Part 28 (1/2)
The Boy, feeling he would need an interpreter, signed to Muckluck to come and sit by him. Grave as a judge she got up, and did as she was bid.
”That the Shaman?” whispered the Boy.
She nodded. It was plain that this apparition, however hideous, had given her great satisfaction.
”Any more people coming?”
”Got no more now in Pymeut.”
”Where is everybody?”
”Some sick, some dead.”
The old Chief rambled on, but not so noisily.
”See,” whispered Muckluck, ”devil 'fraid already. He begin to speak small.”
The Shaman never once looked towards the sufferer till he himself was thoroughly warm. Even then he withdrew from the genial glow, only to sit back, humped together, blinking, silent. The Boy began to feel that, if he did finally say something it would be as surprising as to hear an aged monkey break into articulate speech.
Nicholas edged towards the Shaman, presenting something in a birch-bark dish.
”What's that?”
”A deer's tongue,” whispered Muckluck.
The Boy remembered the Koyukun song, ”Thanks for a good meal to Kuskokala, the Shaman.”
Nicholas seemed to be haranguing the Shaman deferentially, but with spirit. He pulled out from the bottom of his father's bed three fine marten-skins, shook them, and dangled them before the Shaman. They produced no effect. He then took a box of matches and a plug of the Boy's tobacco out of his pocket, and held the lot towards the Shaman, seeming to say that to save his life he couldn't rake up another earthly thing to tempt his Shamans.h.i.+p. Although the Shaman took the offerings his little black eyes glittered none the less rapaciously, as they flew swiftly round the room, falling at last with a vicious snap and gleam upon the Boy. Then it was that for the first time he spoke.
”Nuh! nuh!” interrupted Muckluck, chattering volubly, and evidently commending the Boy to the Shaman. Several of the old bucks laughed.
”He say Yukon Inua no like you.”
”He think white men bring plague, bring devils.”
”Got some money?” whispered Muckluck.
”Not here.”
The Boy saw the moment when he would be turned out. He plunged his hands down into his trousers pockets and fished up a knife, his second-best one, fortunately.
”Tell him I'm all right, and he can give this to Yukon Inua with my respects.”
Muckluck explained and held up the s.h.i.+ning object, blades open, corkscrew curling attractively before the covetous eyes of the Shaman.
When he could endure the temptation no longer his two black claws shot out, but Nicholas intercepted the much-envied object, while, as it seemed, he drove a more advantageous bargain. Terms finally settled, the Shaman seized the knife, shut it, secreted it with a final grunt, and stood up.
Everyone made way for him. He jerked his loosely-jointed body over to the sick man, lifted the seal-oil lamp with his shaky old hands, and looked at the patient long and steadily. When he had set the lamp down again, with a grunt, he put his black thumb on the wick and squeezed out the light. When he came back to the fire, which had burnt low, he pulled open his parki and drew out an ivory wand, and a long eagle's feather with a fluffy white tuft of some sort at the end. He deposited these solemnly, side by side, on the ground, about two feet apart.
Turning round to the dying fire, he took a stick, and with Nicholas's help gathered the ashes up and laid them over the smouldering brands.