signal of his esteem. But he needed everything he possessed: he could not spare his awl or shoe leather or flint and striker or fishhook and line, or any of his ragged clothes. But yes, there was something he needed a little less than the rest: his coil of rope. This he extracted from his kit and offered to an older, wire-haired man whose bearing and dignity suggested he was the headman.
The muscular older man hefted the line, uncoiled it, found it a worthy gift, and grinned. This, in turn, evoked a flood of gifts in return, much to Skyeâs astonishment. The women hastened to their bark huts and returned bearing all sorts of things: a fine, tanned deerskin, a fringed leather shirt with dyed geometric designs on it, smoked salmon, and baked cakes made of some sort of meal. A bonanza. Skye bowed, expressed his thanks in English, and found himself being escorted to the center of the place where meals were cooking in big iron kettles that must have been gotten from Hudsonâs Bay traders.
That evening Skye feasted on all the fresh pink salmon he could eat, along with some sort of greens and meal-cakes. The women vied to please him, and he acknowledged each gift, each delicacy. A little boy edged close and finally ran a finger down Skyeâs giant nose, and Skye knew what it was about him that fascinated these people. They had never seen a formidable nose before. Perhaps they thought big noses signified power or importance. That dusk the headmen shared a pipe with him and he was ushered into a bark-walled lodge and to a pallet. Luxury, he thought, a respite from starvation and loneliness. He did not even know the name of this river tribe, or their personal names, but they had welcomed him generously. A dozen people, grandparents, parents, large and small children, called that hut home but Skye didnât feel crowded. Instead, he felt safe. He had not been in the bosom of a family since he was a boy, and now he lay in the close dark, aware of all those people, knowing he must never spin out his life alone.
Chapter 8
Skye pulled the elkskin shirt over his navy blouse and found that it fit well enough to use without alteration. It had a curious design, with leather fringes dangling from the arms. The skins had not been trimmed below the waist, and the fringes there hung unevenly, making an odd hemline around his thighs. It was well-used and soft, and permeated with tallow that would turn the rain. Bold zigzag designs in red and blue decorated the chest and back. He appreciated its warmth and knew a good leather shirt would be comfortable in the wilds, subduing the wind.
The headmanâs family stood around him, enjoying the spectacle. He prepared to leave but they insisted he breakfast with them, and once again he filled his belly, this time with some sort of fish cake that had berries in it.
Even that early in the morning, many of the villageâs young men were perched out on a rickety catwalk over the river, slender spears in hand, stabbing the occasional salmon that swam by. Skye watched, fascinated, believing he could fashion a spear out of his spare knife and a pole. If he found an abandoned fishery poking into the river, he would tarry there and try to spear salmon.
Several of the village men carried bows and quivers full of arrows, and Skye ached to possess the weapon. He had never shot an arrow in his life but he didnât doubt that necessity would teach him swiftly. He would learn well enough to kill gameâor starve. Inspired to trade, he dug into his warbag and pulled out a treasured possession that he could nonetheless do without. He used his folding straight-edged razor now and then to keep his whiskers at bay. But now he needed a bow and arrows far more than a shaven face. He approached one of those who carried a bow, gestured toward it and the quiver, and then laid his shaving kit before him on the ground. He opened the razor and handed it to the man. The man gingerly ran a thumb over the
The muscular older man hefted the line, uncoiled it, found it a worthy gift, and grinned. This, in turn, evoked a flood of gifts in return, much to Skyeâs astonishment. The women hastened to their bark huts and returned bearing all sorts of things: a fine, tanned deerskin, a fringed leather shirt with dyed geometric designs on it, smoked salmon, and baked cakes made of some sort of meal. A bonanza. Skye bowed, expressed his thanks in English, and found himself being escorted to the center of the place where meals were cooking in big iron kettles that must have been gotten from Hudsonâs Bay traders.
That evening Skye feasted on all the fresh pink salmon he could eat, along with some sort of greens and meal-cakes. The women vied to please him, and he acknowledged each gift, each delicacy. A little boy edged close and finally ran a finger down Skyeâs giant nose, and Skye knew what it was about him that fascinated these people. They had never seen a formidable nose before. Perhaps they thought big noses signified power or importance. That dusk the headmen shared a pipe with him and he was ushered into a bark-walled lodge and to a pallet. Luxury, he thought, a respite from starvation and loneliness. He did not even know the name of this river tribe, or their personal names, but they had welcomed him generously. A dozen people, grandparents, parents, large and small children, called that hut home but Skye didnât feel crowded. Instead, he felt safe. He had not been in the bosom of a family since he was a boy, and now he lay in the close dark, aware of all those people, knowing he must never spin out his life alone.
Chapter 8
Skye pulled the elkskin shirt over his navy blouse and found that it fit well enough to use without alteration. It had a curious design, with leather fringes dangling from the arms. The skins had not been trimmed below the waist, and the fringes there hung unevenly, making an odd hemline around his thighs. It was well-used and soft, and permeated with tallow that would turn the rain. Bold zigzag designs in red and blue decorated the chest and back. He appreciated its warmth and knew a good leather shirt would be comfortable in the wilds, subduing the wind.
The headmanâs family stood around him, enjoying the spectacle. He prepared to leave but they insisted he breakfast with them, and once again he filled his belly, this time with some sort of fish cake that had berries in it.
Even that early in the morning, many of the villageâs young men were perched out on a rickety catwalk over the river, slender spears in hand, stabbing the occasional salmon that swam by. Skye watched, fascinated, believing he could fashion a spear out of his spare knife and a pole. If he found an abandoned fishery poking into the river, he would tarry there and try to spear salmon.
Several of the village men carried bows and quivers full of arrows, and Skye ached to possess the weapon. He had never shot an arrow in his life but he didnât doubt that necessity would teach him swiftly. He would learn well enough to kill gameâor starve. Inspired to trade, he dug into his warbag and pulled out a treasured possession that he could nonetheless do without. He used his folding straight-edged razor now and then to keep his whiskers at bay. But now he needed a bow and arrows far more than a shaven face. He approached one of those who carried a bow, gestured toward it and the quiver, and then laid his shaving kit before him on the ground. He opened the razor and handed it to the man. The man gingerly ran a thumb over the
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