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?”
“They may be frequent visitors. They may not. In any event, we will treat them like members of this clan. They will sleep in their own hut.”
And so you will.
Not long ago, our clan was far more mobile than it is now. When I was a boy, maybe six or seven years ago, we followed the bison from place to place, ranging between the northwestern hills in the summer to the mountains in the southeast in the winter. The bison were plentiful then, and our huts were more like tents, easy to put up and take down and light to carry.
But one winter, the bison crossed through the mountains to the east and headed south in the direction of your current home. This was the first winter after you had visited us, and our two clans were not on good terms. The elders decided that we could winter without the bison herd, since the mammoths didn’t migrate nearly as far and stayed within our hunting range all winter. We all trusted the elders—a council of ten men and women chosen by my father, the High Elder, for their wisdom and selfless contributions to the clan. So our tents became heavier huts, beams of mammoth bone anchored to the ground near the shore to give us easy access to the sea, at least until we were iced in for the hardest part of the season. We had always used kayaks to fish, but my mother’s sister and her family became adept at hunting seals.
When most of the bison failed to return from the south two springs later, few people worried. We had become settled in this camp, remaining here nearly year-round. Mammoths were still plentiful, and following the bison herds no longer seemed practical. Instead, we made seasonal trips to hunt and gather, always returning home to this place. Our huts were sturdy and covered with thick hides. They were warm and comfortable, lit by seal oil we burned in lamps of concave stone.
Despite our new comforts, putting up a hut for you and your siblings now makes me yearn for the days of light and portable tents. Our father has instructed us to build you a hut of generous proportions. This one will be wide enough to separate into two rooms by draping hides from the ceiling, like the one my own family lives in.
Pek holds a post made of the chiseled thighbone of a mammoth as I dig a furrow to place it in. The post is thick and the cold ground is stubborn. I hack at the earth with the sharpened edge of a heavy flint stone lashed to a handle I cut from a poplar branch. The handle is rough and the skin of my palms splits from the effort.
“Let me take a turn,” Pek says.
I wave him off. “You brought down the kill; I’ll put up the hut.” Still, bloody hands are slippery hands, and my progress slows. Pek leaves me struggling and returns with a second ax, borrowed from the butchers. Eventually, we force the ground to yield and dig out a trough wide enough for the support beam. We dig a second, then a third. The process becomes routine and my mind drifts to you.
“Pek, do you know what happened between our clan and the Olen clan five years ago?”
“I know someone from their clan killed someone from ours—”
“Killed someone? Who—”