by Sue Harrison
Bear-god warriors. He saw their torches lining the banks of the estuary, saw one then another lift his fire until they cast light in long sheaths across the water to his outrigger. They lifted their spears, threw. The spears were thrusting lances, not so good for distance. One fell into the estuary, but another thwacked hard inside the boat, cutting a gouge into Water Gourd’s thigh before the tip embedded itself in wood.
He knew then there was no hope. He raised his paddle and brought it into the boat, laid the blade over his belly. Better to take a spear in chest or throat and have his life end suddenly than to suffer a gut wound. He felt the river current thrust him toward the sea, but then the boat turned sideways and a wave brought him back. The Bear-god men threw more spears as sea and river played with his boat, like children throwing a pig bladder. A spear clattered against the outrigger and one landed in the bow. Water Gourd pinched his fingers over the oozing wound in his thigh. It was not a terrible cut, shallow and less than a handbreadth in length, but it hurt.
Suddenly the earth heaved again. Water Gourd saw it first in the flames from the Bear-god torches, the light moving in odd circles, one torch dipping down until it had extinguished itself in the water. As though the river were inhaling, the boat was suddenly sucked far into the estuary. He closed his eyes, tried to prepare for death, but then just as unexpectedly, the river exhaled and thrust the boat and Water Gourd out into the sea, past the waves that would return him, far beyond the reach of any spear.
The torches were only tiny needle pricks in the night, and in his relief Water Gourd began to laugh. Better to drown than face the tortures the Bear-gods would inflict. At least he could throw himself into the sea and have it done quickly.
Or better yet, he would wait until morning, rest a little, then turn his boat toward the next village, warn them that the Bear-god warriors were coming. They might see him as a hero and, if they were successful in fending off the attack, would welcome him in their village. Surely they would want him as one of their wise elders. Perhaps he would even find himself a wife and get himself sons in his old age. Hadn’t his own grandfather once put a son into the belly of a young wife?
Water Gourd lay back in the boat, retrieved the woven rush shirt that the builder had left in the stern, and pulled it on over his head. He tried to sleep, but the dreams returned, and he blinked himself awake, sat up.
The moon had risen, lending light, bouncing it from wave to wave. The wind cut across the water, not strong, but cold enough to raise the flesh on Water Gourd’s arms. His eyes fell on the bundle of supplies in the bow, and he remembered that it was covered with deerskin blankets. He crept forward, but suddenly the top blanket began to move, raising itself as though it were alive.
Water Gourd had once seen a deer that had been chased into a river, and he had not forgotten how hard it struggled to get back to the sure footing of land. Perhaps this blanket, too, wanted to find its way to shore. He thought for a moment of plucking it up and dropping it into the waves, but he was cold. How foolish to throw away a blanket just because it had a little life of the deer still in it! Better to wrap it around himself, subdue whatever weak power it claimed by sitting on it.
He clutched the blanket in one hand, and with a quick jerk flipped it up and swaddled it around his legs.
The blanket settled around him, warm and still. Water Gourd nodded his approval. Even an old man had more power than a deerskin blanket. But suddenly the boat again started to wail, more loudly this time, so that Water Gourd lost his temper.
“You want to go back and be captured by the Bear-god men?” he shouted. “They know nothing about boats. They wouldn’t take care of you. They would let you rot.”
The wails continued, louder now—surely not the sound a tree-boat would make. Then Water Gourd’s old ears remembered the cries of his sons when they were babies. He leaned forward, groped under the other deerskin blanket until his hands came upon flesh—warm and soft and round. A child!
He felt until he found the head. The boy was well-haired, his mouth filled with small, hard teeth. Water Gourd pushed his hands under the baby’s shoulders, lifted, prodded, and pulled until he managed to get it to his lap. Two years, perhaps three, he thought, for the number of teeth in the child’s head. The baby rooted and thrust against Water Gourd’s chest.
“I am not a woman,” Water Gourd said. “I have no milk.”
The child’s cries grew more frantic. Water Gourd twisted one corner of the blanket and thrust it into the boy’s mouth. He began to suck, and his wailing stopped. Water Gourd patted the baby’s back, mumbling his consternation. The boy’s mother must have hidden him in the boat when the Bear-god People attacked. The baby jerked the blanket from his mouth and began to fuss again.
Water Gourd sighed and pulled the plug from one of his gourds, took a swallow of water. He sucked out another mouthful, then lowered his head to the baby’s head, pressed his lips to the baby’s lips and released a stream of water. The child choked at first, but then he drank, and Water Gourd chuckled to himself at his own cunning. After several mouthfuls, the baby seemed content, and Water Gourd leaned forward, opened the pack of supplies that had lain under the boy in the bottom of the boat.
There was a heavy pot, the kind women store food in, also a few of the small soft skins mothers use to pad their babies’ bottoms. A woman’s knife and three full bottle gourds. A packet that was probably a good luck charm for the baby. A small one, it was, smaller than most women carry for their sons.
Water Gourd’s stomach suddenly lurched, and he fumbled at the skins that swaddled the child, worked his way through them until he could feel the baby’s soft, damp rump. He thrust a finger between the baby’s legs, then withdrew his hand, moaning softly.
What had he done to deserve all the curses that had befallen him? He thought back through his life, to the sons and wives he had outlived, to the lazy niece he depended on for food. And now this. The baby was a girl. A worthless girl.
Surely there was no hope. What sea animal coming upon them would allow them to live—an old man who could no longer throw a harpoon, and a baby who would curse the very wood of their boat with her urine?
Water Gourd set the child away from him, back into the nest her mother had made her in the bottom of the boat. He turned his back and did not allow himself to think about her as he watched over the bow, looking east, waiting for morning.
Chapter Three
NIGHT CLOUDS MOVED IN, darkened the moon, and though Water Gourd was determined to stay awake, he fell asleep, slept long and hard until the girl’s wailing broke into his dreams.
He comforted her as best he could, and when the sun rose, he gave her some venison, and much of the water in one of his precious gourds, but she still whined and cried, asking for her mother, her father, her aunt. He considered dumping her into the sea, but he had placed her by then, knew she was Fire Mountain Man’s daughter. Fire Mountain Man had always been good to him, willing to share meat and fish, and for that reason, Water Gourd stayed his hand. He remembered the cries of the girl’s mother as she was being attacked, and though in his mind he defended his choices, he also had to push away thoughts that accused him of cowardice.
Cowardice? No. Wisdom. If he had been killed, who would warn the next village about the Bear-god warriors? Surely the sea gods had saved him for that purpose. Of course it was possible that they had only meant to save the girl, though why she would be worth saving, he could not understand.
He finally decided that her discomfort was due to the soiled rag she wore between her legs. He humbled himself to take on the duties of a nursemaid and cleaned her, dipping her to the waist in the sea until the filth was washed away, then wrapping a clean rag around her. He rinsed out the old and laid it across the boat to dry, apologizing to the wood for the indignity of such a thing. But the boat did not seem to mind, played no tricks on them, and so gave Water Gourd further proof that the girl, rather than he himself, was the reason he was now safe and beyond reach
of the Bear-gods.
After he ate, Water Gourd purposely paddled farther out, until only by squinting could he see the convoluted line of land, hovering like distant clouds at the edge of the horizon.
Then he paddled south until he was sure he was parallel with the next Boat People’s village. That village was not as strong as his own had been, but with warning, they might prevail against the Bear-gods. Water Gourd knew many of the fishermen of that village, had celebrated with them during their summer festivals, and they traded back and forth—fish and deerskins, shell beads and harpoons for the big earthenware pots those fishermen’s wives made so well.
When Water Gourd was satisfied he had taken the boat far enough, he stopped and, to pass the time until night, used the point of his wrist knife to pry out the slivers in his knees. Now and again he paddled to keep his boat where he wanted it, but he decided it was safe to sleep away the afternoon, and when night fell to turn the boat toward land and paddle in. If the Bear-god People had taken the neighboring village—and he would surely know by the smoke that would rise from the ruins—he would go back out to sea before they noticed him, then continue south to the next village.
He gave the child some water, sang her bits of songs he remembered from his own childhood, and told her they would sleep a little while. She stuck two fingers into her mouth, looked at him solemnly, and nodded her agreement, then pulled with determination at the blanket he still had wrapped around his legs. He gave her the smaller deerskin, but she would not take it. Finally he shook a finger at her, giving a stern admonition. Since when did children tell grown men what to do?
She pulled the fingers out of her mouth, bared her teeth, and growled. It was good that he remembered her as Fire Mountain Man’s daughter, or he might believe she was a Bear-god child. Then surely he would drop her into the sea.
He sighed and again cursed his bad luck, then gave her the largest deerskin. She stuck her fingers back into her mouth and lay down beside him, reached over to pat his leg. He bared his yellow teeth at her, gaping though they were, four in front where eight should be. Her lips trembled and she closed her eyes, covered her little face with one hand. Water Gourd hawked and spat over the side of the boat. Was any man ever so tested?
He began a song, and though it was a hunter’s song, he tried to sing it softly, patting her as he crooned out the words, until finally they were both asleep.
When Water Gourd woke at dusk, he could no longer see the land. He breathed in hard to fill his nose with air and told himself that he could smell the earth. The girl was still asleep, and so when he began to paddle, turning the boat west, he used a gentle rhythm.
By the time the sky was completely dark, the child awoke. Her dreams must have frightened her, for suddenly she was shrieking so loudly that Water Gourd had to set aside the paddle and gather her into his arms. He gave her water and half a chestnut cake, wiped her eyes and nose on a corner of her blanket. He could not remember what her parents called her, so he soothed her with the name of Daughter, and once again changed the rag between her legs. Then he set her down so he could paddle.
He watched the horizon for signs of a village—beach torches, hearth fires, or the smoke of destruction—but though he paddled long into the night, muttering prayers to the boat and the earth, there was nothing but the sea. Finally his arms were so heavy he could no longer lift them. So he sat, watching until dawn, comforting himself with assurances that the morning light would bring sight of land, and if he had to wait another night, what hardship was there in that? He had water and food.
But when morning came, fear brought bile to his throat. There was nothing on any horizon, and only by the sun’s place in the sky did he know in which direction the land lay. Daughter seemed to sense his fear, and began to cry, not with the shrieks that come with nightmares or the fussiness caused by urine burns, but a low throaty moan like an old woman mourning.
Chapter Four
WATER GOURD PADDLED THROUGH the day and did not stop until he was able to see land toward the west. He took time to eat and feed Daughter, then he followed the sun as it set. By the time the moon rose, the land loomed dark and large, black against the purple of the sea.
He watched for the light of night fires, but there was nothing. Had the Bear-god warriors already destroyed every village? No, he assured himself. If they had, he would see smoke lifting from the ruins.
Perhaps someone else from his village had also escaped and was able to get to those people who lived south, warn them not to burn night fires so the Bear-gods would miss their villages if they passed in the darkness. But without night fires, Water Gourd was afraid to beach his boat. He could not tell where he was, and when a man does not know where shoals and rocks lurk, he is wise to stay in deep water until morning light reveals the danger. He kept himself awake by biting the insides of his cheeks.
Finally the sun broke the horizon, and he paddled until he came to a cove. The tide was low. A good thing if a beach was given to rips and hard currents, a bad thing if the sea lay shallow over reefs.
“Do you deceive me?” he shouted at the calm waters.
Daughter raised up and looked over the edge of the boat. “’Ceive me?” she echoed.
Water Gourd felt his lips curl into a smile, the first since the Bear-god warriors had attacked his village. He pulled the girl to sit between his knees and paddled the boat with strong strokes toward the shore. It moved easily, and in the shallows, Water Gourd could see that only sand and water plants lay beneath the surface. He did not stop paddling until the bow of the boat was well up on the beach, then he slowly unbent his old man legs and climbed out. Daughter raised her hands to him, so he lifted her, set her down on the beach, and motioned her away from the boat.
The boat was heavy, nearly impossible for an old man to drag, but he heaved and shoved and took advantage of the lift of small waves until even the stern was beyond reach of the sea. He sat down until his strength returned, then he and Daughter began to explore the land. They found a freshwater stream where they washed themselves. After refilling the empty water gourds, the old man lay belly down on the river bank, extended an arm into the water, and lay still and quiet until a fish swam over his fingers. With one deft movement Water Gourd flipped it to the shore, setting Daughter to chortle with delight. Though it was a freshwater fish, he did not bother to cook it. Why risk a fire? He sliced it thin, and they ate it raw. He gave Daughter the eyes, and watched with longing as she swallowed them, but he saved the cheeks for himself. A fair trade, more than fair, he reasoned.
They gathered sea urchins in tide pools until Daughter’s blanket bulged with them, and they picked water plants: dulce and ribbon kelp and nori.
That night, after finding no sign of any village, not even a path or trail, they returned to the boat. Water Gourd placed several fist-sized stones in the bow—something of the earth to hold the boat ashore, so any sea-longings it possessed would be counteracted by the need of the rocks to stay on land. He stowed his water gourds, tying them in place in the stern, and set the sea urchins and plants in the bow. Then he made a bed for himself and Daughter in the center of the boat, the cedar walls close about them, the splintery bottom cushioned with beach grass.
The storm came suddenly. Wind and rain wrenched them from their dreams. Water Gourd considered tipping the boat belly up, but the storm cut at them from all sides—the rain coming from north, then south, and turning again. So even if he could tip the boat completely over—if he had the strength to do such a thing—the sea might rise and flood them.
Daughter began to cry, and he wrapped her in his arms, felt the warmth of her as comfort. For a time he sang songs, but he doubted she could hear him over the rage of the winds, and finally, his throat tight and sore, he stopped.
The rain soaked through their deerskin blankets, and he began to shake. The clattering of his teeth made his head ache. Then suddenly the boat lurched, and he knew the storm had taken them. He leaned forward over Daughter, flipped the large
st blanket over the heap of sea urchins, and weighted it down with the rocks. He fumbled for the jar of dried meat, settled it under his buttocks, an uncomfortable seat, but better than losing their food. He split one gourd and used it to bail out the water that had begun to slap into the boat from the sea.
Daughter clung to him, her arms stretching to reach around his waist. With each wave that broke over them, Water Gourd was sure the boat would be swamped, but it managed to stay afloat. He bailed until his arms were heavy as stone, until an ache burned at the center of his chest, until finally he knew nothing but pain, fear, and darkness.
When day came, clouds lay heavy over the sun, but at least Water Gourd could see. He clung to the sides of the boat, bailed, and once, when the wind slacked, cracked a few sea urchins to get at the eggs. Rich and sweet, they warmed him from within, and even Daughter ate willingly when he offered her some on the flat of his thumbnail.
He had never spent much time thinking about small children. They were too fussy and smelly to have much importance. But he found himself marveling over her tiny perfect face, the black shining eyes, her fair and flawless skin. Her nose was only a bump, the space between her eyes perfectly flat, her ears like shells curled at the sides of her head. The rain had smoothed her hair, flattened it to her skull. She gripped his wrist with both hands as she licked his thumbnail, and he saw that one of her fingernails had been partially ripped away, a line of dark blood marking the tear. When she finished, he offered her more, but she turned her head, so he ate the eggs himself, pulled her back into the shelter of his legs, and continued to bail.
The storm lasted four days, and most of the time Water Gourd lived in a waking dream of bailing and paddling. He stopped only to drink a little rain water he caught in his bailing gourd, or to eat a share of the sea plants, chestnut cakes, or a thumbnail of urchin eggs. Sometime during the third day, he fell into a dreamless sleep. He woke feeling stronger, more hopeful, and lifted his eyes to see that a thin line of blue sky sliced the clouds. The wind had shifted to the south, was bringing warmer air, and the rain had stopped. He tried to smile, but a hardened rime of salt had molded his face into a mask of fear. He dug at his cheeks with his fingernails, peeled away the crust.
