Song of the River (72 page)

WOUNDWORT
(goldenrod),
Solidago multiradiata
,
Solidago lepida
: Serrated leaves grow in an alternating pattern up stalks that can attain three feet in height. Golden clusters of flowers top the stem in August and September. Powdered or fresh leaves and flowers were used as dressings for wounds. Tea made from flowers is said to be helpful for internal bleeding or diarrhea. Flowers are used to make a yellow dye.

YELLOW ROOT
(gold thread),
Coptis trifolia
: A creeping fibrous perennial root, the leaves grow in threes on foot-high stalks separate from flower stalks. Tea made from boiling the root is said to be an invigorating tonic and also a gargle for sore throats and mouth lesions.

YELLOW VIOLET
,
Violaceae
: Small yellow five-petaled flowers are borne on stems that grow to approximately ten inches. Flowers carry irregular dark lines at the center of each petal. Serrated leaves are heart-shaped. Both leaves and flowers are edible. Leaves are a good source of vitamin C. Leaves were mixed with fat and used as a salve on skin contusions. Caution: leaves and flowers tend to have a laxative effect.

Acknowledgments

N
ONE OF MY NOVELS
could have been written without the patience, encouragement and wise advice of my husband, Neil Harrison. He is my best friend, business partner, confidant and travel companion. I also owe a great debt of gratitude to our children, Krystal and Neil; our parents, Pat and Bob McHaney and Shirley and Clifford Harrison; and to our brothers and sisters. A loving family is a gift I can never repay.

To my agent, Rhoda Weyr, whom I am privileged to count as friend as well as adviser, forever my thanks. She saw possibility where others did not, and in addition to her astute business skills, continues to enrich my life as encourager, advocate and sounding board. My most sincere gratitude to Ellen Edwards, an editor blessed with skill, vision and patience. I count myself fortunate to have had her help because my work requires an inordinate amount of all three. My heartfelt appreciation also to her staff, and to Ann McKay Thoroman and her staff.

To those friends and family members who have had the patience to read
Song of the River
in its various forms, many, many thanks: my husband, Neil; Pat and Bob McHaney; friend and gifted writer Linda Hudson; and my sister, Patricia Walker.

With each of my novels, and with each of the journeys Neil and I make to Alaska, we find we are more indebted to those who share their knowledge, expertise and advice. There are never enough words to express our gratitude and the awe we feel when people open their homes and their hearts to us.

For those families who have offered the hospitality of their homes during our Alaska travels, many thanks: Dort and Ragan Callaway and Mike and Rayna Livingston of Anchorage; Karen and Rudy Brandt; Kaydee Caraway and her family: Candie, Joe and Hollie of Anchorage and Beluga; Mark Shellinger, Superintendent of the Pribilof Islands School District (who made our visit to the Pribilofs possible, gave us a place in his home, and escorted us on incredible walking tours of the island); B.G. and Lois Olson of St. Paul Island; Bonnie, Chris and Samantha Mierzejek of St. George Island (who gave us a place in their home and treated us like family); Mike and Sally Swetzof and their daughters Crystal and Mary of Atka; Bill Walz, Superintendent of the Aleutian Region School District and his wife Lani and son Wilson of Unalaska (who engineered our trip to Unalaska and Atka and allowed us to stay in their home, including us in Unalaska’s wonderful Aleut Week); head of the Akutan Traditional Council, Jacob Stepetin, and his wife, Annette, and Pat Darling (who arranged our visit to Akutan).

Our sincere appreciation also to the teachers, staff and students of the St. George and the St. Paul schools who quickly found a place in our hearts, and to those in the communities of St. Paul and St. George who welcomed us with receptions, warm food and warm hearts; the dancers at St. George and St. Paul; and the members of the St. George and the Atka Russian Orthodox churches who allowed this Methodist to join them in their services and helped me discover that worship transcends the boundaries of language; to Chris Lokanin for taking me to an old barabara site on Atka and for carving me an Aleut nose pin; and Tamara Guil, my Atka guide via a four-wheeler; Katia Guil, Ethan Pettigrew and the Atka Dancers (How can words express my gratitude that you would don your beautiful regalia and dance for Neil and me?); the staff and teachers at Unalaska School who welcomed me into their classrooms and sent us home with jams and jellies, salmon and many wonderful memories; the staff and teachers at Atka School and the people of Atka for their hospitality; and to the people of Akutan for the reception of food and fellowship; and to the late Nick Sias and his
Blue Goose
. In our hearts, they will both forever fly the Aleutian skies.

Any historical novel requires long hours of research. I owe an incredible debt to many people who shared experiences, knowledge and resource materials. Errors contained in
Song of the River
are solely my own and not the fault of those cited in these acknowledgments.

A special thanks to Andrew Gronholdt and his instruction during the Aleut Ceremonial Hat Class arranged by Jerah Chadwick and conducted through the University of Alaska Fairbanks extension services at Unalaska. Neil was privileged to learn this ancient art from Andrew and also to enjoy Andrew’s wit and his store of wisdom. For Ray Hudson, whose books have inspired, informed and entertained, my gratitude for the privilege of an early reading of
The Bays of Beaver Inlet
(Epicenter Press). For readers who hanker for a taste of what modern life is like on the Aleutian Islands, Ray’s book is a must read. You will learn much, but beyond the learning, you will find that it speaks to your heart.

My sincere appreciation to Dr. William Laughlin and his daughter Sarah, for their continued support and for answering questions on their archaeological work on the Aleutian Islands; Dr. Mark McDonald, for information on geology and ocean habitats; Forbes McDonald, for information on bear hunting; Don Alan Hall, Center for the Study of the First Americans, Oregon State University, editor of the very fine magazine
Mammoth Trumpet
; Dr. Douglas Veltrie, for taking time to show us many Native artifacts in storage at the University of Alaska Anchorage and to answer my many questions; Dr. Rick Knecht, for slide presentations during Unalaska Aleut Week on his various dig sites in the islands; Clint Groover, doctor of veterinary medicine, and his wife and assistant, Barbara, for answering my questions about dogs; Crystal Swetzof and Clara Snigaroff, for information about the Aleut language, Atkan dialect; Mike Swetzof, for historical perspectives on the Aleut people and for demonstrating an authentic Aleut throwing board and harpoon; Katia Guil, for dance and Koryak legends; Ethan Petticrew, for Aleut dance and legends; Bonnie Mierzejek, for hours of answering my questions, for sharing childhood Aleut stories and for allowing me to sit in on her Aleut language classes at the St. George School; Edna at St. Paul, for allowing me to sit in on her Aleut language classes; Jacob Stepetin, for showing us the artifacts at the Akutan Library Museum and answering questions about fishing; Denise Wartes, University of Alaska Fairbanks, for her patient replies to my questions about her work in interior Alaska; Okalena Patricia Lekanoff-Gregory, for sharing Aleut stories and for her basket-weaving presentation during Aleut Week; Candie Caraway, for information on bears; Kaydee Caraway, for information on wolves; June McGlashan, for poetry that is the fragile and robust echo of the Aleut soul; and Phia Xiong, for answering my questions about the Hmong culture.

My gratitude also to those who shared resource material: Ernest Stepetin; Richard Herring; Phyllis Hunter; Mick and Kathleen Herring; Jerah Chadwick; Kristi and Mike Lucia; Bill White; Don Darling; Margaret Lekanoff; James and Esther Waybrant; Ann Chandonnet; Dort and Ragan Callaway; Mike and Rayna Livingston.

My sincere appreciation to my husband, Neil, for his computer work digitizing the map for this book.

And to Dora: your words to me as I left St. Paul will forever be in my heart.

Turn the page to continue reading from the Ivory Carver Trilogy

PART ONE

610
B.C.

T
HE OLD WOMAN LOOKED
down at the child. The boy’s eyes were shining, alert. She was tired, but how often did a storyteller have the pleasure of passing her tales to a child like this? How often was a Dzuuggi, a child destined to be a storyteller, born to the People? And this one was surely Dzuuggi. She had heard his voice in her dreams even when his mother carried him in her womb.

The old woman had also been chosen Dzuuggi, taught as a child the histories of the River People, but now that knowledge was a burden—so many words to be remembered. Each day as she told the stories to the boy, she felt their weight lift from her, and each day she felt lighter and stronger as though her old bones would straighten, and she would walk once more with firm steps.

She cupped a wooden bowl of willow bark tea in her hands. She raised the tea to her mouth and sipped. The bowl had darkened with age, the wood rich from the many teas it had held, the many stories it had heard.

Be like this bowl, small Dzuuggi, the old woman thought, and she closed her eyes, lifted her head so those thoughts would climb like a prayer. Be like this cup. Hold much, give much, and become rich with what is within you.

“So then, child,” she began, “you remember those two storytellers, Aqamdax and Chakliux?”

The boy nodded, whispered the names.

“You do not hear many stories about storytellers; their voices you hear, but only that. So this is something unusual.” The old woman paused and stared into the smoke of the hearth fire at the center of her lodge. The wood was still peaked high, a feast for the burning mouth that would finally consume what she had offered. She reached into the smoke, brought a cupped hand to her face as though to pull words from the flames.

“And you remember that Chakliux was from the River People, just like we are?” she asked. “You remember that he was also chosen as Dzuuggi like you?” Though her words were questions, she did not give him time to answer; instead she went on: “And the woman Aqamdax, she was what?”

“Sea Hunter, First Men,” the boy said.

The old woman nodded.

“Not River,” said the boy.

“Not River, but not so different from us. We share their blood, at least some of us do.” She lifted one finger, pressed it to the wrinkles that spread like a fan between her eyes. “You remember Chakliux had a little Sea Hunter blood, though he was River. I told you about his foot.”

She pulled off one of her furred lodge boots. The leather sole, softened by wear, dark from hearth fire smoke, had worn thin under her toes. She used one hand to press the side of her foot to the floor.

“Curled on edge, it was,” she said, “like an otter’s foot when he paddles in the water and his toes were webbed on both feet. Like otter toes.” She rubbed her bare foot, rubbed and hummed a tuneless song, then pulled on her boot.

“So now perhaps I will listen,” she said, “and you will tell me a little about Chakliux the Dzuuggi.”

The boy straightened his shoulders and began to speak in a small, soft voice. The old woman interrupted him. “You think anyone will listen to you if you speak like that?” She pressed her hands into the arch under her rib cage. “From here, your words must come from here.” She puffed out her chest with air, and the boy did the same. “Now,” she said, and he spoke again, this time much louder.

“Good,” said the old woman. “Now I can tell that the words come from your heart.”

“When he was a baby,” said the boy, “Chakliux was left on the Grandfather Rock to die.”

“’Ih?” the old woman said, as if she were listening to an actual storytelling, and the Dzuuggi’s words had surprised her. “A Dzuuggi left to die?”

“It is true,” the boy said. “His grandfather left him, because of the foot. He did not see it as otter, but only as a curse, and he left Chakliux. But Chakliux did not die. The woman K’os came and found him there. She took him home, and he became her son. But she hated him. She hated everyone else, too, after men took her by force on the Grandfather Rock and killed the spirits of her unborn children. She thought Chakliux was a gift to make up for what had happened.

“When Chakliux grew up, she was jealous of him because he was wise, and because he was chosen to be Dzuuggi. She even killed his wife and baby.”

“They must have driven her from the village after she did that,” the old woman said.

The boy leaned toward the old woman and lowered his voice to a whisper. “No, she did it secretly with poison, and so everyone thought they died from sickness.”

“You know that she was the one who started the war between the Near River and Cousin River Villages,” the old woman said. “Of all the things I have taught you, there is nothing more important than the remembrance of that war. Though it was long ago, much changed because of the fighting. So many of the River People died, and villages that had been strong grew weak.”