Eagle Drums, page 12
The boy’s heart sank a little. He tried again.
“We don’t require anything from our guests in return. We only wish to gather together and share stories. And eat good food. Your family would be welcomed, and if you have any concerns, I can try and address those.”
The man tossed the rest of the fish down next to the fire and turned his attention to the boy.
“We just don’t like you, is all. None of our family will attend. In fact, you should probably leave this valley tonight.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Tonight?” he asked.
“Yes, tonight,” the man said as he kicked sand over Piŋa’s campsite, ruining the rest of the fish and effectively smothering his fire.
The boy blinked a few times, unsure of what he had done to get such a reaction, but he started packing his gear. When he looked up, the man in the gray wolf parka was walking back into the darkness. Alik still stood near him, though. He stared at the boy.
“I don’t understand, but I will leave tonight,” Piŋa told Alik. “I don’t want trouble.”
Alik crossed his arms. His normally scowling face was contemplative.
“I’ll pass along your message to the other family members, because I know your task was set by the eagles. But don’t expect any of them to be there.”
The boy nodded, knowing this was the best he could ask for. How was he supposed to argue? What could he say? Did Alik’s family treat everyone like this?
He trudged into the night, his ears perking up at any sound that he heard behind him, but no one followed him out of the valley.
The rest of the meetings went along the same lines. Sometimes the people would greet him with kindness, sometimes they gave him a “maybe,” and sometimes they met him with hostility or indifference or fear. Whenever he could, he would at least draw the map for them and encourage them to invite others, but as the meetings went on, he could not say how many people—if any at all—were coming.
He had only one place left to visit before it was time to head back home for the feast. Winter had arrived, and the ground was now laden with thick snow, so traveling became a constant battle between him and the elements. His tall winter boots were wet from dragging them through the snow, and he was slowed down significantly. He stopped for a few days and made himself a pair of snowshoes from the twisted branches of willow and some sinew that he carried in his pack.
The last spot was closest to his home. He would look for the final pair beside the river that ran alongside his newly constructed qalgi. Glad that his duty was almost at an end, he quickened his pace despite the snow. He was moving so quickly that he almost missed the glow of their fire.
The fire was set deep in the willows in a hollow dug out in the snow. Two round men sat relaxing in its glow. The boy approached them as he had all the others, with empty hands and slow steps. They greeted him warmly and offered him a place next to their fire. When he was settled and had finished explaining why he was seeking them out, they gave him a large bowl filled to the brim with steaming fish soup. He murmured his thanks as he drained the bowl of its warm contents. The round men were greatly amused, and it was a pleasant surprise to the boy. They wore beaver skins, and the boy was in awe of the quality of the hides, for they glowed a deep amber color in the firelight. When he finished eating, he set down the bowl and leaned back, enjoying the warmth from the fire and the soup.
Look at me, relaxing with strangers. Who would have thought this was possible? he thought to himself.
“So tell us where the feast is going to be held, young boy, so that we may join you.” The man’s voice was high-pitched, and he made an odd chirping noise in the back of his throat as he spoke.
“I am headed back there,” the boy said. “We can travel together if you wish.”
Both men nodded in unison, smiles lighting their faces. The boy could see that they had protruding front teeth, which gave them both a slightly comical look.
“It will be a pleasure, young one. We will sleep and then head out tomorrow, ai?” And both men curled into hollows they’d made in the snow and fell asleep, snoring loudly. The boy again took out his sleeping gear—which would need to be replaced soon—and dug himself a place to sleep in the soft snow. He, too, fell asleep quickly.
* * *
In the morning, the boy awoke to the sound of the men chuckling as they banked the fire. He got up quickly and gathered his gear, not wanting to be the slow one of the group. When he was finished, they all set out down the river to their final destination. He found the two men to be pleasant traveling company. They told jokes and laughed frequently, flashing their bright front teeth. As they walked, the two men would stop frequently and strip the outer bark from willow branches. They chewed on the pieces. He thought it odd but figured that it might be some sort of medicine. His mother taught him about how to use the willow bark for pain relief, but he thought it would be rude to ask a stranger about such an odd habit.
The boy marveled at how much his life had changed. Here he was traveling with strangers, on their way to hopefully meet up with even more strangers.
Soon enough, the boy smelled the heavy scent of a cooking fire on the wind; the sharp tang of burning willow wood and steam mixed in the most pleasant way with the smell of cooking fat and frying meat. It made his mouth water at the thought of the food that awaited ahead. He knew he was close to home.
The sound of the two men chatting was drowned out by the worry that suddenly rose up inside of him. What if he failed? What if the people did not come as they said they would? Would Eagle Mother and her brood come to exact revenge on him and his family?
Don’t get ahead of yourself, Piŋa, he thought to himself, but it wasn’t very comforting.
He walked faster, leaving the two men behind, wanting to see what lay ahead of him.
24
QALGI
When he crested the last small hill and spotted the qalgi, the boy was surprised to see that the long building was completely surrounded by camps. He was surprised, too, to see that most of the people he’d invited—and some who were complete strangers—were there sitting around small fires. Relief washed over him as he looked at all of the people. Most of the guests recognized him and called out warm greetings from where they sat. The boy smiled and waved at them, hesitantly and awkwardly at first, but with more energy as he made his way through. He had never seen so many people in one place, and even though it made him a little uneasy, he was also excited. What stories do they have to tell us? What adventures and knowledge?
He helped the two round men he was traveling with find a good place to set up their camp and went to look for his parents. When he reached his sod house, his parents were not there. He stored his gear and ventured back out. He found his mother at a camp with several people dressed in owl feather clothing. She sat talking with an older lady, her face flushed with excitement. When he got close, they both greeted him with smiles and waved for him to sit.
“This woman is telling me about the antics of her sons,” his mother said. “You are so much like her sons. It’s amazing.” She turned back to the woman, and they both laughed, their eyes bright with amusement.
Smiling, the boy got up and looked for his father.
The boy found his father sitting with a family who wore polar bear skins. They all sat hunched over a smoothed portion of snow next to the fire’s light, gesturing with pointed sticks at the drawings carved into the snow. When the boy called out a greeting and crouched beside them, they looked at him with smiles. His father pointed at the drawing on the ground. It seemed to be some sort of map.
“This family says there is a better place to catch seals during spring that I have never heard about.” His father smiled and turned back to the polar bear–clad family, his face alive with interest.
Piŋa stood and continued walking through the camps, taking his time to greet every guest. He also made sure to ask if there was anything the people needed. One family asked for a tent, as theirs had gotten damaged on the way to the gathering. Piŋa easily found replacement skins so that they had someplace warm to sleep. At one point he found two men arguing at the edge of the camp.
One man had accused the other of stealing some food that they had brought, but of course the other family was adamant that they had not taken anything. After listening to both men and watching as the situation grew heated, Piŋa remembered the lessons he learned in the eagles’ home, in particular his interaction with angry Alik and indifferent Pula. The boy did his best to remind the men about the singing and dancing that was to come. He sat with them until the flames of anger dimmed.
It was awkward at first, but he knew how anger could escalate if not addressed, and he couldn’t fail the Eagle Mother. The boy assured both families that they would be fed well the next day. He even returned later to speak to the man who believed his food was stolen, bringing him some dried caribou meat to make sure the man and his family felt heard.
At last, Piŋa made his way back to his family’s sod house. He would need to prepare the drums for everyone tomorrow. He had noticed that there were a few people he had invited that did not come. Alik and his family were not there, and the tall man and his daughter were also not there. But even then, looking out over the camps, the boy felt happier than he had ever thought possible.
* * *
The next day the boy and his family got up early, eager to start the festivities. They opened up two of the storage mounds and emptied their contents. Some of their guests joined to help. Portions were shared with each family: a generous helping of caribou meat, his mother’s delicious whipped caribou fat, and a whole salmon. After that bounty was passed out, they made another round to each camp, with some dried meat, frozen masu root, and a ladle of rendered seal fat. Next there was fermented plant pudding, and some dried and smoked lake trout. The boy soon lost track of the many types of food that kept coming, and once every camp got their share, the eating began in earnest. That left one underground storage mound full of food, which they would open when they were celebrating inside the qalgi.
All the campfires were lit, and food was cooking everywhere. The smell was amazing. Some of their guests shared food that they had brought with them, including expertly fermented fish heads, pokes full of berries of every color, dried sheep meat, and dried seaweed, all of which they happily handed out.
One of his most favorite foods was from a large family he had just met. The mother and father had eight children between them. They showed him food that they had made from finding the stash of roots that lemmings hid for the winter. The mix of roots was washed well and then soaked in seal oil. A boy not much younger than himself came forward and gave him a waterproof pouch full of the special treat, his large smile rounding his cheeks. Pinja was not used to receiving gifts from strangers, and he was sure to thank them profusely. But what the boy heard was even better than the food.
The camps were filled with the sounds of laughter and animated conversation. Children giggled and ran around in excited groups. The air hummed with stories. The boy and his family floated from tent to tent, sampling foods they had never tasted before and making sure everyone was taken care of.
When the sun began to set, the families began to make their way to the qalgi, all vying for the best seats. The hall was filled with the buzz of excitement and hushed conversation.
The boy was pleased to see that the qalgi was large enough to fit everyone comfortably and still have a space in the center for dancing. They brought the rest of the food into the hall, and they all ate until they were so full that it was impossible to eat anymore.
An old man wearing a short parka made from marmot skins stood. He whistled loudly, grabbing the attention of those around him, and they quieted, turning toward him to see what he was about. He smiled at the crowd.
“Quyanaq to the family who invited us here,” he said. “Our travel was easy at this time of year. We did have an incident, though, on the way here, which involved an especially deep, swift river. Would anyone like to hear how we finally crossed it? With no wood?” A few of the people cheered him on, gathering around him to hear him better.
Another woman stood farther down the hall, gathering her own circle of people as she began telling a story about finding a magic piece of driftwood that made your toes grow minds of their own if you jumped over it, and how she had seen a boy yelling at his own feet to obey him.
A young man down the hall stood and told a rousing story about hunting a polar bear who had an extra set of legs. People young and old moved from space to space and sat down to hear the story that interested them the most. The hall was soon filled with storytelling: some told histories of their family, some told mythical stories about fantastic feats, and others told stories of adventures that just happened to them the last summer. The hall hummed with the cadence and rhythm of words.
When there was a lull in the storytelling, the boy and his family walked to the center of the hall. They picked up the drums, and everyone hushed. The boy and his family began to sing a song of gift-giving that they had created. Others soon stood up. The boy recognized the wolverine-clothed people from his stay in the Eagle Mother’s place, but he chose to say nothing when he saw the quiet and small-statured Pula raise her eyebrows. They picked up the other drums and began echoing the words that the boy and his family sang.
When the song settled, his mother rose and started handing out the gifts and small trinkets that she had made, first raising them above her head to show them off, then placing them in front of the person receiving the gift. She handed out small whales and polar bears carved from ivory and bone, hollow and capped caribou leg bones that were small and sturdy enough to hold delicate needles, beads with polished surfaces, warm mittens, and tiny but deadly ivory fishhooks. Each gift was met with gasps of awe and appreciation. When she was finished, his mother walked back to the drum and picked it up, her face flushed with gratitude at the murmured praise on the quality of her work.
His father rose next and handed out his gifts to the families. He, too, raised them above his head to show the audience—obsidian knives and slate ulus glinting in the dim light; arrowheads carved from chert; coils of rope made from the thick, tough hide of the bearded seal; and giant, glowing tusks of walrus. These gifts were met with excitement and pleasure. His father was reserved, but he walked with more pride, and his eyes glittered with thanks. All the while, the song continued its comforting drone.
The boy’s turn was next, and he got up and began handing out the furs that he and his father had dried and tanned. Hands reached out, eager for the gifts, and people sat crooning over the skins, running their fingers through the deep strands of the various pelts, the impossibly white fur of the Arctic fox, the black-tipped gray of the wolf, the deep brown of fall-time caribou, and the bristlier and sun-streaked wolverine furs. They all cheered and laughed at the boy’s flushed face, as waves of gratitude engulfed him and his family. When they were finished, the whole room ended the song with a flourish and a yell that made everyone laugh and call out requests for more songs.
It was time. The boy brought out the eagle drum and attached it carefully to the sealskin rope he had hung from the rafters. It was plainer than the one at the eagles’ qalgi, but Piŋa knew it would sound the same sweet, vital note.
The crowd hushed and waited expectantly as the boy readied himself. In his mind, he ran through the song that he had prepared especially for this moment. And then, slowly, remembering the sound at mountaintop, he struck the drum, mimicking Eagle Mother’s heartbeat.
It echoed, filling the hall with the power that was her presence. All other sounds ceased. The boy closed his eyes and circled the drum, striking it in a rhythm that he knew by heart. He raised his voice so that she would hear. His voice was clear and strong:
Golden Mother
Fly again
Golden Mother
We sing your gift
Golden Mother
We praise your wisdom
He spread his arms wide and cried out, emulating the sharp calls of an eagle. He heard the people around him gasp, but he was steadfast and continued his song:
Golden Mother
Our heartbeats sing
Golden Mother
Our drums are strong
Golden Mother
We praise your wisdom
He heard his own mother’s voice rise clear and strong as she stood up and circled the boy in the opposite direction. She moved gracefully, her knees bent in time with the drums, arms spread wide as she mimicked the great bird she knew from her son’s stories. And she sang:
Young boy
Your task is great
Young boy
I see these people
Young boy
I am wise
And it seemed for just an instant that his mother was the great golden Eagle Mother herself, as she dipped and then cried out exactly as an eagle would. It sent a shiver down the boy’s spine when he watched her sit down again next to his father, her head bowed as if she were suddenly very tired.
With a flourish and a loud boom of the drum, the boy ended his song. For a moment, there was complete silence. Then the men let out loud appreciative yells and the women whooped their approval as they stomped their feet. Piŋa sat down, the echo of the eagle’s heart song still beating through his body.
They stayed up for the rest of the night, dancing and singing. Eventually, the rest of the people came forward with songs of their own—songs of hunting and sewing, of strange creatures and mythical places, of fantastic hunting experiences, and simple songs of a mother’s love for her children. Even the boy who had gifted him the bag of roots in seal oil earlier stood up and did a comical dance and a song about a lemming who wanted to fly and so dipped himself in seal oil, and now, the song said, you could find little brown birds on the tundra who sang with high piping voices.
