Read Online Brother Wind by Sue Harrison - Free Book Online
Authors: Sue Harrison
Tags: General Fiction
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the men and began sorting through a pile of the traders’ goods. Now and again, he held up a piece of ivory, turning it in the light that spilled from one of the oil lamps. The traders kept looking at Waxtal, and the oldest lifted a hand toward him, opened his mouth as though to speak, but then turned back to the circle of men.
Why not speak out? Chagak thought. What trader wanted a stranger going through his trade goods? Waxtal was not some shaman to be feared or respected.
“Yes, Waxtal thinks only of himself,” the sea otter said. “Of himself and of his carving.”
Chagak’s mind was drawn to the baskets of carvings that were tucked in the corner of her sleeping place. Shuganan’s work. She remembered how the old man had taken her in after the massacre of her people. How he had called her granddaughter and claimed her son Samiq as grandson, though Samiq was the child of one of those men who had killed her family.
By his caring and through his love, Shuganan had given Chagak the courage to live again. Who could not see the same caring in the lines of each ivory animal and the driftwood people he had carved?
Then she thought of Kiin’s carvings, so different from Shuganan’s, but full of grace and movement, as if she caught the spirit of each thing she carved.
Waxtal’s hands on the traders’ ivory suddenly made Chagak angry. “The smallness of Waxtal’s soul comes out through his knife,” she told the sea otter. “He does not carve ivory, he destroys it.”
But the otter was quiet, saying nothing, as though Chagak’s anger had stopped the animal’s words. Chagak sighed. “Enough, Wren,” she said to her daughter. “The men will talk all night. You and I, we need to sleep.”
CHAPTER 11
W AXTAL CLAMPED HIS TEETH together to keep them from chattering. Walrus tusks, some longer than a man’s arm, thicker than a man’s wrist, were bundled together in the bow of the traders’ ik.
Waxtal leaned into the ik and stroked his hand down the length of one.
“Good, eh?”
The voice startled him and he jerked upright, catching his hand on one of the ik’s wooden thwarts. A sharp sliver of wood tore his skin. Waxtal raised the hand to his mouth and sucked the blood welling from the cut, then turned and looked at the trader standing beside him. Waxtal shrugged his shoulders. “I have seen better,” he said.
The trader’s eyes widened, then he laughed. “Where?”
Waxtal pretended interest in his injured hand. The bleeding slowed, and he picked at the sliver sticking up from the wound. “I am a trader,” Waxtal said. “My son was a trader—before he was killed by someone who stole his trade goods.”
“So …” said the trader, and he leaned down to touch the ivory, “you might like to have these tusks for your next trading trip.”
“I am also a carver,” Waxtal said. It would not hurt to let the trader know he was dealing with a man of many talents.
The trader coughed and looked down, hiding his mouth with his hand, but not before Waxtal saw his smile, a smile that said the trader knew the value Waxtal would put on ivory.
“I have seen better,” Waxtal said again, then turned and walked back toward the ulas. Let the man smile. The ivory itself wanted Waxtal. Its spirit would long for the joy of Waxtal’s knife. What chance did a trader have against the power of the ivory’s spirit?
Waxtal raised his upper lip in derision. Yes, let the trader hide a smile behind his hand. Waxtal would be the one laughing. He puffed out his chest, walked with shoulders high, back straight, but when he reached the leeward side of his ulaq, Waxtal suddenly felt as if all power had been taken from his body. He leaned against the ulaq and closed his eyes. It was the ivory, its spirit. It was dealing with the trader even now, bending the trader’s thoughts, and it needed Waxtal’s strength.
Even here, out of sight of the traders’ ik, Waxtal felt power leave his hands and flow with the cold beach
Why not speak out? Chagak thought. What trader wanted a stranger going through his trade goods? Waxtal was not some shaman to be feared or respected.
“Yes, Waxtal thinks only of himself,” the sea otter said. “Of himself and of his carving.”
Chagak’s mind was drawn to the baskets of carvings that were tucked in the corner of her sleeping place. Shuganan’s work. She remembered how the old man had taken her in after the massacre of her people. How he had called her granddaughter and claimed her son Samiq as grandson, though Samiq was the child of one of those men who had killed her family.
By his caring and through his love, Shuganan had given Chagak the courage to live again. Who could not see the same caring in the lines of each ivory animal and the driftwood people he had carved?
Then she thought of Kiin’s carvings, so different from Shuganan’s, but full of grace and movement, as if she caught the spirit of each thing she carved.
Waxtal’s hands on the traders’ ivory suddenly made Chagak angry. “The smallness of Waxtal’s soul comes out through his knife,” she told the sea otter. “He does not carve ivory, he destroys it.”
But the otter was quiet, saying nothing, as though Chagak’s anger had stopped the animal’s words. Chagak sighed. “Enough, Wren,” she said to her daughter. “The men will talk all night. You and I, we need to sleep.”
CHAPTER 11
W AXTAL CLAMPED HIS TEETH together to keep them from chattering. Walrus tusks, some longer than a man’s arm, thicker than a man’s wrist, were bundled together in the bow of the traders’ ik.
Waxtal leaned into the ik and stroked his hand down the length of one.
“Good, eh?”
The voice startled him and he jerked upright, catching his hand on one of the ik’s wooden thwarts. A sharp sliver of wood tore his skin. Waxtal raised the hand to his mouth and sucked the blood welling from the cut, then turned and looked at the trader standing beside him. Waxtal shrugged his shoulders. “I have seen better,” he said.
The trader’s eyes widened, then he laughed. “Where?”
Waxtal pretended interest in his injured hand. The bleeding slowed, and he picked at the sliver sticking up from the wound. “I am a trader,” Waxtal said. “My son was a trader—before he was killed by someone who stole his trade goods.”
“So …” said the trader, and he leaned down to touch the ivory, “you might like to have these tusks for your next trading trip.”
“I am also a carver,” Waxtal said. It would not hurt to let the trader know he was dealing with a man of many talents.
The trader coughed and looked down, hiding his mouth with his hand, but not before Waxtal saw his smile, a smile that said the trader knew the value Waxtal would put on ivory.
“I have seen better,” Waxtal said again, then turned and walked back toward the ulas. Let the man smile. The ivory itself wanted Waxtal. Its spirit would long for the joy of Waxtal’s knife. What chance did a trader have against the power of the ivory’s spirit?
Waxtal raised his upper lip in derision. Yes, let the trader hide a smile behind his hand. Waxtal would be the one laughing. He puffed out his chest, walked with shoulders high, back straight, but when he reached the leeward side of his ulaq, Waxtal suddenly felt as if all power had been taken from his body. He leaned against the ulaq and closed his eyes. It was the ivory, its spirit. It was dealing with the trader even now, bending the trader’s thoughts, and it needed Waxtal’s strength.
Even here, out of sight of the traders’ ik, Waxtal felt power leave his hands and flow with the cold beach
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