by Janet Dailey
“Why have they come?” she wondered.
“To visit. Maybe to trade.” He seemed unconcerned.
Her instincts were not so trusting. Winter Swan watched her husband walk away to join the headman and greet the new arrivals.
Beside her, Summer-Face Woman went to work on the gutted halibut with renewed vigor, deftly cutting strips of the white flesh from the bone. “We must prepare these fish so we may feed our visitors,” she said, then cast a quick, excited smile in Winter Swan’s direction. “There will be much singing and dancing tonight.”
“Yes.” Winter Swan forced her attention back to the fish, but without the enthusiasm for the chore that Summer-Face Woman exhibited.
“Maybe one of the strangers will offer presents to sleep with me tonight.” As Summer-Face Woman considered the possibility, her dark eyes glittered.
Winter Swan knew she would not accept if an offer was made to her, although it was her right to do so if she wished. A man did not own his wife’s body. She was free to lie with another man if she chose. But Winter Swan had never found the pleasure in another man’s arms that she had with Strong Man. And she certainly shared none of Summer-Face Woman’s curiosity for what it might be like to couple with one of the strangers.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the men from another land enter her village. All the men were there to welcome them except for Many Whiskers and three others who were away hunting. As soon as the fish was cut up, Winter Swan assisted the other women in their hurried preparations to accommodate their unexpected guests in the communal dwelling.
While the meal was being readied, Winter Swan and Weaver Woman pushed aside the covering of dried grass to clear an area of the packed earth floor for the dancing that would come later. As they finished, the headman descended the notched log ladder from the hatch opening in the roof, escorting his visitors into his familial home. Winter Swan was immediately conscious of the tension in the air and the suspicious way the men looked around. The strangers gripped their thundersticks as if ready to use them. Their behavior made her uneasy, and she glided quickly out of their way.
The barabara was soon crowded with villagers and guests. The tension seemed to lessen when the women served the meal of raw fish seasoned with berry paste. Using hand signs, Strong Man and his male relatives established a halting communication with the strangers, but there were many gaps in the primitive conversation.
The earthen walls of the half-buried barabara held in the warmth given off by the stone lamps and the body heat from so many people gathered inside. Seeking relief, Winter Swan followed the lead of other members of her village, both male and female, and removed her long parka of otter skins so the air could touch her bare skin. Seldom did her people wear clothes inside the barabara except on the coldest of winter days, and sometimes on exceptionally warm summer days they went about their work outside without any covering.
As she moved among the strangers picking up the empty serving bowls, she was conscious of the way they stared at her. Little by little, Winter Swan had become accustomed to the strangeness of these men, their round eyes and thickly whiskered faces, but their peculiar clothing she continued to regard as very confining and wondered how the air ever touched their skin. She suspected they must be very warm in their close-fitting garments. Sweat trickled down the brows of some, but none made any attempt to remove their clothes.
With the feasting over, it was time for the dancing to begin. Winter Swan watched with pride as Strong Man took off his bird-skin parka and stowed it inside their private cubicle in the barabara. His naked body bulged with massive muscles, his arms and legs like sinewy trunks, and his broad chest and shoulders like an ocean-smoothed rock. The long torsos of all the men in her village were notable in their high muscle relief and little fat. Yet, next to Strong Man, they resembled female fur seals next to a beachmaster bull. Winter Swan heard the strangers murmuring in their alien tongue and knew they were impressed with the might of her husband.
When Luka first noticed the natives removing their parkas and saw they wore nothing underneath, his interest was aroused by the paleness of their skin. Unlike their ruddy faces and hands, which were exposed to the elements, their bodies were a creamy shade of ivory. He stared at the bare-breasted women walking among them, then he saw the muscled brute of a man.
“Would you look at that one?” he murmured to Belyaev seated beside him. Reluctantly the Russian hunter dragged his attention away from the naked women in their midst. “He looks like trouble to me.”
“I would not want to get crosswise of him,” Belyaev agreed thoughtfully. “I would wager he could strangle a man’s neck with each hand and wrap his legs around a third and choke him to death, too.”
“We need to watch him.”
Belyaev grunted an acknowledgment. “Have you noticed the women? They aren’t bad to look at even with those ivory buttons poking out of the skin by their lips. I feared they were all going to look like that old hag you brought to the shitik. I wonder if we could persuade any of them to warm our beds tonight.”
“With the likes of him around, I wouldn’t try to find out if I were you,” Luka advised dryly. “That is, unless you keep your musket primed and handy.”
“Have you ever kept a native woman before, Luka Ivanovich?”
“No.” It would have meant turning his back to one of alien race, trusting one to an extent, and that was something he’d never been able to bring himself to do. He’d always limited his contact with native women to the duration of sexual intercourse, then kicked them out of his bed.
“I had one once. A lot can be said for having a woman around when you want one.” Belyaev smiled crookedly. “She’s good for more than warming your bed. She cooks and sews and tends you. Eventually they all start making demands, but then you send them back to their village and get a new one.”
“Yes.” Luka watched the four naked men assemble near the area where the dirt floor had been cleared of the loose grass covering. They were joined by other natives with bladder-skin drums.
He didn’t like being trapped in this barabara with all these natives. It didn’t allow for any fighting room. If the natives did attack, they’d pay hell getting out of here. And the fighting would be hand to hand; their muskets wouldn’t do them much good. All this food, dancing, and show of hospitality could be an act of treachery designed to lull the promyshleniki into letting down their guard, then the natives would fall on them.
“I have been thinking.” Belyaev watched a native woman walk by, noting the sway of her hips. “This would be a good site for our winter quarters. The cliffs shelter the valley from the wind, the stream provides us with fresh water, and the bay contains fish. There are plenty of sea otter in the area. If we build our camp by the village, we will have access to the native boats—and their women.”
“And it will make it easy for them to murder us in our sleep,” Luka added.
“I have been thinking about that, too.” He grinned widely, the action as always drawing attention to the prominent gap between his front teeth. “And I haven’t been able to figure out what use these natives are to us. They don’t pay tribute. They have no wish to hunt sea otter. And they don’t want to trade us their boats. They act friendly, but so did those natives on the other island. And you had to fight your way off that beach. It occurs to me we could eliminate some problems if we did away with some of the obstacles around here.”
Luka glanced around the room, considering the present odds again. He had no more compunction about killing a native than he did about squashing a beetle. Ultimately it might come down to killing or being killed.
“Not here. Not now,” Belyaev said. But he had made it clear to Luka that if the promyshleniki could not get what they wanted, they would take it.
Hands beat a primal rhythm on the bladder drums while the naked dancers leaped onto the packed earthen floor. Luka stared at the brawny native, all sinew and glistening flesh. He represented the strength of the tribe, th
eir symbol of power—and the greatest threat to the promyshleniki.
CHAPTER V
While Winter Swan prepared the day’s first meal, Strong Man went through their son’s morning ritual of exercises, making a game of them. She listened to the wordless sounds Strong Man made as he gently pulled Walks Straight’s arm directly over his shoulder and back behind his head, making the joint supple. Usually it was her son’s uncle, Many Whiskers, who played with him, but he was still away from the village hunting.
She glanced over to watch her husband massaging their son’s knees. Walks Straight sat on a box with his legs straight and his feet resting on another box while Strong Man pressed lightly downward on his knees. Bending his foot forward and backward as far as it would go, Walks Straight stretched the hamstring muscles along the back of his leg. In another five summers, Walks Straight would be able to sit comfortably in a kayak with his legs outstretched and not suffer from cramping. This conditioning would serve him well in the future, but at the moment, Winter Swan simply enjoyed watching the two of them together.
All too soon the food was ready and she had to interrupt their play. As the two of them came to eat, Walks Straight marched beside his father. It always amused her to see how proudly he carried himself, but she never let it show.
The incomprehensible tongue of the strangers drifted into the barabara through the opening in the roof. “Will they be leaving today?” she asked her husband.
“No. They are going to stay here.”
“How long?”
“Until next summer, when they will leave for their land across the waters.”
Frowning, she glanced about their family dwelling, remembering how crowded it had been last night. “But they cannot stay here. There is not enough room.”
But it was more than the lack of room that worried her. The way some of them had looked at her made her uncomfortable in their presence. She had never had this feeling when men from other villages had looked at her, showing their desire to lie with her. It was a sensation she couldn’t explain, but she knew she didn’t like it.
“They will build their own.”
But it wasn’t enough that they would sleep somewhere else. She wanted them to leave the village and never come back. She kept remembering the deaths of Small Hand and Moon Face. Her people on Agattu would not have been so willing to forget them as Strong Man’s family was. They had attacked these strangers and driven them away from the island.
“Why do you trust these strangers?” She was troubled by his calm acceptance of the situation. “I cannot. When they look at me, the thing that is in their eyes is not good.”
“It is only that their faces are different from ours.”
“And their ways are different,” Winter Swan argued. “Have you forgotten they killed Small Hand and Moon Face? They were hostile to the people from my village on Agattu. I think they are bad. We should not let them stay. We should make them leave the island … and fight them as my people did if they refuse. Speak to the headman and warn him of the danger of letting these strangers live among us. He will listen to you.”
“But they have come in peace to hunt our brother the sea otter. How can we make war on them?” Strong Man frowned. “That would be wrong.”
“They will bring suffering to our village. It is a thing I feel,” she persisted.
“As long as they live in peace with us, we will live in peace with them. The suffering will come if we make war on them.”
Winter Swan watched her husband while he ate, wanting desperately to believe in his wisdom.
Luka watched the Aleut emerge from the roof hatch of the barabara. The ocher-stained bird-skin parka hung to his ankles and concealed his powerful physique, making him appear no different than any other native man, but Luka knew better. A glimpse of that thick neck was all he needed to identify him. Last night he had witnessed the native’s suppleness and agility in the dance. He observed it again as the man walked down the mound to the village common, the little boy at his side copying his movements.
By his count that put the number of native men, young and old, at fifteen. He glanced at Belyaev, wondering at the promyshlenik’s true intentions after the things he’d said last night. At the moment, his attentions were focused on a native woman. Luka watched Belyaev saunter over to her. She looked at him with interest gleaming in her dark eyes. Luka had learned long ago that sex was an indiscriminate instinct.
“I like your parka.” Belyaev smiled and pretended to admire the garment. He felt the thick otter fur along the point of her shoulder. She moved slightly but didn’t attempt to escape his touch. Encouraged, Belyaev grew bolder. “The fur is soft. It makes me wonder if your skin is as soft underneath this parka.” He stroked the front of the garment and stopped his hand when it was over her breast, leaving it there. “I would wager it is.” His suggestive action and tone seemed to unnerve her. She backed away from him and turned as if to flee. Belyaev grabbed her arm. “Don’t run away. We were just getting acquainted.”
She struggled, trying to pull free of his grip, alarm now showing in her expression. One of the natives stepped forward and spoke sharply to Belyaev in his Aleut tongue. A translation of his warning to let the woman go was unnecessary; his challenging posture made it clear. Luka watched them tensely, waiting to see if a fight would erupt.
“She belongs to you, does she?” Belyaev smiled coldly at the native and released the woman. “I was just admiring her parka,” he explained through sign and stared at the native until he backed away. As soon as he did, Belyaev called him back. “Maybe your wife would be interested in trading that fur parka of hers for a few trinkets.” He motioned for the man to follow him as he walked over to his pack lying on the ground.
When he opened the pack and dumped the contents from a small pouch onto the trampled grass, more natives milled around to see. He started to hold up a string of red beads, but one of the natives spied another object in the pile of goods and grabbed it out, jabbering excitedly. Curious, Luka stepped closer. It looked like a rusty iron bolt, yet all the natives were eager to examine it.
Luka frowned. No other trade article had created such a stir among the natives. They turned excitedly to show it to the Samson of their tribe, and watched while he inspected it. His affirmative nod started them all jabbering again. Belyaev demanded the return of the iron bolt. Reluctantly it was given to him. Then he was immediately besieged with offers to trade, but he repeatedly shook his head and returned all the articles to his pack.
“Why doesn’t he trade that worthless piece of iron for the bidarka?” Shekhurdin frowned with disapproval. Luka wondered the same thing.
“He has a reason.” Although Luka couldn't guess what it was.
“And what is his reason for wasting the morning? We should be erecting our winter camp and gathering a store of food. He has sent out no men to explore and locate the good hunting areas. He’s kept them all here—idle. Some leader we have,” the Cossack declared scornfully.
“Maybe he expects trouble.”
“Not from these natives. Chuprov has the chief’s son as hostage. And the chief has already offered to have his people help in the construction of our quarters. We have nothing to fear from them.”
Luka didn’t put much stock in that opinion. Turning from his pack, Belyaev rose and slipped a hand inside his shirt, then walked toward them. Luka frowned. If he hadn’t seen Belyaev put the iron bolt in his pack, he would have sworn he just slipped it inside his shirt.
“I have a feeling they would trade their mother for that piece of iron.” Belyaev smiled.
“Why not find out?” Shekhurdin challenged.
“You have little experience at trading, have you?” His expression showed contempt for the Cossack. “It isn’t something you rush with these natives. The longer you wait, the more they want what you have and the higher the price goes.”
“Are we traders or hunters?” Shekhurdin retorted.
“I don’t know what you are, Cossack,�
� Belyaev jeered. “I only know you are lucky to be alive. If you want to stay that way, get out of my sight.”
The Cossack’s face became mottled with an impotent rage. After an instant’s hesitation, Shekhurdin pivoted sharply on his heel and stalked away. Having been bested by him in a fight before, the Cossack didn’t seek to pit himself against Belyaev again in combat. But Luka knew he would seek another means to defeat him if he could.
“Hey! Get away from my pack!” At Belyaev’s sudden shout, Luka instantly swung back to face the natives. One stood closer to the pack than the others. Belyaev strode back to his bundle and immediately searched through its contents. “It’s gone,” he accused, coming to his feet to confront the native who had first picked up the iron bolt. “You stole it, you thieving savage! Where is it?” He grabbed the Aleut’s wrist and forced his hand open, but the palm was empty. So was the other one. “Where have you hidden it? Which one of these accomplices did you give it to?”
Belyaev dug his fingers into the parka’s standing collar and tightened its circle to press his fist against the man’s throat. Alarmed, the native struggled against his grip while his comrades looked on uncertainly. Belyaev gave him a shove backwards into the others.
“He stole the iron,” Belyaev announced to his promyshleniki. “If we let him get by with it, they will steal everything we have. We must make an example of him.” He turned to the hunter immediately to his left. “Shoot him.”
It was virtually point-blank range. As the hunter cradled the wooden butt close to his shoulder, Luka braced himself for the explosive report, his battle senses sharpening. The musket boomed, belching fire and powder smoke. A woman screamed, and the impact of the lead ball knocked the native to the ground, mortally wounded. Somewhere a child started crying.
