through his clothing and stop his heart with its cold.
Someday, Chakliux had decided, he would have his own iqyax. He did not want to be a trader. It was not a comfortable thing to meet new people when you were different, when you saw questions and worry in the eyes of all who looked at you. He was happy being a hunter. If he learned to hunt from an iqyax, his family would not have to live on fish only, on caribou or even bear. They would also have the fat and oil of sea mammals—seals and sea lions; and walruses, for he would take his iqyax downriver to the North Sea and hunt.
Yes, he was a hunter. He found joy when an animal chose to give itself so The People could live, but it was difficult to keep up with the other hunters, to carry his share, to hold his balance on trails over muskeg and through river brush. His legs were made for water, not land.
Once, according to the old storytellers of his village, the Sea Hunters had even hunted whales. As Dzuuggi he was entrusted with secrets—stories seldom told around winter fires, but which must be remembered, at least by a few. These stories said there was an island, almost at the far edge of the world, where men still hunted whales. The Sea Hunter told them those whale hunters had died long ago when a mountain in anger destroyed them for some reason no one could remember.
Since meeting the Sea Hunter, Chakliux had dreamed of trading for an iqyax of his own, perhaps even learning to build one. Now, looking at the river, he thought for the first time of seeking those ancient whale hunter people himself. Were they still there, on that far island? Would it take a lifetime of summers to find the edge of the world?
The Near River People considered him cursed. The woman who gave him birth had told him he had been set out to die. Perhaps even now, in his own village, the people had heard the story and would no longer want him as Dzuuggi, the one who remembered their past. If that were true, then why stay? He could not bring peace if no one in either village respected him.
Chakliux shielded his eyes from the brightness of the midday sun. The snow was melting. He had trade goods—the bride price of furs and hides rejected by Wolf-and-Raven—perhaps enough to trade for an iqyax. Then what would stop him from finding those whale hunters, brothers of the otter?
The pain was almost too much to ignore, but Cen fought it. “I told you,” he said again, “go get the knife.”
The large man left the group, and when he returned he carried the knife, still crusted with blood. Cen pressed his lips together in a tight line and tried not to show his disappointment. There were several knives he remembered well—distinctive for the length of a blade, the shape or color of a handle. But this knife was one from a Caribou hunter he had met on the trail last summer. His knives were all alike, with variations so small a man could scarcely tell one from another. Cen had traded nearly two handfuls of those Caribou knives to the people of this village.
He motioned for the man to hold the knife closer, and studied it carefully. There must have been a struggle. Some of the hair that wrapped the handle was torn. It hung like a black fringe from the carved antler haft. Cen’s thoughts tangled into one another. For a moment he could not remember anything anyone had given him for his knives. Furs? Yes, he was sure of it. Probably fishskin baskets.
“You see,” Cen said, pointing with his chin at the knife, “the handle is loose. The hunter who traded me these knives was from the Caribou People. He glues the handle to the stone blade with spruce pitch.”
“What does that matter to us?” the younger man asked.
No, the glue would not matter to them, but the words would slow the people down, make them think. When men took time to think, they were less apt to act in anger. Cen’s words also seemed to calm his own thoughts, and he suddenly remembered what he needed to know.
“You bought such
Someday, Chakliux had decided, he would have his own iqyax. He did not want to be a trader. It was not a comfortable thing to meet new people when you were different, when you saw questions and worry in the eyes of all who looked at you. He was happy being a hunter. If he learned to hunt from an iqyax, his family would not have to live on fish only, on caribou or even bear. They would also have the fat and oil of sea mammals—seals and sea lions; and walruses, for he would take his iqyax downriver to the North Sea and hunt.
Yes, he was a hunter. He found joy when an animal chose to give itself so The People could live, but it was difficult to keep up with the other hunters, to carry his share, to hold his balance on trails over muskeg and through river brush. His legs were made for water, not land.
Once, according to the old storytellers of his village, the Sea Hunters had even hunted whales. As Dzuuggi he was entrusted with secrets—stories seldom told around winter fires, but which must be remembered, at least by a few. These stories said there was an island, almost at the far edge of the world, where men still hunted whales. The Sea Hunter told them those whale hunters had died long ago when a mountain in anger destroyed them for some reason no one could remember.
Since meeting the Sea Hunter, Chakliux had dreamed of trading for an iqyax of his own, perhaps even learning to build one. Now, looking at the river, he thought for the first time of seeking those ancient whale hunter people himself. Were they still there, on that far island? Would it take a lifetime of summers to find the edge of the world?
The Near River People considered him cursed. The woman who gave him birth had told him he had been set out to die. Perhaps even now, in his own village, the people had heard the story and would no longer want him as Dzuuggi, the one who remembered their past. If that were true, then why stay? He could not bring peace if no one in either village respected him.
Chakliux shielded his eyes from the brightness of the midday sun. The snow was melting. He had trade goods—the bride price of furs and hides rejected by Wolf-and-Raven—perhaps enough to trade for an iqyax. Then what would stop him from finding those whale hunters, brothers of the otter?
The pain was almost too much to ignore, but Cen fought it. “I told you,” he said again, “go get the knife.”
The large man left the group, and when he returned he carried the knife, still crusted with blood. Cen pressed his lips together in a tight line and tried not to show his disappointment. There were several knives he remembered well—distinctive for the length of a blade, the shape or color of a handle. But this knife was one from a Caribou hunter he had met on the trail last summer. His knives were all alike, with variations so small a man could scarcely tell one from another. Cen had traded nearly two handfuls of those Caribou knives to the people of this village.
He motioned for the man to hold the knife closer, and studied it carefully. There must have been a struggle. Some of the hair that wrapped the handle was torn. It hung like a black fringe from the carved antler haft. Cen’s thoughts tangled into one another. For a moment he could not remember anything anyone had given him for his knives. Furs? Yes, he was sure of it. Probably fishskin baskets.
“You see,” Cen said, pointing with his chin at the knife, “the handle is loose. The hunter who traded me these knives was from the Caribou People. He glues the handle to the stone blade with spruce pitch.”
“What does that matter to us?” the younger man asked.
No, the glue would not matter to them, but the words would slow the people down, make them think. When men took time to think, they were less apt to act in anger. Cen’s words also seemed to calm his own thoughts, and he suddenly remembered what he needed to know.
“You bought such
Similar Books
