CHAGAK RUBBED HER WRISTS and ankles, then, squatting on her heels, tucked the tiny blade with its down packing into the carving and slipped it inside her suk. It had taken most of the morning to cut through the thick babiche ropes, but she was free.
For a moment she sat still, again going over the things she must take with her. Water, oil, dried fish, tanned sealskins and her sewing basket, perhaps a basket of dried whelk, a coil of rope, hooks, the bola, sinew for fishing line, her woman’s knife, dried herbs for healing, grass mats.
She piled the supplies at the bottom of the climbing log, then went outside. She walked to the beach, her heart pounding with each step.
What if Man-who-kills was there? What if he were waiting to see if she would try to escape?
But there was no one; the beach was wide and empty.
Her ik was inverted on a rack near the ikyak cave. She and Shuganan had spent much time since the storm repairing the ik, replacing wood ribbing and torn parts of the hide covering.
Chagak ran her hands over the covering, checking for any tears or punctures in the hide. A wave crashed in on the beach gravel, and the water hissed as it pulled itself back to the sea. The beach was colder, the wind stronger than on her people’s beach.
Chagak thought of Shuganan. He had meant for her to escape. Why else would he give her the carving with the knife? Even so, she was afraid for Shuganan. What would Man-who-kills do when he found she was gone?
But she had seen Shuganan’s power over Man-who-kills. It would take more than her escape to endanger Shuganan’s life. And I will bring my grandfather, Chagak thought. Then, seeing the thought as a promise, she said aloud to any spirits that might be near, “I will bring my grandfather and his hunters. They will rescue Shuganan.”
Then, remembering what little value her grandfather placed on his granddaughters, Chagak shivered and hurried back to the ulaq to get her supplies.
“Hah!” Man-who-kills shouted and, lifting his paddle, pointed with the blade toward something dark in the water.
Shuganan strained to see but could make out only a break in the water, something that could be driftwood or even a white and black sea duck, swimming the trough of the waves.
Man-who-kills began paddling toward the place, but Shuganan purposely allowed his ikyak to pull heavily against Man-who-kills’ craft.
“You paddle like a woman,” Man-who-kills called back to him, his voice cutting the noise of waves and wind.
“I am old,” Shuganan answered, not caring if Man-who-kills heard him.
“You will be dead if you do not keep up,” Man-who-kills shouted, his words carried to Shuganan by a gust of wind.
Shuganan thrust his paddle deep into the water, pulling his ikyak close to Man-who-kills. Then he held his paddle still, vertical in the water, and when Man-who-kills sent his ikyak ahead with a strong stroke, the rope between the two crafts stretched tight and jerked Man-who-kills’ ikyak back.
“Stupid,” Man-who-kills hissed, but Shuganan only shrugged and said, “I told you I am old.” And this time he yelled the words so Man-who-kills could hear and perhaps, if the thing they had seen was a seal, it, too, would hear.
The object in the sea seemed to be moving away from them. Not driftwood, Shuganan thought. He kept his ikyak behind Man-who-kills, kept his paddling slow enough to be a hindrance.
“Two, there are two,” Man-who-kills called to him, his voice low.
“I cannot hear you,” Shuganan shouted, though he had heard, and he made his voice high so it would carry above the waves. “What did you say?”
“Shut your mouth, old man.”
“Is it a seal?” Shuganan called.
“Shut your mouth!” Man-who-kills stopped paddling, and before Shuganan could stop his ikyak, he was abreast of the man. Man-who-kills whipped his paddle from the water and slammed the flat of the blade into Shuganan’s side.
“Shut your mouth, old man,” he said, his voice low.
Shuganan felt the sharp crack of a rib, heard the whoosh of air that came from his lungs. He sat still, trying to breathe, gripping the paddle as the pain tried to pry it from his fingers.
“Two seals,” Man-who-kills said as though he had not hit Shuganan. Unlashing one of his harpoons, he checked the coil of sinew that linked the head to the shaft. “Two seals, and I will get both of them.”
Chagak pushed the ik into the calm water of a tidal pool. The pool extended in a wide arc, one end nearly at the center of the beach, the other dipping into the sea. It was a good place to pack a boat, to launch it when there was no one else to help.
She had her supplies out of the ulaq and piled on the beach by the pool. As she loaded the ik, she tied most of her things to the boat’s thwarts to prevent shifting.
When everything was in, she went to the cave where Shuganan kept his ikyak. She took an extra paddle, babiche and oiled skins for repairs. She also took a bailing tube. The long, slender tube was carved from bamboo, a wood that often drifted to their beach. By sucking water into the tube and releasing it over the edge of her ik, she could bail with one hand yet still guide the craft with a paddle.
Chagak laid a seal hide, fur up, in the stern where she would sit, then took off her suk and threw it into the boat. Wading into the tidal pool, she pulled the ik toward the sea.
The waves caught her legs and sharp edges of shale cut her feet, but Chagak walked until the water was waist high. Then, grasping the edge of the ik, she hoisted herself in and grabbed a paddle.
She directed her ik into the waves, using all her strength to keep the bow slicing through foam and cap, but when she was in deep water, the waves only high swells, she laid her dripping paddle in the bottom of the ik and put on her suk, feathers in for warmth.
Shuganan crossed his arms over his chest and held his sides. Each breath brought pain, as though his ribs would fall loose from his spine.
Man-who-kills had guided their ikyan closer to the seal, and Shuganan, in his pain, was unable to fight against him. Shuganan’s lungs ached with the need for air, so he braced his hands against his sides and took a long, slow breath.
Man-who-kills fitted the butt end of his harpoon into the hook of his spear thrower. The thrower was the length of the man’s forearm and more than half the width of his hand. It was similar to Shuganan’s spear thrower, with a hole for his forefinger and notch for his palm, but it was painted with designs of seals and hunters while Shuganan’s board was carved.
Man-who-kills held the board at one end and allowed the other end to extend over his shoulder. The device lengthened his arm and, therefore, his throw.
They were close enough to the animals that Shuganan could see they were hair seals, valuable for their meat and for their tough hides.
Man-who-kills leaned back in the ikyak and cocked his arm. “Two,” Shuganan heard Man-who-kills hiss, heard the man laugh to himself. And Shuganan wondered what had brought the laughter. The thought of Chagak, naked in his bed? The thought of honor earned by bringing Shuganan to his chief? And suddenly Shuganan’s anger was greater than his hurt. He gripped his paddle in both hands and, forgetting his pain, dipped it lightly in the water, shortening the distance between the two crafts. He was close enough now to touch Man-who-kills’ ikyak with his paddle, but he did not think Man-who-kills saw or heard anything except the seals.
Man-who-kills untied a second harpoon from his ikyak and held it in his left hand as he prepared to throw with his right.
They were in the trough of a wave, everything still and gray around them, sky and water. Shuganan grasped his paddle in both hands, held it before him like a weapon. Man-who-kills’ ikyak crested the wave and he threw the harpoon, the man grunting as the shaft left the throwing board.
At the moment Man-who-kills threw, Shuganan raised his paddle, prepared to use it as a club against the man. But the beauty of the throw, the groan of the seal as it was hit, stopped him, and he sat still as Man-who-kills fitted the second harpoon into the thrower, hurled at the second seal. Again the harpoon struck.
But Shuganan still did not move. What spirit is working here? Shuganan thought. Why had the second seal stayed head above water even after the first was hit?
The seals dove, the heads of the harpoons in their flesh. The shafts, tied to the harpoon heads with lengths of sinew line, remained above the water, marking the seals’ hiding places beneath the waves.
One of the seals surfaced. Man-who-kills drew his ikyak near, but the animal made no move to dive.
Man-who-kills pulled his harpoon shaft from the water and coiled the line around the holders attached to his ikyak. The second seal surfaced and it, too, waited as Man-who-kills tied the line to the ikyak.
Waited or is dead? Shuganan asked himself. Man-who-kills pulled each seal close to his ikyak. The bodies had begun to sink, held up only by their link to the ikyak.
They are dead, Shuganan thought as Man-who-kills attached drag lines to the back flippers. So quickly, they are dead. Where did Man-who-kills get such power?
Shuganan thought of the seal carving Man-who-kills had taken from the ulaq, but Shuganan could not give his own work that much power. It was too frightening, too horrible. What if other hunters came? What if they gained the same power by wearing his carvings and used that power for evil?
Again Shuganan took a shuddering breath. He lifted his paddle. He knew Man-who-kills would turn. A man who received his glory from self-praise could not make two quick kills without boasting.
“What do you think, old man?” Man-who-kills asked, turning his head, flashing his teeth.
Shuganan aimed his paddle as though it were a spear, as though the blade were harpoon, and slammed it into Man-who-kills’ face.
The thrust was not as hard as Shuganan had hoped, but blood spurted from the man’s nose and mouth. Shuganan drew the paddle back to hit again, but Man-who-kills caught the end of it, twisting the paddle until the muscles of Shuganan’s sides felt they would rip from his ribs, until Shuganan’s breath brought up blood from his lungs.
The pain spread to his fingers, numbed his hands. His arms strained so hard in their sockets that Shuganan thought the bones would break. Finally Man-who-kills jerked the paddle from Shuganan’s hands and swung it hard against Shuganan’s head.
Shuganan slid into the ikyak as far as he could. The wood supports protected his ribs and back, and he cradled his head in his arms. Man-who-kills swung again. The blow snapped a bone in Shuganan’s left forearm, but he still held the arm over his head. Again the paddle came, and again. Blood congealed in a puddle on the drip skirt of his ikyak and spread thin wisps in the water like tails of red kelp.
Darkness edged Shuganan’s vision, and each time the paddle hit, the darkness grew, blotting out the sea, the sky, until Shuganan saw only a pinpoint of light, until his only thoughts were of pain and the only thing he heard was some spirit saying, Do not die. Do not leave Chagak.