The Storyteller Trilogy (38 page)

“He’s the dog,” Ghaden said solemnly.

“Foxes don’t have dogs,” Yaa told him.

“We do.”

“All right, Biter’s the dog. Do you like it in here?” she asked, then lifted her hand to the top of the den. “Look, I bet you can almost stand up straight.”

He stood but had to bend his head to the side.

“Almost,” Yaa said.

“I like it,” Ghaden whispered. “What do you do in here?”

“Sometimes I bring food.”

“I’m hungry, Yaa.”

Yaa rolled her eyes, though she knew it was probably too dark for him to see. “You just ate.”

Ghaden didn’t answer.

“Sometimes I like to sit and think about things,” she told him.

“What do you think about?”

“Ummm, sometimes you. What happened to you.”

She felt Ghaden suddenly stiffen. “It’s all right in here,” she told him. “The best thing about this secret place is that we are safe here. No one knows about it except us. If someone ever tries to get you, you can come here and be safe. Whatever words you say here, no one can hear you. It’s a good place to tell secrets.”

Ghaden was quiet for a long time. Finally he said, “I have secrets.”

“You do?”

“You won’t tell?”

“No.” She held her breath, hoping he would talk to her about the night Daes was killed.

“I took food last night from the cooking bag.”

Yaa was disappointed, but she reminded herself that big secrets were not easily told. It was best to start with small ones. She giggled. “I did, too,” she said.

Ghaden laughed out loud.

“Be quiet,” Yaa whispered, but was careful to keep the laughter bubbling through her words so Ghaden would know she was not mad.

“You have any more secrets?” Yaa asked.

Ghaden was suddenly very still, and Yaa hoped he would decide to tell her something. Each day when she hauled wood, stirred cooking bags, wove mats, each night when she lay trying to sleep, she thought about the killer, wondered if whoever it was would try to hurt Ghaden again. She thought about Daes and who in the village might have hated her enough to kill her.

So far, she had come up with nothing. The village women had not been friendly to Daes, except perhaps for Yaa’s mother, but only Brown Water was openly mean, and Brown Water had been in the lodge all night; at least she had been there when Yaa fell asleep, and was still there when Yaa awoke in the morning. Besides, why would Brown Water want to kill Daes? Without Daes each woman in the lodge had more work to do.

When Ghaden finally spoke, it was with a voice so small Yaa almost did not hear his words. “I have secrets,” he said again. “Biter and me have secrets.”

“So are you going to tell me those secrets?” Yaa asked.

“Not today,” he said.

“I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

“Not today. Someday. Not today.”

“Can you tell me who the old bone man is?”

“No.”

“You don’t know who he is?”

“No, I don’t,” Ghaden said, then whispered, “He has a bloody knife.”

THE BERING SEA

DURING THE FIRST DAYS
of their journey, Aqamdax wondered whether she would have agreed to come had she known the cold and fear and hunger she would face. Her chigdax kept her dry, but even with a warm sax underneath, the cold that rose from the sea found its way into her bones until even her teeth ached.

Before they left the First Men Village, He Sings showed Sok how to enlarge his iqyax hatch so both he and Aqamdax could sit inside, back to back. At least Sok’s body blocked some of the wind, and his back, pressed against her own, gave warmth.

The waves were worse than the cold. They thrust from the sea, huge under the iqyax, sometimes so large that Aqamdax could not see the other men, and it seemed that she and Sok lived alone in a world of water, without the hope of land. She did not allow herself to consider the thinness of the iqyax walls, and she blocked out stories she knew of sea animals rising from the depths to bite holes in iqyan.

On the second day, she found that the men did not eat before they left the beaches in the morning. Perhaps they would take a mouthful of dried fish, and always they drank water, but that was all until they beached their iqyan each night. Aqamdax did the same, though by the end of each day her belly ached with hunger.

The Walrus traders chanted as they paddled, and sometimes Sok’s brother sang River People songs, yet the words, sounding strange and without sense, brought her only despair. How would she live with a people she could not understand?

Her skin peeled and cracked, leaving her face and hands sore and red. Sok gave her goose grease to use as salve, but the salt water ate through grease and skin until she had bleeding sores on her lips, in the corners of her eyes and at the edges of her nostrils.

As the days passed and her terror lessened, she found herself mourning for her village, her own people, and for the sound of words she could understand. Then one morning as she woke to the shaking dread that preceded each day, a voice came to her as though Qung were speaking.

It was a scolding voice, grandmother to child. “You are storyteller, yet you waste your days in regret. The songs of your husband’s brother come to you as he paddles his iqyax, yet you do not hear them. Now is the time to learn words. How will you be storyteller among the River People if you do not speak their language? Do you expect them to learn yours?”

Then, after Aqamdax packed away their caribouskin tent, and bundled her feet into the warm hare fur socks that her husband had given her the second day of their trip, as she pulled on her chigdax, she grabbed a piece of dried fish and held it up. She told Sok the First Men word for fish, lifting her voice so that he would understand she was asking the River word, but he only shook his head at her. She picked up several things—her seal flipper boot, a knife, and finally a rock—but he only looked at her in puzzled silence. Finally he lashed out, pointed at the work she had left to do, and flicked his hands at the water so she understood that they needed to go soon or they would have to wait on this rocky beach until the tide rose again.

She packed Sok’s iqyax, trying to hide her discouragement. What husband wants a wife whose mouth is filled with sighs, whose lips never smile? Then Chakliux came to her, walking carefully on his otter foot. He picked up a fist-sized stone, white with speckles, like a puffin’s egg.

“Ts’es,” he said, then repeated the word.

Aqamdax did her best to twist her tongue around the strange sounds, and he smiled and nodded at her. “Ts’es,” she said, then, pointing with her chin at rocks under their feet, said, “Ts’es, ts’es, ts’es.”

He laughed, and for some reason his laughter lifted some of her sadness. During that day of paddling, she repeated the word to herself, “Ts’es,” until at the end of the day, when the dim glow of sun under clouds told her they would soon beach their iqyan for the night, she realized that, of all the words she could have chosen,
ts’es
was one she needed least. As they turned their iqyan toward the shore, she found herself laughing at her foolishness, and so decided what things she would ask to know this night: dried fish, caribouskin tent, water, husband, eyes, nose, mouth. Each day she would learn more until she could understand as a River wife should understand, and speak as a storyteller should speak.

They came to the Walrus Hunter Village in the middle of a day. Sok first noticed the change in the color of the sea, then strands of ribbon kelp that lifted brown blades to catch at paddles so the whisper of his chigdax as he moved no longer kept the beat of the traders’ chants. He raised his voice and called to Aqamdax, naming her as wife, a River word she now understood. He used his paddle to point out the kelp, giving her the Walrus name for it, since his own people had none. He tried to remember the few River words she knew, finally said, “Walrus Village, out there. Soon.”

He was not sure she understood, but when he paddled, quickening his pace as best he could in the kelp, she leaned against his back as though she, too, were pressing onward, toward land, toward the Walrus Hunter Village.

In summer, though some Walrus Hunters went to fish camps on nearby rivers and small inland lakes, most stayed in tents near the sea. It was a good time to hunt sea lions and seals, and hunters could also go together to hunt the few walrus that came to these waters.

Sok wondered what the Walrus shaman would think of Aqamdax. The journey, though not long, had been hard for her. The skin on her face was no longer smooth but full of sores, and she had lost some of the plump fullness of her breasts and belly. Now when he held her in the night, he felt the bones of her ribs rather than sleek, smooth skin. The first days in the iqyax, he had regretted bringing her, but then she began to learn River words, and she seemed to be happier in all things. As they traveled, she repeated the words she had learned, sometimes tangling them together in a way that made Sok smile.

He did not look forward to the rest of this day when she would learn that he had given her to the Walrus shaman. He would miss her. She was good in his bed, much better than Red Leaf, but with the shaman’s mask, the amulets and feather sax he would get for her, there was little doubt Wolf-and-Raven would give him Snow-in-her-hair. What would be better than to finally have that one who had lived in his heart since she was a child?

The Walrus Hunter Village was as Aqamdax had imagined. Like all children in her village, she had listened to the traders’ stories, had eventually learned enough Walrus words so as an adult she could make trades or even flatter a Walrus man who chose to come to her bed.

When she and Sok beached the iqyax, women and children, as well as hunters, came to help them. Children gathered close to look at Aqamdax, and the women watched her from the sides of their eyes, speaking to one another with hands over lips in words she could not hear.

Finally Sok came to her, untied the hood string of her chigdax and helped her slip the garment over her head, then, clasping her long hair in both hands, he pulled it from her sax and smoothed it down over her back. Aqamdax felt joy in the gentleness of his touch, in the pride with which he turned her to face the people.

“Aqamdax,” he said, giving her name the lilt of the River People language.

She looked at him, her tall, strong husband, and whispered the River word for wife, then also spoke that word in the Walrus tongue. Suddenly the days in the iqyax were worth the joy that filled her.

Then Sok called out, “Where is Yehl?” And though his next words were a broken mix of River and Walrus, Aqamdax understood, and in her horror, could not move, could not speak.

“Tell Yehl I bring Aqamdax. Tell him I have his wife.”

Chakliux turned away and fixed his eyes on the horizon. He could not bear to see the look in Aqamdax’s eyes as she realized what was happening. When Sok told Chakliux that he would give her to Yehl with all the people watching, Chakliux had told him there were better ways, had said that he should speak to Aqamdax privately. But Sok answered, “What woman wants to be dishonored before a whole village? If I announce my intent so everyone hears, she will have no choice but to act as though she came knowing she would be the shaman’s wife.”

And Chakliux found he could not disagree. As wife to the shaman, she would have a place of honor in the village. Living here, she would be closer to her own people, perhaps able to do as Tut did when she grew old—return to the First Men Village. She would also have opportunities to visit with First Men traders, those few who came each year to the Walrus Hunter People, and in that way hear her own language spoken.

In the next few days, after Sok had done his final trading, he and Chakliux would leave for the Near River Village, and, if Chakliux was welcome there, they would not return to the Walrus Hunters. If they found the Cousin River People were still seeking revenge, Chakliux would return here. Either way, Aqamdax would not have to see Sok again. She would not have his face to feed her anger or his voice to bring back memories of times shared as husband and wife.

Chakliux walked up the beach toward the iqyax racks. He needed to oil his iqyax and to repair some of the seams. Sok planned to walk back to the Near River Village, but Chakliux would go by water. Sok had laughed at him, asked him how the iqyax would help him in hunting bear or caribou, but Chakliux had reminded Sok that the few First Men traders who did come to River People Villages came upriver in their iqyan, traveling much more quickly than if they had walked.

Besides, his iqyax was more than wood and walrus hide. It was the way he became true otter. In his iqyax, he was whole and strong. How could he explain such a thing to Sok? How could Sok understand that Chakliux’s iqyax was like another brother?

A sudden shout of laughter made Chakliux turn, retrace his steps. He pushed his way through a crowd of Walrus Hunter People. A fight, Chakliux thought. Someone has started a fight. Probably two young men, then he realized it was not young men who fought but Aqamdax.

He forced his way to the center of the group and saw that she had somehow pushed Sok to the ground and was astride his shoulders, one hand twisted into his hair, the other with the curved blade of a woman’s knife at his throat. One of the Walrus traders had grabbed her around the waist, and he held a blade to her neck. He was shouting a First Men word at her, a word Chakliux did not know, and Aqamdax was shouting back, handfuls of words, full of anger. He saw the despair in her eyes and knew that she did not care if the trader cut her throat.

Sok roared and, with one strong heave, threw both the Walrus trader and Aqamdax backward to the ground. Chakliux placed himself between the woman and his brother. He stepped on her hand, pinned it to the ground as one of the Walrus men pried the knife from her fingers and another checked the sleeves of her sax for other weapons. It took several men to lead her away; one finally brought a rope to bind her hands and hobble her feet.

During the days in the iqyan, Chakliux had begun to realize how strong and determined Aqamdax was, but still, he had not thought she would react in anger, but more likely do as K’os would have—stand proudly, as though she had always known what would happen at the Walrus Village. His Near River mother, Day Woman, might have lifted her voice in mourning, but how many women would have tried to kill their betrayer?