Kataya he knew, and trusted, and the strong man with the
sheathed weapon he had seen, in the boat, far away. Also, as Kataya had
intended, he felt something akin to jealousy at his presence here with
her. There was the matter of possession.
This was Ishmael, so named by Kataya---the second leader, who would be
first when the eldest died. He stood his ground in silence, along with
the leader, and slowly the others returned, though maintaining their
distance, and keeping close to the water's edge.
Kataya asked Kalus to remain where he was, and walked the numbered
strides that took her to the fourteen year old Ishmael. He smiled as
she approached, and together they stood on the tiny patch of level
ground between them. She brought an open hand to her chest, as she had
done with Kalus, then opened it toward him in greeting. He did the
same, taking childlike pleasure in the understanding of her ways.
'Izmai,' she said softly, pointing to the North. 'You go?'
Then remembering that she had affixed no time, she added. 'This day,
North?'
'Izmai go,' he said proudly. Then his look became one of eager
entreaty, touching in its innocence. 'You go, Kai-tai, Noth?' And
his arm followed hers in obvious longing, a sweeping arc that to his
mind held images of bergs and floes and sweeping tundra, and vast
islands of thirty thousand seals: the cold, exhilarating perfection of
unspoiled Arctic Seas.
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