My Sister the Moon

by Sue Harrison

  Amgigh had to call twice before Kiin heard him, but then she came, hurrying over the rock wall, squeezing between rafters.

  She brushed the hair from her eyes and looked up at him. Amgigh reached toward her, and his fingers seemed to move by themselves to touch her face. But then he remembered his place as husband and dropped his hand, and would not allow himself to wonder at the sudden pain he felt, as though by drawing away he had somehow torn a small part of his spirit from his body.

  “Kiin, come with me,” he said, and she followed without asking questions.

  When they were a short distance from the ulas, beyond Crooked Nose’s sight and far enough so the wind would cover their voices, he stopped, turned and, this time with no one watching, allowed himself to reach out, to touch Kiin’s face. To push the wisps of hair from her cheeks.

  She did not speak, but Amgigh could see that her eyes were round with worry. “Amgigh?” she finally said, the name a question, and Amgigh squatted, pulling her down beside him.

  “Raven,” Amgigh said. “Tell me about him.”

  Kiin looked at Amgigh, her eyes still wide. “He is here?” she asked.

  “No,” Amgigh said and spoke so suddenly, that he was afraid Kiin would know he did not speak the truth. He took a breath, made his words come slowly. “No. He is not here. I just need to know about him. You were my wife, Kiin. I need you to be my wife again.”

  He thought he saw the beginning of a smile on Kiin’s face, but she looked away from him and when she did not speak, Amgigh was afraid the spirits had taken her words, that she would once again stammer and hesitate as she had when she lived on Tugix’s island.

  But finally she said, “He is not evil, not good. He is something like…” She stopped, pushed her hands through her hair and then said, “He is himself, doing what he wants to do, and he does not think of others, how they feel or if what he does might hurt someone.” She turned and looked into Amgigh’s eyes. “I cannot explain it,” she said. “He is…he is like the wind. The wind blows and brings in waves that destroy a village or the wind blows and brings in the body of a whale so everyone has oil. Good and bad, both, you see, and not caring either way.”

  “You were wife to him,” Amgigh said, his words flat, hard.

  “Not in his bed,” Kiin said softly. “But I kept his ulaq clean and made clothes for him and carved if he told me to carve. I made a blanket of black puffin feathers for him. It was beautiful. I wish I could have brought it back for you.”

  Her words reached into Amgigh’s chest and squeezed his heart so that its beat seemed small and faint. “You made a blanket for him?”

  “I was his wife. He asked me to make it and I did.”

  “No,” Amgigh said, and the word seemed to pry the fear away from his heart so it could beat again, so again he was a man, a man ready to fight for his wife, not a boy afraid of something he did not understand. “You are my wife. You have always been my wife.”

  “Yes,” Kiin answered, but she turned her face away from him, and he could not see what was in her eyes. “I am your wife, but the Raven gave me food and a place to live. I took care of his ulaq and made his clothes.”

  “And warmed his bed,” Amgigh said.

  “No,” Kiin said. “You know I did not.”

  Amgigh pulled up a stalk of grass and twisted it between his hands. “If Raven finds you, he will want you back.”

  Kiin turned toward him. Her face was white, and the black centers of her eyes suddenly pulled in, as though her spirit were shutting itself away.

  “Kiin, he will want you back,” Amgigh said. “He will want you and my sons.”

  “Yes,” Kiin said, the word hardly louder than a breath. “At least Shuku.”

  Amgigh stood and pulled Kiin up beside him. Without looking to see if others saw, whether there was someone who might be offended, man, woman or spirit, sea animal or bird, he pulled her into his arms, laid his head against her hair. “He will not have you. You are my wife,” Amgigh said, and knew he should have claimed her that first night in his bed. How else did a man drive away the memories and spirits of others?

  “For the rest of the trading, I want you to stay away from the beach,” Amgigh said. “I will have Three Fish bring you the babies. Take them into the hills and do not come out. Then if Raven comes, he will not know you are here. And when the traders have left, I will come for you.”

  Amgigh left her then, left without looking back. He did not want her to see what was in his eyes. What he knew he would have to do.

  Kiin looked into Three Fish’s eyes, tried to see if the woman knew what was happening, but Three Fish’s large round face was flat, without trace of sorrow, anger or fear. She sat holding Samiq’s son, the baby asleep, his fingers wrapped around one of hers, bubbles of milk from Kiin’s nursing at the corners of his mouth.

  Amgigh had come with Three Fish, had walked with the two women farther from the beach, around the boggy edges of a lake, over sedges to a high mound ringed with stunted willow. There, in the lee of the mound, Amgigh helped Kiin make a shelter of hides, driftwood and mats while Three Fish held the babies.

  When they were finished, he left, again without looking back, stopping only to stroke each baby’s face and to press his own cheek against Shuku’s.

  Now she and Three Fish were alone, each holding a baby, and Kiin wished Three Fish had gone back with Amgigh, so Kiin could be alone, could raise her songs to any spirit that might keep the Raven from coming to their beach. What if he came and saw the carvings she had traded? He would know she had been here. She should have thought of that before the trading, but what was worse—going back with the Raven to the Walrus People or seeing the First Men starve over the next winter?

  Kiin tucked Amgigh’s son under her suk, then to calm her spirit, she pulled out her crooked knife and a chunk of walrus tusk she was carving. She had traded a few of her carvings for more ivory—whale and bear teeth, walrus tusk and a strange chunk of yellow ivory, rounder than walrus tusk and without the brittle marbling of the center; there was a faint pattern of checks at the rim of the cut edge, dark and light like the pattern Chagak put on the ends of her grass mats.

  Kiin turned the partially carved walrus tusk in her fingers, let it warm with the heat of her hands, smoothed her fingers over the crevices. The chunk of tusk was as long as her hand, and at the broken end was as large around as her wrist. When she had first seen the tusk, she had seen also what was within it: an ikyak, sleek, one end pointed up with the curve of the tusk, the other end blunt. Already under her knife, the ikyak had begun to emerge.

  She looked up at Three Fish, but Three Fish was murmuring to Takha. So Kiin began to carve, using her knife to shave away long curls of ivory. And as she carved a song came, something she could not hold within. So keeping her eyes on her work, she sang, the carving and the singing joining into one song, voice and hands.

  Amgigh went to the beach. Most of the traders had packed away their goods for the night. Only four of the Walrus People ikyan were left—Raven’s and the ikyan that belonged to a man called Ice Hunter and Ice Hunter’s two sons. Ice Hunter spoke the First Men’s tongue, and he spent most of that evening speaking to Amgigh.

  “Kiin is a good woman, yes,” Ice Hunter said, “but she is not worth a fight that will kill you, and Raven has killed others. He is not afraid to fight. Let him have the woman.”

  “And my sons?” Amgigh asked.

  “No, do not let him take your sons,” Ice Hunter said. “The women in our village think there is a curse. They think one of your sons must die. If you let him take your sons, one will be killed.”

  “Raven will kill him?”

  “No, Raven wants both alive, but think how easy it is for a child to die. Think how easy it is for a baby to fall from an ik or for a young boy’s harness to give way when he is gathering eggs.”

  Amgigh nodded. Yes, it would be easy to kill one son or another, and though he cared more for Shuku, he would also grieve if Takha were kill
ed. And what of Kiin? How could he bear to lose her again?

  “I will fight for her,” Amgigh told Ice Hunter, and Ice Hunter, shaking his head said, “Then I will see you again when I come to the Dancing Lights.”

  Together they went to Raven, and Amgigh waited until Ice Hunter spoke to the man, Amgigh watching as Raven’s eyes narrowed, as his brows wove themselves into one line across his face.

  “He wants her and both sons,” Ice Hunter told Amgigh, and Amgigh listened, but did not take his eyes from Raven’s face. Perhaps the man was without honor; perhaps he would kill Amgigh if Amgigh looked away, even for a moment.

  Amgigh’s hand lingered over his long-bladed knife. Raven might be a better fighter. What did Amgigh know of fighting men? But Raven would not have a better weapon. How many men knew the secrets of knapping obsidian? How many men knew the secret place on Okmok where the sacred rock was found?

  “She is my wife and they are my sons,” Amgigh said and he tried to catch Raven’s eyes, to hold them with his eyes. How else does a man reason with other men? But Raven stared straight ahead, as though he did not see Amgigh, as though Amgigh were not even on the beach. So Amgigh spoke to Ice Hunter: “Qakan had no right to sell Kiin,” Amgigh said, “but whatever Raven paid for her, I will return to him.”

  Amgigh waited while Ice Hunter, using his hands and many words, again spoke to Raven, but Raven flung his black feather blanket to the ground and with more angry words went back into his shelter.

  Then Ice Hunter turned slowly to face Amgigh. “He will not trade for her, but he will fight you for her and for the sons,” Ice Hunter said. “Spear or knife, he does not care.”

  “Knife,” Amgigh said, his hand pressed against the sheath that covered his obsidian blade. Okmok was stronger than Raven.

  The beach was empty, the traders still sleeping, some in the First Men’s large ulaq, others in the shelters they had made under their iks. Amgigh had not told Samiq what was happening. When his brother sat down beside him the night before, asking about Kiin and Three Fish, Amgigh had explained that they were in the hills, away from traders, away from the noise that kept the babies crying. They would be back the next day, at least Chagak had said so, and Samiq had shrugged. But Amgigh knew Samiq was worried, and he understood without anger that his worry was as much for Kiin as for Three Fish.

  But Amgigh could not tell Samiq the truth. Samiq had always been the one to help Amgigh, to wait for him, to teach him. Now it was Amgigh’s place to fight, to be the man.

  Amgigh walked the beach, the sand marred with footprints above the tide line, smooth below, his prints something new on the unmarked sand. He waited until he saw some movement in the shelter where Ice Hunter and Raven stayed. Then he walked over, stood outside the door flap until Raven came out.

  Raven wore only his aprons, front and back. He was a tall man, taller than Kayugh and as wide as Samiq. For a moment he stood without speaking, then he called to someone in the shelter. Ice Hunter emerged.

  “Amgigh,” Ice Hunter called. “He asks if you still want to fight.”

  “Ask him if he will leave this beach, will leave my wife and my sons.”

  Ice Hunter spoke to Raven in the Walrus tongue and Raven laughed, said something and turned to Amgigh, one brow raised.

  “He asks if you want to fight here or somewhere else,” Ice Hunter said.

  “On the beach, where it is flat,” Amgigh answered, and without turning from Raven, gestured back toward the beach where the water had left the sand smooth.

  Raven nodded and both men walked slowly to the place, then Amgigh, his left hand on his amulet, pulled his knife slowly from its sheath, let the blade move to catch light from its translucent facets.

  Raven should know what he fought against. He should know that there was more here than the spirit of one man.

  Amgigh saw the surprise in Raven’s face, then a slow smile, and Amgigh watched as Raven drew out his knife, the blade longer than the blade of Amgigh’s knife. Then Amgigh once more felt the fingers of some spirit clasp his heart. And the squeezing slowed Amgigh’s heartbeat, pulled Amgigh’s own spirit from his hands and feet, so his arms and legs were suddenly slow and weak.

  It was Amgigh’s obsidian knife, the mate to Samiq’s knife. Qakan must have stolen it when he stole Kiin, stolen it and traded it to Raven.

  Raven held the knife and laughed, but Amgigh thought, Perhaps the spirit of the knife will remember me, will remember its true owner.

  Slowly Amgigh lifted his knife, slowly he began to circle.

  A light mist had begun to fall, soaking the skins and mats of their shelter. Kiin was cold and hungry. In the night, Three Fish had eaten all the food Amgigh had brought them, and now the woman would not stop talking. Words flowed from her mouth like water from a spring, bubbling, pushing, frothing, until finally the shelter was so full of noise that Kiin wondered how there was room for the rivulets of water that squeezed between skins and mats to drip into her hair and run down her neck.

  She pulled Takha from her suk. Maybe if Three Fish were holding him, she would be quiet. Kiin wrapped him in one of the few dry furs from her bed and handed him to Three Fish. The baby opened his eyes, looked solemnly at Kiin, then turned his head toward Three Fish and smiled. Three Fish laughed and again began to babble, this time to the baby.

  Kiin sighed and looked down inside her suk at Shuku. Then suddenly she heard what Three Fish was saying, heard her say, “Your father will fight and you will be safe. Safe. Do not worry. He is strong.”

  Kiin clasped Three Fish by both arms. “What did you say?” Kiin asked.

  “Only what Amgigh told me, that we must stay here because there are men on the beach who want to trade for women.”

  “And Amgigh will fight them?”

  Three Fish pulled away from Kiin’s hands and scooted herself back against the damp wall of their shelter. “He said he might,” she answered.

  “All I know is that I saw one of them,” Three Fish said. “One with a black blanket over his shoulders. Even his face was black. I think Samiq and Amgigh were afraid he would want us.”

  “The Raven,” Kiin whispered. And when she spoke the name, she felt as if her spirit shattered, as if its sharp edges were cutting into the outside walls of her heart.

  Three Fish was talking again, her face close to Takha’s face, but Kiin crawled over to the woman and waited until Three Fish looked up. Three Fish’s smile faded and Kiin took one of Three Fish’s hands into her own.

  “Our husbands are brothers,” Kiin said, and forced her words to be slow, to be gentle, so Three Fish would understand. “Our husbands are brothers so we are sisters.”

  “Yes,” Three Fish said.

  “I have to go to the beach now, Three Fish,” Kiin said, “but you should stay here with Takha. Keep him from crying as long as you can. If he sleeps, that is good. But finally when he is crying too hard for you to stop him, then take him to Red Berry. She has milk. She will feed him.”

  Then Kiin untied the string of babiche that held the carving Chagak had given her and handed it to Three Fish.

  “A gift for you,” Kiin said. Three Fish cupped the carving of man, woman and child in her hand.

  “Samiq told me about this,” Three Fish said. “Shuganan made it. I cannot take it.”

  But Kiin closed her hands over Three Fish’s hand and said, “You must. We are sisters. You cannot refuse my gift.” Then she unwrapped what she had finished the night before, during the long night when sleep would not come. It was the walrus tusk ikyak. After she finished carving the ivory ikyak, Kiin had cut it crosswise into two pieces. To protect her sons, Kiin had done what Woman of the Sky had said. Her sons would share one ikyak. She took two braided sinew cords and knotted one around the front half of the ikyak, knotted the other around the back half of the ikyak, hung one cord around Takha’s neck, the other around Shuku’s.

  “When I am not here, you are mother to Takha,” Kiin said to Three Fish. “He is son to Amgigh, but
also to Samiq. See, he has Samiq’s wide hands, his thick hair. You are mother. Be sure Red Berry feeds him.”

  Kiin packed her carving tools and sleeping furs and strapped them to her back. Three Fish looked up when Kiin pushed open the shelter’s door flap.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “To help Amgigh,” Kiin answered. Then, though she had not meant to turn back, Kiin held her hands out toward Takha.

  Three Fish handed Kiin the baby and Kiin lifted him from his fur wrappings. She stroked her hands over his fat legs and arms, over his soft belly. She pressed him against her face, smelled the good oil smell of his skin. Then she handed him back to Three Fish and slipped out of the shelter into the rain.

  “I will see him again tonight,” Kiin said to the wind and waited for an answer, but there was nothing. No answer, no whisper to pull away her doubts.

  Kiin tucked her arms around Shuku, alone in his carrying strap under her suk, and began to walk toward the beach.

  69

  SAMIQ WAS NOT SURE why he awoke. He could remember no dreams, no whisperings from spirits, no sounds from the large room of the ulaq. Of course, Three Fish and Kiin were away, spending the night in the hills. Who could blame them? The noise and bother of the traders was not an easy thing to live with, especially for the women. Even Three Fish had traders following her, asking for a night of hospitality in her sleeping place. And what of Kiin, a beautiful woman known for her skills as a carver? Whoever heard of a woman who carved? Every man wanted her, wanted the chance to increase his own power by taking her to his bed.

  Samiq slipped from his sleeping robes and went out into the main room of the ulaq. All but one oil lamp was out, but gray light filtered down from the roof hole. Samiq went to Amgigh’s sleeping curtain and called to his brother.

  “Lazy one, I go to fish. Come with me.”

  When Amgigh did not answer, Samiq pulled aside the curtain. His brother was not there. Samiq shrugged and went to the food cache, but as he was pulling out a skin of dried walrus meat that Kiin’s carvings had bought them, he stopped.