ANEZE FOLLOWED the trail all day.
The enemies were headed back to their own hunting grounds in the deep woods. She sweated under her furs. By the hottest part of the day, Aneze had to stop walking and stuff them into her bundle. She was tempted to leave them on the trail. What was she carrying them for? When she found her mother, the warriors would either kill her or adopt her. If they adopted her, her new father could give her skins for new clothes.
Aneze looked ahead. She could see the trail for some distance. It would be easy walking. She chewed on a piece of dried meat. What was she thinking? If she were allowed to join her mother and the group, she would be given to a husband, not a father. Aneze was almost big enough, after all, and they would insist she make herself useful. She shivered. Maybe she would hang on to her winter clothes for a while longer. She started walking again. She would have to keep moving if she was going to catch up with the others.
Aneze didn’t want a new father anyway. Her real father had been good to her. He would never have forced her to be someone’s wife if she didn’t want to be. He gave her tongue and marrow to eat whenever he caught Caribou. They were the tastiest parts. They were supposed to be the hunter’s portion.
“She’s just a child, she doesn’t know yet.” Father always defended her.
Once Aneze had been pouring fresh water into the cooking pot. She wasn’t being careful, and some of it ran into the fire that heated the stones.
“Ai-ai, so clumsy!” her mother cried out. Now the fire would have to be rebuilt. The stones sizzled with water. They would have to be heated up again. As if Mother didn’t have enough to do, without having to do it twice.
“Wife.” Father looked up from the ax-head he was making. “Dear Wife, let her be. She’s just a child.”
Mother didn’t say anything. She looked hard at Aneze. Aneze got wood and rebuilt the fire herself. Nobody needed to tell her.
No, Aneze didn’t want another father. But a husband would never say she was just a child. A husband would expect her to make the fire, heat the stones, boil the water, cook the meat, make the clothes, lie with him at night, look after the babies and carry all the things. Something inside Aneze seemed to rip open somewhere under her ribs. It made her catch her breath, this sudden hole. It felt wrong. It was as if she had always been full and now she was hollow. The hollow ached inside her as she walked.
Mother could carry many bundles all day and not become tired. She was tall and strong. If Aneze stumbled too much, Mother would carry her bundles for her as well. And Mother was good at sewing. Papa joked that skins wore out to dust before Mother’s seams did. She had a good face too, nice to look at. She had an even color and no scars. Her teeth were strong and white. Father was proud of Mother. Even Aneze could figure that out.
Aneze was used to traveling all day. But she had never traveled all by herself. There was always Mother. Most times there were other wives and children too. And the hunters were never far, looking for animals to feed everyone. They were always together.
One autumn, their group was traveling to the barren ground to meet Caribou. They met a bigger group, also going to the great hunt. As was the custom, everyone sat down on the path. All was silent. Then Watonbee, the leader of the bigger group, spoke. “Much time has passed since we have seen each other. I tell you so that you may know the things that have befallen us all, hunters and wives.
“We mourn with Chewkoray, whose wife and baby were lost to the spring blizzard. We remember the courage of Tudantuay, gone in battle with Black Bear. We send death-songs to our old, our sick and our children, all taken last winter by the hunger.”
Then Watonbee raised his head and cried out in clear ringing tones:
Dzeley, and her old mother too
Thalchini’s son and daughter
Badelaye, weakened by lynx bite
and Benethatel, my own dear wife
I speak this death-song, so you hear my call
Ancestors, descendants, we remember them all
Everyone in Aneze’s group hung their heads and wept when they heard of the people who had left them. Then, as was the custom, Father stood up and spoke for their group. He told the others all their sad news. Now the other group hung their heads, tore their hair and cried.
When this was finished, both groups stood up and mingled. Since all the sad business was known, there was only talk of good things. The children played games. There was laughter. Everyone was happy to be together again.
Aneze shifted the bundle on her back. She walked faster still. The group she was following had a full day’s start on her. She didn’t care what happened when she met them. She didn’t want to be alone anymore. She couldn’t wait to see Mother again.
“A hunter knows he is never alone.” She had heard Father say that once.
Aneze looked into the trees. She spoke out loud to the bush. “There’s always you, Chickadee,” she said to the small birds skittering above. “And if I stare long enough at the sky, I’ll see you, Eagle, circling with your wife. You will show me where Rabbit and Vole are hiding. And nearby in the stream, you are swimming, Jackfish. And you, Beaver, you are working on your house.
“You see,” Aneze told the woods. “I’m not alone at all.”
But that hollow inside told her something different. A hunter knows he is never alone. Father was a hunter, not Aneze. She was just a child.