by Sue Harrison
They worked their way through the brush until they came to a path made by animals, a gentle incline to the river. The river ice was solid beneath his feet and covered with a hard crust of wind-polished snow. Chakliux removed his snowshoes. The snow was hard enough to hold him without them. He strapped the shoes on his back and began to walk. The ache of his otter foot eased. It was good to be on the river. Even Snow Hawk moved with more assurance, as though she had followed the river before, as though she knew where it led.
Chakliux looked up. In summer, at this time of the night, the sky would be light, but now the sun still hid its face, ashamed, the elders said, at allowing the winter to stay with The People for so long. By the time he reached the village, the sun would be up, traveling its curve in the sky. He had a long walk yet, but was close enough to hope that if Cousin River men were following, they would turn back rather than risk facing Near River hunters.
He did not see the overflow until it was too late. He heard it first—the brittle song of the ice beneath his feet. The water must have oozed up through a crack during the day to flood the ice, then froze to slush. A man who walked through it would get wet, and unless he acted quickly, his feet would freeze.
Chakliux had known hunters who had done such a thing, remembered their suffering. Usually, even if toes and heels were cut away, the rot brought a slow and painful death. Those who survived, like old Net Maker, were crippled, a burden to The People when they moved to fish camp or followed the caribou.
But sometimes the ice gave warning, as it had for him, a voice that would save a hunter if he listened well enough, if he kept walking and did not stop. He quickened his pace, setting his feet carefully and pushing Snow Hawk ahead. It was a large flow. Many were only a few steps across, but this one spread the width of the river.
Then, ahead, he saw the clear dark of solid ice where wind had swept away the snow. Ice—or a crack where water shone through. Ice, he told himself. Ice, not water, then took two quick steps and jumped.
Ice, solid, hard. Ice under his otter foot. But his good foot, the foot he had pushed with as he jumped, broke through on that thrust and was wet, soaked and cold.
Snow Hawk was beside him, nosing his parka, a high, thin whine coming from her throat. He looked down at the dog, then knelt to break the snow from her feet. As he worked with her front feet, he held his mind blank, as if he could change what had happened by refusing to think about it. He set down one front paw, lifted the other. Both paws were dry.
If you do not stop, you will die, he thought, the words coming to him as though spoken by someone else. And it is not a good way to die.
“A man always has his knife,” Chakliux answered. “I can live without a foot.”
Besides, what choice did he have? If he stopped, made a fire, dried his foot and boot, the men from the Cousin River Village would catch him. What chance did he have against them? They would kill him, take Snow Hawk and the pups, and there would be no hope of peace. Many men would die, women and children also. What was his life compared to so many?
“We go, Snow Hawk,” he told the dog as he set down her front paw and pulled up her left rear foot.
The dog whined again. Chakliux ran his fingers over the thick fur that padded the foot. He lifted the other back foot and then again, both of the front.
“You, too,” he finally said, and gently squeezed each of her back paws. They were wet.
Chakliux walked until the slope of the bank grew shallow, then he led Snow Hawk up through the brush to a clear place, the snow scoured into a hard shining crust. He cut spruce boughs and willow, used his sleeve knife to break branches open to the dry heartwood. He started a fire and fed it carefully, then rummaged through his pack. He had a few hare pelts. He took off his boot and wrapped his foot with the pelts. He set the boot near the fire and watched the water steam from it.
Snow Hawk hunched herself into a ball and began to lick one of her back feet. Chakliux took a piece of caribou hide from his pack. He used it on her other foot, rubbing until the fur felt dry under his fingers. When both feet were dry, he pulled her pups from the sling and let her nurse them, then he put them under his parka again.
He turned his boot, moving it closer to the fire, rubbing it as he had rubbed Snow Hawk’s feet, then he ate, sharing his dried meat with the dog. He ate quickly, then rubbed his boot one last time. It was not dry, but he did not want to wait longer. His foot at least was warm; perhaps walking would keep it from freezing before he arrived at the Near River Village.
He rewrapped the foot in a hare pelt and tied it snug at his ankle with a length of babiche. As he reached for his boot, Snow Hawk growled. He pulled the long knife from its sheath on his calf, moved his head slowly to look at her. Her ears were pricked forward.
“Men, not wolves?” Chakliux asked softly.
Snow Hawk lay her head again on her paws, her eyes open wide to stare out into the darkness. Chakliux stood and moved in a slow circle, looking away from the fire until his eyes adjusted to the night. He saw nothing.
Working quickly, he scored the hardened snow with his knife and dug into it with both mittened hands.
Snow Hawk lifted her head to watch as he mounded the snow into a heap and covered it with a hare fur blanket from his pack. Yes, he thought. It could be a man. If you believed it was. He fed more sticks into the fire, then picked up his and Cloud Finder’s spears and backed away. He stepped carefully into the tracks he had made when he came from the river, until he reached a dense cover of brush. Snow Hawk stood as though to follow him, but he commanded her to stay. She lay down, nose pointing to the place he was hidden.
Chakliux wrapped his arms around his legs and did not let himself feel the cold seep up from the ground into the bottom of his wrapped foot. The hare fur was not enough to keep his foot from freezing, but for a while it would be all right. Especially if he stood now and again to shift his weight.
Like all young men, from the time he was a baby Chakliux had been set out naked for a few moments during freezing nights to harden his body. He knew how to fight the cold. He moved his fingers and toes, pulled his parka ruff close around his eyes, and let his mind drift to other things.
He had tucked his spearthrower up his left sleeve. It seemed warm against his skin, as though it were lending strength to his body. Chakliux had made the thrower himself—as most men did—to fit his own hand. He had carved a hollow in the underside so it lay comfortably against the pad of flesh at the base of his thumb. His first finger extended under the thrower and up into a hole; his thumb curled over one side of the thrower, his remaining three fingers over the other.
The spear lay in a groove at the top, the point aimed at the target. The weapon was held with the arm raised, hand extended back, opposite the direction the spear would be thrown. With the thrower, Chakliux could cast his spear farther and with more force.
The night passed slowly. Finally Chakliux turned to look toward the eastern sky. Was it his imagination or had the sky lightened? He stood, then saw the sudden snapping of Snow Hawk’s head, heard the growl. Chakliux’s fingers tightened on his spear, and he reached down to pull his obsidian knife from its sheath.
Their spears came quickly, two of them, slicing into the fur-wrapped snow at the side of the fire. Snow Hawk leapt to her feet as four men entered the narrow ring of firelight.
Night Man and Tikaani, Caribou and Stalker—Cloud Finder’s sons. For a moment Chakliux nearly called out to them, but then he remembered that he had seen each of them at his mother’s lodge. Were they acting on K’os’s instructions? If so, they might think he had killed both River Jumper and their father.
The four men advanced slowly toward the fur-wrapped bundle. Chakliux wished he had taken time to make it more lifelike, a mitten or a bit of hair sticking out. Snow Hawk stood, still growling.
Night Man prodded the bundle with one toe, then groaned and pulled the blanket away from the heap of snow.
He lifted his voice and called out, “Chakliux
, we came because that hunter you killed said you planned to kill our father. We mourn both men. We will kill you and anyone who claims you as friend!”
“Even this dog will die,” the brother named Stalker said. He turned so his back was toward Chakliux, lifted his spear as though to thrust it into Snow Hawk’s chest.
Snow Hawk growled and crouched, teeth bared.
“Cloud Finder, my friend,” Chakliux whispered. “Forgive what I do.”
He pulled out his spearthrower and fitted the notched end of his spear into the flat chip of ivory that held it in place. He raised it over his shoulder and threw. The spear landed with a quiet thud in the center of Stalker’s back. The man sank to his knees with a groan. His brothers moved slowly, as if they could not believe what their eyes told them.
Chakliux fitted Cloud Finder’s spear into his throwing board and threw again. His throw was high, taking Night Man in the right shoulder. Night Man cried out and spun, then fell writhing.
Snow Hawk began to bark, her yips high and frantic. “Shut your mouth, dog!” Night Man shouted, pain edging his voice. He pulled the spear from his shoulder, then fell back with the weapon still in his hands.
Chakliux knew as soon as he threw that he had aimed too high, but he had hoped the spear would wedge itself into the bone of Night Man’s shoulder. It had not. Night Man had dislodged it too easily.
Night Man stood, using the shaft of Cloud Finder’s spear to push himself to his feet. He coughed and gagged, retching into the snow. He spat, then tried to speak, but could not. For a moment Chakliux wanted to turn away, to run. They were boys, all of them. They had come, probably at his mother’s urging, thinking to protect their father, to kill and find honor in killing. Until this night, Chakliux had never killed a man. It was not like taking an animal for meat. What animal taken did not give itself willingly? The People made songs and dances, praises and prayers. The animals’ spirits understood and accepted such things as gifts, then they returned the next year to give themselves again, and to receive again.
In killing a man, what was gained? Were gifts given? Were children fed?
“Chakliux!” Tikaani called out. “You think we will allow you to live when you have killed our father?”
Chakliux did not move. He had thrown both spears and now had only knives to defend himself. What chance did he have? There were two of them. Three, if Night Man was not hurt too badly. Even Snow Hawk had moved to stand beside them, her teeth bared as she looked into the heavy brush of trees and shrubs where Chakliux hid. At least he had the darkness. If he stood still, did not move or call out, they would not know where he was until dawn.
Besides, they did not know all his spears were gone. They jumped at each gust of wind, each scratch of branches.
Night Man sat down beside the fire and pressed a handful of snow into the bloody rent in his parka.
“He can see you there, by the fire,” Caribou said to his brother.
“He sees all of us,” said Tikaani. He pulled his spear from the hare fur blanket. “He thinks we are fools,” he said.
“We have been fools,” said Caribou. He moved away from the fire so Chakliux could see only the white trim at the shoulders of his parka, two white lines moving in the darkness. “You spend a night in K’os’s bed, then are ready to do whatever she says,” Caribou continued, “to believe whatever she tells you. You think the Near River People sent Chakliux to curse us? If that is true then why did K’os raise him? She is the curse, not her son. You know what the women say. I have heard our mother whisper it—that K’os killed Chakliux’s wife, that she did not want her cousin to have a child when she herself could not. Our father is dead, and our brother!”
“And was it a woman’s knife that killed them?” Tikaani snarled. “It was Chakliux’s own spear. Yet you blame K’os. Forget about her. Now is the time to kill this one who brings death to many. I think he has no more spears. Otherwise, he would have finished off Night Man. He is an easy target, sitting beside the fire.”
Night Man began to whimper, and Tikaani turned on him, ripping back the man’s parka hood to slap his face. Night Man drew his sleeve knife and held it point up until Tikaani turned away.
“Chakliux is probably already upriver toward his village,” Caribou called to them from the darkness. “It is not far to the Near River People. While you two fight, he gets away.”
“I think you do not want to kill him,” Tikaani said, and also left the circle of light, walking into the darkness until Chakliux could not see where he had gone. “We must finish what we have started or all the men of the Near River Village will hunt for us. They will know who we are by our boot tracks alone.”
Yes, Chakliux thought. The Near River women made boots with double soles, crimped at the front with seams sewn closer to the bottom of the boot. In soft snow, a man would know whether tracks had been left by Near River hunters or men from the Cousin River Village.
“They will know by our dead brother,” Tikaani said.
“You think I will leave my brother?” Caribou asked from the darkness.
Chakliux shifted and moved his head, trying to see where the voice came from. The man seemed to be moving toward him. Chakliux stepped back carefully, slowly, so he would make no sound. If he could get to the river, sneak along the bank, perhaps he could put enough distance between himself and the men. They would not come much farther. The Near River Village was too close. There was even a chance that Snow Hawk would follow him to the village. He had her pups.
He reached into his parka, rubbed his hand over the pups’ heads, then stroked his fingers on a tree trunk. He took several more steps, then stopped again, listened.
He heard the knife before he saw it, the hiss of the blade as it sliced toward him. He felt the scrape of the point as it cut into his chest, then heard the high thin cry of one of the pups. He pulled out the knife, then lunged forward with it in his left hand, his own knife in his right. Arms came at him from the darkness, and he felt the knife in his left hand bite into flesh. He heard a harsh intake of breath, then the arms were twisted away, and the knife as well. He slashed out with the blade in his right hand, but it was deflected by branches.
Chakliux stepped back and tripped. He fell into a tangle of willow and lost his knife, but he leapt up to meet his attacker. It was Caribou. He was a short, powerful man, stronger than Chakliux, and smarter than his brothers.
Caribou had a knife. Chakliux clasped his fingers around Caribou’s wrist, but Caribou ripped at Chakliux’s parka hood with his free hand until he could reach in, press a thumb against Chakliux’s throat. Chakliux’s arms begin to weaken as his breath was cut off, then he was borne in a rush to the ground, breaking off tree branches as he fell, snow closing over his head as the weight of Caribou’s body pressed him down. Then he heard a snarl. Snow Hawk.
In falling, Chakliux’s grip had tightened on Caribou’s wrist. Now, as Caribou fought to turn toward the dog, to move his knife to slash at her, Chakliux dug his thumbnails into the man’s wrist, pressing until Caribou finally dropped the knife.
Chakliux released the arm, raised his legs to push Caribou away, then raked his fingers through the snow until he found the knife.
Chakliux picked it up and, in one quick movement, thrust the blade into the soft skin under the man’s jaw. A spurt of blood poured over his fingers, slicked his hands so that the knife slipped, fell into the parka hood. Then Snow Hawk was ripping at the man’s throat, and Caribou’s cries stopped.
Chakliux searched for his own knives, finally found the obsidian blade buried in the snow where Caribou first attacked him. He leaned against a tree, fighting to catch his breath, and peered out toward the fire. Only Stalker was still there, the man lying facedown in the snow. Chakliux’s spear was gone.
Where were Tikaani and Night Man? he wondered. On the way back to their village or waiting for him in the darkness?
Chapter Twelve
THE NEAR RIVER VILLAGE
GHADEN REACHED OUT AND pa
tted the mound of sleeping robes beside him. He worked his fingers down through the blankets until he found Yaa’s face. She was asleep. Otherwise she would have taken his hand, held it.
She was his mother now, a good mother. She told him stories and played games, and when his side began to ache, she rubbed his back. She never yelled at him like Brown Water did, but still, he missed his first mother, missed her so much that at times he could do nothing but cry.
Yaa did not know his other mother’s songs and did not know the secret words she had taught him—First Men words that he was not supposed to say to other people.
Sometimes, too, Yaa did not seem big enough to be a mother. She could not bring him food whenever he wanted it. Mostly she had to sneak it from the boiling bag when Brown Water was not watching. And her lap was small so that when she held Ghaden, he always felt as if he was about to slip off. But he would rather have her as mother than Brown Water. She was even better than Happy Mouth. So he tried to hold in his tears and not think about his other mother. Mostly, he cried when Yaa was outside. Then he would remember what happened to his first mother and worry that someone might hurt Yaa, too. Who would be his mother if that happened?
He clasped one of Yaa’s long braids, put his thumb into his mouth and rubbed the braid across his eyelids. It was soft and smelled of wood smoke. Ghaden felt the tears build in his throat until they almost choked him.
It was better here than in the shaman’s lodge. He had Yaa, and the old grandmother Ligige’ did not come as often. He knew that Ligige’ was only trying to make him better, but her teas tasted bad, and when she had to put medicine on the knife wound in his back, it stung. She made him cough, and that hurt. If he cried, she called him a baby and told him he must be strong like a man. He knew she was right. He must be strong, but sometimes it was hard to pretend that something did not hurt or did not taste bad.
Once, he had asked her for some medicine to take away the inside pain. He was not sure what that pain was from. Perhaps the knife had cut something deep in his chest that did not show from the outside.
