Ivory and Bone(12)

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.

“It’s a gift,” I say. I feel my face flush, but I’m not sure if it’s from embarrassment or anger.

So much labor went into collecting this small pouch of honey. Every day last summer I got out of bed early, chanted prayers to the Divine and the Spirit of bees, and went in search of hives. The first I found easily—it was closest to the meadow—but the process of extracting the honey can be difficult and dangerous. Once the hive is found, the bees need to be sedated with smoke. That first hive was in a cluster of half-dead dwarf birch, surrounded by dry brush. I had to haul green kindling from young growth closer to camp. It took hours of effort, and yielded only small amounts of honey. That process had to be repeated over and over again.

“We have honey at home. Here in the north, honey must be extremely scarce. You should keep what you have for yourselves.”

I swallow and take a deep breath before I reply, striving to keep the anger from my voice. “I know our ways may be unfamiliar to you,” I say, thinking of the way you’d withdrawn at the start of the singing before the meal. “But I assure you, we don’t live in a barren wasteland. This may not be the lush south, but there’s plenty of honey on this side of the mountains. Finding it just demands a bit more patience.”

Behind me I hear laughter. I turn to find your brother, sister, and Pek just a few paces away. I take the honey from your hand and hold it behind my back, hoping that the others won’t notice it.

I’ve suffered enough humiliation for one day.

I know I should stand in the doorway and exchange pleasantries with your brother and sister, but in this instant, my sense of social custom is no match for my pride. I nod and say a hasty good night.