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Page 19
That day he descended from the mountains.
Much that Ootah conjured in his mind, or imagined he saw in the clouds,
really happened. Whether he actually sensed these things by some
wonderful power of clairvoyance, which the natives themselves
believe--or whether he just accurately guessed what occurred, I do not
know. But of this I can tell:
By that strange contradictoriness of the feminine--much the same all
the world over--by that inherent, inborn desire of subjugation to the
brutal and domineering in the male, Annadoah had given herself
unreservedly to Olafaksoah. At the sound of his firm step she
trembled. His hard, brutal embraces caused her heart to flutter with
joy. At first he told her he would take her with him to the south.
Annadoah believed him. Then he changed his mind, and said she must
wait until the next season for him. She silently acquiesced. She
called upon all her simple arts to please him. Carefully she oiled her
face and made the golden skin soft by rubbing it with the fur of
animals; with a broken comb, left with her mother years before by a
party of explorers, she combed her long, black and wonderful hair and
elaborately arranged it behind her. About her forehead she bound a
narrow fillet of fine, furry hares' skin. She donned new garments; her
_ahttee_ was made of the delicate skins of birds, her hood of white fox
hides. To all this Olafaksoah seemed blind; at times, with coarse,
half-maudlin tenderness, he caressed her, called her his "little girl"
and promised to "come back next spring." But Annadoah was useful to
him otherwise.
During the days when Olafaksoah and his men were hunting or gathering
furs and ivory at nearby villages along the coast, Annadoah sewed skins
into garments for Olafaksoah and his men. Sometimes she went with
Olafaksoah on his expeditions and employed her coquetry upon the
susceptible men of the migrating tribes to secure bargains for him.
For a box of matches she would cajole from her people ivories worth
hundreds of dollars. She persuaded them to rob themselves of the
walrus meat and blubber they had gathered for winter and give them to
her master in exchange for tin cups and ammunition, all of which would
be useless when the night came on. To Ootah she gave no thought until
one day the white man struck her. As he vented his rage at not
securing more riches upon her during the ensuing days, her heart more
and more instinctively turned to the youth "with the heart of a woman"
whom she had rejected. When Olafaksoah brought his companions to the
tent her soul rose in rebellion. In the camp there was an orgy. None
of the married men, who for a slight consideration were willing to
permit their wives to dance with the traders, objected to the drunken
carousal. Ribald songs sounded strange in this region of the world.
Yet after Olafaksoah had kicked her and left her lying in the tent,
high above the sound of the sailors' doggerel songs, Annadoah
frantically called aloud:
"Ootah! Ootah!"
For a long time she lay in a stupor. Her face was bleeding. When she
regained consciousness the white chief and his men had left. They had
taken with them all available furs, ivories and provisions in the
village.
At the door of her tent Annadoah stood, dry-eyed, her hair dishevelled.
To the south she yearningly extended her arms. Her heart still ached
toward the man who had lied to her and deserted her. She was left, a
divorced woman, alone among her people, with no one to care for her
during the long winter night.
As she stood there the light of the descending sun, which was now far
below the rim of the horizon, paled. Driven by a frigid wind, howling
raucously from the mountains, great snow clouds piled along the sky
line. Out at sea the tips of the waves became capped--leprous white
arms seemed reaching hopelessly for help from the depths of the sea.
The sky blackened. The increasing gusts tore at the frail tents. The
wolf-dogs crouched low to the ground and whined. A tremor of anxiety
filled the hearts of the tribe. Presently the clouds were torn to
shreds and whipped furiously over the sky. In the thickening grey
gloom Annadoah watched the men of the tribe fastening their sleds and
belongings to the earth . . . mere dark shadows. Above her tent,
tossed by the wind in its eddying flight, a raven screamed.
Annadoah finally entered and threw herself upon the rocky floor of her
dwelling. As the furies were loosed outside her voice rose and fell
with the wailing grief and wrath of the wind. "Olafaksoah!
Olafaksoah!" But only the hoarse evil call of the black bird answered
during lulls in the storm. And Annadoah heard it, with a sinking of
her cold heart, as the voice of fate.
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