Ivory and Bone Page 4

  “Follow along—it’s easy,” I say, just as the first line is sung by the whole clan as if by one voice.

  Manu was a hunter lost in a storm, wandering far from home. . . .

  Like all songs, this one is sung to the Divine. It tells the story of our clan’s founding ancestor, Manu—my favorite story since I was a small boy. When I was ill or could not sleep, my mother would lie beside me and whisper it in my ear.

  “There was a hunter named Manu who became lost in a storm, separated from home and clan,” she would say, and I would shiver at the thought. “After wandering long and far, he lost hope of finding his way back. He was so lonely that he befriended a mammoth, but despite his hunger he would not kill it. The Spirit of a mammoth is too precious to give its life to feed just one man, Manu told the mammoth. In thanks, the mammoth gave Manu one of his tusks, and Manu carved a woman out of the ivory. The Divine saw Manu’s selflessness, and said to herself, I must reward him. So she sent a little piece of herself to dwell in the carving, bringing her to life and giving Manu a wise wife. Together, Manu and his wife had many children, and their offspring became our clan.”

  This story always comforts me. Even now, singing Manu’s song with my clan, I know that I am home.

  The song has many verses, but the steps are simple—one foot over the other, one foot behind—as the circle moves over well-worn earth, slowly to the left. Seeri joins in at the refrain, which repeats the word wandering . . . wandering. She makes mistakes at first but she gets it by the second time through.

  I glance over at you, but I can’t meet your eyes. You have stepped back from the circle and you are turned away, your attention focused on the ground, as if you’re searching for something no one else can see. Are you embarrassed because you do not know this dance? Even your brother is not afraid to try—he stands beside my father, who coaches him through the changes in the song.

  As the music of the first song fades, ending on a ribbon of melody that rises from my brother’s flute, everyone stomps their feet in approval and readies for the second song. Everyone except you. I notice you speak briefly into your brother’s ear and then disappear in the direction of your hut. My eyes follow you, but I cannot will my feet to do the same.

  Turning my attention back to Seeri, I watch her as the clan sings the first words of the second song. This song is more subdued than the first—a reverent song of thanks—and her eyes are wide as she takes in the circle of my extended family. Though she apparently does not know the words to this song, either, her head swings in time with the tune.

  As the third song is sung, the circle melts into a line that leads past the kitchen. My mother stands in the open doorway, the rich scent of roasted meat rolling out around her, as she hands each person a mat made of stiff, tightly woven stalks piled high with chunks of mammoth meat and cooked greens. Chev takes a mat from my mother, and though he is a few places ahead of me, I can hear him comment on the size of the portions. My mother nods and smiles, but as soon as he passes, her eyes dart over the remainder of the line. She looks at me, Seeri, Pek, then her eyes slide back to Chev and my father.

  She is looking for you.

  “Where is she?” She hasn’t even placed my mat in my hands before she asks.

  “She went back to their hut at the start of the second song.”

  “Why?”

  “How should I know, Mother? Maybe she’s ill. Maybe she’s exhausted—”

  “Take this to her.”

  I consider objecting to the idea, then realize that my mother is right. If you are sick or simply tired, as gracious hosts we should check on you and offer you something to eat. If you are being rude and unsociable, that doesn’t excuse us from similar behavior.

  As I approach the door to your hut, I notice music. After a moment’s hesitation, I realize it’s you, humming to yourself inside the hut. I don’t recognize the exact tune, but it’s similar to a lullaby my mother used to sing to me.

  Could this be a song your mother sang to you? Since your brother is your clan’s High Elder, I assume your parents must be dead. No one has spoken of either one of them.

  “Excuse me,” I say. The humming instantly stops, but you don’t respond. “Excuse me, Mya? My mother sent food. . . .”

  A few slow moments pass before your hand peeks out from between the draped hides and sweeps them back enough to reveal part of your face, lit by the thin rays of sunlight that filter through the huts so late in the evening. “I intended to come back,” you say. “I’m just tired.”

  “Of course.”

  Another long moment passes before you take the mat of food from my hands. Your eyes hold a message—not the hard disdain I saw earlier, but something just as dark. Loneliness? Your gaze moves away before I can be sure. “Thank you.” And then the drape falls shut again and I find myself standing outside your hut, alone.

  The meal is delicious and spirits are high, just as they always are when a kill is brought in. Several songs break out spontaneously and my father even brings out skins of mead made from honey and berries gathered last summer. Sacred and precious, our clan consumes mead only at the holiest ceremonies and most significant celebrations. Sharing it with your clan today is not without meaning.

  As everyone drinks, the singing grows louder. Still, I can’t quite shake the thought of that dark look in your eyes. It doesn’t matter, though. Everyone is happy. No one even notices my mood.

  No one except my mother.

  “What did she say?”

  “She said she was tired, Mother. Everyone gets tired sometimes. Let her rest.”

  But my mother is agitated. I can see it. She busies herself with gathering empty mats and collects many compliments on the meal as she does. It won’t matter; I know her—she won’t be appeased. The mystery of your absence is working her nerves. After a while, I feel her nervousness has jumped to me. As soon as she is occupied with some task in the kitchen, I take advantage of the opportunity to talk to her alone.

  “What happened five years ago?” I ask.

  My mother looks up at me. A strand of hair has come loose from the braid at the top of her head, and she tugs at it, tucking it back into place with restless fingers. “The Olen clan visited us. . . . They were moving south—”

  “I know all that. I want to know what really happened. What happened between our two clans?”

  She retrieves a large waterskin that hangs from a notch in a mammoth tusk that serves as a support beam, takes a long drink through the hollowed-out piece of bone attached as a spout, and offers it to me. “It’s only water. Your father has all the mead outside.” I take a drink. The water runs cool and soothing down my tense, dry throat. “Five years ago, on a joint hunt . . .” My mother hesitates. She does not want to say these words. The dread in her voice sends a tremor along my spine, and my mouth goes dry again. I offer my mother the waterskin, but she shakes her head. I take another drink, and as I do, she blurts out the rest of her story. “On a joint hunt, one of our men killed one of their women.”

  I try to swallow, but water pools as if it’s caught in a knot in my throat. I hack and cough before I can speak again.

  “What—”

  “It was an accident, but that didn’t matter.” My mother is tired, her voice a hoarse whisper. “One of their hunters responded by killing the man who threw the spear.”

  The back of my hand runs across my lips, wiping away drips of water and salty sweat. I stare at my mother’s unflinching face as if willing her to change this story, to tell me it isn’t true. But of course it’s true. It makes perfect sense. “The man who threw the spear was Tram’s father,” I say.

  “Yes. How—”

  “Pek and I were talking earlier. We remember the burial.”

  This is all I say before handing her the waterskin and pushing out through the door and back into the gathering place. In the center of a broad rock, seal oil burns in a shallow soapstone lamp—Urar is preparing to read the flame to interpret the will of the Divine
. I navigate through the crowd, careful not to step on people seated together in clusters of two and three, sipping mead and telling tales, as I make my way back to my family’s hut. As I walk, one thought crowds out every other—a man from my clan killed a woman from your clan, and he did it on a hunt. He did it when he threw a spear in error. Just as you feared I would throw my spear at you today.

  Once in our empty hut, things are only worse. The thought follows me like a shadow, and I know it won’t let me rest until I speak with you again. From a hook beside my bed I take a small pouch that was once used as a waterskin and head out to your hut.

  Standing outside your door, I realize I am about to disturb you for the second time this evening. Your hut is both dark and quiet. Are you sleeping? Didn’t you say you were tired? I know I’ve made a mistake when you suddenly pull back the draped hides and look out.

  If you are tired, it doesn’t show on your face. Even in the reluctant light of sunset, your eyes still shine. If anything, they flash with impatience rather than fatigue. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. Did I wake you?”

  “I heard footsteps stop outside the door. . . . Do you want something?”

  My eyes shift, unable to withstand the pressure of your gaze. They slide to your hand, gripping the hide in the doorway. Your fingers curl tightly around the edge of the bearskin, and I think of how I just hung this door today—I remember how I’d begrudgingly allowed the image of your face to invade my thoughts as I built this hut, imagining its walls protecting you as you slept.

  “I know why.” These words come out in a hurried rush, as I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the need to retreat from this situation but also painfully aware that I can’t walk away until I’ve said what I came to say. “I know why our two clans almost went to war.”

  “And?”

  “And now I understand. A woman from your clan was killed. A careless throw by a man from my clan took her life.”

  “Yes. That’s what happened.”

  “And it makes sense to me now. Today, you thought it might all happen again. I hope you’ll forgive me for scaring you like that.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive.” You lean out of the hut a bit and look past my shoulder, back toward the place where everyone is still gathered. They are taking turns singing solos now, and I recognize my brother Pek’s voice singing a love song. It’s a song to the Divine, of course, but Pek isn’t a fool. He knows how the words can be interpreted.

  You glance at the ground between us. It’s clear I’ve overstayed my welcome, if I was ever welcome at all.

  Then I remember the small pouch I brought with me. “Take this,” I say, placing it into your hand. You hold it awkwardly, pursing your lips. Your eyes flit from the pouch to my face. “It’s honey. I gathered it last summer from several hives I was able to find—”

  “No, thank you.” You hold it out for me to take it back, but I hesitate.

  “It’s a gift,” I say. I feel my face flush, but I’m not sure if it’s from embarrassment or anger.

  So much labor went into collecting this small pouch of honey. Every day last summer I got out of bed early, chanted prayers to the Divine and the Spirit of bees, and went in search of hives. The first I found easily—it was closest to the meadow—but the process of extracting the honey can be difficult and dangerous. Once the hive is found, the bees need to be sedated with smoke. That first hive was in a cluster of half-dead dwarf birch, surrounded by dry brush. I had to haul green kindling from young growth closer to camp. It took hours of effort, and yielded only small amounts of honey. That process had to be repeated over and over again.

  “We have honey at home. Here in the north, honey must be extremely scarce. You should keep what you have for yourselves.”

  I swallow and take a deep breath before I reply, striving to keep the anger from my voice. “I know our ways may be unfamiliar to you,” I say, thinking of the way you’d withdrawn at the start of the singing before the meal. “But I assure you, we don’t live in a barren wasteland. This may not be the lush south, but there’s plenty of honey on this side of the mountains. Finding it just demands a bit more patience.”

  Behind me I hear laughter. I turn to find your brother, sister, and Pek just a few paces away. I take the honey from your hand and hold it behind my back, hoping that the others won’t notice it.

  I’ve suffered enough humiliation for one day.

  I know I should stand in the doorway and exchange pleasantries with your brother and sister, but in this instant, my sense of social custom is no match for my pride. I nod and say a hasty good night.

  Still, I can’t quite drag myself away, and I duck into the shadows between two huts as your brother and Pek wish each other a restful night. I hear your sister offer a brief but sweet word of thanks to Pek for a lovely day. Then Pek walks right past me, under such a spell he doesn’t even notice I am here.

  Once Pek is gone, I can’t help but notice the voice of your brother, Chev. His words are muffled, but if I didn’t know better I would think he was scolding Seeri, but that can’t be right. I assume he must be chastising you for staying away from the meal. After a murmured response, I hear a question quite clearly. It’s your sister’s voice, and she asks what you and I were talking about just now.

  I know better than to listen in on other people’s conversations, and the answer you give your sister is the punishment I deserve for doing something I know is wrong.

  “He came to offer me a gift—a pouch of honey he’d collected.”

  “That’s so generous—” Seeri starts, her voice lilting and light. I can tell she’s happy for you. But you cut her off.

  “I refused it. At home I can gather my own honey. I won’t let some stranger think he can buy me with his.”

  I stalk back to our hut, each breath laboring against a heavy knot of anger that presses down on my chest, your mocking words thrumming in my head. To push the sound of your voice from my mind, I hum the tune to the love song I just heard my brother Pek sing.

  I know my parents are hoping this visit leads to a new friendship between our two clans. Silently, I thank the Divine for Pek and Seeri.

  SIX

  I wake in the dark to Pek shaking my shoulders. I had been dreaming, and though the dream fades quickly, a haze of dread colors my thoughts—it must have been a nightmare.

  “Come on,” Pek says, clearly irritated. With Pek, a bad mood is unusual, but after yesterday, it’s all but impossible. What could have happened? Behind Pek I notice Kesh is already dressed and pulling on his boots. A gust of wind rattles in the vent overhead, and the shrill sound, like the laugh of an angry Spirit, chills me. “This is the second time I’ve tried to wake you. Mother wants us all down in the kitchen to help this morning.”

  “She needs all of us to help with the morning meal?” I sit up and notice the pouch of honey where I’d dropped it on the floor last night. I push it out of sight, not wanting to be reminded of what I’d heard you say.

  The last thing I feel like doing right now is getting up and preparing food for you.

  “They’re leaving. Chev got up early and went down to put their things into their boat. Aunt Ama was at the shore checking her nets and spoke with him. Mother was already in the kitchen and she came straight to the hut and woke Father and me.”

  I let this story sink in. No one had ever told me how long you and your siblings were staying, but there was a definite sense you would be with us for a while, certainly more than a night. We’d put up a hut. We’d butchered a mammoth. This couldn’t have been part of your plans yesterday. Something changed.

  Could this all be your doing? Could it be that you’ve convinced your brother that there is nothing here worth staying for?

  “Mother wants us all in the kitchen. She’s determined to send them home with at least half of the mammoth meat, so it needs to be divided and wrapped.”

  “Fine.”

  Good riddance to you and your haughty di
sdain, I think, but any satisfaction I get from your early departure dissolves once I see my mother’s face. The light that glowed in her eyes as she handed out mats piled high with her cooking last night is all but gone today. She sits on the floor in the center of the kitchen, a circle of tools and ingredients spread around her. She reaches for a sharp stone blade made from obsidian brought back from an expedition to the far north—her favorite cutting tool by far—but then sets it down again distractedly. Her hand moves to a bowl made of woven stalks of slough sedge, filled to the brim with bits of crab meat mixed with lupine roots gathered from the meadow. On a flat stone she’s been cutting wild carrots dug from a tidal marsh a half day’s walk from here. This was meant to be a meal that would rival the one she’d served last night.

  Instead, she slides all these things aside and calls on Roon to help her move a large flat stone—a slab of rock split from an outcropping that broke into smooth, even layers when it was dug out from the hill. I remember my father presenting this stone to her—he had carried it on his own shoulders from the hill where it was quarried, knowing that she would find it perfect for cooking and cutting. An arm’s length wide and two arm’s lengths long, it holds most of the mammoth meat that was butchered last night. It’s not all of it, of course—only about a third of the mammoth has been cut from the bone—but my mother is determined to send half of what we have with you.

  She gets to her feet and hands out large, supple sheets of tightly stitched walrus gut. “I’ll divide the meat into evenly sized portions. Each of you take a piece, wrap it tight, and tie it with a length of cord. I don’t want it to dry out before they get it home.”

  Father’s voice comes from outside the door, followed by Chev’s. If my father feels insulted by your sudden departure, he’s much better at disguising it than my mother is. “Of course; we insist,” he says.

  Chev ducks his head to step through the doorway into the dim tent. His eyes sweep over the scene, stopping on the piles of mammoth meat on the cutting stone. “You are being far too generous. There’s no need to send us with any provisions. By boat, it won’t take much more than half the day to reach our own shores.”