  “He left the village,” Chakliux reminded her. Blue Flower had come and told them herself.

  “It is Wolf-and-Raven,” Ligige’ insisted.

  Chakliux wrapped a hare fur blanket around himself and crept out through the entrance tunnel. There was no moon, and clouds had covered the stars. In the darkness he could see nothing.

  “Who is here?” he called, keeping his voice low. Why wake others for something that was probably only an old woman’s dream?

  There was nothing, no sound. Not even the barking of dogs, the cry of a baby. He turned to go back inside, then heard the moan. He stood and listened, again heard a moan, then walked in careful steps toward the sound. In the darkness, he tripped, catching his leg on something, then realized it was a man lying in the snow. Chakliux called Ligige’, told her to bring coals for light. She came out, already bundled in her parka, carrying a bowl with coals burning inside.

  She knelt beside Chakliux, set the bowl in a patch of snow to keep the coals from burning through, then with words edged by tears said, “Wolf-and-Raven. I told you. Someone has killed him.”

  “Help me,” Chakliux said. He gathered the man into his arms, and together they carried him into the lodge.

  “What are these?” Ligige’ asked, shaking her head, scattering her tears. She pointed at feathered shafts of wood, one in Wolf-and-Raven’s shoulder, two in his left arm, another in his leg, one in his belly.

  “Not a weapon the River People use,” Chakliux said. He leaned close, saw a familiar band of red, black and white on one of the shafts.

  Then he heard the rattle of breath, another moan. Ligige’ whimpered and moved to cradle Wolf-and-Raven’s head in her arms. He opened his eyes but did not seem to see her.

  “How did this happen?” Chakliux asked, speaking slowly, his words loud so Wolf-and-Raven’s spirit would hear him before it floated up and left his body.

  Wolf-and-Raven opened his mouth, said what Chakliux already knew. “The Cousin … They are coming….”

  “You took this from the shaman’s leg?” Sok asked, turning the arrow in his hands.

  Chakliux nodded. They were in the elders’ lodge with most of the Near River hunters.

  “It looks like one of the spears the old trader once kept in his lodge,” Sok said. “He told us the large fire bow somehow threw them.” He glanced at Chakliux. “That trader died in the same fire which killed your father.”

  “The trader never used the weapon,” said one of the elders. “He kept it for good luck.”

  “My father stayed there, in that lodge?” Chakliux asked.

  Blue-head Duck nodded. “And the woman.”

  “K’os?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we know how they got the weapon,” Sok said.

  “And why the old ones died,” Chakliux added.

  “This woman would do such a thing?” Dog Trainer asked.

  “She would,” said Fox Barking.

  Chakliux looked at his stepfather in surprise.

  “Long ago I knew her,” Fox Barking said.

  Chakliux, remembering the many men who came to his mother’s lodge, did not doubt that Fox Barking spoke the truth.

  “So our shaman said the Cousin River hunters are coming?” Blue-head Duck asked.

  “Let them come,” said one of the younger men. “I am tired of their foolishness.” He nodded toward the arrow in Sok’s hand. “Our spears are stronger than that. We will kill them all, then go to their village and get their women, take the food in their caches.”

  One of the elders stood, First River, a man not as old as Blue-head Duck but weaker, one who had nearly died during the winter. He used a walking stick to give his legs strength, and he looked straight ahead, most of his vision robbed by the white cauls that covered his eyes.

  “Once I was a trader,” he said, and his words were so weak that Chakliux could barely hear him.

  Some of the younger hunters did not even seem to be aware he was speaking and continued their conversation among themselves until Blue-head Duck raised his walking stick and rapped one of them on the shoulder.

  “Once I was a trader,” First River said again, then stopped and coughed with the effort of forcing out his words. “I was partner with that one who died in the fire. We were hunting partners and trading partners. My first wife was his wife’s sister.” He stopped, leaned forward on his walking stick. One of the young men rose and went over to First River, wrapped an arm around the old one’s shoulders and helped him stand, took long breaths as though he could, through his own breathing, lend strength.

  “We went far once. Beyond the south mountains. Two years we were gone. Our wives thought we were dead. The dead one’s wife, she even took another husband.” He pushed out a laugh and shot a sharp glance at Blue-head Duck as he said, “She left him when her husband returned.

  “We saw people who used these small spears. Their spearthrowers look like fire bows, only longer. Some of you saw such a thing hanging on the wall of that dead one’s lodge. They are small, those spears, but they go through an animal’s hide almost as well as a large spear, and a hunter can shoot quickly, more quickly than a man can throw a spear, and yet not grow as tired. The small spears also go farther. So a hunter does not have to be as close to the animals he is trying to kill.”

  The old one stopped, and for a long time no one else spoke. Finally Chakliux said, “First River, if you were going to attack this village using those weapons, how would you do it?”

  The other men seemed surprised by Chakliux’s question, but First River answered quickly, as though he had already thought about such a thing. “From the ridge,” he said. “You know we put our lodges in this place because it is near the river, and the earth, being shaped like a bowl, shields us from the winds. Yet enemies can surround us on all sides, sit in the trees and shoot down, knowing our spears cannot reach them.”

  “No,” some of the younger hunters called out. “These small spears cannot fly that far.”

  “Yes,” First River said, “I have seen them. They can. And who among us is strong enough to send his spear that distance? Perhaps only Sok.”

  Sok nodded, but said, “And only a few times. Then my strength would be gone.”

  “Those small spears, even if they hit a man, will not kill him,” said the boy River Ice Dancer.

  It was a foolish thing to say, and most of the men did not even bother to answer, leaving River Ice Dancer to puff out his chest, thinking he had said something important, but old First River said, “They killed the shaman.”

  “Can they penetrate the walls of our lodges?” Sok asked.

  “Perhaps not,” Blue-head Duck said, “since our lodges are made with two layers. Maybe we should just stay inside, wait for them to come close, then we will kill them.”

  “But how long until they think of fire?” First River asked. He was leaning heavily now on the young man beside him. “Those faraway hunters tied oil-soaked moss to the ends of their spears, lit them and shot them into lodges. The people who survived the spears died in the flames.”

  “What should we do?” Sok asked.

  “Let us go now,” said Chakliux. “We can climb to the ridges, meet them there with our spears.”

  “First River,” said Blue-head Duck, “in a close space, which is the better weapon, our spears or theirs?”

  “Ours,” First River said.

  Some of the younger men began boasting, but Blue-head Duck shouted th
em down. “Remember our shaman. Remember that, even in his disgrace, he defied death to warn us. Go now, get your weapons and leave the village in quietness. Wait in the willow at the edge of the ridge, and when the Cousin River hunters come, they will find we are stronger than they think.”

  Some of the Cousin River men did not want to fight. They saw that the shaman was gone, leaving only his pack to mark the place where he had died. They were afraid his spirit had taken his body and would fight with the Near Rivers against them.

  “Wolves took him,” Man Laughing said, and Tikaani raised his voice in agreement, but he did not let himself wonder how wolves took the man without disturbing the pack.

  He was afraid their luck had begun to leave them, so he urged the men to hurry to the ridge that encircled the village, go while it was still dark, before they could lose all their good luck. When the first Near River hunters left their lodges in the morning, the quick silence of the Cousin River warriors’ arrows would await them.

  Each Cousin River warrior had thrown gaming sticks to determine his place to fight. The largest stick had four sides, one marked to show north, the others for south, east and west.

  On Tikaani’s throw, the stick had fallen to north, the river side of the village. A good place to be, Tikaani had thought, closest to escape if their luck was not as strong as they hoped. The second stick had eight sides, and his had fallen on the side for one of the center positions. Who could know if that was good or bad? The third stick was flat, with only two sides, one for standing, the other for climbing into a tree. Each hunter who had thrown for the north side had also thrown to stand.

  The elder Take More told the men of the north side to throw again, but again, the stick told each of them to stand. Then Take More said the spirits were speaking to them, that all those on the river side should stand, though on the other sides hunters should both stand and climb trees.

  Perhaps that was best, Tikaani thought, but he had never been sure of Take More’s wisdom. He would stand at first, but later, if the battle was not going well, he would climb a tree. Better to see, better to shoot his arrows far.