IN CHAGAK’S VILLAGE SKINNING and butchering a seal was always the work of many women. Two, perhaps three, would peel the hide from the body; another would take the fat, still others cut away the meat. Then the hunter would divide fat, meat and bones among the families. The hunter’s family got the hide, flippers and first choice of the meat.
But here, Chagak had to do the work alone. The animals were each as heavy as a big man, and it was difficult for her to move them.
Man-who-kills had brought a woman’s knife and another crooked knife from the ulaq, as well as several tanned hides. Chagak spread out the hides, and when she had finished taking the skin from the first seal, she began butchering. She sliced off the thick layer of fat that covered the body and piled it in slabs, then cut the meat from the bones and removed the edible organs.
Carefully, she cut away the thick cord of sinew that ran up the seal’s spine and laid it aside to dry; later she would twist the fibrous strands into various thicknesses to use for sewing. She tied the small intestine at each end before cutting it free. When she had finished the rest of the butchering, she would empty the contents into the sea, pull away the inner and outer layers, dry the intestine and roll it for storage. When she had enough saved she would slit and flatten the strips, then sew them together into a chigadax.
Chagak washed and scraped the stomach so it could be used as a storage container for fish or oil.
Finally only the bones were left. Some she would save for needles and small tools, but most she would boil for oil to light lamps and prepare food.
In her village the boiling of bones had been a time for feasting. The men started a line of fires across the beach and the women erected driftwood frameworks and hung large bags of hide filled with water. Rocks were heated in the fires and boys dropped the rocks into the water until the water boiled. Then seal bones were dropped in.
Old women who knew how much oil the bones should yield watched the layer that formed at the top of the water and, when it was thick enough, called the young women to remove the bones.
The bones were set on hides laid over the beach, and even before they were cool, the men came from their games of throwing and lifting and began to crack the bones with heavy stones.
For once, the hunters did not eat first. This time the men served the children, cracking bones and passing them to the youngest first so they could suck out any remaining oil or marrow. Then the men served the old ones, the women who tended the fires and finally themselves.
Chagak remembered all these things as she worked. And though her remembering brought pain, it kept her thoughts from Man-who-kills, for he stood above her, watching as she worked, and he did not offer to help her move the seal, but only smiled each time she had to roll the animal to a different position.
Chagak could hear Shuganan moan, but his moaning, though it tore at her spirit, gave her assurance that he still lived. And she forced herself to work faster, hoping that, once the seals were butchered, Man-who-kills would let her tend Shuganan.
It was dusk when Chagak finished the butchering. While she worked, Man-who-kills had taken all the supplies from her ik. For a time he had stood over the ik, knife in hand, and Chagak had been sure he would cut the hide covering and smash the frame, but he had not. Finally he had kicked her supplies into a tidal pool. But Chagak said nothing and pretended not to see.
He was the hunter. He was responsible for bringing food and hides. If he wanted to ruin what had been stored, it was his worry, not hers.
When Chagak finished piling the second seal’s bones, she stood and stretched, arching her back. Man-who-kills shouted something, but she did not look at him.
Chagak laid down the knives and gathered up the hides that held the fat and began dragging them back to the ulaq. She would keep the fat in the cool storage chamber until she had time to render it to oil.
She noticed that Man-who-kills had picked up the knives, but he did not offer to help her carry any of the hides. He stood and kept the gulls from the meat as Chagak made the many trips back and forth to the ulaq. Her fear for Shuganan forced her to move quickly, though her arms and legs were weighted with fatigue.
“I am not tired. I am strong,” Chagak whispered to the wind. “I am strong.” The words seemed to strengthen her body, seemed to lighten the load of meat she dragged.
Finally only the skins she had used under the seal carcasses remained. Chagak pulled them to the sea and allowed the water to take the blood and the few scraps that were left. She dried the skins with handfuls of fine gravel and rolled them for storage.
Then Chagak walked past Man-who-kills and across the beach to kneel beside Shuganan. The old man breathed heavily, his eyes closed. Bruises discolored his face and, though he seemed to be asleep, he clutched his broken arm.
Chagak looked up at Man-who-kills. He was smirking and the smile on his face made her hate him more.
He needs to be dead, Chagak thought. But killing was what men did, and even the men of her own village did not kill men, only animals. But the thought came again: He needs to be dead. Then in words that pulsed like a hunter’s chant: Someday I will kill him. I will kill him. Someday I will kill him.
The storytellers told of times long before Chagak’s birth when the men, to protect their wives and children, had fought and killed other men.
Yes, Chagak thought. Man-who-kills does not need to live. And the weight of the knife in the front of her suk filled her with a sudden surge of power.
As she knelt beside Shuganan and called his name, the power seemed to gather itself within her breast and reach out to the old man. For a moment he opened his eyes, but he said nothing and Chagak was not sure whether he saw her or saw only the images of a dream.
“Be still,” she said to him. “I will get you to the ulaq and give you medicine.”
He closed his eyes, and Chagak looked over at Man-who-kills. Again she felt power coursing up from her knife and she said, “I must take him to the ulaq. Help me carry him.”
And though Chagak knew he did not understand her words, he walked over to her. She gestured toward the other end of the robe, then picked up her end.
Man-who-kills spoke. Angry words. He lifted his hand to the welt on his face. Chagak looked closely at it. “I have medicine,” she said, making motions with her hands of smoothing on a salve. “Help me carry Shuganan and I will make you medicine.” Again she used her hands to illustrate the meaning of the words.
Man-who-kills grunted and picked up the other end of Shuganan’s robe and together they carried him to the ulaq.
They laid him outside, in the lee of the ulaq. It would be better, Chagak knew. Outside, spirits of sickness did not settle into a body so quickly.
Chagak piled dead grass and driftwood into a heap, then she climbed up the side of the ulaq, glancing only once at Man-who-kills as she descended the climbing log. He made no move to stop her.
Chagak took the packet of caribou leaves from the waistband of her apron, filled a berry bag with a small container of rendered fat and several wooden cups. She also lit a hunter’s lamp, then, with the berry bag slung on her arm, she carried the lamp up the climbing log, shielding it against the wind when she went outside.
She started the fire, blowing on the flame until it took hold of the wood, then she returned to the ulaq. This time she brought a container of oil and one of water and a boiling bag. She hung the bag on a tripod over the fire and filled it with water. She worked quickly, making sure the flame did not touch the bag above the level of the water.
It was better to set the boiling bag a distance from the fire, to heat stones first and drop them into the water, heating and reheating stones, adding them to the water until it boiled. That way boiling bags lasted longer. When the bag was hung directly over the fire, the outer layer of the skin was charred and weakened. If the flame reached above the level of water in the bag, the bag would catch fire. But Man-who-kills had made Chagak wait too long and she did not want to wait longer. This way the medicine would be ready more quickly.
While she waited for the water to boil, she poured some of the powdered caribou leaves into one of the wooden cups and mixed them with fat, working the mixture with her fingers until the leaves were evenly distributed. Then she bent over Shuganan and began to smooth the medicine over his bruises, but Man-who-kills pushed himself between Shuganan and Chagak and gestured toward the mixture.
Chagak was angry. What were Man-who-kills’ wounds compared to Shuganan’s? But she smoothed the paste over Man-who-kills’ cheek and clamped her teeth shut to keep her anger from creeping up to show itself in her face.
When she had finished with him, she turned back to Shuganan, and Man-who-kills did not try to stop her. She washed away the blood that matted Shuganan’s white hair then covered each cut with salve.
There were no cuts on his face that needed stitches, and though the cut on his skull was long, it was not deep, and Chagak decided not to stitch it. Her mother once told her that scalps were difficult to stitch. The skin stretched so tightly over the skull that it was difficult to pull the edges of the wound together, and hair was apt to get caught in the stitches. And so Chagak only washed and salved the cut.
When she finished, the water was boiling. Chagak emptied the rest of the packet of caribou leaves into the water. It must boil for the time it took Chagak to count the number of her fingers and toes ten times.
When it was ready, she dipped out a cupful and set it down to cool. Man-who-kills watched but said nothing. Carefully, Chagak raised Shuganan’s head and pressed the cup against his lips. At first much of the liquid spilled, but then he began to drink.
“Good,” Chagak murmured to him. “Good. Drink this. It will make you strong again. It will make you well.”
When the cup was empty, Chagak pointed to the robe and said to Man-who-kills, “I need another robe, something to keep him warm. I must remove his chigadax and parka.”
For a time Man-who-kills did nothing, his eyes hard and dark, but finally he nodded and Chagak again went into the ulaq and this time she brought back the heavy fur seal robe from Shuganan’s sleeping place. She laid it over his legs and began to pull up his chigadax. Each time she moved the garment, Shuganan cried out. Man-who-kills began to laugh, and Chagak felt her hatred harden and grow, spreading from her chest to fill her body.
“I need your knife,” she said, teeth clenched. She looked up at Man-who-kills and said again, “Knife.”
“Knife?” he repeated, saying the word in Chagak’s tongue. He drew his hunting knife from its scabbard on his left forearm.
“Knife?” He held it out to her, but when Chagak reached for it, he drew the weapon away. Chagak stood up and held out her hands, waiting as a mother waits for a child, until finally Man-who-kills gave her the knife.
Chagak slit open the chigadax and parka, one long cut down the front from hem to collar, slashes down each sleeve. She gave the knife back to Man-who-kills, then carefully pulled the garments from Shuganan’s body. A wound extended from the center of his chest to his neck, and purple bruises outlined his rib cage.
“Some of his ribs are broken,” Chagak said aloud, speaking not to Man-who-kills but to any spirit that might hear—perhaps helping spirits of old women who might know something of healing.
Chagak’s grandmother had once told her that broken ribs must be bound tightly, but if a rib had punctured a lung, there was little chance a person would survive. What were the signs? Foaming blood at the mouth, coughing. And though Shuganan had been bleeding at the mouth when Chagak first saw him, she was sure it was from broken teeth that cut his tongue and cheeks.
Using strips of sealskin, Chagak wrapped Shuganan’s chest. He cried out several times, and each time he did, Man-who-kills laughed, but Chagak still worked and pretended she did not hear the laughter.
When she had finished, she stitched the cut on his chest, then smoothed caribou leaf salve over the rest of his cuts and bruises.
Chagak sat back on her heels, but Man-who-kills leaned forward and prodded Shuganan’s left arm with his toe. Shuganan’s eyelids fluttered.
Man-who-kills spat on the ground, then spoke in his own language, pointing often to Shuganan’s arm.
“Yes, it is broken,” Chagak said, no longer trying to hold back her anger. “You are such a brave hunter. You are so strong, hurting an old man. The spirits tremble.” And she, too, spat on the ground.
Man-who-kills grabbed the top of her head, his fingers digging into her skull. He pushed her face close to Shuganan’s arm, then said slowly in her language, “Fix arm. He must carve. Fix arm.”
Chagak shuddered. Man-who-kills had lived with them too long. He had begun to learn her language, a language too sacred to be spoken by one who destroyed villages.
“I will fix his arm,” she answered.
Man-who-kills released her and Chagak began slowly moving her hands down Shuganan’s broken arm.
She had never set an arm before. Once she had seen her village’s shaman do it. But he was a man with great spirit powers.
I wear his amulet, Chagak thought, and clasped the leather pouch with both hands. She began a chant. Not a shaman’s song, but a woman’s chant, something to bring healing spirits to children and babies. It was the best she knew.
The shaman had used a long stick, something that spoke to the bone within the arm, something that told of strength and straight-ness.
There was only one thing Chagak knew to be that strong, something that at most times she would not think to touch: Shuga-nan’s whalebone walking stick. For a long time she only chanted, looking at the arm, purple with bruises and bent where there should be no bend.
While she chanted, she tore Shuganan’s chigadax into strips, long enough to wrap around the arm. Shuganan’s stick was in his sleeping place and again Chagak told Man-who-kills she was going inside. This time he merely grunted, so she left quickly and returned with the walking stick.
She laid the stick along the arm and began to wrap the first strip above the point of the break.
But Man-who-kills knelt beside her and motioned for her to hold Shuganan’s arm at the elbow, then he grasped the wrist and said something to her. And though Chagak did not understand what he said, she gripped tightly, remembering something she had forgotten in the shaman’s ceremony, the straightening of the bone.
With steady pressure, Man-who-kills pulled.
Shuganan screamed, and for a moment his eyes opened, but Man-who-kills did not stop pulling. He motioned for Chagak to wrap the arm.
She worked quickly, wrapping the strips around both the arm and the stick.
When she had finished, Man-who-kills picked up Shuganan, holding him as if he were child, not man, and carried him into the ulaq.