Flight of the Goose: a Story of the Far North by Lesley Thomas

Author:Lesley Thomas [Thomas, Lesley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Far Eastern Press
Published: 2005-12-30T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 18

I tremble at the harsh northern wind

The waves cast me about…

and I tremble at the thought of the hour

when the gulls will hack at my dead body

(YUP’IK HYMN)

THE NEXT DAY the wind had settled enough to finish unloading. I was relieved that the birdman wasn’t there, nor Willy. But Polly came to the beach, wearing the new fall parka Flo had sewn her. It was short and zippered with a deep blue velvet cover that matched her eye shadow and a white fox ruff that made her hair as black and shiny as raven feathers. She was surely not there to work. At first I thought it was to watch some young men helping with the heavy cargo. She was giving me funny looks but they were sly, so I knew Willy hadn’t told; she would be furious, not amused.

Soon I found out what she was up to. Lucy came down to the shore with Natmun, laughing in that special tone used for discussing a person’s foibles. As they passed our fire she said loudly, “Eeee, I never had such a sad guest, that Tingmiaq!” Natmun asked if it was because Lucy had fixed ushavak - that was walrus flipper buried until it ripened. No, Tingmiaq had eaten plenty, Lucy just wondered what was eating him. Homesick, Natmun guessed. They were talking in English for our sake, probably because we were seen as the birdman’s surrogate family. The women passed by, battening down their scarves, and switched to Inupiaq. What did qigluktuq mean? I had forgotten…

“Mom said he visited,” Polly told me. “Is it?” She smiled sweetly. “He has an interest in someone, maybe.” I made the sound of disgust in the back of my throat but she kept on. “Maybe I’ll get interested again.”

“Go ahead! Ki, take him! He’s so bugging!”

Polly said play-thoughtfully, “I know why he’s so sad: someone’s being so mean to him.”

“I never.”

“Pataq said you were.”

“That Willy; what does he know?” His name flew out harsher than I intended. “I can be mean if I want. We don’t need scientists here!” My ears took the heat of my words.

Polly looked down at a coy angle, picking lint from the purple braid of her cuff. After a minute she murmured, “How come people who are twenty act like twelve?” To my sullen pout she said, “Some people must have slept together the way they’re acting. All jumpy.” Her eyes twinkled up at me. “You like him.” I didn’t argue anymore; look where it had gotten me. Silence was usually the best sign of one’s innocence, but Polly had made up her mind. She surveyed me, my face and body. “Did he get funny, in the middle?”

“Of what?”

“Sexual intercourse,” she enunciated slowly like a disease.

“I never do that! Not with him! Or anyone!”

“Never?” she cried.

“You know I have,” I muttered, flushing again - had she forgotten my history? When my meaning finally hit her, Polly gasped, both hands flying to her mouth.

“I forgot! But that doesn’t count,” she added quickly.

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