Free The World Above the Sky by Kent Stetson
Authors: Kent Stetson
leaves.
Keswalqw held a lustrous hank of her blue black hair under Eugainiaâs nose. It carried the same woodland aroma. The oil, she explained, in combination with the aromatic oils of conifers, prevented infestations of common head and body parasites. This held particular interest to the visitors. Keswalqw made a host of friends when she shared the seal fat. Head and body lice had flourished in the confines of the voyage. Clouds of the New Worldâs blood-sucking black flies, which plagued the Europeans to swollen-eyed, puff-faced near madness, kept their distance.
The wigwamâs interior glowed opalescent. For the first time since the birth of her poor misshapen child, the Living Chalice of the Holy Grail smiled. Eugainia recalled Garathia in her Selkie manifestation, the fullness of her sleek cream-coloured belly and the comfort sheâd found within. In her delirium, Eugainia had yearned to be with her mother again, flying through the sea; in Keswalqwâs wigwam, her entire body felt soothed, as though she floated up to the top of a pail of warm cream.
Keswalqw opened the smoke flap. A shaft of sunlight shot through, the convergent poles casting radiating shadows like spokes on a wheel on the fresh-cut, artfully laid spruce-and-fir-bough floor. The soft green needles, the lungs of all conifers, exhaled their fragrance in the mid-day heat as Eugainia moved. She pulled scented air deep into her lungs. Tree Power entered her blood.
Sleeping robes of lustrous beaver fur, carefully rolled and stowed for all but the coolest nights of summer, ringed the perimeter of the wigwam. Eugainia counted fifteen in all. A blackened circle of sunken stone in the centre located the wigwamâs hearth. Nearby, a small pile of dry tinder sat ready to ignite a larger blaze. Elegant woven baskets hung from thongs lashed to the poles. Smaller pouches of softened hide, their drawstrings tied, dangled in a jumble from a single braided rope. Eugainia touched one. Keswalqw placed it in her hand. Inside, Eugainia found a clamshell, three blue feathers and a small polished stone.
Under a spread of elms and maples at the campâs perimeter, up the slight slope from the tidal shore, cooking pots scoured clean by sand and moss rested inverted on wooden stakes. Communal cooking hearths under smoke-cured hide awnings showed evidence of recurrent use. At a well-trodden area near the edge of the woods shaded by an old elm, scraping tools, chipping flints and circular stone knives, all carefully wrapped in leather, each bundle stored in oiled hide boxes, awaited the hands that would wield them. Hide pouches protecting smaller tools were secured with drawstrings fashioned from tree-root tendrils. The French word atelier came to Eugainiaâs mind. This petit quartier had the universal feel of a craft guild, a highly ordered workshop where invention eased the toil of daily life.
Long before Eugainia noticed any sound, Keswalqw hurried down the slope toward the riverbank. In what seemed the blink of an eye, life pulsed through the village. The People returned, emptied beached canoes of clay pots filled with shellfish. Fires were lit. Wigwams aired. Lobsters soon steamed in boiling pots of water, though much of the seafoodâmuscles, clams, whelks, oystersâwas cracked open and eaten raw. Shells discarded in a pile to one side of the firepit would be reduced in intense heat later, their lime and calcium critical to the hardening of clay pots.
Mimk ɨ tawoâquâsk pulled his canoe ashore. He stowed his gear in the wigwam he shared with Keswalqw as part of her extended clan, unaware of the sea green eyes resting upon him.
Late that afternoon, Mimk ɨ tawoâquâsk built a substantial fire at the edge of a meadow on the terrace above Henryâs camp. At the base of the blaze, a dozen smooth granite rocks absorbed intense heat. Keswalqw lashed a circular canopy of aspen saplings, the little trees still rooted,
Keswalqw held a lustrous hank of her blue black hair under Eugainiaâs nose. It carried the same woodland aroma. The oil, she explained, in combination with the aromatic oils of conifers, prevented infestations of common head and body parasites. This held particular interest to the visitors. Keswalqw made a host of friends when she shared the seal fat. Head and body lice had flourished in the confines of the voyage. Clouds of the New Worldâs blood-sucking black flies, which plagued the Europeans to swollen-eyed, puff-faced near madness, kept their distance.
The wigwamâs interior glowed opalescent. For the first time since the birth of her poor misshapen child, the Living Chalice of the Holy Grail smiled. Eugainia recalled Garathia in her Selkie manifestation, the fullness of her sleek cream-coloured belly and the comfort sheâd found within. In her delirium, Eugainia had yearned to be with her mother again, flying through the sea; in Keswalqwâs wigwam, her entire body felt soothed, as though she floated up to the top of a pail of warm cream.
Keswalqw opened the smoke flap. A shaft of sunlight shot through, the convergent poles casting radiating shadows like spokes on a wheel on the fresh-cut, artfully laid spruce-and-fir-bough floor. The soft green needles, the lungs of all conifers, exhaled their fragrance in the mid-day heat as Eugainia moved. She pulled scented air deep into her lungs. Tree Power entered her blood.
Sleeping robes of lustrous beaver fur, carefully rolled and stowed for all but the coolest nights of summer, ringed the perimeter of the wigwam. Eugainia counted fifteen in all. A blackened circle of sunken stone in the centre located the wigwamâs hearth. Nearby, a small pile of dry tinder sat ready to ignite a larger blaze. Elegant woven baskets hung from thongs lashed to the poles. Smaller pouches of softened hide, their drawstrings tied, dangled in a jumble from a single braided rope. Eugainia touched one. Keswalqw placed it in her hand. Inside, Eugainia found a clamshell, three blue feathers and a small polished stone.
Under a spread of elms and maples at the campâs perimeter, up the slight slope from the tidal shore, cooking pots scoured clean by sand and moss rested inverted on wooden stakes. Communal cooking hearths under smoke-cured hide awnings showed evidence of recurrent use. At a well-trodden area near the edge of the woods shaded by an old elm, scraping tools, chipping flints and circular stone knives, all carefully wrapped in leather, each bundle stored in oiled hide boxes, awaited the hands that would wield them. Hide pouches protecting smaller tools were secured with drawstrings fashioned from tree-root tendrils. The French word atelier came to Eugainiaâs mind. This petit quartier had the universal feel of a craft guild, a highly ordered workshop where invention eased the toil of daily life.
Long before Eugainia noticed any sound, Keswalqw hurried down the slope toward the riverbank. In what seemed the blink of an eye, life pulsed through the village. The People returned, emptied beached canoes of clay pots filled with shellfish. Fires were lit. Wigwams aired. Lobsters soon steamed in boiling pots of water, though much of the seafoodâmuscles, clams, whelks, oystersâwas cracked open and eaten raw. Shells discarded in a pile to one side of the firepit would be reduced in intense heat later, their lime and calcium critical to the hardening of clay pots.
Mimk ɨ tawoâquâsk pulled his canoe ashore. He stowed his gear in the wigwam he shared with Keswalqw as part of her extended clan, unaware of the sea green eyes resting upon him.
Late that afternoon, Mimk ɨ tawoâquâsk built a substantial fire at the edge of a meadow on the terrace above Henryâs camp. At the base of the blaze, a dozen smooth granite rocks absorbed intense heat. Keswalqw lashed a circular canopy of aspen saplings, the little trees still rooted,