Ivory and Bone (6 page)

If Seeri is promised to another boy, this trip wasn’t meant
to find someone for her. Perhaps Chev came here to find a wife for himself? I always assumed your brother had a wife, though I’m not sure anyone has actually said so. But if he were searching for a wife, why would he bring his two sisters along? No, this trip could have
been for only one purpose—to find someone for you.

Chev’s eyes meet mine and he holds my gaze for a moment before turning his attention to you. “We have appreciated your hospitality greatly. Isn’t that right, Mya?”

“Yes,” you say without looking at me, and I know that I have discerned things correctly. Chev had wanted to find a match for you, and we have disappointed him.

I wonder how differently
things would have gone if Chev had left your sister at home. But then, even if you’d come alone, you would’ve found all the same reasons to reject me. Perhaps it would be you swooning over Pek—the born hunter—rather than Seeri.

Maybe that’s what Chev regrets the most.

At the boat, your brother moves quickly. Roon chatters the whole time about the clan he met on the western shore. As you set
your pack into your brother’s hands, you whisper a message into his ear.

“This clan from the west,” Chev says to Roon. “You told my sister earlier you thought someone was creeping through the camp last night—maybe someone from that clan? Maybe even a spy?”

Roon twitches and a smile flits across his lips, but then he wipes it away with his hand. “I thought I heard something, but when I walked
outside, no one was there. It could’ve been a spy, I guess. Just as likely it was a Spirit, sent by the Divine to draw me to the shore.”

“A Spirit . . . Perhaps. Or perhaps a ghost . . .” Chev’s eyes move to your face and I wonder if we are all thinking of the same thing—the woman who lost her life five years ago on the hunt. Could her ghost have paced our camp last night? Could it be that the
violence that took her life ties her Spirit here, preventing it from climbing to the Land Above the Sky?

Without another word, Chev moves quickly to prepare the canoe. His haste removes any opportunity for ceremony or formality as we part. Pek wades into the water, his sealskin pants and boots protecting him from the icy cold, and holds the canoe steady as you and Seeri step in.

“Such an incredible
boat,” Pek says, and the sincerity in his voice almost breaks my heart. “The skill of your clanspeople is truly impressive. I hope to pay a visit to you and meet the people of your clan soon.”

I’m surprised Pek would say something so bold. Could our parents have put him up to it?

“We will look forward to meeting you all again . . . someday,” Chev says. His noncommittal response is as good as
a “no” to my brother’s proposition. He gives a small nod
to my parents. “Arem and Mala, we thank you and all the Manu for your hospitality.”

Then the three of you push out. Three paddles stab hard at the water, drawing you quickly away from our shore.

As you round the point to the south where, even in summer, ice runs down from the eastern mountains like a frozen river to the sea, I catch a
glimpse of a lone kayak far out on the horizon. The sun shines bright and the outline of a paddler is illuminated, long, loose hair whipping in the wind.

My heart pounds a drumbeat in my chest that rolls outward like an echo, vibrating along my skin. I turn and clutch Roon by the arm. “There!” I shout, pointing to the shape on the sea.

But just as I do, a cloud slides in front of the sun. Gray
mist shrouds the water in shadow.

Ghost, spy, or just a trick of my imagination, the lone kayaker I’d seen so distinctly just a moment before is gone.

S
eeri loved the sealskin blankets.
This is the one true thing my mother and Pek have fixated on since your boat disappeared around our bay’s southern point.

By afternoon, Pek and I are out on the water, hunting seals.

We each paddle a kayak custom-built by our aunt Ama from sealskin stretched over a frame of mammoth bone. Even our paddles are works of careful craftsmanship—their shafts
carved from well-chosen spruce limbs, perfectly fitted to pairs of blades shaped from finely worked driftwood, capped at both ends with ivory. These kayaks are not just boats we sit in, like the canoe you and your siblings use, but they are almost like clothing we wear, tied at the waist and braced with straps over our shoulders to keep water out. “It will keep you comfortable. . . . Comfortable
and safe,” Aunt Ama said the first time I climbed into it, my legs sliding into the dry cavity under the deck. And she was right—I am
both comfortable and safe. But still, I am miserable.

Grasping the paddle balanced across my lap, I’m reminded of yesterday’s hut-building efforts and the deep fissures left in my palms. By last night the cuts were healing, sealed with a crisscrossing pattern of
dark purple scabs. But scabs are no defense against seawater, and out here today, my palms sting and burn.

If only this were just a simple fishing expedition, one where Pek and I could float in a quiet cove with the sun on our backs, enjoying the warm air of early summer as we drop a net into the still-frigid waters to see what fish we might bring up. I could use a chance to rest and sift through
all the things that have been done and said since you arrived yesterday. I feel out of balance—my thoughts have been stuffed to overflowing while my hopes have been drained dry. I know some time spent thinking—alone in the meadow maybe—would fix it, but my family has other plans for me. Instead of lying in a meadow, I find myself paddling out toward a cluster of rocky offshore islands, armed
with a harpoon of walrus bone tipped with walrus ivory, tied to a long rope of tightly knotted kelp.

With his paddle, Pek points into the distance. Dark shapes stand out against the sun-bleached rocks—the seals are out. Our chances of success seem strong. I thank the Divine for this small blessing. I don’t think I could take another failure today.

Before we reach the small islands where we will
hunt, I pull my boat up next to my brother’s and slow my paddling. He looks over to me, squinting into the sun. “You all right?” he calls.

“She didn’t leave you willingly,” I say. I feel like I need to tell Pek this, to undo any sense he may have of rejection. “Her brother, Chev—he took her from you. Mya told me. Seeri is promised to Chev’s close friend. He took her from here because he could
see how she felt about you, how you felt about each other.”

Pek doesn’t answer. Instead he drops his head, digs his paddle into the water, and makes a wide turn around me. Perhaps I’ve said the wrong thing. Perhaps it would have been better to leave him wondering if she’d rejected him. After all, Mya had called Pek and Seeri an
impossibility
.

Pek circles around the front of my kayak and pulls
alongside me so we’re facing each other. His head is lowered, but when he raises it and meets my eyes, he flashes a wry smile. “I already know,” he says.

“You know? How do you know?”

“Seeri told me.”

“But then why are we out here hunting seals? Why do you persist in planning a trip to their camp—”

“She’s not married yet, is she? So there’s still a chance. Things could change.”

Where does
Pek find this kind of faith? Is he being foolish
or wise? Distracted by these questions, my focus wanders from the surface to the sky, until Pek dips his paddle into the sea and flips icy water in my face. Startled, I wipe my eyes with the backs of my hands just in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of his laughing face before he ducks his head and paddles hard for the rocks. Seals sunbathe on at
least ten ledges above the spray. I stab at the water in pursuit of Pek, but as we draw close we both slow our pace. Now, closing in, stealth overrides speed. Diverting our course around a smaller island that blocks us from view, we slide across the surface as soundlessly as possible.

Hidden by the southern edge of the island—little more than a rock, really—Pek halts his kayak. I stop alongside
him and take stock of our position. We are well within range.

Something about Pek’s resilience bolsters my mood. I feel emboldened by his refusal to be beaten. Good omens are all around: sunlight shimmers on the surface and the Spirits in the sea sing to me in the beat of the waves. I load my harpoon into an atlatl to ensure I get as much power into the throw as possible, and after making sure
that Pek is out of my way and I have a clear and open shot, I let the harpoon fly.

It is a perfect strike. The spike lands in the thick flesh of the seal’s side and he leaps into the water.

He struggles, and as he does the water colors red with his
blood. I hold on with my cracked and bleeding hands, as he dives and surfaces, dives and surfaces. Thankfully, his fight doesn’t outlast the strength
of my rope. His body goes still, sinking a bit before settling in shallow water at the edge of the rocks.

Now comes the trickiest part—bringing him in without breaking the harpoon or snapping the rope. I paddle as close to the rocks as possible, careful not to scrape the bottom of the kayak and risk tearing a gash in the hull.

The carcass lies on a jutting shelf just below the surface. With
the blade of my paddle, I manage to leverage his weight enough to lift him up and pull him in. The seal drops heavily onto the deck of my kayak, one wet flipper sliding against my cheek as he falls. I almost avert my gaze—I remember the mammoth hunt and the way the mammoth’s eye had opened like a pit—but the seal’s head drapes over the side. I silently thank the Spirit of this seal for not looking
me in the eye.

As I coil the rope, Pek paddles up alongside me. “Nicely done,” he says.

My ivory-tipped harpoon is buried deep in the seal’s side under the ribs. Despite the fight put up by the seal, the spike made only a small entry wound in the pelt. The rest of the coat is intact—a smooth, uninterrupted gradient of color, fading from golden brown near the head to a pale buff near the tail.
Almost all the icy water has already shed from the
fur and a breeze ripples across it, showing off its sheen. After a brief study of the wound, I decide to wait until I’m back on land to remove the harpoon. The unsteady sea makes unsteady hands, and I would hate to see even a scrap of this pelt wasted.

Though all the seals near my kill fled into the water, they sought safety by staying together
and swimming toward shore. A second group still basks on a broad, flat island farther out to sea, calmly unaware and unalarmed. “I want to try something,” says Pek, all the while keeping his attention on the distant seals. “I’ll stay here and wait, out of sight. You paddle closer and make a noise, get them moving. The shortest path to shore is through these rocks. I’ll take the shot as they swim
past.”

The dead seal makes a strange passenger as I paddle out, circling wide around the far side of the rocks. As I get closer I see that this group is much larger than the last. At least three dozen seals crowd against each other in the sun.

Out here, my back to the land, the sea grows calm and quiet. For a moment, I close my eyes and let my thoughts go quiet too. It lasts only a moment. Then
my mind’s eye snaps open and I see the cat you killed, crouching in the sky, all but hidden by the clouds. He stays low, but his eyes are on me. All at once he bounds forward, his immense claws tearing the clouds to wisps, closing in on the place I sit, helpless in this tiny boat.

My eyes fly open. Beyond the tip of my kayak there is nothing but unbroken sea. Spooked, I dip a blade into the water
and turn toward shore again.

I watch the seals, completely vulnerable, as unaware of my presence as I was of the cat’s. Then I let out a whoop and strike the surface with my paddle. Just as Pek planned, the seals leap into the water, diving in the direction of shore.

I paddle closer, moving in toward Pek, who waits beneath a low, overhanging ledge. He loads his harpoon into an atlatl and readies
his throw.

The first seals reach the rocks across from him and surface, heads and necks rising above water as they look back to see if they are safe. As more heads appear, Pek takes aim. He lets the harpoon fly.

His aim is perfect, but his target dives just before the spike reaches him. The harpoon slashes into the sea but the rope stays slack—there is no strike. Hurrying, hoping to get another
opportunity before the last seal dives, Pek pulls back on the rope to reel it in, but it catches and pulls fast. The harpoon must be caught in a cleft beneath the surface.

Watching him, I think through the process he will follow next—paddle closer, flick a wave along the rope to loosen the spike.

But Pek is impatient. He knows this is his last chance for a kill today. He doesn’t paddle closer.
Instead, he tries to loosen his harpoon by pulling sharply on the rope.

In an instant, his kayak flips.

One moment he is there, the next he is gone.

Pek has grown up paddling on the sea.
This is what I tell myself as I watch and wait. This is Pek, who learned to paddle when he was still a child. Pek, who taught Roon how to right an inverted kayak.

“Roll,” I whisper to myself. “Come on, Pek,
roll.”

A moment later I strip off my parka and untie the belt that holds me in place. With my knife in my hand I dive into the sea.

Under the surface, Pek’s hair fans out around his head, floating up and over his face so I cannot see his features. It doesn’t matter. I only have to see the way his hands claw at the belt holding him in, trying to loosen it so he can escape. Immediately I know
why he hasn’t rolled—while on the hunt, he knotted the kayak belt to his rope and wound it around his waist, a risky trick to prevent a stuck seal from getting away, taking his harpoon and rope with him. But Pek’s harpoon isn’t stuck in a seal—it’s stuck in a crevice, the taut rope anchoring his flipped kayak to the rocks. Rings of rope swirl in tangled spirals around him.

His hands grasp at
the water between us. He’s running out of time.

Above water the knife in my hand could cut three of these cords in one stroke. Underwater, each cord bloated and slick, it takes two strokes to break just one.

Time changes, each passing moment slowing and widening, like a ripple of the one before. I cut through one . . . then two . . . then three strands. Curls of rope float open and outward.
A fourth strand . . . a fifth. Finally, Pek slides from the kayak, swimming through the loops as they unravel around him.

We break the surface at the same time, and I notice how gray his skin is—almost white. His eyes stand out against this icy background like two round stones, the whites having turned a dull, bluish gray. Before I can ask if he’s all right, he turns and grabs the hull of his
boat, flipping it upright. Within moments, both of us are out of the water and back on our kayaks.

Still, we’re in danger—the water is frigid. Wet clothes leech heat from my skin. My ears and nose burn with cold. My heart pounds.

“We need to go back,” I call to him.

“Not a chance,” he answers.

“That wasn’t a question.” Resilience is one thing; recklessness is another. “What would you hunt
with? You have no harpoon. You have no rope. And you will have no brother alongside you.”

“I’ll dive back in and get the rope—”

“Not right now you won’t. You’ve lost too much body heat. You need to get warm. We both do.”

Pek’s soaked hair drips into his lap as he sits, slumped
forward, on top of his kayak. He doesn’t bother to slide back under the deck. It would be pointless. The boat is drenched
inside and would not warm him.

“Pek,” I say, but he doesn’t lift his head. I have never seen my brother more defeated. I pull his paddle from the spot where it bobs on the surface between us. When he won’t take it from me, I slide it across his lap. “You’ll lose your strength if you sit out here. Come in and get warm. Then we’ll try again.”

I turn and start to paddle in without him. “You need
to stay strong if you’re going to win her,” I call over my shoulder.

I don’t need to glance back. I don’t need to tune my ears to the sound of his paddle breaking the surface behind me. I know he will follow me in. Whether by faith or foolishness, Pek will follow Seeri wherever she leads.

Once we’re on shore, Pek insists on helping bring in the fresh kill, though shuddering waves of cold rack
his body.

I watch him, stubbornly struggling to grip the carcass with hands streaked red with blood and cold, and I remember his words—
These girls are going to change our lives
.

Those words have proven true a thousand times over in just two days.

I can’t help but worry what changes are still to come.