the way He did Strong Man’s, and bring him understanding. Many Whiskers didn’t know what any of this meant. Death, like birth, was a way of life. But these strange raiders with their thundersticks harder than stone, they troubled him.
The air stirred softly around him. It was a rare calm day, proving indeed the wind was not a river. Maybe the wind would not again blow the raiders to the island in his lifetime. Perhaps this incident would become another tale for Storyteller to relate in the evenings.
He spotted an object entering the bay. Many Whiskers quickly identified its shape as that of a kayak, paddled by a single occupant. Strong Man, he knew, had left the village to go fishing. He waited to see whether it was him returning or someone from another village coming to visit. As the kayak approached the village beach, riding a wave, he recognized his brother, Strong Man, and saw the catch of halibut lashed on the deck of the kayak.
When Many Whiskers turned to look at the village, he noticed an old woman laboriously making her way down the trail that climbed the green cliffs behind the village. It looked like Weaver Woman. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. It was she. Shouting, he ran down the hill into the village to tell the others.
The instant Winter Swan heard the alerting shout, she thought the raiders had returned. She hurried to her feet, dropping the half-finished parka on her lap and scattering the skins of the tufted puffin yet to be sewn together. Her young son, Walks Straight, was sitting on the ground only a few yards away, throwing darts at a whale-shaped target hanging from a stick. Winter Swan ran over and swept him into her arms to flee, her heart pounding with fear. But she didn’t know which way to go—which way the raiders were coming. Pausing, she looked to her husband’s brother, Many Whiskers, for direction as he entered the village he’d thrown into a turmoil with his cry. But there was no alarm in his expression, only a wondrous look.
“Weaver Woman! She comes!” he told them and pointed toward the cliffs.
Weaver Woman. For a moment, Winter Swan thought some craziness had touched him and wondered if he had been struck on the head during the fight with the raiders. She clutched her son more tightly, mindless of the size and weight of his body five summers old. The figure coming toward them did belong to Weaver Woman. Staring, Winter Swan lowered her son to the ground, then moved in a daze with the others to welcome the old woman back to the village. The customary silence, the avoidance of unnecessary conversation, the sometimes going through an entire day without speaking was shattered by a barrage of questions from all sides.
“How did you get away from the raiders?”
“I saw them take you and Little Spear to their big boat before the storm came and took it away.” Many Whiskers gazed at the woman with shining eyes.
“We thought we would never see you again.” Often in these last days, Winter Swan had looked with sorrow at the unfinished basket that Weaver Woman had been working on before she was captured, believing she would never again see those gnarled but highly skilled hands raddling the grasses into tightly woven patterns.
“Where are the raiders?”
“ What of Little Spear?”
“He is with them.” The gray-haired woman regained her breath and everyone fell silent to listen to her tale. “They let me go after the storm. The sea was very angry and tossed their boat all over, making it cry and shake with pain. Many times I thought the sea would swallow it.”
Several of the men nodded in understanding, recalling similar experiences in their kayaks. “Where is the boat now?” one asked.
“They have taken it out of the water and dragged it onto the beach.” Weaver Woman identified the bay where the strangers had landed. “I think they want to stay on the island and hunt. Their headman gave me these things when he let me go.” She showed them the marvelous
The air stirred softly around him. It was a rare calm day, proving indeed the wind was not a river. Maybe the wind would not again blow the raiders to the island in his lifetime. Perhaps this incident would become another tale for Storyteller to relate in the evenings.
He spotted an object entering the bay. Many Whiskers quickly identified its shape as that of a kayak, paddled by a single occupant. Strong Man, he knew, had left the village to go fishing. He waited to see whether it was him returning or someone from another village coming to visit. As the kayak approached the village beach, riding a wave, he recognized his brother, Strong Man, and saw the catch of halibut lashed on the deck of the kayak.
When Many Whiskers turned to look at the village, he noticed an old woman laboriously making her way down the trail that climbed the green cliffs behind the village. It looked like Weaver Woman. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. It was she. Shouting, he ran down the hill into the village to tell the others.
The instant Winter Swan heard the alerting shout, she thought the raiders had returned. She hurried to her feet, dropping the half-finished parka on her lap and scattering the skins of the tufted puffin yet to be sewn together. Her young son, Walks Straight, was sitting on the ground only a few yards away, throwing darts at a whale-shaped target hanging from a stick. Winter Swan ran over and swept him into her arms to flee, her heart pounding with fear. But she didn’t know which way to go—which way the raiders were coming. Pausing, she looked to her husband’s brother, Many Whiskers, for direction as he entered the village he’d thrown into a turmoil with his cry. But there was no alarm in his expression, only a wondrous look.
“Weaver Woman! She comes!” he told them and pointed toward the cliffs.
Weaver Woman. For a moment, Winter Swan thought some craziness had touched him and wondered if he had been struck on the head during the fight with the raiders. She clutched her son more tightly, mindless of the size and weight of his body five summers old. The figure coming toward them did belong to Weaver Woman. Staring, Winter Swan lowered her son to the ground, then moved in a daze with the others to welcome the old woman back to the village. The customary silence, the avoidance of unnecessary conversation, the sometimes going through an entire day without speaking was shattered by a barrage of questions from all sides.
“How did you get away from the raiders?”
“I saw them take you and Little Spear to their big boat before the storm came and took it away.” Many Whiskers gazed at the woman with shining eyes.
“We thought we would never see you again.” Often in these last days, Winter Swan had looked with sorrow at the unfinished basket that Weaver Woman had been working on before she was captured, believing she would never again see those gnarled but highly skilled hands raddling the grasses into tightly woven patterns.
“Where are the raiders?”
“ What of Little Spear?”
“He is with them.” The gray-haired woman regained her breath and everyone fell silent to listen to her tale. “They let me go after the storm. The sea was very angry and tossed their boat all over, making it cry and shake with pain. Many times I thought the sea would swallow it.”
Several of the men nodded in understanding, recalling similar experiences in their kayaks. “Where is the boat now?” one asked.
“They have taken it out of the water and dragged it onto the beach.” Weaver Woman identified the bay where the strangers had landed. “I think they want to stay on the island and hunt. Their headman gave me these things when he let me go.” She showed them the marvelous
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