by Sue Harrison
It was not his place to cry. She was not his mother nor grandmother nor wife, but Little Duck’s grief for her son seemed to settle deep into the center of Samiq’s chest, drawn by the pain he carried for Kiin.
The curtains parted and Samiq looked up. Kayugh had entered the cave. Gladness mixed with the sorrow in Samiq’s throat and he could say nothing. A glance at Little Duck told him she slept, and he carefully placed her hand at her side and rose to greet his father.
A year had not changed Kayugh, his hair was as black, his face the same. Chagak had once told Samiq that Kayugh never changed, that he looked the same as he did when she first became his wife.
“You are safe,” Kayugh said.
“You should have known I would be,” Samiq answered, then regretted his words, thinking he sounded too much like a boy pretending to be a man.
“Yes, I should have known,” Kayugh said and smiled.
“When I came to our beach,” Samiq said, “I thought that you…that Aka had…”
“You should have known we would be safe,” Kayugh said, and he smiled when Samiq laughed.
Little Duck stirred on her mat, but did not open her eyes.
“She is dying,” Kayugh said.
“It is her choice,” Samiq replied.
Kayugh nodded and walked to the far wall of the shelter. He sat down and motioned Samiq to a place beside him. Kayugh was silent for a time, then asked, “You have seen your sister?”
“Red Berry?”
“Wren.”
Samiq grinned. “She has grown.”
“She is beautiful like her mother.”
Samiq was surprised at Kayugh’s words. He had never thought of his mother as beautiful.
“I have met the one you brought from the Whale Hunters,” Kayugh said.
“Small Knife?”
“Yes, I have seen the boy,” Kayugh said, “but I meant the woman.”
“Three Fish. She is called Three Fish.”
Kayugh nodded. “I did not know you would take a wife.”
“It was not my choice,” Samiq said. “Many Whales thought I needed a woman.”
“Many Whales,” Kayugh said. “He is a strange man.” Kayugh rubbed his hand across his chin. “They marked you,” he said.
Samiq touched his own chin. He had nearly forgotten the dark lines that Many Babies had sewn into his skin.
Kayugh frowned and looked away. “Did Aka shake their village also?” he asked.
“Yes,” Samiq replied, his voice soft. He cleared his throat, a harsh sound against the quietness of the shelter, against the gentleness of Little Duck’s breathing. “Fat Wife died. Also Three Fish’s parents and her brother, Puffin, who was Small Knife’s father.”
“It is good you brought them then.”
“I did not want to,” Samiq said. “But I am glad I brought Small Knife. He is more man than boy.”
Kayugh nodded then asked, “Many Whales?”
Samiq looked away. His father had been fond of Many Whales. “He is dead.”
Kayugh closed his eyes and pressed his chin into the collar of his parka. When he raised his head he looked toward Little Duck and asked, “Aka?”
“No,” Samiq said. “A sickness. It took him quickly and without pain. He could not move, and his mouth was…it was…”
“I have seen the sickness before,” Kayugh said. “An old woman I knew when I was still a child. She lived for a long time. Be thankful that Many Whales died quickly.”
They sat in silence until Samiq finally spoke, telling Kayugh the thing that had seldom left his mind since he fled from the Whale Hunters. “They thought that I called Aka. That I told Aka to destroy their village.”
Kayugh snorted. “Why? Why would they think that?”
“Because so many whales came to the Whale Hunters’ island last summer. More than they had ever seen. Many Whales said it was my power, and some of the hunters were angry that a man from the Seal Hunters should have such power.”
“Was it your power?”
“How could it be? I am just a man. I learned what they taught. I did what they told me to do. That was all. I sought no great power. I called on no spirits.”
“Then the Whale Hunters are fools,” Kayugh said. “What man could call Aka? Who has such power?”
Samiq was relieved at Kayugh’s answer. To have someone else believe as he did made the Whale Hunters’ accusations seem less important.
“But you learned to hunt the whale,” Kayugh said, and Samiq saw the hope in the man’s eyes.
“You found my whale on your beach,” Samiq answered.
Kayugh laughed. “When Aka quiets we will go back, and you will teach us to hunt the whale,” he said. He reached to grip Samiq’s shoulder. “You have been a fine son to me.”
The words were more than Samiq ever hoped to hear, and he found he could not speak, the quietness of the cave broken only by Little Duck’s shallow breathing.
“I am sorry about Kiin,” Kayugh said suddenly.
“Yes,” Samiq said, the sorrow of her death again full and hard in his chest until each breath brought pain. “Amgigh…it must be hard for Amgigh,” Samiq said.
He turned and saw that Kayugh’s eyes were on his own, holding him so he could not look away. “It is more difficult for you,” Kayugh said. “I promised her for Amgigh because he was my child and you were not.” He clasped and unclasped his hands. “I did not know then that your mother would become my wife and you would become my son. And I did not know how deeply you would care for Kiin.”
Samiq’s face colored. “Amgigh was a good husband to her,” he said.
“He is a good man. A fine son. But in some ways…There is caring, but…” Kayugh shrugged then said, “I have never told you about Amgigh’s mother.”
Samiq was surprised. People seldom spoke about the dead, usually only to tell others that they had died. And even then a man had to choose his words carefully. Who could say what the spirit of a dead one might do?
“She was called White River. She was a good woman. Strong. She gave me Red Berry and Amgigh. Two good children. When she died, I did not want to live. I did not think a man could care for a woman more than I cared for White River. But then I found your mother. And when she took Amgigh and nursed him so he could live…” He shook his head. “There is no way to say how much I care for your mother.”
Samiq looked at Kayugh in amazement. Who could truly know what was in the heart of another man?
“Kiin was to Amgigh as White River was to me. But to you, Kiin…” He stopped. “You see, I understand, because I have your mother.”
Samiq nodded and Kayugh said, “I planned to go with you this summer to help you find a wife, a woman of the First Men or perhaps of the Walrus People. I did not know you would bring a Whale Hunter wife.”
Samiq bit at the inside of his cheek. A wife—Three Fish had always been an embarrassment, and here among his own people how much worse. A wife! Better to live alone. But he smiled at his father, a stiff smile, and said, “Yes, I have a wife. A strong, healthy wife.”
54
YELLOW-HAIR SMIRKED AT QAKAN and threw another chunk of dried fish. Qakan ducked and the fish thudded against the curtain that divided their part of the ulaq from Ice Hunter’s.
Qakan looked at his wife in disgust. Her hair was matted and her skin streaked with soot. Except for the first time he had seen her, the time she was dancing, helping Raven cheat Qakan out of his trade goods, she had been dirty. Her hair was filthy, caked with rancid fat, her grass aprons frayed. Their portion of the ulaq was not much better. Ice Hunter’s mother, the one the Walrus People called Grandmother, first berated Qakan for not making his wife take better care of the ulaq. Later, perhaps when she realized Qakan was powerless to control his wife, she talked to Yellow-hair, shamed the woman into throwing out the worst of the scraps that littered the floor.
Today, Grandmother had visited them, had shouted at Yellow-hair. “Your filth stinks up my son’s half of this
ulaq,” she had said, her old woman’s neck stretched long and thin, her voice rising to a screech as she spoke of Yellow-hair’s laziness, of Ice Hunter who was kind enough to allow a trader to live in his ulaq for the winter.
She did not look at Qakan as she spoke, did not offer him the courtesy of acknowledging his presence, and Qakan was not sure which was the greater shame: that he could not make his wife keep the ulaq clean, or that Grandmother saw him as being worthless, as having no more power than a basket set in the corner.
When Grandmother left, Qakan had sneered at his wife, though he dared not utter a word to her, but the scorn in his smile had been enough. She took the few fish still in their storage cache and began throwing them at him. At first she threw silently, anger reddening her face. The only sound was the thud of fish striking curtains or walls, and once the low gurgle of Yellow-hair’s laugh when Qakan was too slow and a fish hit him.
Finally Qakan left, stopping before he went through the curtains to pick up a few fish from the floor and take them with him. At least he would have something to eat.
It was spring; he had a good amount of trade goods—things he had hidden from Yellow-hair once he realized she was trading his furs, carvings and necklaces for seal stomachs of dried fish, for berries and roots so she would not have to spend her days finding food.
Yes, he would go, Qakan decided.
He walked the beach, watching as all men watch for signs of seal or fish. He had never liked the sea, but during the long winter, he had found himself looking forward to the calmer waters of summer, when a man could go out and fish, away from a lazy wife who never allowed him into her sleeping place, who teased with flipping apron and wide-spread knees, but demanded furs and necklaces for any night spent as wife.
Now after a winter of Yellow-hair’s taunts, Qakan was not only angry with his wife, but also with all the Walrus People. Why did they allow their women to be so foolish? Did mothers not care how their daughters behaved? Did fathers have no pride?
And what about Kiin? She was honored now among the Walrus People. Had she forgotten her shame among the First Men? Had she forgotten that she had lived without a name and without a soul? Now she was mother of two sons, Qakan’s sons. Sons he had given her. Instead of a curse he had given her life and honor—as wife of one of the most powerful men among the Walrus People. Had she forgotten that all this was hers because of him?
Well, he would not stay among the Walrus People. He was a trader. Yes, he had taken a wife for the winter. To warm his bed and prepare his meals, to sew his parka, but now he was ready to travel to other villages, to enjoy the hospitality of other women. He would leave Kiin. Why worry about her? He had found her a good husband. He would take Yellow-hair with him, give her in trade to another village, one of the First Men’s villages scattered between the Walrus People and Tugix’s island. He would stop in those villages closer to Tugix, the places he had not stopped last summer for fear Kiin would be seen and remembered.
Yellow-hair—clean and in a new suk—would bring much in trade. Too bad he could not take her back to his own village. Samiq needed a wife. What would Samiq give? How many furs for a woman who could dance like Yellow-hair?
The bay ice had melted, and the hunters said that even the sea ice was breaking up. A trader, if he was careful, could begin spring trading trips. Qakan picked up a stone and flung it out into the water. The wind was strong enough to force his stone into a curved path. Qakan laughed. He would like to see Samiq with Yellow-hair as wife, would rejoice in Samiq’s dishonor: a filthy ulaq, torn clothing, poor food.
With Yellow-hair as wife, Samiq would have no sons. How could Yellow-hair, as contrary as she was, as few times as she came into her husband’s bed, give sons? Even Raven with all his power had not gotten sons from her.
So, yes, Qakan would go back now, tell Yellow-hair his plans. He would speak sternly to her, let her know he was more powerful than she was. Who was she? A woman. Only a woman. Not even a First Men’s woman, but a woman of the Walrus People. She had no power.
He returned to the ulaq. Ice Hunter was not there, nor his sons. Qakan straightened, stood tall as he entered his side of the ulaq. Yellow-hair had not trimmed the oil lamp’s wick, and the light was dim. At first Qakan saw nothing but the heap of furs that made up their bed on the sleeping platform. Then he saw movement. He closed his eyes, waited for a moment as they adjusted to the dimness. Yes, he saw the light color of his wife’s hair. So, in the middle of the day, she slept. No wonder he had no food. No wonder his parka was not mended, the fur matted with old grease.
He strode to the sleeping platform, reached down and clasped her by the hair. At the same moment a hand reached out of the furs, a man’s hand, and grabbed his wrist. Qakan gasped, heard Yellow-hair’s laughter, and a deeper laugh—a man’s laugh. Then Yellow-hair was standing beside him, her grass aprons askew, and lying naked in the furs was Raven, the man’s hand so hard on Qakan’s wrist that Qakan began to whimper from the pain.
“You have a fine wife,” Raven hissed. He released Qakan’s wrist and stood up. He reached into the furs and brought out his leggings and parka, slipped them on. He cupped a hand around one of Yellow-hair’s breasts.
“She is ready for you,” he said, then pushed Qakan back so that he tipped slowly into the heap of furs, then Raven left the ulaq.
Yellow-hair stood over Qakan laughing. She reached down and stroked one of Qakan’s legs, but Qakan sat up and slapped her hand away.
“You are not my wife,” Qakan hissed. “Get out of my ulaq. You are no one’s wife. You belong to no one. Get out. Get out. I do not need you. A trader has many women. Any woman he wants.”
Yellow-hair’s eyes widened. For a moment Qakan thought she was afraid, but then she laughed, laughed until she was doubled over, holding the laughter into her belly with both arms. But as quickly as she had begun laughing, she quit and began gathering her belongings, furs, baskets, food.
For a time Qakan watched, then suddenly his anger spilled over from its place in his chest, slid down through his legs and into his feet, pushed its way also down his arms and into his hands. He ran to the corner where he kept his weapons, pulled out a spear.
Yellow-hair was kneeling with her back to Qakan, stacking baskets from the jumbled heap near the storage cache. Qakan took two steps, running steps. Yellow-hair turned, screamed. Qakan stopped, spear in one hand, ready to strike.
Yellow-hair’s eyes narrowed. She threw back her head and laughed. “Kill me,” she said. “You cannot throw. You are no hunter. Kill me.”
She stood up, thrust out her arms. Qakan lowered the spear. Yellow-hair smiled, then turned away from him, back to the stack of baskets. For a time she worked, packing, but then with a short laugh, she faced him again and spat at him. The spittle landed in a glob in Qakan’s left eye.
Qakan flinched, wiped his eye. Yellow-hair’s laughter spun up and out, filling the ulaq. Qakan turned away, but then he turned back, and quickly, quickly, as quickly as Samiq moved, he raised the spear. He threw it—as hard as Big Teeth threw.
Yellow-hair’s laughter ended, seemed to pull itself back into her throat.
When he threw the spear, Qakan had closed his eyes. Now he opened them. Yellow-hair was standing, but the spear protruded from between her breasts. Blood was already pooled at her feet. She fell.
Qakan watched as her eyes rolled back in her head until only the whites showed beneath the lids. She took one shuddering breath, then was still.
Qakan walked to his wife, pulled out his spear, then leaned over and moved the baskets so they would not be stained by Yellow-hair’s blood. Her baskets were not as beautiful as Chagak’s baskets or even the baskets that Kiin made, but they would be good for something in trade.
Qakan began to pack the bedding furs, mats, the small amount of food in the storage cache. When he had finished, he stood over Yellow-hair once more. He waited a long time to see if she still breathed. No, no. He leaned over, careful that his parka did not touch
her dead flesh. He unclasped the necklaces from her neck. One was a shell necklace, another was of bear teeth, the third was a leather thong that held one of Kiin’s walrus carvings.
They would bring a good price in trade, each of them.
Then he stood, and speaking to Yellow-hair, to her spirit, said, “Yellow-hair, you fool, now who is going to paddle my ik?”
55
QAKAN SMILED AT THE MEN gathered around him. It had been a long winter, a hard winter, mainly because of Yellow-hair. But he had learned. He would not be taken by a beautiful face again.
And now that the Walrus men knew he would soon leave, they eagerly offered him trade goods in exchange for furs, knives and even for Kiin’s carvings that Qakan had bought from Raven. Raven had demanded two of Amgigh’s knives and three sealskins for a basket of those carvings.
Qakan had made the trade, rolling his eyes and forcing his lips into a pout, had bowed his head under Raven’s laughter, but only to hide his own smile. Raven did not know about the other knives he had, knives finer and with longer blades, knives also made by Amgigh. He did not know that Kiin’s carvings with their fine smooth lines, the shape of head and flipper curving into the whale tooth or walrus tusk would bring him much more than the knives and sealskins he had given for them.
Yes, this evening he was making many good trades, but Qakan was careful not to let any man see his eyes. Someone might have power to read what was there, to find the truth in the depths, to know that they could make much better trades. They might also see the secret of Yellow-hair’s death, see that Qakan had left her in the ulaq, covered her in the sleeping platform with the worst of the skins, the moldy mats, things he could not trade.
So when he had taken all he could take, what would fit in the ik and what was good enough to barter on his way back to his own village, he held up both hands and again with head bowed, eyes hidden, said, “No more. I have nothing left. You have taken it all. I must leave you. But someday I will return and will bring whale oil from the Whale Hunters’ island at the far western edge of the world, and I will bring obsidian knives from the First Men and mats woven with the finest stitches, baskets for your women, sealskin boots and ivory needles and parkas made of otter fur.
