The Storyteller Trilogy (10 page)

Chakliux left. Outside, the morning was bright. He walked back toward Brown Water’s lodge. He should tell them that the boy was still alive and the knife out, the bleeding stopped. A crowd of people stood at the lodge entrance, but they parted when they saw Chakliux, pulling back as though he carried the spirit of death with him. He looked down, saw the blood that stained his parka from mid-chest to the wolf fur ruff that ended just above his knees. Then Brown Water was at the entrance, her voice firm as she said to Chakliux, “My husband wants to speak to you.”

Chakliux stooped to follow Brown Water through the entrance tunnel. Inside, the lodge was large and neat. A caribou hide boiling bag of soup hung near a central hearth fire. The child he had seen earlier when he found the boy—a girl of six or seven summers—was wrapped at the waist with a woven hare fur blanket and sat with an old man, her small hands patting his fur-wrapped shoulders.

She was the old man’s daughter; she had the same strong bones beneath the half-moon eyes. The same swirl of hair lifted itself in a peak at the center of a high forehead.

She swallowed, and he saw the dimple at one corner of her lips, like the dimple that had given her mother the name Happy Mouth. It was a face made for someone who laughed often and saw the good things of the earth, and Chakliux was glad the old man had such a daughter.

“The boy is alive,” Chakliux said, though the women had not asked, and the old man did not seem to understand what had happened.

“The knife?” asked Brown Water, then glanced to her side.

Chakliux followed her eyes and saw that the dead one lay there. The frost and blood had been washed from her face. Long strands of babiche were knotted around the woman’s wrists and elbows, and other strands lay beside her.

“The knife was one the trader brought,” Chakliux said.

“I told her she should not go to him,” said Brown Water. Then with widened eyes she looked at her husband, but his gaze wandered as though he had not heard her.

“There is no way to know if the trader …” Chakliux began, but Brown Water moved her head toward the old man, and Chakliux finished with, “Many men traded for things yesterday.” He pulled up his parka sleeve so the women could see the knife sheathed on his forearm. It was similar to the one now lying in Wolf-and-Raven’s lodge. “I traded for this.”

“You found her as you were going to …”

“My grandfather’s. I feed his dogs every morning.”

“Yes. I have seen you. There is nothing else you know?”

“Nothing else,” Chakliux said, then looked over at the dead one. He pointed with his chin toward the strips of babiche. “Do what you can to keep her spirit here.”

Both Brown Water and Happy Mouth raised eyebrows in agreement, then Happy Mouth knelt beside the dead woman, picked up a strand of babiche and tied it at her shoulder joint. Once each joint was tied, the spirit lost power. Then perhaps the child would not be called to follow his mother into death.

Chakliux left the lodge. The sael of fish lay near the lodge wall. He picked it up. He wondered if the noise and the mourning cries had awakened Tsaani.

Probably not, he thought. It was early yet, and old men sleep hard.

C
EN WAS ASLEEP WHEN
they came.

They did not enter through the door of his lodge, but through the caribou hide walls, ripping the skins with knives and spearheads. Before he could untangle himself from his sleeping robes, the men were upon him, pinning his arms, hitting him, kicking him. Then the women came, tearing at his eyes with their fingernails, leaving long weals in his cheeks and across his bare chest.

He kicked the women away as the men held him, then screamed out to ask why they were attacking him. He was a respected trader. For many years he had come to this village. Had he ever cheated anyone? Had he ever abused their hospitality?

His last question seemed to renew their anger, and one of the women shouted at him, “What about my sister-wife? What about her little son? You kill them, then say you show respect?”

He knew the woman, her loud voice, her harsh ways. She was Brown Water. Her words pierced his eardrums like birdbone needles. What had she said about killing? Did she mean Daes? Ghaden?

“Who is dead?” he shouted out, but his question brought more screaming, more anger. Several men hit him—hard, heavy blows to his face and belly, so that he curled his body to protect himself. His thoughts swirled as though he lived a dream. He raised his head for a moment to look back at his bed, almost expecting to see himself lying there asleep, dreaming the pain.

Chakliux had watched the Near River hunters and a number of women, Brown Water leading them, leave the village. He knew they were going to the trader’s camp. Several men motioned for him to join them, but he shook his head. Because Daes was killed by a trader’s knife, they thought the trader did it? What man would be so foolish as to leave such a clear sign?

Chakliux had watched the trader, had seen how skillfully he bargained, how well he judged men. If he had murdered someone, he would not leave his knife behind. Chakliux wanted no part of whatever they planned to do to the man.

“You heard what happened?”

Chakliux turned at the sound of his brother’s voice.

“I found her,” Chakliux answered.

“You?”

“Yes.”

“She was dead when you found her?”

“Yes, and the boy nearly dead.”

“Do you think he will live?”

“Ligige’ stopped the bleeding, and the shaman prays. Perhaps he will live, perhaps not.”

“They think the trader did it?”

“One of the trader’s knives was still in the boy’s shoulder.”

Sok snorted. “Cen is not stupid,” he said. “If he killed someone, he would not leave his knife.”

“You think they will kill him?” Chakliux asked.

Sok lifted his hands, fingers spread. “Who can say?” he answered. “They will probably bring him back to the village before they decide what to do.”

“Should we wait for them?” Chakliux asked. “A man should not be killed for what he did not do. If we talk to them …”

“I will wait for them. You should not,” Sok answered, then said, “You know what some people say about the dogs.”

Chakliux nodded. “Yes.” How many had died since he came to the village? Seven, eight? They blamed him. The Near River dogs had been strong and healthy until he came.

“If they blame you for dogs, they might blame you for other things as well,” Sok said. “I will wait for them, try to talk to them.”

Chakliux turned toward their grandfather’s lodge, took several steps along the path before his brother called out to stop him.

“Where are you going?”

“To feed our grandfather’s dogs.”

“You have not yet fed the dogs?”

“No.”

Sok clicked his tongue as though Chakliux were a child to be scolded. “I will do it,” Sok said. “Go. Leave the village for the day. Do whatever it is you like to do, but leave the village.”

Chakliux could see the irritation in his brother’s eyes. Feeding dogs was usually a boy’s job. Chakliux did it because he liked being with Tsaani. How else could he show his gratitude for the man’s patience, his willingness to accept Chakliux without sympathy or fear of his difference?

Chakliux walked back toward Red Leaf’s lodge. His brother was right. He should leave the village, stay away until night. Red Leaf would not be sad to see him go, even just for a day. He was one more to feed, another man to sew for. She was a good wife to Sok and a good mother to Sok’s sons, but she did not try to hide her resentment of Chakliux.

Red Leaf was a large woman, as tall as Chakliux and wide of hip and shoulder—a woman who would give a man large, strong sons. Her face was as square as her body, skin dark and smooth. When Sok came into the lodge, Red Leaf’s eyes never left him. Her hands, usually capable and strong, fluttered when he spoke, and when she brushed the snow from his parka, her fingers lingered against the fur.

Any acknowledgment of Chakliux came with the downward curl of her lips, the narrowing of her eyes, but this time she smiled and gave him a bowl of meat and broth, then circled to brush snow from his parka.

“You were the one who found her,” she said from behind his back. “Do you think spirits killed her?”

Chakliux tipped the bowl to his mouth and drank. He wiped his lips with his hand and said, “Spirits do not use knives.”

“You did not see anyone? Someone who might have killed her?” Chakliux squatted on his haunches beside the hearth fire. Red Leaf knelt beside him and whispered, “Night Walking says Brown Water herself might have done it.”

“I saw no one,” Chakliux answered. “She had been dead a long time when I found her.”

Red Leaf’s lips tightened.

Chakliux set the bowl on the scraped caribou hides that covered the floor. “I will hunt today,” he said, but did not look at the woman. What was wrong with her? This was not a celebration. Daes was dead; her child was badly hurt, perhaps dying. Worst of all, someone had done the killing.

In his own village, Chakliux had been taught the stories of his people, stories to pass down so certain things would not be forgotten. In several of those stories, people had killed others, but that had been long ago, when animals and men could talk to one another. This killing was now.

Chakliux took his weapons and hunter’s bag. He pulled his parka hood snug around his face and left the lodge. When he reached the edge of the village, he heard the sudden noise of raised voices, the mourning cries of women. Their songs were like ice against his teeth. The child has died, he thought, and felt his anger rise against the one who had done such a thing.

He peered between the lodges. A crowd had gathered on the far side of the village. They had captured the trader. Chakliux walked quickly toward the river. Sok was right. He did not need to be here. When he got back to the village that night, if he heard any whispers of anger toward him, he would return to his own people. What hope did he have to bring peace to this village if they thought he would kill a woman and a child?

Once he was back at the Cousin River Village, he would listen carefully, watch carefully, and if he discovered the killings were something planned there, he would see that life was given in exchange for life.

When Happy Mouth came for Ligige’, she first asked about Ghaden.

“Not dead,” Ligige’ replied. She had cleaned the wound often, singing when she removed the poultice so spirits would not enter the boy’s body through the knife hole.

Ghaden whimpered and Ligige’ held up the boy’s hands to show Happy Mouth that his fingertips were pink with only a few small patches of frostbite. She smoothed back the dark hair from his forehead. The skin on his face was also healthy, and only two narrow lines of dried blood marked his lips, split from the cold. Daes had been a good mother. Even in death she had fought to keep her son warm through the long night.

“His feet?” Happy Mouth asked.

Ligige’ peeled back the blankets. Ghaden’s feet, too, were pink, no white blotches or blackening of toes.

“They say you should come now,” Happy Mouth said. Her lips worked in a strange way, as though she fought to keep from crying.

Yes, Ligige’ thought. The boy was worth a woman’s tears. Now that Daes was dead, Happy Mouth would most likely raise Ghaden as her own.

“I can stay here,” Ligige’ said. “I have no one in my lodge to feed. My brother has his own wife now.”

“Ligige’ …” Happy Mouth said softly.

Ligige’ looked up into the woman’s face and realized the pain there was not for Ghaden but for her. Ligige’’s heart squeezed itself small as though trying to hide within her chest. “Who?” she asked.

“Your brother,” Happy Mouth said. Again her lips worked to hold in tears. “He is dead.”

Ligige’ bent to adjust the blankets around Ghaden, then she lifted her head, took a long breath. “He was an old man,” she said, though in her thoughts he had never been old.

Happy Mouth shook her head. “Dead by the same knife,” she said, her voice a whisper.

At first Ligige’ did not understand the words. Surely her brother had been called by one of those spirits that brings death to elders—one that stops the heart or slows the breathing, steals speech or reason. But a knife? The same knife that killed Daes?

“Someone killed …” Her voice cracked on the words. “Why?”

Happy Mouth did not answer. She helped Ligige’ to her feet, guided her from the lodge. Ligige’ barely heard Happy Mouth call her daughter, Yaa, scarcely understood her as she told Yaa to stay with Ghaden, to come for her or Brown Water if the boy awoke or if he turned suddenly hot or cold.

Ligige’ lifted her eyes into the brightness of the morning. Her brother’s spirit was there, watching, she was sure. She saw his face, gentle with a smile, teasing her, laughing with her, sharing stories.

“I am oldest,” she whispered, and looked up so her brother would hear.

Cen stared into the faces of the men who held him. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and his head seemed to pound with each beat of his heart. He was sure they had broken his nose, several of his ribs, and perhaps his left wrist.

During the years he had been a trader, he had often faced death. Once his iqyax was destroyed in the surf. Another time he had fallen into a sinkhole while walking overland between villages. He had often been caught in winter storms.

He had managed to drift ashore in the wreckage of his iqyax, though the cold of the waves nearly killed him. In the sinkhole, he had spoken to the grasses around him, asked them to lend him their strength, and so clawed out by pulling and clinging. He had lived through the storms in snow caves he carved with his own hands. But this was different. With winds and water a trader had a chance if he stayed respectful. With men …

They dragged him to the center of the village. There they stood him up, naked in the cold wind except for his breechcloth. The hunters and the women shouted at him, threw rocks, hit him with sticks.

The image of Daes came into his mind. She stood before him in her new parka, the one he had brought her from the Walrus Hunters. She opened her mouth. Instead of words, blood flowed, and so he knew she was dead. The knowledge was ice in his heart, and suddenly he did not care if the River People killed him. He and Daes would be together. Away from this village, away from these people. But if Ghaden were alive, could Cen allow himself the joy of Daes? Who would protect their son? Who would care whether or not he grew up to be a good and strong man?