THE WHALEBONE DIGGING STICK was cold in Shuganan’s hand, but he leaned against it as he walked, and the end of the stick marked his path with a line of small holes in the dark beach gravel.
The stiffening of Shuganan’s joints had deformed him. Once slender and tall, he was now bent, his hands gnarled, knees swollen. But when he was near the sea, the waves against his feet, he was young again.
At the edge of the water, where the tide had left a pool, Shuganan saw several sea urchins. He waded into the pool and used his stick to push them into his gathering bag. The bag was nearly full.
Then he saw the ivory. His hand trembled as he picked up the large whale tooth, a rare gift from some spirit.
Another sign, he thought. Something more than dreams. Shuganan closed his eyes and clasped the unfinished carving he wore strung at his neck. It was only one of the many carvings he had made, but this one had seemed to come from the ivory of its own will. Shuganan had held the knife, but as he worked, it was as though other hands were holding his, as though he only watched while the blade brought forth the image.
“Soon,” he said. In his joy he laughed and for a moment his laughter seemed as strong as the wind, louder than the sea.