Ivory Carver 02 - My Sister the Moon (20 page)

The man with the labrets suddenly pointed to Kiin and said something. He was holding Kiin's suk and he threw it to Qakan. 

"He thinks you are cold. He thinks you should have your suk," Qakan said, but he again moved behind Kiin, and this time he grasped her arms, holding them away from her body. He said something and some of the men laughed. Kiin tried to pull away from him, but he jerked her arms behind her back and held them at the wrist with one hand, then reached forward and squeezed her breasts. 

Kiin's breasts were sore from her pregnancy, and she winced at Qakan's touch. "Let m-me go," she hissed, but Qakan laughed and said, "I told them you will make a good mother." Then he patted her stomach and said something else, something that made the men gasp, and some stepped forward, bending to look at Kiin's belly. 

Then the men were smiling, their voices louder, higher. Kiin suddenly jabbed Qakan in the stomach with her elbow. He let go of her, and Kiin spun, grabbing the suk from his shoulder. "D-d-did you tell them it was your ch-child?" she said to him. "D-did you tell them you are b-both its father and uncle?" 

The Walrus men were laughing. But Kiin saw the anger in Qakan's eyes. "Why are you an-angry?" she asked him. "You will get more for me now. I have shown my strength." She squatted on her heels, and pulled the suk on over her head. 

"You stupid woman," Qakan said and lunged forward, catching Kiin by the hair, but suddenly one of the men who had brought them to the village was beside Qakan, catching Qakan by his hair. It was the father. He said something low and hard, and Qakan let Kiin go. He asked Qakan something, and Qakan, rubbing his head, said to Kiin, "Go with him. He will take you to the women." 

The man led the way up the beach and Kiin followed. 

Beach shale gave way to gravel, the gravel to grass. A path wound around a hill until they came to a valley, and even in 

the darkness, Kiin could see twelve, fourteen mounds, like long ulas, except the roofs were not sod, but scraped hides, peaked in the center. Light from inside the mounds lit the skins so each looked like a small glowing fire on the valley floor. The mounds were arranged around one very long ulaq, this one only dimly lit, and Kiin wondered if these people had a shaman or a powerful chief who lived there. 

The man beside her pointed to a ulaq near them and said something, then grasped her hand and pulled her with him to the place. A sudden fear rose up inside her, and she wished she understood his words. 

What if he were taking her to be his wife? How could she give herself to any man when Qakan had cursed her? How could she give herself when she knew the man taking her would be cursed? 

As they neared the ulaq, Kiin could see a rectangular opening on one side. A flap of woven grass covered the opening. The man opened the flap and a woman's voice greeted him. Then a second woman's voice. 

He pulled Kiin inside, and she saw that two old women sat cross-legged, facing each other, a grass mat draped over both of their laps. Each woman was sewing a pattern at an end of the mat. Their needles were threaded with long strands of colored sinew. Both women had the white hair of the very old; both had round faces; lines spread from the corners of their eyes and mouths. They wore hooded parkas as the men did, but these parkas were decorated with strips of fur at the wrists, and the fronts were colored with bright shell beads in a pattern of triangles. 

The man said something and one of the women laughed, her mouth opening to show that she had no teeth. She held up her needle and the other woman leaned forward and bit off the strand of sinew dangling from it. They rolled the mat, and the man helped them stand. Then they scurried around the large room of their ulaq, pulling out furred hides and containers filled with roots and dried meats, all the time looking at Kiin and whispering to one another. The man shook his head and laughed, saying something to 
Kiin, and the old women looked up and joined the laughter. 

The man laid his hand on Kiin's shoulder. "You are safe here," he said in the First Men's language, and Kiin stared after him, her mouth open in surprise as he left the ulaq. 

A short time before, Kiin had been afraid he would take her as wife, but now, without him, she suddenly felt alone. She stood, her eyes on the door flap, willing him to come back, but finally she turned and faced the women. 

They were spreading out a floor mat. "Sit down, little one," said the woman with teeth, and she, too, spoke in the First Men's tongue. 

The women began to giggle, a silliness in the laughter, like the laughter of little girls, then the toothless one said, "Long ago my sister and I were born to the First Men. We, too, once came as brides, and we, also, each carried our firstborn when we came." 

Kiin's eyes widened and she placed her hands over her stomach. 

"Do not be surprised," said the one without teeth. "My sister has a gift of visions. We knew you would come, though we told no one." 

She handed Kiin a wooden bowl filled with dried meat and small white slices of some root. "It is important that you eat," she said. 

Kiin took the bowl and held it in her lap. How could she eat when they were not eating? They would think she was rude. But one of the old women leaned forward and scooped up a handful of the mixture and pressed it into Kiin's mouth. The food was good, and Kiin was hungry, and so, without looking at them, she began to eat. The meat was rich, like whale meat, but also with the taste of seal. And the white root was pungent, cutting the tallow of the meat. 

The women moved closer to Kiin as she ate, making her feel uneasy, and she wondered whether she was expected to share the food, and so she held the bowl out to them, but they shook their heads. Kiin noticed that they did not take their 
eyes from her face, and suddenly, she remembered stories she once heard of spirit women, whose food carried curses or even death. 

But no, Kiin thought. These women were too full of laughter. They seemed more like children than old women. 

She took another bite of the meat. Yes, it was rich and good, and the root. . . Kiin was sure she had not tasted it before, but it was much like bitterroot bulbs. Another bite; she was tired. Perhaps after she ate she would tell them how much she needed to sleep. They would understand when she told them she had not slept for two days. 

Kiin scooped her fingers into the meat. Was the meat at the bottom of the bowl different? Thick and sticky? No, Kiin told herself. You are tired. All things seem strange when you are tired. Another bite. But this mouthful. . . this mouthful was almost too thick to swallow. 

The two old women sat down and again began to work on their grass mat. They were talking—in the Walrus tongue? Kiin was not sure. Their words stretched out, slow and long, as though each syllable were a thread strung from wall to wall. 

Darkness pulled at the corners of Kiin's eyes, and she felt as though she were again in the ik, rocking with the swells of the sea. She shook her head. I have spent too many days in the ik, she thought. The waves still seem to move me. 

"I am t-tired," she said to the women, and she tried not to close her eyes. But the women stared at her, as if they could not understand what she said. 

Kiin searched within for her spirit's voice. It would tell her what to do. But her spirit no longer answered her, and she felt as though she were a child again, without a name, without a soul. 

She was suddenly afraid, and tried to get up, but could not. She opened her mouth to speak, but the only sound she could make was a tiny cry, as though not she but her unborn child controlled her voice. Kiin moved her eyes toward the women, and the effort took all her strength. 

They smiled at her as though nothing were wrong, and then smiled at one another. Then Kiin closed her eyes, closed her eyes to see darkness. And dimly, softly, sifting in through the grains of her sleep, she heard the toothed one say, "We know about your curse." 

"WE CANNOT." 

"You want to curse all of us?" 

"We will be cursed either way. It is better to have the power of the good one to help us in this. Besides, we can kill the evil child after its birth." 

"But how will we know which one is evil? Can anyone tell before a child has ten, twelve summers?" 

Kiin fought the clouds that seemed to drift in her mind. Where was she? Who was speaking? It was not Crooked Nose or Little Duck. 

"You, not I, see visions," said one of the women. "I will do what you say." 

"Then let her sleep. It is nearly morning and the men will want to trade for her today." 

Kiin suddenly remembered the women's faces: as yellow as dock root and wrinkled, one with teeth, one without. What had they given her to make her sleep so hard, without dreams, as though she had been dead? 

And with sudden panic, she remembered that her spirit had seemed to leave her, that she had been alone. In her fear, she opened her eyes, saw the two old women bent over her. Then in that moment, she heard a quiet voice, something from within, yet also from without, for Kiin's 
spirit and both women spoke at the same time, saying, "Do not be afraid." 

A stillness settled over Kiin, and she again closed her eyes. Again slept. 

She awoke to the smell of cooked fish. 

"Eat, little one." 

Kiin opened her eyes. The old woman with teeth was bending over her, holding out a shell bowl full of fish, flaked into sections. 

Kim sat up and took the bowl. She looked into the woman's eyes. 

The woman smiled. "There is nothing in it but fish," she said. "Eat it and then we will talk." 

"You and-and your s-sister should eat, too," Kiin said. 

The old woman looked over her shoulder at her sister and the sister filled two more bowls. They sat down facing Kiin, and when they began to eat, Kiin did also. 

When the bowls were empty, the toothless one asked, "Do you want more?" 

"No," said Kiin. "It was enough." She felt stronger, her head clear. 

The toothed sister gathered the bowls and wiped them out with her hand. Then she sat down again. 

When the two women did not speak, Kiin glanced up at them and saw they were both staring at her. She almost looked away, but then realized that they meant to test her power. Had she not seen the men of her village do the same? Kayugh was always winner, able to keep his eyes under his own control, to stare as long as he wished without blinking, without looking away. 

Remembering Kayugh, Kiin kept her eyes fixed between the women, so she could see both, but be dominated by neither. She fought each blink until her eyes began to burn, then she turned her thoughts from herself to things that brought joy in her life: the softness of a well-tanned hide, a finished seam of tiny stitches, the morning call of the auklet, the graceful swimming of the otter. These things kept her mind from the 

pain of her eyes, even when tears formed and spilled to her cheeks. 

"She is strong," said the toothless sister. 

"She has to be," answered the other. And both sisters blinked, giving Kiin clear victory. And so when they began to speak to her, Kiin was not afraid. 

"You should know our spirit names," said the toothed sister. "Though they are something most people, even the people of this village, do not know." 

"A spirit name is a sacred thing," said the other sister. "Something that is tied to the soul." 

"Then why t-tell me?" Kiin asked. "You d-do not know me." 

"We are linked by the bond of our people, the First Men," said the toothed one. "And by my dreams." 

Kiin wetted her lips. Had they not told her they knew about her curse? So why take a chance with the sharing of names? 

"Do not t-tell me," Kiin said. 

But as if they had not heard her, the toothed woman said, "My true name is Woman of the Sun, but you should call me Aunt as do all the people of this village." 

The toothless one said, "I am Woman of the Sky, but in this village I am called Grandmother." 

Kiin could not answer them. They had given something too sacred. But then she thought, Perhaps they did not give true names. They knew her curse. Or perhaps they were so powerful, they had no fear of her curse. Perhaps they wanted only to know her name. But why? Her name was not as sacred as the name of an old woman. It had not been with her long enough to gain much power, and she had no spirit name. 

"I am c-called Kiin," she said. 

The old women nodded. "And you have no other name? No true name of the spirit?" 

"It is not the c-custom of our village," Kiin answered. 

The women looked at each other, then the toothed one said, "You must have one. It is too dangerous to face our people without one." 

"This you must keep secret," said Woman of the Sky. "Do not even tell the man who takes you as his wife." 

The women turned to face each other, and though they gestured with their hands, Kiin heard no words. But finally Woman of the Sky said, "My sister names you for she has the greater power." 

Kiin felt a strange stirring within her, not from her spirit, but from within her womb as though her baby were afraid. And for a moment Kiin forgot that there was a chance the child she carried was Qakan's. For a moment she was only a mother, frightened by her child's fear. She placed her hands over her belly and asked, "Why is my b-baby afraid?" 

Woman of the Sky opened her mouth as if to speak, but closed it. Then again the two sisters began the strange silent movement of hands, the talk without words, and the uneasiness that pulled at Kiin became stronger. 

Finally they both turned back to her. The toothed one spoke. "Little one," she said, taking Kiin's hands, patting them as if Kiin were a child, "there is something you must know about the child you carry." She paused and reached into the top of her suk and pulled out an amulet, the leather old and dark. She squeezed the amulet in a slow rhythm, the rhythm of the pulse, the heart beating. "The spirit of the one you carry is strong, too strong for one body." She held Kiin's eyes with her own, and Kiin realized how powerful the woman was, and again the child in her womb moved as though it were afraid. 

"A man, perhaps, could contain it. But a child . . ." She shook her head. "A child would die. "

"So the infant you carry chose the path of life. He became two. One half taking the good of the spirit, the other half the evil." 

Woman of the Sun paused, and Woman of the Sky leaned forward to say, "When you came, my sister had been warned in a dream of your curse. We decided to kill your baby and so protect our people. That is why we gave you the white root. It would not have harmed you, only the child." 

"But the child was too strong," said Woman of the Sun. "And then its spirit spoke to mine, telling of blessings as well 
as a curse, telling of two children, one evil, one good." 

"Two children ..." Kiin said. And suddenly it seemed she could feel two babies, moving, one lying up against her ribs, the other hard and solid within the cradle of her pelvis. And she wondered whether the good one was Amgigh's, the other, the evil one, Qakan's. "S-s-so you cannot kill the evil w-without killing the good," Kiin said. 

"Yes." 

"But after the b-birth you will k-kill the evil one." 

"Yes." 

"But who can s-say whether a new baby is g-good or evil?" 

"Perhaps their spirits will speak to your spirit," Woman of the Sky answered. 

Kiin shook her head. "The evil one will lie." 

"The secret will be revealed to you," Woman of the Sun said. "Some way, you will know. Then you must have the power to do what has to be done." 

"So we give you another name," said the toothless one. "Something that holds power." She got up slowly and hobbled to a niche in the wall, then drew out a small bladder pouch. Holding it out toward Kiin she said, "If the name we have chosen is a good name, a name of strength, the liquid in this pouch will taste sweet to you, like the goodness of fresh seal oil. If it tastes bitter, we must choose another name." 

She brought the pouch to Kiin and sat down. Kiin held it in her hands as both old women closed their eyes and began to chant. There was a tightness within Kiin's chest, a fear that was more than the movement of her children, as the truth of the old women's words sank into Kiin's soul. She laid the pouch in her lap and placed both hands over her belly. Two children. One evil, one good. One to hate, one to love. 

Suddenly the old women began to moan, a chant that was more like weeping. And finally the toothed one said, "You are Tugidaq—Moon." 

The sister repeated the words, then said, "Drink." 

Kiin raised the pouch to her lips and drank. The liquid was rich and sweet.