Song of the River (31 page)

Chakliux translated his words, and Sok held out his arms, turned so the trader could see the sun design pieced on the back of his parka.

“It is worth something,” the trader said. “But what woman does not know how to sew caribou parkas? Bird skins, though, that is something different. Are there any women here who can work bird skins?”

Sok turned to Chakliux, raised eyebrows to ask what was being said.

“Leave,” Tut told Sok. “You have already lost. Leave. You have nothing he will take.”

Sok spat on the ground. “Do not tell me what to do, woman,” he said, then turned again to the trader, lifted the hare fur blanket he had draped over one arm.

The trader shook his head.

“What is the word for spear points?” Sok asked Chakliux without looking back. “For snow goggles, fish traps?”

Tut gave him the words, and Sok repeated them to the trader.

Again the trader shook his head.

“Your brother, he does not know how to trade,” Tut whispered to Chakliux. “He has nothing else?”

“Nothing.”

“I have grass baskets, leggings, a little oil.”

“He does not need the sax, Tut. Do not give your things to satisfy his wants. He is not a child. Besides, he has already lost honor in this exchange in front of the whole village. He would not appreciate your help.”

“So with a brother like Sok, how did you become so wise?” Tut asked.

Chakliux smiled at her. “In ways I would not wish on another,” he said.

Sok turned away, pushed through the crowd. He had started down the path to the beach when Sun Beater came out of the trader’s tent, called to him. Sok looked at Sun Beater with surprise in his eyes, then wended his way back through the crowd, whispering to Chakliux as he passed, “Wait for me.”

“Be careful of that one,” Tut told Sok. “He wants more than he should have.”

“I am not a child, woman,” Sok said, and pushed past her.

Tut watched him leave, then turned to look at Chakliux. She said nothing, but Chakliux saw that her eyes were dark with worry, and for a moment it was as though he were again with Gguzaakk, gaining wisdom through her wisdom.

Chapter Twenty-one

THE FIRST MEN VILLAGE

AQAMDAX CUT THE STALK
of rye grass, holding the six leaf blades in her left hand as she cut with her right. The new grass grew from the pale remains of many previous summers’ grass, as though each mound were a family, the parents and grandparents pushing the new green fronds up toward the sun. She laid the stalk in the growing bundle at her feet. Qung said the grass on this hill was best for baskets. Not as coarse as the rye near the beaches, it grew among the ferns and tried to mimic their lacy fronds, stretching tall and strong and graceful, until its outer blades were longer than a woman’s arms.

The salmon were running in the river nearest their village, and all the women were busy cleaning and drying what the men brought in, but Qung was a woman of baskets, and insisted that, since she was too old to walk to this particularly good growth of grass, Aqamdax must go. She must go now, when the heads of grain had just begun to peak out of the stalks, before the early storms creased and twisted the grass, before snow and ice tore away the outer blades and made those pale center leaves brittle and sharp.

Aqamdax had argued with her. They would not be able to eat baskets when the hard moons of winter came. Better they had fish dried and stored than basket grass.

Others would bring food, Qung had told her. They always did, and Qung had been so sure in her pronouncement that Aqamdax had finally allowed herself to be persuaded. So here she was cutting grass a quarter day’s walk from the village when she should be helping Qung with fish.

The sun had burned away the haze of morning and shone hot on her head. Now and again Aqamdax raised her eyes to the hills where ptarmigan grass and red-flowering fireweed grew; where coarse stalks of iitikaalux stood dark against the grasses, and yellow cup flowers, and orange paintbrushes bent in the wind. She knew what the village women would say. Not only was she a thief of husbands, she was also lazy, leaving an old woman alone to catch fish.

Hii! Let them whisper. She was pleasing Qung and that was the most important thing. Never had she known anyone to be so particular about basket grass, but then she had never seen anyone who made baskets like Qung’s.

Qung slit the grass into fine strands as all women did, but instead of gathering the split grass into a coil and sewing with stitches tight enough to cover the coil as it wound its way up the basket, she tied several strands of grass together at their centers and fanned them out like a chuhnusix leaf. Then using two strands of grass as weavers, she twisted them in and out among the tied strands, making a circle that would be the bottom of the basket.

It was something that could not be done without the right grass, dried in the right way, Qung had told Aqamdax, then sent her to gather. In exchange she promised to tell Aqamdax two stories, old ones that most First Men had never heard. Aqamdax had not told Qung she would have gathered the grass for her anyway, without promise of stories.

Of course, the village women, especially the old ones, would talk, would use subtle words to shame her, but still, they came to hear her stories. Yes, they would listen and nod, hum their agreement, or sometimes interrupt to tell her another way they had heard the same story told. But that was good. How else did a person learn except by listening to others’ ideas, then choosing what was best?

Usually in summer, there was little time for stories, save those a grandmother or aunt might tell in teaching, stories that were a part of every child’s life. The story evenings, with most of the village people gathered in one ulax, were better saved for the long dark of winter. This summer the salmon runs were small, not so that the people would starve—seals, sea lions and halibut were plentiful—but some worried about curses and spells, perhaps in punishment for old ways forsaken.

Now, to help the people remember those ways, He Sings had asked for story evenings. This night and the next and the next after that, Qung and Aqamdax would tell stories. They would talk until the elders could be sure all things were being done in honorable ways.

During the past few days, as Aqamdax worked gaffing salmon, cutting grass, sewing, weaving, she told stories to herself in silent words that colored her thoughts as brightly as the grasses and flowers colored the hills.

As she practiced the stories, she sometimes stopped to lift prayers, and each prayer was a request that the people would not realize that the greatest change in the village was the new storyteller, a woman who had once taken hunters to her bed without worry over hunting taboos or the hearts of their wives.

Chakliux switched his paddle, three strokes left, then again, three strokes right. The rhythm seemed as natural as breathing.

When Old Tusk first began to teach him, the iqyax was strange, like a man he did not know, someone to face with arms crossed, right hand drawing strength from the hard bone haft of a sleeve knife. Now the iqyax was as familiar to him as his own body. When he paddled he was truly otter, the sea as much his home as any grass-covered hill.

He looked back at his brother, Sok, and wondered if he regretted his agreement with Yehl, the Walrus shaman. The birdskin parka, a shaman’s mask, a drum, a whistle, a medicine bag and the iqyax Sok was paddling were more than they ever could have gotten for a golden-eyed dog, but in exchange they had to bring back the First Men storyteller. How could they hope to convince a village to give up its storyteller just so she could be wife to an old Walrus Hunter shaman? Even if they persuaded her to come with them, who could say whether Wolf-and-Raven would agree to give his daughter as second wife for even all the powers of feather parka, mask and drum?

There were four iqyan on this journey: Chakliux’s, Sok’s and those belonging to two Walrus traders, Cormorant and Red Feather. Tut also accompanied them, the old woman requesting one last visit to her own village, to stay or perhaps not. She rode in Cormorant’s iqyax, while Red Feather carried most of the trade goods, a bride price to offer the storyteller’s father, brothers or uncles. Chakliux, Cormorant and Red Feather would each receive goods in exchange for accompanying Sok, but for Chakliux the greatest gift was the journey itself, the opportunity to visit a First Men village, to meet those hunters who were brothers to the sea otter.

Though Sok carried less than Chakliux did, though he was larger of arm and chest than the other men, he was always behind. Sometimes looking back, Chakliux could not even see him. Then he turned his iqyax, paddled until he knew his brother was not hurt or capsized. Sok had not learned to use his strength to aid his paddling. Instead, he fought the sea, using his paddle like a spear to be thrust and torn out, as though each wave were an enemy to be defeated. His face was raw and blistered from the salt—more than Chakliux’s, more than Cormorant’s or Red Feather’s—as though the sea recognized his enmity.

After days of travel, they were near the First Men’s village. They had already turned their iqyan into the broad inlet that led to the Traders’ Beach. Now and again Cormorant would lift his paddle to point out a river or a stretch of sand where the First Men fished or hunted or set up summer camps. Soon they would be there, a place Chakliux had always hoped to see, had dreamed to visit, and Sok would begin trading for this storyteller.

A chill climbed Chakliux’s spine even though the summer sun warmed the wind that swept into the inlet. Sok was not a trader. He did not understand the subtle use of words and eyes. Perhaps he would listen to Cormorant and Red Feather. Perhaps he would listen and learn how a man gets what he wants.

Qung had told Aqamdax to carry the grass carefully, holding it so it lay across her outstretched arms. Aqamdax had not walked far on her return to the village when she wished she had cut less. Usually, walking back was easier, most of the way downhill, but by the time she saw the village, her arms and shoulders ached so badly she wanted to fling the grass into the wind, tell Qung she had been unable to find the place where it grew. But how could she do such a thing, when Qung had done so much for her?

Qung was old. Each day her arms hurt; each night the pains in her joints pulled her from her dreams. How could Aqamdax complain about a few more steps?

She began to recite one of the stories she would tell that evening, trying to find the words that sounded best, repeating phrases as she walked, listening to the sound of her voice. At the crest of the hill behind the village, she stopped, squatted for a moment on her haunches and rested her forearms on her knees. She closed her eyes, then opened them again, looked out over the bay. The hill was crowded with grasses, salmonberry bushes and heavy growths of stunted willow, but the hunters kept this place cleared so boys could watch the bay for signs of salmon, seals and sea lions.

Today, the bay was full of men in iqyan, some fishing, others practicing with darts and harpoons. Several women fished from the beach with handlines, but most were gathered at the river end of the bay, taking red salmon.

Aqamdax noticed several traders’ iqyan drawn up on the beach. That was not unusual. There was still at least a moon, probably more, before storms would hinder travel. When some of the ache in her shoulders had subsided, she stood and continued toward the village.

Walrus Hunters often came to the village to trade. Since she was a child, Aqamdax had learned many of their words, as did all the First Men children. Sometimes Walrus Hunters took First Men wives, but usually when they did, the men lived in the First Men Village. Aqamdax wished her mother had gone with a Walrus trader. She probably would have returned by now, at least to visit.

Aqamdax carried the grass to the top of Qung’s ulax and laid it there. She saw Qung was not inside, so she hurried toward the beach. She would go to the salmon stream, do what she could to help Qung. In words loud enough for other women to hear, she would tell her that she had cut a large bundle of grass. Then they would know it was not laziness that had kept Aqamdax from the salmon.

She walked to the beach, stopped when she saw a group of men gathered around the traders’ iqyan. Each time traders came, she hoped they might be River men, but this late in the summer, she knew there was little chance, and so she felt no true disappointment to see the marks of Walrus traders on the iqyan bows. She turned her steps toward the salmon river. She would help Qung until it was time to tell stories, then they would help each other as they tried to guide the people back to old and sacred ways.

Sok knew she was Daes’s daughter. She looked so much like her that she had to be. But she was stronger than Daes. In her voice, even in the bones of her face, she was stronger. At first, she had spoken slowly, her words spaced with pauses. There were times when she spoke so softly that Sok could hardly hear what she was saying, but as the story grew, the woman also seemed to grow, until she sat so tall among them that he had to look up to see her face.

Now she spoke in a new voice, something that came from the top of the lodge. At first, Sok thought that there was someone outside who called down to them from the smoke hole. Then he realized that Daes’s daughter made both voices.

Ah, this woman would take Wolf-and-Raven’s heart even more than a birdskin parka or a shaman mask. Who would not want her as wife? Then Snow-in-her-hair would belong to him, if he could get Daes’s daughter away from her First Men husband. Her place as village storyteller gave her so much honor that no husband would willingly throw her away. Perhaps if her husband was a weak man, someone who did not understand the true value of things, he might consider some kind of trade, especially when Sok showed him the goods he had brought.

Sok was anxious for the stories to end, but they continued, Daes’s daughter alternating with a woman so old her face was as brown as a river otter’s. Tut sat between Sok and Chakliux, translating as the storytellers spoke, but the hard paddling of the day, the beach meeting with the hunters and chief of the First Men, the time spent making a crude shelter with caribou skins and their upturned iqyan, made Sok long for sleep. Sometime during the old woman’s last few stories, he closed his eyes and allowed Tut’s whispers to pull him into dreams.