My Sister the Moon

by Sue Harrison

Amgigh pulled his sleeve knife from its sheath, but then the whale turned again, and this time the tip of the ikyak went into the water. Suddenly, the craft stood poised on end. Amgigh, leaning back to keep his balance, clasped his paddle with both hands and the knife slipped from his fingers.

  The whale dove, taking Amgigh down with it into the sea. The salt water burned as it rushed up Amgigh’s nose. He released his paddle and fumbled with the ties of the hatch skirting, but his fingers were slow and awkward in the cold water.

  Then his lungs were burning, and he fought the desire to breathe in. What chance would he have if he took a breath of water?

  Below him the whale was huge and black, blotting out the sea, filling Amgigh’s head with its immensity. His spear and the spears of the others bristled in a dark cluster from the whale’s side.

  The whale turned, wrapping the ikyak more tightly into the lines. But in the turning, Amgigh saw another spear, a spear banded with dark markings and rings of white.

  Samiq’s spear.

  Then Amgigh knew. The whale did not belong to him. It was Samiq’s whale. Samiq had sent it, not some spirit. Samiq. Yes, of course, how could he have thought otherwise? All things belonged to Samiq. Samiq had taken the first seal; Samiq threw his spear the farthest; Samiq caught the most fish. Kiin, though she was Amgigh’s wife, had belonged to Samiq. Who could not see it in her eyes each time she looked at Samiq? And now this whale. Even the whale.

  All things were Samiq’s.

  32

  KAYUGH WATCHED IN HORROR AS Amgigh’s ikyak disappeared with the whale. Kayugh had cut his own harpoon lines, and his knife was still in his hand. Then suddenly, before his mind could give reason not to, Kayugh was slashing at the hatch skirting that bound him to the coaming of his ikyak.

  Dimly, he heard Big Teeth’s voice, his call: “No-o-o-o…” as Kayugh dove into the sea.

  Kayugh pulled himself down into the water, pulled in desperate strokes as his mind spun with questions: How deep? Six, ten, twelve men deep? The water pressed into him; the cold slowed his arms, numbed him until even his heart seemed slow, and he felt the pumping of it press into his ears and throb against the pressure of the sea water. Each stroke brought him further into darkness, and in the darkness there were voices:

  Is man an otter that he can swim?

  You think Amgigh is still alive? He cannot be.

  How will you find him? It is too dark. It is too dark.

  And he saw Chagak’s face drawn in sorrow, scarred in mourning. For Amgigh? For her husband?

  Almost he turned back, but then in the half-light, he saw the ikyak, buoyant from sealskin floats in stern and bow. It pulled at the whale, the blunt end of the stern up toward Kayugh.

  With lungs bursting, Kayugh made his arms move again in wide strokes. He reached toward the ikyak, missed, reached again, caught hold, pulled himself toward Amgigh, toward Amgigh’s white face, toward Amgigh’s open staring eyes.

  Blackness pressed in from the edges of Kayugh’s mind, slowed his thoughts, dimmed his vision. The whale no longer dove, but held itself steady in the twilight of the water. Kayugh moved his arm to Amgigh’s skirt hatching, tried to cut, tried to cut. He could not feel the knife, watched the slow bumbling of his hands as though he watched someone else. He fought against the impulse to breathe in. Pain, pain, in chest, in ears. The knife cut, finally cut.

  Amgigh lifted free of the hatch, began to rise as if the sea itself pulled him out. Then Kayugh dropped the knife, wrapped his arms around his son, kicked against the water, kicked as he had seen otters kick. He no longer knew which way was up toward the sky, which was down, but he moved away from the whale, away from the ikyak.

  In the blackness, the cold was no longer cold, but he could not move his arms and legs, and his body felt thick and stiff. He drew in a breath; water flooded his mouth, nose, flooded into his lungs. He choked, drew in more water; fought against the pain of it in his lungs.

  But then there were hands, grabbing the hood of his chigadax, pulling him from the sea; Gray Bird’s voice: “Hold on to Amgigh. Hold on to Amgigh….”

  And it was as if he were a spirit watching.

  Choking, coughing, water poured from his mouth and nose, arms guided his legs back into his ikyak, Big Teeth bound their ikyan together, Gray Bird slung Amgigh over the front of his ikyak.

  Then Kayugh was ashore; carried to his ulaq. He struggled to open his eyes, but could not.

  He drifted in and out of sleep, listened, even in his dreams, for mourning songs. There were none. Only lullabies, lullabies. To which child, what baby? Red Berry? Amgigh? Samiq? Wren?

  And in the midst of the songs First Snow’s voice: “Tell Kayugh that the whale washed ashore.”

  Chagak’s voice: “Do not speak to me of whales.”

  33

  CHAGAK STROKED HER SON’S hair back from his forehead. For two days he had lain in the ulaq, his eyes closed, his chest barely moving.

  Kayugh had come back to the village nearly dead himself, his ikyak lashed to Big Teeth’s, Big Teeth paddling for them both. Amgigh had been lying across the bow of Gray Bird’s ikyak. Chagak had been on the beach with the other women, all of them waiting to see if their hunters could bring in the whale.

  When Gray Bird untied Amgigh from the ikyak and set him gently on the beach, Crooked Nose had begun the mourning song, but Chagak had knelt beside Amgigh and had heard what Gray Bird did not hear, the rattle of Amgigh’s breathing.

  She leaped to her feet and screamed that her son lived, was alive, then she had watched as Big Teeth used his strong arms to force the water from the boy’s lungs.

  Even Gray Bird—Waxtal—had helped suck the mucus from Amgigh’s throat, and instead of boasting afterwards, only shrugged at Chagak’s thanks and said that Amgigh had been a good husband to his daughter.

  And some of Chagak’s mistrust of Gray Bird lifted, so that during the nights when Gray Bird offered to sit with Amgigh so Chagak could sleep, she gratefully accepted his offer.

  For two days Kayugh slept, his body racked with shaking, but finally he awoke, finally he sat up, ate, talked, and then fought against Chagak’s wish to keep him with her in the ulaq, until finally she said no more, but let him go outside, let him sit on the ulaq and watch as the women flensed the whale. The whale lay, huge and bloody, on the beach, and Chagak hated the sight of it.

  Whales had taken Samiq from her, had taken him to her grandfather’s people; a whale had nearly taken Kayugh, and now she fought a whale for Amgigh’s life.

  She picked up a whale carving that Amgigh kept in his sleeping place. It was one of Shuganan’s carvings, and for many years, each time Chagak looked at it, she had seen Shuganan’s hands holding his crooked knife, Shuganan’s eyes studying, studying, seeing in the ivory what no one else saw until his carving was complete. But now looking at the carving Chagak did not see Shuganan. She saw Samiq leaving in his ikyak; she saw Amgigh white and still. Both sons taken from her.

  She had once won their spirits by taking two eider ducks with her bola. But what was the power of an eider duck compared to that of a whale?

  Yes, she thought, her anger making her thoughts loud and pounding in her mind. Yes, she thought as the other women rejoiced over whale meat and oil, flense it, break its bones. It has taken my sons, has taken my beautiful sons.

  And in her sorrow, she remembered the other losses in her life: her family, her village, her brother Pup, Shuganan. Now she had lost two more: Samiq to the Whale Hunters, Kiin to the sea. Would she lose Amgigh, too?

  She remembered the whale that had washed up on Shuganan’s beach the morning of Samiq’s naming ceremony. After presenting Samiq to the four winds, Shuganan had placed the baby’s hand against the side of the whale. Chagak remembered her uneasiness. Perhaps even then she had known that the whale would take her sons. Perhaps even then.

  Chagak sighed and pressed her hands against Amgigh’s face. The first day, she had used the serrated back edge of a yoldia shell to comb seal oi
l through Amgigh’s hair, but the combing had seemed too much like something done for one who had just died, and this day Chagak had left Amgigh’s hair without combing, had even mussed it a little so he looked like a man sleeping, not one laid out for a burial ceremony.

  “Wake up, wake up, wake up,” she called to him. But Amgigh did not seem to hear her.

  Then the voice of the sea otter came to Chagak, and Chagak did not want to listen, but she reminded herself that the otter had been a gentleness in her soul since she and Shuganan had killed Samiq’s true father long ago. “The whale is good,” the otter said. “The whale is food. It is oil for your lamps, skin for your husband’s chigadax, bone for building ulas. It is good. Samiq sent it. It is good.”

  “Samiq sent it,” Chagak said aloud. “It is good.” But still within her spirit, she felt the grating pain of anger.

  Then Amgigh groaned and Chagak, heavy with fear, leaned toward him. He moved his head and Chagak caught her breath.

  “Amgigh,” she whispered.

  Amgigh blinked, and for a moment his eyes were open.

  “Amgigh, Amgigh,” Chagak called. “Open your eyes. Look at me. Do you know who I am?”

  Again Amgigh groaned, again moved his head, blinked open his eyes. He smiled, only a small trembling at the corners of his mouth, but it was a true smile, and Chagak, her tears mingling with her laughter, heard him say, “Mother.”

  Then someone was coming down the climbing log. Kayugh, Chagak hoped, and she opened the curtain of Amgigh’s sleeping place and peered out. It was Gray Bird—no, Waxtal, Chagak reminded herself. His face was grim, but Chagak pointed with her chin toward Amgigh, and suddenly Waxtal was smiling.

  “Go, get Kayugh,” he said to Chagak. “I will stay with your son.”

  Chagak leaned forward, clasped Amgigh’s hand. “Waxtal was the one who saved you,” she said. “Your father and Waxtal.” Then she stood and hurried from the ulaq.

  Waxtal watched until Chagak had ascended the climbing log, then he closed the curtains of Amgigh’s sleeping place and leaned toward Amgigh. He had waited and waited; five nights and five days he had waited. He had sat and watched Amgigh, and at first he had been patient, willing to wait, but then he had become angry. The young man slept too long. Some spirit must know what Waxtal planned, and so kept Amgigh sleeping, kept Waxtal waiting, laughed at Waxtal’s growing anger.

  Perhaps it was Shuganan’s spirit. Shuganan would know what Waxtal knew—that any man’s spirit was easier to direct when he had just awakened from a sleep, when dreams still held a portion of his thoughts. And perhaps, since he was now spirit, Shuganan would know what Waxtal planned.

  But Shuganan’s spirit must not be as strong as Waxtal had feared, because now Amgigh was awake, and Waxtal was alone with him.

  “I am glad you are alive,” Waxtal said to Amgigh, and he forced himself to say the words slowly, to hold back what he wanted to say until he knew Amgigh understood him. “You can hear me?” he asked, leaning closer to Amgigh.

  “Yes,” Amgigh said, the word hoarse and whispered.

  Waxtal smiled. Yes, Amgigh heard him. Yes.

  Waxtal cleared his throat. “They say that Samiq sent the whale as a gift,” Waxtal said. “But I told them Samiq has had enough praise. I told them that it was my son Amgigh, once husband to my daughter Kiin, who brought in the whale. He should have the honor.”

  Waxtal watched as Amgigh’s face flushed. Amgigh’s eyes closed for a moment then opened again.

  Again, Waxtal leaned forward and whispered into Amgigh’s ear. “There is something I must tell you so you can protect yourself.”

  He paused, waited until Amgigh nodded.

  “I told you Samiq is not true son to Kayugh and you are not true son to Chagak. But Chagak has been a good mother to you and Kayugh has been a good father to Samiq. That is the way it should be. But think of this: What power does a mother give her sons? Nothing…only the food she prepares and the clothes she makes. But a father, he gives the spirit. And Samiq’s true father was an evil man. Most people do not know this. Only Chagak and I. Not even Kayugh knows the truth about Samiq’s father. If Kayugh had known, he would not have let Samiq live.”

  Waxtal watched as Amgigh’s eyes narrowed, as his forehead creased. Then Amgigh’s eyes closed, but Waxtal could not take the chance of losing him, of letting him drift into sleep. He clasped Amgigh’s shoulder, shook him.

  “Amgigh…”

  Amgigh’s eyes jerked open, focused on Waxtal’s face. “How do you know?” Amgigh finally asked, his voice stronger. “How do you know when my father does not?”

  “Because Chagak has kept it a secret so Samiq would be allowed to live,” Waxtal answered. “Because I was with Shuganan, the grandfather, when he was dying, and during his death, his spirit fought with the spirit of Samiq’s true father.

  “You saw the spirits?”

  “I heard the voices.”

  “Who was Samiq’s father?” Amgigh asked, and raised himself on one elbow.

  The movement made Amgigh cough and soon he was spitting up phlegm, gagging in his struggle to speak.

  Then Waxtal heard Chagak and Kayugh, their voices clear from the top of the ulaq.

  “Lie down,” Waxtal told Amgigh. “I will tell you later. But it is something that must be kept secret. I promised Chagak long ago that I would tell no one. But you, you must know. Samiq may be changing. Perhaps that is why he sent the whale. Perhaps now that he lives with the Whale Hunters, Shuganan can no longer protect him. Perhaps his father’s spirit has had a chance to come to him, to push some of its evil into Samiq’s soul.

  Amgigh lay back against his sleeping mats, and though he closed his eyes, he raised his hand to clasp Waxtal’s hand.

  Amgigh’s fingers were cold, and Waxtal shuddered. He remembered the whiteness of Amgigh’s face when Kayugh had brought him up out of the sea, water dripping from both men, seaweed tangled in Amgigh’s hair. Amgigh had been dead, Waxtal was sure. Had he not held Amgigh’s body as Big Teeth helped Kayugh climb back inside his ikyak? Had Waxtal not lashed Amgigh, dead, to the bow of his own ikyak? What power did Chagak have, so that when the boy was finally on the beach she merely leaned over him and he was again alive, again breathing?

  She is a woman, only a woman, Waxtal reminded himself. Her powers are nothing compared to the powers of a hunter. And I, like Shuganan, carve. The power in that is the power of a shaman. Why else could a man call a spirit from a piece of ivory, a chunk of wood?

  Waxtal loosed Amgigh’s hand and tucked it under the sealskins that covered him. Once more he whispered into Amgigh’s ear, “It is better if your mother does not know that I have told you.”

  He waited, hoping that Amgigh would in some way acknowledge his words, but then Kayugh and Chagak were in the sleeping place, Kayugh’s face wet with tears. Waxtal stood and for a time he watched them, but then he left them alone, and slipped silently up the climbing log to stand for a long time atop Kayugh’s ulaq, to stand looking east toward Aka’s island, toward the trader’s route.

  34

  THEY PADDLED, FOR DAYS and days, through two full moons and on toward another. The sea water softened the ik’s hide covering, and they were forced to stop more and more often to repair the seams, patch the hides. Qakan had not thought to bring the slices of seal blubber Kiin needed to stuff the seams of the ik so water would not seep in, so Kiin filled the leaking seams with bits of fish fat, and each night she patched and repatched until her fingers bled.

  The sea spray made the skin peel from their faces, and Kiin’s hands cracked and split from the salt water, but still they went on. Twice, they found ulakidaq, both First Men villages. At each place they traded for food, and Qakan was given a woman for the nights they stayed.

  Kiin was surprised that though Qakan seemed incompetent in the trading—his words slow, and his face often showing his perplexity in making a decision—he always came away with more than he had given, and so now the ik was weighted down with extra fur
s, chunks of ivory, unusual shells, even two seal stomachs filled with dried meat.

  They had left the last village four days before, though Kiin had urged Qakan to stay. Winter would soon be upon them and with winter would come the storms—times when even the best hunters, most skilled with their ikyan, would not want to be out on the sea. But Qakan would not listen to Kiin, would not listen to the hunters of the village, but instead went on. They would go until they found the Walrus People, he told Kiin. The Walrus People’s village would make the two villages they had visited seem small and unimportant.

  So Kiin, seeing the stubbornness in Qakan’s eyes, took up her paddle. What else could she do? At night Qakan still kept her wrists tied, her ankles hobbled, and at each village, Qakan had told the people that she was a slave. And they, seeing her as slave, had given her the hardest chores, the most hated work; and their men would not ask for her other than to inquire if Qakan would sell her for the night. But to Kiin’s surprise, Qakan would not.

  “The Walrus People will pay more,” he told her. “I save you for them. I have heard stories about what men have done to women slaves bought for the night. Besides,” he would say and lean over to pat her stomach, “I do not want to curse my son.”

  In the days since they had left the last village, Kiin’s spirit seemed to grow smaller and smaller until it settled as small as a pebble, hard and sharp against her heart. And sometimes in the night, huddled in their shelter of grass mats and sealskins, she awoke with her blood pounding, echoing in her chest, the emptiness within as great as it had been when she had no spirit, no soul of her own.

  Kiin flexed her fingers on the paddle. Her knuckles were swollen, her hands and arms cramped with stiffness. This morning the rocking of the ik nauseated her, and for a moment she stopped paddling to curl one hand over the lower part of her belly. Three moons had passed without her woman’s bleeding. She sighed. Yes, she carried a child. Amgigh’s, she told herself. Amgigh’s.

  But when her wrists, rubbed raw from the cord that bound them, bled and burned, or when her back ached from paddling most of the day, some voice of doubt would come, would whisper, “It is Qakan’s child. Of course, the child belongs to Qakan.” And at other times when the cry of some bird or the sight of an otter slipping into the water would give her a bit of hope, another voice would say, “It is Samiq’s.”