Song of the River (27 page)

Song’s lodge, Brown Water had said. Fires often seemed to start in an old woman’s lodge.

Yaa pulled Ghaden’s parka on over his head, finished putting on his boots, then dragged him to the entrance tunnel. The puppy yawned, waddled to the tunnel and raised his leg, almost tipping himself over to urinate on the side of the lodge.

“Bad!” Yaa yelled at him, but had no time to do anything more. She took Brown Water’s sewing basket and her mother’s pouch of knives and skinning tools and set them beside Ghaden.

“Stay here until I come for you,” she said to him. “Do not go back to your bed.” Then pulling on her own parka and fetching their three largest wooden bowls, she went outside. Her mother and Brown Water were packing snow up against the lodge. Yaa gave them each a bowl, scooped her bowl full of wet, heavy snow and packed it against the caribouskin walls.

“My husband,” K’os sobbed. “He tried to stop it. You have to get him out. You have to. Song is there and her husband. They are all inside.” She made her voice rise into a scream, then she saw Tikaani and flung herself at him; she sank to her knees, clasping him around the legs. “Ground Beater, my husband, Ground Beater!” she cried.

Tikaani pulled her to her feet. “K’os, be still. They will get him out. I will get him out.” He took a step away from her, toward the burning lodge, but she lunged for him, grabbed him so he had to stop. He called for someone to take her. An old man came, one of the Near River elders. He pulled away her hands, held them firmly.

The flames leapt from Song’s lodge to the one beside it. The wind was not strong, so there was little chance the whole village would burn. Sad, K’os thought.

She smoothed back her hair. Her face and parka were full of soot, her hands also. She watched as Tikaani ducked in through the entrance tunnel. She held her breath, hoping he would not be hurt. She did not want to make the trip back to her village without him, and she did not want to remain in the Near River Village any longer than she must. It would be bad enough to be here through mourning, though perhaps they would not expect her to stay the whole moon, but only until her husband was wrapped and placed on a burial platform.

The people had the fire almost out in the next lodge. Only a portion of the caribouhide covering was burned away. Even the lodge poles seemed intact. Others in the village had begun mourning chants. K’os lifted her voice to join them.

Tikaani came out of Song’s lodge pulling a body. It was Ground Beater. K’os took a long breath, let out a high screaming cry and broke away from the old man who held her. At that moment the lodge poles collapsed inward, carrying the flames with them. The fire roared, consuming the contents of the lodge.

K’os threw herself over her husband’s body, ignoring the stench of burned flesh. She drew a woman’s knife from her sleeve, slashed her forearm with the blade. The blood dripped dark red on Ground Beater’s charred face.

For five days, K’os stayed with the Near River People, crying, mourning. She gave one of the golden-eyed dogs to Song’s oldest son, another to the elders. She shook her head over the miracle that she was alive, nodded her gratitude to those who loaded a sled with gifts and food, and turned down offers from Near River hunters to accompany her to her village.

The Near River People promised they would honor Ground Beater, dissuading her with stories of wolves when she pleaded to take the body back with her.

On the sixth day, she rose early, finished packing, then excused herself to go to the women’s place at the edge of the village.

Yaa lay just outside the animal den, a hindquarters of hot roasted hare in her hands. She had stolen it from one of the old women at the cooking hearths, half a hare, lean and tough from winter, but good. She had wrapped most of it in a piece of caribou hide to take back to Ghaden, to give him when they were alone, but she had been unable to wait to eat her own piece.

She lay on her belly, propped up with her elbows, peeking out from the low-lying branches of the black spruce that hid the den. It was good to be there. She had not had a chance to visit the place since Ghaden had returned to their lodge. He was worth it, though, and soon he would be strong enough to come with her. It was a fine hiding place.

She especially liked being in the den during early morning, when the women walked the path to the place where they relieved themselves. It was still very early, and only a few of the women—those whose turn it was to start the village cooking fires and the pregnant women whose big bellies forced them early from their beds—were on the path. Yaa sunk her teeth into the hare and pulled away a mouthful of meat.

When she saw the boots, she knew it was the Cousin River woman. They made their boots wrong, with seams too high on the foot. Yaa pulled herself forward with her elbows and peered out, watching her. Brown Water said the woman had slashed her arm in mourning, but her hair was still long, uncut. She was leaving today, River Ice Dancer had told her, then hit her several times in payment for his information.

Good, I have seen her, Yaa thought, and looked forward to telling her friends.

Yaa set her meat on the mat of dead spruce needles that littered the hardened snow and pulled herself closer to the path. Catching a spruce branch with one hand, she pulled it down to hide her face. Soon the woman was walking the path again. Yaa watched her feet, trying to see the details of the woman’s boots so she could tell her mother. Her mother made the best boots in the village, warm and dry with the seams in the right places so they did not rub blisters into toes.

When the woman was well down the path, Yaa scooted out from under the tree, reaching back to grab her meat. She had lost food through carelessness before. Small animals came quickly. The path twisted behind a thick growth of willow, then dipped down toward the village, so by the time Yaa was standing, she had lost sight of the woman, but Yaa fixed her eyes where she would emerge from the bushes. Yaa waited a long time, then she saw something.

It was the woman, yes, and the two young hunters who had come with her. They had only one dog. One of the other two now belonged to Camp Maker. The other had been given to Song’s oldest son.

So the woman would not return to the village. She must have come up in modesty to relieve herself. River Ice Dancer had said that it would take them three, maybe four days to return to the Cousin River Village. There would be enough times, on open land, that the poor woman would have to squat in front of those hunters, and they were not even her sons. Yaa hated it when they were following caribou and there was no place for privacy, though at least the girls went as a group together. The boys—ha!—they cared about nothing. Some of them stopped and went right on the trail. Of course it was easier for them.

Yaa took a bite of meat, watching as the young hunters greeted the woman. She gave something to one of the men. A fire bow, Yaa decided, then shook her head, no. It was too long for a fire bow. Ah, she knew what it was. That strange weapon from the Not-People. Something sacred that had belonged to old Blue Jay. He must have given it to her before the fire. She was lucky she was able to get it out. It might have burned.

Yaa watched the Cousin River People until they disappeared down the bank that led to the river, then she scooted back under the spruce tree. She had to eat quickly. She had been gone a long time, too long for only gathering firewood. She took another few bites, then tucked the rest of her meat inside her parka.

She came out from under the spruce tree and fitted her feet into the prints left by the Cousin River woman, walking the path toward the village. Yaa sighed. It was a sad thing for that woman. At least old Blue Jay had given her a gift, Yaa thought, but it was not much in exchange for a husband.

PART TWO

SUMMER, 6460 B.C.

I
N ANGER I BROUGHT
her into my lodge—into the warmth of my seal oil lamps, the safety of my thick ulax walls. I say this to make you understand that I did not want the path set before us. So do not tell me how an old woman gets her way by whining.

Our path was chosen by the chief hunter of our village and by the women of his ulax. They were given the same dream, each of them, those sister-wives, on the same night. Four women dreaming the same dream. Who can deny the sacredness of that?

Their dreams said that Aqamdax, daughter of Daes—one of those honored as a granddaughter of Shuganan—should come to me, sister of her father’s grandmother, so that Aqamdax could learn to be the next storyteller.

For five tens of years, I have told the old and sacred tales of our people. How else would anyone know about the grandfather Shuganan and the warrior Samiq? From my mouth only came the stories of the otter-caller Chagak, of the trickster Raven and the carver Kiin, and of Kiin’s grandson Ukamax, who gave the First Men their sacred dances. These stories have been passed down, storyteller to storyteller, from a time so distant that no one can count the years.

Those sister-wives, they said the spirits told them Aqamdax was the one. Hii! Their husband may believe them, but I do not.

He is a good man, and so he took the mother and child into his own ulax. Who else would take them with their husband-father dead, cursed by sea animals in his hunting? But did the woman show her gratitude? No.

Soon after her mourning had ended, she took a River People name—Daes—and ran off with a trader. They say she lives now with the River People. Fish-eaters who do not even know how to hunt sea animals!

Hii! What else should you expect from Water Slapper’s daughter?

So listen to what I tell you, for I say the truth: those wives, the chief hunter’s women, they had had enough of Aqamdax’s quarrels, enough of her tricks. What better way to be rid of the girl than to give her to me? Have I not prayed for years that the next storyteller be revealed? Have I not set my eyes on each baby born and begged that it be the one? So how can I dispute the spirits’ decision? After all, Aqamdax is a beautiful woman.

You would not know by seeing her that she is merely a seal bladder nayux, her skin given shape by the breath of her hate.

Chapter Seventeen

THE FIRST MEN VILLAGE

BIRD CALLER SHUDDERED AND
released her. Aqamdax reached for him in the darkness, longing for the weight and warmth of his body, but he crept out of her sleeping place without a word. He was no different from the others. Once they were satisfied, they left.

What was he worried about, that the old woman would hear them? You had to shout to get anything into her ears.

There were other men. Aqamdax could fill her nights with them. She rolled herself into her bedding furs and wrapped her arms across her chest. Yes, she would do that. Some evening she would do that. She would get six men, perhaps seven, and all night she would have someone close to her, someone to hold her. Then the cold would leave her bones, and she would be warm like she had been when her father was alive, when the earth was as good and shining as her father’s smile.

The young man walked through the ulax to the climbing log, but Qung pretended she did not see him. They thought she was stupid because she was old, but she saw who came to Aqamdax and how often.

It was almost night. Qung wondered if some other man would come or if Aqamdax would be content with only one. The girl was just like her mother. It would be a blessing to the whole village if some trader would come and take her away. Qung sighed and rolled up the grass mat she was weaving. It was a coarse mat, nothing like the ones she had made when she was young, but her finger joints were swollen and ached so much she could no longer weave split grass.

Until Aqamdax did something—took a husband or left the village—Qung had to teach her, and Aqamdax did not like to be taught. She was quick; it did not take her long to learn a new story. But she could not sit still. She paced as Qung taught her, so that Qung, in turning her head to keep track of the girl, often became dizzy.

Aqamdax practiced the stories; Qung had to admit that. She had even learned to throw her voice, making it seem to come from roof hole or sleeping place, oil lamp or rafter, and she was almost as good at it as Qung herself. But Aqamdax was prone to anger when there was no reason for anger, to throwing things and to pouting.

Aqamdax had lived with her for more than three moons now, and still Qung was not used to the girl’s outbursts. During the first few days, Qung let herself feel hope each time a young hunter came to visit the girl. Aqamdax did have fifteen summers. Most women at that age were married, had children. Now Qung realized there was little hope Aqamdax would find a mate.

Why trust a woman who slept with any man who asked? Besides, what hunter would want a woman who, having had so many opportunities, had not yet become pregnant? And who would want a woman who was always angry, always fighting?

Qung sighed. She was old but still strong. She should live quite a few more winters, but what joy was a long life when you shared your ulax with someone like Aqamdax?

Qung pushed herself slowly to her feet, pinched out several wicks in the large oil lamp, leaving one burning. She waddled to her sleeping place, the lamplight throwing long shadows of her humped shoulders and thin arms on the wall before her. As she pulled back the grass sleeping place curtains, she heard a noise and turned. Someone was coming down the climbing log. Salmon. Why was he here? He had two wives.

Qung clicked her tongue in disgust and waited until Salmon saw her. She shook her head at him, and he looked down, avoiding her eyes. How did these men hope to have any luck hunting when they took so many women to satisfy their desires? Did sea animals respect such weakness? How did Salmon expect to keep his iqyax from becoming jealous when he came to it each morning with the smell of a woman on his hands? Someday it would flip him into the sea. Then who would hunt for his wives and their babies?

Qung settled herself into her sleeping place, taking care to wrap her feet in the thickest fur seal pelt. Old ways were being forgotten. Old taboos ignored. What good was it, being a storyteller, if the people would not listen and learn?