The Storyteller Trilogy

by Sue Harrison

  His name had once been Tree Hawk, but that had been long ago, and now they called him Water Gourd, so that only the oldest in the village knew who he truly was. Only the elders remembered when he was young and strong, the father of four sons, now all dead. Most people in the village knew him only as uncle to Flower Root, and she was lazy and not worth much.

  He filled the last water gourd, plugged it with a cedar stopper, and tied it in place on his yoke, five gourds on each end, jostling and bumping together like fat yellow bees. Sometimes he brought a boy with him, to help lift the yoke to his shoulders, but this day the boy had been mending his father’s fish nets, so Water Gourd had come alone. Like a woman, that boy was, Water Gourd thought, foolish and weak. He had told the boy stories of his own youth, how he had lifted stones, carried them up the hills to build the muscles in his arms and legs, how any young man, if he wasn’t too lazy to look, could see the piles of stones Water Gourd had carried, still there, still stacked, grown over with grasses and moss, proof of Water Gourd’s ambition and fortitude.

  But the boy seemed to derive no inspiration from Water Gourd’s stories, and Water Gourd had become disgusted with him. It was just as well he had stayed on the beach today, just as well that Water Gourd didn’t have to put up with him.

  He set the ends of his yoke on two piles of flat rocks he had stacked for that purpose and, crouching to the level of the yoke, backed himself underneath. He settled it against his neck, flexed his shoulders, then painfully straightened his aching knees.

  If the sea gods allowed him to live through another year, he would most likely have to reduce his gourds to four on each end. It worried him to think about that. Four had never been a lucky number for him. The birth of his fourth son had killed his favorite wife, and the child had chosen to follow her spirit four days later.

  He himself had had four wives, the fourth so vicious of tongue that he had celebrated rather than mourned her death. Four gourds were not good. Perhaps he could find smaller gourds and still carry five.

  He walked slowly, and the sun heated the top of his head until sweat trickled from the edges of his hair, tracking a route through the gullies and furrows of his face. The gourds sweated as well, as if it were difficult work hanging from a yoke. Water Gourd kept his eyes away from them, for the drops of water on their sides always made his mouth pucker in longing.

  Though it was not yet summer, grass already grew tall on each side of the path. Until he broke over the top of the first hill, he could see nothing except green, but he had taken some time to chop away the growth at the hill’s crest, so that in his walking he could get a breath of wind from the sea.

  He stopped, straightened as best as he could, and lifted his eyes to the blue of water and sky.

  Ah ee, he had been a hunter once. Ah ee, how his muscles had bulged under his skin. Any woman, he could have taken as wife; any father would have been glad to call him marriage-son; every mother had longed for the grandchildren that would come from his loins. He had eaten well then, too. Whale and squid and sea urchin, meat of deer and any manner of bird. Chestnut cakes, the young women made for him, each hoping to win his favor. Ah ee, life had been good.

  He sighed, and his memories brought a film of water to coat his eyes, clearing his vision long enough so he could see the separation between ocean and sky, long enough for him to place a flotilla of short, low-slung boats just offshore. He blinked, sure his old eyes were seeing foolishness. What man among the Boat People would claim such poor dugouts? He would be a laughingstock. Water Gourd pursed his lips in ridicule. Even he—his hands knotted and curled with age—even he could make a better boat than those he was seeing.

  Then suddenly he knew who was in those boats, and the knowledge nearly dropped him to his knees. He gripped the yoke as if a tight hold could save him, and he spun on the path, intending to make his way past the spring to the caves hidden just under the crest of the third hill.

  But although he was used to the weight of the yoke on the uphill climb, the filled gourds added more than he could bear. He lost his footing and tipped backwards, fell slowly, as if in a dream. He landed on his back, his arms still flung forward over the yoke, and, like a turtle, could not right himself. He slid on the grass until he was near the bottom of the first hill, within crawling distance of the village. He lay still for a moment to catch his breath, then extricated himself from gourds and yoke. One gourd had broken, and to preserve the precious water that still remained inside, the old man cupped the largest shard in his hands and drank.

  The water, cold from the spring, renewed his strength, and, leaving his yoke on the ground, Water Gourd crept forward to the back wall of an iori and pressed himself tightly against the chestnut bark siding.

  He heard a gasp from within, then a woman’s voice as she babbled and begged. He knew the voice. It belonged to Fire Mountain Man’s second wife, Cedar. She was young, that woman, and pretty, with smooth, fair skin and tiny teeth. He pried at the bark of the wall and tried to see inside.

  A large hairy man stood over her, a short thrusting lance in one of his hands.

  “Bear-god,” Water Gourd whispered, and shuddered, remembering stories he had heard Cedar tell.

  On hands and feet he began to sneak away, but then he remembered his yoke. If he left it there, the gourds still wet, they would know he was near. By following his path through the grasses, they would have no difficulty finding him. If he were young, he would welcome a chance to fight, to kill men who would attack a peaceful village, who would force women as the Bear-god man now forced Fire Mountain Man’s wife.

  Even with his old ears, Water Gourd could hear her groans of pain. He considered going back to help her, but what good would that do? The Bear-god man had a lance, and Water Gourd had no weapon save a small knife sheathed at his wrist. He would die, and probably could do nothing to help the woman. Perhaps the Bear-god man would only use her and let her go. Of course, most likely Cedar, so used, would take her own life in shame rather than return to her husband.

  Ah ee, why try to help a woman who was already dead?

  Water Gourd picked up his yoke, slung it over his shoulders, and crept away through the grasses, weaving his steps in stops and starts so any attacker who might decide to follow would think he was animal rather than man. At the top of the hill, he started down the worn path again, his breath wheezing in his throat until he had to stop. He would never make it to the caves if he tried to carry his yoke.

  He decided to leave a false trail, abandon his yoke at the end of it, then return to the path. If he hurried, he might make it over the crest of the second hill before he was seen. He cut into the grasses, again made a wandering trail, like an animal who in hunting or fleeing finds wisdom in crooked ways.

  Finally he dropped the yoke, started back toward the caves, but then he began to imagine himself there, safe, but slowly dying of thirst as he waited out the Bear-god warriors’ stay in his village. He could envision his thoughts centered on the yoke and its burden of sweet water, cupped in the fat bellies of those gourds. He could see them mock him in his dreams, those gourds, water-rich and slick with moisture.

  He returned to his yoke, cut away one of the clusters of bottle gourds, and, clutching it to his belly with both hands, scurried back toward the path. The gourds slowed him a little, but at least with the water, he could stay in the caves for a few days without venturing to the springs.

  He crouched low amidst the grasses, and at the crest of the second hill he looked down toward the village, stifled the groans in his throat as he saw flames rising from many of the huts. He trembled in his helplessness and clutched his armful of gourds more closely, then again started toward the caves.

  He had taken only a few steps when he stopped in horror. Bear-god warriors were ahead of him on the trail. His fear was so great that his bladder spilled out its load of water. He did not allow himself time to feel ashamed, but a thought sped through his mind: amazement that he, an old man who belonged to no one and
had no one to claim, would want so desperately to live. He turned the other way, toward the burning village, stopped short of Fire Mountain Man’s iori—it, too, now in flames—to run the overgrown path to the boatmakers’ beach, where the River Oi emptied into the sea.

  As he ran, a voice in his mind chided him. You are foolish. Why come this way? The Bear-gods will be here, too. Better to fight and win yourself some glory to take with you to your death.

  But whether because the entrance to the path was overgrown with hemp or because the Bear-god warriors had already been there and left, when Water Gourd came to the first hut, he found it empty. He crept quietly among cedar and nutmeg trunks, some still whole, others scarred with flame where the craftsmen had begun their work of hollowing and shaping. Smoke blowing in from the houses burned his throat and pulled water from his eyes, and the screams of fear and fighting tore at him like claws.

  He hid in the darkest corner of the hut, farthest from the open side that faced the estuary. The builders had set the tree trunks they were shaping nearest the hut’s entrance. They claimed it was good for those trees, as the fire chewed them hollow, to look out at cool water. Then as boats they would leave the land more willingly, go where their paddlers directed.

  Water Gourd had heard stories about boats left onshore for a night that grew roots and bound themselves again to the land, stranding paddlers and hunters so far from their village that their families never saw them again. The best boatmakers not only burned out the land-heart of the tree, but gave it a vision of other possibilities. What hunter wanted to be trapped in some foreign land by the whim of a tree, not quite boat?

  Water Gourd hunkered down on his knees, his arms still hugging the gourds. Their weight unbalanced him, but he did not want to set them down. They were one more wall between himself and the Bear-god People, perhaps even had some small power of protection. If water would protect anyone, why not him? He had always honored the spring with his gratitude, with clean hands and grass-wiped feet. But the gourds contained only a small amount of water. Enough to keep a man through four, perhaps five days, but not enough to douse the flames should the Bear-god People decide to burn this hut.

  Suddenly, through the soles of his feet, Water Gourd felt the pounding of the earth, and he knew men were coming. He rolled himself into a ball and, taking his water with him, broke out through the thatching of the hut’s back wall. Humped around the gourds like a beetle, he crept through the undergrowth away from the hut, toward the estuary that angled up from the sea like an arm bent at the elbow. Boats lay on the shore, new boats, those nearly finished, hauled for testing balance and buoyancy to this gentler, shallower water. Most had no outriggers and lay with backs up, oiled wood glistening. But one had its outrigger log attached with sturdy poles, and the bow close to the water as though its maker had been ready to launch it. Inside was a paddle, a worker’s rush fiber shirt, and two deerskin blankets, humped as though they covered supplies.

  The old man threw in his water gourds and, using all the strength in his ancient arms, he pushed the boat into the estuary, praying that the boatmaker had done his work well. Water Gourd could swim, but why pit himself against those sea gods who find sport in grabbing ankles, hauling people into the depths?

  When the water reached the old man’s knees, he climbed into the boat, grabbed the paddle, and quietly pushed away from the shallows. The boat was steady, the outrigger stable. He pushed again, this time almost losing his paddle as the land fell away, and the estuary grew deep. He crept forward a little ways in the boat, tucked his heels under his rump, his knees widespread for balance, but as he continued to paddle, the tree boat started to circle, so that he was gaining no real distance from the shore. He thought he might be safe if he could get the boat from the estuary into the river. The growth of trees, vines, and moss was so rich and thick that he could hide himself under the branches that arched to dip their new spring leaves into the water.

  As a young man, he had been harpooner rather than paddler, but still he knew that to keep going straight, he must paddle with equal strength on both sides of the boat. He scooted himself to the other side, earning splinters in his knees. But he ignored the pain and thrust his paddle into the water two times, then lifted it to the other side, again paddled twice. He went back and forth, until blood from his knees dyed the raw wood crimson, but finally the boat was at the center of the estuary. He turned it, headed against the current, up toward the river, but each time he switched sides, he lost whatever distance he had gained.

  He tried three strokes, then four, and found he made headway with that, though the course he took was no longer straight. Each time he lifted his paddle, he looked toward the shore, sure he would see Bear-god warriors watching him, perhaps even launching one of the other boats to follow him, but no one came, and finally, as the thick black smoke from the burning village billowed up through the trees and curled down to the estuary, Water Gourd’s boat entered the river.

  He closed his eyes in a moment of gratitude as the shadows of the trees welcomed him, then he found a snag, an upended cedar with roots and earth woven into a circle, the weight of it compressing the bank so that the tree had slid, roots first, into the water. The old man maneuvered the boat until it was upriver from the snag, then he turned it and used the paddle like a fish uses its tail, allowing the current to move the boat, the paddle to direct its path until the bow snugged itself into the interstices of the root mass.

  Then Water Gourd, peering out through the tunnel of trees, could only wait while the smoke filled the estuary and blocked his vision of the sky.

  Chapter Two

  SOMETIME DURING THE NIGHT, Water Gourd fell asleep. It was a sleep visited by demons, and when he finally managed to awaken, it was still dark, still night. The smoke from the village had dissipated, and he could see stars in that circle of sky afforded him from his seat in the cedar log boat.

  The tide had come in, and the river had risen so that the bow of his outrigger was not wedged as tightly in the roots of the fallen tree. The bumping of the boat—away from the root mass and again into it—had brought him back from his terror-filled dreams. The wind had gathered strength, and he could hear the rattle of leaves above him, spinning their tales to one another.

  Did they tell stories of women raped, babies killed, old men tortured? Most likely not. Why should they care about that? Surely the trees hated his people. After all, what cedar, what nutmeg would choose to leave the close green forest to be gutted by the fire and knives of boat builders? Maybe the trees around him celebrated, as did the Bear-god warriors, rejoicing at the deaths of the Boat People.

  Water Gourd wished he could close his ears to the noise. He shut his eyes and curled into a ball at the center of the boat, his gourds, still cold and damp from their bellies of water, cradled in his arms. Although the night air was warm, the mists rising from the river hovered over him until they had worked their way through his skin to his joints, until he ached with the damp as though winter had suddenly come upon the land, disrupting the gentle weather of spring, the cycle of the seasons suddenly and inexplicably forgotten.

  The boat rocked up, then bumped ahead, rocked again and jerked back. The motion settled behind Water Gourd’s ears in an ache that tensed his muscles into pain. The splinters in his knees throbbed, and new dreams invaded his eyes—monsters that were half demon, half bear. They laughed at his fear, his mourning, and blew with fetid breath to coax new life into the fires that had destroyed his village.

  Then suddenly the boat tipped and swirled, and, as though a hand had gripped the stern, it pulled away from the circle of roots and was thrust violently upriver.

  What giant had captured him? Water Gourd’s panic propelled him to sit upright, hands clasping the outrigger poles. Then he saw the trees sway, though there was no storm. He felt the earth buckle, and suddenly the river spewed him out into the estuary, sending his boat ahead so quickly that Water Gourd nearly tumbled backward. He heard a thin wail, and at first t
hought it came from his own mouth. Again the sea shook, waves came from both shores, picked the boat up, and thrust it from the estuary into the sea. Again he heard the wail, but this time he knew it was not from him, for he had clamped his teeth tightly together to keep from biting his tongue.

  It was the boat; it had to be. The tree part of it was not quite dead, and as they sped out toward the sea, it called to its brother trees in fear.

  “It will save you some burning and scraping,” Water Gourd shouted to the boat over the tumult of waves.

  If he could convince the tree that it was better off in the sea, it might not dump him in its effort to return to the sanctuary of river and forest. He reached for the paddle. Perhaps if the boat saw that he, too, wanted to remain in the river, it would help him. He thrust the paddle into the water, thrust again and again until he had managed to turn the boat toward the estuary. A wave caught him and pushed him forward, and he dipped his paddle, working as hard and fast as he could. A second wave took him and a third, until finally he felt the contrary current of the river. Though it was dark, with the eyes of his memory, he saw the green river water mingling with the blue sea, swirling into a dance that would complete itself out past the estuary in a place where fish fed from the river’s generosity.

  Water Gourd paddled, blessing arms kept strong by carrying water, cursing muscles pulled long and stringy by old age. Two strokes to counter the river’s flow, two to pull the boat forward, then the shift to the other side to wield his paddle between the outrigger shafts. Two strokes to straighten the bow and two to regain the ground he had lost in shifting his paddle. He counted his strokes, singing them under his breath like a chant, and he nearly wept with joy when he regained the entrance of the estuary.

  Then, above the sounds of river and sea, of his chanting and the splash of his paddle, he heard voices. His heart clenched like a fist, and for moment he did not have the strength to lift the paddle, but merely kept it in the water, the blade turned flat against the side of the boat.