The Gathering Night (25 page)

Since my mother had become Go-Between she hadn't been with her family much. She had to learn from Zigor, and that took her far away. I wondered if one day she'd be sorry she'd neglected my father so much in his last days. It seemed to me that learning from Zigor could wait, but Death never waits just because someone isn't ready.

Sendoa and Sorné left us at the end of Salmon Moon. My mother went with them: she wanted to go to Gathering Camp. It was lonely when they'd gone, but I was pleased to stay away from Gathering Camp. Now Kemen had joined our family we had enemies we'd never had before. It frightened me that one of them – Hodei – was Go-Between. Edur was angry with us too, and, though Amets didn't talk to me about it, I knew he was upset about losing Edur's friendship. Osané's family wouldn't speak to her at all after the night Kemen took her – not that Osané said anything anyway, but they'd made it quite clear they'd cast her off. When her brothers had met Kemen alone they'd spat and muttered curses. That was when I told Kemen it would be best if he didn't go out alone while we were at Gathering Camp. ‘If you're with Amets or Sendoa,' I'd said, ‘they'll just keep away.'

Kemen hadn't answered me. He'd turned to Amets and said, ‘I think your wife is asking us all to be women! Perhaps she's tired of meat and doesn't want any men around because they just keep bringing her more of it!'

Osané of course had said nothing.

Haizea and I walked further every day to get food. Now that Bakar was born, Osané came with us; sometimes we spent half the day walking with our babies on our backs. We'd dug so many roots and taken so many plants in the woods that we started going along the shore instead – however long you stay in a Camp, the sea keeps on giving more food than anyone can eat. We found good places along the shore where we'd never gathered before. We set nets and caught sand martins above the beach, and trapped waders where small streams spread themselves across the sand. We managed to trap one otter; Osané used its pelt to line her baby's sling.

It got harder to find dead wood, so twice the three of us paddled along the coast and got driftwood from the beaches. We lashed it into big bundles, and towed it home when the flooding tide was ready to help us with our load. On other days we climbed above the trees and set traps for hare and ptarmigan on the slopes of Mother Mountain. One sunny day we climbed to the top of Mother Mountain, where we showed Osané the two peaks of Grandmother Mountain, lying between the High Sun and Morning Sun Skies. When we faced the other way we could make out, between the Sunless Sky and the Morning Sun Sky, the hills above Gathering Loch. There, in the far-off haze, men would be preparing for the great Gathering Hunt of the Auk People.

Haizea and I always climb to the top of Mother Mountain when we're at Salmon Camp. We do it because our father took us up there every summer when we were little. From the top of Mother Mountain he used to show us where everything was, right across the world. The Year Osané came was the first Year my father didn't come with us when we went to the top of Mother Mountain.

Amets hadn't said anything, but I knew it hurt him not to be at Gathering Camp. After all, he was – and is – one of the best hunters among the Auk People. He should have been at the great Hunt! Edur would be there, and Osané's brothers . . . so many friends and cousins would be there, but not Amets! We all had our reasons for keeping away from Gathering Camp that Year, but none of us spoke about them.

Or only to the spirits: the spirits listened to us. The spirits heard how we longed for the wrongs we carried with us to be put right.

Osané said:

I said nothing for two hands-full and three Moons. After Nekané brought my soul back, and I lay alone in the Go-Betweens' shelter, I tried to waken my voice. My throat hurt. My voice was so unhappy she'd fled my body. Then after two hands-full and one Moons my son was born. My voice wanted him to hear what she sounded like. At first she only spoke to him secretly. One day I was filling waterskins at Salmon River. I sang to my son as he lay in his sling against my heart. I'd seen him gazing at the lights that danced on the water, so I sang to him how at the Beginning there was just the one light falling from the Sun, and how it broke into many pieces when it hit the ground, and some fell into the sky and some into the water, and some still drift across the lands, always looking for a home.

While the River flows

While the River flows

Catching the light as it falls . . .

A shadow fell across us. I looked up. It was Kemen.

I stopped singing.

‘I heard your song.'

I was silent.

‘I heard your song.'

My heart spoke to him. He didn't know that, because I had no words.

Kemen moved the full waterskins aside, and squatted beside me on the riverbank. ‘Osané, I'm very glad you have words for him. Couldn't you find even one for his father?'

My voice fled. I swallowed, searching for it in my throat. Something changed inside my heart and now I wanted my voice to come back. I couldn't force it. Instead, I nodded.

Kemen laid his hand on my knee. ‘I heard you sing about the light drifting across the land, always wanting to go home.'

I looked away. The lights danced on the River. After a while I saw that the River was holding the song curled up inside it. I listened to the River, then I hummed the same tune under my breath. Then, very softly, fixing my eyes on the lights until I couldn't see anything else, I began to sing the words.

The song reached its end. I'd been looking at the sparkling lights so long I couldn't see the River any more. I could only see the patterns the light made inside my eyes.

‘Osané?'

I kept my eyes on the River. I cleared my throat. I found my voice huddled inside my gullet. I forced it to remember.

He had to lean very close to hear me.

‘Yes?' I said to him.

I'm glad Kemen was the first – it was different with my son – he had no words of his own – he was still part of me – I'm glad Kemen was the first to hear me speak again.

Alaia said:

The storm had filled the Sun with new strength; the great rain had washed the sky deep blue. The nights were growing longer, and in the clear skies the stars came back to us. They told us the summer was almost gone, even though the days were hot. One afternoon we spread a bearskin cloak for my father so he could sit propped against his oak tree. Esti knelt between his knees decorating his leggings with rows of shells and different-coloured pebbles. Amets sat on a log a little way away, chipping new blades off a white-stone core. Haizea and I had walked a long way in the heat that morning. We lay back in the Sun and closed our eyes. All I could hear was the River flowing through the gorge, a blackbird singing in the oak tree and the steady knocking of stone on stone.

‘What is it? Has something happened?'

Haizea's clear voice came into my dream. I jerked awake. Kemen was coming towards us, leading Osané by the hand. Why would he do that? He brought her over to the hearth. But it was all right: he was smiling – more than I'd ever seen him smile before.

‘Osané would like me to tell you—'

I knew already what he was going to say. Osané's arm was round Bakar in his sling. She looked a little frightened, a little shy, but also as if she could smile too, so long as we were careful.

‘—that her voice has come back to her.' There was a little tremor in Kemen's own voice as he told us. ‘But her voice isn't very brave yet – I suppose it knows it belongs to a woman, and so it thinks it should tease us a little. So we have to be patient with it. Well, we know all about patience, living in this Camp full of women the way we do!'

‘Well!' Haizea looked at me as she spoke. ‘I think Osané's man just told us some very good news, Alaia!'

‘I think so too,' I said smiling. ‘And you all know how much I like asking questions! But I won't! I'll be patient.
I'm
not the sort of woman who goes round teasing People!'

I kept my word, but it was difficult. There was so much I wanted Osané to tell me. I got my reward two mornings later. Osané and I were by the River. Bakar lay on his otterskin kicking his legs. Esti was picking daisies and scattering them over him. Our fishing lines were all tangled – not by us: Haizea had been using them the day before – and we had to unravel them and tie on new hooks.

Osané said, ‘Don't pull! There's another knot!'

My fingers slipped. A splinter of bone from the fishhook ran under my fingernail. Osané didn't see. I caught my breath and said very calmly, ‘So there is.'

She began to undo the knot, then pointed at my hand. There was blood on my fingers. Osané reached for my hand.

I looked at her as if I didn't understand. I wasn't going back to this game.

‘Let me see your hand. It's bleeding.'

It hurt when she took the splinter out, but I didn't care. I knew now I could get her to talk. I kept on being careful, though. If I'd frightened Osané's voice away again I think I'd have lost my temper completely. Kemen would have been furious with me, and that would have made Amets angry too. As it was, the spirits didn't tempt me further. Osané began to speak more and more. First we just spoke about small things we were doing – cooking, tending the fire, finding plants and firewood, catching fish. Then as the days passed we started to chat more easily. All my questions were poised, waiting to spring. I waited cunningly for our talk to start going the right way.

Amets said:

When Deer Moon was nearly full the women went to Small Loch to collect rushes: they said they had to make new cloaks before the days grew any colder. When they'd gone my wife's father asked me to come into his tent. I sat facing my wife's father across the hearth. Soft rain pattered on the hides over our heads. It drifted through the smoke hole and melted away in the heat above the fire.

We sat in silence. I had bark-strings in my pouch. I thought about taking them out and getting on with the twine I was making. The only sound in the tent was the crackle of the fire, and faint birdsong in the trees outside. A breeze stirred the aspen above the gorge; it sounded like the rain. I had many things I wanted to do outside. The old man sat so still I found myself unable to make any move at all. The air was heavy with waiting. The spirits were very near, but I couldn't see them. It wasn't me they were watching for.

‘Amets, I want to talk to you. My daughter may be telling you a different story. But this matter concerns me alone.'

‘I'm listening.' I leaned so close I smelt his breath. It was the only way to hear him over the crackle of the fire. He didn't realise how much he mumbled now his teeth were gone.

‘Death walks at my side, Amets. He's been speaking kind words to me ever since Bakar was born. I'm ready to go with him when he asks.'

‘I thought this might be what you wanted to tell me.'

‘You're not stupid, Amets. You're not a woman either, to fuss over me and make a noise. You know why I waited so long?'

‘Because Bakar needed you. You had to be there in case no one recognised him.'

‘I said you weren't stupid.' My wife's father gazed into the fire for a long while. I could see it made him tired to speak.

‘Was that all you wanted to say to me?'

He waved his hand impatiently. ‘No, it's not all!' Presently he went on, ‘I knew – not that the spirits ever had much to say to me – but I knew – maybe he let me know it himself – I
knew
Bakar depended on me. Sometimes it felt like a huge burden he'd laid on me. At first I hoped he'd be your child. Only then our little Esti arrived.'

My wife's father leaned back and closed his eyes. When he'd rested a little he went on, ‘After that I guessed I'd have to wait four or five Years or even more – I didn't want Esti weaned too early.' He coughed, and wiped his mouth with a shaking hand. ‘That child of yours will live! I see long life and good health in everything she does. Then Osané came to us. When I saw she was pregnant I hoped – I allowed myself to hope a little – that I mightn't have to wait much longer. And that's how it turned out. So now I needn't wait any more.'

‘We'll look after Bakar when you're gone.'

‘I know.' It came out in a whisper; I only just heard him. He shifted his legs, moving stiffly as if it hurt him. When he spoke again his voice held a shadow of its old strength. ‘You'll take care of my family when I'm gone, Amets. I knew when Alaia took you that you'd do that. Though . . . I was afraid after Bakar went we might lose you too.'

‘I wouldn't have left Alaia to bring up Esti alone.'

‘So you were thinking about it. But you might have left us and taken them with you?'

‘Where to? I left my own family long ago.'

‘You see – you did think about it. But now this family is growing again. You won't leave now.'

‘No, I won't leave now.'

The fire was burning low. I fetched two logs from the pile at the door. I laid them on the glowing ashes. I wondered if there was anything else my wife's father wanted to say to me.