Ivory and Bone

by Julie Eshbaugh

  Hidden by the southern edge of the island—little more than a rock, really—Pek halts his kayak. I stop alongside him and take stock of our position. We are well within range.

  Something about Pek’s resilience bolsters my mood. I feel emboldened by his refusal to be beaten. Good omens are all around: sunlight shimmers on the surface and the Spirits in the sea sing to me in the beat of the waves. I load my harpoon into an atlatl to ensure I get as much power into the throw as possible, and after making sure that Pek is out of my way and I have a clear and open shot, I let the harpoon fly.

  It is a perfect strike. The spike lands in the thick flesh of the seal’s side and he leaps into the water.

  He struggles, and as he does the water colors red with his blood. I hold on with my cracked and bleeding hands, as he dives and surfaces, dives and surfaces. Thankfully, his fight doesn’t outlast the strength of my rope. His body goes still, sinking a bit before settling in shallow water at the edge of the rocks.

  Now comes the trickiest part—bringing him in without breaking the harpoon or snapping the rope. I paddle as close to the rocks as possible, careful not to scrape the bottom of the kayak and risk tearing a gash in the hull.

  The carcass lies on a jutting shelf just below the surface. With the blade of my paddle, I manage to leverage his weight enough to lift him up and pull him in. The seal drops heavily onto the deck of my kayak, one wet flipper sliding against my cheek as he falls. I almost avert my gaze—I remember the mammoth hunt and the way the mammoth’s eye had opened like a pit—but the seal’s head drapes over the side. I silently thank the Spirit of this seal for not looking me in the eye.

  As I coil the rope, Pek paddles up alongside me. “Nicely done,” he says.

  My ivory-tipped harpoon is buried deep in the seal’s side under the ribs. Despite the fight put up by the seal, the spike made only a small entry wound in the pelt. The rest of the coat is intact—a smooth, uninterrupted gradient of color, fading from golden brown near the head to a pale buff near the tail. Almost all the icy water has already shed from the fur and a breeze ripples across it, showing off its sheen. After a brief study of the wound, I decide to wait until I’m back on land to remove the harpoon. The unsteady sea makes unsteady hands, and I would hate to see even a scrap of this pelt wasted.

  Though all the seals near my kill fled into the water, they sought safety by staying together and swimming toward shore. A second group still basks on a broad, flat island farther out to sea, calmly unaware and unalarmed. “I want to try something,” says Pek, all the while keeping his attention on the distant seals. “I’ll stay here and wait, out of sight. You paddle closer and make a noise, get them moving. The shortest path to shore is through these rocks. I’ll take the shot as they swim past.”

  The dead seal makes a strange passenger as I paddle out, circling wide around the far side of the rocks. As I get closer I see that this group is much larger than the last. At least three dozen seals crowd against each other in the sun.

  Out here, my back to the land, the sea grows calm and quiet. For a moment, I close my eyes and let my thoughts go quiet too. It lasts only a moment. Then my mind’s eye snaps open and I see the cat you killed, crouching in the sky, all but hidden by the clouds. He stays low, but his eyes are on me. All at once he bounds forward, his immense claws tearing the clouds to wisps, closing in on the place I sit, helpless in this tiny boat.

  My eyes fly open. Beyond the tip of my kayak there is nothing but unbroken sea. Spooked, I dip a blade into the water and turn toward shore again.

  I watch the seals, completely vulnerable, as unaware of my presence as I was of the cat’s. Then I let out a whoop and strike the surface with my paddle. Just as Pek planned, the seals leap into the water, diving in the direction of shore.

  I paddle closer, moving in toward Pek, who waits beneath a low, overhanging ledge. He loads his harpoon into an atlatl and readies his throw.

  The first seals reach the rocks across from him and surface, heads and necks rising above water as they look back to see if they are safe. As more heads appear, Pek takes aim. He lets the harpoon fly.

  His aim is perfect, but his target dives just before the spike reaches him. The harpoon slashes into the sea but the rope stays slack—there is no strike. Hurrying, hoping to get another opportunity before the last seal dives, Pek pulls back on the rope to reel it in, but it catches and pulls fast. The harpoon must be caught in a cleft beneath the surface.

  Watching him, I think through the process he will follow next—paddle closer, flick a wave along the rope to loosen the spike.

  But Pek is impatient. He knows this is his last chance for a kill today. He doesn’t paddle closer. Instead, he tries to loosen his harpoon by pulling sharply on the rope.

  In an instant, his kayak flips.

  One moment he is there, the next he is gone.

  Pek has grown up paddling on the sea. This is what I tell myself as I watch and wait. This is Pek, who learned to paddle when he was still a child. Pek, who taught Roon how to right an inverted kayak.

  “Roll,” I whisper to myself. “Come on, Pek, roll.”

  A moment later I strip off my parka and untie the belt that holds me in place. With my knife in my hand I dive into the sea.

  Under the surface, Pek’s hair fans out around his head, floating up and over his face so I cannot see his features. It doesn’t matter. I only have to see the way his hands claw at the belt holding him in, trying to loosen it so he can escape. Immediately I know why he hasn’t rolled—while on the hunt, he knotted the kayak belt to his rope and wound it around his waist, a risky trick to prevent a stuck seal from getting away, taking his harpoon and rope with him. But Pek’s harpoon isn’t stuck in a seal—it’s stuck in a crevice, the taut rope anchoring his flipped kayak to the rocks. Rings of rope swirl in tangled spirals around him.

  His hands grasp at the water between us. He’s running out of time.

  Above water the knife in my hand could cut three of these cords in one stroke. Underwater, each cord bloated and slick, it takes two strokes to break just one.

  Time changes, each passing moment slowing and widening, like a ripple of the one before. I cut through one . . . then two . . . then three strands. Curls of rope float open and outward. A fourth strand . . . a fifth. Finally, Pek slides from the kayak, swimming through the loops as they unravel around him.

  We break the surface at the same time, and I notice how gray his skin is—almost white. His eyes stand out against this icy background like two round stones, the whites having turned a dull, bluish gray. Before I can ask if he’s all right, he turns and grabs the hull of his boat, flipping it upright. Within moments, both of us are out of the water and back on our kayaks.

  Still, we’re in danger—the water is frigid. Wet clothes leech heat from my skin. My ears and nose burn with cold. My heart pounds.

  “We need to go back,” I call to him.

  “Not a chance,” he answers.

  “That wasn’t a question.” Resilience is one thing; recklessness is another. “What would you hunt with? You have no harpoon. You have no rope. And you will have no brother alongside you.”

  “I’ll dive back in and get the rope—”

  “Not right now you won’t. You’ve lost too much body heat. You need to get warm. We both do.”

  Pek’s soaked hair drips into his lap as he sits, slumped forward, on top of his kayak. He doesn’t bother to slide back under the deck. It would be pointless. The boat is drenched inside and would not warm him.

  “Pek,” I say, but he doesn’t lift his head. I have never seen my brother more defeated. I pull his paddle from the spot where it bobs on the surface between us. When he won’t take it from me, I slide it across his lap. “You’ll lose your strength if you sit out here. Come in and get warm. Then we’ll try again.”

  I turn and start to paddle in without him. “You need to stay strong if you’re going to win her,” I call over my shoulder.

  I don’t nee
d to glance back. I don’t need to tune my ears to the sound of his paddle breaking the surface behind me. I know he will follow me in. Whether by faith or foolishness, Pek will follow Seeri wherever she leads.

  Once we’re on shore, Pek insists on helping bring in the fresh kill, though shuddering waves of cold rack his body.

  I watch him, stubbornly struggling to grip the carcass with hands streaked red with blood and cold, and I remember his words—These girls are going to change our lives.

  Those words have proven true a thousand times over in just two days.

  I can’t help but worry what changes are still to come.

  EIGHT

  On the third morning after your departure, Pek and I are up while it’s still dark, standing on the beach as the sun gradually fills in shadows and reveals the edges of things. Together, we’re loading one of the long, two-man fishing kayaks for Pek’s trip to visit your clan. In three days we’ve collected seven seal pelts, and some of the meat of those kills has been butchered and wrapped as a gift to your clan, as well. Pek and I pack everything into the hull, filling the space where a second paddler would sit.

  All this preparation has been overseen by our father. Though this visit may appear to be the work of one lovesick boy, it is actually part of our father’s larger plan to befriend the Olen. A betrothal between Pek and Seeri would help create a bond between our clans, enabling us to move south.

  “Here, put this with the sealskins, away from the meat,” I say, handing Pek the pelt of the saber-toothed cat you killed, tightly wrapped to stay dry. Since you left, Pek has watched me work a special tanning solution mixed by Urar into this hide every night, and stretch and pull it every morning—even early on this morning—so it would be ready in time. I explained to Urar that I feared the Spirit of the cat had not climbed to the Land Above the Sky, but remained among the living as a ghost. Urar then combined ingredients that would give the hide strength while setting the Spirit of the cat free.

  The results were worth the effort; the pelt is more soft and supple than any other pelt I’ve ever tanned. I can only hope the Spirit is gone now that the hide is done.

  As Pek takes the pelt from my hand, he hesitates. “Hey, don’t worry about her, all right?”

  Why would he say this, I wonder? Do I appear to be worried about you?

  “You don’t need an ill-tempered girl like Mya, Kol. You’re ill-tempered enough on your own.”

  “Thanks,” I say, pushing the pelt into his hands. “Just take care of this until you get it to her. It’s not what you think. I’m not trying to impress her or earn her affections. I just think she deserves this.”

  “Of course,” Pek says. “But while I’m gone, you should take Kesh and Roon and visit the clan camping on the western shore. Maybe among the girls there, you’ll find someone sensible enough to appreciate a gift of honey.”

  Why did I tell him that story? Was it to soothe his own feelings of rejection and failure? Whatever my reason, I regret it now. That should have stayed private between you and me.

  “Just try to stay above water, all right? I’d like the pelt to be dry when it reaches her.”

  “Nothing to worry about there.” If I meant that last comment as a bit of a dig to Pek’s ego, it has no effect. He smiles broadly. He’s feeling confident, maybe even a bit cocky, this morning. “That pelt will enjoy a comfortable tour down the coast. It will be clean and pristine when I lay it in Mya’s unappreciative hands myself.”

  And that’s it—the last I will speak of you to Pek or anyone else, I think. At least I hope it is the last.

  My mother and father come down to the water with more gifts to be loaded into the boat, a few more than I might have expected, but the number and quality of gifts are clearly intended to improve Pek’s chances of receiving Chev’s welcome. My father puts in several tools to give to Chev—three flint points he flaked himself from a single core just yesterday, another core flaked along one edge to make a fine, fist-sized scraper, and two ivory shafts carved from a tusk of the mammoth your family helped us bring down. My father’s brother, Reeth, our clan’s best carver, has worked on these shafts since you left our camp. My mother hands in three large cooking bowls of woven slough sedge.

  “Enough,” I say. “If you overload the kayak, he won’t be able to maneuver it. Do you want all your gifts in the sea?”

  “Don’t speak of that. Don’t wish bad luck on your brother,” my mother says.

  Pek climbs into the kayak and ties the sash at his waist. I wade in, coming close enough to speak into his ear. “The Divine has always shown you favor,” I say, as I grab hold of the kayak’s tail. “She will keep you safe.” Before Pek can give me a reply, I push him out into deep water.

  With Pek gone, life in the clan becomes an exercise in waiting. Roon paddles out into the bay at least twice, out to a spot where he can see people fishing on the beach of the western shore. He comes home saying he thinks he glimpsed a few girls, but a glimpse is all he gets for now. Since he is really just a child, my parents forbid him from making any formal introductions to the clan. That is my father’s role, and while Pek is gone, he refuses. Perhaps he is hoping Pek will return with good news before he has to make that effort. Roon whines and begs him to go, but Father argues that he would not want his sons marrying into different clans, which I can only agree with—it might mean never seeing one of them again.

  The chance is small, of course—a bride generally joins her husband’s clan—unless she is the oldest child of the High Elder. Then she would be presumed to be the next High Elder herself, and her husband would go to her and her family.

  As long as Pek is pursuing Seeri—as long as the Manu are pursuing an alliance with the Olen clan—Roon will have to wait. My father will not take the chance that one of his sons might meet the daughter of another High Elder while he still has hope of moving our clan south.

  I head to the meadow every morning to search for honeybees, but I have little patience to lie still and listen for the sounds of their wings. Lying in the grass, my mind always turns to you and your clan and my brother Pek, and I end up on my feet, pacing. On the seventh day without news from Pek, I reach the meadow and find I don’t need to hunt for bees anymore; they are everywhere. They crawl on every flower. Before the sun is high in the sky, I have located the first hive.

  That afternoon, I return to camp and find my mother standing on the shore, watching the water. Her eyes are rimmed in red and she chews on the inside of her cheek. “I’m worried, too,” I say. “In the morning, I’ll set off to find him.”

  “You can’t go on foot,” my mother says.

  I squat on the ground outside the door to the kitchen, prepping my pack for the journey by the dim glow that comes just before sunrise, though at this time of year, as the days grow longer and warmer, the night sky never goes completely black. Instead it darkens to a deep blue—as blue as the sea that reaches up to meet it at the horizon.

  I went in early last night, hoping to store up on sound sleep, but my night was punctuated by bad dreams. I saw the Spirit cat, running hard toward me, its bloodstained claws tearing the grass, leaving a bright red trail. It flew at me, its curved teeth coming so close I felt the cat’s breath, as hot as flame, against my throat. Other times my dreams were visited by Pek, his body inverted, his hands clutching wildly but unable to reach me, his face hidden by his floating hair.

  Morning couldn’t come soon enough.

  “I’m not taking that kayak, Mother.” My personal boat is too small and volatile for the open sea, and our clan has only one other large kayak. They’ll need it to fish while I’m gone.

  “It won’t be an easy trip overland.”

  We both jump at the sound of my father’s voice. Neither of us had heard him approach—we’d thought we were completely alone. My mother’s head whips around at his words.

  “What are you doing sneaking up like that?”

  “But it won’t be as difficult as it might have been before we learne
d where the Olen clan camp,” my father says, without acknowledging my mother’s question. He hasn’t come as close as I’d thought—he stands just a few paces beyond the door of our hut—but even speaking low, his voice carries. At this hour, the air of the meeting place is still and silent. “We know it’s a day’s walk from here—”

  “A day from first light to last,” my mother interjects, “which in summer is a very long day. He will tire—”

  “The sky is clear,” my father continues. “You shouldn’t encounter any storms.” He hesitates, knowing that he will anger his wife if he lets me reject the kayak, but also knowing how much the clan may depend on that kayak for food with both Pek and me gone. Since the kill we had with your family, we’ve seen no sign of the rest of the mammoth herd.

  “Let him go, and let him leave us the kayak. The Divine will watch over him as she makes her slow trek across the summer sky, helping him arrive before last light. When he gets to Chev’s clan, he can return with Pek in the kayak he left in.”

  There is an extended silence, and I know that my mother and father are thinking of Pek and hoping that I find him well when I arrive in your camp. I never told them what happened on that first seal hunt. It doesn’t matter. They both know how dangerous the sea can be.

  We all know.

  When I leave, loaded down with weapons to the same extent that Pek was loaded down with gifts, my brothers and my parents each give me a kiss on the cheek. We did not do this with Pek, and I know that we all wish we had.

  In my pack I carry provisions for several days, since I know the general direction and the approximate distance, but there’s no way to be certain I won’t become lost. If I don’t find your camp within two days, I’ll have no choice but to turn around and come back.

  I leave with an assortment of dried foods—berries and roots and some dried meat, all chosen for their lightness. Among the dried rations, I also carry my pouch of honey. A small amount will give me the strength to keep going when I have eaten all my allotted food for the day. I also carry a healing salve of oils and medicinal plants mixed by Urar and stored in a bull kelp bulb. If I become injured, the oils will soothe the pain and the herbs will return strength to the wound.