“Why would someone from the Cousin River Village kill our grandfather, or the woman? What would they have to gain?”
“Honor,” Sok replied, and looked up at Chakliux, met his eyes. “Honor as a warrior.”
“To start the fighting, you mean,” Chakliux said.
“Yes.”
“Then why not leave some sign, an amulet or knife, to show who did it?”
Sok shrugged. “The young men say there was something left, but that you hid it.”
“Fools!” Chakliux said. “I found nothing but the boy. What about the one who found our grandfather? Was it Blueberry? Did she say there was anything left to proclaim who did it?”
“It was not Blueberry,” Sok said.
His eyes darkened, and Chakliux said softly, “You found him because you took the fish for the dogs.”
“I found him,” said Sok.
“Was there anything that would say who killed him?”
He shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing.”
“The elders and hunters know this?”
“They know, but they say I hid something.” He paused. “To protect you, little brother.”
How could the men of this village be such fools? Chakliux wondered. Now, because of him, Sok’s place of honor, the respect given him by the elders and other hunters, was threatened.
“I am sorry, brother,” he said to Sok. “I will do what I can to show them …”
“What can you do?” Sok asked, the words harsh, edged with anger. “What if you
had
found something? Would you tell us? You say you have come to bring peace. If a few men from your village killed people here—only an old man and a woman—are their deaths worth losing hunters? Is it worth the loss of children and elders in a starving winter because there are not enough hunters left to bring meat?”
Sok’s words sliced into Chakliux’s heart. If it had been Cousin River hunters, would he have protected them? Perhaps, if it would save lives….But if they killed once, would they not kill again?
“The trader,” Chakliux finally said. “What did they do with him?”
“They let him go.”
“They think he did not do it?”
“Most think he would not kill his own son. Daes perhaps. She was a woman of too much complaining. At least Brown Water says so, and Red Leaf, also. But even for that, why would a man who was trader—and did not have to live with her—kill her? Why not just leave her? There are other women in other villages.”
Sok continued to speak, but Chakliux could not keep his mind on his brother’s words. Instead, he thought of his grandfather, the laughter they had shared, the jokes and riddles. Why would anyone want to kill Tsaani? He was an old man, strong in wisdom, generous in his gifts, yet still able to feed The People with his hunting.
Was it possible that Chakliux had brought a curse to his grandfather? What if Snow-in-her-hair was right? What if his bent foot was not sign of his kinship with otters but of bad luck?
“He had a good life, a long life, with much happiness,” Sok said, and the words drew Chakliux from his thoughts. “Two good wives,” Sok continued, “one who grew old with him, and another who gave him back his youth. Strong sons, they say, though they died young, and our mother—his daughter—a good woman. Two grandsons. He was glad to have you,” Sok said. “He told me often.”
Chakliux rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Do you think it was someone in this village? Do you think there is a man here who would do such a thing?”
For a long time Sok said nothing. Finally he replied, “All day I have asked myself that. All day, others have asked the same question. My answer is this: No. I do not think there is any man in this village who would do such a thing.”
“Do you think the trader did it?”
Sok lifted his hands, spread his fingers. “Who can say? No one saw what happened.”
“The boy saw,” Chakliux said.
Sok tipped his head, seemed to think for a moment. “Perhaps, but he is young.”
Chakliux nodded. “Does anyone say it was me?” he asked.
“No, little brother,” Sok said. “But if I hear something, I will tell you.”
“We should go to our mother.”
“Yes.” Sok sighed. “Red Leaf is there, and my sons. Our mother is not an easy woman to comfort. She has had too much sorrow in her life.”
Chakliux pulled on his leggings, boots and parka, then followed his brother from the lodge. He remembered the last time he saw his grandfather. Since he had come to the Near River Village, Chakliux had been teaching the old man riddles—a tradition in his own village, but not here.
“Look! What do I see?” Chakliux had said to Tsaani. “It grows brown where once it was white.”
Tsaani had laughed, then said, “A child’s riddle, that one. When summer is near, the ptarmigan’s feathers turn from white to brown.” It had been the first riddle the old man had answered without Chakliux’s hints and explanations, and Chakliux had felt a strange pride, as though his grandfather were the child and he the teacher. Snow had begun to fall, large flakes that stuck to the muddy path.
They caught on Chakliux’s lashes and melted on his eyelids.
A riddle for you, Grandfather, Chakliux thought as he followed Sok to their mother’s lodge. Look! What do I see? It bleeds but no man sees the wound. Then speaking aloud, Chakliux gave the answer:
“Your grandson’s heart.”
Yaa watched Brown Water as she greeted another woman, accepted a basket trap of fresh blackfish and a sael of dried blueberries. Yaa’s mouth longed for the blueberries, but she saw how quickly Brown Water hid the sael and knew she did not want Yaa to see them. She turned her head, pretended she did not know what Brown Water had done. It went easier with her, she had found, when she acted as stupid as Brown Water thought she was.
But Yaa would tell her mother, and they would both have a few precious berries, though only a taste so Brown Water would not notice they were gone. Yaa’s mother would also give some to her husband—a good share—for how could Brown Water complain about that?
Yaa looked over to where her father lay. He seemed to be asleep, but she thought he was not. His eyes were closed, but only so he did not have to see the lodge empty of his wife and favorite son.
At least, Yaa thought, Ghaden might return. When she last watched over him, he had seemed no better, but also no worse. Even Ligige’, her cheeks painted black with ashes in mourning for her brother, had seemed relieved when she felt Ghaden’s forehead and looked at the wound in his shoulder.
“Why are you surprised?” Yaa had wanted to ask, “I am old enough to care for my brother.” But she had known better than to be so rude, and so had kept her eyes lowered in respect as the shaman and Ligige’ spoke together about the boy.
Yaa went over to her father, sat down beside him and stroked her hands across his head. He liked that, she knew, having his hair combed, his scalp rubbed. Daes had done it for him all the time. His eyelids fluttered open for a moment, and he looked at Yaa. She thought he tried to smile, but it seemed as though his mouth was too tired even to do that much. He closed his eyes and Yaa used the fingers of both hands to comb through his long white hair. He sighed, and she did not know if it was a sigh of worry, sorrow or contentment, but she saw his lips move again toward a smile, and some of the weight over her heart seemed to lift.
He is too old for these problems, Yaa thought. His bones are too weak. If his heart ached as much as Yaa’s, what would keep his ribs from breaking? Under the edge of his blanket they looked as thin as sticks.
“Yaa!” Brown Water shouted, startling Yaa so much that she caught her fingers in her father’s hair, jerked his head. His eyes opened in surprise. “You are a useless one,” Brown Water said. “Look around you. I need firewood. Go get some and set it inside the door. You know with the snow melting each day, the wood must be left inside to dry.”
Yaa knew there was enough wood—dry wood—but it was useless to say so. She glanced down at her father, saw his lips mouth the word “Go.”
She smoothed her father’s hair one more time, then stood. She had only seven summers, so in the lodge wore nothing but a short apron, something to wipe her hands on and to wrap back between her legs when she sat on prickly-haired caribou hide. Brown Water used full-haired hides on the floor, though the hair shed, getting into their food and bedding.
Yaa had decided that when she had her own lodge she would scrape all the hides, even though it was more work. Her husband would not have caribou hair in every bite of his food.
“You are lazy,” Brown Water said. “Better that knife should have taken you than your brother. At least he might be a hunter someday.”
Yaa was used to Brown Water’s insults, especially when her own mother was not in the lodge, but these words seemed to coil into sharpness and twist themselves down Yaa’s throat. She blinked back quick tears, keeping her head turned so Brown Water would not see. Then she felt her father’s hard dry fingers against her cheek.
“Good daughter,” he said.
Yaa patted his hand and was surprised to see that tears seeped from beneath his eyelids. Then she understood. Her father had taken her tears, had rubbed them from her cheeks and put them into his own eyes so she could meet Brown Water’s insults without the embarrassment of crying.
Yaa raised her head. She looked at Brown Water with eyes dry as stones. Still staring at the woman, she pulled on her parka and leggings, her furred boots. Brown Water tried to turn her head, but Yaa used the power of her eyes to pull the woman toward her. Finally, Brown Water began to screech. She threw a ladle at Yaa, but Yaa was too quick. She scooted into the entrance tunnel, then left the lodge.
She did not like to go out when it was dark, but tonight she was glad to get away from Brown Water. She tiptoed over the place where Daes had died. The body was inside the lodge, but it seemed more likely her spirit was here, where she was killed.
Yaa stood for a time looking down at the dark spot near the lodge entrance where Ghaden and Daes had lain, melting the snow with their own blood.
She almost spoke out loud. She almost asked Daes to allow Ghaden to stay with them in this village, but she was afraid of the woman’s spirit, of her anger at being dead.
So Yaa said nothing, but instead hurried to the path that led to the center of the village. She would bring Brown Water firewood later, dig it out of the snow that covered the branches she and her mother and Daes had piled around the lodge when winter was new.
Now she would go to the cooking fires. She was no longer a baby, no longer someone the old grandmothers would click a tongue over and give a choice bit of tender meat. More likely they would raise a ladle, threaten her with stories of those tailed ones, the Cet’aeni, who carried children off with them into their homes in the trees. But she was very good at getting food, and today the grandmothers might give her something, especially since her little brother was so sick. Perhaps her chest would not ache so badly if her belly was full.
“My father,” Chakliux’s mother cried. “Who would kill my father?”
The first time she asked the question, Chakliux had tried to give an answer, some comfort, but now, after he had heard the same words come from her lips five handfuls of times, he merely sat, his eyes staring at nothing, his spirit roaming beyond the caribou hide walls.
In his mind, he gathered his possessions, furs and skins, even the few things he had left in his own village. He gave everything to the Walrus Hunters for an iqyax. How much, he wondered, did Walrus Hunters want for an iqyax? More, surely, than a man would give for a wife.
He did not know how long he had sat when he began to feel the heat of eyes on him. He looked first at Sok, saw that his brother stared at him, a scowl on his face, his eyes narrowed. Sok flexed his fingers, tightened them into fists.
“I need to kill whoever did this,” Sok said, his words falling between them like sharp rocks.
“When you know who did it, I will help you,” Chakliux replied, and looked down to see that his own hands were also clenched.
“He was a good man, a good grandfather,” Fox Barking said, the first words he had spoken to either of his stepsons since they came into the lodge. He moved his lips to point toward their mother. “He was a good father to her,” he said.
Sok pressed his fist into the palm of his hand, cracked each of his knuckles, popping them loudly. There was a scratching at the door and several women came in. They carried a boiling bag. Red Leaf stood up and helped them hang it from the lodge poles. They looked for a moment at Day Woman, then left, offering no words of hope, none of comfort.
Red Leaf found three bowls, filled them. She gave the first to Fox Barking, then one to Sok, one to Chakliux. Chakliux shook his head, but his stepfather said, “Eat. Both of you. There is something I must say. Something your grandfather told me the evening before he was killed.”
He waited while they ate, leaving his own bowl untouched, watching them as if he were an old woman waiting to refill their bowls. Chakliux finished first. He set his bowl on the floor. Fox Barking glanced at Sok, then turned so he was facing Chakliux.
“Your grandfather asked me to tell you this,” Fox Barking said. He licked his lips as though to pull the words he needed into his mouth. “He was the one who decided to …” He stopped, tipped his head back and rolled it, shoulder to shoulder, then he looked at Chakliux again and said, “You know, when you were born, it was not your mother who left you. Old Ligige’, she came to your grandfather, asked him what to do.”
Chakliux was surprised by Fox Barking’s words. But of course he should have known. With his grandfather dead, a stepfather or maternal uncle would be the one who made the decision about his life. There had been no uncle. His chest suddenly felt strange, as though the bones inside grated against one another, as though they were pressing and grinding.
“Your grandfather said he made the wrong decision. That is why you were found by the Cousin River girl. That is why they decided to keep you as a son, raise you as Dzuuggi. He told me that someday he would do something to make your life better.”
Chakliux looked over at Sok. His brother’s cheeks were full of food, but he did not chew.