My Sister the Moon

by Sue Harrison

  The Whale Hunters came to trade, once, twice in a year. Kiin knew some of the hunters who came, at least by name and face—Dying Seal and another man, sullen and always arguing, called Hard Rock. They were Samiq’s people now. He would take a Whale Hunter wife. Kiin belonged to Amgigh.

  Qakan called out. No one answered. He smiled and climbed down the log into Kayugh’s ulaq. Kiin’s corner would be the farthest from Kayugh’s sleeping place. Yes, there were Kiin’s baskets, not good enough to be Chagak’s work. Qakan squatted on his haunches and looked through the pile of mats and furs Kiin was working on. The berry bags were rolled together at the bottom of the pile. He took them. A woman’s knife was under them. Qakan picked it up. The blade was something Amgigh had made. No one else could knap rock to such thinness. Qakan slipped the knife up his sleeve. He walked around the ulaq, stopped before Kayugh’s sleeping place, put his hand on the curtain then drew back.

  Why take the chance that Kayugh’s anger would call spirits to curse Qakan’s trading trip? He went on to Amgigh’s sleeping place. Kayugh had the power of killing men. Who had not heard of his battle with the Short Men? But Amgigh was really only a boy. His curse would be small, certainly not strong enough to harm a trader.

  Besides Amgigh’s blades always brought good trades. He pushed aside the curtain and went in, saw where Amgigh kept his weapons. Short spear, seal harpoon, bola, a container of fishhooks. Blades, a basketful.

  Laughter filled the spaces in Qakan’s lungs as he spilled the blades out over Amgigh’s sleeping furs. Blades, beautiful, beautiful blades. Who made better? A man could take Amgigh’s blades alone and become a successful trader.

  Qakan picked up the basket and as he did, he saw the sea lion skin wrapping. He set down the basket, sat cross-legged on Amgigh’s sleeping furs and picked up the bundle. When he felt the weight of it, the balance of it in his hands, he knew. But even so, when he unwrapped it, his breath hissed out in a long whistle: obsidian, knapped to a narrow-edged blade. The facets of the knapping caught the light, illuminated the blackness of the knife. The handle was wrapped with black baleen, shredded fine as hair.

  He rewrapped the knife, pushed up the front of his parka and slipped the bundle into his apron’s waistband. “I am Amgigh’s brother,” Qakan said out loud, said to whatever spirits lived in Amgigh’s sleeping place. “I am Amgigh’s brother. Remember, his wife is Kiin, my sister. Amgigh can make himself another knife. I will trade this one and the knives in the basket. I will bring him back something that even Samiq will envy.”

  19

  GRAY BIRD THREW HIS head back and laughed, long and hard. At first the laughter embarrassed Qakan, but then his embarrassment gave way to anger. His father was a fool. Was he blind to what Qakan offered him?

  Gray Bird, his small eyes as dark and hard as mossberries, said, “She belongs to Amgigh. I cannot give her to you.”

  “Amgigh is gone.”

  “For three, perhaps four, days.”

  Qakan leaned toward his father. “That is enough.”

  Gray Bird narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “What if Kiin should die, an accident in her ik? Would you have to give back the bride price Amgigh paid?”

  Gray Bird shrugged his shoulders. “No. She was wife. I gave no promise of how long she would live. But the four skins Chagak has yet to finish scraping, perhaps I would not get those.” Gray Bird looked down at his hands, picked at the dirt under a fingernail. “Tell me,” he said, “why do you want to kill your sister?”

  Qakan sneered. “I would not kill her. It would just seem that she was dead. But listen to what I have to say. I need your help.”

  Gray Bird straightened and looked around them. They were in the lee of his ulaq, the wind coming only in gusts broken by the roof grass.

  “There is no one near,” Qakan said. “All the women are in the ulas and so is Big Teeth. Kiin is watching the fish racks.”

  But Gray Bird shook his head. He picked up his walking stick and prodded at the grass near his feet. “I cannot help you,” he said. “Do what you must do, but tell no one. There are spirits that will hear, and you do not know if they favor you or your sister.”

  “They favor me,” Qakan said. Again the anger rose within him, pushing blood up into his face until his head felt too large for his body. “She is only a woman with no power.”

  “She has found favor with someone for she has a good husband.”

  “You were the one who gave her a name. You were the one who gave her whatever power she has.”

  Gray Bird stood and pushed past Qakan. Looking back over his shoulder he said, “She has brought me more sealskins than you have. If you were a hunter I would have more regard for your plans.”

  Words rushed into Qakan’s mouth so quickly that he knew some spirit must have put them there. “You speak to me of hunting? You?”

  Gray Bird whirled, raised his walking stick, his hand trembling. His lips curled back until Qakan could see his teeth, but Qakan did not wait to hear what his father would say.

  Enough. He would take Kiin himself, without his father’s help. And any furs he got for her would be his own, none owed to his father. He strode to the beach without looking back. His ik was packed; he would leave now. At least they would think he was leaving now.

  The first day the men were gone, Kiin and Chagak had talked much, laughed much. They kept Wren out of her cradle most of the day, allowing her to walk all over the ulaq without worry that she would bother the men. For part of the afternoon, Kiin’s mother, Blue Shell came over and the three women worked on baskets, each weaving, while Chagak told a story, or while Kiin sang, first a song of weaving then one of the sea.

  Even the second day was not terrible, and Chagak had praised Kiin for the cod Crooked Nose had given them, as though Kiin herself had caught the fish and not just helped Crooked Nose with the cleaning. But today, the third day, the ulaq seemed too quiet, too empty. When Kiin had lived in her father’s ulaq, she and her mother were glad each time Gray Bird went away hunting. But with Amgigh and Kayugh gone, it seemed the ulaq was dark, even with all lamps burning, and there was no joy of laughter in the long evenings. And Samiq…he would not be returning. Not this year, perhaps not the next. But Kiin could not allow herself to feel the hollowness his absence left. She was Amgigh’s wife. Perhaps when Samiq returned to the First Men, she would have given Amgigh a son, and perhaps Samiq would bring a wife from the Whale Hunters.

  A sudden ache filled Kiin’s chest, and she heard her spirit whisper, “Yes, and it will be best if he does. She will be a sister to you and to Amgigh. A daughter to Chagak and Kayugh. A second mother to Amgigh’s sons.”

  Kiin’s fingers sought the smooth surface of the whale tooth that hung at her side, and she stroked the ivory until some of her pain left. She had been too long in this ulaq. It would be good to take her mother’s ik out to the kelp rocks and fish. That evening she and Chagak could have a small feast, something to ease their waiting.

  Chagak was in her sleeping place, feeding Wren, and Kiin called to the woman telling her she would soon be back, that she planned to go only a short way from shore.

  “Wait,” Chagak called to her. “I have something I want to give you.”

  Kiin, puzzled, waited until Chagak came out of the sleeping place, Wren in her arms, the child suckling, her mouth pressed tight against Chagak’s right breast.

  “This,” Chagak said and handed Kiin the carving that she wore around her neck, something, Kiin knew, that the grandfather Shuganan had made for her. The carving was of woman, husband and child, the faces of the man and woman most surely Chagak and Kayugh. The whale’s tooth ivory was yellowed with age, dark with the oil Chagak rubbed into it to keep the ivory from drying and splitting.

  “I-I-I c-c-cannot,” Kiin stammered. “It-it is yours. Your-your g-g-grand…”

  But Chagak held up her hand to silence Kiin and slipped the thong around Kiin’s neck, adjusted the carving so it hung between Kiin’s
breasts.

  “It is yours now,” Chagak said. “It will give you babies, and your babies will be a joy to me as well as to you.”

  Kiin tried to speak, but again some spirit pushed itself into her throat, held back the words. So Kiin leaned forward, pressed her cheek against Chagak’s cheek, let Chagak see that tears had come into her eyes.

  Chagak smiled and said, “Someday you must give it to one of your sons’ wives. That way it is always a gift.”

  Kiin clasped the carving in both hands, studied the faces, the woman’s suk, the feathers and seams etched into the ivory. For a moment her thoughts went to her father’s poor carvings, but she closed her mind against the man. Why let thoughts of Gray Bird spoil her joy?

  “So, you go to fish?” Chagak asked.

  “P-p-perhaps for pogies,” Kiin answered.

  “Ask your mother if she wants to go with you,” Chagak said. “The wind is strong. Do not go alone.”

  Kiin smiled. Chagak, always the worrier. Kiin grabbed her suk and pulled it on over her head. She climbed from the ulaq, one hand still clutching the ivory carving.

  She walked to her father’s ulaq, and her chest tightened even as she climbed inside, but to her relief, her father was not there. She called, but the ulaq was empty. Perhaps her mother was digging roots or gathering heather in the hills. Kiin did not mind. Yes, the wind was strong, pushing down from the north, sweeping out toward the south sea, but she would stay to the south side of their cove so the waves would not pull her ik away from the kelp rocks. Sometimes it was better to be alone, to go slowly in the ik, watching for sea otters or seals.

  The ik was on the beach beside Chagak’s, but Qakan’s ik, the one he and Kiin’s father had made when Qakan decided he would become a trader, was gone.

  Yes, Kiin thought, that morning Crooked Nose mentioned that Qakan had left the night before on his first trading trip. She said that he had taken most of the fish from their drying racks. Who would expect anything different from Qakan?

  But he was braver than Kiin had thought. There were many problems a man alone would face, even a trader who skirted the beaches and inlets. It would not be an easy trip, even if he went only to the Whale Hunters. Besides the berry bags, Kiin had given him a number of baskets. He promised he would bring her something in return, something from another tribe. But Kiin expected nothing. She was used to Qakan’s smooth words of praise when he needed something, his quick scorn when he had whatever it was he wanted.

  It did not matter to Kiin. She was a wife now, and perhaps soon she would be a mother. Let Qakan do what he wanted.

  She lifted the ik, pushed it out into the water until the waves were lapping at the bottom of her suk. Then she climbed into the ik and began to paddle. When the current caught the ik, Kiin used her paddle to direct the craft until she reached the kelp rocks. She was tying a line to a fishing gorge when she noticed a large number of chitons glistening on the rocks just under the water. She leaned out and, pulling her woman’s knife from its pouch at her waist, she used the flat of the blade to pry the chitons loose.

  She worked until she had a pile of chitons, each as long as her hand, their dark, jointed shells curled like tiny ulaq mounds. Then using her paddle, she pushed the ik away from the rocks. Why bother to fish? The chitons would be feast enough.

  She would have to paddle hard to get back to the beach. The current was forcing her away from the cove, but she was used to paddling; her arms and back were strong. She had taken several hard strokes when she heard someone call to her, and looking up, saw an ik.

  She stroked again, maintaining her ik’s place in the current, then waved. It was Qakan. Yes, who could doubt when he had painted his ik so hideously with bright trader colors.

  She allowed the current to take her back toward the rocks, then let her ik drift into a still place between two boulders. Only one day, one day alone on the sea had been enough for Qakan. Kiin was not surprised. He would never be a man. He, not Kiin, would be the one who lived forever in their father’s ulaq.

  When he was close enough, she called to him. “I thought you were going to be a trader.”

  Qakan shrugged and brought his ik close to hers. “It was a bad night,” he said, his voice pitched high into the whine Kiin was used to hearing. “There were spirits on the beach where I stayed.”

  Kiin nodded. She had little doubt that he had spent the night in the cove on the west side of Tugix’s island. The First Men had a camp there and even a small ulaq. The beach was a place where fur seals stopped when swimming from the south sea to the north.

  It was not a terrible place to stay. Kiin once went there herself when she was just a young girl. She had stolen Crooked Nose’s ik and paddled to the cove, determined to live there away from her father. Kayugh had found her the next day and brought her home, but the night had not been terrible. There had been no spirits.

  Qakan looked down, would not meet her eyes, and for a moment Kiin felt an ache in sympathy with his shame. How terrible to be lazy and afraid like Qakan. “I have gathered many chitons,” she said. “Do you have a basket I can fill so you can take some back to our mother?”

  He nodded and handed her one of her own baskets, one that she had decorated with yellow curls from puffin tuft feathers. She wanted to hand it back to him, to ask for one less beautiful, but then her spirit whispered, “Why add to his pain?” So she took the basket and began to scoop shells into it.

  Kiin was looking down, did not see Qakan raise his paddle above her head, did not raise her eyes until she heard the swoop of the paddle blade as it sped through the air.

  It caught her at the left temple, gashing through her skin and knocking Kiin to the bottom of her ik. For a moment she looked up at Qakan, saw there was no shame in his eyes, no fear. Slowly she forced her lips into one word, “Why?” But Qakan only laughed and then the sky turned red and the ocean was black and Kiin saw nothing at all.

  20

  KIIN WOKE TO PAIN. Her head ached and her back felt as though someone had beaten her, had flailed her until her skin was broken and raw. Her stomach was heavy with the pain, as though she needed to vomit, and when she tried to open her eyes, she could not.

  I am in the ik, she thought, as she felt the pull of water against the sides. Then came fear, as sudden and cutting as her pain. If she were in the ik, then the currents would have taken her far out into the sea. She must find the paddle. She grabbed the sides of the ik and sat up. The pain settled below her stomach, and she felt a rush of warmth between her legs. She opened her eyes. She saw two of everything, her body divided at her chest, four legs, two overlapping at the center, and blood covering all. She closed her eyes.

  No, she thought. It is not the time for my bleeding. It is still new moon.

  Then a voice came from above her, a voice and laughter.

  “Amgigh will not want you now. Not even Samiq. I have taken your soul again, Kiin.”

  Kiin did not act as if she had even heard, but she felt her spirit moving within her body, pushing, pushing against her skin, flitting from head to heart to feet, and suddenly Kiin knew that Qakan had taken her as a man takes a woman. Had taken her in anger and with great force, and had torn her in the taking.

  Slowly she lay down again. She crossed her arms over her chest. Let the blood flow. Let it stain Qakan’s trading ik, let it bring him the curse of woman’s blood. What did she care.

  “I am going to use you as trade,” Qakan said. “You will bring a good price. You think Amgigh will come after you?” He laughed. “No one will. They all think you are dead. Even if Amgigh did find you, he would not want you. You are spoiled, like rotten meat.”

  Kiin opened her eyes, moved her head so she could see Qakan, his fat round face only a blur. Blood still oozed from her wounds, and she shuddered at the thought of Qakan upon her, thrusting into her, leaving his flow, the thick white milk burning like juice from an ugyuun plant. But he was wrong. He had not taken her spirit. It was strong within her and moving in anger. Ki
in closed her eyes and mouth, lifted her hands to her ears to hold her spirit in. She would not let it escape. She would keep her spirit, and though she was not strong enough to fight Qakan now, soon her head would clear, then she would fight. She would never let Qakan trade her. She would kill him first.

  Qakan looked at his sister and laughed. She was lying in the bottom of the ik, legs drawn up, hands over her ears. Qakan dipped his paddle into the water and pushed the boat ahead in hard, smooth strokes. He laughed again, and the laughter floated out in front of them. He was a man now, had proven himself a man. In his pride, he felt his man part thicken again. Yes, he was now a man, as much as Amgigh, more than Samiq. Had Samiq ever taken a woman? Perhaps by now among the Whale Hunters he had been in a woman’s bed, who could say? But Whale Hunter women were ugly, more like men than women.

  Qakan pulled his paddle into the boat and held it over Kiin’s head. Water from the dripping edge poured over Kiin’s face and down her neck. She flinched but did not move her hands from her ears. Qakan pushed the paddle under her arm and lifted, trying to pry the hand from her ear, but Kiin was strong, stronger than Qakan thought she would be. Qakan lifted the paddle. He should hit her again. He wanted her to be afraid of him, but then he stopped. No, he needed her to paddle tomorrow, and besides, why leave another gash? The wound on the side of her forehead would already make one scar and there were scars on her back from their father’s beatings. Qakan must begin to think like a trader. Kiin was more valuable to him without scars.

  And besides, she was already afraid of him. She had covered her ears just to hide herself from his voice.

  “You are nothing, Kiin,” he said to her, repeated it until it bounded back to them from the cliffs they were passing, from the thick ice rivers that flowed from the mountains into the north sea. “Nothing, nothing, nothing…”