by Sue Harrison
The day after the burial ceremony, Chakliux went to Blueberry. Without Tsaani, the lodge seemed empty, cold.
Blueberry did not look at him. With her head lowered, she motioned toward the back of the fire, toward the place where Tsaani always sat, but Chakliux did not want to assume an honor that was not his. Blueberry brought him a bowl of warm meat, the broth dimpled with melted fat and flavored with sour dock leaves. Chakliux raised the bowl to his lips, pushed meat into his mouth with his fingers.
“Good,” he said. “Very good.”
She looked at him then, and he saw that her eyes were swollen and red, that she had cut her hair so it stuck out in uneven tufts around her ears.
Chakliux’s chest ached with the young woman’s pain. “I share your sorrow,” he told her.
Blueberry scowled. “Why?” she asked. “Your grandfather’s death has given you a wife. You think I do not hear the women’s laughter? You think I am proud to be given what Snow-in-her-hair did not want?”
Chakliux could not answer. During the short time he had lived in the Near River Village, he had often visited this lodge. Blueberry had seemed to be a quiet woman, not one to throw insults.
It is her sorrow, he told himself, and said, “I do not pretend to be what your husband was, but I have always been a hunter. I will bring food to the lodge. You and your children will have enough to eat.”
“Those children,” said Blueberry, “will they be otters or people?”
Chakliux, suddenly angry, said, “No one will force you to be my wife.”
“You think I will displease my husband, dishonor him by refusing to do what he asks?”
“How does it honor your dead husband when you treat his grandson with scorn?”
She narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth to speak, but at that moment, there was a scratching at the doorflap. “Come!” Blueberry called, anger still loud in her voice.
Sok came in. For a moment he crouched at the end of the entrance tunnel, watching them both. Blueberry turned her back on the men and went to the woman’s side of the lodge.
Sok curled his lips, and as though she were not there, he said to Chakliux, “It is cold in here. What happened to the woman who owns this lodge? Can she not keep a hearth fire going?” He picked up several pieces of wood, fed the fire into a blaze, then motioned for Chakliux to sit beside him.
Chakliux sat on his haunches. “Let her mourn,” he said in a quiet voice.
“She does not want to be wife again?” Sok asked.
“Not to me.”
“Young women are often foolish,” Sok said, but he spoke loudly, turning his head to direct his words toward Blueberry’s back.
“There is food,” said Chakliux, and nodded toward the boiling bag.
Sok picked up a bowl and filled it, then squatted beside his brother. For a short time, he ate, then he said, “It does not seem right without our grandfather.”
Suddenly Blueberry turned, her face dark, her teeth clenched. Rudely, she raised her arm to point at Chakliux; rudely she spoke, using his name in boldness. “Chakliux, there is something you should know. Your grandfather was the one who chose to leave you. He was the one who took you from your mother and left you to die. Do you know that?”
“I know,” Chakliux said softly.
She stood, mouth open, then grabbed a woven hare fur blanket and wrapped it around herself. “He did not think you should live,” she said. “He wanted you dead. So why would he tell me I must be your wife?”
She flung the last words over her shoulder as she left the lodge.
Sok reached out, laid a hand on Chakliux’s shoulder.
“I cannot be her husband,” Chakliux said.
“You would dishonor our grandfather by refusing her?” Sok asked. “Leave her alone. Do not come to this lodge except to bring meat. In time, she will realize our grandfather was right.”
Chakliux pressed his lips together. Now, more than ever, he wanted to return to his own village, his own people. Should he stay where he was not wanted, tied to a place by dogs and a woman who hated him?
“There is something else to think about,” Sok said, and his words were slow, sad, so that Chakliux sucked in his breath as he waited for what Sok had to say. “More dogs have died.”
“Whose?” Chakliux asked.
“Blue-head Duck’s.”
Chakliux rubbed one hand across his face.
“The elders are meeting now to decide what needs to be done. They have asked me to come to them at midday. To hear what they have to say.”
“Tell them I will leave this village,” Chakliux said. “I have had enough. I will be glad to go back to my own people.” He did not look at Sok, did not want to see if there was hurt in his brother’s eyes.
Sok stood in the midst of the elders. Each was respected in some way, for some skill, some wisdom.
Dog Trainer spoke. He had more dogs than any other man in the village. Of the elders, now that Tsaani was dead, Dog Trainer was recognized as the one who knew most about dogs.
“We have had many dogs die, many who were not sick or old or injured. Puppies are born dead or too weak to live. We had no problems like this until your brother came among us. We were told by the Cousin River shaman that Chakliux was a man of animal powers, a gift from animals. But we in this village remember your mother giving birth, remember her sorrow when she had to give up a son because he would not be able to walk or run.
“We think he must leave our village. We think he might be the cause of our bad luck with dogs. People also say that someone from his village, some hunter wanting to stir our young men to attack, killed your grandfather and the Sea Hunter woman.”
“My brother is aware of everything you have just said,” Sok answered. “He does not want to make problems here. He came to work for understanding, so his village and ours could continue to live together in peace.”
“Some of us think your brother must leave our village,” said the elder who called himself Blue-head Duck. Blue-head Duck had many children, all living. He looked at Dog Trainer, though he spoke to Sok. “But some of us think he has power. A child left to die, who does not die, has some favor of the spirits. A child who should not be able to walk, but as a man can walk, has somehow overcome his curse.”
“But the dogs die,” Dog Trainer said. “You think this village will survive if our dogs die? What if we have a starving winter, what will we eat? How will we move to fish camp? You want our women to carry everything?”
“You know I want our dogs to live,” Blue-head Duck said patiently. “But why throw away power?”
“My brother is different from the rest of us,” Sok said. His words were careful, slow. “He has powers we do not understand. Is that a reason to blame him for what has happened? Instead we should consider how he can help us. You know we have often tried to get the Cousin River People to trade us one of their dogs—those golden-eyed dogs their grandfathers bought in trade from the caribou followers who live far to the north. What if Chakliux can get one of those dogs for us? Perhaps that would be enough to break this curse.”
For a long time no one spoke. Finally Dog Trainer said, “Tell your brother to come to me. I will ask him to visit the Cousin River Village and to make good trades.”
Fox Barking raised his eyes from the hearth fire. “It sounds like foolishness, this plan,” he said, snorting out the words. “What will Chakliux trade? He has nothing but his grandfather’s dogs and his grandfather’s wife.”
“My granddaughter will not go,” another of the elders, father of Blueberry’s mother, said.
“Then Chakliux will go alone,” Dog Trainer said, “and we will all give him trade goods, so each of us will have a share in the luck.”
It was a good idea, Chakliux thought. If he was successful, he would return in one moon, and he would bring dogs from his village for the Near River men. The dogs raised in his village were larger and stronger than those raised here, yet not so given to fighting. Those few marked with
golden eyes were known to have special powers, but the hunters of his village did not part easily with them.
A man could get almost anything for a litter of golden-eyed dogs. Anything but a Sea Hunter iqyax, Chakliux thought. Traders said the Sea Hunters did not have dogs. Why should they? They were not like Caribou People, following the herds as they moved spring and fall; they were not like this Near River Village, using dogs to hunt bear. They did not starve in winter and use their dogs for meat. Who starved when there were whales to hunt?
The Near River elders told him they would be satisfied with one golden-eyed dog. Male or female, old or young, as long as it was not too old to mate. Now as Chakliux stood in Sok’s lodge, he sorted through the trade goods they had given him, all packed in fishskin baskets, their seams strengthened with welts of caribou hide and decorated with the green head feathers of the male merganser. Some baskets were filled with pelts from beavers trapped in early winter when their fur was thick and shining; others held berry cakes, dried meat or smoked fish.
Blue-head Duck had sent three fine wolfskin parkas edged with wolverine fur; Sok had given caribouskin leggings, shell beads and a handful of narrow chert blades a man could insert in a sharpened length of bone or ivory to make a spearhead that would draw much blood, kill quickly. Others had brought willow bark fishnets and woven hare fur blankets, jade knife blades, caribou antler snow goggles, scrapers, women’s knives, bone and ivory fish lures, even a fire bow. Enough to buy several dogs, Chakliux was sure.
Sok had lent him his sled. It was strong and sturdy with frame and runners carved from birch, the body woven of split willow roots. The runners were sheathed with walrus ivory Sok had bought in trade. On the coldest days, when the snow was like sand, or in warmer times, when it was sticky, a man could urinate on the runners. When the urine froze it made a thin layer of ice that moved easily over any kind of snow.
Chakliux tied everything he had been given on the sled, then he added the extra boots, parka and throwing spears he would need for traveling. He also tied on a bundle of his own trade goods. Perhaps he could bring back a dog for himself.
K’os’s cousin, Cloud Finder, had several golden-eyed dogs. He might be willing to trade, and that would be one way Chakliux could get an iqyax, at least from the Walrus Hunters. Their iqyan, it was said, were not as good as those made by the Sea Hunters, but unlike the Sea Hunters, the Walrus men kept dogs.
“You are ready?” Sok asked as he came into the lodge.
“Yes. I plan to leave in the morning.”
“Red Leaf is at the cooking hearth. She and many of the old women have prepared a feast. Everyone will eat together. Come, there will be drums and dances. What you are doing gives us reason to celebrate.”
Chakliux followed Sok to the cooking hearths. He would stay for a little while, then he would go see Day Woman before he left. And also Blueberry. Neither visit would be easy.
An old woman offered Chakliux a bowl of food, but most of the people stood at a distance, watching him from the edges of their eyes. Chakliux took the bowl, then went to find Sok.
He was at the center of a group of men, telling hunting stories. He paused when he saw Chakliux, motioned for Chakliux to join him, then began to boast of his brother’s skills.
In politeness, Chakliux listened, but found he could not look at those around him as Sok spoke. He was not used to having others speak about his hunting. It was good to be known as a hunter, though. He was gifted with his spear, had practiced hard as a boy, thinking a strong arm would make up for his weak leg.
Finally Sok finished. The men looked at Chakliux, and he realized he was expected to tell a story about Sok.
He had hunted several times with his brother, and Sok had done well, acted bravely, though he was harsh with his dogs. Chakliux could speak about these hunts, but in telling such a story, there were many ways a man could be trapped in disrespect. Each village had its own way of praising.
Better to speak truthfully, Chakliux thought, than risk cursing his own brother.
“Someone,” Chakliux said carefully, “knows his brother is an honored hunter.” He looked at Sok and smiled.
Sok returned his smile, and several of the men called out boisterous praises.
Chakliux continued: “Someday someone will honor him with stories that will stay on men’s tongues for a winter of nights, but when a man does not yet know all the ways of a village, it is too easy to curse when praising.”
Chakliux looked at the men, met their eyes, saw their eyebrows raised to agree with him.
“In the Cousin River Village,” Chakliux said, “there is a tradition started by storytellers. Riddles. I tell you what I see, and each man must search within his own thoughts to know what I speak about. Even grandfathers teach grandsons with riddles. So listen, and try to decide what I speak about.”
Chakliux looked at the circle of men. More had come, gathering two and three deep with Chakliux and Sok at the center. Most had bowls of meat, most wore parkas, but some were wrapped in fur blankets, as though they meant only to get their food, then return to the warmth of their lodges. Chakliux looked into each face, not to show disrespect but so they knew he felt himself equal with them, hunter to hunter.
“Look! What do I see?” he said, beginning in the traditional way of his village. “It runs far, singing, and Sok’s is the first to fill its mouth with meat.”
Chakliux waited. In his own village, where men knew how to unwind a riddle, the answer would have come quickly. What hunter has not heard the voice of his spear as it leaves the spearthrower?
Several men began to grumble, voices low and almost angry, so that Chakliux asked himself whether in avoiding one curse he had walked into another.
“Now,” he began, speaking over the discomfort of the Near River hunters, “there is a secret to every riddle. I will tell you this one, and you will be among the few men who know.”
Then in the same way that Chakliux had heard grandfathers talk their grandchildren through a riddle, he explained his puzzle to the Near River men. “All hunters know the voice of their spear as it leaves their hands,” Chakliux began.
Several men laughed, the boisterous laughter of sudden understanding.
“And what eats first?” Blue-head Duck asked. “Even before the hunter.”
“His spear!” several men cried out.
“So the answer is Sok’s spear,” Dowitcher said.
One by one the hunters began to laugh, a laughter that told their hearts were lifted by new understanding. Then Chakliux slipped from among them, whispering to Sok that he would go and visit their mother and also Blueberry.
“Take food,” Sok told him, so Chakliux went to one of the older women, the one who seemed to tell the others what to do. He asked her for food, something to take to his mother, something else to give to Blueberry. The woman filled two small caribouskin bags with meat and broth, then dropped a hot rock from the hearths into each. The stones sizzled and popped as they sank into the meat.
Chakliux held the bags before him as he walked. When he came to his mother’s lodge, he scratched and called out, then crouched to slip through the entrance tunnel.
His mother was sitting in darkness, the hearth fire only coals, the soot of previous fires black on her face. She turned her head to watch as he hung the caribou bags from a lodge pole. He scooped out a bowl of meat and handed it to her.
“Eat,” he said. “Even in mourning a person should eat.”
His mother took the bowl but did not raise it to her lips.
“It is not mourning that keeps food from my mouth,” she said. “It is fear.” She looked up at him. “For you.”
He squatted on his heels beside her, dipped two fingers into her bowl and took out a piece of meat. He pressed it between her lips. Slowly she began to chew.
“You know I go only to the Cousin River Village,” he said. “Nothing will happen to me there.”
A tear dripped from her left eye, fell to her cheek. “What if
they have found out that you are …” She stopped speaking, wiped her cheek against her shoulder, then said, “You told me that they think you are animal-gift. What will happen if they find out …”
“If they do not already know, I will tell them,” Chakliux said. “I am the same person. I still know the stories of The People; I still know how to swim; I still carry the mark of the otter. If what I tell them makes them angry, then I will come back here. If I am not wanted here, I will find another village. There are many villages. More than a man could visit during his life.”
Chakliux pressed another piece of meat between her lips. “You think it will make me stronger to know my mother is in her lodge, starving herself? You think it will make my journey easier?”
She seemed older than when Chakliux had first come to the village. New strands of white dimmed her hair. But even though her face was lined, her hair graying, her beauty was strong, the bones standing taut beneath her skin.
“This is something we do in the Cousin River Village,” Chakliux told her, and he pulled several hairs from his head, rolled them together in his hands, then twisted them into a knot. He pressed the knot into his mother’s palm. “Put this into your amulet. Keep it there. It will draw me back.”
She clasped the hair in both hands.
Chakliux stood. “I must go now to Blueberry,” he said, and did not miss the quick look of concern that crossed his mother’s face.
Yes, what mother would not worry, Chakliux thought, when in little more than a moon, two women tell your son they do not want him as husband.
After his wife Gguzaakk had died, Chakliux seemed to feel nothing—not even the need for a woman. But as the moons passed, the pain subsided into a dull ache, something he could live with. Once again he ate and enjoyed his food; he hunted and celebrated each kill; finally, he again felt the need for a woman.
Both Blueberry and Snow-in-her-hair were good to look at. He could not deny his desire for them, but still, that desire was not as strong as it had been when he was younger. Now, he could wait. He would not marry only to have a woman for his bed.
Blueberry’s lodge was well-lit, and when Chakliux scratched she called out in a glad voice. When she saw him, she seemed surprised.
