by Sue Harrison
He buried one on shore that night, made chants in hopes that the paddle would find its way to Cen in the spirit world, and he also buried a knife, a harpoon, a sax, and a pair of seal flipper boots he had brought in hopes of finding his father, new clothes to take away the bad luck of the old.
They found nothing of He-points-the-way, but how could that trader have lived when the others did not? And so the next night they made mourning and burial for him, offering more weapons and a belly of oil. Then they turned back toward the Traders’ Beach, and when they arrived, the village again mourned the three men lost, made gifts of food and clothing and weapons, so Cen and Dog Feet and He-points-the-way would have what they needed to keep them strong in that other world where they now lived.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CEN’S STORY
THE SEA HAD STOLEN everything he needed to survive: both his paddles, all his harpoons. Somehow it had even ripped the hood from his chigdax and pulled his sleeve knife from its sheath. Cen’s ribs were broken, both his own and those of his iqyax. Each breath Cen drew rattled, as though the wind were throwing gaming bones in his chest.
But far worse, somehow the sea had taken his hearing. Even yet, a whole day after the wave had passed, new blood still oozed into the crust that blocked his ears. He remembered elders whose inner ears had dried up with age. They complained of hearing nothing, but Cen’s ears were filled with the roar of that wave, as though it had taken all the sounds of the earth and replaced them with its own voice.
The sea had battered his head so that his eyes were swollen shut and his nose was broken. He had lost two teeth, a dog tooth and the one behind it. That tooth was not entirely gone, but what was left ached more than his nose. Long ago, when the Near River People had accused Cen of killing Daes, they had beaten him and smashed his nose, splintering the bone. Somehow over the years the nose had sewn itself into a hump. Now it was flat again, but he had long ago learned to breathe through his mouth.
The pain he could live with. What trader does not learn to accept injury as a companion? But when a man has no paddle, when his iqyax is held together only by its seal hide covering and his chigdax can no longer hold out the sea, what does he do? He listens, and when he hears the birds, kittiwake, and gull, then he directs his iqyan with movements of his legs, by paddling with his hands, until, if he has good luck, he is caught in a current that brings him toward shore. If his luck is bad, he is thrust by breakers into cliffs, though at least there is a chance for him.
But a man without hearing, how does he even know which way to direct his iqyax? By watching. When he sees those gulls, he follows them, but a man who cannot see and cannot hear, what does he do?
Cen asked himself that question many times, and the answer that came to him was this: A man has two choices. He can quit and wait to die, or he can sing. For there was always the chance that some hunter or trader would hear his voice and come his way. Even if that did not happen, the songs might please the spirits so they themselves would direct his iqyax. And of course, if he lived long enough, his eyes would most likely open again, for when he pried at the lids, he could see light, and so had hope that the injury would heal.
The wave had taken much, but it had also left him a little, too. He still had dried fish and two bladders of water. His hands were cut and sore, but no fingers were broken, and his arms were strong, his legs also. The spray skirt of his coaming was still watertight, and he drew it as high as he could under his arms.
He lifted his voice and sang, but without his ears, he did not know whether he sang loudly or only in whispers, for his lungs screamed agony with each breath and his throat was rasped raw by the sea water he had swallowed. But still he sang, praises mostly to the earth and the sea and the One who created them, for Cen was not sure which spirits hovered close, if any, but none of them should be insulted by songs lifted to the Creator or to the earth or even the sea. So he sang and waited, trailing his hands in the water to catch any change in direction by his iqyax. And while he sang he raised prayers that a good current would push him to a safe beach where he might wait until his eyes could see again.
The Traders’ Beach
DAUGHTER’S STORY
During the days Ghaden was gone, Daughter found many reasons to work near the beach. She needed to watch over her husband’s trade goods and those of his father. She needed to collect sea urchins, and to fish with a handline from the shore, or to wade out and cut limpets from rocks at low tide, to dig for mussels. But even as she worked, her eyes were always on the bay, always searching the horizon, hoping to see her husband and his father in their iqyan.
The day Ghaden did return was full of fog, so that although she was on the beach, Daughter did not see him until he was already out of his iqyax and dragging it ashore. She had a moment to study his face, and so knew that Cen was dead. It was not until several women began wailing a mourning song that she managed to make her feet move toward her husband.
Even as she walked, she found herself pondering the pain that enveloped her. She had been wife only a short time, yet it seemed that a strong tether already bound her to him, her agony a reflection of Ghaden’s own. Why else would she mourn a trader she hardly knew?
Then Ghaden saw her and pushed his way through the wailing women, past the men who called out questions, the children who danced and chanted, because they understood only the excitement and not the cause. Among the First Men, husbands, when they were with others, did not often show their affection for their wives with touching and holding, but Daughter decided that River People must be different. For Ghaden grabbed her and pulled her into a rough embrace. He still wore his chigdax, and the garment was wet to her touch, cold, even through the feathers of her sax.
“Did you find anything?” Daughter asked.
Ghaden tried to speak, but his voice cracked and broke. He coughed and began again. “Only Dog Feet’s body,” he said. “Not He-points-the-way, but we found pieces of his iqyax, and we found my father’s paddles.”
She felt him shiver, his arms trembling even as he held her. “Ghaden, my husband, I am so sorry,” Daughter whispered.
His arms tightened around her so that she could scarcely bring in a breath. “All this day, as we traveled, some spirit taunted me with the thought that I had lost you as well, that I would return to this beach and find you gone.”
Daughter pulled away from him, looked into his eyes, saw the weariness there and the pain. Her throat tightened with tears, but she said, “You think that I would leave you so easily? I promised to be your wife. You think I would forget that promise?” She forced a smile. “I remember when my grandfather died how I was afraid of losing others, my friends and my mother.”
Daughter felt someone stroke her head, and at first thought it was Ghaden, but then knew the hand belonged to K’os, the fingers stiff and knotted. She turned in her husband’s arms to see her mother standing behind her.
“Come with me,” she said to Ghaden and Daughter. “Seal will take care of your iqyax.” Her eyes were hard and dry, and she asked no questions, as though she had known long before the men returned that Cen was dead.
Ghaden trudged behind her up the beach, an arm around Daughter’s shoulders. He leaned on her so hard that Daughter was afraid the journey and his mourning had taken all his strength, but when they came to Qung’s ulax, he was the first to climb up, and he reached down to help each of the women, pulling Daughter up so effortlessly that her feet barely touched the sod.
“Are you hungry, husband?” she asked.
Before Ghaden could answer, K’os said, “Of course he is hungry. Go down into the ulax and help Qung with the food. Seal will be here soon, and probably others.”
Daughter wanted to stay close to Ghaden, but he said, “I am hungry, wife. We did not eat this morning.”
She started down the climbing log, but even when Qung began to ask questions, she remained for a time standing just below the roof hole, listening to what K’os was saying. She asked about Cen, and Ghaden to
ld her what he had said to Daughter about the paddles, about finding Dog Feet’s body and pieces of broken iqyan.
Qung came to the bottom of the climbing log, started shouting her questions, as though Daughter had not answered because she could not hear. Daughter clasped Qung’s arm and walked her to the oil lamp, told her what Ghaden had said.
“I thought I heard mourning cries.” Qung twisted her hands together until Daughter heard the joints groan and pop.
“Ghaden is outside, and he needs to eat.”
Qung’s face cleared, and she gave a quick, short nod. “Then why do we stand here doing nothing?” she asked, and pointed a crooked finger at one of the food caches. “Bring me oil and fish, and be quick.”
Daughter hurried to the floor cache, set aside the wood cover, and knelt to reach inside.
“Is Seal coming?” Qung asked.
“Seal and probably others as well.”
Qung clicked her tongue. “It is sad that they cannot leave Ghaden alone to grieve. But no, everyone has questions. Everyone wants to know what happened. And then everyone wants to tell him how they were such good friends to the dead one.” Qung flung her hands up in a gesture of helplessness. “All people are the same. They never change. There is no hope for it. He will have to listen and pretend that what everyone says is important to him.”
“Perhaps it will be important,” Daughter said. “When my grandfather died, one of the old women in the village had just the right words for me.”
Qung shrugged. “Some people do. Other people say all the wrong things.” She sighed, then pointed with her chin at the food caches, and Daughter set out bellies of oil and fish, a packet of dried caribou meat.
Qung hobbled over to stand beside Daughter, then her old face crinkled in on itself, and she said in broken words, “He gave me that caribou meat. He did not need to do that. I was glad to offer my hospitality. Who could guess that I would be feeding it to those who mourn him?”
Still on her knees, Daughter pulled the old woman into her arms, patted the hard lumpy bones of her back.
“Aaa, we do not have time for this!” Qung said, and brushed at her eyes so fiercely that she raised welts on her cheeks. “Stop crying and get the food ready. You think you will help your husband with your tears?”
Daughter raised her fingertips to her eyes, found that she had been crying, the tears seeping, her face wet.
When K’os and Ghaden entered the ulax, Daughter glanced up from the food she was arranging on mats and wooden dishes. Ghaden’s face was drawn and gray, his weariness even more pronounced. Had K’os said something to add to his sorrow? Or had Daughter’s first joy in seeing him dimmed her eyes so that she had not fully realized how much his pain had marked him?
He came to her, stood close, as though to draw strength. She tucked an arm around his waist and ignored K’os’s raised brows. What did it matter with only K’os and Qung to see? If her touch could help, then she would forget the normal ways of politeness. He raised a finger to stroke the thin braid that Daughter had tucked into the bun at the back of her head, and she wished that she had braided her hair like River women. Such a small thing to please a husband.
Then voices came to them, some loud, some lifted in mourning songs. Ghaden squatted on his haunches, and K’os moved to help with the food, pulling down water bladders, hissing when she noticed how many needed to be refilled. She handed the empty bladders to Daughter, gestured with her eyes to the ulax roof.
As wife of the one who had lost his father, it was not Daughter’s place to fill water bladders. K’os was playing the wife’s part. When the chief hunter and the elders came inside, K’os directed them toward Ghaden and even accepted condolences from them, allowing herself to cry when their wives hugged her.
Daughter glanced at Qung and saw the angry set of the old woman’s mouth, but Daughter merely closed her eyes in embarrassment and hoped Ghaden would not be dishonored by K’os’s actions. She was used to K’os’s need to center people’s attention on herself.
Daughter bent close to whisper into Ghaden’s ear, told him she needed to go for water. He stood and, taking some of the bladders from her hands, went with her. Daughter saw the wide eyes of those in the ulax, the surprise of the men and women still on the roof.
“We need water,” Ghaden said, and held up the flattened bladders he had clenched in his hands.
Several women came forward, took the bladders, then Ghaden climbed back into the ulax, waited at the bottom of the log for Daughter, led her to that place where he had been sitting.
“Sit beside me,” he said, his voice low and soft.
“Qung needs help, husband,” Daughter told him.
“There are other women here. She will have enough help.”
Then he called K’os. She came over, frowned for a moment at Daughter, mouthed, “Water?”
“Several of the village women are bringing water,” Daughter said.
Ghaden pressed Daughter’s hand so she knew he wanted her to be quiet. “I need my wife with me,” he said in a firm voice. “But Qung is an old woman and she needs help.”
K’os held out her hands as though to remind Ghaden that her fingers were crippled, but he kept his eyes on her face. “You are not the wife,” he said.
Daughter held her breath. K’os tipped her head and made a smile over clenched teeth. “You are right. Your wife should be here with you. I will help Qung.”
Ghaden squeezed Daughter’s hands, then turned to accept the sympathy of those who had come into the ulax. But Daughter’s breath came with such difficulty that it seemed as though someone had laid rocks against her chest. Yes, K’os would help Qung, and she would work hard, but Ghaden would live to see her anger, and K’os would strike at a time when neither Daughter nor Ghaden expected it. That was her way.
You have lived through her vengeance before, Daughter reminded herself. Be concerned for your husband. There is nothing more important than that.
She set her teeth in fierceness and drew into her mind the remembrance of that long-ago time when she and the grandfather had been adrift on the sea. He had been too sick to help her, and though she was only a child she had been the one who told their boat which way to travel. She had pointed out the mountain that marked the First Men’s island. She had been the strong one.
PART THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
DAUGHTER’S STORY
THE SEAL HIDE IQYAX cover was too close over Daughter’s face, and a storage pack pinched her feet, but since K’os lay in Seal’s iqyax without complaint, could Daughter do less? Besides, she had been the one who had asked to travel in her husband’s iqyax rather than with her father, and because Ghaden also wanted that, Seal had exchanged his larger boat for an iqyax of his own.
Uutuk had always been the one whose wishes were ignored, and what woman expects anything different? After all, she was only a daughter, not a son who would become a hunter. So now, when one softly spoken wish had caused so many changes, she would die before voicing a complaint.
They spent the first night on a wide, gray sand beach. It curled back so far into the foothills that it was nearly an inlet, a beautiful place with many birds and high drifts of wood brought in by the sea.
“Why does no one live here?” K’os had asked.
“Too far for water,” Ghaden told her, and raised a hand toward the hills. “Half a day’s walk. But it is a good first night’s camp when a man still has full water bladders from the Traders’ village. Sometimes, if you are lucky, you will even see a few caribou here.”
Daughter began gathering enough driftwood to keep their fire strong throughout the night, for if there were caribou, there might also be wolves, or so it seemed in those stories K’os had told her. She had always been glad to be First Men rather than River, for the River People had so many animals they must worry about. Wolves and wolverines, lynx and foxes, moose and caribou, each able to do some kind of harm, large or small. And now, here she was wife to a River man and tr
aveling with him to his village.
After Ghaden’s return to the Traders’ village, they stayed to keep the second mourning. Ghaden had considered continuing that mourning into forty days as First Men often do, but K’os had convinced him that it would be better to go to the Four Rivers village where Cen’s wife lived, tell her what had happened, and stay with her for those forty days.
“Until then, mourn him in your heart, as we all do,” K’os had said, and how could Ghaden disagree with wisdom like that?
Daughter had hoped to spend the whole forty days at the Traders’ Beach. She had learned to love the old woman Qung and had wanted to hear more of her stories and enjoy Qung’s wisdom. But K’os was right. The weather would soon turn toward fall, and then the seas were less predictable. If a summer storm could kill someone like Cen who had traveled for many years, what hope would Ghaden and Seal have, cursed with wives in their iqyan?
She dropped the last armful of driftwood near the blaze that Seal had started. He had a scowl on his face, and he was watching Ghaden and K’os. Suddenly Daughter realized that since they had beached the iqyan, they had been speaking the River language, which Seal did not understand.
“He explains why there is no village on this cove,” Daughter said to Seal. “He uses the River language because it is easier for him than First Men, and also because he knows that you, being both hunter and trader, would need no explanation, that any man could see why there is no village, though the beach is good and driftwood is abundant, and even the trees that top the hills are straight and tall.”
Seal puffed out his chest. “Yes, a man would see such a thing,” he said. He pointed his chin toward the trees and laughed. “But you think those are tall? Wait until we get into the River People’s country. Then you will see trees so tall that they block the sky. Is that not so, Ghaden?”
Ghaden squatted beside Seal and, speaking in the First Men language, said, “It is true, wife. Those trees are so tall, their shadows blanket the earth. Under their branches, it almost seems like night even during the brightest day.”
