SIlver Blades by Chance Carlyle -- The Chinese Use the Land Bridge Again

Small flakes of snow became ice against Meejon’s face as he bent over to pick up the walrus hide ball. He thought of his grandfather, the precious gift of the ball on his seventh birthday, wiped his nose and turned to watch the snow turn into funnels that danced in the threatening sounds of the Alaskan evening.
Meejon and Chicoo heard sounds that sent shivers through them. They played ball out of sight of the camp and were unaware they had chased the ball farther than they intended.
Each tried to show off for his friend. The winds screamed again. They looked in the direction of the sounds as the snow swirled wildly out of sight and down into the deep valley into a distance they could not see.
They listened and looked at each other and pretended they were unafraid. Each boy caught sight of his friend by squinting and looking out of the corners of their eyes. Each pretended bravery. Each boy felt an uneasiness.
I’m almost eight, Meejon thought as he straightened up, felt the cold snowflakes settle on the walrus oil that covered his face and hands. He rubbed the whale ball feeling its icy surface through his mit.
Meejon held many thoughts. Sounds like that don't bother me anymore.... He turned to Chicoo and shouted louder than the rising and falling shrieks of the frantic wind gusts. “Those sounds wouldn’t bother Leonard so they don’t bother me!”
“You’re always bragging about Leonard,” Chicoo shouted and scratched his head through his white bear hood. He always talks about Leonard as though Leonard knows everything and I know he doesn’t know a lot. I wish I had an older brother. He threw the ball high and hard back to Meejon.
“Leonard’s my brother, Chicoo,” Meejon huffed as he reached high for the ball as it flew high over his outstretched arms: too high for him to catch.
He jumped, reached high, whirled and ran quickly, chasing the ball and watching it stop. He saw it against the toe of a shoe: a heavy looking boot. As he approached the ball he saw two shoes, two boots, then thick pant legs. He looked up into an unsmiling face and picked up his ball. He couldn’t speak as he tried to see the eyes of the tall stranger through slits thinner than his own. The tall man’s breath shone around his wide face but Meejon finally saw dark eyes through the squinting eyelids that were nearly shut against the flurry of the snow.
Meejon gasped and stepped backward as the man leaned over. He lowered his head toward Meejon.
“What?” he asked. Meejon felt shivers up his back as the man clearly spoke the language of the Aleut. He could not speak.
“What?” the man shouted. He sounded mad. “You do not understand Inuit-Inupiaq?” Meejon continued to move backward away from the man. He understood the stranger’s words but his face was not familiar as an Inuit man. Meejon watched the eye slits tighten. He shivered again because of the man’s large size.
Suddenly Meejon caught sight of Chicoo. He hadn’t moved closer but stood motionless. Meejon wished Chicoo was brave. The snowflakes were swirling closer together. Meejon looked back up at the stranger.
“Who are you?” he asked, shivering. He didn’t like the trembling in his voice. Suddenly Chicoo stood next to Meejon. Meejon jumped before he realized his friend stood next to him. They stood shoulder to shoulder as though barring the stanger from moving further up the plateau toward their village.
“The man speaks our language,” Chicoo whispered.
“But I don’t trust him. He doesn’t look like us.”
Chicoo agreed, shivered and moved closer to Meejon. Chicoo grabbed Meejon’s sleeve and Meejon glanced at him out of the corners of his eyes. He didn’t turn his head. He knew Chicoo frowned too.
“We need the Silver Blades now, if we ever needed them,” Meejon whispered.
Chicoo repeated silently the words, “Silver Blades.” He had not in his few years as part of the Aleut clan understood the legend. Silver Blades, he thought again. He squinted his eyes nearly shut. He wished he could control his cold body.
They were startled when the man told them to leave. They understood his words and turned to look in the direction of home as he pointed toward their village. He told them to go home in a gruff voice. Meejon looked at the sky. It had grown dark. No midnight sun these days, he thought.
Meejon blurted, “Who are you. Where are you from?”
“A place far from here. A long distance,” the man said.
For the first time Meejon glanced past the tall man and saw flickering lights in the valley. Campfires, he thought. “Many campfires,” Chicoo whispered. “Outside? In the snow?” The boys didn’t understand who built the fires. And they were aware that the man was pointing in the direction of their camp again and commanding, “Leave here now!” He shuffled slowly to the edge of the embankment and said, “Tell no one you’ve seen me.”
The boys frowned at the man’s words and continued to move away from him. Suddenly the boys were aware that two shorter men had joined the tall man. The two new men were dressed the same but were shorter. The three stood on the edge of the embankment spewing hot breath and spoke among themselves. All three stared at Meejon and Chicoo. The boys understood that these strangers were talking about them.
They walked sideways and stared back the three men. “They’re Chinese. I know they are.” Meejon said, folding his lips tightly “Tan Lee is Chinese and they sound like him when they speak to each other.” Chicoo agreed with Meejon. He grabbed Meejon’s arm and told him to hurry. It was hard to see each other’s faces as the snowfall became heavier with swirling flurries. The wind began to howl. They walked faster in the direction of their camp. Chicoo wished they could see their camp. The snow came down thicker as the wind blew hard against their small bodies.
They talked to each other as they shuffled. “Why are those people here? Look down in the valley! There are hundreds, maybe more...” Chicoo tried to see far down into the valley. “Look over there. They’re on the slope. Looks like the campfires are burning clear down to Big Bearing...”
“The big sea?” Meejon asked.
“Yes,” Chicoo answered. “The sea,” he said softly.
“There has to be a lot of them, a lot of Chinese. Look at the signals they’re sending. Why are they sending signals?”
Neither boy contemplated the answer. They started walking faster. They thought of their fathers, mothers and families. Meejon wished Leonard had been with him. Both wished they had answers to questions about the tall man, the two shorter men, and the many campfires.
Suddenly they stopped shuffling and stared at one another. Their cold breath circle around their heads. Meejon pulled Chicoo closer to him and looked directly into his large brown eyes.
“There aren’t hundreds of those Chinese people,” he said with sudden realization. Chicoo heard the tone of Meejon’s words.
“There aren’t.... What comes after hundreds and is larger?” he asked.
“Many more,” Chicoo said and jumped up and down to keep warm.
“There aren’t many, many more of those Chinese. Do you know what I’m saying?”
“Yeah,” Chicoo said.
“They are everywhere,” Meejon said. “Why? What about our families? Did they come here to kill us? Are they from that big country across the ocean? Across that sea...?”
“Bearing Sea, Meejon,” Chicoo said. “I remember the name from school.
Meejon nodded.
They shivered thinking about the seriousness and darkness of their thoughts. Chicoo pulled on Meejon’s sleeve again.“We’ve got to get home. Tell our fathers about the Chinese.”
They ran through the deep snow fluffing it every direction. The snow scampered. The sky got darker, as dark as the fear inside the small boys. They ran on screaming as they ran.
They ran through the lodge entrance throwing the heavy bear hide curtain aside. They stopped as they surveyed the Aleuts. Leonard stood next to Meejon’s father. His mother boiled water. Other Aleuts entered his family’s lodge as if they had been summoned. Leonard’s face, parka and winter pants were covered with blood. His eyes were swollen.
“Leonard,” Meejon shouted. “What has happened to you? You’re home early! Leonard,” he shouted and began crying.

To be continued....

This is an unfinished manuscript. You may reserve your order but send no money until notified or until “Silver Blades” is completed by Mr. Carlyle. Manuscript finalized date is the late summer, early fall of 2001.