The Raven's Gift - Don Rearden [80]
“You’re crazy,” John said.
“Been called worse, my friend, been called a helluva lot worse.”
John picked up his glass and took another sip while Red stirred the pot. The sweet aroma of curry and chicken filled the small room. Movement on the video screen caught Red’s eye. He set the lid back on the pot and gestured for John to join him in front of the screen.
John rose, half expecting to see the old woman’s hunter racing on his skis toward the tank.
“Damn,” Red whispered. “Here comes company.”
ANNA STOOD POUNDING against the door with her heavy mittens. He opened the door to find her bundled up in her down parka, with a grin that threatened to swallow her face. She insisted he visit a house for the Slaviq celebrations.
“At least one house,” she said. “It’s so fun. Festive. There’s food and singing and this amazing feeling. They bring in this big star and spin it and sing. It’s this incredible feeling of family and friends and community. I’ve never felt this before. You’ve got to try it. Just once. Plus, the next starring is at Carl’s. He wants you there.”
“One? You realize it’s eleven thirty at night?” he asked.
“I know! It’s like time doesn’t matter, doesn’t exist. That’s part of what is so cool. It’s the whole village. Come on.”
He pulled on his boots, hat, and jacket. “I don’t know if I can stomach her beaver stew right now,” he said.
“Carl saved some of the oranges that Santa and the soldiers brought, and someone told me Carrie had muskoxen meat from her brother’s family on the coast. That sounds interesting, doesn’t it? Florida oranges and prehistoric meat! Hurry! If we get there early we won’t have to stand in the porch.”
They scurried down the steps and along the snow-covered boardwalk toward Carl’s house. The gusting wind at their backs seemed to push them, and John didn’t look forward to trudging back with the blowing ice crystals cutting at his face. The blasts made a low, barely audible whistle as they walked between and around the houses. Ahead, he could see people filing into Carl’s little home.
“If it gets to be too much, I’m out,” he said as they reached the front steps.
The men shook hands and nodded and smiled as they entered. Many of the women hugged Anna, as if she hadn’t spent the whole evening with them at another house. The place was packed with people standing against the walls, and some sitting on the floor. The chairs and couch and beds, every available place to sit in the house held a warm body.
John took a deep breath and tried to relax.
Carl waved him over.
“Hey! Glad you came, buddy. Let me find you a chair.”
“It’s okay, I can stand.”
“No way, you’re my guest of honour. Here.” Carl spotted an empty yellow five-gallon bucket beneath the kitchen table. He pulled the bucket out, flipped it over, and slid it up to the table. “There you go! Sit with the elders.”
John smiled in appreciation and looked around the table at the five old men.
“Hello. I’m John.”
The men nodded and two of them introduced themselves. Then they pointed to the other men, introduced them, and explained that they didn’t speak kass’aq. John turned his eyes to the spread of food on the table in front of him. Pots and large yellow and green plastic bowls covered the entire table and each of them was filled to the top with stew, soup, dried fish, cut-up oranges, and variations of akutaq. He glanced around at the elders, short, thin old men he’d never seen up close before.
Wrinkles covered their faces with dark lines and endless crevices, contour maps of history, weather, hunting. He wanted to tell them he wasn’t just another outsider but that his grandmother had been Native, maybe even Yup’ik. He wanted to question them. Listen to them. Hear their stories. And apologize all at once. Instead, he sat there. Dumb.
More people filed in. And still more.
He worried Carl’s small house would collapse. He thought he could