Ivory and Bone (4 page)

W
hat help I failed to lend during the hunt I try to make up for when it’s time to drag the travoises back to camp laden with hides, ivory tusks, and enough meat to ensure the twenty-four members of our clan will not fear hunger for at least a little while. The loads are heavy, but we have a saying that bringing food back to camp is never a burden. My mother meets us on the trail just outside
camp. She beams. “Fish for midday, but mammoth for the evening meal.”

Everyone sits in the square at the center of camp, and Urar, our clan’s healer, offers a chant of thanksgiving for the Spirit of the mammoth who gave up life so our clan might eat and endure. People crowd around to meet you—the slayer of the cat—and to feast on fish, clams, and greens, but Pek and I take our meals and offer
our apologies. Our
father has requested that we work through the meal to erect a hut for our guests.

“A hut?” I ask. “They’ll be staying long, then?”

“They may be frequent visitors. They may not. In any event, we will treat them like members of this clan. They will sleep in their own hut.”

And so you will.

Not long ago, our clan was far more mobile than it is now. When I was a boy, maybe six
or seven years ago, we followed the bison from place to place, ranging between the northwestern hills in the summer to the mountains in the southeast in the winter. The bison were plentiful then, and our huts were more like tents, easy to put up and take down and light to carry.

But one winter, the bison crossed through the mountains to the east and headed south in the direction of your current
home. This was the first winter after you had visited us, and our two clans were not on good terms. The elders decided that we could winter without the bison herd, since the mammoths didn’t migrate nearly as far and stayed within our hunting range all winter. We all trusted the elders—a council of ten men and women chosen by my father, the High Elder, for their wisdom and selfless contributions
to the clan. So our tents became heavier huts, beams of mammoth bone anchored to the ground near the shore to give
us easy access to the sea, at least until we were iced in for the hardest part of the season. We had always used kayaks to fish, but my mother’s sister and her family became adept at hunting seals.

When most of the bison failed to return from the south two springs later, few people
worried. We had become settled in this camp, remaining here nearly year-round. Mammoths were still plentiful, and following the bison herds no longer seemed practical. Instead, we made seasonal trips to hunt and gather, always returning home to this place. Our huts were sturdy and covered with thick hides. They were warm and comfortable, lit by seal oil we burned in lamps of concave stone.

Despite
our new comforts, putting up a hut for you and your siblings now makes me yearn for the days of light and portable tents. Our father has instructed us to build you a hut of generous proportions. This one will be wide enough to separate into two rooms by draping hides from the ceiling, like the one my own family lives in.

Pek holds a post made of the chiseled thighbone of a mammoth as I dig a
furrow to place it in. The post is thick and the cold ground is stubborn. I hack at the earth with the sharpened edge of a heavy flint stone lashed to a handle I cut from a poplar branch. The handle is rough and the skin of my palms splits from the effort.

“Let me take a turn,” Pek says.

I wave him off. “You brought down the kill; I’ll put up the hut.” Still, bloody hands are slippery hands,
and my progress slows. Pek leaves me struggling and returns with a second ax, borrowed from the butchers. Eventually, we force the ground to yield and dig out a trough wide enough for the support beam. We dig a second, then a third. The process becomes routine and my mind drifts to you.

“Pek, do you know what happened between our clan and the Olen clan five years ago?”

“I know someone from their
clan killed someone from ours—”

“Killed someone? Who—”

“Tram’s father.”

Tram’s father.
I remember his death, of course. “He died during a hunt.” As a child, I’d been fascinated by the burial—the spear laid in the grave, the bison horn in the dead man’s hand. A hunter’s burial.

We’ve just wedged the upright beams into place when the next question forms in my mind—why would a hunting accident
almost lead to war? Before I can ask, Kesh and Roon join us, carrying hides for the covering.

“If this is for the girls, we want to help,” says Roon. He is the adventurer among us, always talking about traveling out onto the sea in a boat and what he might find if he did. When the rest of us would complain or worry about the lack of girls in our clan, Roon would develop elaborate
plans for trips
down the coast or west across the hills. Often he would sneak out of camp early in the morning or late at night, hoping to spot smoke rising from another clan’s fire.

He never did, but he never gave up.

“This is for the girls as well as their brother,” Pek says. “And neither of these girls is young enough for you.”

“Maybe not, but there are other girls in their clan.”

“How would you know?”
I shake out a coarse bearskin and drape it over the frame of the hut. A musky scent fills my nostrils. The fissures in my palms have stopped bleeding, so I’m able to grip the edge of the hide tight while Kesh binds it to the support beam using a cord made of mammoth sinew. We stretch it taut from beam to beam, creating the bottom layer of the new hut’s roof.

“I asked them.”

Leave it to Roon
to be direct. Why wonder if you can just ask?

“I hope our parents didn’t hear you,” I say. Our mother would think a question like that was too forward. Still, I’m pleased to know that my baby brother took the initiative. I doubt he would have had a moment of sleep tonight if he’d been forced to go to bed wondering. Something about knowing that there are other girls in your clan drains a bit of
tension from me, as well. Between Seeri’s clear interest in Pek and your even more obvious disdain for me, I
had already given up hope of finding someone from within your clan.

Of course, if all the girls in your clan are as arrogant and rude as you are, I would rather be alone forever.

When the hut is finished, our mother comes to fill it from wall to wall with fur pelts—bison, bear, elk, and
mammoth for the floor; saber-toothed cat, caribou, and sealskin for blankets. You will sleep warmly tonight.

The sun is already moving into the western sky as we tie the final knots. “Go clean yourselves,” our mother says. “And put on clothing reserved for feasts. When we sit down to eat the evening meal with our guests, I hope you will no longer smell like the game we are dining on.” She smiles
at me. “And be sure you speak to Mya,” she whispers as my brothers shuffle toward our family hut. “The other clearly has eyes for your brother, but Mya, like you, is the oldest. Her eyes are like yours—as dark as the night sky—but there is a sharpness to her gaze that complements the warmth in yours. You two would make a strong match, I think.”

The smile of impending success on my mother’s lips
is so endearing, I can’t tell her how wrong she is. She sighs and I hear a note of contentment in her voice I haven’t heard in a long time. No, I can’t take that from her, not just yet. I simply nod and let her walk away.

T
he sun has burned into the shade of gold it reserves for evenings in early summer, when it hangs low in the sky, refusing to set, stretching out hours of pale yellow light, painting long deep shadows on the ground. This is when the drums begin to send their rhythm through the ring of huts.

My brother Kesh is one of the musicians, and I catch the tone of his flute as it pierces the evening
air, dancing above the beating of the drums. Not the oldest or the youngest, not the most gifted with a spear, Kesh found himself in music. He was offered a place among the musicians four years ago, when he was only eleven years old and causing constant mischief. He hid handfuls of snails, earthworms, and finally a dead vole in the music leader’s bed, until she offered him a flute in exchange
for a promise to stop. She had a flute of her own that he envied, and she meticulously
copied it, carving the thighbone of a wolf to just the right length and carefully drilling each hole. The day he received it was like the day he was born, and that flute has been the focus of his life ever since.

Pek and Roon left the hut long before the shadow of the kitchen tent stretched to our door, but
I wait it out as long as possible. I lie down, but I can’t relax. My mother borrowed pelts from each of our beds to make up yours. The difference is slight—my bed is almost as thick and lush as it was before—but even this small change in our home unsettles me. I think of Pek’s prediction that you and Seeri will change our lives.

Maybe I’m not ready for change.

The music grows louder, and I can’t
stay behind any longer. I head out to the open-air gathering place in the center of camp where our clan shares all its meals.

I spot you almost as soon as I step through the door of our hut. I wish I could ignore you, but it’s impossible—my eyes are drawn to you the way they are drawn to a flash of light. You’ve changed into a tunic made of supple hides cut in a much more feminine style than
your shapeless hunting parka. The hair around your face is wound into three thin braids that are gathered at the crown of your head, but otherwise your hair is down like it was this morning. You stand beside your brother, Chev, who is speaking to my father. I take just one step in your direction before you look up at
me, almost as if you’ve been waiting for me to show, though I know better. As
soon as you see me approaching you turn your head, and I change my mind about joining the three of you. I turn toward my brother Kesh, instead, and congratulate him on the solo he played during the gathering music. Lil, the music leader, interrupts. “A circle! A circle, everyone!”

The first song of the evening is about to be sung.

I move to a place near my brother Pek, and I notice Seeri beside
him, smiling but clearly confused. It occurs to me for the first time that your clan might not follow all the same customs that we do. Do you not sing the same songs? Taking her by the elbow, Pek guides her to a place within the circle right between the two of us. She gives me a weak smile and shrugs.

“Follow along—it’s easy,” I say, just as the first line is sung by the whole clan as if by one
voice
.

Manu was a hunter lost in a storm, wandering far from home. . . .

Like all songs, this one is sung to the Divine. It tells the story of our clan’s founding ancestor, Manu—my favorite story since I was a small boy. When I was ill or could not sleep, my mother would lie beside me and whisper it in my ear.

“There was a hunter named Manu who became lost in a storm, separated from home and
clan,” she would say, and I would shiver at the thought. “After wandering long and far,
he lost hope of finding his way back. He was so lonely that he befriended a mammoth, but despite his hunger he would not kill it.
The Spirit of a mammoth is too precious to give its life to feed just one man
, Manu told the mammoth. In thanks, the mammoth gave Manu one of his tusks, and Manu carved a woman out
of the ivory. The Divine saw Manu’s selflessness, and said to herself,
I must reward him.
So she sent a little piece of herself to dwell in the carving, bringing her to life and giving Manu a wise wife. Together, Manu and his wife had many children, and their offspring became our clan.”

This story always comforts me. Even now, singing Manu’s song with my clan, I know that I am home.

The song
has many verses, but the steps are simple—one foot over the other, one foot behind—as the circle moves over well-worn earth, slowly to the left. Seeri joins in at the refrain, which repeats the word
wandering . . . wandering
. She makes mistakes at first but she gets it by the second time through.

I glance over at you, but I can’t meet your eyes. You have stepped back from the circle and you are
turned away, your attention focused on the ground, as if you’re searching for something no one else can see. Are you embarrassed because you do not know this dance? Even your brother is not afraid to try—he stands beside my father, who coaches him through the changes in the song.

As the music of the first song fades, ending on a ribbon of
melody that rises from my brother’s flute, everyone stomps
their feet in approval and readies for the second song. Everyone except you. I notice you speak briefly into your brother’s ear and then disappear in the direction of your hut. My eyes follow you, but I cannot will my feet to do the same.

Turning my attention back to Seeri, I watch her as the clan sings the first words of the second song. This song is more subdued than the first—a reverent song
of thanks—and her eyes are wide as she takes in the circle of my extended family. Though she apparently does not know the words to this song, either, her head swings in time with the tune.

As the third song is sung, the circle melts into a line that leads past the kitchen. My mother stands in the open doorway, the rich scent of roasted meat rolling out around her, as she hands each person a mat
made of stiff, tightly woven stalks piled high with chunks of mammoth meat and cooked greens. Chev takes a mat from my mother, and though he is a few places ahead of me, I can hear him comment on the size of the portions. My mother nods and smiles, but as soon as he passes, her eyes dart over the remainder of the line. She looks at me, Seeri, Pek, then her eyes slide back to Chev and my father.

She is looking for you.

“Where is she?” She hasn’t even placed my mat in my hands before she asks.

“She went back to their hut at the start of the second song.”

“Why?”

“How should I know, Mother? Maybe she’s ill. Maybe she’s exhausted—”

“Take this to her.”

I consider objecting to the idea, then realize that my mother is right. If you are sick or simply tired, as gracious hosts we should
check on you and offer you something to eat. If you are being rude and unsociable, that doesn’t excuse us from similar behavior.

As I approach the door to your hut, I notice music. After a moment’s hesitation, I realize it’s you, humming to yourself inside the hut. I don’t recognize the exact tune, but it’s similar to a lullaby my mother used to sing to me.

Could this be a song your mother sang
to you? Since your brother is your clan’s High Elder, I assume your parents must be dead. No one has spoken of either one of them.

“Excuse me,” I say. The humming instantly stops, but you don’t respond. “Excuse me, Mya? My mother sent food. . . .”

A few slow moments pass before your hand peeks out from between the draped hides and sweeps them back enough to reveal part of your face, lit by the
thin rays of sunlight that filter through the huts so late in the evening.
“I intended to come back,” you say. “I’m just tired.”

“Of course.”

Another long moment passes before you take the mat of food from my hands. Your eyes hold a message—not the hard disdain I saw earlier, but something just as dark. Loneliness? Your gaze moves away before I can be sure. “Thank you.” And then the drape falls
shut again and I find myself standing outside your hut, alone.

The meal is delicious and spirits are high, just as they always are when a kill is brought in. Several songs break out spontaneously and my father even brings out skins of mead made from honey and berries gathered last summer. Sacred and precious, our clan consumes mead only at the holiest ceremonies and most significant celebrations.
Sharing it with your clan today is not without meaning.

As everyone drinks, the singing grows louder. Still, I can’t quite shake the thought of that dark look in your eyes. It doesn’t matter, though. Everyone is happy. No one even notices my mood.

No one except my mother.

“What did she say?”

“She said she was tired, Mother. Everyone gets tired sometimes. Let her rest.”

But my mother is agitated.
I can see it. She busies herself with gathering empty mats and collects many compliments on the meal as she does. It won’t matter; I know her—she
won’t be appeased. The mystery of your absence is working her nerves. After a while, I feel her nervousness has jumped to me. As soon as she is occupied with some task in the kitchen, I take advantage of the opportunity to talk to her alone.

“What happened
five years ago?” I ask.

My mother looks up at me. A strand of hair has come loose from the braid at the top of her head, and she tugs at it, tucking it back into place with restless fingers. “The Olen clan visited us. . . . They were moving south—”

“I know all that. I want to know what really happened. What happened between our two clans?”

She retrieves a large waterskin that hangs from a notch
in a mammoth tusk that serves as a support beam, takes a long drink through the hollowed-out piece of bone attached as a spout, and offers it to me. “It’s only water. Your father has all the mead outside.” I take a drink. The water runs cool and soothing down my tense, dry throat. “Five years ago, on a joint hunt . . .” My mother hesitates. She does not want to say these words. The dread in her
voice sends a tremor along my spine, and my mouth goes dry again. I offer my mother the waterskin, but she shakes her head. I take another drink, and as I do, she blurts out the rest of her story. “On a joint hunt, one of our men killed one of their women.”

I try to swallow, but water pools as if it’s caught in a knot in my throat. I hack and cough before I can speak again.

“What—”

“It was
an accident, but that didn’t matter.” My mother is tired, her voice a hoarse whisper. “One of their hunters responded by killing the man who threw the spear.”

The back of my hand runs across my lips, wiping away drips of water and salty sweat. I stare at my mother’s unflinching face as if willing her to change this story, to tell me it isn’t true. But of course it’s true. It makes perfect sense.
“The man who threw the spear was Tram’s father,” I say.

“Yes. How—”

“Pek and I were talking earlier. We remember the burial.”

This is all I say before handing her the waterskin and pushing out through the door and back into the gathering place. In the center of a broad rock, seal oil burns in a shallow soapstone lamp—Urar is preparing to read the flame to interpret the will of the Divine. I
navigate through the crowd, careful not to step on people seated together in clusters of two and three, sipping mead and telling tales, as I make my way back to my family’s hut. As I walk, one thought crowds out every other—a man from my clan killed a woman from your clan, and he did it on a hunt. He did it when he threw a spear in error. Just as you feared I would throw my spear at you today.

Once in our empty hut, things are only worse. The thought follows me like a shadow, and I know it won’t let me rest until I speak with you again. From a hook beside
my bed I take a small pouch that was once used as a waterskin and head out to your hut.

Standing outside your door, I realize I am about to disturb you for the second time this evening. Your hut is both dark and quiet. Are you sleeping?
Didn’t you say you were tired? I know I’ve made a mistake when you suddenly pull back the draped hides and look out.

If you are tired, it doesn’t show on your face. Even in the reluctant light of sunset, your eyes still shine. If anything, they flash with impatience rather than fatigue. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. Did I wake you?”

“I heard footsteps stop outside the door.
. . . Do you want something?”

My eyes shift, unable to withstand the pressure of your gaze. They slide to your hand, gripping the hide in the doorway. Your fingers curl tightly around the edge of the bearskin, and I think of how I just hung this door today—I remember how I’d begrudgingly allowed the image of your face to invade my thoughts as I built this hut, imagining its walls protecting you
as you slept.

“I know why.” These words come out in a hurried rush, as I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the need to retreat from this situation but also painfully aware that I can’t walk away until I’ve said what I came to say. “I know why our two clans almost went to war.”

“And?”

“And now I understand. A woman from your clan was killed. A careless throw by a man from my clan took her life.”

“Yes.
That’s what happened.”

“And it makes sense to me now. Today, you thought it might all happen again. I hope you’ll forgive me for scaring you like that.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” You lean out of the hut a bit and look past my shoulder, back toward the place where everyone is still gathered. They are taking turns singing solos now, and I recognize my brother Pek’s voice singing a love song.
It’s a song to the Divine, of course, but Pek isn’t a fool. He knows how the words can be interpreted.

You glance at the ground between us. It’s clear I’ve overstayed my welcome, if I was ever welcome at all.

Then I remember the small pouch I brought with me. “Take this,” I say, placing it into your hand. You hold it awkwardly, pursing your lips. Your eyes flit from the pouch to my face. “It’s
honey. I gathered it last summer from several hives I was able to find—”

“No, thank you.” You hold it out for me to take it back, but I hesitate.