Raven's Child

Raven's Child

Published by Kathryn Imbriani at Smashwords

(www. kathrynimbriani.com)

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Author's Notes

I love author's notes so I'm putting them in the front. It's my book. I can do that!

This book would never have been possible without the wonderful published work Under Mount Saint Elias: The History and Culture of the Yakutat Tlingit by ethnologist, anthropologist, and archaeologist Frederica De Laguna. She conducted intensive research into the customs and history of the Yakutat Tlingit in the late 1940s and early 1950s. She hoped to document Tlingit culture by recording lifestyles, legends, beliefs, etc. in a time when contact with the outside world was still fairly limited and oral histories were still intact. In a quote from her book, here is how Ms. De Laguna described her mission:

The picture which I am attempting to present is one that will go back to a time when my oldest informants were young, some 80-90 years ago. It is based on the memories of their childhood and on the traditions taught them by their parents and grandparents.

I was amazed at the details in her work ranging from descriptions of sexual practices to herbal foods to the intricate family ties that existed in Tlingit families. When I first wrote this book some 20 years ago, in the dark ages before the internet, it proved almost impossible to find and would have been if not for some exquisitely experienced librarians. However, now it is available as a .pdf file on the Smithsonian's website (I still can't believe that!):

www.sil.si.edu/smithsoniancontributions/.../pdf_lo/SCtA-0007.1.pdf

If, after reading this book, you find yourself as intrigued as I and have some time (it's quite a large volume), check this out and read more about these fascinating people.

~~~***~~~

CHAPTER ONE

Southeast Alaska, 1801

Slip thee into the cold bosom of the sea and she will take you down, down into her cold depths.

Cara clung to the rope ladder attached to the ship's side and looked down at the heaving sea just below her. Above, peering over the ship's railing, was Nikolas. Poor Nikolas had gone mad since the ship left Saint Petersburg nearly two months ago hastened, she knew, by the horrors he'd witnessed.

Nikolas was an able seaman aboard the ship that butchered sea otters and men alike during the day. But, approaching darkness seemed to trigger his deepest fears, turning his mind inward to study the sins he could not escape. At night he roamed the ship spouting profanity and prophecy. He was largely ignored by the other sailors and her father as well. Her father had his own sins to contemplate.

You vill drown. Nikolas crossed his arms on the railing and stated the fact without emotion.

Surely, his words were true. If she slipped away into the cold, turbulent waters beneath her she might die indeed. But then, she might be able to swim to the wave-washed rocks a short distance from the ship's mooring and make her way to shore.

A single light from the crew's quarters shone out over the angry sea, a yellow square on the dark ocean. A cold north wind ripped at her clothes and whipped droplets of spray into a stinging punishment. She glanced down at the heaving waves nipping at her legs. The spray was cold, a portent to the icy water about to swallow her. The rocky shoreline was a dark etching against the starry sky and a short swim away.

If she could endure the waves and the cold and could make the swim to shore, she would be free. But freedom did not come without a price. Free she would be from her father and his cruelty, but she would be a captive of the wild, unexplored Aleyska wilderness. Her chances of survival were slim at best but if she remained onboard her father's ship, her death was likely to be slow and tortured and dressed as a loving father's grief.

She looked back up at Nikolas and wondered if he would sound the alarm and she would be snatched from the water. Or would he remain quiet, content to watch her slide away into the depths while his addled brain explained what he saw in arcane, disconnected thoughts.

She moved further down the ladder and the icy water lapped up against her calves. Above, Nicholas watched, silent. Cara looked up at the clear, starry sky, took a last deep breath, and fell backwards. Icy waves quickly engulfed her and she gasped as the cold water quickly soaked through her clothes. Cold water flooded her mouth and dulled her brain. But she swam, drawing one stroke after another toward the distant shore. She'd rehearsed this escape in her mind for weeks and every motion was now muscle memory and not conscious thought. The layers of clothes pulled her backwards and weighed her down but she struggled forward, fleeing thoughts replaced by dullness and an overwhelming urge to simply fall asleep.

But she was strong and one stroke after another brought her to the ocean's frothy frustration as it crashed against the rocks on the shore. She crawled up on the nearest rock and stretched out upon its lichen-roughened surface. Water drained away from her clothes and reason slowly returned. She raised her head and looked back at the bobbing lights of the ship. No figures moved on deck. No boats launched to bring her back. No one knew. Nikolas had kept her secret.

Once thought returned, she waded, splashed, and sometimes swam again until she reached the sandy, rock-strewn beach. She scrambled for the woods and quickly shed several layers of clothes she'd worn to buy her extra time in the cold water. Keeping the clothes she'd stolen from the crew and the heavy, oily sea otter coat, she hastily buried the others under a nearby rock, disguised the location with leaves and branches, and stumbled away into the dark forest.

Strange and exotic scents filled the dark forest lit only by feeble star light. Branches tore at her face and she fell repeatedly, scraping her hands and tearing her clothes. After some time she found a tree with gracefully bending branches that drooped to form a natural hiding place. She crawled beneath the limbs and found a moss-lined floor underneath. She curled up, pulled the otter coat around her and cradled her cheek on her arm. The last thing she remembered was the distant surge of the ocean and the soft night signs of the forest.

Daylight brought the waking sounds of the forest. Cara parted the drooping branches. Outside her hiding place, a world of icy fog and snow encrusted evergreen trees. The sun was a dim disk behind the fog. Tiny snowflakes drifted down teased from the lowered clouds by a cold wind. Cara remained hidden, listening to the forest, alert for any indication she was not alone. Hearing none, she pulled an oilskin pouch from her belt and hurried ate the meager food she'd managed to bring along. The hardtack biscuits were soaked through with sea water, but she devoured them anyway. Her next meal might be a long time coming. Later, when she felt safe and her father's ship was gone she would decide what her future was to be.

She crawled outside the shelter, shaking loose a shower of snow. Standing, she stretched, arching her back that ached from sleeping so long in one position. Snow fell from a tree with a soft plop. Cara whirled in the direction of the sound. Nearby a passing breeze released a tiny snowstorm from a laden branch.

Suddenly, the woods were filled with men in pointed bark hats and furs slung across their shoulders. They wore pants of skin and their faces were disfigured with bones dangling from their ears and through their noses. Kolush. The Tlingit. The people of the coast whom her father and those like him – the promyshlenniki - had cheated and murdered to get the soft gold, the sea otter pelts so valued by the Chinese trade markets. The Tlingit - proud, independent, resilient warriors – stood between the Russians and complete domination of the richest sea otter hunting grounds. For the soft, lustrous pelts, Russian hunters were willing to murder women and children, burn whole villages and annihilate an entire people. She'd watched it happen, helpless to stop the slaughter until now, when she'd happily risked death in a cold sea to escape living with one more bloody memory.

They watched her for a few minutes in frozen silence. She wondered if they were as surprised to see her as she was to see them. Then, an older man shoved his way to the front of the crowd and grinned after examining her closely. He issued a few words and two of the men stepped forward and grabbed her arms. Between them they half-dragged, half-carried her along with them as they moved inland and the distant roar of the ocean and all she had known faded behind her.

One year later . . .

Weaving and dipping, they danced, lithe, glistening bodies silhouetted against leaping flames. Masks, carved from rich, dark wood into the shapes of killer whales, ravens, and otters winked at her with twinkling abalone shell eyes, giving dual life to the dancers now circling closer.

Leave me alone! Cara shouted in broken Tlingit, frantically trying to form sentences from the few words she'd picked up over the last year. The pounding of the drums thumped into the center of her already aching head. Backing away from the dancers' advances, she fell backwards over a cedar limb. She snatched up the limb, scrambled to her feet, and brandished it at the advancing figures.

Get away from me.

The dancers paused and glanced at each other. The drummer faltered, and then increased the rhythm. A lone dancer twirled toward her, his mask a grinning octopus. Carved tentacles waved in the air, manipulated by sinewy strings held in his hands.

Kill her!

Although Cara's understanding of the language was spotty at best, him implication was clear. She was to be sacrificed or disposed of. Either way, she was dead.

The drummer stopped pounding. The dancers stilled, and then parted to allow Klaida, the old chief, to squeeze through the line. A long robe of woven cedar fibers dragged across the ground, leaving a faint trail in the mud.

Lines furrowing his brow hinted at the depth of his anger. Cara cringed at the rage on his face. She was ruining his potlatch, destroying the celebration meant to honor his recent marriage.

Kill her!He threw out an arm and his long, jagged fingernail grazed the skin between her eyes.

The dancers surged forward. Cara raised the branch and whacked one on the knee. He howled and hopped away holding his leg. Cara darted toward the space made in the crowd, but it was quickly filled in by another dancer. Klaida snatched a slave killing club away from one of the chagrined dancers and brandished it.

I will kill you myself, he said through gritted teeth. And you will cause no more trouble.

Towering over her, he raised the club to its apex, and looked down into her face. She let the branch slip from her fingers and met his gaze squarely. At least her death would have some dignity. Closing her eyes, she waited for the blow that would end her enslavement and her miserable life.

After a moment's delay with no crushing blow, she cracked open an eye. Puzzlement filled Klaida's face as he stared down at her. He raised the club higher and waited, she knew, for her pleas of mercy. Jutting her chin forward, she stared straight back at him. Clouds scuttled across the full moon, casting the village into sudden darkness. A brief breeze made the fire's flames dance. Voices rumbled warnings about Land Otter Men lurking in the dark woods beyond, waiting to kidnap the careless and turn them into beings like themselves.

Klaida looked over his shoulder to his new wife, Palina. She nodded encouragement to her husband and flashed Cara an arrogant, tight-lipped smile.

Why do you not drop to your knees and beg? he asked.

Because I do not fear death as the others, Cara answered in his language.

He lowered the club and frowned. Why?

Because death will be a welcome end to my service to you and Palina.

He lowered the club another inch. To die at your master's potlatch is an honorable thing for a slave. My guests will appreciate that I am a wealthy man, that I can afford to sacrifice my slaves. He waved the club toward the people crowding closer and they murmured their approval.

Then kill me, Klaida, and be quick about it.

Wary voices rumbled louder about the dangers of angering the witches or owls or other mysterious beings that waited to snatch up and punish the disobedient. A puff of wind blew snowflakes across Cara’s face and she shivered from the cold.

Kill me, she ordered, seeing hesitation in his face. Why do you wait?

His slid gaze away from hers. The north wind blew the clouds aside and bright moonlight flooded the ceremonial grounds. Klaida lifted the club with both hands and grinned triumphantly. A hand grabbed his arm.

Cara's breath caught in her throat and Klaida's mouth fell open in surprise.

"Yeł-tłed. Why do you interfere in this?" Klaida asked, lowering the club.

The host of so fine a potlatch would offer a guest the thing he desires most, Klaida. a deep voice answered.

Cara tore her gaze away from the club and focused on the frightening mask in front of her. The front was the carved image of a man, his teeth bared in anger. A salmon with eyes of sparkling shell and teeth painted in brilliant red sprawled across the figure's head.

What of mine do you wish? Klaida asked, relinquishing the club to the masked man.

Tattoos of a raven and a whale covered long, muscular legs. A brief bark apron hung from his waist to mid-thigh. Muscles bulged from arms covered with spidery tattoos and thigh muscles strained against skin covered with more inky images. Above that, images of romping otters and soaring eagles marked a chest sprinkled with coarse black hair.

I wish her. Tall Dancer dropped the club to the ground and pointed at Cara.

Klaida laughed. "She will only bring you trouble, Yeł-tłed. She is disobedient, and my wife beats her regularly."

He studied her wordlessly. Cara strained to see his eyes, to somehow assess this man bargaining for her life, but they were hidden by the mask.

She will obey me. His voice promised he would tolerate no nonsense.

He grabbed her wrist and hauled her against his chest. Grabbing a handful of her short, cropped hair, he yanked her head back and looked into her face. Black eyes snapped at her through the holes in the mask. He loosened his grip and his fingers slid down her neck, out onto her shoulders, and down her arm. His touch was gentle, warm, almost tender, yet he smelled of the urine men anointed their bodies with in honor of the potlatch celebration, a scent she had learned to despise in the last year.

She launched herself at his face, scratching and biting, hoping to surprise him. Caught off guard, he stumbled backwards, and she bolted for the fringe of dense cedars beyond the firelight. She could smell the pungent scent of the deep forest when someone grabbed her from behind and spun her around. He held her upper arm in a vise-like grip. Gales of laughter and crude remarks erupted from behind him. He bent down, scooped her up, and tossed her over his shoulder. Feet dangling, Cara kicked and squirmed and beat on the small of his back with both fists.

Будьте неподвижно, he hissed in Russian, fingers digging into her thighs. Be still.

How did this man know Russian, and better yet, how did he know she spoke it?

"Are you sure you can handle her, Yeł-tłed?"

Cara recognized Palina's voice and craned her head around to see the young woman approaching them.

Yes. I have work for her, he answered.

Palina sidled closer. She never obeyed me even though I beat her every day. She ran her hand down Tall Dancer's arm. Will you train her like one of your sled dogs? Another step closer and Palina pressed against Cara's legs and smiled slyly into the man's masked face.

If you two are through, put me down. Cara struggled against arms that tightened around her like an iron band.

Будьте неподвижно, he hissed again in Russian.

Я не буду все еще. Положено мне вниз. she answered. I won't be still. Put me down!"

Palina narrowed her eyes at the strange language between them and frowned. What language is it you speak? It is no tongue that I know.

Cara felt his muscles tense and wondered if she had gone too far. Why hadn't she just kept her mouth shut?

She speaks the Na Dene. It is common near my people at Yakutat, he answered, switching back to Tlingit.

Palina paused for a moment, considering, then squeaked out a laugh and swayed off. His grip tightened and he strode toward the houses of the village. Would he kill her himself? They passed the first line of long, plank houses that clustered around the common ground. Reaching the center of the village, they entered a long house crowded with people. She recognized several from the ceremony that had nearly cost her her life. Her head bounced as he plopped her onto her feet and shoved her to the ground. Sit here.

He yanked a thong of leather out of his belt, encircled her wrists and ankles, and then tied her to a Raven totem. Пребывание там. Stay there, he ordered. Reaching down into a sealskin bag, he pulled out a fringed dancing shirt and pulled it over his head.

"Dance for us, Yeł-tłed," Klaida shouted from across the circle of people, the previous confrontation apparently forgotten.

The crowd echoed his words. Yeł-tłed padded to the center of the circle. Someone handed him two feathered wings.

At the first strike of the drum, he crouched, and the drumbeats grew louder and quicker. With the wings in his hands, he began to dip and weave. Hushed, the crowd sat spellbound while the fringed trim on his dancing shirt swirled around him. He became the terrible figure on the mask he wore. Children on the front row huddled against their mothers and buried their faces in ample bosoms. The drum thumped louder and his dance became angry, demanding.

Drumbeats thumped along with Cara's racing pulse. Fear warred with fascination as she was drawn into the story he wove with only arms and legs. The beat escalated and the music built to a climax. Faster and faster he danced, stirring a cloud of dust between his bare feet.

The dance reached a crescendo with his last leap and the house roared to life in cheers and shouts. Then, he was beside her. He sliced through her bonds with a knife and unceremoniously tossed her across his shoulder again.

Where are you taking me? she asked in Russian, cringing as he ducked to pass through the low door. His only response was a grunt.

Watching the ground recede, she bobbed along until they approached the edge of the village. She raised her head to look forward and his fingers bit into her thigh.

I just wanted to see where we were going.

He made no response, then kicked open the door of an empty long, plank house whose door was guarded by two elaborate whale totem poles. He set her on her feet and pushed her into the blackness. She stumbled over a bundle and fell to her knees. The soft fur of animal pelts squeezed between her fingers.

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that he had moved inside, away from the doorway. The light of freedom shone from the outside.

Are you going to stay there or do I have to tie you? His voice was rich, deep, and threatening as he spoke the Russian syllables. Easing back against the furs, she reassessed her enemy while he studied her scars. He was tall and powerful and could probably crush her with one hand. How much about her did he know? How had he known she was Russian and what was he going to do about it? Did he intend to take her away and kill her later? Or would she simply trade one master for another?

Without another word, he rose and whirled away. With dismay, Cara watched the sliver of light disappear with the closing of the door.

~~~***~~~

CHAPTER TWO

Total darkness, so deep she couldn't see her hands, surrounded her. How long had she been asleep, she wondered as she struggled to sit up? Senses heightened, she waited for some hint, some sight or smell to indicate if she was alone or who might be there with her. The acrid smell of long dead fires and the sharp scent of grease clung to the air.

Soft rustlings came from the firepit a few feet away. A tiny flame sputtered, illuminating two human palms cupped around the glow. Soft moss caught and filled the area with a fragrant smoke. The hungry blaze grew until it lit the center of the windowless house. In the firelight, her new master squatted by the stone hearth, one knee supporting his weight. Head turned away from her, he removed the mask.

He stood and stared down at several packs at his feet, his back to her. A bit of leather drew long, dark hair drawn back to dangle nearly to the center of his shoulder blades. Now that he appeared more human, he was all the more terrifying.

She was at his mercy. Maybe if she did what he expected, if she made his supper and readied his bed, maybe she could survive until the morning. Then she could wait for another chance to escape. She scrambled to the fire, hands bound, and rummaged through the sealskin sacks for meal preparations.

A hand closed around her arm and gently pulled her to her feet. The fire behind him flickered and caught larger wood. She stared into ebony eyes sheltered by bushy black brows. Tiny bones dangled on a leather thong through one ear lobe. Slowly, the corners of his mouth lifted into a smile, softening the lines of his slim face.

You do not have to do that, he rumbled. You are not my slave.

Cara searched his face, ready for a ruse. But, Klaida gave me to you.

Without answering, he gently guided her back to the pile of furs and firmly pressed on her shoulder, indicating for her to sit. If she wasn't his slave, then what was she? Cold fear flooded through her as her gaze traveled up his body to his face. She closed her eyes against the fleeting images that flashed into her mind, images of another dark, close room and another naked male body.

What are you going to do to me?

Feed you. Squatting down, he pulled a skin-wrapped bundle out of one of his packs. How long have you been here with Klaida?

I don't know, she said with a shrug. Cara's mind spun back over the past. The passing images, the many faces ran together in a collage of terror. She glanced back at him. His dark eyes studied her. Watching for any flicker of an untruth, she imagined. She couldn't tell him who she was or where she came from. If he knew she was the daughter of the Butcher, he'd kill her before morning. She'd have to invent some story, some lie he would believe.

Where were you captured? he asked, opening the small parcel.

Cara's mind flew about, searching for a plausible answer but she found all she could concentrate on was food. I don't know.

He cocked an eyebrow at her, then picked up a piece of dried salmon. Was it inland? Along the coast?He popped a piece in his mouth and chewed while watching her closely.

I told you I don't know. One fierce look made Cara sorry she had snapped. She was in no position to anger this man.

Were you captured by the Tsimshian? he asked, rubbing his chin and frowning.

No. The Haida. Then, I was traded.

To Klaida?

She shook her head. To another band. Then another. Too many memories and too much time made it impossible to explain. He held the dried salmon up, popped another piece in his mouth, and then offered some to her. She snatched it out of his hand and shoved it into her mouth. Chewing slowly, she savored every bit of the strong fish flavor.

He ate another piece and offered her more. She grabbed every morsel for fear he would change his mind.

Where are your people? he asked.

Icy fear crept into Cara's veins. Her people. Probably at Fort St. Michael planning the end of the Tlingit nation. They're all dead. Drowned in a shipwreck.

Hmm. He stroked his chin and looked at the carved beams overhead. I heard nothing about a ship wreck.

Cara swallowed, her eyes glued on the last piece of fish poised on his fingertips. The saliva in her mouth was choking her. We were exploring along the coast when a storm blew in.

Exploring what? He handed her the last morsel.

The coastline. She grabbed it and jammed it into our mouth.

What is your name?

Panic gripped her throat making it impossible to swallow. Cara.

He studied her for a moment and she prayed he would be satisfied with that. The rest of her name, Tarakanov, elicited both hatred and fear in the Kolush, the people of the Aleyska coast.

He stood, retrieved the mask, and set it on his head. I have to go back to the potlatch.

Wait. What should I call you? Cara questioned.

He removed the mask. "My Tlingit name is Yeł-tłed, White Raven."

Cara nodded. He smiled at her and stepped closer. But my mother calls me Sasha.

Squatting, he gently took her ankles and bound them with a soft leather thong. I do not like to do this, but you must not escape. He tugged the strap and tightened the knot Too tight?

Cara shook her head.

There is extra wood within your reach. Water is there in that box. He indicated a small, wooden vessel at her side. I will return later. He pushed to his feet and walked out of the light. Cold wind swept in as he opened the door, then closed it.

She sat for a few moments and listened to the wind buffeting the corners of the house. Sasha. A Russian name. And White Raven, a Tlingit name. Why would a Tlingit bear two names, especially when one was from a hated people? And what did that mean for her? The wind howled again. A storm approached, one the village had talked about for days. The shaman had predicted deep cold and heavy snow. Her chances of escape diminished by the hour.

***~~~***

Chanting and wailing filled the air around the village as White Raven headed back toward Klaida's house. A blast of wind whipped dry leaves around his feet and jingled the shells and bones attached to his dancing shirt. Wishing he had brought his bear fur, he wrapped his arms around himself. What had he gotten himself into? Whatever had possessed him to ask Klaida for such a pitiful slave and especially a Russian woman? He shook his head and wondered if Klaida knew he had held one of the hated promyshlenniki in his very house for over a year. Probably not, or the girl would have been killed long ago.

Villagers huddled before the plank house the old chief shared with his new wife. Klaida's relatives were already ushering in high ranking individuals to the graduated wooden benches marching from the firepit to the roof of the house. A man in a woven spruce hat directed him to a bench down near the front of the group. Klaida must have done much loaning this summer to have achieved all this wealth, White Raven thought, eyeing the tall pile of blankets.

Then, Klaida entered the area around the fire. He yanked aside a blanket covering a mound of blankets piled on the lowest bench. Carved dishes, mats, spoons carved from mountain goat horns, tobacco mortars, and shell jewelry loaded another bench. Klaida strode to the front and vainly adjusted the tall headdress interwoven with spruce roots. White Raven counted fifteen roots and chuckled. Klaida had given fifteen potlatches in his time and this was Palina's first. The old man had done well to capture such a prize in a wife. There would be a baby to bounce by the fire before next winter, if he was any judge, White Raven thought watching the way Klaida eyed his young wife.

Friends, you all know my name, Klaida began, strutting back and forth. You knew my father and his father before him. You know what they did with their property. They killed or gave away their slaves; they burned their war canoes in the fire of the feast house; they gave away all their blankets and cut to pieces all their sea-otter skins, all their fine bear skins.

The guests rumbled and nodded.

My father and his father before him were not common men, he continued. They were true chiefs. I will not block the path of my father or his father. I am descended from my father, and he from his father.

Again, heads bobbed in agreement while Klaida traced his ancestors back through the generations. White Raven watched the response. If Klaida's enemies were here, they would contradict his lineage and revenge would be in order.

I have many names and am linked to many tribes. I have many chiefs as ancestors. There are no lower chiefs in our family. Who can approach what was done by the chiefs, my ancestors?

No one commented. Klaida went into another speech about his ancestors, and White Raven's attention wandered from the monotonous tone. The trip back to his village would be a long one, but not long enough. He sighed, thinking of the fate that awaited him. There were many furs to retrieve