Read Online The Great Alone by Janet Dailey - Free Book Online Page B

pink in her cheeks. There was a quiet strength in her features, an inner shining. Weaver Woman thought highly of the wife of her son Strong Man. In some ways, she felt they were “like each other” and thus bound.
    A small boy, five summers old, blocked her view of Winter Swan as he climbed up to stand on the seat so he could see over the high sides of the skin-boat. Thick, straight hair covered his head in a shining black cap. He carried himself so tall and straight that he appeared like a little man. The sight of him eased the ache in her bones. Here was the continuation of her flesh, young and vital, not old and tired.
    “Are we almost there?” Weaver Woman’s grandson, Walks Straight, asked his mother with adultlike seriousness.
    “Soon,” Winter Swan assured him.
    Two seats ahead, a young woman turned to look at Weaver Woman. Curiosity glittered in her dark eyes, framed in a face that was warmly alluring. “If these strange men are not raiders, why did they not bring their women?” Summer-Face Woman questioned boldly.
    “Because they have come to hunt. The sea animals would smell the women and run away.” Weaver Woman had no patience with her or her question. She felt sorry for her grandson, Cliff-Walker, for choosing this woman whose eyes were always looking elsewhere. After reflecting on her answer, Weaver Woman turned to her eldest son, Quick Eyes. “I think these men will ask permission to hunt in our territory.”
    He made a sound in his throat, acknowledging he’d heard her words, but said nothing. It was up to the headman of their village to decide whether to allow this. His far-seeing gaze swept the entrance of the bay, seeking the channel clear of hidden rocks. Like all the other men, he was dressed in his elaborately trimmed bird-skin parka with the feather side out. A long spray of sea lion whiskers festooned the peak of his wooden hat painted in a swirling design of colors. It was important to impress these visitors and establish good relations with them. They were a peace-loving people, willing to blame misunderstanding for recent events. If the sea that sustained them with its bounty took a life, they did not seek to avenge it. A harmony must be found.
    As the large native boat—made from the sewn-together skins of the sea lion stretched across a framework of driftwood ribbing—entered the bay, the occupants saw the huge wooden boat sitting on the sand like a beached whale. When the vessel had first been sighted off the island, they had thought it to be some new kind of monstrous whale. Later, when it had come near the coast, the scanners had reported that it was some sort of boat belonging to a strange people.
    The hairy-faced ones were standing on shore watching them arrive—silently. “Why do they not dance a welcome?” Quick Eyes questioned Weaver Woman.
    “That is not their custom.”
    “They are visitors,” said Stone Lamp, the headman of their village. “We must make them welcome.”
    “They carry their thundersticks,” one of the men observed.
    “I think they are not so powerful that Strong Man could not break them,” Summer-Face Woman asserted as she bestowed an admiring look on Winter Swan’s husband.
    The parka of puffin skins concealed Strong Man’s arms and torso, the mighty muscles that had earned him his name. From the time he was a small boy, he had undergone special training to achieve his physical prowess. Few subjected themselves to the severe regimen, and fewer still completed it. Everyone knew that to possess such great power would mean a premature death, and life was precious.
    However, those worthy of the title Strong Man achieved a strength of spirit and great wisdom as well. So Strong Man’s head did not turn to bathe in the warmth of Summer-Face Woman’s look. It was something that didn’t last—like the brief heat of the sun before the clouds closed around it again—or the days of warmth that gave birth to wildflowers before the season fled from the