by Sue Harrison
On the third day after Man-who-kills had taken the otters, Shuganan opened his eyes and smiled at Chagak. She was washing his face, trying to coax him to open his mouth to swallow some broth. He smiled and then pushed away the broth, whispering, “Water.”
Chagak, laughing, crying, gave him water. He drank in great gulps, making Chagak afraid he would open some of the wounds on his cheeks and throat, but when he finished, the color seemed to have returned to his face and a measure of strength to his body.
The old man looked around the ulaq and said to Chagak, “Man-who-kills? He is gone?”
“On the beach,” Chagak answered and saw the look of hope leave Shuganan’s face.
“I could not kill him,” he whispered, then, laying his hand over hers, asked, “You are his wife now?”
And Chagak, before answering, considered the fact that she was not. How strange that he had not forced her, that he had instead fulfilled the bride price. “Soon,” she said. “He has taken the otters, and the skins are ready. He says I must make a suk for myself, but I do not know if I must do that before or after I am his wife.”
“There is a knife hidden …” Shuganan began, but Chagak heard Man-who-kills at the top of the ulaq and she covered Shuganan’s mouth, stopping his words. If Man-who-kills heard, he might hit Shuganan, and weak as Shuganan was, one slap, one kick might kill him.
“You are awake,” Man-who-kills said and he spoke in Chagak’s tongue.
Shuganan blinked and stared.
“He understands and speaks my language,” Chagak said, and wished she could remember all the things she and Shuganan had said in the man’s presence when they thought he did not understand.
“It is something a man should know,” Shuganan whispered, struggling to sit up, and Chagak did not know if he meant the language or the fact that Man-who-kills spoke it.
She tried to push him back against his mats, saying softly, “Lie down.”
But Man-who-kills said, “No, he should sit. Make him sit and wait for me.”
Man-who-kills climbed from the ulaq, and Chagak looked after him, wondering what he would do, angry that he would expect Shuganan to sit up.
“I will hold you up,” she said to Shuganan and moved behind him, lifting him to lean against her. His breathing seemed harder, and he began to cough. He moved his arms to grip his sides, then looked down at his bound left arm as though seeing it for the first time.
“Be still,” Chagak said. “You have broken ribs and a broken arm.” He lay heavily against her and she felt him relax, then stiffen as another spasm of coughing took him.
He fought against the coughing until he gagged, until Chagak, thinking his struggle was causing him more pain than the cough, said, “It hurts, but let yourself cough. It will help you breathe.”
Then again he relaxed and the coughing gradually stopped. He spat a gob of dark-colored phlegm from his mouth and whispered, “You are right. It helped.”
Then Man-who-kills came back down the climbing log, and to Chagak’s surprise, he carried a bundle of otter skins on each shoulder. He laid them out in front of Shuganan, counting as he did so. He dragged two seal stomachs from the food cache, each filled with dried seal meat, then, said to Shuganan, “Bride price for your granddaughter. Two seal, sixteen otter skin. Tonight she my wife.”
He looked at Chagak, and even though she held Shuganan against her, even though she wore her birdskin suk, she felt the heat of his eyes. She shuddered as she thought of Man-who-kills’ hands on her, thought of being wife to one she hated.
“You have met the price,” Shuganan said, his words a whisper, and Chagak felt him tremble even as she held him. “But if she does not want to be your wife, I will not force her.”
Man-who-kills squatted before Shuganan and laid his hands over Shuganan’s ribs. He looked into Chagak’s eyes and squeezed. Shuganan did not cry out but Chagak heard his sudden intake of breath.
“I will be your wife,” Chagak said to Man-who-kills and willed all the strength of her spirit to show in her eyes, willed him to see the hate and anger she felt.
“No,” Shuganan said.
“I must be his wife,” Chagak said. “If I am not, he might kill you and then what will stop him? I have no knife.”
Man-who-kills laughed. “Perhaps you need knives, old man. Then you would kill me?” He drew his long-bladed hunting knife from its sheath at his waist and forced it to the hilt into the hard-packed floor.
“It is yours for the night. Kill me.” And grabbing Chagak’s arms, he pulled her away from Shuganan and pushed her into her sleeping place.
Dread filled Chagak and gave her no room for breath, made her heart beat hard like waves against rock. But then she seemed to hear her mother’s voice, a remembrance of words once spoken: “It is not a terrible thing to become a wife. There is pain the first time and some blood, a little blood, nothing bad enough for tears.”
Then Chagak heard the whispering of some spirit, perhaps the spirit of one of the otters Man-who-kills had taken: “Do not let him know you are afraid. Do not let him know.”
So when Man-who-kills entered the sleeping place, Chagak remained standing and held the muscles of her legs stiff so she would not quiver.
“Sit,” he said to her.
Pressing as close to the curtained door as she could, Chagak sat, her hands clenched over her knees.
“Take off suk.”
Except for the time she had repaired it, Chagak had not taken off her suk in Man-who-kills’ presence. But now, as wife, she must do as her husband said and so pulled off the suk, gathering it to her as Man-who-kills crept close and began running his hands down her arms.
He jerked away the suk and dropped it to the floor. But it was within reach of the sleeping mats and Chagak felt a hope growing within her. If she could reach the suk, she could reach the knife hidden in it, but then, as though Man-who-kills knew her thoughts, he picked up the garment and passed it from one hand to the other.
“Heavy,” he said and laid the suk on the floor. He ran his hands around the bottom edge until he came to the placket Chagak had sewn, then, ripping the seams, he pulled out the woman’s knife and held it to Chagak’s face.
“You sew knife in this suk,” he said.
“It is the custom of my people,” Chagak said, her voice coming from her throat like a child’s whisper.
“What in here?” he asked running his hands down the placket. “Needles, an awl, sinew for thread. Things a woman should carry.”
“A knife?”
“It is a woman’s knife.”
Man-who-kills laughed. “Only woman’s knife,” he said. “Not hurt anybody.” He cupped one of her breasts in his hands and pressed the flat of the knife blade against her flesh. “It not cut too good, this knife?”
He drew the edge across the breast and a thin line of blood beaded up on her skin. “Some people, they mark women for beauty,” Man-who-kills said. “Must cut deep.” He drew another line across the other breast, ending with the knife blade at Chagak’s throat. He paused, smiled. “But not my people,” he said and suddenly threw the knife into the far corner of the sleeping place.
“Stand up,” he said.
She stood. Man-who-kills took off his parka, drew a knife from his wrist scabbard and cut the thong that held her apron. He laughed deep in his throat and reached out to touch her. He ran a hand between her legs, his skin rough, his touch harsh, then tasted his fingers. “You are salt,” he said. “Like sea.”
He pulled her down to the sleeping robes and spread her legs, poking and prodding, sniffing and pinching, and Chagak felt the welling of hate within her. She did not feel like a wife but like one traded as slave.
Tears pushed into her eyes, but then a voice seemed to whisper, “Come with me; come with me.” And suddenly Chagak was not only with Man-who-kills but was also walking the cliffs, feeling the joy of new summer, warm air blowing in from the sea. And to her surprise, Seal Stalker was beside her, holding her hand, and t
hey had no taboos, no reason to wait, she with no bride price keeping her virgin.
Chagak felt his hands on her, and she sank to the grass beside him, Chagak pulling off her suk as he pulled off his parka, removing her apron as he thrust his aside.
But then suddenly the weight of a body was on Chagak, pressing the breath from her lungs, and she was no longer with Seal Stalker but with Man-who-kills.
Man-who-kills was forcing her legs apart, pushing into her with hard thrusts, pressing until Chagak bit her lip in pain.
“You never had man,” he said to her and she hated his laughter.
He pushed again, and Chagak felt as though something within her was breaking, was tearing.
“You do not want me,” Man-who-kills said and as suddenly as he had rolled upon her he rolled off, giving Chagak space for a great gulp of air.
“You do not want me,” he said again, slapping her. The blow took Chagak by surprise and she gasped. He slapped her again, the sound high and sharp. He hit her face, her legs, her arms, punching and slapping, hitting until Chagak rolled herself into a ball, drawing her knees in to protect her belly and crossing her arms up over her head.
“You will learn to be good wife,” he said. “You will learn to be good wife.”
Shuganan lay on his mats and wished he could not hear. It had been hard enough listening to Man-who-kills laugh, but now the man was beating Chagak.
He has left me a knife, Shuganan thought, and rolled from the mat. The weight of his body seemed to crush the wind from his chest and he could not breathe, but he moved closer to the knife, using the fingers of his right hand and his knees.
Chagak screamed three times before Shuganan reached the knife, and as he wrapped his hands around the hilt, her screaming changed to sobs, but with each of her cries Shuganan felt himself grow stronger.
He lay still for a moment, then rolled to his back, taking in great swallows of air, his ribs aching so badly he wanted only to lie still, to do nothing that would cause him more pain.
Darkness began to creep into the edges of his mind, blotting out thought, bringing sleep, easing the pain, but then Shuganan heard Chagak’s cries once again, and he rolled back to his belly, gagged as the taste of blood came into his mouth. He grasped the knife and pulled, but Man-who-kills had thrust it too deeply into the floor and Shuganan could not move it.
He pushed his thumbs against the flat of the blade, and finally the knife moved. He jerked the handle back and forth and pushed with his thumbs once again. With each push, the knife moved, and then Shuganan felt the blade slip, as if the earth had released it.
Then Shuganan pushed himself to the curtain of Chagak’s sleeping place. There was still movement inside, the rhythm of man with woman, and Chagak was crying. Shuganan rolled again to his back and waited. He was not strong enough to do anything until Man-who-kills slept.
Man-who-kills had hit Chagak until the blood poured from her nose, until her teeth cut the insides of her cheeks, then he had used his sleeve knife to cut the membrane that covered her woman’s passage and open a path so he could enter her. The cutting had been a small thing, but now with his long man part still inside her and Man-who-kills moving, rubbing against the wound he had made, the pain broke over Chagak with each thrust.
It took all her concentration to stay above it, and she lost the thought of her people, lost the voice of her mother.
It seemed the pain had been with her forever, something she had always lived with, always known, like the rhythm of the sea, the crashing of the ocean. Her cries were only the cries of gulls, soaring above. So when Man-who-kills stopped moving, the quiet caught in her throat—the dying of the pain like the dying of the wind, a surprise, and something that brought fear. He did not move from her but seemed to lie more heavily upon her, and finally she felt the part of him within her grow small, felt it slip from her and rest against her thigh.
Man-who-kills murmured something and then Chagak heard his snores and was surprised. How could he sleep? But his sleeping was a relief. Then, except for his weight pressing against her, she was alone.
Her nose still trickled blood and she groped in the darkness for her apron, something to stanch the bleeding and wipe the crusted blood from her face. She moved her hands as far as she could, coming up with nothing. Finally she grabbed the edge of a grass mat, but as she pulled it toward her, she felt a ridge in the packed earth floor. She traced the line of it with a finger.
It was a rectangle, perhaps as long as her hand, and when she pressed on it, it moved as though there were something beneath it.
Then came the whisper of a voice, perhaps that of her mother or grandmother: “Shuganan has knives hidden.”
Chagak pried at the dirt with her fingertips. She had to stretch her arm out full length, and her hand quickly tired. She tried to move closer, but Man-who-kills moaned and tucked her more tightly beneath him, and so Chagak dug at the edges with her nails. The dirt was like a wedge, separating nails from fingertips, but finally she had worked her fingers down far enough to grip the chunk of cut floor and lift it up.
There was a soft thud as she forced the clump of dirt up, then, reaching to the bottom of the hole, Chagak found the knife. It was not large, but was a hunting knife, perhaps something a boy would carry. And at first it felt strange in her hand, a man’s weapon, something she should not have, but then she remembered the night her village was burned, remembered her mother and sister in the fire, remembered the sight of Seal Stalker’s body, the slit across the belly, the spilling of intestines, and as she remembered, the knife became more and more a part of her until finally it felt as though it had grown from her hand.
She drew the knife to her side and tucked it under the edge of the sleeping mat. She wanted to keep it in her hand but knew that she must first know where to strike.
She lifted her left hand, running it lightly over Man-who-kills’ face, then into the indent of his neck. She laid her fingers against his skin and held her breath, not moving until she felt the slow beating that was his heart. She trembled and it seemed as if her whole spirit were crowded into her fingertips.
She moved her hand to grip the amulet at her neck and in her mind spoke to Aka, to the sea otters and to the spirits of her people. “Do not let me fail. He will kill others if I do not kill him. Guide my hand. Guide my knife. Let me kill him.”
She lowered her hand and groped at the edge of the mat until she found the knife. She gripped it tightly, and it seemed as though the spirit of the knife reached out to her own spirit, caught and held. She raised the knife and used her little finger to find the pulse and then, clenching her teeth, pulled the knife hard across Man-who-kills’ neck.
For a moment there was nothing, no blood, no movement, and some spirit whispered, “You did not cut deep enough.”
But then Man-who-kills’ hands were at Chagak’s neck, squeezing until Chagak thought she could feel the inside walls of her throat touch.
She stabbed at him with the knife, slicing his arms and shoulders, and then someone else was with them in the sleeping place. At first Chagak thought it was a spirit, her father or perhaps Seal Stalker coming to get her, to take her with him into the spirit world, but then she knew it was Shuganan.
He had a knife. Chagak saw the old man raise himself to his knees, saw him hold the knife above the center of Man-who-kills’ back. She felt the force of the weapon as Shuganan thrust it between Man-who-kills’ ribs, as he leaned against it, driving it deeper. And suddenly Man-who-kills’ hands were no longer on her neck but around Shuganan’s waist, lifting him high, slamming him to the floor.
Shuganan lay still and Man-who-kills pulled himself to his knees, vomiting blood and gripping his neck with both hands.
Shuganan could not move. The pain in his side was so intense, he had to clench his teeth to keep from crying out. But it was not the pain that filled his mind.
Man-who-kills was kneeling, knife in his back, blood spurting from the wound in his neck. Shuganan watched unt
il the bleeding stopped, until the man fell forward and lay still, his face pressed into the dirt floor. Then Shuganan closed his eyes. The darkness separated him from the dead man, and Shuganan felt nothing, heard nothing until Chagak’s high, thin wail broke through to him and he opened his eyes.
The girl was curled on the floor beside him, her hair pulled over her breasts like a black curtain. Even in the dim light of the ulaq, Shuganan could see the darkening of bruises on her arms and legs. But he did not have the strength to hold her, to comfort her.
TWENTY-TWO
CHAGAK GRIPPED HER SHAMAN’S AMULET with both hands and watched as Shuganan climbed down into the ulaq. He insisted that he go alone, but she worried that he would be too weak to climb down safely, and she closed her eyes in relief when the old man reached the bottom of the climbing log without falling.
It would take him a long time, he had said. She should wait and pray. And though Shuganan’s injuries hampered him, it seemed that some of Man-who-kills’ strength now belonged to the old man.
Why should that be a surprise? Chagak asked herself. The hunter always gained some portion of power from the animals he killed. Why else would a young man after his first seal kill suddenly be so bold, so sure in his actions? Why would he suddenly be so much more skilled in the ikyak?
Chagak had not slept the night before. Ignoring the pain of her bruises, she had covered Man-who-kills’ body with old hides and packed everything in the ulaq. She had wrapped Shuganan’s carvings in soft skins and packed them into seal stomachs and baskets. Last, she had hauled everything—food, supplies, weapons—to the center of the ulaq and carried them outside.
She had nearly left the otter skins that had been her bride price, but then had heard her mother’s voice whisper, “Do not let the skins stay with him. It is better that you throw them into the sea. Perhaps the otter spirits will claim them and come back to their homes by the shore.”
