INSIDE MANY WHALES’ ULAQ, Shuganan waited, following the fighting on the roof by the sifting of dirt from the rafters. Many Whales had arranged a circle of Shuganan’s carvings on the floor. A strong animal for each of the five ulas, he had said. But Shuganan ignored the carvings. He held his amulet in one hand, the shaman’s amulet Chagak had given him in the other, and he prayed. The fighting at the top of the ulaq seemed to stop, and Shuganan held his breath. Then he heard men at the roof hole.
His arms trembled. Kayugh and Many Whales would not come inside unless they were too badly wounded to fight. Shuganan grasped the spear that lay at his side and pushed himself to his feet. He crept into the darkness behind the climbing logs and waited, all the while his mind giving reasons why Kayugh or Many Whales would come inside: a strip of hide to cover a wound, a weapon to replace one that had broken. But when Shuganan saw the feet on the climbing log, toes, soles and tops painted black, he knew.
A bleakness filled his chest, squeezed into his throat and nearly choked him.
Many Whales had lived a long life, but Kayugh … And what of Chagak? Who would take care of her?
The Short Ones jumped down the last notches of the climbing log. One man kicked at the unlit torch lying on the floor.
“It did not burn,” he said. He was large, his head a thatch of black hair smeared with grease and mud.
“Someone was here to put it out,” said the other man, and he pointed to the door openings at the far end of the ulaq.
Shuganan watched as they crept toward the sleeping places. I should have attacked when the men were climbing into the ulaq, Shuganan thought. I could not have killed both, but perhaps I could have taken one. When they find nothing in the sleeping places, they will search the main room, and what chance do I have, an old man facing two young warriors?
But then both men stopped at the circle of carved animals.
“Shuganan,” one of them said.
So Man-who-kills had not lied, Shuganan thought. The Short Ones still believed in the power of his carvings.
And if there is power, he thought, it is mine. He slipped from the shadows behind the climbing logs. He took two quick steps and, ignoring the pain of old joints and muscles, threw his spear.
It entered the big man’s back with a hard, thick sound, like the ripping of roots from wet earth. Then the man fell forward, slowly, and just as slowly his companion looked back at Shuganan.
Shuganan glanced at the climbing logs, but he knew his legs were too old to take him up quickly, and so he drew his knife from the sheath on his arm and said to the warrior still standing, “I am Shuganan.”
“You are dead,” said the warrior.
“Perhaps.”
“You are dead,” said the man again, his voice rising to a peak, “and I will have all your power because I will be the one who kills you.”
“No,” said Shuganan, moving to give himself an advantage, to stay in the shadow and keep the young man in the light. “True power is earned, not taken.”
But the warrior laughed. “Spear against knife,” he said.
“Throw it,” Shuganan said.
Again the man laughed.
Shuganan shifted the knife in his hand, grasped it by the tip and lifted his arm to throw. The warrior lifted his spear.
The tip of the knife left Shuganan’s fingers, then he felt the sudden weight of the spear in his side, and at first no pain, only a thrust that knocked him down, but at the same time he saw the young man clutch at his chest, saw the hilt of his knife protruding from the warrior’s breast. And, watching from the floor, Shuganan saw him fall.
Another Short One appeared out of the fog and Kayugh, ignoring the pain in his left shoulder, gripped his spear and stepped forward, but Many Whales pulled him back and met the Short One’s attack. They were fighting between the ulas, where the haze of the fog was thickest.
Kayugh watched, both men thrusting with spear in one hand, knife in the other, Many Whales using the spear shaft to ward off blows. Kayugh strained to see in the fog, to intercept others before they could help the Short One. Then Kayugh realized that Many Whales was maneuvering the Short One toward him, the warrior’s back now only a few steps from where Kayugh crouched.
Kayugh waited until the man was close, then gripped his spear in both hands and took a running step. Many Whales quickly moved back, and for a moment the Short One stopped and stared. Then Kayugh’s spear hit. He rammed it with all his strength, thrusting it up under the man’s rib cage and out the front of his chest.
The man turned, his mouth open, and looked at Kayugh, then his knees doubled and he fell.
Kayugh grasped his spear shaft below the point and pulled, careful that the blood did not make his hand slide into the sharp barbed end.
But then there was a sudden rushing of wind, the clatter of spear against spear. A man fell against Kayugh and knocked him to the ground. Lying on his belly, Kayugh tried to roll away from the man but felt the edge of a knife slice across the top of his hand. A shallow wound but a painful one.
Kayugh flipped to his back. Many Whales came at the man, but the Short One suddenly lurched and fell. A spear was in his back.
Many Whales stepped forward and, bracing his foot against the dead man’s back, withdrew the spear. He studied the spearhead, then laughed and shouted, “Where are you?”
“I’m here,” came a voice from the top of the ulaq.
Kayugh looked up, saw a man standing at the sloped edge of the ulaq roof.
“Hard Rock,” Many Whales shouted. “Come get your spear or do I throw it back to you?” He laughed again, then turned to Kayugh. “They heard us from the ridges. They have come!”
In the ulaq, Shuganan lay with eyes closed, his hand pressed against the wound in his side. He felt little pain, only a deep weariness, a heaviness that seemed to hold him down so even the smallest movement took all of his strength.
Then, again, he heard someone at the roof hole. He sat up, and the movement made another flow of blood gush from his wound. Then there were feet on the climbing log; the soles were not painted black; a Whale Hunter, perhaps.
Shuganan pressed his hands against his side to stop the blood. When he looked up, he saw Gray Bird standing at the base of the climbing log.
“The fighting is over?” Shuganan asked, the words hissing out between breaths.
“No,” Gray Bird said. “They still fight. Some have been killed.”
“Kayugh?”
“I do not know.”
“Why are you here?”
“I am wounded.” Gray Bird limped toward Shuganan, pointed toward a gash on the calf of his leg.
For a moment Shuganan closed his eyes, fought against the pain of his own wound, then, shaking his head at the man, said, “Your wound … is nothing. Fight … go fight.”
The whites of Gray Bird’s eyes glimmered and the man knelt beside Shuganan. “You have stayed here inside this ulaq,” he said, and Shuganan heard the anger in his voice. “Who are you to tell me to fight?” Then, as though he saw them for the first time, Gray Bird looked at the two Short Ones lying on the ulaq floor.
“Those men?” Gray Bird said. “You killed them?”
Shuganan closed his eyes and lowered his head. Why answer? What need did he have to boast to Gray Bird? Let the man think what he wanted.
Then Gray Bird was bending over him, easing him onto a padding of skins, pressing a water-soaked rag against his wound.
Shuganan let his body relax against the softness of the furs.
“You are dying,” Gray Bird said. “I will stay here with you.”
“Go … help the others,” Shuganan said. “Leave me.”
Gray Bird laughed. “You are dying,” he said again. “Yes, you will be dead, but I will be honored. Did I not kill two Short Ones to try to save you? Was I not wounded protecting you? Chagak will come to me in gratitude as wife and you will not be able to stop her.”
Shuganan looked up at the man, at the narrow, hard eyes. He tried to speak, but words would not come. His eyes closed, and when he finally opened them again, he saw Gray Bird’s face and another face, like the mist that comes before a rain, the face of some spirit, crouched beside Gray Bird.
The spirit-face shifted and gathered, like smoke, to form eyes, nose, mouth. It was Man-who-kills, his spirit.
I was not strong enough, Shuganan thought. Now he is here, waiting for me to die. Then he heard a voice: “You thought you could destroy me, old man.” Laughter.
Shuganan looked at Gray Bird, but Gray Bird did not seem to hear the voice, see the spirit.
I dream, Shuganan thought. In my dying, I dream.
“You think you have power,” Man-who-kills said. “You think you can destroy me.” Again he laughed. “Your circle of animals, they protect you?” He kicked at several of the carvings, but the ivory animals did not move.
So Man-who-kills still has power, Shuganan thought, but not enough to touch my animals. Can he harm Chagak, Samiq?
Pain. Suddenly it surrounded Shuganan, squeezed him tight, pulled his thoughts into thin, broken threads.
“I have watched you,” Man-who-kills said. “All these months. You and Chagak. I know I have a son.”
“Man-who-kills, do not hurt Chagak,” Shuganan whispered. “Do not hurt the baby. Samiq is one of your people, a Short One. Do not kill him.”
Man-who-kills laughed, and then his face began to fade. Shuganan’s pain eased. Then the one who bent over him was not Man-who-kills but Gray Bird. And it was Gray Bird who was laughing.
“So you speak to the spirits, old man,” Gray Bird said. “Did you forget that you speak also to me? Now I, too, know that you and Chagak lied. And Chagak, what will she give me for her son’s life?”
How many men? Kayugh asked himself. How many more? What had Shuganan said? Twenty? Thirty? He, Many Whales and Hard Rock worked as a team, taking on new men as they came. Kayugh hid in the darkness between the ulas, ready to thrust his spear when an enemy’s back was toward him. They had killed three men this way and yet others still came. The pain of his exhaustion was nearly as great as the pain from the wound in his shoulder.
A dark form lurched out of the fog toward Kayugh and Kayugh raised his knife, but the man called out, “I am Round Belly,” and Kayugh remembered the man as one of the Whale Hunters—a short, fat man who laughed often and always carried three long-bladed knives sheathed on his legs. Now he held two of those knives, one in each fist, and his face was smeared with blood and dirt.
“There are no more coming to the far ulaq.” His voice told of his weariness.
Kayugh pulled him to the side of the ulaq and the man let his body sag against the wall. During the fighting the sun had set, but now the sky was lightening again, blacks becoming purples and grays.
“Perhaps they quit fighting because it is morning,” Round Belly said.
“Perhaps they quit fighting because they are dead,” Many Whales said.
“No,” said Kayugh. “The first two who came to us went inside the ulaq.”
“I saw them,” Many Whales answered. “They did not come out.”
“Shuganan is dead,” Kayugh said, but the words seemed empty, and he could feel nothing, only the horror of the killing, and anger at the foolishness of men fighting men.
“Perhaps Shuganan killed them.”
“He is an old man,” Kayugh said, and was surprised when a sob caught in his last word.
“He is old, but he has great power. Power is greater than strength.”
For a moment Kayugh leaned his head back against the ulaq. He wished he could close his eyes, but did not. Who could say what would happen in the brief darkness of closed eyes? The sounds of fighting had ceased, and in the quietness his mind was no longer filled with thoughts of the next warrior, the next fight. His shoulder began to hurt. The throbbing of it pulsed into his head and down the side of his body. But he thought of Shuganan, the old man probably dead, and he thought of Chagak’s sorrow.
What great evil had she done to deserve the pain the spirits had allowed in her life? She was not a woman of the Short Ones, one who would welcome home a husband who had killed many. She would not take necklaces torn from dead women and wear them as her own. She had not hated her people, nor eaten more than her share. She was not lazy.
Kayugh looked at the wound in his shoulder, saw that it had crusted over and no longer seeped blood. He pushed himself from the side of the ulaq and clambered up to the top. If the Short Ones were inside waiting, they would know he was coming. The weight of his body would make dust fall from the roof, but he could not wait, wondering.
Kayugh took several steps down the climbing log, expecting the slash of a spear at each step. Finally he spun and jumped from the log, landing so he faced the large main room. A whale oil lamp glowed and sputtered, its circle of wicks nearly extinguished in the oil. Shuganan lay on a pile of furs; Gray Bird sat beside him.
Two Short Ones were crumpled, lying in their own blood on the floor before him.
“Shuganan killed them?” Kayugh asked, speaking to Gray Bird.
Gray Bird smiled crookedly. “Believe what you like,” he said, then, leaning toward Shuganan, added, “I tried to protect him from them. But …” His voice trailed away and he whispered, “He is badly wounded.”
Kayugh frowned. He saw the bloody rag at Shuganan’s side, the wound on Gray Bird’s leg. Gray Bird would not have tried to protect Shuganan, only himself. Kayugh squatted beside Shuganan, gently laid his hand on Shuganan’s forehead.
The old man opened his eyes, blinked. “Kayugh,” he said. “You are alive.”
“They are beaten, Shuganan,” Kayugh said. “They will not be back.”
Shuganan closed his eyes. Nodded. “Then you must get Chagak. I must speak to her.”
“I will get her. Sleep if you can. I will bring her to you.”
Gray Bird took Kayugh’s arm, pulled him away from Shuganan. “You are tired. I have rested. I will go and get Chagak.”
“No—”
“He is dying, Kayugh, and you are wounded and tired. You will not reach her in time. Shuganan will die before you can bring her back.”
Kayugh looked into Gray Bird’s eyes, saw that he told the truth. “Go then,” he said. “Hurry.”
It was morning, still early, and all the other women slept, but Chagak had slept fitfully and now a restlessness filled her. The babies were in their cradles, and so she did not disturb them as she rolled from her sleeping mat and slipped from the cave.
Outside, the heather was wet with dew and a fog spread out in the valley below but did not reach the cave. The sun was hidden under high gray clouds but in the west Chagak could see bits of blue sky. At the broad flat entrance of the cave she squatted on her heels and rested her arms on her upraised knees.
Though she knew she was too far from the village to hear shouts of men or clash of fighting, it had seemed that the night carried strange sounds, something above the noise of the wind. During the evening the other women had been quiet, as if they, too, heard the difference. The voice of sea otter had not spoken to Chagak, had offered no wry comments on Fat Wife’s behavior, no gentle responses to Chagak’s fear each time she thought of the Short Ones.
Chagak had tried to speak to the otter. She whispered about the parka she would make Shuganan when they returned to their island, about the sealskin boots she would make for Kayugh, but still sea otter did not answer her, and now in the new morning fear rose up into Chagak’s throat and she clamped her teeth together until her jaws ached.
“Chagak,” she heard someone call, and realized that the voice came from the valley. A man emerged from the fog.
It was Gray Bird and for a moment joy banished Chagak’s fear, but then she saw the tiredness of his face, the dirt and blood smeared across his cheeks, signs of battle, and she wondered if perhaps Gray Bird had fled the fighting.
Questions jumbled together in her mind, but when Gray Bird stood before her, she could do nothing but stare at his torn parka, the slash wound on his right ankle, a bloodstained strip of grass matting wrapped around his left hand.
“They came,” he said, for once his voice low and tired, not raised in a boast. The string of hair that grew from his chin trembled. “Some of the Whale Hunters were killed in the fighting, but all of the Short Ones are dead.” He wiped a sleeve across his face, then said, “Even the few who tried to get away are dead. Some of the boys who had stood watch crept down during the fighting and cut the bottoms of their ikyan. The Short Ones who tried to get away drowned.”
Gray Bird groaned and, jerking his parka above his knees, sat down cross-legged on Chagak’s mat. Chagak saw that the slash on Gray Bird’s ankle extended up the calf of his leg. The wound gaped open over the bulge of the muscle and Gray Bird pressed the sides together with his hands.
“It does not bleed much, but it needs to be stitched,” Chagak said.
Gray Bird curled back his lips in a scowl and said, “Tell Blue Shell to bring me food and water.”
It angered Chagak that Gray Bird had not mentioned Shuganan or Kayugh or even Big Teeth, and as a woman it was not her place to ask, but the questions pounded so hard in her head that she turned before entering the cave and said, “And Shuganan? He was not hurt?”
“Better you ask about Big Teeth,” Gray Bird said. “He killed four and has only a scratch on one thumb to show for his fighting.”
Chagak’s throat tightened. All the fear and dread she had been holding flooded up into her mouth and forced out her words. “You are telling me that Shuganan and Kayugh are dead?” she asked.
“I did not say that,” Gray Bird answered. “But by what right do you ask? I am a hunter and you are only a woman.”
“I ask by right of caring,” Chagak said, anger replacing some of her dread. “And if you want food you will answer me.”
“You will keep food from me?” Gray Bird asked.
And suddenly a voice behind Chagak answered, “We all will keep food from you.”
Chagak turned. It was Fat Wife. She stood in the entrance of the cave. She was wearing only her apron, her arms crossed over her pendulous breasts, her feet splayed in the stance of a hunter.
“You were sent here to warn us or to bring us back to the village,” she said. “But you sit and threaten us. Is my husband dead or alive?”
“Your husband is alive, not injured,” Gray Bird said. “But he did not send me. Shuganan sent me.”
Joy leaped into Chagak’s chest. Shuganan was alive. But then Gray Bird said, “He is badly wounded. Dying. He wants to talk to Chagak.”
The hope that had been with her through the days in the cave vanished and Chagak felt empty, like a water skin, drained and flattened.
And then she thought, Why did Shuganan send Gray Bird and not Kayugh? Surely he would know that Gray Bird would cause problems.
“And Kayugh?” Chagak whispered, the words thick in her throat.
“He is wounded, too,” Gray Bird said, glancing back quickly at Fat Wife.
“Dying?”
Gray Bird shrugged. “I do not know. Too weak to come and get you.”
Chagak pressed her lips together, holding her grief within. “I will go now,” she said to Fat Wife, but Fat Wife did not seem to hear her.
“My son?” Fat Wife asked.
“He was one who slit the bottoms of the Short Ones’ ikyan,” Gray Bird said, and Chagak heard the woman’s low chuckle. “The Short Ones killed him before they left to drown.”
Fat Wife’s laughter rolled up into a high scream and she began the wail of mourning. She dropped to her knees and Chagak started toward her but already women were pouring from the cave, all singing the mourning cry, even before being told what had happened, who had died.
“The Short Ones are dead,” Gray Bird shouted. “All of them are dead.” But as the song of mourning rose, Chagak could no longer hear what he said, and she, too, began the cry, mourning for Shuganan and Fat Wife’s son and men she did not know.