Kuy’aa jabbed him with her elbow and said, “A Dzuuggi defends peace, not discord.”
He sighed and sat down again, heard a release of breath move through the lodge.
“My apologies,” he said to the girl, his voice taut with anger.
She smiled and inclined her head as though bestowing a favor.
Sharp words rushed into his mouth, but he pressed his lips tightly against them, swallowed them whole. They lay in his belly like knives.
“You have heard of K’os?” the girl asked.
“She was a River woman who lived long ago,” Yikaas answered, “though we River have no pride in claiming her.”
“Our stories of K’os begin with Daughter,” Qumalix said, “the little girl whom K’os would name Uuluk. Can you tell us more about K’os?” Qumalix was no longer taunting him, but seemed interested in what he had to say.
Yikaas sighed. Why K’os? There were so many stories about honorable people.
“There are better tales,” he said.
“But K’os seems to belong to both your people and mine.”
“Yes,” he agreed, glad to have her claim the woman. He drew in a long breath, then said, “The first stories we have about K’os tell of three River hunters who attacked her. They injured her so badly that she could never have children. According to those stories, she spent her life seeking revenge.”
Qumalix nodded. “I have heard those stories. The honored woman who sits beside you told them once when we had gathered at the Walrus Hunters’ village.” She lifted her chin toward Kuy’aa, and the old woman murmured a few First Men words that Yikaas did not understand.
“I have also heard the Chakliux stories. He was the child K’os adopted as her son. We have heard about the fighting between K’os’s River village and a neighboring village, how Chakliux—a man by then and trained as Dzuuggi—tried to bring peace, but K’os tricked the people into war. We have also heard how K’os betrayed her own village, and that Chakliux was able to save many of the people of that village, even after their defeat. We know about the woman Aqamdax. She was one of our own, a great First Men storyteller. She loved Chakliux and became his wife, although she had once been a slave of the River People.”
Qumalix said the last words spitefully, as if what happened long ago were still an insult. Why bring up such a thing? Yikaas wondered. Didn’t First Men storytellers also take on the role of peacemaker?
“We, too, honor the woman Aqamdax,” he said carefully. “Her stories have been passed on, storyteller to storyteller, among the River People, so we will not forget how to forgive.”
When he said this, Yikaas looked boldly into Qumalix’s eyes, and to his surprise, she blushed.
She glanced away, brushed at the feathers of her parka, then squatted on her haunches, feet flat on the floor, arms clasped around her upraised knees. She lifted her chin, as though encouraging him to stand, and said, “Like the River People, we usually tell our stories while sitting, but there are too many in the lodge who would not hear you. Would you tell us more about K’os?”
Yikaas was so surprised at her request that he turned to ask Kuy’aa what he should do. From the corners of his eyes he saw Qumalix smile, and he felt the blood rush to his face. Was he a child who had to ask permission? To hide his embarrassment, he leaned toward the old woman, brushed his cheek against hers, and whispered, “Will I insult anyone by doing this?”
She smiled at him, her teeth no more than nubs above her gums. “Tell your story,” she said.
He made his way to the girl’s side, and with all politeness asked her to translate for him. She stood reluctantly, but Yikaas began his story without apology. She was the one who had asked him to speak. He had not begged for the opportunity.
“My story begins a few years before Daughter’s story, and of course, it begins with K’os,” Yikaas said. He spoke in a storyteller’s voice, pitched
He sighed and sat down again, heard a release of breath move through the lodge.
“My apologies,” he said to the girl, his voice taut with anger.
She smiled and inclined her head as though bestowing a favor.
Sharp words rushed into his mouth, but he pressed his lips tightly against them, swallowed them whole. They lay in his belly like knives.
“You have heard of K’os?” the girl asked.
“She was a River woman who lived long ago,” Yikaas answered, “though we River have no pride in claiming her.”
“Our stories of K’os begin with Daughter,” Qumalix said, “the little girl whom K’os would name Uuluk. Can you tell us more about K’os?” Qumalix was no longer taunting him, but seemed interested in what he had to say.
Yikaas sighed. Why K’os? There were so many stories about honorable people.
“There are better tales,” he said.
“But K’os seems to belong to both your people and mine.”
“Yes,” he agreed, glad to have her claim the woman. He drew in a long breath, then said, “The first stories we have about K’os tell of three River hunters who attacked her. They injured her so badly that she could never have children. According to those stories, she spent her life seeking revenge.”
Qumalix nodded. “I have heard those stories. The honored woman who sits beside you told them once when we had gathered at the Walrus Hunters’ village.” She lifted her chin toward Kuy’aa, and the old woman murmured a few First Men words that Yikaas did not understand.
“I have also heard the Chakliux stories. He was the child K’os adopted as her son. We have heard about the fighting between K’os’s River village and a neighboring village, how Chakliux—a man by then and trained as Dzuuggi—tried to bring peace, but K’os tricked the people into war. We have also heard how K’os betrayed her own village, and that Chakliux was able to save many of the people of that village, even after their defeat. We know about the woman Aqamdax. She was one of our own, a great First Men storyteller. She loved Chakliux and became his wife, although she had once been a slave of the River People.”
Qumalix said the last words spitefully, as if what happened long ago were still an insult. Why bring up such a thing? Yikaas wondered. Didn’t First Men storytellers also take on the role of peacemaker?
“We, too, honor the woman Aqamdax,” he said carefully. “Her stories have been passed on, storyteller to storyteller, among the River People, so we will not forget how to forgive.”
When he said this, Yikaas looked boldly into Qumalix’s eyes, and to his surprise, she blushed.
She glanced away, brushed at the feathers of her parka, then squatted on her haunches, feet flat on the floor, arms clasped around her upraised knees. She lifted her chin, as though encouraging him to stand, and said, “Like the River People, we usually tell our stories while sitting, but there are too many in the lodge who would not hear you. Would you tell us more about K’os?”
Yikaas was so surprised at her request that he turned to ask Kuy’aa what he should do. From the corners of his eyes he saw Qumalix smile, and he felt the blood rush to his face. Was he a child who had to ask permission? To hide his embarrassment, he leaned toward the old woman, brushed his cheek against hers, and whispered, “Will I insult anyone by doing this?”
She smiled at him, her teeth no more than nubs above her gums. “Tell your story,” she said.
He made his way to the girl’s side, and with all politeness asked her to translate for him. She stood reluctantly, but Yikaas began his story without apology. She was the one who had asked him to speak. He had not begged for the opportunity.
“My story begins a few years before Daughter’s story, and of course, it begins with K’os,” Yikaas said. He spoke in a storyteller’s voice, pitched
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