When the elders left the lodge, Cen spoke politely for a few moments to those around him. Perhaps their decision was best. Who was he to question them? He had never stayed long enough in any one village to understand the loyalties and hatreds that bound the people to one another and gave foundation for arguments, reasons for choices. He was weary, anxious to return to his wife and daughter.
The men of the village had left three young hunters with K’os, and only at Cen’s insistence had bound her wrists and ankles, tied a gag over her mouth. He had known her long enough to realize that she could charm any young man if given the chance.
Near Mouse had stayed with Gheli, and now, as Cen hurried back to his lodge, he was suddenly afraid that K’os had escaped and found some way to kill his wife. But when he went inside, he found Gheli and Near Mouse sitting beside the hearth, playing with the baby. Daes was lying on a hare fur blanket, her legs kicking as she reached toward some trinket Gheli held just beyond her fingers.
“You are feeling better, Wife?” he asked, though the question was foolish. Who could not see that she was better?
Near Mouse looked up at him and chuckled. “I think your wife is well.”
Cen squatted beside them, lay his hand on his wife’s shoulder. Perhaps, then, the decision to allow K’os to leave the village was the right one. He had a little daughter, a good wife. In spring he would return to the Cousin River Village and bring his son, Ghaden, here to live in this fine lodge with his sister Daes and his new mother, Gheli.
Chapter Fifty-nine
THE FOUR RIVERS VILLAGE
K
’OS BENT OVER RIVER
Ice Dancer’s body, cut the thong that held the amulet he wore at his neck. First Spear had told her she could take it, but had said she was a fool for wanting it. Did he think she was afraid of whatever power that amulet carried? If it could not protect River Ice Dancer against the killer’s knife, then it was good for only one reason: to prove to the Near River People that he was dead, and then to convince them to avenge his death.
She heard the murmurs around her—those who thought she had killed her husband and those who did not, arguing still over her guilt. The old women of the village had dressed River Ice Dancer in his finest parka, and she noticed as she removed the amulet that they had bound a scabbard at his waist. She was surprised to see the bloodstained handle of her own knife protruding above the leather that covered the blade, and she drew in her breath as she suddenly realized that her knife had been used to kill him. It was thirsty for blood, that knife, and had served her well. She had used it to kill Chakliux’s father, Gull Wing, after he, Fox Barking and Sleeps Long had raped her and left her for dead. How could she allow it to rot with River Ice Dancer?
She lifted her voice in a mourning cry, then through her tears said to the women nearest her, “I was making him a parka.” She gazed around the lodge as though confused, then her eyes came to rest on a fishskin basket. She pointed, and the women passed it from hand to hand until it reached K’os. She pulled out the partially completed parka, held it up so they could see its intricate pattern of light and dark fur.
“Like water on ice,” one of the women whispered. Then another murmured, “If K’os planned to kill her husband, why would she make him something so beautiful?”
K’os raised the parka, held it above her head, moved her feet in a slow dance of mourning, her shoulders heaving as she sobbed. Finally she threw herself over River Ice Dancer’s body, covering him from chin to groin with the parka. She buried her head in the fur and cried out her anguish, but as she lay over his body, her hands worked under the parka to remove her knife from the scabbard. She slipped it up her sleeve even as three old women pulled her away, one cursing, two crooning their sympathy. They walked her to the entrance tunnel. There K’os hefted the pack they had allowed her, went outside and called the two dogs they said she could take. They were River Ice Dancer’s dogs, and one pulled a travois laden with tent and tent poles, food and some of her belongings.
As she left the village, she sang mourning songs until she knew they could no longer hear her voice.
When the sun had nearly tucked itself again into the earth, K’os made a camp in a group of spruce trees. She set up the tent, tying the dogs near the entrance, and she built a fire, lighting it with the smoldering knot of spruce she carried in a birchbark container hung from her waist.
She huddled close to one of the dogs. He snapped at her. K’os snarled, and the dog tucked his tail between his legs, cowered and finally accepted a small piece of dried meat from her hands. The night would be long, and she was cold, but she would not die.
Her hatred alone would carry her to the Near River Village, but someday she would return to the Four Rivers. Perhaps she would come in stealth, or perhaps with warriors, but she would return. Then Cen would suffer, for who but Cen could have killed River Ice Dancer? He alone had the strength and a reason.
Of course, for him to do such a thing meant that Red Leaf had told him of K’os’s threats. Not the whole truth, K’os was sure, but some part of it.
K’os smiled, searched through her pack until she found her medicine bag. She drew out the small pouch tied with red sinew. At least she could comfort herself with the thought of Red Leaf’s retching out her life, bleeding from nose and mouth until finally even her vomitus and feces were only clotted blood.
K’os tipped back her head and laughed. That night, in spite of the cold, she slept well.
THE FOUR RIVERS VILLAGE
Cen knelt beside Red Leaf, gently shook her awake. “Gheli?”
She heard his voice from her dreams, opened her eyes slowly and smiled at him.
“It is morning. Are you well enough for me to go and get wood? I will return as quickly as I can.”
“Go,” she said, her words broken by the dryness of her throat. “First, could you bring me some water?”
He untied a bladder, held it to her mouth, and when she had finished drinking, he tucked the sleeping robes around her shoulders. She watched him leave, waited for a short time, then rolled out of her bed. She went to her stack of baskets, chose one made of salmon skins, dark and translucent, sewn side by side, tail ends down to form the base. She pulled out a pouch of caribou hide, no larger than her hand. It was bound with red sinew, tied with four knots. She took it to the hearth fire and used a stick to tuck it into the coals.
She flexed her fingers. She was a large woman, a little clumsy, but her hands were as nimble as a child’s, gifted with needle and awl, cunning enough to substitute a packet of ground willow root for one of baneberry and to do it so quickly that the trade was not even noticed by someone standing near.
As the poison burned, Red Leaf thought of that harmless pouch K’os now carried in her medicine bag. And she wondered what other lives she had saved. Perhaps they would count as a payment for those she had taken.
THE HUNTERS’ SPRING
Aqamdax wiped her hand across her mouth, lay back on her bed. Snow Hawk tried to lick her face, but she pushed the dog away. She patted the floor mats, and Snow Hawk lay down.
Was this the third or fourth morning that she had awakened to light-headedness and nausea?
“I do not need to be sick, Snow Hawk,” she said to the dog. She closed her eyes. Stories of people and their illnesses spun into her head, mocked her with medicines she did not have, until finally she retreated into the helpful tales mothers told small daughters. Sometimes those stories offered women the best advice.
Suddenly Aqamdax began to laugh. Snow Hawk whined and pressed her cold nose into Aqamdax’s face. Aqamdax wrapped her arms around the dog, but Snow Hawk broke away, crouched with forelegs on the ground, rear end raised, tail wagging.
“A game?” Aqamdax said, and sat up to ruffle the dog’s fur. “Yes, Snow Hawk, a game.”
How foolish not to realize… But she had not been sick with her son, and her moon blood times had not been regular since his birth.
“Now you have two people to guard,” she told Snow Hawk, “until Chakliux comes for us.”
She slipped one hand under her parka, felt the soft hood she had made for her dead baby. Tears came to her eyes, and she began to cry—in sorrow for that little one who had died, in joy for the new baby she carried so close to her heart.
Sok squinted at the tear-shaped woods. The Cousin People called it the Hunters’ Spring. Take More had once grudgingly led him to the place when they were hunting moose. Sok had laughed to himself about the old man’s reluctance to share its location. Chakliux had already told Sok about the spring. Did Take More think Chakliux would keep hunting secrets from his own brother?
Sok shook his head. What would he do without that brother? He sighed, looked again at the thin gray trees. Suddenly he crouched, gripped his spear, ready to throw.
A wolf stood at the edge of the woods. No, not wolf; the animal’s tail was curled almost to its back. A dog. Not as dangerous as a wolf—at least, more predictable—but still, he gripped his spear. Perhaps the animal had come with a hunter who had stopped at the spring, most likely one of the men from the Cousin River Village. Sok raised his voice, called out. The dog lowered its head and stared at him, then slowly wagged its tail.
Sok cupped his hands around his eyes, squinted. Snow Hawk? Yes, his own dog Snow Hawk. Aqamdax must have lent her to a hunter to use as a pack animal on a hunting trip. Or perhaps one of the men had decided to take Cries-loud hunting and the boy brought Snow Hawk with them. Sok broke into a run, his snowshoes slowing him, forcing an awkward gait.
“Cries-loud!” he called, his pulse jumping in the hope of seeing his son.
But there was no answer, and if they had brought Snow Hawk, why was the animal loose, without pack or travois harness?
Sok held out his hand, approached slowly. “Did you chew through your tether?” he asked, his voice low, soft. If the animal had been running loose, wild since he and Chakliux left the village, she would not yield easily. For Chakliux, perhaps, she would come. Not for Sok.
“Snow Hawk,” he called softly. “Snow Hawk.”
Snow Hawk lowered her tail. She snapped once at the air, then dropped to her belly. Sok reached up under his parka, brought out a piece of dried meat. He had not had the presence of mind to bring much food from Chakliux’s tent. Each time he sorted through his pack, he was surprised at what he had brought—foolish things—extra blades, not yet knapped for use; large balls of babiche; a pack of caribou teeth. Little meat, no extra boots.
Suddenly Snow Hawk perked her ears, looked back into the trees. Before Sok could stop her, she bounded off toward the woods. He followed her. If she had come with hunters, he would probably find them at the spring. His own water was gone, the last swallow taken at dawn. Dry cold days, dim of light but clear of sky, always seemed to draw all the water from his body, leaving him parched, with lips cracked, eyes burning.
He came to other trails, all made by one person, someone with small feet. Surely not a boy. Would the Cousin Rivers have forced Cries-loud from the village after Sok and Chakliux had left? No, there were too many good people there to allow such a thing. Perhaps they were a woman’s tracks. Yes, the toes turned in. How else did a woman walk when she was carrying a heavy load or pulling a travois? Most likely an old woman, then, one who had offered to leave the village so there would be more food for the children. But what fool had allowed her to take Snow Hawk, a golden-eye, pregnant with a litter and one of the best dogs in the village?
Then he knew. Ligige’, of course, it was Ligige’. She was, after all, Near River, the most Near River of anyone except he himself, his sons and Yaa. And she had probably stolen Snow Hawk, especially if her leaving had been forced on her by others.
“Ligige’!” he shouted, then turned and called in all directions.
But the voice that answered him was not Ligige’’s. And it came so unexpectedly that he jumped, his snowshoes threatening his balance. He reached for an alder tree, grasped the thin bole to keep from falling into the snow.
“Sok? You are here? Where is my husband?”
He stared at Aqamdax for a moment before he could respond, and then he spoke only to say, “Where is Ligige’?”
“Ligige’ is here?” Aqamdax asked, and in the foolishness of question upon question, Sok wondered if he were still in a dream, back in Chakliux’s tent.
Snow Hawk jumped around them, making a dance in and out of the paths that cut through the trees, and Aqamdax scolded her, warned her away from a noose trap set in an animal trail. The pause gave Sok time to clear his mind. He pointed to Aqamdax’s footprints and said, “I followed Snow Hawk here. When I saw your tracks, I thought perhaps some old woman had been driven from the village. I thought it might be Ligige’.”
“They are my tracks,” Aqamdax said. “Night Man forced me to leave.” She frowned, and before he could ask her the many questions that came to him, she said, “My husband is with you?”
He shook his head. “I am alone.”
“Where is Chakliux?” she cried out. Her voice was a wail, both demanding and denying, and he could not look at her.
“If one of us had to die,” he said softly, “I do not understand why it was Chakliux. You know I would have given my life for him.”
Slowly, Aqamdax sank to her knees. She curled herself into a ball, and Sok knelt beside her. He gathered her close, let his own cries echo hers until even Snow Hawk lifted her head and joined their mourning.
Chapter Sixty
THE COUSIN RIVER VILLAGE
L
IGIGE’ BRUSHED THE SNOW
from her stack of wood and kicked several pieces loose from the pile. Her thoughts were on a basket she was making, not a fishskin basket—the kind she had made since she was a child—but one of grass, in the way Aqamdax had been teaching her. Her stitches on one side were loose, and the basket was lopsided. Perhaps if she unraveled it back to where she had started her last weaver…
She picked up the chunks of wood that had scattered from her pile, groaned as she straightened, and started back into the lodge. Ghaden and Cries-loud were usually the ones who brought in the wood, but Sky Watcher had taken the boys on a morning hunt. She hoped they had good luck. Fresh meat in winter warmed a body as much as a hearth fire.