by Sue Harrison
CHAPTER THREE
NIGHT CLOUDS MOVED IN, darkened the moon, and though Water Gourd was determined to stay awake, he fell asleep, slept long and hard until the girl’s wailing broke into his dreams.
He comforted her as best he could, and when the sun rose, he gave her some venison, and much of the water in one of his precious gourds, but she still whined and cried, asking for her mother, her father, her aunt. He considered dumping her into the sea, but he had placed her by then, knew she was Fire Mountain Man’s daughter. Fire Mountain Man had always been good to him, willing to share meat and fish, and for that reason, Water Gourd stayed his hand. He remembered the cries of the girl’s mother as she was being attacked, and though in his mind he defended his choices, he also had to push away thoughts that accused him of cowardice.
Cowardice? No. Wisdom. If he had been killed, who would warn the next village about the Bear-god warriors? Surely the sea gods had saved him for that purpose. Of course it was possible that they had only meant to save the girl, though why she would be worth saving, he could not understand.
He finally decided that her discomfort was due to the soiled rag she wore between her legs. He humbled himself to take on the duties of a nursemaid and cleaned her, dipping her to the waist in the sea until the filth was washed away, then wrapping a clean rag around her. He rinsed out the old and laid it across the boat to dry, apologizing to the wood for the indignity of such a thing. But the boat did not seem to mind, played no tricks on them, and so gave Water Gourd further proof that the girl, rather than he himself, was the reason he was now safe and beyond reach of the Bear-gods.
After he ate, Water Gourd purposely paddled farther out, until only by squinting could he see the convoluted line of land, hovering like distant clouds at the edge of the horizon.
Then he paddled south until he was sure he was parallel with the next Boat People’s village. That village was not as strong as his own had been, but with warning, they might prevail against the Bear-gods. Water Gourd knew many of the fishermen of that village, had celebrated with them during their summer festivals, and they traded back and forth—fish and deerskins, shell beads and harpoons for the big earthenware pots those fishermen’s wives made so well.
When Water Gourd was satisfied he had taken the boat far enough, he stopped and, to pass the time until night, used the point of his wrist knife to pry out the slivers in his knees. Now and again he paddled to keep his boat where he wanted it, but he decided it was safe to sleep away the afternoon, and when night fell to turn the boat toward land and paddle in. If the Bear-god People had taken the neighboring village—and he would surely know by the smoke that would rise from the ruins—he would go back out to sea before they noticed him, then continue south to the next village.
He gave the child some water, sang her bits of songs he remembered from his own childhood, and told her they would sleep a little while. She stuck two fingers into her mouth, looked at him solemnly, and nodded her agreement, then pulled with determination at the blanket he still had wrapped around his legs. He gave her the smaller deerskin, but she would not take it. Finally he shook a finger at her, giving a stern admonition. Since when did children tell grown men what to do?
She pulled the fingers out of her mouth, bared her teeth, and growled. It was good that he remembered her as Fire Mountain Man’s daughter, or he might believe she was a Bear-god child. Then surely he would drop her into the sea.
He sighed and again cursed his bad luck, then gave her the largest deerskin. She stuck her fingers back into her mouth and lay down beside him, reached over to pat his leg. He bared his yellow teeth at her, gaping though they were, four in front where eight should be. Her lips trembled and she closed her eyes, covered her little face with one hand. Water Gourd hawked and spat over the side of the boat. Was any man ever so tested?
He began a song, and though it was a hunter’s song, he tried to sing it softly, patting her as he crooned out the words, until finally they were both asleep.
When Water Gourd woke at dusk, he could no longer see the land. He breathed in hard to fill his nose with air and told himself that he could smell the earth. The girl was still asleep, and so when he began to paddle, turning the boat west, he used a gentle rhythm.
By the time the sky was completely dark, the child awoke. Her dreams must have frightened her, for suddenly she was shrieking so loudly that Water Gourd had to set aside the paddle and gather her into his arms. He gave her water and half a chestnut cake, wiped her eyes and nose on a corner of her blanket. He could not remember what her parents called her, so he soothed her with the name of Daughter, and once again changed the rag between her legs. Then he set her down so he could paddle.
He watched the horizon for signs of a village—beach torches, hearth fires, or the smoke of destruction—but though he paddled long into the night, muttering prayers to the boat and the earth, there was nothing but the sea. Finally his arms were so heavy he could no longer lift them. So he sat, watching until dawn, comforting himself with assurances that the morning light would bring sight of land, and if he had to wait another night, what hardship was there in that? He had water and food.
But when morning came, fear brought bile to his throat. There was nothing on any horizon, and only by the sun’s place in the sky did he know in which direction the land lay. Daughter seemed to sense his fear, and began to cry, not with the shrieks that come with nightmares or the fussiness caused by urine burns, but a low throaty moan like an old woman mourning.
CHAPTER FOUR
WATER GOURD PADDLED THROUGH the day and did not stop until he was able to see land toward the west. He took time to eat and feed Daughter, then he followed the sun as it set. By the time the moon rose, the land loomed dark and large, black against the purple of the sea.
He watched for the light of night fires, but there was nothing. Had the Bear-god warriors already destroyed every village? No, he assured himself. If they had, he would see smoke lifting from the ruins.
Perhaps someone else from his village had also escaped and was able to get to those people who lived south, warn them not to burn night fires so the Bear-gods would miss their villages if they passed in the darkness. But without night fires, Water Gourd was afraid to beach his boat. He could not tell where he was, and when a man does not know where shoals and rocks lurk, he is wise to stay in deep water until morning light reveals the danger. He kept himself awake by biting the insides of his cheeks.
Finally the sun broke the horizon, and he paddled until he came to a cove. The tide was low. A good thing if a beach was given to rips and hard currents, a bad thing if the sea lay shallow over reefs.
“Do you deceive me?” he shouted at the calm waters.
Daughter raised up and looked over the edge of the boat. “’Ceive me?” she echoed.
Water Gourd felt his lips curl into a smile, the first since the Bear-god warriors had attacked his village. He pulled the girl to sit between his knees and paddled the boat with strong strokes toward the shore. It moved easily, and in the shallows, Water Gourd could see that only sand and water plants lay beneath the surface. He did not stop paddling until the bow of the boat was well up on the beach, then he slowly unbent his old man legs and climbed out. Daughter raised her hands to him, so he lifted her, set her down on the beach, and motioned her away from the boat.
The boat was heavy, nearly impossible for an old man to drag, but he heaved and shoved and took advantage of the lift of small waves until even the stern was beyond reach of the sea. He sat down until his strength returned, then he and Daughter began to explore the land. They found a freshwater stream where they washed themselves. After refilling the empty water gourds, the old man lay belly down on the river bank, extended an arm into the water, and lay still and quiet until a fish swam over his fingers. With one deft movement Water Gourd flipped it to the shore, setting Daughter to chortle with delight. Though it was a freshwater fish, he did not bother to cook it. Why risk a fire? He sliced it thin, and they
ate it raw. He gave Daughter the eyes, and watched with longing as she swallowed them, but he saved the cheeks for himself. A fair trade, more than fair, he reasoned.
They gathered sea urchins in tide pools until Daughter’s blanket bulged with them, and they picked water plants: dulce and ribbon kelp and nori.
That night, after finding no sign of any village, not even a path or trail, they returned to the boat. Water Gourd placed several fist-sized stones in the bow—something of the earth to hold the boat ashore, so any sea-longings it possessed would be counteracted by the need of the rocks to stay on land. He stowed his water gourds, tying them in place in the stern, and set the sea urchins and plants in the bow. Then he made a bed for himself and Daughter in the center of the boat, the cedar walls close about them, the splintery bottom cushioned with beach grass.
The storm came suddenly. Wind and rain wrenched them from their dreams. Water Gourd considered tipping the boat belly up, but the storm cut at them from all sides—the rain coming from north, then south, and turning again. So even if he could tip the boat completely over—if he had the strength to do such a thing—the sea might rise and flood them.
Daughter began to cry, and he wrapped her in his arms, felt the warmth of her as comfort. For a time he sang songs, but he doubted she could hear him over the rage of the winds, and finally, his throat tight and sore, he stopped.
The rain soaked through their deerskin blankets, and he began to shake. The clattering of his teeth made his head ache. Then suddenly the boat lurched, and he knew the storm had taken them. He leaned forward over Daughter, flipped the largest blanket over the heap of sea urchins, and weighted it down with the rocks. He fumbled for the jar of dried meat, settled it under his buttocks, an uncomfortable seat, but better than losing their food. He split one gourd and used it to bail out the water that had begun to slap into the boat from the sea.
Daughter clung to him, her arms stretching to reach around his waist. With each wave that broke over them, Water Gourd was sure the boat would be swamped, but it managed to stay afloat. He bailed until his arms were heavy as stone, until an ache burned at the center of his chest, until finally he knew nothing but pain, fear, and darkness.
When day came, clouds lay heavy over the sun, but at least Water Gourd could see. He clung to the sides of the boat, bailed, and once, when the wind slacked, cracked a few sea urchins to get at the eggs. Rich and sweet, they warmed him from within, and even Daughter ate willingly when he offered her some on the flat of his thumbnail.
He had never spent much time thinking about small children. They were too fussy and smelly to have much importance. But he found himself marveling over her tiny perfect face, the black shining eyes, her fair and flawless skin. Her nose was only a bump, the space between her eyes perfectly flat, her ears like shells curled at the sides of her head. The rain had smoothed her hair, flattened it to her skull. She gripped his wrist with both hands as she licked his thumbnail, and he saw that one of her fingernails had been partially ripped away, a line of dark blood marking the tear. When she finished, he offered her more, but she turned her head, so he ate the eggs himself, pulled her back into the shelter of his legs, and continued to bail.
The storm lasted four days, and most of the time Water Gourd lived in a waking dream of bailing and paddling. He stopped only to drink a little rain water he caught in his bailing gourd, or to eat a share of the sea plants, chestnut cakes, or a thumbnail of urchin eggs. Sometime during the third day, he fell into a dreamless sleep. He woke feeling stronger, more hopeful, and lifted his eyes to see that a thin line of blue sky sliced the clouds. The wind had shifted to the south, was bringing warmer air, and the rain had stopped. He tried to smile, but a hardened rime of salt had molded his face into a mask of fear. He dug at his cheeks with his fingernails, peeled away the crust.
Daughter was curled on his feet, the girl so still that his breath caught. He reached down, lifted her, and she stretched out slowly, as though she were a stiff-jointed old woman. Water Gourd set her on his lap, grimaced at how cold she was. Her hair was frosted with salt, stiff as ice, and she lifted raw, red hands to swipe at her eyes, but when she looked up at him she smiled, and when he offered her a sea urchin, she ate willingly.
He ate also, then reached for the paddle he had wedged between his leg and the side of the boat. The sea was nearly calm, and he could see the place of the sun behind the clouds. He would paddle west toward his home, and even if the storm winds rose again, at least he would have gained back a little of the distance he had lost.
His hand closed over nothing, and he grasped again before he looked and saw that the paddle was gone. He clambered into the bow, dumping Daughter from his lap, did not even hear her cries of protest. He pushed his hands into the pile of sea urchins, ignored the prickling of their shells, then scrambled into the back of the boat, even over the outrigger rails to the small shaped log that kept them from capsizing in the waves.
The paddle wasn’t in the boat. He stood, looked out in all directions. It wasn’t even floating nearby. His despair was so great that he considered flinging himself into the sea. Why continue to fight when the storm had managed to take his best weapon? But as he looked into the cold depths, he lost his courage or perhaps regained it. The sea might take him, but he would not give up willingly.
He pulled the bailing gourd from inside his woven rush shirt, filled it from the bottom of the boat, and drank. The water was brackish and tasted of burnt wood, dark from the char that had not been carved away, salty, but not as salty as sea water—rain mixed with what the waves had brought in. He offered some to Daughter, then began to bail.
It seemed as though he had bailed forever. Four days since the storm had begun. How many days since he had left his village? Seven? Eight?
As he bailed, he watched the sky and realized that the sea was taking them north. But then the storm again howled down upon them, this time from the south and the east. He wrapped himself and Daughter in a deerskin blanket, and he continued to bail, working through that day and the next.
The morning of the sixth day, the sky divided, the clouds cut asunder as though by a knife, and Water Gourd knew that the storm’s back had been broken. At midday the sun shone down on them.
The boat and outrigger, the blankets, even the bottle gourds were coated with ice. The storm had driven them north, far beyond their own village, or any of the Boat People’s villages. Perhaps he and Daughter were not meant to survive, for surely the storm had brought them to the small northern islands of the Bear-god People. Without a paddle. With a dwindling supply of sea urchins. With only ice rime and the water in the gourds. What hope did they have?
As the days passed, Water Gourd’s hands went through the motions of keeping himself and Daughter alive. He carefully scraped the ice from the boat and blankets each morning, placed it in the split gourd, and held the gourd between his legs until the ice melted. Then he divided it between Daughter and himself, taking care to share it equally. Each night, they both took a swallow of water from the gourds.
In his thirst he thought much about water. As water carrier, it had been his life, but his first days hauling spring water had been filled with resentment. All the years hunting and fishing had brought him only the dishonor of doing boy’s work. Anger had filled him so full that he didn’t have room to swallow his own spit. He had seen other old men like that, drooling until chins were wet and crusted with saliva. He did not want to be like them, but still his hatred grew.
He hated the water he carried. He hated the bottle gourds. He hated the path that wound its way to the spring, slippery in winter, prickly with sharp-edged grass in summer. How much easier to hate than to look honestly at his own weak legs, his bent and gnarled fingers. But now in the boat, mouth parched, he thought longingly of those gourds, water beads on their tough, smooth shells. He remembered the smiles women gave him when he filled their water pots. He thought of the small gifts they offered in return—chestnut cakes, mussels and sea urchins, s
eeds roasted on hearthstones.
He began to realize that his work of carrying water had not been without honor. He had done what he was able to do, and maybe in some ways that was even more respectable than having a place as a wise elder, sitting and talking, expecting others to bring him food and water.
“Why didn’t I realize that my life was good?” he asked Daughter.
She looked up at him with solemn eyes, perhaps surprised that he had spoken to her. Their world was mostly one of silence. He crooned a little when he wanted her to sleep, but his voice was ragged and harsh, brittle with age. Sometimes he heard her singing a song, muffled by the fingers that were always in her mouth, and sometimes she cried, but she had stopped asking for her mother.
Water Gourd no longer attempted to count the days. He was past numbering them. Too many days without enough food, without fire for warmth, without good water.
The storm had filled the earthenware pot, so the dried meat and fish inside had rotted. Each day he forced himself to choke down a little, and each day he tried to get Daughter to eat some, too, but usually she refused. He could not say he was sad when the food in that pot was finally gone.
Besides the spoiled meat, he allowed Daughter one sea urchin a day, himself two, but the morning finally came when there was only one left. He ate the eggs from three of the ovaries, gave Daughter the rest.
As Water Gourd licked the last of them from his thumbnail, his eyes began to prickle. He squeezed them shut, then rubbed the heels of his hands against the lids, was startled to find that his cheeks were wet with tears. I cry for Daughter, he told himself. Why waste pity on myself? He had lived well, had wives and sons. Daughter was the one who deserved a longer life. He looked down at her small face—at the eyes, once so bright, now sunken and dull with hunger—and sorrow burned at the center of his chest.
