by Sue Harrison
The ik shuddered, and Kiin braced herself against the gunwale. Qakan turned, swung his own paddle and hit Kiin in the ribs. The pain made Kiin bend double, and before she could straighten, Qakan was on her, his hands closing over her neck, stopping her breath until Kiin knew she was dying. But then he let her go. He reached into one of his packs of trade goods and pulled out a coil of babiche. He tied her ankles together and then tied her wrists behind her back, Qakan pulling the rawhide cords so tight that Kiin’s fingers soon grew numb.
Again she had failed. Perhaps she was not supposed to return to the First Men; perhaps the spirits of those First Men already at the Dancing Lights saw her curse as too great. Perhaps they protected her people’s village.
Yes, she could fight against Qakan, but why fight against the spirits? They would want what was best for the people. Did Kiin think her wisdom was greater than theirs?
She leaned against the side of the ik and looked toward the shore. No, she decided. She would not fight. She would go with Qakan.
They stopped early for the night, but with Qakan, Kiin had grown used to late starts and early ends to each day. Kiin pointed with her chin toward the abundance of sea animal bones at the high tide line and said, “They will make a g-good fire and s-save our oil.” Qakan hesitated, but then untied her ankles and wrists.
“First help me with the ik,” he said.
Kiin flexed her swollen fingers against the pain of returning feeling. Then she gripped the side of the ik and helped Qakan pull it into the grass above the beach.
They unloaded the ik and turned it over to make a shelter for themselves and the trade goods. Kiin began to pick up bones, pulling them from the sand and dumping them into a heap a short distance from the ik.
Few north sea beaches had reefs, but from the way the waves broke, Kiin knew this one did. “There m-might be octopi here,” she called to Qakan. One large octopus would make a good meal, with meat left over.
Qakan looked out at the cold water and Kiin knew he was considering the trouble of launching the ik again.
“I will dry the ink sack and make it into powder for black paint. You know hunters will trade for black paint powder,” she said.
“No,” Qakan finally answered. “Find sea urchins. That will be enough. I have sulphur, I will start the fire.”
Kiin shrugged and returned to the ik to get a gathering bag. She walked the length of the beach, and filled the bag with large, green-spined sea urchins from the edges of tide pools and niches between rocks on the tide flats. When the bag was full, she returned to the fire where Qakan was sitting eating the last of the fish she had caught that morning.
“Qakan, what will we eat t-t-tomorrow?” Kiin asked, but Qakan acted as though he did not hear her.
Kiin set the bag of sea urchins down and began cracking them with a stone. Qakan finished eating the fish and reached for the opened sea urchins. He unsheathed his sleeve knife and used the blade to scoop out the urchins’ ovaries. He ate so fast that Kiin could not keep up with him. Finally he paused, his mouth full of sea urchin, and said, “I have been thinking about trading for a wife for Samiq.”
When Kiin did not answer, he grabbed an opened shell from her and said, “Kayugh asked me to bring back a woman for him. Did you know that?”
Kiin kept her head lowered and broke open another sea urchin. Was Qakan telling the truth, or taunting her with a lie?
“You do not believe me?” he said. “Look for yourself. Whose sealskins are in the bow of the ik? Kayugh’s and Samiq’s.”
Kiin remembered the bundle of hides, smooth and fine, well-tanned. Yes, they must be Kayugh’s sealskins. No woman in the village prepared skins as well as Chagak. But perhaps they were the hides Amgigh had given her father for Kiin’s bride price. Or perhaps Qakan had stolen them from Kayugh’s ulaq.
“At first, I thought I would trade Kayugh’s sealskins for an old woman,” Qakan said and laughed, his laughter spraying meat from his mouth. “Some old woman who had no more sons to give, someone with rotted teeth and aching hands.”
Kiin paused and laid down the stone she was using to open the sea urchins.
“More,” Qakan bellowed.
Kiin set her teeth and locked her eyes to Qakan’s. “The rest are mine,” she said.
Qakan pushed himself to his feet, and belching, grabbed the bag of urchins from her hand. He dumped them out, flipped two of the smallest back to Kiin and holding his knife, blade up, said, “I will eat these. You should have found more.”
Kiin did not answer.
Qakan sat down, broke wind with a satisfied grunt and lifted an urchin ovary to his mouth on the blade of his knife. Finally he said, “Yes, I was going to bring Samiq an old woman, but now I am thinking of a young woman, someone who likes men.” He laughed. “Someone who will not want to save herself for her husband. It is a long trip back to Tugix.”
Kiin looked away, toward the sea, toward the dark eastern sky. Qakan was still talking, telling her how he would bed Samiq’s woman, how he would be a trader, having many women, earning his power as a trader not a hunter, not in the cold waters as a hunter. Someday he would have his
own tribe, he said, a tribe of sons stretching from the Whale Hunters of the west to the Caribou People of the east.
“It is only a boast,” Kiin’s spirit whispered, but Kiin knew that Qakan had a strong spirit. How else could he already be a trader, his trade goods enough to make others see him as a powerful man?
Kiin’s hand crept up to the amulet that hung at her neck. That afternoon when Qakan tied her wrists and ankles, he had threatened to take her amulet, but she had reminded him that any threat to her spirit was a threat to his child, and so he had allowed her to keep the amulet, and now she clung to it, clung to it and prayed that Qakan’s boasts would never come true, that Samiq and her people, even the Walrus hunter who would take her as wife, would be protected.
TWENTY-SIX
SAMIQ FINGERED THE SPEARHEAD THAT MANY Whales had given him. It was an obsidian blade, narrow and as long as a man’s hand.
“It will be many summers before you are skilled enough to use it well,” Many Whales told him, “but you will learn, and tonight in the ceremony you will become a Whale Hunter. It is right that you take this weapon.”
The old man slowly climbed out of the ulaq and once again Samiq was alone. It had been a long day of thinking, the ulaq left dark except for one small oil lamp placed on the floor, not a woman’s lamp, but a hunter’s lamp that could be taken in an ikyak.
Many Whales had painted Samiq’s face with red ochre, and then Samiq prepared himself, singing the song that Many Whales had taught him, trying to make up a song of his own as all hunters were expected to do. But none of his thoughts would fit together to make a song; and finally his words seemed to drift away and hide themselves in the shadows of the ulaq, and his mind was filled with images of hunters taking whales with harpoons and floats made for sea lions.
Then his thoughts had strayed to Kiin, and he remembered her ability to make songs, her voice pure and clear in the singing, the words something beautiful to please the spirits. But some spirit seemed to whisper to him: You will curse your hunting by thinking of women.
So Samiq took the spearhead to his sleeping place and laid it in the baleen basket his mother had made him. He would keep it there with the blades and harpoon heads he had brought from his own people, the bundle of feathers from his first bird and a piece of hide from his first seal. He would save the spearhead until he had special need for its power. He placed the lid on the basket and held it for a moment, his fingers stroking the fine weaving wrought by his mother’s hands. And he thought of the person he had become, a man of two peoples.
Living with the Whale Hunters, he had begun to think of himself as a boy, not a man. Fat Wife was always ready to correct him—his speech, his habits—and Samiq often felt that if she could, she would reach into his head and change his thoughts.
Samiq set the basket in th
e folds of his sleeping robe and walked back into the ulaq’s main room. He stretched his arms over his head, jumped to touch the rafters of whale jawbone. He wished he could be outside, could run, could feel the wind.
Without the sun and the tides, Samiq did not know how long he had been in the ulaq, how long until the feasting and ceremony would begin. He knew it would still be light outside when the ceremony started. The end of summer was near, but the sun was still strong enough to give long days. Fewer whales were sighted now than had been in the spring, but the village’s caches were already full, and when there was a sighting, one of the younger men was given the opportunity to spear the whale.
Samiq thought back over the days he had spent with Many Whales. The old man was like the sea lion, stiff and slow on land, skilled and graceful in water. His ikyak seemed to be a part of him, the paddle an extension of his arms.
Samiq had considered himself skilled with the ikyak until he saw Many Whales. Even Kayugh could not compare with the old man, and Samiq, watching, soon found that he improved greatly with his grandfather’s instruction.
Many Whales took him into the roughest seas, and Samiq learned to value the flexibility of the Whale Hunters’ three-piece keelson, the ikyak bending with the swells.
The Whale Hunters used a double-bladed paddle, and though at first the paddle seemed awkward in Samiq’s hands, soon it was as though he had always used it, had always paddled with such ease and speed. He learned to be silent in the fog, when sound carried easily, to blend the lapping of his paddle with the rhythm of the sea. He learned to throw his spear in the highest waves, his throwing board firm and sure in his hand.
Samiq sat down, his thoughts on the whales. “Watch them in the water,” the old man had said. “Watch them. Think how the whale feels to be so big, to swim far down into the sea. If you can become like a whale in your mind, you will always know how to aim your spear.”
For a time then, sitting in the ulaq, Samiq tried to become the whale, swimming beneath the water, moving with the push of the sea, but then a shaft of light came from the top of the ulaq and Fat Wife’s face was a round moon floating in the darkness, calling him to come.
Samiq climbed from the ulaq. He was nervous, but he held his shoulders straight as he followed Fat Wife to the beach. He could tell from the sky that the sun would soon set. Clouds west and north of Atal, the Whale Hunters’ small mountain, were edged in pink.
“Sit here,” Fat Wife commanded. “You will receive your marks.”
Samiq looked around, wondering which woman would make the black lines that would mark his chin and proclaim him a Whale Hunter, a man.
“Stay still,” Fat Wife said, and her smile reminded Samiq that she gained some pleasure in ordering his movements.
Then Many Babies was bending over him. Yes, she would be the one, Samiq thought. Her husband was Hard Rock the alananasika, chief among the whalers.
She washed Samiq’s face with sea water, wiping the red of the ochre away. With a piece of charcoal, she drew three lines down his chin.
Samiq averted his eyes as she dangled the needle before him. A fine piece of sinew was tied to the end of the needle, the sinew black with charcoal. When Many Babies drew the thread through his skin, it would leave a dark line that would mark him forever as a Whale Hunter.
Many Babies grasped his face in her left hand and pinched the skin where the needle would enter. The prick of the needle was quick as she thrust it through the fold of skin, but Samiq shuddered at the sound of the thread as it was pulled through.
Fat Wife bent close to Samiq’s face, the woman watching as Many Babies pushed the needle again into the skin, and after each puncture, Fat Wife dabbed away the blood with a ragged bit of sealskin.
When she had finished the first line of marks down the center of Samiq’s chin, Many Babies pushed her thumb into his mouth, held the flesh away from his teeth, and thrust the needle into the skin to the left of the first line. She made three lines in all, the lines side by side, down the center of Samiq’s chin.
The pain made Samiq clench his teeth, and soon the muscles in his neck and shoulders began to ache, but finally the marking was complete. Many Babies blackened Samiq’s chin with charcoal and said to him, “Leave this two days.” Then Fat Wife was smoothing seal oil reddened with ochre over the rest of his face.
Samiq stood, wanting to join the other men who had begun to gather around the cooking pits. “No,” Fat Wife said, pressing him down. “Wait for Many Whales.”
The women left, and Samiq sat alone. His chin stung, and beads of blood that still seeped from each needle hole dried and made his skin itch. Samiq clasped his hands together to keep from scratching. “You have suffered worse things,” his inner voice said, and Samiq forced himself to watch the men as they practiced dance steps on the beach.
Each man wore his chigadax and most also wore a long otter skin apron that hung nearly to the ankles. Every hunter had a wooden hat, the whaler’s hat, decorated with feathers and seal whiskers. Samiq studied the men carefully, and seeing the manner in which they carried themselves, decided how he would dance and walk when he was allowed to join them.
The women fed the hunters, but still Many Whales did not come. Samiq waited as the hunters ate. He had not eaten since the night before, and his empty belly was like a stone pressing against his spine.
After the men had eaten, the children were fed. Watching the small ones dance around the cooking pits, Samiq thought of his sister, Wren. She would grow up happy, loved. But then his thoughts went once more to Kiin, to the times he had found her bruised, bleeding from her father’s beatings.
But now even Kiin was happy. Samiq knew his mother would treat Kiin as a daughter, nor was Chagak one to be angry or cross as were so many of the Whale Hunter women who seemed driven by some spirit to destroy the calm of the ulaq with their loudness and arguing.
“Samiq!”
The voice startled him, and he looked up to see a huge misshapen face, something that looked like it was carved from a giant curl of wood. The face was as tall as a man, head to knees, and was colored in reds and blues. The eyes were painted on, but in the wide slits at the bottom of the nose Samiq thought he saw the glow of someone watching. Man or spirit? Samiq wondered. But then he noticed that the face had ordinary man’s feet beneath the curve of its giant chin.
And when the face said, “Come!”, the voice was much like Hard Rock’s voice.
Samiq followed until they came to Many Whales who sat on a feather robe that had been spread over the top of a boulder. The masked one pushed Samiq to his knees, but Samiq’s eyes were drawn to Many Whales. The old man seemed to have gained strength and size as he sat atop the boulder, his feather-trimmed chigadax and tall seal gut boots glowing pink and gold in the light of the long sunset.
He held a carved staff in one hand and made a chant in words that Samiq did not understand.
Many Whales handed Samiq a bundle, an otter skin ceremonial apron on top, a whale-tongue-skin chigadax at the bottom.
“Stand!”
The other hunters who stood near Many Whales pulled the apron from Samiq’s bundle and slipped it around his waist, stripping his grass apron from him. Then someone pulled the chigadax on over Samiq’s head.
“There are boots, also,” Many Whales said, leaning forward, his shining eyes visible even under the shadow of his wooden hat.
Two of the men helped Many Whales from the rock, and the masked one handed him something wrapped in a sea lion skin. The shape was evident and Samiq held his breath as Many Whales unfolded the skin to reveal a gleaming wooden hat. It had been painted with red and black stripes. No sea lion whiskers bent from the ivory overlaid seam at the back. Those, his grandfather had told him, were given each time the hunter took a whale. Many Whales’ hat had more whiskers than any other hunters’ hat, even more than Hard Rocks’.
Many Whales held the new hat over Samiq’s head, again chanted strange words. Then bending closer to Samiq he said, “B
lack is for the whale. Red is for blood.” He paused, looked at the hunters gathered around them. He placed the hat on Samiq’s head, lightly touched the tattoos on Samiq’s chin.
“You are Whale Killer, a man of the Whale Hunter people,” Many Whales said.
Samiq reached up to touch the hat. The wood was cool and smooth under his fingers. Samiq, Whale Killer, he thought, a man of two people. Samiq. Whale Killer. And in the midst of his joy, he felt a sudden sadness, and he reminded himself that what he did was done for the First Men, that he obeyed Kayugh. Then he looked again at Many Whales, the old man truly grandfather, and Samiq held himself straight, squaring his shoulders.
No one spoke, and in the stillness Samiq could hear the strong beat of his own heart. Then suddenly, louder than his heartbeat, Samiq heard the pounding of the watcher’s signal. The men around him turned, and Samiq saw a young boy running toward them.
“Whale! Whale!”
The masked one suddenly threw the mask from his body and Samiq saw that it was Hard Rock, the alananasika. He wore only his apron under the mask and as he ran toward his ikyak, his wife Many Babies hurried from their ulaq bringing Hard Rock’s chigadax. As he dressed, the boy came to him, his thin voice carrying to Samiq’s ears.
“It is there, close to the shore.”
Samiq looked toward the sea. Even in the gray of the early night, he could see the whale; the mist of its blowing was white against the sea. Hard Rock climbed into his ikyak and sent the small craft into the waves with quick thrusts of his paddle. Samiq could no longer see the whale, but he watched Hard Rock until the ikyak was only a small darkness in the water.
Samiq thought he saw an arm raise, a lance fly, but he could not be sure, and finally he turned back to Many Whales.
Crooked Bird, a young man having the same number of summers as Samiq, one who had laughed as Samiq learned the first lessons of whale hunting, looked at Samiq and Samiq noticed the fast beating of the veins in the man’s neck, the tightness of his fists, and Samiq realized that Hard Rock had chosen to go for the whale, had not allowed one of the new hunters to gain experience and perhaps the honor of taking a whale. But Hard Rock was alananasika; who could argue with his choices?
