Song of the River (46 page)

“A trader killed her?” Aqamdax asked.

“Some say he did.”

“Brown Water says spirits killed her.”

“I do not know who killed her. Whoever it was also killed my grandfather. If I knew who it was, they would be dead by now.” He pawed through a pile of clothing and pulled out a pair of caribou hide leggings. “What you must know,” he said, glancing up at Aqamdax, “is that if you have no husband, there is no one in this village who will protect you. What if I throw you away? What will you do?”

Aqamdax realized he was right. She must make her own protection by finding a good husband, having sons, and strengthening the tie between herself and Ghaden, but all those things would take many years. Now she had no one, and nothing to barter except her willingness to help Sok get what he wanted.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked softly.

“I want the people to hear your stories, to see your powers.”

“You will arrange a storytelling, then?”

“Chakliux and I will ask for such an evening, a way to show respect and gain honor before we leave to hunt caribou.”

“And I will also tell stories?”

“Yes.”

“Once Wolf-and-Raven hears my stories, you think he will want me?”

“He will see your powers, then I will speak to him of a bride price for Snow-in-her-hair.”

“And if I do this?”

“You will have a new husband.”

“I want more than a new husband.”

“What else do you want?”

“I want to keep my lodge.”

“No. I have promised it to Snow-in-her-hair.”

“Let her build another.”

“What choice do you have?”

“The choice of telling stories or saying nothing.”

“The choice of dying or living.”

“I want my lodge.”

“Perhaps Wolf-and-Raven will want you to stay in Blue Flower’s lodge.”

“He has only one wife?”

“Yes.”

“You think he will risk displeasing her?”

“I think she will understand the powers he might gain by taking you as second wife. I think she will be pleased to have another woman do some of the work.”

“What if I tell Wolf-and-Raven that I will not be wife without my own lodge?”

Sok tilted his head and looked up at the smoke hole. “You have not been an easy woman to have as wife,” he said.

Almost, Aqamdax smiled.

“If Snow-in-her-hair wants your lodge,” he said, “you must leave it, but I will give you enough caribou hides to make another.”

“And you and Chakliux will help cut the lodge poles?”

“We will help.”

Aqamdax laughed. “You promise your brother’s help without asking him?”

“I gave three, four moons of my life to see him safe among the Walrus Hunters until we knew the Cousin River People would not try to kill him. He can give me a few days.”

“I will tell stories,” Aqamdax said. “I will show these people the powers of a First Men woman. Let them think about that and be glad they do not call the First Men enemy.”

The third day of watching, Cen saw him. Ghaden, taller and thinner than he remembered, but Ghaden. The sight of the boy was like a fist to Cen’s belly, knocking away his breath so that at first he could say nothing to Tikaani, only watch, eyes caressing. He had never totally believed that the boy was alive, and now told himself that the knife might have left Ghaden with some deformity. But as Cen watched, he saw that the boy did not limp, and though it was difficult to tell from this distance, his face did not seem to be scarred. He had a dog and was throwing a ball in high arcing curves, laughing when the dog caught the ball, scolding if the animal did not drop it at his command.

Cen opened his mouth to tell Tikaani, but tears filled his throat. He had to swallow, and when he finally did speak it was with the quiver of an old man. K’os’s throat-scalding tea, he told himself, and would not admit to the tears that burned his eyes.

“My son,” he said, and extended one arm to point.

“You said he was injured,” Tikaani said. He watched the boy for a while. “He seems strong.”

“Watch. He throws the ball with his left hand,” Cen said. “He carries his right shoulder higher, sometimes presses his right arm to his side.”

“He did not always favor his left hand?”

Cen shook his head.

“A warrior should hunt with his right hand. It is the way things should be done.”

Ghaden picked up the ball, threw it with his right hand. The throw was not as hard, and the ball did not curve as high, but it was a good throw. “He needs a man to teach him,” Cen said. “That is all. Do you know the woman who is with him? It is not one of his mother’s sister-wives.”

Tikaani was still but finally said, “I was in the village with K’os at the end of last winter, but I do not recognize her.”

“Perhaps one of the men brought her from another River Village.”

“She wears a strange parka.”

The words brought the truth in suddenness to Cen’s mind, but he did not say anything to Tikaani until he watched her for a time, saw, with heart beating hard in sorrow, how much she looked like Daes, even in the way she walked, the way she pushed her hair from her eyes. Then he whispered, “It is a First Men sax, made of bird skins. I know her, though she has changed in four years. She is Aqamdax, Ghaden’s sister.”

“A First Men woman? Your … the dead one’s …”

“Daughter.”

“Not your daughter?”

“No.”

“How did she get here?”

“I do not know. Perhaps looking for her mother. I was told she took a River trader as husband.”

“At least she is someone to take care of your son.”

“How can I let him grow up with the people who killed his mother?”

Tikaani looked at him, smiled slowly. “We must leave soon, tomorrow, the next day. You want to take him back with us?”

Cen pulled the knife from his arm sheath, thrust it into the soft sod where they lay. “Yes,” he said. “I want him. I would kill every man in this village to get him.”

Chapter Thirty-three

“H
E WANTS A STORYTELLING
tonight?”

Aqamdax nodded. “Should I provide food? I do not have much in my cache. Do the people eat seal oil?”

“No food,” Red Leaf said. “Let them eat at the cooking hearths. It is not a recognized celebration, only a time for people to gather before the families leave to hunt caribou. Besides, on a caribou hunt usually the women go, too. How can we get ready to go if we have to give a feast? We will have the feast later—when we bring back the meat.”

Aqamdax carefully watched Red Leaf as she spoke. She wished she knew the woman better. It was difficult coming to a new village. She had not realized how much knowledge a person gathered during childhood years. In her own village, she had been able to tell by the tone of a voice or the expression on a face each woman’s true thoughts. Here among the River People, it was difficult to know. Only a few days before, she had realized that they expressed agreement not with words but with raised eyebrows.

Now, as she listened to Red Leaf, Aqamdax reminded herself that the woman did not like her, would probably dislike any sister-wife. So then, did she speak the truth about the food, or did she hope to shame Aqamdax by telling her to do something that was not according to village traditions?

To be safe, when Red Leaf left Aqamdax would find Chakliux and ask him.

Since she had discovered that her mother was dead, it seemed as though her mind was not clear. She had made her own mourning, singing the First Men death songs alone in her lodge, and Happy Mouth told her that she and Brown Water had made chants and songs during the four days after Daes’s death. Still, it seemed as though Aqamdax’s thoughts were as frayed as old sinew threads.

Even if she had known Red Leaf better, it was not a good time for Aqamdax to trust her own insight. Yes, she should ask Chakliux.

“I do not want to embarrass our husband,” Aqamdax said, knowing that Red Leaf did all she could to honor Sok. “I still stumble in my words. I have much to learn.”

“I will try to help you,” Red Leaf said, and again, though the woman looked into Aqamdax’s eyes as she spoke, Aqamdax was not sure she could trust her. “If you do not know a word, I will try to say it for you.”

“Thank you,” Aqamdax answered, but wondered if Red Leaf would risk making a fool of Sok in order to humiliate Aqamdax. Probably not. She seemed to value order and did not often laugh or pull jokes. Her eyes always followed Sok when he was near, and she mentioned him often in her conversations with other women.

Red Leaf’s hands were always busy, and now, even though she had come to Aqamdax’s lodge only to bring a few hare furs for Aqamdax to scrape, she had also brought her sewing. She was making a pair of dance boots for Sok, though the ones he had were new and beautiful. She rolled the caribouskin uppers and slipped her needle into a bit of hide and tucked it into her needle case. She held the walrus hide case so Aqamdax could see it, and Aqamdax, knowing the woman’s pride in it, commented, admiring the sewn pattern of lines and circles.

“I go now,” she told Aqamdax. “I will see you tonight. I will help if I can.” She stopped at the entrance tunnel. “You should have water. How many bladders do you own?”

“Four.”

Red Leaf cocked her head to one side, pursed her lips. “I will bring three. That should be enough.”

She left and Aqamdax sat considering their conversation. It did not seem that Red Leaf wanted Aqamdax to fail in the storytelling. Perhaps she had grown accustomed to the idea that she would have to share Sok, if not with Aqamdax, then with some other woman. Better he have me, Aqamdax thought. As a First Men woman, I will never have the status that one who was born here would have.

She lifted two bladders from the lodge poles. She would take them to the river, fill them with fresh water. She should also gather firewood, have a good heap of it near the door, ready to bring inside if rain threatened, ready to light if insects or cold disturbed their storytelling.

She walked through the village, wondered if Ghaden and his sister Yaa were near. If so, they would see her and come. Yesterday Ghaden had sat on her lap when she told him stories. She loved the weight of him against her chest, the smell of his soft hair, the sound of his laughter when she told a joke. She was also beginning to see Yaa as sister. The girl was an unusual child—an adult in a child’s body—always busy, always serious. If Aqamdax could choose a younger sister, Yaa would be the one.

There were others at the river, some fishing with thin handlines of twisted sinew. Aqamdax still used her kelp line, though some of the women laughed at her. Let them laugh; kelp was strong. She would not have to worry about a broken line if she caught a large fish.

Aqamdax walked to the place where the women filled their water bladders. The bank sloped gently to the river and a curve of sand made a beach large enough to launch boats, a good place to sit and repair nets or wade out in shallow water.

When she heard Chakliux’s voice, she turned and smiled at him. He squatted on his haunches as though he were First Men and offered her a strip of dried fish. She finished filling her bladders, then came to him, took the fish and offered him a bladder of water. He drank, squeezing a bit of water out onto the fish to soften the meat.

She squatted beside him and ate without speaking. When he had finished his meat, he took another drink, then handed her the bladder. She drank, replaced the ivory stopper and set the bladder at her feet.

“You are telling stories tonight,” Chakliux said.

“Yes, but it is too soon,” she replied.

“You tell stories each day to the children.”

Aqamdax laughed. “They tell me as many stories as I tell them. They teach me.”

“They have taught you well.”

“There is much I do not know,” she said. Often she chose the wrong word. Often she had to repeat herself.

“You will have to speak slowly. Some of the old ones who do not hear well, they will get caught by the sound of your First Men voice and in that way lose the River words.”

“I will speak slowly,” Aqamdax said. She was disappointed. She had hoped he would take her side and try to convince Sok to wait. “You are storyteller, as I am. I do not have to explain the magic of words to you,” she said. “But how can I be sure my First Men stories will come out strong and whole when I must use River words to tell them?”

For a long time, Chakliux watched the river. Finally he drew a long string of sinew from a pouch at his waist. He twisted it in his fingers until Aqamdax could see the form of an otter outlined in knots and turns.

“Walrus Hunters use strings to help them tell their stories,” Chakliux told her. “I have heard that Tundra women draw their stories in the snow using knives of wood and ivory.” He reached over and took her left hand in his, looped the sinew string around her wrist and tied it.

Aqamdax’s breath caught in her throat, and for a moment she forgot everything but the warmth of his touch.

“When your words seem thin, remember this sinew bracelet.” He circled her wrist with his fingers. “Remember that it is stronger than it looks. Remember that I am here with you.”

He dropped her hand and stood.

“I still have many questions,” Aqamdax told him. “Do you have time to help me?” She knew she sounded like a child, pestering, but she wanted to keep him beside her, if only for a moment longer.

He looked up at the sun. “Yes. I have weapons to prepare, but I have time.”

“Bring your weapons to my lodge,” Aqamdax told him. “You can work there.”

Aqamdax knew he would tell her of some taboo. He seldom entered her lodge. When he did, he usually brought one of his nephews with him.

“Bring Carries Much or Cries-loud if you want,” she told him, hurrying to get her words in before he could speak.

“I will come,” he said, and then he was gone, striding away toward the village.

“A man like you should have more than one wife,” Sok said, gesturing with the half-empty bowl he held in his right hand. “The old shaman at the Walrus village had three wives.”

“My woman would not be happy,” Wolf-and-Raven said.

Sok lifted the bowl to his mouth, sucked in some broth. Wolf-and-Raven was not a man who easily made up his mind. Even in repeating chants and prayers, it was better if someone told him what was needed.