The Gathering Night (7 page)

We all had to paddle as my father steered us through the seaweed-covered rocks that guard White Beach Island. My arms were so tired! But my ears were busier than my arms. White Beach Island was
my
Birth Place, long before Amets ever came among the Auk People. I listened just as hard as Amets to every word my father said. Some of you have every reason to be glad I did – but that's another story.

The sea turned from grey to green as our boat slid in with the waves over sandy shallows and waving forests of brown weed. Starfish scuttled away from the shadow of our boat. Shafts of evening Sun slanted across the island. Long shadows reached towards us from every rock and hummock, as if the island were stretching out its arms to its returning daughter. I stood up in the bows, eagerly scanning the shores of my Birth Place. As we slid into the bay the shadow of the island swallowed us. A cold finger of onshore breeze touched my shoulder. Then I saw a small boat in the hollow at the top of the beach. Whose was it? I caught my breath in excitement. But now the sand was growing so close I could see the ripples in it under the water, and little coils of worm cast. A wave caught us. We rode in on the curve of it and landed on firm sand.

As soon as we grounded I leaped ashore, clutching the hide-tail to pull the boat in, but I could hardly wait to hand it to Alaia, who jumped on to the sand after me, Esti bouncing on her back. I could see the camping place. I scrambled joyfully up the slippery dunes.

‘Haizea, come back! There's work to do!'

‘I'll be quick!'

It was at White Beach Camp that I came back into this world, and it's there I've been happiest ever since. I love the long days, and the nights that grow just dark enough to show the stars in their courses. I love the bright Moons of the still-young Year. The sound of the Open Sea was in my ears when I drew my first breath, and whenever I go back to White Beach Camp I greet it as my friend. I love the changing moods of the sea, and the rough days when there's no path back to where we came from. When the boats can't put to sea the island of White Beach Camp is the whole world, and when I first came back to it I thought it was just the right size: not large and difficult, but contained and perfect. Yet the thing that makes White Beach Camp the place that it is – the very reason why I love it so – is that even in the best Years of all we're only there from Auk Moon to Seed Moon. We come after the auks have arrived, and we leave before they do; otherwise there'd be nothing to eat on days when the sea's too angry to let us fish or seal.

After that long winter on our own I was excited about seeing our family again. And someone was here already! I ran past our shell heaps – the oldest ones were almost covered over with bright green turf – on to the soft turf of the Camp, still barely trodden. A small fire simmered in the hearth. Someone had laid wet seaweed over the whitened drift-logs to keep it in.

And someone had pitched a tent – a small hunting tent with a wolf-fur flap over the door. Using wolfskin for a door flap! That was showing off! I knew who it was. It would be like him to arrive early, maybe with one of his younger brothers. The hide was hooked back from the door to let in the morning Sun. But the Sun was looking the other way by now.

‘Haizea is here!' I shouted. ‘And my father' – I called out his name – ‘and Amets! And Nekané, and Alaia! And Esti! We have a new cousin for you! We have ESTI!'

No one answered. I pushed the dogs aside and peered into the dim tent. When I looked into the small space I felt the boat still rocking inside my head. A big bearskin was spread in the sleeping place. I knew that bearskin! I remembered very well how six men had carried that bear into Gathering Camp, and I also remembered the great feast, the Go-Between's chant to Bear – which had really frightened me – and the dancing that had followed. There were no baskets inside the tent – that meant they'd gone out for food.

I ran back to the top of the beach. Already our gear was piled up on the sand. ‘Father! Mother! Alaia! Cousin Sendoa is here! With someone else, but I can't tell who! It's SENDOA!'

‘Haizea, come down here at once! D'you think there's no work to be done?'

I went down to help with the loaded baskets.

‘Perhaps your daughter thinks she's already one of the Wise,' said Amets, laughing. ‘She thinks she doesn't have to carry gear like the rest of us!'

‘She's no good,' agreed my father. ‘You'll bring yours up better. Give her a good beating sometimes. It's never too soon to start with these women!'

My mother and Alaia were laughing, but I wasn't. I was at the age when I was beginning to want some sort of respect which my family weren't prepared to give me. All this talk of beatings made me feel like a child. It was stupid, anyway. My father had never beaten me, nor Alaia either, and he never would. I'd heard enough stories at Gathering Camp to know that in some families it was different. The trouble was I'd grown old enough to pay attention to what the men and women were always saying to each other, and to realise that I would have to be a woman too, quite soon, so all this was going to have something to do with me. But I was still young enough to resent it when the joke seemed to be against me.

Amets said:

I was pleased to find Sendoa at White Beach Camp! Sendoa is one of the best hunters of the Auk People. We pulled up the boat, and carried up the gear. Alaia dumped her baskets, went straight to Sendoa's tent and disappeared inside it. I wondered what she was doing. When she came out she said nothing, but her mouth was set in a hard line.

‘Ah,' said my wife's father, as he stood at my shoulder. ‘She was hoping to find some sign . . . Young men, travelling together . . . Sendoa's winter Camp is on the Long Strait . . . He could have gone that way . . . But no, she's found nothing.' He turned away. ‘Ah well . . .'

We all stood round the hearth while Alaia put our fire with the one that was already there. Our spirits saw our fire and came to join the others who were already at White Beach Camp. We held up our arms to them and thanked them for bringing us safely across the sea. Then Haizea was sent to gather shellfish to eat with the rush roots we'd brought across. Alaia and I went to find our old tent poles in the dry hollow above the dunes, while Nekané peeled back the turf from the inside hearth. The poles were in good condition. I lashed twine around one weak place, just to be sure. Then I helped Alaia put up the frame, and I tied the wands together at the smoke hole. I'm telling you this because I want you boys to know that I'm not ashamed to help women with their work sometimes. I hope you're all listening to me: you don't always have to do nothing, just to show a woman how clever you are! Anyway, Alaia's shorter than I am so it's easier for me to reach. I unrolled the birch-bark round the smoke hole and tied it down. Only then did I leave Nekané and Alaia to lash the rest of the frame. My wife's father and I carried the heavy rolls of hide up from the beach, and dumped them by the tent frame.

We strolled back to the beach. The tide was at the turn, lapping the stern of our boat. ‘It's enough,' said my wife's father. ‘When Sendoa comes he'll help us pull her up further in case the weather changes. Like this, she's all right.'

I felt I must speak, and called him by name.

‘Yes, Amets?'

‘Alaia – when she went to look in Sendoa's tent just now, you said . . . You mean she's still hoping for some sign of her brother? She doesn't make any fuss about it. But Nekané – before, in the winter, she was always looking. And now . . .'

‘And now – she's not? That's what you're asking me, isn't it? You're asking why Nekané has stopped searching for our son.' ‘Because – forgive me if I'm upsetting you – because—'

‘Because she knows she'll find nothing.'

‘I'm sorry, I – I . . .'

‘You don't upset me, Amets. I knew it long ago. I'm not one of the Wise. I never needed to struggle after knowledge as Nekané has had to do. What someone has to go through to become Go-Between – no, I never had to worry about any of that. But I knew about my son . . . Amets, I've seen a great deal. See here: a young man leaves his family. He may be far away and alone, and the dangers are very great. You know that: you were travelling alone when you came to us, looking for a wife. Young men are foolhardy, too.'

‘Your son was
not
foolhardy.'

‘No. That's true. But he was no coward either, and, as we both know, the dangers are very great.'

‘Do you have any ideas about what happened to him?'

‘Only simple ones, Amets. An accident, a fall, a fight . . . who knows? Perhaps you'll have a son one day. But you know already: the dangers are very great.'

Just then the dogs barked in welcome. We heard a shout froma long the beach. We turned and saw two men, one running full tilt towards us, his dogs leaping at his side, the other lagging a little behind.

‘Sendoa!' My wife's father hugged him, slapping him on the back. Then Sendoa turned to me, and we slapped our hands together in delight. I vowed to the spirits, then and there, that I would never again pass a winter without a man of my age for company. And indeed I never have.

‘And who's this?' My wife's father was frowning. I looked up, and saw that the man standing by was not any kin that I knew of, but wholly a stranger.

Well, you all know who I'm talking about. But back then none of us knew that this stranger was part of our story. When I first laid eyes on him, no spirit whispered in my ear, ‘Remember Bakar!' Or if one did, I didn't hear it.

‘All is well.' Sendoa took the young man's arm and pulled him forward. ‘All is well' – he spoke to my wife's father by name – ‘This is Kemen, of the Lynx People who live under the Morning Sun. Although he's not of our People, he's kin of mine, and therefore of yours, because his grandfather's father was from the Auk People. He was called Basajaun, and he married a woman from the lands under the Morning Sun long ago. So when Kemen and some of his family travelled this way they came seeking us, the Auk People, because they knew us for their far-off kin.'

‘Basajaun?' My wife's father frowned a little less. ‘Yes, that name has been among us, though not in my family.'

‘Kemen came towards the Evening Sun with his brother Basajaun,' said Sendoa. ‘So you see a name from our People still lives among theirs.'

‘And where is this brother Basajaun now?'

‘We parted,' said Kemen. I was startled by his voice: his tongue was different from ours and he spoke his words strangely. ‘Four of us came to this coast. We met another People, the Heron People, that way' – he pointed towards the High Sun Sky, and my wife's father nodded – ‘and one of my cousins took a woman there, so the others decided to stay as well. But I came to look for the Auk People because I didn't want to settle with a woman before I'd found kin of my own. Because I had none. So I travelled on alone, and I met Sendoa's family at their winter Camp. I told them who I was, and they took me in. Then Sendoa and I decided to come early to White Beach Camp because we'd seen a lot of auks about already, and we wanted to be at the cliffs early.'

My wife's father was silent, looking Kemen over. Kemen politely avoided the older man's gaze. I watched Kemen too. I liked what I saw. He had thick dark hair and blue eyes like Alaia's; it wasn't hard to believe he was her kin. He wasn't as tall as I was, but he looked sturdy. On this warm day he was only wearing his loincloth and a deerskin tunic without sleeves, so I could see how strong his muscles were. If he had skill to go with his strength he would be just the sort of man one would wish to hunt with. I liked the way he stood up to my wife's father's scrutiny, standing there as tall as he could, with the confidence of one who had nothing to hide.

‘Why do you say you have no kin?' asked my wife's father abruptly. ‘How can that be? Didn't you leave kin behind you in the lands under the Morning Sun Sky?'

A shadow crossed Kemen's face. ‘I expected you to ask that,' he said. ‘I have a terrible story to tell. This winter – it was like no winter that ever happened since the Beginning. No, I have no kin, except for the three I left among the Heron People.'

My wife's father looked at Sendoa, as startled as I was. Sendoa nodded. ‘It's true,' he said. ‘Kemen, tell them!'

‘No!' My wife's father held up his hand. ‘If a man has no kin . . . This is indeed a terrible thing to hear, before you even begin to tell your story. But we must . . . Before we go back to Camp, just tell me this: you're not saying “I have no kin” because you've been cast out, are you?'

‘Before all the spirits who live in your lands,' said Kemen, stretching both hands towards the sky, ‘I say to you that I've done nothing wrong. My kin loved me as I loved them, and the terrible thing that happened was none of my doing. Look, let me show you that I'm telling you the truth!'

Kemen untied the strings of his tunic and pulled it off. He swung round to show his naked back. Five blue lines curved round one another and wrote something that was swift and lithe – an Animal stilled in a heartbeat of flowing movement – an Animal that knew how to creep, climb, hide, stalk, spring . . . something shy and fierce – an Animal we'd never seen written on a man's back before, but which we all recognised at once: Lynx!