Song of the River

by Sue Harrison

  He waited while they ate, leaving his own bowl untouched, watching them as if he were an old woman waiting to refill their bowls. Chakliux finished first. He set his bowl on the floor. Fox Barking glanced at Sok, then turned so he was facing Chakliux.

  “Your grandfather asked me to tell you this,” Fox Barking said. He licked his lips as though to pull the words he needed into his mouth. “He was the one who decided to …” He stopped, tipped his head back and rolled it, shoulder to shoulder, then he looked at Chakliux again and said, “You know, when you were born, it was not your mother who left you. Old Ligige’, she came to your grandfather, asked him what to do.”

  Chakliux was surprised by Fox Barking’s words. But of course he should have known. With his grandfather dead, a stepfather or maternal uncle would be the one who made the decision about his life. There had been no uncle. His chest suddenly felt strange, as though the bones inside grated against one another, as though they were pressing and grinding.

  “Your grandfather said he made the wrong decision. That is why you were found by the Cousin River girl. That is why they decided to keep you as a son, raise you as Dzuuggi. He told me that someday he would do something to make your life better.”

  Chakliux looked over at Sok. His brother’s cheeks were full of food, but he did not chew.

  “He gave me what I needed,” Chakliux said quietly. “In the short time I have been in this village, I have learned much. All because of my grandfather’s wisdom and my brother’s hunting skills.”

  Fox Barking held his hands palms up, as though to show he had no argument with Chakliux. Then, looking at Sok, he said, “Sok, you are to have your grandfather’s weapons. His spears and spearheads, his spearthrower, his fishnets, hooks and throwing stick, whatever his wife does not lay beside him on his burial platform. All that is yours. The lodge, the food in the cache, the baskets and bowls, the bedding and furs, all belong to his wife.”

  Of course, Chakliux thought. It was strange Fox Barking would even mention such things. Everyone knew the wife owned the lodge, all cooking things, bedding, baskets. It was the same in his own village, but perhaps Fox Barking did not know the customs of Chakliux’s village, and gave an explanation so Chakliux would understand.

  “You, my wife’s youngest son,” Fox Barking said to Chakliux, “you are to have what you need to claim a place in this village. Your grandfather wants his wife, Blueberry, to go to you.”

  The words were like something hard and cold slicing into Chakliux’s chest. Blueberry was to be his wife? She was a good woman, had been a fine wife to Tsaani, but she was young. She should be free to choose any man in the village. She would not want Chakliux.

  “She has said she would be my wife?” Chakliux asked.

  “She agreed.” Fox Barking cleared his throat, then said, “This is not the greatest honor Tsaani gave you.” Chakliux saw Sok swallow his mouthful of food, set down his bowl and lean forward.

  “You are to have his dogs. He thinks you will be a great hunter. He thinks you will keep the bears coming to this village.”

  Sok made a noise in his throat as though he were choking. When he could speak, he said, “Our grandfather gave Chakliux the dogs?”

  “Yes,” Fox Barking answered, but his hands moved in a quick nervous dance.

  Chakliux looked from his brother to his stepfather. The two men stared at each other, eyes locked.

  If Sok wants the dogs, Chakliux thought, he can have them. Blueberry, too. A wife, dogs? I do not need them. If I am not welcome here, I will return to my own village and see what the men there believe. If they think I am cursed, then I will leave The People and go to the Sea Hunters. How can I do that with a wife and dogs?

  He looked at Sok. His brother’s face was dark with anger, his mouth twisted in hurt. “All these years I have been the one to care for his dogs. All these years, he has trained me.”

  “They are yours,” Chakliux said to Sok. “The dogs are yours. I do not want them. Nor do I want a wife.” He looked at his stepfather. The man’s mouth was open as though he wanted to swallow up Chakliux’s words. “Find someone else for Blueberry. Tell her she is free. Sok, you are a good hunter. You can support a second wife. Blueberry already has her own lodge. You will probably not even need a bride price to claim her.”

  Sok and Fox Barking looked at Chakliux as though he were a small and foolish child. “You cannot give away what your grandfather has given you in death,” Fox Barking said.

  “Some say you are cursed,” Sok added, his voice rough as stone. “If you refuse Blueberry and the dogs, you will be. You cannot shame our grandfather in such a way.”

  But as Sok spoke, he slashed the air with his hands as though to push Chakliux away, out of their mother’s lodge.

  “Blueberry must mourn one moon,” Fox Barking said. “Then, you will go to her. If she displeases you, you may throw her away. If you displease her, she may throw you away, but you cannot refuse her. Nor refuse the dogs.”

  “The pups,” Chakliux said, looking at Sok and Fox Barking. “I may give away the pups?”

  “All of them are already promised,” Sok said. “One goes to Sleeps Long, another to Fox Barking, two to Blue-head Duck and one to me.”

  “You will have that one and any others. From any litter,” Chakliux promised. “I do not want our grandfather’s position as chief hunter. You must be chief hunter. You have his weapons.”

  “You have his dogs,” Sok said, and spread his hands as though to ask a question. “We will see which of us the spirits choose.”

  “It may not be either of you,” Fox Barking said softly, but he laughed when Sok and Chakliux looked at him. “Who can say what the spirits will do? What more can we ask than that the village have meat? With your grandfather dead we must first think of our bellies.”

  Yaa ran when she came to Ligige’’s lodge. It was best not to get too close. The old man’s spirit might be lurking, trying to find someone to accompany him to the world of the dead. It was evening, that time of day when spirits grow careless, drawn by the rich smells coming from smoke holes and hearths.

  When she was past, she looked back over her shoulder to be sure there was no spirit following. Suddenly she was pushed, hard. She caught herself with her hands, but felt the ache of her fall in her wrists.

  “Stupid!” someone yelled. “Where are your eyes?”

  Yaa did not have to look up. She knew the voice. It was River Ice Dancer, a boy a little older than she was and twice her size. He leaned down to where she sat on the ground. Yaa said nothing. She had not been watching, but neither had he. If he had, he could have avoided her. She was small; she did not take up the whole path.

  “So where are you going?”

  Yaa did not answer. She stood up, brushed the wet snow from her rump.

  River Ice Dancer was mean. He would get other children to do dangerous things with threats and dares, then, when someone got hurt, River Ice Dancer would go to the old women and tattle.

  River Ice Dancer could not run fast or throw far. He was not accurate with his spear, and he had no gift for catching fish, but he knew how to use fear. That of all things, he did best.

  “You will not talk to me?” River Ice Dancer asked.

  Yaa tried to step around him, but he moved to block her path. “You think you can get away?”

  “Leave me alone,” Yaa said. “My mother asked me to bring her something.”

  “What?”

  “Something we need for mourning.”

  She pushed past him, but he caught her sleeve, pulled her back.

  “Do not touch me,” Yaa said. “I might have some curse.”

  River Ice Dancer laughed.

  “It does not matter to me if you catch my curse,” Yaa said.

  River Ice Dancer let go, but he leaned his face close to hers and said, “I think you are right. You do have a curse. You must have after Da … you know, that dead one, died in such a way.”

  Yaa smiled. “You almost said her
name. You almost cursed yourself.”

  River Ice Dancer shoved her hard with both hands, but Yaa was ready for him and braced herself so she did not fall.

  “Were you in the lodge when she died?” River Ice Dancer asked.

  “She died outside,” Yaa said.

  “Did you hear anything?” He did not give her time to answer, but instead lowered his voice to a whisper. “I think your mother did it. She’s the ugly wife. She’s the one who killed her.”

  His words clogged Yaa’s throat until she began to choke. Her mother was a good and gentle woman. She would never hurt anyone. In anger Yaa looked into River Ice Dancer’s eyes, in anger she drew back her fist.

  River Ice Dancer raised his top lip into a sneer, then spit full into her face. Yaa hit him as hard as she could. The blow landed in the center of his nose.

  River Ice Dancer screamed, and it seemed as though his cry released a flow of blood. It poured from his nostrils down over his mouth and chin.

  “My mother is good!” Yaa yelled at him.

  She turned and ran, and did not look back until she got to the cooking hearths. Her heart beat so hard she could feel it in her eardrums, and her fist ached, but the joy of what she had done flowed through her.

  She found a place for herself in the group of children waiting for food. Five hearth fires were arranged in a large circle at the center of the village. Beside each one, large caribouskin cooking bags hung on tripods, and the butts of heavy green-wood roasting sticks were driven into the ground. Hares and ptarmigans, dripping with fat, were skewered on each stick.

  Several of the grandmothers gave the youngest children bits of meat, but the older children were ignored. The women were too busy cooking for the families in mourning.

  Yaa thought of the meat the women had already brought to Brown Water’s lodge, but knew she would get little of it.

  Suddenly a dark shape hurled at the children. Yaa’s first thought was of River Ice Dancer, then of spirits, but as the children around her began to scream, she realized it was only a dog. He was dragging his tie rope as he ran toward the cooking hearths. The women, armed with ladles, started after him, each trying to keep him away from her own lodge, from her husband’s dogs.

  The dog flung himself at a large male tied nearby. The two animals twisted and yelped, each going for the other’s throat in a tangle of white and dark fur.

  Most of the children followed the women, hooting calls and cheers, but Yaa stayed behind. For a moment there was no one at the hearths. She darted forward and grabbed a roasting stick with a fat hare skewered on it.

  The stick was hot, but Yaa held on tightly and ran. She sped through the shadows of the village, holding the hare as close to her body as she could, switching the stick from hand to hand until it cooled.

  She did not slow until she came to the black spruce that marked a narrow animal path, hidden under the tree’s drooping branches. She scuttled under the spruce and, waddling in a crouch, finally came to the den she had found several years before. She picked up the stick she always left at the entrance and poked it inside. The den was empty.

  The entrance was so narrow she had to slide in on her belly, but once inside she could sit up, squatting cross-legged, her hair brushing the arch of rock and tree roots at the top of the den.

  She took a long breath, then sank her teeth into the hot meat. She swallowed, her stomach too empty to wait for chewing. She felt the meat slide down, settle in comfortable warmth just below her ribs.

  “I wish Ghaden was here with me,” she said, just in case Daes was listening. “There is enough for both of us. We could have a feast.”

  Thinking of Ghaden made her throat tighten so she could not swallow. She turned her thoughts to River Ice Dancer, to the satisfying crunch her fist had made against his nose. She laughed, then her throat opened and she was able to eat.

  Chapter Eight

  CEN PUSHED HIS WAY into the thick brush that grew on the riverbank, then crouched down until his heart slowed. There was no sense in hiding. The soft snow made his tracks easy to follow, but when he rested, he felt safer away from the river. He inhaled the clean smell of the willow around him. The yellow bark was changing to the gray-green of spring, and leaf buds had begun to swell, though the snow had not yet melted back from each thumb-sized bole.

  Gripped by the need for sleep, he closed his eyes, but after a moment he jerked himself awake. He needed to get as far from the village as he could. He tightened his right hand on a short stabbing knife. What remained of a throwing spear was slung over his shoulder. If they tried to take him, he would kill at least one of them.

  After the River People let him go, Cen had cleaned his wounds, but he knew he still smelled of blood. Wolves are more dangerous than the River People, he told himself. What pack would hesitate to attack something wounded? He had hung amulets around his neck, the amulet his uncle had given him at his birth, and others he had bought in trade from villages as far away as the Great River. Perhaps they would be enough to deter animals.

  He wished he had an amulet from the First Men, Daes’s people. They had power, those Sea Hunters.

  The River People had kept him one whole day, making him wait at the center of the village until the elders decided he could go. Fools! He would never kill Daes or his own son. It was hard enough to leave the village without knowing whether the boy would live or die. But why risk that the elders would change their minds or that some other person would be found dead? Whoever had killed Daes and the old man was one of their own.

  During the day he was captive, Cen had been given nothing to eat. Without food, the cold had sunk deep into his bones, but during any distraction, he had moved gradually closer to the hearth fires. There was no chance he could steal food, but the warmth eased his pain, and he was able to inhale the steam that rose from the cooking bags. Shamans said the spirits themselves lived on the smoke from burning fat. If the spirits could, perhaps men could also.

  When they finally untied him, small boys and their dogs chased him from the village. Before he had reached the edge of the trees, he had fallen twice, had felt the lashes of the boys’ sticks across his arms and legs, had been bitten once on the hand, again on the ankle, but finally they had turned away, allowed him to go the short distance to his lodge. There he found his packs had been scattered, most of his trade goods and weapons taken, and the shaft of his one remaining spear broken. They had left him a handful of dried meat that he stuffed into his mouth even before using his fire bow to relight the hearth.

  His warmest blankets and robes had been taken, but they had not touched his sacred bundles or flicker skins. His best parkas were gone, the heavy one of wolf skin and the lighter ground squirrel parka. The hood of the ground squirrel parka had been pieced from tiny patches of fur taken from ground squirrel heads, each head fur only the length of a little finger.

  Whoever had taken his parkas had left him an old parka of wolverine fur. It was weak with mildew, would fall apart on his body if he did not move carefully, but it was warm.

  He had melted snow in a bag on a tripod and drunk the icy water. Then he went to the back of the lodge, lifted an old moldy mat he had purposely put in that place. He had thawed the ground there with fire, staying awake his first night in the lodge to keep the coals burning until the ground was soft enough for him to dig into it. He had made a hole, buried a bag of meat and berry cakes, a small supply of obsidian in a grass basket.

  Cen went back to the fire, hunkered over it, allowed himself two berry cakes. The stump of his severed finger throbbed, and each breath tore into his chest like a knife. His left wrist was swollen almost to the width of his hand. He packed snow around it, and over his face, hoping to bring down the swelling that nearly closed his eyes. Pain muddled his thoughts, but he forced himself to decide what he must do next.

  Most of his trade goods had been taken, but because of his injuries, there was still too much for him to carry.

  He was strong, able to pull heavy loads
on a sled made from his lodge poles. He had carved wooden braces that allowed him to lash the lodge poles together into a sled, and had faced several of the poles with strips of ivory to make runners. Now he could not pull a sled. It was difficult enough to walk. He had to leave everything, even the lodge, taking only food and his amulets.

  Cen had gathered what he would take and wrapped it in one of the mats they had left him. He secured the bundle with several of his lodge pole bindings, then he had curled around his fire and let himself sleep. Why not? If they came for him, what could he do?

  He had awakened when his fire burned low. He put a coal in a hollowed knot of wood, slung it around his neck, then strapped the pack on his back. It was still night when he left the lodge, though he could see the first edge of dawn above the trees.

  He had taken short breaks, ate, once even slept, then forced himself to continue.

  Now again he heaved himself to his feet and pushed through the brush to the bank of the river. He walked until in his exhaustion he could no longer think, until his feet were like things that did not belong to him and he could not feel the ache of the bones in his wrist. Then suddenly he was on his knees and could not remember how he had fallen.

  He forced himself to stand and turned his mind toward Daes. She had been a good woman—too good to die in the Near River Village, where she had no one to mourn her.

  Anger gave him strength. His steps were again firm against the snow. He would have his revenge, and in that way Daes would be mourned. She did have a daughter. Daes had spoken of her often. Cen thought he remembered her. She had been a girl of ten, twelve summers then. By now she was a woman and probably had children of her own.

  He should go and tell her that her mother was dead. Cen fixed the image of the daughter in his mind. She had looked much like Daes. Yes, he must go to the First Men, must tell them about Daes, about Ghaden. Perhaps some of the hunters would be willing to help him avenge his woman’s death.