ALL THE NEXT DAY Father talked with Uncle Bala and the Fire River men. At night Father talked privately with Uncle Bala, and after Uncle Bala went to sleep, Father talked even more privately with Andriki. All that time I stayed near them. When they talked, I sat behind them, listening. When they ate, I ate. When they went out on the plain to urinate, I went to urinate too. Sometimes my mother or my stepfather would call me to do something—to gather fuel, perhaps—but I pretended I didn't hear and wouldn't obey.
By morning of the second day Andriki was calling me Botfly. It made me sad, that nickname, since my mind's eye saw a botfly hovering, unwanted, near the leg of some animal. Yet nickname or no, I didn't stop following my father, even though all he did was talk.
The second day was like the first—people talked about lineages and marriage gifts. Father insisted that the Fire River people had already gotten all there was to get—they had been given presents for my mother, then they had gotten my mother back, and then they had been given more presents for her by my stepfather's people. Father had nothing.
Uncle Bala insisted that the Fire River people no longer had the gifts given by Father's people. Nor did they have my mother anymore, because she had married my stepfather. Worse, my stepfather's people hadn't given many gifts, because the marriage was recent and the marriage exchange was still incomplete. So it was really Uncle Bala's kin who now had nothing.
Sometimes, to emphasize what he was saying, Uncle Bala would offer to give Mother back to Father. Also for emphasis, Father would seem to agree. "You know I want your sister," he'd say.
"You'll have her," Uncle Bala would cry. Then he would call to Mother, but of course Mother wouldn't come.
Everyone knew that both men were just pretending. Even I didn't think that Father really wanted Mother, any more than Mother wanted him. And I didn't think Uncle expected her to answer his calls.
But in the late afternoon, when Uncle happened to call her as she was passing by, Mother surprised us all by striding up to Father, her nostrils flared with rage. This time, with her hand hiding her mouth so that Uncle Bala couldn't see what she was doing, she pursed her lips to form a ring around her tongue, the sign for shitting anus. Father's eyes flew wide at the awful insult, and he started to stand up, as if he meant to lay hands on Mother. But Andriki grabbed his arm and jerked him down. "Be easy, Brother," said Andriki.
"Respect my in-law!" cried Bala to Mother, having guessed what she had done. But she was striding away, her glossy braid and the fringe of her belt swinging, while on her hip her baby in his sling gave us a look which seemed to say that even he wanted nothing to do with Father.
Why was Father pretending? What really had brought him so far to visit Uncle Bala? That night in Uncle Bala's firelight, when I was sitting hidden in Father's shadow, so close I could feel the warmth of his body through his deerskin shirt, Father held up his fingers and counted off his wives. "Martin was my first wife," he said. "Martin died. Your sister, Aal, was my second wife. Aal divorced me. Your kinswoman, Yoi, is my third wife. Years have passed, but Yoi is as childless as she was when she came to the Hair River. And I am her third husband." Father grasped his little finger and shook it in front of Uncle Bala. "So I need another wife. Do you keep gifts without giving a woman?"
A woman! So that was what Father was after. I was quite surprised. But Uncle Bala seemed to have known all along. "Do you mean that the gifts you and your kin gave for Aal should be part of the new marriage exchange?" he asked suspiciously. "Because our people won't agree. I might be satisfied, but the others won't be satisfied."
"We will give new gifts for Eider's Daughter," said Father. Again I was surprised. He was naming a woman, someone whose respect name Uncle Bala knew but I did not. Father added, "Although I'm sure your people won't expect too much, after all that's happenedto me at the hands of your women. But more ivory is waiting at the Hair River for you and your kin. And this." Father took off his lion's-tooth necklace. "This for my new in-laws. Look at the bead."
He handed the necklace to Uncle Bala, who let it dangle from his fingers, barely glancing at it. I looked at the huge eyeteeth pried whole from the skull of a lion, teeth as long as my hand and pointed at both ends, sharper and shinier at the fang than at the root. Beside the teeth the carved amber bead seemed unimportant. But over the bead ran Uncle Bala's thumb.
"The amber should please her people," said Uncle Bala.
"Good," said Father.
"But she's not here," Uncle Bala went on.
"No," said Father.
Uncle laughed, now relaxed and easy. The tightness between him and Father seemed to be gone. "We haven't seen her people lately. They must be camped upstream, since they haven't passed us going downstream. We'll send someone for her."
"Everything is good, in that case," said Father.
***
Early the next morning, even before the first gray light, I heard Father's voice in the darkness. "Are you tired of fish, Bala?" he asked. "Shall my half-brother and I bring you meat?"
In the distance a lion who had roared a few times during the night suddenly roared again. We listened. "Everyone likes meat," said Bala.
It was the quietest time of day. In the east the morning star, the Hunter, was just beginning his stalk across the plains of the sky. Father and Andriki stood up, took their spears, and walked off into the mist that still lay by the river. I followed.
We had not gone far before Andriki looked back at me over his shoulder. "Kori is following us," he told Father.
Now Father stopped and turned. "Let him," said Father. "Isn't he my son?" To me he said, "What's that in your hand?"
It was my spear. I looked down at it. It must have seemed like a toy to Father, because the point was made of sharpened bone, not flint or obsidian or even greenstone, since these good stones were not found nearby. In fact, the adults traveled far to find their heavy spear-stones, then struggled to carry them home. After so muchwork, no adult would give spear-stones to a young person. But what could I say to Father if he didn't know this already? Looking up from the spear, I met his pale eyes. "It's sharp enough, Father. I can use it," I said.
"Well then," he said, "if you know how to hunt, go ahead of us and find something!" So I went ahead of them, pushing quietly through the soft grass, moving carefully around the bushes, trying to watch for everything at once and not to make noise. All the while I was afraid that one of them would see game before I did, which would shame me.
Before long, in the shadow cast by the rising sun, I noticed the tracks of a lion—probably he who had been roaring. I thought I knew him—the headman of a pride of lionesses who usually stayed far downriver but sometimes bothered us by coming quietly at night to look at us in our camp. His tracks were so big that no matter how often I saw them, they always startled me. Without speaking, I pointed to them.
Father and Andriki looked at the tracks rather scornfully. "Do the men teach you fear, here at the Fire River?" asked Andriki.
His question stung me. Had he taken my showing him the tracks as a sign of fear? "No!" I answered.
Andriki pointed ahead of us so that I would keep going. I looked to the west, into the sky that was filling with daylight. There ravens were circling, looking down at something. Suddenly it came to me what they were circling, and where I could take my father and Andriki to find meat. Where lions are eating, people say, ravens are the smoke of their campfire.
Father and Andriki seemed to be waiting for me to move. Carefully I began walking toward the ravens. After we had walked a while, Andriki poked me with the tail of his spear. I looked back at him. He made the hunter's handsign for question. Watching his face to see how he would take my answer, I made the handsign for meat. His eyes widened very slightly, just enough to show surprise. I found this satisfying. On I led them, more slowly now, easing myself forward over the sparse grass, staying far away from the bushes.
The ravens had vanished. I walked toward the place where they had been. At last, half hidden by a distant thicket of juniper, I saw them again, now sitting on the rack of red bones they had been circling. I stood still, trying to see and hear everything. The lionmight be with this carcass, perhaps in the juniper. In fact, I thought I smelled him.
Looking carefully into the grass to be sure no other lion was hiding near us, I cleared my throat. "Uncle," I began, "we're here!"
My words woke him! From the juniper I heard a short, sharp grunt, a startled cough. "Waugh," said the lion, as a person might say, "By the Bear!"
We listened while the silence grew. Now the lion was also listening. Soon we heard a clap of sound, the buzz of many flies all jumping suddenly into the air. The flies had been chased off the carcass by something that moved in the bushes.
I felt the skin crawl on the back of my neck. Wanting the lion to think of standing bravely in the open, not to think of creeping, of stealth, I steadied my voice and said loudly, "Look at us, Uncle! We won't surprise you. Be easy. We respect you. Hona!"
Now something moved on the far side of the juniper, and slowly, showing us the side of his body, the lion walked into sight. His eyes, round and pale in his dark, scarred face, looked straight at us. "You see us, Uncle," I said, keeping in my voice a firmness and a calmness I didn't feel. "You are one. We are three. We have spears. Go now, and we won't hurt you."
Carelessly, as if to show that he was ignoring us, as if to show that he was leaving anyway, the lion took himself to another thicket, farther away. There he threw himself down. Ough! But in the grass we saw the top of his head, his round ears. He was still watching.
"Thank you for the horsemeat, Uncle," called Father politely. "Brother, help Kori get the meat while I keep my eyes on this lion. If he changes his mind, I want to see." So Andriki and I used our knives on the horse, then made a bundle of the meat and marrow bones with twine from my hunting bag.
"My in-laws may be content to wait like-women, watching animals eat meat while people eat fish," said Father proudly as we were ready to leave, "but my son knows what men do."
Glad of the praise, I didn't want to say that Father was wrong about his in-laws waiting like women, watching animals eat. They didn't have the patience. To save wear on their brittle, hard-gotten spearheads, our men often took meat from lions, especially from this lion. In fact, this particular lion had come to expect being stoned and insulted if a group of people found him alone on a carcass. By now, when he saw people, he seemed glad to get up and go away. But if I had told this to Father, he might have changed his mind about my bravery, so I smiled and said nothing.
On the way back Father again told me to lead. This pleased me too. As we walked he called out, "You did well."
This pleased me most of all. "Thank you, Father," I said, speaking without turning, in the hunter's way.
"How did you know there was only one lion?"
"Because he called all night but no one answered. Because his wives do his hunting before they do their hunting. Because his meat was old. Did you hear the flies on it? There were too many to have come this morning. Last night those flies slept on that meat."
Behind me, Father was quiet. We walked on, the day growing warm and the smell of grass rising. In time I heard the river. We were almost in camp. Now again Father spoke to me. "Kori!"
From his voice, I knew that he was standing still. I stopped and turned to face him. "Yes, Father?"
"Have you no better spear?"
This question surprised me. If I had a better spear, I would have brought it. But, "No, Father," I said.
Father stared at me, frowning. "Why won't your uncle give you a flint? Why does he waste your hunting?"
I didn't know why, so I said nothing. Soon I began to feel uneasy, held tight by Father's eyes.
"By the Bear!" he said at last. "Come here, Kori."
So I did. Still staring at me, he reached into his hunting bag, pulled out a great, heavy flint, seized my hand, and brought the flint down into it so hard my palm stung. But as I clenched my fist tightly around the heavy stone, my heart filled with a fierce, glad feeling. "Father! You have given me a flint!" I said.
"Yes, my son," said Father.
***
A few days later, while Uncle Bala was cooking fish for the three of us—Father, Andriki, and me—as we lay on our backs looking at the half moon in the afternoon sky, Father said, "The longest days will soon be here, a good time to travel. Our home is far. We will leave when my wife comes. We'll take Kori."
Oh, I was happy! I jumped to my feet, seeing in my mind's eye the wide plains, the open woods, the great Hair River, and the corpses of huge animals.
"Sit down, Kori," said Uncle. "The fish is almost ready to eat."
The men laughed. "You don't need to make your pack just yet," said Uncle. "And your mother? What of her?"
What of her? I was old enough to decide for myself where I would go or stay. I hurried to Mother's empty grass shelter and took my winter clothes—my parka, my outer trousers, and my moccasins—from the bush where I kept them. No one saw me. My deerskin sleeping-skin, my spear, and my hunting bag (with the flint inside it) were already at Uncle Bala's fire. Before Uncle Bala's fish had quite finished cooking I had tied all my things together into a pack, and I was leaning on this pack, pulling the fishbones out of my teeth, when I heard Mother screaming on the far side of camp. Word of my plans must have reached her.
In no time my stepfather came striding up to Uncle Bala's fire, his belt in his hand. Without greeting the men or showing any politeness, he thrashed the belt against the ground, raising a cloud of dust and ashes, and roared, "Go home, Kori!"
Sometimes in the past I had had whippings from Mother, whippings I liked to think I hardly noticed. But never had I been punished by my stepfather. His rage was frightening. I started to my feet.
But Father put his hand on my shoulder and pushed me down. To my stepfather he said, "Kori stays with me."
My stepfather turned and left, looking worried. Later he came back with six of his kinsmen. They stood in a half-circle over Father and Andriki, all talking at once, insisting that Father would not take me.
Father and Andriki stood up. I saw how, if the argument became a fight, we were greatly outnumbered. Father must have seen this too. Yet very carefully, very slowly, he rubbed his hands together as if to heat the calluses a spear makes on one's palms. He meant to hint that he wouldn't run from fighting. But his tone of voice was pleasant. "Must Kori stay here as a guest of his lineage?" he asked. "Or shall he come to the Hair River, where together with me, my brother, my half-brothers, and their sons he will own the hunting?"
My stepfather had no answer for that. He was not my kinsman anyway, just someone who was speaking for Mother.
"Kori can decide for himself," said Uncle Bala. "Well, Kori—your mother or your father?"
"Then you must tell your mother. Go on. Go do it."
So I went. I found Mother all red in the light of the setting sun, sitting by her fire in front of her grass shelter, cracking the shinbone of the mare I had taken from the lion. Without a word she looked at me sadly, handing me the broken shin. I took it and licked out the marrow. "You're leaving," she said.
"But not now," I said. "Not until Father goes."
Mother looked at me steadily, planning her words as if she hadn't heard mine. At last she spoke. "On the bank of the Hair," she said, "you will find a huge, dark cave where many people spend the summer. I used to spend the summer there too. We were there when I bore you. I went out to the plain where no one would see me and I hid myself in a thicket. I hid from the lions. There were many lions. I crouched down out of sight and hung on to the thickest branch of one of the bushes. I bit the branch so I wouldn't scream. I was there all day, until sunset, without help or safety or water. At last I bore you, in a river of my blood. And then I carried you back to the safety of the cave. I took care of you. I fed you. These fed you." Mother opened her shirt and showed me her breasts, the nipples now hung with drops of milk for her new baby.
"Mother, I know that—" I began, but she interrupted me.
"Don't speak! I'm speaking," she said. "In winter, when there was no food, you ate the food of my body. Even when I starved, I had milk in my breasts for you. And wherever I went, I took you. When your father divorced me I brought you to my people, thinking that you would be with me when I grew old, that you would hunt and give me meat, give back to me some of that life and food I gave to you. But I see I was wrong. You're going." She pressed her lips tight and looked at me with huge eyes.
Childishly, I began to cry. I couldn't help it. "Please, Mother," I said, "Father wants you. You could still come. Please change your mind. Nothing is settled. It's not too late."
"I won't live with your father," said Mother. "Let him remarry. I feel sorry for his wives. I feel sorry for you. You won't like it at his home on the Hair River."
"Why not?" I asked. But Mother shook her head. She wouldn't tell me.
I finished the marrow and laid the bone on the fire. We watched it without speaking until it flamed. Inside the grass shelter, on Mother's deerskin bed, the baby began to cry. For the first time that I could remember, Mother didn't go to him. As if she didn't hear him, she turned to look at the sky in the west, where the low red sun was filling the clouds with fire. She said, "You will go and I will stay. But we will meet again, Kori. Not on the summergrounds or wintergrounds of any man, but there in the west, where we will eat the sun by the fire of our lineage—yours and mine, but not your father's—with our elders in the Camps of the Dead."
***
After dark, at Uncle Bala's fire, I had to unfasten my pack to get my sleeping-skin, and I saw how I had been too eager to leave, too hasty. But even after all that Mother had said, I had no thought of not following Father. My pack might sit untied for a while, but it was ready.
Yet as I lay waiting for sleep, I saw in my mind's eye a single fire far out on a plain, lit by evening light. Small, but with a long shadow, my mother sat alone beside it. The thought made me so sad that again I couldn't help but cry. Perhaps Father heard me. In the dark I felt his hand on my arm. "I think your mother wants you to stay," he said. "You don't have to come with us this year. You can wait for another year. There's plenty of time."
"I won't wait," I told him.
***
Soon after that, one day at noon, when all of us were resting in the shade of bushes or in our grass shelters, someone noticed that to the east of us people were in sight. We all stood up to see a group of men, women, and children coming toward us in single file. No need for these people to put their spears in the bushes! Even from afar we knew them. They were our kin, part of the group with whom we had spent the spring. Surely in their group was Father's woman. Surely they were bringing her to him!
Somehow my stepfather had crept up behind me. "Ah, you Kori," I heard him say. "Go get wood. Your mother wants to cook fish for these people. Don't pretend you can't hear." So I had no choice but to do as he said, and was out of camp when the newcomers walked in.
When I came back I found them eating fish around Uncle Bala's fire. They had taken off their shirts to enjoy the cooling breeze, and now were sitting on their heels or lying propped up on their scattered packs, loudly laughing and talking with the people of our camp and throwing fishbones in every direction.
In the middle of the group was Father. Facing him, with her back to me, sat Pinesinger, she whose bare rump I still saw in my dreams, she who had given me so much pleasure in the willow thicket in the spring. At first I was puzzled by the sight of her. I couldn't understand why she had come.
Her fine, strong body was naked to the waist, but otherwise she seemed to be wearing wedding clothes. An ivory pin held her braid to her head, her trousers were new, and the beaded tops of her knee-high moccasins were made of urine-bleached leather. All this I saw, but my mind didn't want to know what I was seeing. My tongue seemed to stick to the roof of my mouth. I hoped my eyes weren't popping.
"Kori! Come and greet my wife," called Father.
At the sound of my name, Pinesinger's head snapped around for a look at me. I thought she seemed startled, even frightened, at the sight. Then she caught herself and looked at me with the dignity of a grown woman waiting for a child's greeting. She had become my stepmother. In a stepmother's way she spoke to me formally. "Greetings, Aal's Child," she said.
That night, for the first time since Father came, I didn't sleep near him. Pinesinger and her people were guests of Uncle Bala, and to watch Pinesinger together with my father was too much for me. Nor could I bring myself to go back to my mother and stepfather. Instead I chose my mother's sister's fire and carried my sleeping-skin there. My aunt and uncle took little notice of me, so I lay down near them.
I couldn't sleep. My thoughts would not leave Pinesinger. My body ached to have her again, while my heart ached at the thought of her with Father. How had he gotten betrothed to her right in front of me without my knowing? People had called her by her respect name, Child of Eider. But who was Eider? Pinesinger's mother was called Dai Dai.
My aunt and uncle began to whisper in their bed. "What's that noise?" asked my aunt.
My uncle laughed. "It's nothing," he said. "Just Kori panting."
So my aunt laughed too, then sighed with contentment as she settled herself in her deerskins with my uncle. But he now wanted to make fun of me. "Why are you breathing so hard?" he asked. "Are you thinking about a woman? Think about a man!" I heard my aunt trying to stifle her laughter.
But the question of Eider was puzzling me so much that their jokes didn't hurt my feelings. "Aunt?" I asked.
Her laughter still clung in her voice. "Yes, Nephew?" she said.
"Who is Eider?"
"Why, she's the woman who just came. She's Pinesinger's mother. Is that who you mean?"
"But that woman is called Dai Dai."
"Oh! Ha! Dai Dai!" cried my uncle.
"Ah! Kah! Kah, kah, kah!" shrieked my aunt. "Go to sleep, Kori! Let your poor mind rest! Whoever heard of naming someone Dai Dai?"
So I saw the reason for my confusion. I had known Pinesinger's mother by a children's nickname. I was deeply ashamed.