The Storyteller Trilogy (11 page)

Cen gathered his strength, held himself as straight as he was able.

“Tell me,” he called out. “Tell me. Is my son still alive?” His question was met with anger, with men lifting fists and spear shafts against him until he had to curl himself down into a ball, his face tucked between his knees, his arms crossed over the back of his neck.

Finally one of the men pulled him to his feet. The man was large, his head broad and scarred, the left side of his face puckered as though he had once been burned from forehead to mouth. “You ask about the boy,” he said. “Why?”

“I did not kill him,” Cen answered through lips cut by broken teeth. “Why would I kill my own son? Would any of you kill your sons? Then why think I would? Do I look like one of those Not-People who live at the edge of the Far Mountains?” He paused to take a breath, and the pain was like a spear piercing his chest. He spat out blood and hoped it was only from the cuts in his mouth. “I did not kill my son,” he said.

The shouting dimmed and the men circled him. Cen felt their eyes on his face. Encouraged by their attention, he said, “Most of you know that when I brought the Sea Hunter woman here, she carried my son in her belly. But how can a trader have a wife? I could not hunt for her, could not train a son to hunt. So I brought them here to this good village. Each year I came back, to trade with you, and to see my son. Someday I hope he will come with me, also be a trader.”

A tall thin man called out at this, assured the trader he would not live to see his son grown.

“He is alive then,” Cen said, and a woman, hidden from his view by the men around him, hissed at the one who had spoken.

“He is alive,” Cen repeated.

“He is,” the scarred man finally said. A young man pushed his way to Cen’s side. Cen had seen him before. Yes. He called himself Sok, and had traded yesterday for several things.

“The boy is alive,” said Sok, “but his mother’s spirit calls him, as does the spirit of my grandfather, who was also killed.”

The trader stared at the man. Was he saying someone else had died? Three had been attacked?

“Dead by a knife we saw in your hands yesterday.”

“You have the knife?” Cen asked.

“Yes.”

“Many of you traded for knives yesterday,” Cen said. “Do you think if I had some reason to kill the woman and my son and an old man I do not know, I would be fool enough to use my own knife? To leave it?”

There was silence broken only by the moaning of several women, by the mumbling of the men. A wave of pain washed over Cen but he fought it down. “Bring the knife here,” he said. “Let me see it. I might remember who bought it in trade.” He looked at the men surrounding him. Was there fear in any of the faces?

“Bring the knife,” Sok said. “I need revenge on the one who killed my grandfather.”

Chakliux walked the river. It was still frozen, some of the ice swept bare, some covered with snow hardened by wind. In one moon, perhaps two, the ice would weaken, and a rush of water, ice and earth from far upriver would roar down to the sea. Even now, Chakliux could see scars from previous breakups, places where whole trees had been uprooted and large portions of the bank swept away.

If he had not seen it happen before, it would be difficult to imagine. The river under ice and snow seemed so quiet, as though it would never be anything but a white path for Chakliux’s feet.

Chakliux missed his own village, his own people. He missed telling stories, but at least this village had a river. For as long as he remembered, Chakliux had loved the water. As a child at fish camp, he was told many times to stay away from the river, but still he played and paddled in the shallows. Eventually, he had learned to swim, even though the cold of the water made his bones ache.

He was an otter, the shaman finally decided. Who could deny that? Who could not see his otter feet? Had he not been an animal-gift baby, sprung somehow from a clot of animal blood? Besides, everyone knew people did not swim.

After that, K’os did not try to keep him from the water. His skills were useful in building and repairing the village fish traps, in recovering lost hooks and handlines. He had a place in his village and was honored for his difference.

He was not otter enough to swim in the sea, but once or twice he had seen traders using boats built by the Sea Hunters. Iqyan, they were called, those boats, as sleek as an otter and sheathed with sea lion skins or split walrus hide. How different they were from the clumsy rafts and poles The People used to ferry themselves across the river in summer.

Those Sea Hunters, a trader had once told him, considered themselves brother to the sea otter. Once one of their hunters had come to the fish camp to trade. He was shorter and darker-skinned than The People, with long arms and wide, strong shoulders. Chakliux had seen him roll the iqyax and come up from the river, water dripping over his wide smiling mouth. He wore a birdskin parka, so that some of the women said he was not man but seabird and fought among themselves to decide who would invite him to her bed in hopes of bearing a magic seabird child.

Chakliux and the men had been more interested in the skin coat he wore over the birdskin parka. It was made, the Sea Hunter said, from seal intestines, each intestine split and flattened, then scraped so thin you could see light through it. The strips were sewn together so the seams did not leak water. When the man rolled his iqyax, the intestine parka protected him so the sea could not seep through his clothing and stop his heart with its cold.

Someday, Chakliux had decided, he would have his own iqyax. He did not want to be a trader. It was not a comfortable thing to meet new people when you were different, when you saw questions and worry in the eyes of all who looked at you. He was happy being a hunter. If he learned to hunt from an iqyax, his family would not have to live on fish only, on caribou or even bear. They would also have the fat and oil of sea mammals—seals and sea lions; and walruses, for he would take his iqyax downriver to the North Sea and hunt.

Yes, he was a hunter. He found joy when an animal chose to give itself so The People could live, but it was difficult to keep up with the other hunters, to carry his share, to hold his balance on trails over muskeg and through river brush. His legs were made for water, not land.

Once, according to the old storytellers of his village, the Sea Hunters had even hunted whales. As Dzuuggi he was entrusted with secrets—stories seldom told around winter fires, but which must be remembered, at least by a few. These stories said there was an island, almost at the far edge of the world, where men still hunted whales. The Sea Hunter told them those whale hunters had died long ago when a mountain in anger destroyed them for some reason no one could remember.

Since meeting the Sea Hunter, Chakliux had dreamed of trading for an iqyax of his own, perhaps even learning to build one. Now, looking at the river, he thought for the first time of seeking those ancient whale hunter people himself. Were they still there, on that far island? Would it take a lifetime of summers to find the edge of the world?

The Near River People considered him cursed. The woman who gave him birth had told him he had been set out to die. Perhaps even now, in his own village, the people had heard the story and would no longer want him as Dzuuggi, the one who remembered their past. If that were true, then why stay? He could not bring peace if no one in either village respected him.

Chakliux shielded his eyes from the brightness of the midday sun. The snow was melting. He had trade goods—the bride price of furs and hides rejected by Wolf-and-Raven—perhaps enough to trade for an iqyax. Then what would stop him from finding those whale hunters, brothers of the otter?

The pain was almost too much to ignore, but Cen fought it. “I told you,” he said again, “go get the knife.”

The large man left the group, and when he returned he carried the knife, still crusted with blood. Cen pressed his lips together in a tight line and tried not to show his disappointment. There were several knives he remembered well—distinctive for the length of a blade, the shape or color of a handle. But this knife was one from a Caribou hunter he had met on the trail last summer. His knives were all alike, with variations so small a man could scarcely tell one from another. Cen had traded nearly two handfuls of those Caribou knives to the people of this village.

He motioned for the man to hold the knife closer, and studied it carefully. There must have been a struggle. Some of the hair that wrapped the handle was torn. It hung like a black fringe from the carved antler haft. Cen’s thoughts tangled into one another. For a moment he could not remember anything anyone had given him for his knives. Furs? Yes, he was sure of it. Probably fishskin baskets.

“You see,” Cen said, pointing with his chin at the knife, “the handle is loose. The hunter who traded me these knives was from the Caribou People. He glues the handle to the stone blade with spruce pitch.”

“What does that matter to us?” the younger man asked.

No, the glue would not matter to them, but the words would slow the people down, make them think. When men took time to think, they were less apt to act in anger. Cen’s words also seemed to calm his own thoughts, and he suddenly remembered what he needed to know.

“You bought such a knife,” he said, looking into Sok’s face, seeing in Sok’s eyes the slight widening of surprise. Cen turned to another man. “And you,” he said. He pointed to several others, even tilted his head toward one of the men who held him. “You also,” he said.

“Yes,” said the man holding him, and released his grip on Cen’s shoulder. The hunter pushed up his sleeve to show a knife in a sheath strapped above his wrist. “I still have it.”

“Mine, also, I have,” said another man, and another. Sok, still standing before the trader, held up a knife. Other knives went up, more knives than Cen had traded to these men, many more knives. At another place, another time, he would have laughed.

But why not show a knife? Better to claim having one than to be accused of killing.

The large man, still holding the murder knife, turned to look at the hunters, at their blades lifted to the sky. In that moment, with one arm free and people no longer watching him, Cen moved quickly to grab the weapon from the large man’s hand. He roared, but Cen turned the knife toward him, then toward the other man who still held him. That one, a village elder, let him go.

But there were too many of them, and too many weapons. Cen could never get away. Besides, how far could he run with ribs broken, eyes nearly swollen shut? The men were wary. Why be the first to close in on the trader? Why be the one to feel his blade? If he had killed once, he would not hesitate to kill again.

“One of you traded for this knife,” Cen said. He continued to hold the blade out, and he circled slowly as he spoke. The men were quiet, but all watched, waited, their own knives in their hands. “One of you killed the woman, and this man’s grandfather.” Cen lifted his chin toward Sok. “One of you tried to kill my son. For that, I will kill you, whoever you are. If I do not find you during my life, I will find you after I am dead, when I am spirit and can move without being seen.

“I tell each of you this. I did not kill anyone. I did not hurt my son.”

Cen steadied his feet against the earth. What good were words if dizziness claimed him?

Suddenly an image came to him, something he had long ago tried to put out of his mind—a mourning ceremony he had seen far to the north, among people he could not now even give a name. A woman had lost her husband, a father his son. They had cut themselves with knives to show their sorrow. That in itself was not so unusual, but the woman had also cut off a finger, the man a strip of flesh from the calf of his leg.

Blood for blood, Cen thought, and called out, “I lift my own voice in mourning.” He looked at Sok. “I mourn the man you called grandfather,” Cen said. “I mourn the woman who was mother and wife among you.”

He waited, but no one moved toward him; no one spoke.

“I did not kill them,” he said again. “And I did not injure my son. I lift my voice to spirits who might call my son to their world. I offer blood for blood. Mine for his.”

Cen clenched his jaw. They wanted blood, like dogs panting for the lungs of newly killed caribou. He could see it in their eyes. Did these men hope it would ease their pain? Or did they need to show their own strength? Did they believe that if they controlled the power to kill it could not be used against them?

“Blood for blood,” Cen said again. He thrust the thin chert blade into his leg and peeled away a long curl of skin. The pain was more than he had imagined. Darkness closed in around his eyes. He clenched his teeth and waited until his mind cleared, then lifting the flap of skin, he cut it away from his leg and threw it on the ground. “To show my sorrow,” he said.

He bent over and picked up a fist-sized rock from the edge of the closest hearth fire. Sok moved toward him, but Cen held up his knife. “A trade with the spirits,” he explained.

He slipped the rock into his left hand then pressed it against his chest. He gripped the knife and with all his strength cut down across his smallest finger, just above the middle joint. The blade bit through his flesh, a high, screaming pain, then into his bone. Cen felt the deep ache as the knife penetrated and crushed. He did not stop until the blade reached stone.

The severed finger fell to the ground, and Cen dropped the rock. “A trade with the spirits,” he said again. With the dripping blade, he pointed at the finger. “For my son’s life.”

Sok caught him as he fell.

THE FIRST MEN VILLAGE

SALMON LEANED FORWARD AND
ran his fingers over Aqamdax’s face. He smelled of fish, but his touch was warm, and she felt the slow tightening of her belly. He moved his hand down to cup her left breast.

“It has been a long time for me,” he said, his words a whisper.

Aqamdax looked away from him. He had come to her in the middle of the day, interrupted her basket weaving, and when he saw she was alone in the ulax, began talking in sweet and cunning words. His first wife was in her fifth month of pregnancy with their third child. His other wife, a woman who had the same number of summers as Aqamdax, had just given him a daughter. For the sake of his hunting, Salmon should discipline himself to wait.