by Sue Harrison
Kiin sat holding her babies. Already she had forgotten her pain. She had forgotten her fear of the curse that had been a part of each day’s wait while she carried her sons. She had forgotten her dread when Woman of the Sky first held each of the babies for Kiin to see, her fear that she would see babies with features like the fish that sometimes washed up on the beach, huge and scaley with bellies as white as dead man’s skin.
To calm her dread, Kiin had told herself it would be enough to be alone in the birthing hut, without the Raven’s orders, without Lemming Tail slapping her or pinching her.
Also, since the Raven had seen her whale tooth shell, he demanded that Kiin carve. Each day, he brought in driftwood from the beach, and Kiin, using a small crooked knife, carved. And as she carved she saw that her knife brought forth the same misshapen animals her father had carved.
And though Kiin held the true image of the animal in her mind, her fingers could not make what she saw come to life. There was always some flaw, one eye larger than the other, one paw too small, flippers turned the wrong way, but the Raven was pleased with her work, grunted his approval, and each night he collected her carvings, wrapped them in soft pieces of furred sealskin and packed them in baskets. He had even brought her a piece of walrus tusk, and Kiin had carved it into an ornament for his hair.
Lemming Tail hated Kiin’s carvings, and she often taunted Kiin about their ugliness. Kiin was ugly also, Lemming Tail said, too ugly to be in Raven’s bed. Did Kiin think he would take her as true wife once the babies were born? No. He did not want her. He wanted only the two sons Woman of the Sun had said Kiin would bear. But Kiin only smiled and wondered why Lemming Tail should care. Yes, the carvings were ugly. It amazed her that only she and Lemming Tail should be able to see that.
But though the carvings were ugly, Kiin knew she was not ugly. Men do not give up so many furs for an ugly woman. And Lemming Tail herself should know that the Raven took only beautiful wives. Lemming Tail was beautiful, her eyes not dark, but a golden brown, her hair with flecks of red in its blackness. And what of Yellow-hair? Was she not beautiful, her body as graceful as water falling? So Kiin knew she was not ugly, though as the days passed she had grown clumsy and large-bellied with her two sons.
But now, in the birth hut, she did not have to carve. Now she was alone and could make up songs, could sing and nurse her sons. But most of her joy came from seeing that one of her sons looked like Samiq and the other like Amgigh, neither at all like Qakan. So in that way, she loved them both, seeing no curse in their perfect arms and hands, in the long fingers and toes of Amgigh’s son, his thin straight hair and long legs; in the strong wide shoulders of Samiq’s son, in his large hands, his thick hair.
No curse, she said. No curse. Why should she have worried? Qakan was not strong enough to curse sons given by Amgigh and Samiq. Qakan had given no curse, and if he had not cursed these sons then how could she believe he had cursed her? She would return to her own people, yes, in some way, she would return. When she was strong again, before she had to go back to the Raven’s ulaq, she would leave the birth hut in the night, bind the babies under her suk and steal an ik. She would return to the First Men. Yes, it would take her all spring, all summer, but who had paddled most of the way last summer? Not Qakan.
She would take her babies back to the First Men. Amgigh would be proud to have a son, and when Samiq returned from the Whale Hunters, he, too, would see that Kiin had given him a son. And what greater gift can a woman give?
45
THREE DAYS AFTER THE BIRTH, Woman of the Sky came to Kiin’s hut. The babies were asleep, each one in a cradle hung from the willow poles.
The Raven had made the cradles, each a rectangle of wood with a length of sealskin attached to the long sides to form a sling that held the baby in the center of the rectangle. Each wooden side was like one direction of the wind—east the direction of new life; south the direction of the sun; west, death; and north, the place of the Dancing Lights.
“They sleep?” Woman of the Sky asked while still standing in the door of the hut.
Kiin nodded, “Yes, Grandmother.”
“Good,” the old woman said, but for the first time since Kiin had known her, Woman of the Sky seemed nervous, unsure of what she should say, her hands twisting themselves together, her eyes blinking too rapidly.
“The spirits have spoken to you?” she asked.
With a trembling that made Kiin’s heart work in short, hard beats, Kiin answered as though she did not know what Woman of the Sky meant. “N-no,” she said and tried to smile, tried to act as any woman, mother of two sons, would act.
Woman of the Sky came into the birth hut and sat cross-legged on the grass mats of the floor. The oil lamp gave out a puff of smoke as the door flap settled into place.
“Kiin,” Woman of the Sky said, her voice firm, her eyes so dark that even the flames of the lamp did not show in their depths, “one of your sons is evil. One has to die.”
“No,” Kiin said, her voice loud. “My s-s-sons are not evil. You c-can s-s-see that neither belongs to Qakan. If you knew my husband, you would s-see that the first born is his, in all ways he belongs to my husband. If you knew my husband’s brother, S-S-Samiq, you would see that the s-second born belongs to him. In all ways he is Samiq, even in the st-strength of his cry, the thickness of his hair.”
“And why should this second born belong to Samiq?” Woman of the Sky asked and bent close to Kiin, peering into her eyes.
“Samiq has n-no wife and was s-sent to the Whale Hunter tribe to learn to hunt…to hunt the whale. My husband Amgigh sh-shared me with Samiq for a n-night as a comfort before he left.”
Woman of the Sky nodded.
“My s-s-sons are as all m-m-men, with good and evil m-mixed, the choice to be theirs, not s-something decided by s-some spirit before they were born,” Kiin said, and the heat of her words rose and stirred the air near the cradles until Amgigh’s son began to cry.
Kiin stood and pulled the baby from his cradle. The baby’s carrying strap was still slung under Kiin’s suk, the strap fitting over Kiin’s shoulder, across her back and under her other arm. Kiin slipped the baby into the wide section of the strap so it supported the baby’s back and head and ran between his legs. Kiin pushed her nipple into his mouth.
“My sister’s dreams are never wrong,” Woman of the Sky said. “And she saw this before you came to us. Did she not say you would have two babies? Did she not say they would be sons?”
But Kiin would not look at the woman, would not lift her eyes to the brown and wrinkled face.
For a long time Woman of the Sky sat without speaking, but finally, when Samiq’s son began to cry and Kiin stood to take him from his cradle, Woman of the Sky stood also, and before Kiin could take the crying infant into her arms, Woman of the Sky picked him up from the cradle. For a time, she stood holding the child, rocking him until he no longer cried, then she looked at Kiin, and Kiin saw there were tears on the old woman’s face.
“All my sons except Ice Hunter died when they were babies,” she said, her voice a whisper. “Kiin, Woman of the Sun has had no dream on this, but my own spirit tells me that this baby is the evil son, this child with the dark hair is the one who will bring destruction.”
Kiin said nothing, only reached for Samiq’s son, held the baby close so the feathers of her suk lay soft against his bare skin.
“I will leave now,” Woman of the Sky said, and she spoke in the Walrus tongue.
“G-g-go, then,” Kiin said, speaking also in the Walrus tongue, but her throat closed so she could not say the rest of the words: Come again to visit.
Woman of the Sky left, closed the door flap behind her, but Kiin still felt the woman’s presence and knew she was standing outside the hut. Finally she called in to Kiin, “Let your spirit speak to you. Let it tell you what is true. Would you curse us, the people who have let you become one of us?”
Kiin slipped Samiq’s son into his carrying strap. No, I would not
curse you, she thought. But do not ask me to kill one of my sons. Do not ask me.
“Wife,” someone called.
Kiin, in her dreams, thought the voice was Amgigh’s, and for a moment she was again in Kayugh’s ulaq. Then she opened her eyes and when the voice came again, she knew it belonged to the Raven.
“Husband,” she answered, keeping her voice low so she would not awaken the babies, “I am here.”
“Come out,” he said.
And Kiin, surprised that he would ask such a thing, answered, “Take care for your weapons. I st-still bleed.”
She heard him shuffle back from the hut, then she crawled outside and was surprised to see that the night had nearly ended, the sun already red on the horizon.
“I have spoken to the old women, Grandmother and Aunt,” he said, and his words brought dread to Kiin’s spirit, a heaviness that made her want to hide in the dark shadows near the hut.
“Your p-power is st-stronger than theirs,” Kiin said, spitting out the words in anger.
And the Raven surprised her by answering, “Yes, my power is stronger. You should not kill your sons. They are my sons also, do not forget. I traded a good woman for you. You must do as I say.”
Kiin lowered her head, did not let herself see what was in her husband’s eyes. So, if her husband told her she should not kill her sons, could she disobey? She was wife. She must do as her husband said.
“T-t-tell the Grandmother I m-must obey my husband. I am wife. Tell the Aunt I m-must d-do as my husband says.”
Low and soft on the wind, Kiin heard the beginning of the Raven’s laughter. Low and soft on the wind, she heard the sound as the Raven turned and walked away from the birth hut.
And though, as she went back into the hut, she heard nothing from her own spirit, heard no voice agreeing or disagreeing, a song came, whispering at her from the peak of the willow poles:
I will not choose for my children, Which son is evil and which is good.
What mother could choose between two sons?
What mother could choose?
Each son will decide for himself.
Each must choose as every man chooses.
As Amgigh and Samiq chose.
Then she heard the murmur of her spirit. The voice, still and small, singing from within: “As the Raven chose.”
46
THE MORNING FOGS WERE LONGER, thicker. The snow became rain; the rains thinned and became mists.
“Soon the whales,” Hard Rock said.
The men had gathered on the beach. The fog seemed to isolate them from the village, but Samiq knew that it also carried their voices clearly to the ulas.
“We need a watcher,” Dying Seal said, pushing a chunk of dried meat into his mouth. “The son of Puffin….”
“He is too young,” Hard Rock interrupted.
Samiq looked at the man in surprise. Puffin’s son was Hard Rock’s nephew. It was an honor for the boy to be mentioned, but Hard Rock’s face was set in a scowl.
“Whale Killer will be our watcher.”
Dying Seal laughed, but Samiq knew Hard Rock had not made a joke.
“You are more boy than man,” Hard Rock continued, his eyes on Samiq’s face. “You will be our watcher.”
The men around him began to murmur, but Samiq said, “I have never learned the skills of a boy. Hard Rock chooses wisely. For a little while, I will be a watcher.”
“There is no need,” Dying Seal said to Samiq.
But Samiq replied, “This is not a dishonor. Do not think that it is.” Then he turned to Hard Rock and said, “Let us go now. I will be watcher, but first I must speak to my wife.”
Samiq saw the surprise and disappointment in Hard Rock’s eyes, and he knew the man had wanted a fight. Samiq had often seen two of the Whale Hunters fight, thrusting with words instead of knives. To the Whale Hunters the wounds made by words were as deep as those of any weapon, and Samiq understood that he was not equal to Hard Rock’s skill, the fighting with words still new to Samiq, his own replies too slow, too awkward.
“It is better this way,” he quietly told Dying Seal. “But watch over Fat Wife and Three Fish for me.”
“I will send you food,” Fat Wife promised as she packed Samiq’s chigadax and boots into a sealskin sack. “Puffin’s boy will bring it to you.”
“Puffin’s boy should be watching,” Three Fish said.
“It will not be long, wife,” said Samiq laying a hand on her shoulder.
Hard Rock went with Samiq to the watching place. It was situated on a narrow ledge at the side of a ridge. It was freedom for a boy. A place where mothers did not come. A place where a boy could test his weapons. There was a hut on the widest section of the ledge, and the shelter was protected from the wind by a shallow cave.
As Samiq placed his food and clothing inside, he noticed that the shelter’s walls were tightly woven and strong, but that the mats on the floor had begun to rot, filling the hut with the smell of something dead. In disgust, he pulled the mats from the floor and carried them to the edge of the ridge and tossed them into the rocks and grasses below.
He turned to Hard Rock expecting some protest and saw that Hard Rock was holding a fist-sized stone, gripping it tightly with the tips of his fingers. Samiq’s stomach muscles tightened, and he reached slowly toward the handle of the obsidian knife Amgigh had given him. In a fight with Hard Rock, there would be nothing but loss.
But Hard Rock held the stone toward Samiq and said, “This is the signal rock. Three times against the wall of the cave for a whale. Twice for seals.”
Samiq dropped his arms to his sides and listened as Hard Rock tapped the stone once against the rim of the cave. It echoed loudly, throwing a clear tone down toward the beach. “Three times,” Hard Rock said as he placed the stone in a niche at the edge of the cave. “Then light the fires.” He said nothing more and did not turn to look back at Samiq as he descended the side of the ridge, dislodging dirt and stone as he went.
Samiq waited until Hard Rock was lost in the fog, then he turned and strained to see beyond the edge of the mist where the sea lay as black as the center of an eye.
For three days and nights, Samiq watched, sleeping only when the fog was too thick to see the water. On the fourth day, Puffin’s boy came. He carried water and meat and a packet of bitterroot. He set down the water then squatted beside Samiq, handing him the package of roots.
The First Men ate the root cooked. Samiq did not like the sour taste it had when raw. He made a face and the boy smiled. The boy popped a handful of bitterroot bulbs into his mouth. Samiq felt his throat tighten as the boy chewed. But the boy only laughed and ate more.
Unlike most of the Whale Hunters, Puffin’s boy was small and thin, but Samiq had heard him more than once best several of the older boys in word fighting.
“I can stay two, three days,” the boy said.
“Good,” Samiq answered, “perhaps you will finish all of these.” And he tossed the packet of roots back on the boy’s lap.
“I will if you cook them,” the boy said laughing.
“You are the cook,” Samiq said, running his hand over the top of the boy’s head.
The boy nodded and began to unpack the supplies he had brought. He laughed and talked, his words sometimes so rapid they came from his mouth like a song.
But even as the boy talked, Samiq watched the sea. There was an ikyak far out on the water, and Samiq wondered if it might be Kayugh or Amgigh. But Puffin’s boy gestured toward the thin, dark line and said, “Hard Rock. He hunts today.”
Samiq grunted, feeling disappointed. “They have seen seals?”
“No,” the boy said, then grinned. “Fat Wife misses you. She says it is shameful for Hard Rock to send you here. Now all the women of the village are angry. Even Hard Rock’s wife. That is why he hunts today.”
Samiq’s laugh echoed down the ridge, and the boy laughed as well, then said, “Hard Rock will return before night. The ceremony must be made. The old men are
all dead now and only Hard Rock and Dying Seal know how to make whale poison. This morning, Hard Rock made the poison.”
Samiq turned toward the boy. “How do you know?”
“I followed.”
Samiq drew in his breath, but he turned again toward the sea, noticing that Hard Rock’s boat was now closer to the shore.
“You followed?” he finally asked.
The boy pulled a broken flake of stone from the ledge and cupped it in his palm. He took a piece of bone from inside his parka and used it to chip at the rock.
“You will cut your hand,” Samiq said and leaned back toward the hut to pull his spearhead basket from the sleeping mats. He opened the basket and took out a strip of hide and tucked it in the boy’s palm.
“It is also the wrong kind of rock,” Samiq said, then seeing a flush stain the boy’s face, realized that he was only working the stone to avoid Samiq’s questions, but Samiq again asked, “You followed?”
“Yes,” the boy said, his eyes still on the stone, now discarded at his feet.
Samiq handed him a piece of andesite from his basket and the boy turned it in his fingers.
“It is ready,” Samiq said, pointing to the thinned base, the top that narrowed to a point. “Except for the edge.” He put the stone in his own palm and steadied his hand against his thigh, pressing with a piece of bone to force flakes from the edge.
“Use this piece to practice,” Samiq said, flipping the stone back to the boy. “My brother makes the best blades of any man I know. I tell you what he has told me. The bone goes here,” Samiq said, placing the punch on the edge of the blade. “Now press in toward the center. Lean into the punch. Use your shoulders for the force you need.” Samiq waited until the muscles in the boy’s arms grew taut. “Now press down.”
A flake came cleanly from the edge of the stone. The boy studied the blade, moved the punch.
Samiq shook his head, “No,” he said, “put the punch here, nearly flat to your stone.” He watched and grunted his approval when another flake broke from the edge, then he placed his hand on the boy’s wrist.
