by Sue Harrison
Shuganan was awakened by the sound of ducks, the murmuring sounds of their feeding, and by something else. The sound of wings? No, a bola.
During the nights his joints stiffened, so he rose slowly from his sleeping mats. When he made his way to the outer room of the ulaq, he saw that Chagak had lit several lamps and laid out dried fish for him, but that she was gone.
Again he heard the bola, the thud as it hit some target a distance from the ulaq. He ascended the climbing log, calling to Chagak, “I am coming up. Do not throw your weapon.”
“You are safe,” she said, and Shuganan’s throat began to ache, for there was an edge of joy in her voice that he had not heard before.
“Watch,” she said and pointed to a jutting boulder in the grass beyond the ulaq. She spun the bola over her head, and when she let it go, it flew to the rock, wrapping itself around the pointed top, the bola stones hitting with sharp cracks.
“Chagak, you have learned quickly,” Shuganan said, and he did not miss the snapping in her eyes, the acceptance of his praise.
“And look,” she said. “The ducks stayed.”
Shuganan shook his head in wonder. What had brought them? He had never had eider ducks come to this beach. It was too soon for them to be gathering for the winter.
“They are a gift from my people,” Chagak said as if she knew Shuganan’s thoughts. “They are a sign that I should live.”
And since Shuganan knew no better explanation, he nodded, pleased with the idea.
“I am ready now,” she said, and Shuganan, not sure what she meant, did not reply. But when she began a cautious walk to the beach, he knew she was going to try to take a duck, something he was not sure she should do. There was little chance she would succeed.
He wanted to call after her, to tell her that she should wait, but he was afraid his words would scare the ducks, and so he slipped down the side of the ulaq, moving slowly, his walking stick in his hands.
Chagak had dropped to hands and knees and was advancing on the ducks. She moved so slowly, Shuganan could scarcely tell she moved at all.
Shuganan’s chest began to ache and he realized that he was holding his breath, just as he did when he hunted seals from his ikyak.
The ducks began a slow movement to the far side of the pool and for a time Chagak sat still. But soon they were again eating, dipping heads down into the water for shellfish. One drake raised up on the water, beating the air with his wings, but he made no move to leave the pond and Chagak crept closer.
Shuganan knew the bola would not be as effective on the water, the stones slowed in their flight by hitting the surface. He had often hunted ducks or geese with the weapon and wished that he had been able to tell Chagak the best way to kill a duck.
Would she know to make a loud noise, then to throw the instant the ducks began to fly, when water slowed their wings?
Chagak had the bola wrapped around her arm, the stones clutched in her hand, and now she rose, but only to her knees. Shuganan was afraid she would try to throw from that position and lose much of her power. But suddenly she jumped up, whirling the bola over her head.
Some of the ducks had noticed her and began skittering across the pond, but others stayed, eating.
“Yell, Chagak, so they will fly,” Shuganan called.
“A-a-a-e-e-e-iii,” she yelled. The ducks rose from the water, but the yell seemed to check the smooth circling of Chagak’s arm. The bola jerked, and when she let it go, it fell short of the ducks and sank into the water.
Shuganan, disappointed, hobbled to her side. But when Chagak turned to him, he saw that she was laughing.
“I nearly got one. Did you see?”
“Yes, I saw,” Shuganan answered and smiled.
Chagak started to wade into the tidal pool, but Shuganan caught the sleeve of her suk. “You will cut your feet on the shells,” he said.
“The ducks will be back. I need the bola.”
“Then wait.”
Shuganan found a length of driftwood and started into the pond, clearing a path to the weapon. Finally, in knee-deep water, he reached out with his walking stick and pulled the bola toward him.
“Hurry,” Chagak said and Shuganan was surprised at the urgency in her voice. But then he heard the ducks and, raising his eyes to the sky, saw that they circled the beach. He reached into the water, not caring if he got the sleeve of his parka wet, and grabbed the bola.
Handing the weapon to Chagak, he hid himself behind a boulder a short distance from the pond and waited.
Chagak backed slowly from the edge of the pond, then knelt, holding herself very still. “Thank you,” she whispered, not knowing if her prayers were to Aka or to the spirits of her people. She was not surprised that the ducks had returned, but their presence was an affirmation to her that they were a gift, a sign that she should continue with her life, as ducks were a sign each spring that a village would soon be blessed with summer, a time of renewal, of all good things beginning.
The ducks settled into the water, their wings making a spray that Chagak could feel against her face. She waited as they preened and made small skirmishes, fighting for the best positions on the pond.
The rough nettle fiber of the rope pulled at the blisters on Chagak’s hand, but the pain was good. Better than feeling nothing as she had for so many days: feeling nothing, seeing nothing, closing her mind to everything around her, the only way she knew to dull the pain within. But the pain in her hand made her feel as if she were again part of the things of the earth.
The sun was hot under the clouds, and its rays tightened Chagak’s scalp. The strength of its warmth pulsed down her dark hair to her shoulders and back, coursing out to the rope she held in her hand.
Chagak crept toward the pond. What had Shuganan told her the night before? She must be close enough for the bola to carry to the center of the flock, but also far enough away not to scare the ducks before she was ready to throw.
The shale of the beach scraped her knees, but Chagak did not feel it. Her eyes were on the center of the flock, the place her bola must go to be effective. Then suddenly, in one movement, she lunged forward, yelling and whirling the bola over her head.
The ducks rose from the pond and Chagak threw.
The bola left her hand smoothly. One duck fell, then another, their bodies hitting the water. Shuganan was already wading into the pond to retrieve them, but Chagak watched the flock as it rose into the sky and disappeared beyond the island’s curve.
They were her people’s spirits, she had no doubt. She had taken two of them. Two spirits would stay with her.
Shuganan held up the ducks. “Two drakes,” he called.
“Two sons,” Chagak murmured. “I have won two sons.”
She skinned each duck carefully, first removing all large feathers, leaving only soft down, then cutting at neck, legs and wings and pulling off the skin in one piece. She cooked the ducks that night, wrapping them in kelp and roasting them in a fire pit over a bed of hot coals.
Shuganan gave her many compliments for the meal, but Chagak’s thoughts were on tanning the skins. The drakes did not have the fine, thick breast down of a hen, but the skins were thicker and so would be easier to scrape and tan.
When she had pulled off the first skin, she held it up and, seeing the size and shape, had been reminded of her tiny brother, and a sharp pain of grief rose within her chest, but then clearly in her mind she saw other babies who would someday be hers, and so she decided to keep the skins whole.
She would rub them until they were soft, using a mixture of brains and seawater. Then she would smooth each skin by rubbing it with sandstone.
“The meat is good,” Shuganan said again. “Many years since I have eaten anything better.”
Chagak lowered her head in acknowledgment of the compliment, and Shuganan asked, “You have kept a feather?”
Chagak reached toward the pile of her belongings. She kept her things in one of her mother’s baskets, something Chagak had br
ought with her that the storm did not take. She showed him the handful of feathers she had saved.
“Could I have one?” he asked.
And Chagak, though surprised at the request, handed him a long black wing feather.
“As a pattern for my carving,” he explained and tucked it into the hair at the crown of his head. “You should keep one also,” he said. “Something for your amulet. I am sure the ducks were a gift to you. Perhaps from your people. Perhaps from Tugix.”
Chagak selected a feather and tucked it into the leather bag at her neck, then something made her say, “I will save the skins for a suk. Something for a baby.” Then she stopped, afraid to voice her hope that the baby would be hers. That she would someday be a mother.
But Shuganan said, “Yes. Soon we will go to a place I know. My wife’s people, the Whale Hunters, live there. Perhaps we can find a husband for you.”
Chagak opened her mouth to speak but for a moment could say nothing. Finally she said, “My mother’s people are the Whale Hunters. I was trying to take Pup to them when we came to your beach. My grandfather is Many Whales.”
“Many Whales,” Shuganan said with a slow smile. “He is their chief.”
“Yes. My mother told me.”
“You will have no trouble finding a husband.”
“He is not a man who values granddaughters,” Chagak said. “And when I tell him what has happened to his daughter and his grandsons …” She shook her head.
All but one of her grandfather’s sons had died in infancy. Many Whales was to have taken Chagak’s oldest brother sometime during the next year and trained him to hunt the whale. But what would Many Whales say when he was told all his grandsons were dead and only Chagak, a girl, lived?
“My grandfather will not want me,” Chagak said to Shuganan. “He wants sons.”
“If he will not find you a husband,” Shuganan answered, “then I will.”
The words made Chagak shiver, and a sudden clear image of Seal Stalker came to her mind. A tightening of sorrow slowed her heart, but she looked up at Shuganan and made herself smile.
“Yes, I will need a husband,” she said. “Someone who will give me a child. But I do not need a young man.” And then, with a boldness Chagak knew must have come from the duck feather in her amulet, she said, “I would be wife to you.”
But Shuganan smiled gently and said, “No. I am too old. But we will find someone. A good man. I will be grandfather. He will be husband.”
TEN
IT WAS THE SECOND time during that summer Shuganan had seen a boat close to his island. This time as before, he thought, they have found me. Even after all these years.
The first time, he had felt only a dark acceptance, and then, when the one in the ik had been a woman, relief. But this time, seeing the boat, knowing by the shape and speed it was not ik but ikyak, Shuganan was filled with anger. Why did they come now? He was an old man. He should be left in peace.
Shuganan squatted behind a boulder, hoping the man would pass the beach, would continue on, but the ikyak made a wide curve in the water. And as it came close, Shuganan’s breath caught in his throat and his chest ached with dread. The marks on the craft, yellow and black, were the same, the narrow hull, the peaked ridge at the top. Yes. The ikyak was one of theirs.
Shuganan stood and watched the man pull the ikyak ashore.
The man gave no indication that he saw Shuganan, but when the ikyak was safely settled above the reach of the waves, he turned and walked toward Shuganan. When he was several paces away, he said, “I am a friend. I have no knife.” His arms were thrust out before him, his hands open.
He spoke in the language of the tribe called Short Ones, and Shuganan, knowing the language from his childhood, answered boldly, “Show me your wrists. Then I will believe you have no knife.”
But the man, his wide face made wider by a grin, made no move to do so. He was a young man, much shorter than Shuganan, but Shuganan saw the thickness of his arms and knew the man could kill him if he wished.
The young man’s chigadax was well worn but spoke of a woman’s careful work. His seal gut boots were in poor repair. Had he no more sense than to wear them on this shale beach?
“What do you want?” Shuganan asked. “Why do you come?”
“I have told you. I am a friend,” the man laughed. “Have you no welcome for a friend?”
Shuganan glanced nervously over his shoulder. Where was Chagak? She had gone to pick berries that morning. Soon she would return. What would happen if this one saw her?
“What is the matter?” the man asked. “Do you watch for your woman?”
“I have no woman,” Shuganan said, avoiding the man’s eyes.
Again the man laughed, a deep boisterous sound. “There is a woman! Do not lie to me, old man. Do you think I would come to your beach not knowing who lives here? Do you think I am a fool?”
Shuganan backed away. So the man had been watching them. I should have been more careful, Shuganan thought. He had known by Chagak’s description who had killed her people. And he had understood why but had not told Chagak. What good would it do for her to know? And how could he bear it if she hated him when she was told the truth?
“I am called Man-who-kills,” the young man said.
Shuganan did not answer, would not return name for name. Man-who-kills thrust back his shoulders and asked, “Where is your ulaq? Why do you show me no hospitality? Perhaps I am hungry. Perhaps my ikyak needs repair.” He stepped closer to Shuganan, his words nearly a whisper, his lips drawn back from his square white teeth. “Perhaps it has been many months since I have had a woman.”
In that moment Shuganan wished for a knife, wished he could cut the man’s thick dark throat, but he said, “My ulaq is small. You stay here. I will bring food.”
“And have time to warn your woman? No, we will go together.”
He pushed Shuganan up the rise of the beach, but Shuganan walked slowly, limping more than necessary. At each step he was afraid he would see Chagak, afraid Man-who-kills would see her also.
Shuganan lifted his walking stick when they neared the ulaq. “There,” he said. “My ulaq.”
Rye grass grew long on sides and roof, the grass already bleaching in the late summer. Soon Chagak would cut it to use for winter weaving. She had promised him socks and shirts, even hand coverings, cunningly made with pockets for Shuganan’s thumbs.
“Stay here,” Man-who-kills said. “If you run I will catch you and you will run no more.” Then, looking up to the entrance hole of the ulaq, he said, “If your woman is inside, I will greet her!”
Shuganan waited until the man was in the ulaq, and then he scanned the hills, searching for Chagak. He stuck his digging stick in the side of the ulaq, pressing it firmly into the sod. It was a signal among his wife’s people, a warning to stay away. Did Chagak’s people use the same sign?
The wind was cold against Shuganan’s bare legs, and he squatted down until the edges of his long parka touched the ground. He tucked his hands up the sleeves and pulled up the hood, but he was still cold.
He heard Man-who-kills call him from the ulaq. “Come inside, old man. I have decided to accept your offer of food.”
Shuganan wiped his hands on the feathers of his parka. How could hands that were so cold sweat? he wondered. But then he thought, If I give Man-who-kills food, he will stay inside a little longer, and perhaps Chagak will see my warning.
Shuganan lowered himself into the ulaq, his feet feeling for the first notches of the log. The oil lamp had gone out and the ulaq was dark. Shuganan left the door flap open to give light.
“Light the lamps, old man,” Man-who-kills said. “Woman’s work will not hurt you.”
“No oil,” Shuganan said and pointed to a heap of coals where Chagak had boiled water to soften reeds for weaving.
Man-who-kills made a face.
“Too old. No seals,’ Shuganan explained.
“Lazy or cursed in woman’s work?”
Shuganan ignored the barb but thought, I took three seals last spring. I have oil enough to store eggs and light lamps for some days. But why waste it on you?
Shuganan squatted beside the coals, digging with a stick until he found a chunk of wood that still held fire. Carefully, he laid bits of dried grass over it, blowing gently to give the flame life, then added driftwood from the stack Chagak had brought from the beach.
As the fire took hold, Shuganan heard Man-who-kills hiss. Turning, Shuganan saw that the man was staring at the hundreds of small white figurines that lined the walls.
The man backed toward Shuganan, his eyes still on the ulaq walls, but he reached for the old man and, pulling back Shuganan’s hair, revealed the left ear with its clipped lobe.
Man-who-kills dropped to his knees and crawled toward an oil lamp. He picked it up with both hands and thrust it toward the old man. “There is oil in this, and wicks. Light it.”
“I do not have enough oil to waste. We have a fire.”
“Light it!”
Shuganan found the braided piece of reed Chagak used to light the lamps and, taking fire from the driftwood coals, lit the circle of wicks.
Man-who-kills held the lamp before him as if it were an amulet. He walked the length of the ulaq studying the carvings. Twice he reached out, as though to touch one, but quickly drew back his hand.
“They are hot?” Shuganan asked him, feeling as he had not felt since he was a young man, knowing the power of his gift instead of its shame.
“You are Shuganan,” Man-who-kills said, his voice a whisper. “The storytellers, the old men, they said you had died.”
“Then perhaps you are also dead, and we are both in the place of the dead.”
“Shut your mouth, old man,” said Man-who-kills. “You think you have more power than I? How many animals have you taken in the last year? How many women? You are old. Your powers grow weak.”
“Your storytellers told you that?” Shuganan asked. “They said my powers dim with age like a hunter’s powers? They should have said my powers increase with age, like the powers of a shaman.”
