dead. Perhaps their chief hunter, Hard Rock, was right. There was a curse. Somehow the Whale Hunters had angered the spirits.
Now Kukutux had only this ulaq—something she and White Stone had built together using rocks and rafters from her father’s ulaq. The food cache was full enough to get her through the winter if she ate carefully, if she did not burn too much oil. And then—who could say? Perhaps some hunter would take her as wife. But many men had been killed during the past few months. In a village without enough hunters, what man needed another wife to feed?
Kukutux went to the corner where she kept her basket supplies, next to the woven grass curtains that separated her sleeping place from the rest of the ulaq. In a small basket with a sealskin drawstring top, she kept a piece of her son’s fur wrapping blanket. She opened the basket and pulled out the strip of fur, held it, soft and cool, against her cheek.
Sometimes, when she was just drifting into sleep, Kukutux could feel her son once again in her arms, the weight of him, his hard, round head against her shoulder, the softness of his hair against her cheek. Tears burned in her eyes, and her throat tightened.
She tucked the strip of fur seal skin back into the basket and clasped the basket to her chest, then she went to her husband’s sleeping place, stood before the curtained door.
“He is not dead,” she told herself, saying the words aloud in the empty ulaq. “He is only away hunting, and I must clean his sleeping place. The heather on the floor is old. It will soon begin to stink.”
And so she gathered courage to do what she had not done since White Stone’s death. She went inside his sleeping place.
White Stone had been a large man, slow and careful in his words, strong and sure in his hunting, gentle in his lovemaking. A feather-stuffed otter skin still showed the imprint of his head; furs were thrown back as though he had just left his bed.
Kukutux set down the basket she carried, knelt in White Stone’s bedding furs, began folding and sorting, piling the furs according to size and type. She took a bit of heather from the floor, tucked it into the drawstring basket. She saw a single strand of White Stone’s dark hair, curled it around her fingers, and put it into the basket.
Then she began to gather the heather that covered the mud-and-stone floor. When she had an armful, she threw it out into the ulaq’s main room.
“There, see,” she said aloud to herself, “this is not so terrible. You are stronger than you thought.”
Again, she gathered an armful of heather, threw it out of White Stone’s sleeping place. Later, she would cut fresh heather, spread it over the floor. What was better than a ulaq filled with the smell of crowberry heath?
Kukutux turned back to gather the last of the old heather, but in stooping she saw a yellow-and-brown bear claw wedged in a crack between floor and wall. Suddenly her sorrow came fresh and new, as sharp as the knife she had used to cut her arms. And the memories came alive in her mind: White Stone—his large calloused hands touching her gently, moving up to tangle in her long black hair. He had laughed and begun to tickle her. Kukutux had laughed, too, but in pushing him away had caught her hand on his bear-claw necklace. The necklace broke, scattering bear claws around them, but White Stone had pulled Kukutux to him, had whispered that there would be time to find the claws and repair the necklace—later.
The next morning, Kukutux had gathered the claws, and White Stone had restrung him. This was the bear claw Kukutux had not been able to find. And now the necklace was buried with White Stone and White Stone’s ikyak under the rocks that were a Whale Hunter’s burial mound.
Kukutux began to cry, hard shaking sobs. And she wondered where those tears had been hiding. Had she not already cried all the tears in the earth?
CHAPTER 17
The Walrus People
Chagvan Bay, Alaska
“N EXT SPRING,”
Now Kukutux had only this ulaq—something she and White Stone had built together using rocks and rafters from her father’s ulaq. The food cache was full enough to get her through the winter if she ate carefully, if she did not burn too much oil. And then—who could say? Perhaps some hunter would take her as wife. But many men had been killed during the past few months. In a village without enough hunters, what man needed another wife to feed?
Kukutux went to the corner where she kept her basket supplies, next to the woven grass curtains that separated her sleeping place from the rest of the ulaq. In a small basket with a sealskin drawstring top, she kept a piece of her son’s fur wrapping blanket. She opened the basket and pulled out the strip of fur, held it, soft and cool, against her cheek.
Sometimes, when she was just drifting into sleep, Kukutux could feel her son once again in her arms, the weight of him, his hard, round head against her shoulder, the softness of his hair against her cheek. Tears burned in her eyes, and her throat tightened.
She tucked the strip of fur seal skin back into the basket and clasped the basket to her chest, then she went to her husband’s sleeping place, stood before the curtained door.
“He is not dead,” she told herself, saying the words aloud in the empty ulaq. “He is only away hunting, and I must clean his sleeping place. The heather on the floor is old. It will soon begin to stink.”
And so she gathered courage to do what she had not done since White Stone’s death. She went inside his sleeping place.
White Stone had been a large man, slow and careful in his words, strong and sure in his hunting, gentle in his lovemaking. A feather-stuffed otter skin still showed the imprint of his head; furs were thrown back as though he had just left his bed.
Kukutux set down the basket she carried, knelt in White Stone’s bedding furs, began folding and sorting, piling the furs according to size and type. She took a bit of heather from the floor, tucked it into the drawstring basket. She saw a single strand of White Stone’s dark hair, curled it around her fingers, and put it into the basket.
Then she began to gather the heather that covered the mud-and-stone floor. When she had an armful, she threw it out into the ulaq’s main room.
“There, see,” she said aloud to herself, “this is not so terrible. You are stronger than you thought.”
Again, she gathered an armful of heather, threw it out of White Stone’s sleeping place. Later, she would cut fresh heather, spread it over the floor. What was better than a ulaq filled with the smell of crowberry heath?
Kukutux turned back to gather the last of the old heather, but in stooping she saw a yellow-and-brown bear claw wedged in a crack between floor and wall. Suddenly her sorrow came fresh and new, as sharp as the knife she had used to cut her arms. And the memories came alive in her mind: White Stone—his large calloused hands touching her gently, moving up to tangle in her long black hair. He had laughed and begun to tickle her. Kukutux had laughed, too, but in pushing him away had caught her hand on his bear-claw necklace. The necklace broke, scattering bear claws around them, but White Stone had pulled Kukutux to him, had whispered that there would be time to find the claws and repair the necklace—later.
The next morning, Kukutux had gathered the claws, and White Stone had restrung him. This was the bear claw Kukutux had not been able to find. And now the necklace was buried with White Stone and White Stone’s ikyak under the rocks that were a Whale Hunter’s burial mound.
Kukutux began to cry, hard shaking sobs. And she wondered where those tears had been hiding. Had she not already cried all the tears in the earth?
CHAPTER 17
The Walrus People
Chagvan Bay, Alaska
“N EXT SPRING,”
Similar Books
