Ivory and Bone(27)

“Thank you for the parka,” I say.

“Of course,” you answer.

For the briefest of moments the world around me holds its breath—the breeze dies away; birds quiet their songs. The only sound is the crunch of gravel beneath our feet as we walk side by side.

But it doesn’t last. It’s only an illusion; one that fades as soon as you speak again. “I started it the day Pek gave me the pelt. I couldn’t accept it—the cat was killed on your land. It belongs to your clan. I figured the parka was an efficient means of returning it to you.”

Efficient?

“The pelt was meant as a gift—”

I stop myself mid-sentence. Hot, angry words rush to my lips but I bite them back. Why bother? What could I possibly say that might reach you? “Excuse me,” I say instead, and hurry to catch up to my family.

We join the rest of your clan in a large meeting area at the center of the circle of huts, strikingly similar to our meeting space at home, though there is one significant difference. Your clan has erected four large poles carved from the trunks of trees in the corners of the meeting place, and pulled tightly overhead is a roof of hides pieced together with cords of sinew. The sides are open to allow both the breeze and your clanspeople to easily pass in and out, but the covering overhead ensures that you will always be sheltered from sun or rain while gathered. At home, we simply huddle in the kitchen or eat our meals in our huts if the weather is foul. I remember a fleeting look that crossed your face when you first saw my clan gathered in the open air after the hunt. Now I suspect it was disappointment—or worse, disdain—at our lack of sophistication.

Just as there are differences in the space, there are also differences in custom. Unlike home, there is no music, no singing. A solitary drum calls people to the evening meal. Even conversation is muted. At home, some people in my clan—especially my mother’s family, who tend to be big in size and big in voice—greet each other at the evening meal with an enthusiasm that suggests they haven’t seen each other in days, when it’s been only since morning, if that long. In contrast, the few bits of conversation I catch among your people are exchanged in hushed, polite voices—a comment on the hearty fragrance of cooking meat coming from the kitchen, a question about how a sprained ankle is healing.

At least the children are a bit noisy. I overhear a trio of boys chattering about the traps they set this morning. One boy brags that he has already caught a squirrel, and I smile, thinking of me and my brothers at that age. Pek was always the one bragging.

Once we are all collected under the roof, your brother Chev motions for us to be seated. Pelts have been scattered across the sandy soil, and I find myself sharing one with my mother and Roon. Kesh and my father sit beside us. Your clan is bigger than ours—maybe thirty to thirty-five people, counting babies and small children—where our clan is twenty-four in all. With so many people crowded together, I lose sight of you once we are seated, but I know you are somewhere at the opposite edge of the crowd where I’d noticed you standing with Seeri. Pek is not far from you, seated with strangers he must have befriended while he’s been in your camp.

When everyone sits, I notice the towering lattice of firewood arranged in a large hearth between the edge of the canopy and the kitchen. At home such a large fire would be considered extravagant, even wasteful, an affront to the Spirits of the trees. But here, wood is much more plentiful, and the tree Spirits more generous.

Chev signals to the drummer, who resumes the slow, even beat that called us to the meal. From the kitchen, two figures emerge, each wearing a huge mask of carved wood—so huge they cover their bodies from head to waist. I’ve never seen a mask of wood before—Urar makes beautiful masks of bearskin and walrus hide painted with ocher—but these are so different, so fierce and intensely foreign, a shiver runs over my skin. The face depicted on each mask suggests a cat—a square nose dug out of the center, narrow eyes and sharp whiskers carved at opposing angles, slanting away from a wide mouth framed by long, curved teeth. Each of the masked figures carries a burning torch. As they circle the hearth, moving with exaggerated steps in time to the beat, they set their torches to the kindling at the base of the firewood.

“Spirit of the cat,” the masked figures chant in unison, “climb this smoke to the Land Above the Sky.” They chant in low, furtive whispers, but I recognize the voices of Ela and Yano. “Climb this smoke. . . . Climb this smoke. . . . Climb this smoke. . . .” They circle the hearth once as the flames catch and travel over the branches. The chanting stops, but the drumbeat quickens. They circle faster and faster, their steps becoming leaps, the flames climbing higher, billows of smoke rolling outward and under the roof. I pull in a deep breath of soot and a wave of nausea crashes over me. The beat of the drum grows louder, faster, louder still, my heart races and my head swims, until I slump against the bearskin on the ground. My eyes fall shut, but instead of darkness, the fire’s glow presses against my eyelids, surrounding me in white light.

Then all at once, the drumming stops. My eyes open. Ela and Yano are gone, leaving only Chev beside the towering fire. I sit up groggily, as if waking from a dream.

“Friends,” Chev says, raising his hands, “the Divine continues to make this a prosperous clan. We thank our visitors from the north, from the clan of the Manu, especially Kol, who with his skill and strength has slain the man-killing cat.”