Текст книги "A Woman of the Iron People"

Автор книги: Eleanor Arnason

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The planetologists had not been happy when they saw the first long-distance holograms. The moon was too big, they told us. All the best theories said that Earth was an anomaly. Small planets didn’t have moons. Or if they did, the moons were tiny: pieces of captured space junk.

The ship got closer in. The planetologists discovered the surface of the moon was comparatively smooth.

The system was full of junk. The planet had twelve other moons, all of them clearly captured planetoids. The big moon should have been covered with impact craters. Instead there were wide plains of volcanic origin and some fairly impressive mountains, also of volcanic origin.

The moon was active, and the best theories said that small planets did not have active moons.

Which meant the planetologists had to start working on new theories. I’d heard a couple. One involved tidal pull. The other assumed a really odd composition for the body in question. They were too far outside my area of expertise for me to have an opinion. I simply enjoyed the strangeness of the moon.

I woke at dawn, got up, and went to find a place to pee. Then I did my exercises, ending with the solar salute. I timed it perfectly. When I finished the sun was fully up, round and crimson, right above the eastern wall of the valley.

Nia woke, and the oracle. Derek was the last person up. He stretched and groaned, then climbed to his feet. We ate. Nia went to saddle the bowhorns. The oracle followed after her.

Derek yawned. “Coffee. That’s what I need.”

“What did you find?”

“The lake is mud. Hot mud. Boiling. It’s an interesting sight. Bubbles appear on the surface. They get bigger and bigger, then—pssht. They’re gone. Exploded.” He yawned again. “The smell of sulfur is really offensive. And there are poles along the edge.”

“What?”

“Wooden poles. Maybe ten centimeters thick. About three meters high. They’re decorated with feathers and pieces of cloth. Some of them have horns on top made of copper. Really badly corroded. The gases from the lake must do that.

“I assume the lake has some kind of religious meaning. Wouldn’t you think? I found this on the edge in the mud.” He rolled up one sleeve. There was a bracelet on his arm. He pulled it off and handed it to me. It was gold, wide and heavy. I turned it and saw a design, repeated four times: a bowhorn with another animal attacking it, digging in with its claws and biting. What was it? The body was sleek like the body of a panther. The head was long and narrow with huge ears, and the tail ended in a tuft. “Nia?”

She came over.

“What is this?”

She took the bracelet. “Hu! This is good! One of my people made it. No one else can do work of this quality.”

“What is the animal? The one on top?”

“A killer of the plain.” She tilted the bracelet so the design was more visible. “A killer of the mountains is smaller and has scales as well as fur. I wonder how this got here? Where did you find it?”

“Derek found it in the valley, by the lake.”

“Then it is an offering. A gift to the demons of fire. You should not have taken it.” She handed the bracelet to Derek.

“Oh, no?” He put the bracelet on.

“I see you are going to keep the thing.” Nia made the gesture that meant “so be it.” “I think you are making a mistake.” She turned and walked away.

Derek grinned, then rolled his sleeve down and fastened it.

“There are times when I think you are crazy,” I said.

“No. Only badly alienated. Anyway, I don’t believe in demons of fire.” He glanced at the valley. “It’s a good thing I don’t. My own protection is too far away. The Gray Whale can’t help me here.”

The trail turned south, leaving the rim of the valley. Once again we traveled among hills. The day was overcast, and the sun was a bright white disk. In the diffuse light there were no shadows. I was pretty certain that we were traveling west, but I would not have bet on it. I thought—as well—that we were climbing, but I would not have bet on that, either. The trail wound up and down.

Gradually the slopes of the hills grew gentler. The valleys grew wider and more shallow. The bushes and trees—those few there had been—were gone.

“Nuh,” said Nia, sounding satisfied. “We are coming to the plain.”

We entered a new valley. A stream ran through the middle of it, and a flock of animals fed along the bank. They were bipeds, a new species, larger and heavier than any I had seen before. Only two were standing on their hind legs. Lookouts maybe. The rest had their front legs on the ground and their heads down, feeding.

Derek said, “They must be more efficient than our dinosaurs. They have competition from mammalian browsers. Or do I mean mammaloid? I don’t understand how they manage to survive.”

“There are—or were—a lot of odd birds on Earth. Ostriches. Emus. Cassowaries. How about the moa and the great auk? They survived into the age of mammals. In fact, I think they evolved in the age of mammals.”

He shook his head. “They evolved from ordinary birds to fill specific ecological niches—on islands, in at least two cases. The moa lived in New Zealand. The great auk nested in Iceland. These creatures are all over. They are obviously competing successfully. And I don’t think their ancestors were birds. They look reptilian, if that word has any meaning here.”

“They have feathers, and I’m willing to bet they’re warm-blooded.”

“So were the dinosaurs. Warm-blooded, I mean.”

One of the upright animals let out a bellow. The others reared onto their hind legs and moved away up the valley along the stream. They had a funny gait, a lumbering run. As awkward as it seemed, they covered a lot of ground. By the time we reached the bottom of the valley, they were gone.

Midway through the afternoon I looked around and realized the hills had ended. We were on a rolling plain, covered with pseudo-grass. It rippled in the wind, changing color as the leaves turned over: green, blue-green, tan, and gray.

Something rose above the horizon in the north. I shaded my eyes and stared. The thing was almost the same color as the sky and so distant that it was barely visible. A cone, wide at the base. The top of the cone—the point—was missing. Instead there was a horizontal line. The rim of a crater.

I turned and waited for Nia, who was riding some distance behind me. The oracle was behind her, also riding. “What is that?” I asked. I pointed.

She glanced, then reined her animal.

“I have not seen it before. But I have heard. That is Hani Akhar. The Great Mountain. The home of the Mistress of the Forge.”

The oracle came up beside us. He looked north. “Yes. That is the one. I can feel it even at this distance. It is a very holy place. Also dangerous. She is not always friendly, that spirit.”

“This is definitely the wrong trail,” Nia said. “We are way north of where I want to be.”

“We will end up in the right place,” the oracle said. “The route we take doesn’t matter.”

Nia scratched her nose. “There is no way to argue with a holy person. They are always certain they know more than we do. And if we say, ‘No,’ they say, ‘The spirits have spoken.’ ”

I moved on ahead. I didn’t like to be on the ground near the bowhorns. They were too big, and Nia’s mount was sometimes restless and even nasty. I certainly did not want to follow the animals. It was a hassle to have to keep watching for dung.

That evening we camped by a little marshy lake. Derek and Nia went hunting. They came back at nightfall, empty-handed. We ate stale bread and drank water from the lake. It had a funny flavor.

“Swamp water,” said Derek. “I’ve drunk worse in California.”

“In the desert?” I asked.

“Mostly. But also in Berkeley. A couple of the people in my department had really lousy taste in wine. And they were important people. I had to go to their parties.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Nia.

“A drink like bara,” I said.

“Is it nasty-tasting?”

“Sometimes,” Derek said.

He wandered off, taking his radio. I stayed with the two natives by the fire.

The big moon was up and more than half-full. I looked at it, trying to see evidence of a volcanic eruption, but the clouds veiled it and blurred its edges.

I looked at the natives. “Does anything unusual ever happen to the big moon?”

“What do you mean?” asked Nia.

I thought for a moment, trying to figure out how to describe something I had not seen. “Do bright spots ever appear on it? Do things ever appear on the rim, like a wisp of steam rising or like a tongue of flame licking out?”

Nia made the gesture of affirmation. “But that isn’t unusual.”

“What does it mean?” I asked.

“Nothing that I know of.” She frowned, thinking. “There are people in the west who have found a way to look at the sun without harming their eyes. According to them, the sun is not flawless and untarnished the way we think it is. They say it is spotted. The spots are black. They crawl around like bugs. When the spots appear—a lot of them—it means the weather is going to get bad.”

“I’ve never heard that story,” said the oracle. “But I know what it means when a spot appears on the moon.”

I made the gesture of inquiry.

“It means the Mother of Mothers has not been watching her pot.”

“What?” I asked.

“The old women say the big moon is a cooking pot. It belongs to the Mother of Mothers. Sometimes she forgets to watch it, and it boils over. Then we see what you have described. The old women say it means the winter will be hungry.” He paused. “My mother says the old women are wrong. She has kept a moon string for many years. Every time something happens up there, she ties a knot. And she has other strings that she uses to keep track of the weather. Rain. Snow. A big wind. Drought. She has a string for every kind of weather. There is no connection between what happens on the moon and what happens on the plain. That is her opinion. I think she is right.”

“Huh,” said Nia. “I have never heard the story about the moon. If it isn’t true, I won’t repeat it.”

“The part about the cooking pot is most likely true,” the oracle said. “My mother said nothing about that. Not everything that happens in the world of the spirits has an effect on our world here.”

Nia made the gesture of agreement.

Derek came back. I glanced at him. “Did you get through to Eddie?”

“Yes. Why shouldn’t I?”

“There was static last night, and I’ve been talking to computers the past couple of days.”

“Eddie didn’t mention anything about static.” He sat down, folding himself neatly. “Or about computers. But he has been spending time in one of the big holovision rooms. The moon iserupting. And the eruption is big. We are missing one heck of a sight.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Nia.

“The moon,” I said. “It is boiling over.”

She looked at the sky. “It’s too bad the sky is cloudy.”

The next day Nia said she wanted to walk.

“I am feeling restless again. If my ankle begins to bother me, I’ll ask you to dismount.”

“All right,” I said.

The oracle, as always, rode. Now and then we passed little marshes or half-dry lakes. The sky was hazy. Hani Akhar remained just barely visible.

Late in the afternoon we reached the top of a rise. Below us was a lake. It was much larger than the others we had seen, irregular in shape and full of tiny islands. The edges were marshy. Monster grass grew in bunches on the shore.

Nia said, “I know this place, though I haven’t been to it before. This is the Lake of Bugs and Stones. We are in the land of the Amber People. They come here in the fall on their way south. They fish and hunt for birds, and they perform ceremonies in honor of the mountain.”

The oracle made the gesture of agreement. “Another holy place.”

We descended. The sky was clear in the west. The sun was low. The water glittered, and I could barely see. We passed a grove of monster grass. The lake was only a few meters away. Reeds moved in the wind. The water flashed. Something bellowed. It was right in front of me, crashing out of the reeds, rearing up. My God! It was three meters tall! The mouth was open. The forearms reached toward me, claws spread. Another bellow! The animal I rode jerked its head. The reins whipped through my hands. The bowhorn bucked, and I kicked free of the stirrups. A moment later I slammed against the ground. The jolt went through me. I yelled. Then I was standing upright.

“Back off,” said Derek. “Slowly. Don’t frighten it.”

I took a step back. Derek was next to me. I couldn’t see Nia or the oracle or my bowhorn. The pseudo-dinosaur bellowed again. But it didn’t move. Now, for the first time, I saw it clearly. Three meters tall. Hell! It was more like four. It had a bright pink belly and a crest of yellow feathers. Its arms and shoulders were dark blue-gray.

I took another step. The creature hissed. The open mouth was full of teeth. Blunt teeth. It was an herbivore. But the claws were long and sharp. For digging? Did it fight? The head tilted. A tiny bright eye stared at me.

“Keep moving,” Derek said. His voice was low and even. “One step at a time.”

I saw Nia on the other side of me, a knife in her hand. A useless weapon against this monster. It made another sound. A moan. What did that mean?

Something was moving behind it, coming up from the lake. Another monster. I blinked, trying to see against the sun. It was smaller than the beast confronting us and went on four feet. Its back was gray.

“The female,” Derek said.

It turned its head and bit off a reed. Then it went on, chewing, making a loud crunching sound. Pieces of reed hung from its mouth. Three other animals came after it. These were small, about the size of a Saint Bernard. Two were quadrupeds. They waddled after the mother. The third hopped awkwardly.

“Well, what do you know?” said Derek.

We kept moving back, away from the angry male. Where was the oracle? I couldn’t see him.

Mother waddled on. The children followed. At last they were out of sight, hidden by a grove of monster grass. The male hissed, then turned and bounded after his family. My shoulder began to hurt. My knees gave out. I sat down.

“Very interesting,” said Derek. “They care for their young. That helps explain how they are able to survive in competition with the pseudo-mammals. The mammaloids. We need a whole new vocabulary. O Holy Unity! I thought I was going to piss in my pants.”

Nia said, “Hu!” She put her knife away. “I hope the crazy man is all right. His bowhorn took off. The last I saw of it he was still holding on.”

“Oh, my God, Derek. Our equipment. The radios.”

He laughed. “On the bowhorns. Out there.” He waved at the plain. “Are you all right?”

“My shoulder hurts like hell, and I bit my tongue. I don’t know when.”

He checked me over. “Your shoulder isn’t dislocated. Your tongue is still there. I think you’ll be okay.” He turned and stared at the plain. “I’m going after our equipment. I used to chase horses back in California. Bowhorns aren’t any faster. I’ll catch up with them.” He glanced at me. “You make camp around here somewhere. I’ll find you.”

“Derek—” I began.

He loped away.

“Derek!” I shouted.

He didn’t look back.

“He is very strange,” said Nia.

“Yes.” I watched till he was out of sight, then I glanced at Nia. “Well, let’s go find a place to camp.”

Inahooli

We followed the trail along the shore until we came to a grove of monster grass. Nia cut branches and wove them into baskets: traps for fish. “This may not work. It is easier to catch fish in a river.” She put the traps in the water.

After that we explored the grove. Nia found a patch of plants growing at the eastern edge. Their roots were edible. I gathered firewood. We baked the roots. They were crunchy and almost flavorless.

“They are good in a stew with meat,” said Nia. “Alone—” She made the gesture that meant “the rest is obvious.”

“Better than nothing.”

She made the gesture of agreement.

Night came. The wind shifted, blowing off the lake. All at once the grove was full of bugs.

“Biters!” said Nia.

I slapped my neck. “You’re right.”

We crouched by the fire. The smoke protected us to some extent. I got bit a second time, on the wrist. Nia got bit once, on the palm of her hand, where she had no fur.

“Hu!” She clapped her hands together. “Well, I got the creature. It will not bother another person. How can you bear it, Li-sa? You have no fur. They can bite you anywhere.”

Smoke had gotten into my eyes and they were watering. The places where the bugs got me were itching. “I am not fond of situations like this.” I scratched one of the bites. “But what can I do about it? I can’t grow fur. And anyway, I’ve been through a lot worse. I used to live in Minnesota.”

“Where?” said Nia.

“A land with many lakes and many bugs.” I paused and listened. The bugs hummed around my ears. There were a lot of them. They ought to be biting more. Maybe I didn’t smell right. Maybe it was only the brave bugs—or the stupid ones—that decided to give me a try.

“Aiya!” Nia hit her forehead. “Another one!”

I waved the smoke out of my face. “They can bite through your fur?”

“Only in a few places, where it is thin. Around the eyes or in the crook of the elbow.”

The wind shifted again and blew the bugs away. We lay down. We had nothing to cover us. Nia’s cloak was with the rest of our baggage out on the plain. So was my poncho. But the night was mild, and I was exhausted. I curled up and went straight to sleep.

I woke early. The clouds were gone, and the sky above me was brilliant blue-green. Birds made noises in the foliage. Nia snored by the ashes of the fire.

I got up, groaning. My entire body was stiff, and my shoulder felt especially bad. I rubbed it, looking around. There was no wind. The lake was still. Out on the open water beyond the reeds a canoe glided.

“Nia!”

She scrambled to her feet. I pointed. She yelled and waved her arms. The canoe turned in. A moment later it was gone—out of sight among the reeds. We hurried to the shore.

“Who can it be?” I asked.

“I don’t know. A woman. One of the Amber People.”

The prow pushed through the reeds. A dugout, roughly made. It slid toward us. The woman in the back lifted her paddle from the water, then raised a hand and shaded her eyes. “Am I seeing things? Is one of you hairless?”

“Yes,” I said.

The canoe hit shore. The woman climbed out. She was taller than I was and lanky with dark brown fur. Her face was wide and flat. Her eyes were dark orange, almost red. She wore a pale yellow tunic decorated with bands of embroidery. The pattern was intricate and geometric, done in various shades of blue. Her belt was blue, and she had a long knife in a sheath of blue leather. “Were you born like that?” she asked. “Or have you been ill?”

“This is the natural way for me to be.” I used the word that meant “usual” or “proper.”

She looked me up and down. “Natural, eh? And you?” She turned to Nia. “Who are you? And why do you travel with a freak?”

“I am a woman of the Iron People. Nia, the smith.”

The new woman frowned. “There is something familiar about that name.”

“It’s common enough,” said Nia.

The woman kept frowning.

Nia went on. “What is your name?”

“Toohala Inahooli. I belong to the Amber People and to the Clan of the Ropemaker. Right now, I have a position of high prestige. I am the guardian of the clan tower.”

Nia made the gesture of acknowledgment.

I said, “What is a clan tower?”

She glared at me. “Where do you come from? Don’t you know—among the Amber People, every clan builds a tower in honor of its First Ancestor? We make each tower as tall as possible. We cover it with decorations and perform ceremonies in front of it in order to impress the other clans and make them feel envious and small.”

A new kind of artifact! I thought for a moment. “Can I see the tower?”

“Yes. Of course. What use is a clan tower if people aren’t impressed by it? And how can people be impressed unless they come and see? But I warn you—our magic is powerful. If there is anything demonic about you, you will come to harm.”

“No. I’m not demonic.”

“We can’t go,” Nia said. “Deragu—” She paused. “I cannot say the name.”

“Derek,” I said.

“Derag told us to wait.”

The woman frowned. “Who is this person? The name sounds male to me.”

“The person is a woman,” Nia said. “She comes from the same place as Li-sa. They speak a language that is nothing like the languages on the plain. The endings are different.”

Inahooli made the gesture that meant she understood what was being said.

Nia went on. “Our bowhorns ran away. She—this person Derag—has gone after them.”

Inahooli repeated the gesture of comprehension.

“You stay here,” I said. “If Derek comes, tell her where I am. She’ll understand.”

Nia made the gesture that meant “no.”

“Why not?”

Nia scratched the back of her neck. Maybe she had gotten bitten there, though—as I remembered—the fur was pretty thick.

“Listen,” Inahooli said. “I will go away. You two can argue. Maybe that one”—she pointed at Nia—“has something bad to say about me.” She walked down the shore.

“Okay,” I said. “What is the problem? Do you think the woman is dangerous?”

“No. But I think she has heard about me. When my people found out about me and Enshi, it made a big noise. The Amber People could have heard the noise. They trade with us.”

“I want to see the tower. Have you heard about things like that?”

“Yes. The Amber People aren’t like my folk. We are related to the People of Fur and Tin. We know that. We call them ‘kinswoman.’ And I think we may be related to the Copper Folk. Their language is not hard to learn. But the Amber People … Their language is difficult and their customs are peculiar. They boast a lot. Every clan tries to outdo the others in building towers and dancing. I don’t understand it.”

“I’m going,” I said. “I ought to be back this evening.”

Nia made the gesture that meant “so be it.” “Don’t tell her that we are traveling with men. I don’t think she would understand.”

“Okay.” I waved at Inahooli. She came back. “I’m going with you.”

“Good. This will be a remarkable event. No guardian has ever shown our tower to a person without hair.”

We pushed the canoe out from shore and climbed in. Inahooli began to paddle. In a minute or so Nia was gone, hidden by the plants that I called reeds. They swayed above us, tall and dull blue-gray. Most of the stalks ended in a cluster of leaves, but here and there I saw a round, dark, shaggy head. The flower of the plant? I didn’t know.

We slid out into open water. Ahead of us were islands. They were small, only a few meters across, and made of a soft volcanic stone that had weathered into very odd shapes. One looked like a mushroom. Another—tall and narrow—reminded me of a human woman in a robe. A third island was an arch. A fourth was a miniature cathedral. Late Gothic, I decided. The cathedral had a lot of spires.

We glided among the islands. I looked down. The water was clear. A fish flashed into sight, then turned sideways and vanished. What a planet! All at once I felt horrified at the idea of going home.

Stop it, I told myself. Don’t think about Earth. Concentrate on the present. Enjoy what you have now.

I looked ahead. There was another island in sight: long and low, surrounded by reeds. At one end was a construction, twenty meters tall, I estimated, made of rough latticework. Banners hung from it, limp at present. As we drew nearer I saw other kinds of decoration: bunches of feathers and long strings of shells.

“The tower of the Ropemaker,” Inahooli said.

We rounded the island. On the far side was a beach. We landed and pulled the canoe up on the gravel.

Inahooli led me toward the tower. The island was rocky and mostly bare with scattered patches of vegetation: orange pseudo-mosses and brown pseudo-lichens and a leafy gray plant that came up to the middle of my calf. There were only two objects of any size: the tower and a tent of dark brown fabric.

“That is my home,” said Inahooli. “Every spring we come here. The clan rebuilds the tower and performs ceremonies to make it holy. Then we throw dice, and one of us is picked to be the guardian. All summer that woman stays by the tower. She watches it and makes certain that nothing happens to it. In the fall the tribe comes back. The clan invites everyone to a big dance. We eat. We make music. We brag about our ancestors. If everything goes well, the other clans are embarrassed. After that we all go south to the Winter Land. The Groundbird Clan give their dance there. Usually they do badly. For some reason they have never been good at bragging. And anyway, what do they have to brag about? Their ancestor is a miserable groundbird who did only one thing of importance.”

“What?”

“She stole fire from the Spirit of the Sky and gave it to the people of the world. That is all well and good. We feel grateful in the middle of winter, when the snow is deep and the wind blows and so on. But our ancestor saved all living things.”

“Oh, yes?”

We reached the tent. The tower was only ten meters away. Close to the bottom there was a row of masks hanging on the latticework. They were oval with round eyeholes. Each one was painted a solid color: red, yellow, black, white.

I pointed. “Who do they represent?”

“The black one is the Ropemaker. Yellow is the Trickster. Red is the Mistress of the Forge. And white is the Old Woman in the North.”

“Tell me about them.”

She looked me up and down. It was a calculating look, the look of a storyteller who has gotten an opening. “All right. But I can’t use the masks. They have to stay where they are until the big dance. Sit down. I will make the story plain and as short as possible.”

I sat down in front of the tent. Inahooli sat down facing me. Overhead a bird whistled, soaring over the lake.

“This is the story of the ivory comb,” she told me in a loud voice.

“In the far north there is an old woman. Her tent is in the sky. The walls of the tent are made of light, hanging in folds from the tent poles, which are made from the bones of the original worldmonster. How they got in the sky is another story, which I don’t have time to tell. The old woman has a comb, which is made from one of the monster’s teeth. It is ivory, as white as snow. She uses it to comb her fur. When she does this, she pulls creatures out. They fall to the floor and vanish, going through the floor into the world. All the animals in the world come into existence this way.

“When the old woman combs the left side of her body, the animals that come out are good and useful: the bowhorns we herd, the birds we hunt and eat. When she combs the right side of her body, the animals that come out are harmful: lizards with venomous bites and bugs that sting. The people of the world sing to the old woman, praising her and asking her for help. This is one of the songs:

 
“Grandmother, be generous.
Comb the left side of your body.
Then we will be prosperous.
Then we will be happy.
Our children will be fat
In our tents by the fire.
“Grandmother, be compassionate.
Don’t comb the right side of your body.
Leave the lizards where they are.
Don’t send us
the bugs that bite and sting.
 

“In the far south there is a young man. He is tall and handsome. His eyes are as yellow as fire. No one is certain who his mother is. Some people say it is the Great Spirit, the Mother of Mothers. Other people say it is a demon of fire.

“The young man is called the Trickster. He is the one who comes to men in the winter, when they guard the herd. Each man sits alone under a tent that is made by stretching a cloak over the branches of a bush or tree. Snow comes down on him. The fire in front of him is low. The man sits and shivers, holding his arms close to his body. Then the Trickster comes. His voice is like the wind. He says, ‘Why are you doing this? Why do you suffer for the ungrateful women of the village? Forget your mother. Forget your sisters. Forget the sons and daughters you may have. Go off into the hills and live like an animal without obligations, pleasing yourself alone.’

“Most men ignore the voice. But some listen. They go crazy and leave the herd, wandering into the hills. No one sees them after that.

“The Trickster is the same one who goes to meet women in the spring, when it is mating time. He looks like the best kind of man, large and strong and self-confident. He establishes his territory close to the village. No other man dares to confront him. When the women come out full of lust, they meet him. Some of them meet him, anyway. Each woman who mates with him thinks, What an excellent father! My child will be hardy and resourceful. Good-looking, too.

“But the mating produces no children. Or if children are born, they are sickly and bad-tempered. They cause nothing but trouble.

“This is usually so. But the Trickster is never reliable, even in the evil he does. Once in a while a woman mates with him, and the child who comes out is like her father, large and strong and self-confident: a true heroine.

“One of these was my ancestor, the Ropemaker. But first I must tell how the Trickster stole the ivory comb.

“He was in the far north, cold and hungry. There was nothing around except the wide plain covered with snow. After a while he came to the tent of the old woman. It shone above him, white and yellow and green. He took off his snowshoes and stuck them in a bank of snow. Then he climbed up into the sky.

He entered the tent. The old woman was there, sitting in the middle of the floor. Her fur was gray with age. She was combing it with the ivory comb.

“The Trickster sat down. He watched greedily. The old woman was pulling the comb through the fur on her left forearm. Out came animals. They were little and dark. The old woman shook her comb. The animals tumbled down. When they reached the floor, they vanished. They were going into the world, into the deep burrows of the builders of mounds.

“ ‘Grandmother,’ the Trickster said. ‘Give me some of your animals. I am hungry, and they look delicious.’

“The old woman stared at him. ‘I know who you are. The Trickster, the One Who Tells Lies.’ She gave the comb a shake, then she caught one of the animals in midair. It sat up on her hand. Its tiny nose twitched. Its whiskers quivered. It looked at the Trickster with bright dark eyes. ‘These animals are part of me. I give them to people who treat them with respect. But you—O Evil One—you misuse everything you get hold of. There is no respect in you. I will give you nothing.’ She turned her hand over. The animal fell to the floor. It was gone.