Mother Earth Father Sky

by Sue Harrison

  And here I am alone in that sea, Chagak thought and wondered how the spirit of her mother felt, seeing Chagak use her ik as a man uses an ikyak. Chagak clasped the shaman’s amulet and the carving she wore over it, and in that moment saw something dark in the sea.

  Her ik dropped into the trough between swells and Chagak waited until the sea lifted her again. The dark place was larger. Perhaps an ikyak, she thought, but she could not be sure and so again waited through a trough and to the next swell.

  “An ikyak, but too long to be an ikyak,” she said, and at the words her heart jumped as though it had heard what she said and understood what Chagak at first did not understand: two ikyan. Shuganan and Man-who-kills.

  Grabbing her paddle, Chagak pushed herself from the crest of the swell and kept her craft in the hollows, the walls of water protecting her from sight.

  How in all this wide sea? Chagak thought. What spirits hate me? She moved along the trough, knowing there was some chance. If she kept the swells between them, Man-who-kills would not see her.

  But if Man-who-kills were heading directly to the land, there would be that moment when his ikyak was in the same trough as Chagak’s ik; it was a chance she must take. She could not try to outrun him; his slim, small ikyak was so much faster than her wide-bellied ik.

  She waited, paddling only to keep herself in the hollow, and prayed that the men would not see her. Her spirit flitted, quick and agitated, within her chest, and her heart left a rhythm against her ribs like the sound of hunters beating the sides of an ikyak, a call for help.

  Finally the pointed stern of Man-who-kills’ ikyak rose above the crest of the wave. He was some distance away but close enough to see her if he looked west. Chagak sank the blade of her paddle deep into the water and pushed her ik farther down the trough.

  Man-who-kills’ ikyak slid into the trough. A rope attached to the stern stretched up over the wave, but Chagak could not see Shuganan’s craft.

  Her breath came in small gasps, pressing between her teeth in tiny hissing sounds. She watched as Man-who-kills leaned forward and the water rose beneath the ikyak, lifting it toward the next crest. Two fat hair seals were tied to the stern.

  He does not see me, Chagak thought, but at that moment Man-who-kills turned his ikyak into the trough. Chagak, paddle poised above the water, could not move. Man-who-kills shouted and pointed at her, then leaned back to pull against the rope that joined his ikyak to Shuganan’s. Shuganan’s ikyak slid into the hollow. He was bent forward, and Chagak could see that ropes crossed his shoulders and were knotted to harpoon holders at each side of the craft.

  “He is dead,” some spirit seemed to whisper, the words so blunt they drew the breath from Chagak’s lungs as though she had been hit.

  Chagak turned to paddle away from Man-who-kills, but at his shout she looked back, saw he had his harpoon pointing at Shuganan’s chest.

  “He is dead,” the sea seemed to say. “Go. He is dead. You have a chance. Man-who-kills’ ikyak is heavy with seals. Go.”

  But Chagak laid her paddle in the bottom of the boat. And with her back toward Man-who-kills, she untied the thong at her waist that held her woman’s knife. Then, using the knife, she made a horizontal slit near the bottom of the leather strip she had sewn inside her suk and slid the knife into the strip.

  She allowed the sea to lift her as it lifted Man-who-kills and Shuganan. Then, once more in a hollow, she slowly turned her ik and paddled toward them.

  When she drew close, she could see that one of Shuganan’s arms hung at an awkward angle, the hand dipping into the water. There was blood at his nostrils and mouth, some dried, but some still bright red. So Chagak knew that if he were dead he had only just died. But then as the ikyak moved up another swell and Shuganan’s body was thrown back, Chagak saw new blood gush from his mouth, saw the blood bubble from his breath.

  “He is alive,” she told the sea.

  Man-who-kills moved his harpoon from Shuganan to Chagak.

  “Throw,” she said. “Kill us both.”

  But Man-who-kills tied the harpoon in its place on the side of his ikyak and paddled toward shore.

  With a deep stroke, Chagak sent her ik up the swell, following Man-who-kills and Shuganan.

  “You will be dead!’ some spirit screeched at her. “You will be dead.”

  “No,” said Chagak.” I will not die. I will live and I will save Shuganan.”

  When Chagak beached her ik, Man-who-kills pulled Shuganan from the ikyak and left him crumpled on the beach, then he cut the lines that held the seals.

  Chagak dragged her ik ashore without help, and when it was out of the reach of waves, she ran to Shuganan.

  He still breathed. Each breath brought blood from his nose and mouth and a groan from his throat. She knelt beside him and tried to loosen his chigadax, but Man-who-kills grabbed her by the hair and jerked her to her feet. He held his hunting knife at her throat.

  “Kill me,” Chagak shouted at him though she knew he could not understand her. “Kill me. Then I will be with my people and not with you.”

  Man-who-kills released her and, shouting, pointed at the ik and at Shuganan. Chagak saw the welt across Man-who-kills’ face. A sudden pride in Shuganan’s daring filled her chest and gave her courage to turn away from Man-who-kills and kneel beside Shuganan.

  Chagak had packets of herbs, caribou leaf she had taken from Shuganan’s supply.

  She ran toward her ik, but Man-who-kills blocked her way. “You fool,” Chagak yelled, “get out of my way.” She lunged past him and began ripping at the cords that tied her supplies to the ik.

  Pulling up her suk, she stuffed the packets of herbs into the waistband of her apron, then untied a heavy sleeping robe and carried it to Shuganan.

  She did not look at Man-who-kills, did not care what he thought, what he was doing, as long as he did not try to stop her. She unfolded the robe and laid it, hair side up, beside Shuganan. Then, as carefully as she could, she moved him to it.

  Again Chagak went to the ik, glancing at Man-who-kills as she passed him. He stood, his arms folded across his chest, saying nothing, only watching her. She grabbed a pile of tanned leather strips from the ik and turned back to Shuganan, but Man-who-kills caught her arm.

  He said something to her and pointed at the two seals lying in the sand. Chagak knew he wanted her to take care of them, to remove the skins, cut up the meat, wash the bones, but she pretended she did not understand. She jerked her arm from his grasp, ran to the edge of the sea where she dipped one of the strips in the water, then came back to Shuganan and knelt beside him.

  Chagak raised his head and laid it on her lap. Wiping away the blood on his face, she realized that some of his teeth were broken; their jagged edges tore his lips. Shuganan’s face was discolored, one eye badly swollen. A long cut ran from his right ear to the top of his head.

  His hands were also bloody, but when Chagak washed them, she realized there were no wounds, that the blood was from his face. Shuganan groaned whenever she moved his left arm.

  A gust of wind whipped her hair into her eyes and sand into Shuganan’s wounds. I must get him to the ulaq, Chagak thought. She glanced up at Man-who-kills. He curled back his lips and spat into the beach gravel.

  Chagak tied the top corners of the sleeping skin together, making a handle, and began to pull Shuganan up the rise of the beach toward the ulaq. He was not heavy, but the slope of the beach made the pulling difficult, and shale caught at the edges of the robe like hands trying to keep Shuganan near the sea.

  Man-who-kills suddenly stepped in front of her, blocking her way. Chagak began to pull Shuganan around him, but Man-who-kills shouted at her and again pointed at the seals.

  “I am not your wife,” Chagak said, also yelling. “I do not have to do what you say.” And even though she knew he did not understand her, she thought it was good to say the words, to let nearby spirits decide by listening who was right and who was wrong.

  Chagak waited a moment, s
ure he would let her pass, sure he would see that she must tend Shuganan before worrying about seals, but he did not. And her anger was replaced by fear. Shuganan was an old man. If Man-who-kills did not let Chagak help him, he might die.

  Chagak turned her back to Man-who-kills and tightened her grip on the robe. But he grabbed her wrists, and his hands were so tight, Chagak could feel the crunching of her wrist bones.

  He squeezed until Chagak let go of the robe, then he dragged her to the seals.

  Chagak looked up at him, her teeth clenched. “No knife,” she said, and when he did not seem to understand, she said again, louder, “I do not have a knife. How can I butcher them without a knife?”

  She made cutting motions over one of the seals, and Man-who-kills nodded. Using his hunter’s knife, he began to slash open the packets in Chagak’s ik. He threw furs, food, even her mother’s cooking stone to the beach, scattering the things close to the reach of waves.

  “There is no knife there,’ Chagak screamed at him, anger bringing tears.

  Finally he returned to her, holding a crooked knife, a small blade set in the side of a seal rib, a knife good for fine work, but something that would not cut through the thick seal hides. He threw it down beside her, then jerked her to her feet.

  Before Chagak could stop him, he pulled up her suk and ran his hands down her apron, dropped the suk and pushed up her sleeves. “I told you I do not have a knife,” Chagak said, pushing her sleeves up farther, holding her arms out for him to see. She waited, her breath hard and full in her throat. The knife in the pocket at the bottom of her suk seemed too heavy. Surely he would notice the bulge, or perhaps even catch her thoughts and know she had hidden it.

  He stared at her for a long time. Chagak met his eyes and did not look away. Finally he murmured something and turned toward the ulaq.

  “Yes, you will find knives there,” Chagak called after him, then she went over to Shuganan. He seemed to be breathing more easily. She gripped the robe and pulled, slowly moving him across the beach, out of the reach of the highest wave, against the cliff where he would be protected from the wind as she skinned and butchered the seals.

  NINETEEN

  IN CHAGAK’S VILLAGE SKINNING and butchering a seal was always the work of many women. Two, perhaps three, would peel the hide from the body; another would take the fat, still others cut away the meat. Then the hunter would divide fat, meat and bones among the families. The hunter’s family got the hide, flippers and first choice of the meat.

  But here, Chagak had to do the work alone. The animals were each as heavy as a big man, and it was difficult for her to move them.

  Man-who-kills had brought a woman’s knife and another crooked knife from the ulaq, as well as several tanned hides. Chagak spread out the hides, and when she had finished taking the skin from the first seal, she began butchering. She sliced off the thick layer of fat that covered the body and piled it in slabs, then cut the meat from the bones and removed the edible organs.

  Carefully, she cut away the thick cord of sinew that ran up the seal’s spine and laid it aside to dry; later she would twist the fibrous strands into various thicknesses to use for sewing. She tied the small intestine at each end before cutting it free. When she had finished the rest of the butchering, she would empty the contents into the sea, pull away the inner and outer layers, dry the intestine and roll it for storage. When she had enough saved she would slit and flatten the strips, then sew them together into a chigadax.

  Chagak washed and scraped the stomach so it could be used as a storage container for fish or oil.

  Finally only the bones were left. Some she would save for needles and small tools, but most she would boil for oil to light lamps and prepare food.

  In her village the boiling of bones had been a time for feasting. The men started a line of fires across the beach and the women erected driftwood frameworks and hung large bags of hide filled with water. Rocks were heated in the fires and boys dropped the rocks into the water until the water boiled. Then seal bones were dropped in.

  Old women who knew how much oil the bones should yield watched the layer that formed at the top of the water and, when it was thick enough, called the young women to remove the bones.

  The bones were set on hides laid over the beach, and even before they were cool, the men came from their games of throwing and lifting and began to crack the bones with heavy stones.

  For once, the hunters did not eat first. This time the men served the children, cracking bones and passing them to the youngest first so they could suck out any remaining oil or marrow. Then the men served the old ones, the women who tended the fires and finally themselves.

  Chagak remembered all these things as she worked. And though her remembering brought pain, it kept her thoughts from Man-who-kills, for he stood above her, watching as she worked, and he did not offer to help her move the seal, but only smiled each time she had to roll the animal to a different position.

  Chagak could hear Shuganan moan, but his moaning, though it tore at her spirit, gave her assurance that he still lived. And she forced herself to work faster, hoping that, once the seals were butchered, Man-who-kills would let her tend Shuganan.

  It was dusk when Chagak finished the butchering. While she worked, Man-who-kills had taken all the supplies from her ik. For a time he had stood over the ik, knife in hand, and Chagak had been sure he would cut the hide covering and smash the frame, but he had not. Finally he had kicked her supplies into a tidal pool. But Chagak said nothing and pretended not to see.

  He was the hunter. He was responsible for bringing food and hides. If he wanted to ruin what had been stored, it was his worry, not hers.

  When Chagak finished piling the second seal’s bones, she stood and stretched, arching her back. Man-who-kills shouted something, but she did not look at him.

  Chagak laid down the knives and gathered up the hides that held the fat and began dragging them back to the ulaq. She would keep the fat in the cool storage chamber until she had time to render it to oil.

  She noticed that Man-who-kills had picked up the knives, but he did not offer to help her carry any of the hides. He stood and kept the gulls from the meat as Chagak made the many trips back and forth to the ulaq. Her fear for Shuganan forced her to move quickly, though her arms and legs were weighted with fatigue.

  “I am not tired. I am strong,” Chagak whispered to the wind. “I am strong.” The words seemed to strengthen her body, seemed to lighten the load of meat she dragged.

  Finally only the skins she had used under the seal carcasses remained. Chagak pulled them to the sea and allowed the water to take the blood and the few scraps that were left. She dried the skins with handfuls of fine gravel and rolled them for storage.

  Then Chagak walked past Man-who-kills and across the beach to kneel beside Shuganan. The old man breathed heavily, his eyes closed. Bruises discolored his face and, though he seemed to be asleep, he clutched his broken arm.

  Chagak looked up at Man-who-kills. He was smirking and the smile on his face made her hate him more.

  He needs to be dead, Chagak thought. But killing was what men did, and even the men of her own village did not kill men, only animals. But the thought came again: He needs to be dead. Then in words that pulsed like a hunter’s chant: Someday I will kill him. I will kill him. Someday I will kill him.

  The storytellers told of times long before Chagak’s birth when the men, to protect their wives and children, had fought and killed other men.

  Yes, Chagak thought. Man-who-kills does not need to live. And the weight of the knife in the front of her suk filled her with a sudden surge of power.

  As she knelt beside Shuganan and called his name, the power seemed to gather itself within her breast and reach out to the old man. For a moment he opened his eyes, but he said nothing and Chagak was not sure whether he saw her or saw only the images of a dream.

  “Be still,” she said to him. “I will get you to the ulaq and give you medicine.”r />
  He closed his eyes, and Chagak looked over at Man-who-kills. Again she felt power coursing up from her knife and she said, “I must take him to the ulaq. Help me carry him.”

  And though Chagak knew he did not understand her words, he walked over to her. She gestured toward the other end of the robe, then picked up her end.

  Man-who-kills spoke. Angry words. He lifted his hand to the welt on his face. Chagak looked closely at it. “I have medicine,” she said, making motions with her hands of smoothing on a salve. “Help me carry Shuganan and I will make you medicine.” Again she used her hands to illustrate the meaning of the words.

  Man-who-kills grunted and picked up the other end of Shuganan’s robe and together they carried him to the ulaq.

  They laid him outside, in the lee of the ulaq. It would be better, Chagak knew. Outside, spirits of sickness did not settle into a body so quickly.

  Chagak piled dead grass and driftwood into a heap, then she climbed up the side of the ulaq, glancing only once at Man-who-kills as she descended the climbing log. He made no move to stop her.

  Chagak took the packet of caribou leaves from the waistband of her apron, filled a berry bag with a small container of rendered fat and several wooden cups. She also lit a hunter’s lamp, then, with the berry bag slung on her arm, she carried the lamp up the climbing log, shielding it against the wind when she went outside.

  She started the fire, blowing on the flame until it took hold of the wood, then she returned to the ulaq. This time she brought a container of oil and one of water and a boiling bag. She hung the bag on a tripod over the fire and filled it with water. She worked quickly, making sure the flame did not touch the bag above the level of the water.

  It was better to set the boiling bag a distance from the fire, to heat stones first and drop them into the water, heating and reheating stones, adding them to the water until it boiled. That way boiling bags lasted longer. When the bag was hung directly over the fire, the outer layer of the skin was charred and weakened. If the flame reached above the level of water in the bag, the bag would catch fire. But Man-who-kills had made Chagak wait too long and she did not want to wait longer. This way the medicine would be ready more quickly.