Song of the River (28 page)

Qung turned herself so her back was to the grass curtain. Perhaps the people were tired of listening to an old voice telling them how things should be. Perhaps it was time to hear the stories told in new ways, by a strong, young voice. But what would happen to those sacred stories when they came from Aqamdax’s mouth? Were they strong enough to keep themselves pure, or would Aqamdax’s disrespect twist them like a woman twists a ptarmigan’s neck?

Chapter Eighteen

“I
T IS LONG-SUN
feast tonight,” Qung said.

“I know,” Aqamdax answered, and bit her tongue to stop the ridicule that came too easily into her mouth. Everyone knew it was long-sun feast.

“You have food prepared?” Qung asked.

Aqamdax raised her brows in surprise and spread her hands out over the dried fish and peeled iitikaalux stalks she had layered on grass mats.

Qung nodded as if she had just seen what Aqamdax had done. “Take some of our eggs,” she said.

Again Aqamdax was surprised. The eggs, stored in seal oil and buried in sand, were Qung’s favorite. She did not share them, and even Aqamdax had to sneak to get one from their store, though she had been the one who climbed the cliffs to gather them.

“Eggs?” she repeated, to be sure she had heard the old woman right.

“Eggs. I said eggs,” Qung answered, her voice rising into annoyance. “Take eggs.”

“Yes, Aunt.”

“It is a celebration, you know.”

Aqamdax smiled. “I know.” Long-sun day always brought hope, and the First Men tried to show the sun that they appreciated its rising each morning. If they did not do such a thing, if praises were not made, who could say? Perhaps the sun would choose to stay wherever it went during the night and never return.

“The First Men will have a new storyteller.”

Aqamdax opened her mouth but did not speak. A new storyteller. Qung must mean her, but did she know the stories well enough? What if the people would not listen when she talked? How could she hope to carry their respect as Qung did?

The men came willingly enough into her sleeping place, but she knew what was said behind her back. She understood the anger of wives and mothers. It was one thing for a man on a long journey to take his pleasure with a woman who was willing, but to have such a woman in their village, ready whenever a wife was not …If Aqamdax was wife, she might feel the same resentment.

Yet, she had never been claimed as wife, and each month her bleeding came. So how could she hope to be wife? Why give a bride price for a barren woman when she would welcome you into her bed anyway? Why have to worry about feeding her?

So, would the people listen to someone like her? How would they feel when their sacred stories came from her mouth?

“You are ready,” Qung said. “I know. You are ready.” She said the words with an assurance that settled the anxiety fluttering in Aqamdax’s chest.

“I am ready,” Aqamdax answered, and tried to make her voice sound as sure as Qung’s. She smiled at Qung, at the face so lined with wrinkles you could hardly see the eyes. “Do you think our people are ready for me?”

She laughed when Qung did not answer her, then lifted her head. It would be no different than when she gathered clams with the women or joined the chief’s wives to fish pogy. She was good at ignoring barbed words, sly smiles, narrowing eyes. If she told the stories well enough, perhaps they would forget who was telling and think only of what was being said.

The dancing did not end until the sun had sunk behind the northwest edge of the earth. Qung had kept the ulax dark, lighting only a few wicks in one oil lamp, and Aqamdax wondered if she had done that in hopes the people would forget who was speaking.

Aqamdax had left on her feathered sax, the long, calf-length coat that most First Men wore only outside the ulax. She wished she could wear a winter parka, the hood over her head to protect her from the people’s thoughts. At least the sax hid her belly and breasts, caressed by too many men.

She had not participated in the dancing and had eaten very little during the feast. It seemed as though the people of her stories were alive in her mind, dancing, singing and shouting out their own celebration, whispering into her ears, pushing their songs into her mouth until she was so full of people inside she could not bear the company of those around her.

She had hidden outside in the shadowed lee of the ulax farthest from the celebration, crouching there to listen to the chattering in her head until she finally realized she was leaning against the death ulax.

Aqamdax had stood up to leave, but then decided she would stay. Here she would be left alone. No one would interrupt her as she retold the stories. Perhaps those bones inside the ulax would enjoy hearing the old stories once again.

She began with the Maker’s stories, told how all things were created—sea and sky, earth and animals and man. Then she told of times long ago when sea otters and First Men were brothers. She told how a brother and sister, cursed by sleeping together, became the sun and moon. You could see them still, chasing one another across the sky. She told those stories and stories more recent, of hunters and warriors, of hard winters and good summers. Finally, when the sun had dipped into the earth, she returned to Qung’s ulax.

Qung was waiting. The thin slits of her eyes sparked when Aqamdax climbed down into the ulax. Aqamdax wondered if the old woman would tell stories also, or if she wanted Aqamdax to do all the telling. Usually, when a village had more than one storyteller, they took turns, one telling, then the other, each spinning stories from what had already been told.

They sat in silence for a time, then Qung said, “I will tell the first story. When I have finished, it will be your turn. If anyone objects, do not stop. I will do whatever has to be done.”

“Does anyone know I will be …”

“I have told the chief hunter. Perhaps he will tell his wives. Perhaps not, but what can they say? They are the ones who dreamed you here.”

Aqamdax laughed. Yes, they had dreamed her here. What else could they have done with her? She needed to be a wife. If not that, then why not storyteller?

“Be still, Aqamdax,” Qung said, and Aqamdax realized that she was pacing, moving in long, quick steps from one side of the ulax to the other. She made herself sit down, but her feet jerked and her knees twitched and the muscles of her legs danced under her skin.

“Here,” Qung said, and slipped something into Aqamdax’s hand. The girl opened her fingers. It was a whale’s tooth, carved into the whorls of a shell. Smooth and cool, it lay as though it had been shaped to fit into a hand. Aqamdax’s fingers followed the curves of the whorl, stroking. The nervousness seemed to slide out of her body as her fingers moved, slowly, slowly over the lines of the whale tooth shell.

“It is yours now,” Qung said. “I do not need it.”

Aqamdax was surprised. She had certainly given Qung no reason to offer gifts.

“Shuganan’s?” Aqamdax asked. Her mother had had several of the man’s ancient carvings, but she had taken them with her when she left the First Men.

“No, not Shuganan’s,” Qung answered. “One of his granddaughter’s.”

“Thank you,” Aqamdax said, and realized that she had not thanked anyone for a long time—not since her mother had left.

“I do it as a favor for myself,” Qung answered. She swept one arm toward Aqamdax’s feet. “Now I do not have to put up with your wiggling.” She cackled, an old woman’s laugh, then stood and hobbled to the notched climbing log. She looked up expectantly.

Her hearing is not as bad as she pretends, Aqamdax thought, and reminded herself not to forget that. Then people were descending into the ulax, men followed by wives and children. Babies were slung on backs, toddlers on hips; young children climbed down cautiously; the older children jumped into the ulax from near the top of the log.

Qung sat down beside Aqamdax and bowed her head. Aqamdax, noticing, did the same. It was a wise thing to do, Aqamdax realized. The bowed head seemed to discourage anyone from starting a conversation, and it helped Aqamdax shift her thoughts back to the stories she would tell.

When Qung began the first story, Aqamdax raised her head, looked at the people. All of them had their eyes on Qung; each leaned forward as though ready to snatch up the words that came from Qung’s mouth. Would they look at Aqamdax like that, or would they hiss their disgust?

She found each of the chief’s wives. They sat behind the men but ahead of most other women. She found her cousin Kittiwake and Kittiwake’s little son. Her mother’s closest friend, Blue Fish, was there, and Blue Fish’s aunt, her mind nearly gone, her mouth always dribbling saliva.

Aqamdax shifted her eyes to the men, saw the chief, and Salmon, then the one who had been her father’s hunting partner, Afraid-of-his-hand, the man who could not save him from the sea.

Her toes began to wiggle, and she felt Qung squeeze her arm, pat the whale tooth shell Aqamdax still held in her hands.

Aqamdax rubbed her fingers over the shell, then took a long breath. Qung’s story continued as though nothing had happened, and Aqamdax bowed her head, made herself sit still and listen until she was caught into the words, the ancient carver Shuganan alive again in the hills and beaches she saw in her mind.

When the story was done, Qung reached over, pressed Aqamdax’s hand, smoothed gnarled fingers over the carving Aqamdax held.

“The woman Chagak was in the hills gathering berries when the warriors came,” Aqamdax began. She stopped to take a breath, her heart hammering in fear. Would the people get up and leave? She heard several women hiss. Again Qung pressed Aqamdax’s hand, and Aqamdax remembered what the old woman had told her. Keep speaking, do not stop. Continue the story.

Aqamdax opened her mouth, and the words came, halting at first, but then they flowed, beautiful words, honed through years of storytellers into something that carried the mind to far places and times long ago.

At first she spoke quietly, but as the story pulled the First Men’s thoughts together, it also seemed to strengthen her. When Chagak spoke to the otter, Aqamdax used the knowledge Qung had given her to throw her voice up and out so it sounded as though the otter called from the top of the ulax, as though the animal were sitting there above them.

Several children looked up at the roof hole, and a number of women hummed their approval. The quiet praise glowed in Aqamdax’s chest, filled her with joy. Her voice grew strong, and the story folded her into its magic like a sea otter folds itself into the kelp, safe. Safe.

Chapter Nineteen

THE WALRUS HUNTER VILLAGE

THE STORYTELLER SPOKE IN
a chant, using strands of knotted sinew stretched between quick fingers to illustrate his words, but the words were often spoken too quickly for Chakliux to understand, with allusions to other stories, to hunters and warriors that Chakliux did not know. When the people laughed, Chakliux could not join them, and when they nodded, adding comments of their own, agreeing or disagreeing with what the storyteller said, Chakliux felt like a child who understood only small pieces of the world around him.

He glanced across the circle of people that ringed the storyteller. They were outside, at the edge of the Walrus Hunters’ summer village, the women and their children beside the men. He saw Sok with his arms shamelessly tucked under the parka of Little Ears, the woman hiding her giggles behind both hands.

Little Ears’s father had already approached Sok, asking a bride price for the woman. Sok had made vague promises, offered possibilities, but Chakliux knew he wanted the woman only as long as they stayed with the Walrus Hunters. Sok had little enough chance to make Snow-in-her-hair his bride as second wife. How could he win her if she were to be third wife? And who would take the brunt of the Walrus Hunters’ anger when Sok left? Chakliux, of course. If Chakliux did not return to the Near River Village, then he would probably stay here, living with whatever mischief Sok left behind him.

Chakliux moved his eyes around the circle, away from his brother and Little Ears. There was Walrus Killer, the chief hunter, his two wives and their many children. Old Tusk, a hunter who was not old at all, sat next to them. He was helping Chakliux build his own iqyax. Together they had gathered driftwood for the frame. Old Tusk had been generous in trading Chakliux the ivory he needed to inlay at joints where wood rubbed wood. He had taught Chakliux how to mix red ocher into a paint which would protect the iqyax frame against rot and also show the sea animals that the iqyax was one of them, the wooden frame its bones, the lashings its tendons and sinews, the ocher its blood.

Old Tusk had offered to teach Chakliux how to paddle, had already taken Chakliux out in an old iqyak. Now Chakliux knew how to bend his body with the boat, to move his legs as though they were the iqyax’s own muscles, his paddle as though it were flippers and tail. There was much Chakliux had yet to learn, even the simple knowledge of tides and rips, clouds and winds, but they had come to the place where Chakliux must learn to be the iqyax’s true brother, and how could he be true brother unless he made the frame with his own hands, unless he built it to match the length and reach of his own legs and arms?

Now the frame was nearly done, but how could he complete an iqyax without a wife to sew the cover? Little Ears had offered, but Chakliux could not agree, knowing Sok’s intentions.

Chakliux turned his mind back to the storyteller. He tried to follow the words, to focus his thoughts on the strands of sinew the man fashioned first into the head of a fox, next into a series of knots he called birds. Chakliux wondered if he could learn to do such a thing to strengthen his own stories, to help the Near River men decipher his riddles.

It was long-sun celebration, a time of feasting and giving thanks, but Chakliux felt uneasy being in this village on this day. What were his own people doing? Who was telling the stories now that they had no Dzuuggi? Were sacred ways being honored? Or were spirits angered because The People had forgotten what should be done?