and from the smears on her face, it appeared that the child had been eating kelp blades, though perhaps, from the smell of her, she had also been eating rotten meat.
A bundle near the back of the dugout was covered with an otter skin and a haired blanket that looked a little like caribou. The otter skin had been poorly fleshed, the smell told her that, but she could also see that chunks of fur had begun to loosen and fall out.
The bottom of the dugout hit the slope of the beach, and Old Woman had to wait for the waves to lift the heavy waterlogged wood. With each wave she pulled, moving the boat-raft a little farther until she was satisfied that the sea could not easily reclaim it.
The girl again put her arms out, and Old Woman lifted her from the dugout. The child was nearly as light as Eye-Taker’s new baby, though the length of her legs made Old Woman guess she had at least three summers.
“How did you get in the boat?” Old Woman asked her.
The girl babbled something, and her words seemed to carry the same rhythm as the First Men’s language, so Old Woman tried again, speaking more slowly in First Men, and then in broken Walrus. The girl covered her face as though in despair, but finally, with a shuddering sigh, she lowered her hands and turned to point at the heap under the otter skin.
Old Woman did not want to see what it might reveal. The smell was too overpowering, but the girl began to cry, so Old Woman carried her to the stern. With two fingers, she pulled aside the otter skin, and she gasped when she saw the man.
At first she thought he was dead, he was so pale, his eyes so sunken. His left arm was propped awkwardly on the edge of the dugout, and the skin had been torn away from wrist to elbow.
The girl pointed to him and said something. A name, Old Woman guessed. The man’s chest moved in a shallow breath, as though in response to the sound of the girl’s voice. Old Woman repeated the word, then laid a hand against the child’s chest. She screwed up her face as though she had been insulted and said a different word. Old Woman repeated it, stroked the girl’s head, then patted her own chest.
“They call me Old Woman,” she said, “though that is not my true name.” She pointed at herself and said, “K’os.”
The girl looked into K’os’s eyes, pointed one small finger at K’os’s face. “K’os,” she said solemnly.
PART TWO
CHAPTER TEN
Herendeen Bay, Alaska Peninsula
602 B.C.
“K ’OS!” YIKAAS HISSED UNDER his breath.
Kuy’aa shushed him, but the name rang out loud in the earthen lodge. Qumalix stopped her story and looked at him, arched her brows in question. Yikaas turned his head and pretended to be interested in something near the curtained alcoves at the side of the lodge, but the girl was not shy, and she called, “Why do you interrupt?”
Yikaas bristled. Had she never been taught the correct way to address a Dzuuggi? She should have said, “There is one here who may desire to speak.” Or better yet, “Sitting here with us is a great storyteller, well-known among the River and the Sea Hunter peoples. Would that one wish to say something?”
The girl treated him as though he were a child. He paused to gather his thoughts and rise above the anger that urged him to address her rudely.
“Honored storyteller of the Sea Hunters,” he said to her, “surely you do not speak to me?”
“Yes, I do.” There was no respect in her words. “We are not Sea Hunters or even Whale Hunters, as the River People call us. We are First Men, the first to come to this land and to live on these beaches.”
That claim had long been disputed by the River People, as the girl obviously knew. Yikaas heard a murmur of protest from the River traders in the lodge, then, like a low growl, the response of the First Men. The power the girl had inadvertently given him brought a rush of joy. He could lead all the River People out of the lodge. They would follow him. He began to stand, but
A bundle near the back of the dugout was covered with an otter skin and a haired blanket that looked a little like caribou. The otter skin had been poorly fleshed, the smell told her that, but she could also see that chunks of fur had begun to loosen and fall out.
The bottom of the dugout hit the slope of the beach, and Old Woman had to wait for the waves to lift the heavy waterlogged wood. With each wave she pulled, moving the boat-raft a little farther until she was satisfied that the sea could not easily reclaim it.
The girl again put her arms out, and Old Woman lifted her from the dugout. The child was nearly as light as Eye-Taker’s new baby, though the length of her legs made Old Woman guess she had at least three summers.
“How did you get in the boat?” Old Woman asked her.
The girl babbled something, and her words seemed to carry the same rhythm as the First Men’s language, so Old Woman tried again, speaking more slowly in First Men, and then in broken Walrus. The girl covered her face as though in despair, but finally, with a shuddering sigh, she lowered her hands and turned to point at the heap under the otter skin.
Old Woman did not want to see what it might reveal. The smell was too overpowering, but the girl began to cry, so Old Woman carried her to the stern. With two fingers, she pulled aside the otter skin, and she gasped when she saw the man.
At first she thought he was dead, he was so pale, his eyes so sunken. His left arm was propped awkwardly on the edge of the dugout, and the skin had been torn away from wrist to elbow.
The girl pointed to him and said something. A name, Old Woman guessed. The man’s chest moved in a shallow breath, as though in response to the sound of the girl’s voice. Old Woman repeated the word, then laid a hand against the child’s chest. She screwed up her face as though she had been insulted and said a different word. Old Woman repeated it, stroked the girl’s head, then patted her own chest.
“They call me Old Woman,” she said, “though that is not my true name.” She pointed at herself and said, “K’os.”
The girl looked into K’os’s eyes, pointed one small finger at K’os’s face. “K’os,” she said solemnly.
PART TWO
CHAPTER TEN
Herendeen Bay, Alaska Peninsula
602 B.C.
“K ’OS!” YIKAAS HISSED UNDER his breath.
Kuy’aa shushed him, but the name rang out loud in the earthen lodge. Qumalix stopped her story and looked at him, arched her brows in question. Yikaas turned his head and pretended to be interested in something near the curtained alcoves at the side of the lodge, but the girl was not shy, and she called, “Why do you interrupt?”
Yikaas bristled. Had she never been taught the correct way to address a Dzuuggi? She should have said, “There is one here who may desire to speak.” Or better yet, “Sitting here with us is a great storyteller, well-known among the River and the Sea Hunter peoples. Would that one wish to say something?”
The girl treated him as though he were a child. He paused to gather his thoughts and rise above the anger that urged him to address her rudely.
“Honored storyteller of the Sea Hunters,” he said to her, “surely you do not speak to me?”
“Yes, I do.” There was no respect in her words. “We are not Sea Hunters or even Whale Hunters, as the River People call us. We are First Men, the first to come to this land and to live on these beaches.”
That claim had long been disputed by the River People, as the girl obviously knew. Yikaas heard a murmur of protest from the River traders in the lodge, then, like a low growl, the response of the First Men. The power the girl had inadvertently given him brought a rush of joy. He could lead all the River People out of the lodge. They would follow him. He began to stand, but
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