Call Down the Stars

by Sue Harrison

  Daughter had been so lulled by the old woman’s words that it took her a moment to realize that she expected an answer.

  “This is my first trading trip,” Daughter said.

  “Do you know where you are?”

  “No,” Daughter admitted, “but this is the second village we passed today.”

  The old woman laughed. “How will you find this place again if you do not know where you are?” she asked, but she did not seem to be scolding, for then she added, “This is the Traders’ Beach.”

  Her words made Daughter glad, for she had heard Seal speak of the place, and knew he planned to stay and trade.

  The old woman tipped her head and stared at Daughter’s face, then she asked, “You have always lived in your mother’s village?”

  Daughter was not sure how to answer. But after thinking for a while, she said, “There are those who say I once lived on another beach. There are those who say that storm winds brought me and my grandfather a long way to a First Men’s village.”

  As though she were speaking to herself, the old woman mumbled, “I knew there was something different about the face. The eyes are not First Men eyes, and the nose is too small.” Then she raised her voice to ask, “Do you remember this other place where you lived?”

  “Sometimes in my dreams it comes back to me,” Daughter told her.

  “Then do not forget your dreams. That grandfather you spoke about, does he remember?”

  “He remembered much, and told me many stories.”

  “I would like to talk to him,” the old woman said, “but he must be like me, too old to travel.”

  “He died five summers ago,” said Daughter. “But perhaps I could tell you some of his stories.”

  The old woman’s face brightened.

  “Tonight?” she asked, but Daughter shook her head.

  “I am sorry, Grandmother,” she said in politeness, “but I am too tired. Could you wait until morning?”

  Then, as though the old woman realized for the first time that she had a guest, she offered apologies and pointed toward a water bladder hanging from a rafter. “You can reach it more easily than I,” she told Daughter, “but surely you are also hungry, and here I am asking for stories.”

  She lifted her chin toward a basket of sea urchins, and Daughter brought the basket, sat down, and set it between them. The old woman took a sea urchin, cracked it open, and used a thumbnail to scrape out the eggs. She sucked them into her mouth, then said, “Long ago my husband died and then all my children as well, except for one daughter who lives in another village. There was a time when a girl came to live with me. I taught her my stories, but then she left me for a River man husband. But this year, a good thing has happened. That girl’s brother has come to this village, he and his father, a trader. The boy tells me his sister is well, that she and her husband have three children now.”

  “That is good,” Daughter told her.

  “Yes, it is good,” the old woman said. “And for a little while I have this trader and his son living with me. They bring all kinds of good things to eat, things that are hard for an old woman to get for herself.” She pursed her lips to point at the sea urchins.

  “Perhaps if I stay long enough with you,” Daughter said, “I will be able to bring you sea urchins as well.”

  The old woman chuckled, and there was a sudden clattering on the ulax roof, a boisterous man’s voice raised in laughter.

  “Aa! They are here!” the old woman exclaimed and leaned on Daughter’s shoulder to push herself to her feet.

  “We are eating,” she said to the man who came into the ulax.

  He was taller than the men of Daughter’s village, lean and narrower in his shoulders. He was followed by a younger man who looked much like him, though he had the stronger build of the First Men. They both had long noses, humped in the middle, and long faces. They wore their hair braided at the backs of their heads, with feathers and beads strung into the braids.

  “Cen, the trader,” the old woman said, “and his son Ghaden.”

  The younger man’s eyes were dark and round, soft in the flickering light of the ulax lamps, and, to Daughter’s embarrassment, she realized she was staring at him. But he gave her a lopsided grin and did not seem to mind her rudeness.

  “Cen, Ghaden, this is the trader’s daughter,” the old woman said, and again laughed. “I do not know your name,” she said.

  “That does not surprise me,” said Cen.

  “I am Uutuk, but most people call me Daughter.” Then she smiled at the old woman, allowed a teasing to come into her voice. “And if I am to tell you stories tomorrow, I should also know your name.”

  Then Cen and Ghaden both laughed, and squatted on their haunches close to the basket of sea urchins. Daughter, as though she were the mother of the house, lifted the basket closer to them, and when they had helped themselves, she also took an urchin, cracked it open, and gave it to the old woman.

  “I did not tell you my name?” she asked. “I thought everyone knew. Who is older than me in all these First Men villages? I suppose I will live until finally I have found someone who wants to learn my stories, a storyteller who will stay with the First Men, and not go off with some River man.”

  Cen smiled at that, ducked his head, and cocked an eyebrow at Ghaden. “She is still mad at your sister,” he said.

  The old woman frowned at him. “I am still mad at you, but at least you brought Ghaden.” Then she said to Daughter, “I am called Qung. I look forward to hearing your stories tomorrow.”

  She bumped Ghaden’s arm with her elbow and said, “And if they are good enough, perhaps I will decide that you should hear them, too.”

  “Perhaps I have already decided to listen, Aunt,” Ghaden said. “What better gift to take back to my sister Aqamdax than new stories?”

  Then Qung was suddenly solemn, and she said, “Just bring her with you the next time you come. It would be good to see her one last time before I die.”

  “Live long, Aunt,” Ghaden said in a quiet voice, the laughter gone from his words. “We need your wisdom.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Κ’OS’S STORY

  “DO NOT THINK ABOUT eating until you have finished repairing the seams,” Seal told K’os.

  She smiled sweetly at him. “Think about trading for a new cover, husband,” she said, holding her voice soft, filling her words with respect. “We will not get much farther with this one.”

  “You know so much about boats?” he snapped.

  “About hides, husband,” she said under her breath once he had walked away. There were other traders watching, and she did not want to destroy Uutuk’s chance of finding a good husband. Too often a daughter was judged by her mother’s behavior.

  K’os tied a sinew thread to the end of her needle, wetted her fingers with water from one of the drinking bladders stored in the boat, and moistened the seam. It was weak with too many awl holes, gaping where the cover had stretched under the assault of waves and water. Seal had set the boat near the iqyax racks, and as she worked, K’os studied the markings on each craft. Most belonged to hunters, but there were three large open-topped boats, each marked with yellow to show they belonged to traders. The iqyan also had owners’ marks painted in various colors, some done with a careful hand, others applied haphazardly.

  One fine iqyax stood out among the rest, made, without doubt, by a First Men hunter, but its ownership markings were River. K’os set her birdbone needle between her teeth and wetted down a particularly bad seam. She kneaded it with her knuckles to soften the hide and tried to draw up enough extra to lap a fold over the weakest side, but she had done the same thing too many times. There was no more give. She would have to use a patch.

  She stuck her needle in a soft strip of birdskin she had tacked to the front of her sax and dug into her sewing basket. She pulled out a roll of seal hide, the width of three fingers. With her thumb and middle finger she measured enough to cover the worst of the seam, t
hen cut the strip from the roll with her woman’s knife.

  The strip was stiff and hard, and she moistened it with water from the bladder, then rerolled it tightly and placed in her mouth, held it there, testing it with her tongue. When it was pliable, she began to chew the strip, working it with her teeth.

  The wind was cold off the bay, and K’os drew her hands up into her sleeves, waited for warmth to pull the pain from her joints. Her hands had always hurt her, even from the time she was a child, but on this trip, paddling and hauling, the pain had become almost unbearable. Sometimes it kept her awake most of the night.

  When she found the right husband for Uutuk, she would get rid of Seal, lazy man that he was, and build a warm lodge in some River village, sew herself many fur mittens. Her hands would never be cold again.

  She would not have to wait long. How difficult could it be to find a husband for a daughter like Uutuk?

  Uutuk had spent her first night in the Traders’ village with Qung, the village storyteller, an old woman who lived alone. How better to keep Uutuk away from men? K’os had taught the girl how to please a man in bed, but there was no sense in wasting Uutuk’s favors on those who did not deserve them. Besides, K’os wanted her to have a River husband, and River men were stingy with their wives, did not like to share them with others. No doubt White Salmon had had Uutuk in his bed, but White Salmon was far away, bound as he was to his small island.

  Even if K’os had decided on a First Men husband for Uutuk, she would not have chosen White Salmon. Better to select a man who lived here in the Traders’ village. Even in its strongest days, the Near River village had not been as large. Of course, K’os would rather live in a River lodge than an ulax, but she understood the necessity for underground houses close to the North Sea, where the wind was often strong enough to knock down a grown man.

  Too bad that when she escaped the Walrus Hunters, her journey had not brought her here. It would have been better to find herself a husband in this village—rich with all the things traders can bring, and not as far from the River People as Seal’s village. But then, had she come here, she would not have Uutuk.

  K’os rubbed the strip of sealskin between her knuckles, then placed it on the inside of the seam and stitched carefully, making sure the needle did not pierce completely through the outer layer of the boat cover. It was meticulous work, and sometimes she had to stop and stretch her fingers, they grew so numb, but finally she was done.

  She straightened and arched her shoulders, then started checking the remaining seams. When her eyes needed a rest, she would stop and focus on something distant or again study the iqyan on the boat racks. The First Men iqyax marked with River colors seemed to draw her.

  You are lonesome for your own people, she told herself, but then decided there was another reason the markings caught her attention. She had seen them before. But where?

  Suddenly she knew, and the knowledge was like a fist to her belly. Not on an iqyax, no. On the sheath covering of a hunter’s bow, on a trader’s pack, on the side of a River lodge. Cen’s ownership mark. Her heart hammered into her ribs. Even if he had given the iqyax in trade, the new owner would have painted his colors over Cen’s, and what were the chances that two men would choose the same mark of triple circles and slashing lines?

  She would have to convince Seal to leave the village, and leave soon. Cen would have nothing but evil to say about her, and there was always the chance that he had discovered she was the one who had killed his wife Gheli.

  Cen should be grateful. Gheli had been a fool, trying to hide who she was merely by changing her name. Gheli or Red Leaf, what difference did it make? She had been the same selfish woman, but Cen had known only the good part of her, had no idea that his wife could kill. K’os should have told him, but when had Cen ever believed anything she said?

  So now, did Cen hold a debt of revenge against her? What would happen if he killed her?

  K’os snorted out a laugh. A foolish question. She knew what would happen. Seal would take Uutuk as wife.

  Even a child could see the lust in Seal’s eyes every time he looked at the girl, especially when he thought K’os was not watching. Why else would Uutuk shrink away from the man every time he was close to her?

  K’os shrugged her shoulders as if she were in a conversation with herself. Yes, if she died, Seal would take Uutuk. But that would not necessarily be so terrible. Surely in death K’os would have enough power to change Seal’s luck, add some hard times to his life. Of course, she would not wish bad luck on Uutuk, but the girl was young and could get herself another husband, a River hunter who would take her to Chakliux’s village.

  Who did not know that spirits could enter dreams? If she were dead, K’os could whisper her wishes into Uutuk’s ears, and the girl would carry out the revenge K’os planned, not only on Seal, but on Chakliux and Aqamdax.

  So death was not the worst thing that could happen to her. Why worry about Cen? How could she hide from him when they were both in the same village? She had changed some, not enough. Even with the tattoos and her hair cut into a fringe across her forehead, even in First Men clothing, he would recognize her.

  K’os lifted her chin, set her teeth. She seldom played the part of hare, changing from flesh into earth to fool her enemies. Most often she was wolf.

  “You speak our River language well,” Cen said.

  Daughter lowered her eyes in politeness, but could not keep a smile from her lips. She leaned close to Qung and translated the compliment. Cen began to laugh, and Daughter looked up, confused.

  “I understand what he says, child,” Qung told her. “After all, I am a storyteller, and a gift of languages is one that every storyteller should seek to own.”

  They sat in Qung’s ulax, eating fish, dried and smoked and dipped in seal oil. It was a flavor of Daughter’s childhood, of her first days in K’os’s ulax, and the taste set her at ease with these new people.

  She had slept long into the morning, woken to find Cen and his son waiting. She knew K’os and Seal would have work for her, but how could she turn away too quickly from Qung’s hospitality? K’os would understand, and Seal’s anger would not last for long.

  She listened as Cen spoke about the journey he had made to his son’s village and then to this beach, but finally she picked up her sax and stood.

  “I must find my mother. She will have work for me.”

  Qung reached up and clasped Daughter’s wrist, pulled her down again to the floor mats.

  “Your mother told me that you can stay here as long as you like,” Qung said. “Besides, you promised me stories about the island where you lived as a child, before you became one of us.”

  Ghaden lifted his head, and Daughter saw his surprise.

  “You’re not First Men?” he asked.

  “Does she look First Men?” Qung said.

  Ghaden stared at Daughter and smiled, half of his mouth lifting as though he were hiding a joke. She felt her face grow hot under his gaze, and she covered her embarrassment with words.

  “I come from a village far over the sea,” she said, and looked at the floor, at Cen, anywhere but at Ghaden. “We named ourselves for the boats we made. I was very young so I have little memory of the village or my people. But my grandfather said that we were attacked by another village, by their warriors. He and I hid in a boat, and during the night, a storm came and took us out into the sea. I remember the long journey, and that each day seemed to grow colder, but eventually we found the First Men islands.”

  “Your grandfather is no longer living?” Cen asked.

  Tears gathered in Daughter’s throat, and she had to cough before she was able to speak. “He has been dead for five years now,” she said. “But I hold his wisdom and his stories here.” She laid a hand at the center of her chest, over her heart.

  “Since you promised us stories,” said Qung, “now would be a good time.” She raised her eyebrows and looked at Cen. “Nae’?” She smiled as she said the River word
.

  “Yes,” Cen replied. “Now would be good time for a story about these Boat People. Do you remember their ulas? Do you remember their island? Do you know how many days you were in the boat?”

  Qung began to laugh. “A trader’s questions, without doubt,” she said.

  “And what is wrong with that, Aunt?” he asked. “I am a trader.”

  Qung filled her mouth with a piece of fish and cut her eyes away from Cen, an insult but given in jest. She flicked her fingers at Daughter and said, “Begin, begin. We are listening.”

  Daughter bowed her head for a moment, thought about where she should start. With the Bear-god warriors’ attack, she finally decided. Cen and Ghaden should enjoy that story. Men seemed to like tales of fighting. She told them all she could remember, then answered their questions. She repeated stories that her grandfather had taught her about their village and their people, the men and their fishing. Cen had questions about outrigger boats, but Daughter could not remember them well enough to explain.

  Finally she said, “Perhaps it would be better if you asked my mother. She is good at describing things and could probably make you a drawing in the sand. The boat rotted long ago, and I was a child the last time I saw it.”

  “You said your father’s name is Seal?” Cen asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I thought I knew most First Men traders, but I do not remember him.”

  “He does not make many trading trips. It is a long way to our island. Have you ever been there?”

  “No. There are too few villages between here and there. The distance is not worth a trader’s time.”

  Ghaden leaned forward as if to draw Daughter’s eyes, and he said, “But my father has been to the Tundra People’s villages, where the sun disappears for the whole winter and dances in the sky all summer. He has traded with the men of the Caribou villages, with Walrus and River and First Men.” It was a gentle boasting, and it warmed Daughter’s heart toward Ghaden.

  “And are you also a trader?” she asked.

  “No, I am a hunter,” he said.