Ivory and Bone(8)

When Seeri sees me she flinches briefly, then color blooms in her cheeks. Have I interrupted something private?

“I wanted to see if you needed help. . . . I’m sorry,” I say. Seeri glances at you, but you keep your head bent away from the sound of my voice. The air stretches taut with tension, like the skin of a drum. I continue. “I thought you were gathering. . . .”

Seeri offers a dim, melancholy smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “What we left behind can’t be seen; what we gathered can’t be carried.” She says this without looking directly at me, as if she’s speaking to someone unseen who’s just beyond my shoulder.

I’m not sure what to make of this—is it a quote of some kind? A few words of a prayer or chant to the Divine? I think of the words I heard you speak in unison. . . . Before I can ask, Seeri strides away, leaving me alone with you.

I stand there, hovering over the place where you sit, for long enough that I begin to think I will either have to speak or walk away. Thankfully, just at the moment I feel I will need to decide between the two, you silently get to your feet. You shoot me the briefest of glances—not really a look, but rather a means of determining where you don’t intend to look—before dropping your eyes to the grass and pinning them there. Your hands move to the pendant that hangs from the cord at your throat, tucking it into the collar of your parka as you step around me.

“Wait,” I say. “I’d like to talk to you. There’s something I need to say.”

You keep moving until your shoulder comes alongside mine.

“Mya, wait. I owe you an apology.”

You stop. You don’t answer, but you don’t walk away, either, so I take this as a sign that you’re at least willing to listen. I pivot toward you but you won’t even turn your face in my direction—so stubborn—so I’m forced to speak to your profile—your shoulder, your sleeve, the ear you’ve tucked your hair behind.

“I know that you’re upset with me about what happened, but I never would have thrown at you—you were never in any danger. I wanted to tell you that, and I wanted to ask you to forgive me.” It feels ridiculous to say these words to your left ear. I take a few steps until I’m standing right in front of you. Your head stays lowered, though, leaving me no choice but to speak to the straight line that parts your jet-black hair. “Mya?” The next words are not easy to say, as if each one is a heavy weight I have to push uphill to reach your ears. Still, I will be the next High Elder, and selflessness and peacemaking are the defining traits of a clan leader. I take a deep breath and continue. “Mya, will you please forgive me?”

You remain silent so long . . . I have the chance to imagine a myriad of possible responses, each one more full of condemnation than the last. Finally you raise your head. Your eyes sweep over my face as if you are seeing me for the first time. “You don’t know, do you?”

Of all the replies I was anticipating, this question was not among them.

I take this unexpected question and combine it with the cryptic words of your sister—none of it makes sense. My eyes dart from your face to the spot where you and Seeri had knelt in the grass. My mind races to piece things together, to give shape to this formless confusion. In the end I can only be honest. “I don’t understand.”

You regard me suspiciously, as if you aren’t quite sure that I’m someone you can trust with the truth. “Five years ago,” you start, “our two clans nearly went to war—”

“Yes, I know. Of course I know—”

“But do you know why?”

Do I? I always thought that I knew the reason why. I was young when it happened, but as I’ve gotten older somebody must’ve told me. “There was a misunderstanding. . . .” I fumble through my memory. Could it be that I’ve never learned the reason? “Something happened that led to violence—”

“Something happened?”

Once again I find myself standing in front of you, grasping vainly for the right words to say. “I’m sorry. That’s all I know.”

Your eyes narrow; you are assessing me. And it’s clear by your tight lips that the assessment is not favorable.

Maybe you’re right to judge me harshly. Maybe I should know more about the history between our clans.

“Thank you for your apology.”

You walk away, as if there is nothing more to say.





FOUR


What help I failed to lend during the hunt I try to make up for when it’s time to drag the travoises back to camp laden with hides, ivory tusks, and enough meat to ensure the twenty-four members of our clan will not fear hunger for at least a little while. The loads are heavy, but we have a saying that bringing food back to camp is never a burden. My mother meets us on the trail just outside camp. She beams. “Fish for midday, but mammoth for the evening meal.”

Everyone sits in the square at the center of camp, and Urar, our clan’s healer, offers a chant of thanksgiving for the Spirit of the mammoth who gave up life so our clan might eat and endure. People crowd around to meet you—the slayer of the cat—and to feast on fish, clams, and greens, but Pek and I take our meals and offer our apologies. Our father has requested that we work through the meal to erect a hut for our guests.

“A hut?” I ask. “They’ll be staying long, then?”