see any different kind of wood, bring it. Only small pieces—to carve.”
The Raven grunted, nodded his head, and again Kiin went back to setting out food, chopping hardened fat into dried berries, mixing in sandwort greens she had cooked and allowed to sour.
It seemed strange to Kiin that at one time she had carved only because she could get goods in trade for her carvings. Now the carving was a need, something as important as her songs—something that brought peace to her, so that she could lose herself in the work, as though she slipped into a world apart from that of Lemming Tail, the Raven, and the Walrus People.
A scratch at the dividing curtain called Kiin from her thoughts, and she looked up to see White Fox, Ice Hunter’s oldest son, enter their side of the lodge. He carried a cooking bag that filled the lodge with the rich smell of ground squirrel stew.
Kiin took the bag from White Fox and hung it from the lodge rafters over the oil lamp so the food inside the bag would stay warm.
The Raven smiled at the man. “Tell your wife I will bring her something in my next trading trip,” the Raven said. He motioned to the sleeping platform where he sat, and White Fox sat down beside him.
Kiin filled two bowls with stew and handed them to the men. They ate without speaking.
When his bowl was empty, the Raven wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Kiin lifted the dripping caribou-scapula ladle from the cooking bag and raised her eyebrows. The Raven nodded. She took his bowl and filled it again. She looked at White Fox, but he shook his head, settling his empty bowl into his lap.
The Raven tilted his bowl and used his fingers to push meat into his mouth.
“I plan to trade with the River People, those who live in that village at the mouth of the Great River,” he said as he chewed. He licked his fingers, and when White Fox said nothing, he continued, “I need men to go with me. Your brother says he will go.”
“He speaks their language,” White Fox said.
The Raven shrugged. “So do I.”
White Fox frowned, and the scar that curved from his eye to his chin pulled taut.
“But not as well as your brother does,” the Raven added.
“We will get a share of the trade goods?”
“Everything except what I get for my wife’s carvings.”
White Fox nodded. “How long will we be gone?”
“Only two moons, maybe less,” the Raven said. “It is not far to the River People.”
“You say my brother plans to go with you?”
“Yes.”
“My father?”
The Raven shrugged. “Who can say? He has a new wife. His bed holds more interest than trade goods.”
White Fox smiled. “If my brother is going, then I will go,” he said.
“Good.” The Raven held out his bowl, and again Kiin filled it. White Fox nodded toward his bowl, and she filled his as well. Then she went to her basket corner and sat twisting sinew until White Fox had eaten and left the lodge.
“Your brother White Fox is going with me,” the Raven said to Bird Sings.
Bird Sings, Ice Hunter’s younger son, had come to the Raven’s lodge after White Fox left. He also brought food—a thick fish soup that often earned his wife praise in the village.
Bird Sings raised his eyebrows and frowned. “To the River People?” he asked.
The Raven nodded and held his bowl out to Kiin. She filled it again with the soup.
Bird Sings pointed toward the bowl. “Blackfish—fresh,” he said. “My wife catches them all winter, you know.”
The Raven nodded and raised the bowl to his mouth.
“I will come if I can bring my wife,” Bird Sings said.
“Would she prepare our food?” the Raven asked and belched his appreciation of the soup.
“Yes.”
“Bring her.”
“Then I will go.”
“Good, I will tell your brother.”
When Bird Sings left the lodge, the Raven went, too. Then Kiin helped herself to the fish soup. Shuku woke from his nap, crying and cross. Kiin took him down from his cradle, settled him on her lap, and used her
The Raven grunted, nodded his head, and again Kiin went back to setting out food, chopping hardened fat into dried berries, mixing in sandwort greens she had cooked and allowed to sour.
It seemed strange to Kiin that at one time she had carved only because she could get goods in trade for her carvings. Now the carving was a need, something as important as her songs—something that brought peace to her, so that she could lose herself in the work, as though she slipped into a world apart from that of Lemming Tail, the Raven, and the Walrus People.
A scratch at the dividing curtain called Kiin from her thoughts, and she looked up to see White Fox, Ice Hunter’s oldest son, enter their side of the lodge. He carried a cooking bag that filled the lodge with the rich smell of ground squirrel stew.
Kiin took the bag from White Fox and hung it from the lodge rafters over the oil lamp so the food inside the bag would stay warm.
The Raven smiled at the man. “Tell your wife I will bring her something in my next trading trip,” the Raven said. He motioned to the sleeping platform where he sat, and White Fox sat down beside him.
Kiin filled two bowls with stew and handed them to the men. They ate without speaking.
When his bowl was empty, the Raven wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Kiin lifted the dripping caribou-scapula ladle from the cooking bag and raised her eyebrows. The Raven nodded. She took his bowl and filled it again. She looked at White Fox, but he shook his head, settling his empty bowl into his lap.
The Raven tilted his bowl and used his fingers to push meat into his mouth.
“I plan to trade with the River People, those who live in that village at the mouth of the Great River,” he said as he chewed. He licked his fingers, and when White Fox said nothing, he continued, “I need men to go with me. Your brother says he will go.”
“He speaks their language,” White Fox said.
The Raven shrugged. “So do I.”
White Fox frowned, and the scar that curved from his eye to his chin pulled taut.
“But not as well as your brother does,” the Raven added.
“We will get a share of the trade goods?”
“Everything except what I get for my wife’s carvings.”
White Fox nodded. “How long will we be gone?”
“Only two moons, maybe less,” the Raven said. “It is not far to the River People.”
“You say my brother plans to go with you?”
“Yes.”
“My father?”
The Raven shrugged. “Who can say? He has a new wife. His bed holds more interest than trade goods.”
White Fox smiled. “If my brother is going, then I will go,” he said.
“Good.” The Raven held out his bowl, and again Kiin filled it. White Fox nodded toward his bowl, and she filled his as well. Then she went to her basket corner and sat twisting sinew until White Fox had eaten and left the lodge.
“Your brother White Fox is going with me,” the Raven said to Bird Sings.
Bird Sings, Ice Hunter’s younger son, had come to the Raven’s lodge after White Fox left. He also brought food—a thick fish soup that often earned his wife praise in the village.
Bird Sings raised his eyebrows and frowned. “To the River People?” he asked.
The Raven nodded and held his bowl out to Kiin. She filled it again with the soup.
Bird Sings pointed toward the bowl. “Blackfish—fresh,” he said. “My wife catches them all winter, you know.”
The Raven nodded and raised the bowl to his mouth.
“I will come if I can bring my wife,” Bird Sings said.
“Would she prepare our food?” the Raven asked and belched his appreciation of the soup.
“Yes.”
“Bring her.”
“Then I will go.”
“Good, I will tell your brother.”
When Bird Sings left the lodge, the Raven went, too. Then Kiin helped herself to the fish soup. Shuku woke from his nap, crying and cross. Kiin took him down from his cradle, settled him on her lap, and used her
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