by B. Muze
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 First Curse
Chapter 2 Ghostly Messages
Chapter 3 Unnatural Things
Chapter 4 Bad Beginnings
Chapter 5 The Dying
Chapter 6 Attack of the Gicoks
Chapter 7 Attack of the Wolf Spirit
Chapter 8 Lost Soul
Chapter 9 The Student Teaches the Teacher
Chapter 10 Torturing
Chapter 11 Betrayal
Chapter 12 He Who Walks This Star Among Many Stars
Chapter 13 Secrets
Chapter 14 First Love
Chapter 15 The Real Apprentice
Chapter 16 New Dangers
Chapter 17 Studying Strangers
Chapter 18 Journey to the Old Woman
Chapter 19 Name of Power
Chapter 20 Outcast
Chapter 21 Slave
Chapter 22 Camp of the Dead
Chapter 23 Killing Games
Chapter 24 Night of Terror
Chapter 25 Blood Feast
Chapter 26 Tension Bound
Chapter 27 Ghosts
Chapter 28 Grasp of the Dead
Chapter 29 River of Blood
Chapter 30 Escaping
Chapter 31 Curses and Cleanings
Chapter 32 Birth of Latohva
Chapter 33 Koban
Chapter 34 The Bat’s Choice
Chapter 35 Lessons and Lies
Chapter 36 Exposed
Chapter 37 Faiel
Chapter 38 Courting Danger
Chapter 39 Dangerous Game
Chapter 40 Watched by Hawks
Chapter 41 Latohva’s Choice
Jovai
The Shaman’s
Apprentice
B. Muze
Copyright © 2018 by Wittily Writ Publishing. All rights reserved.
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ISBN: 978-0-9995836-6-1
To my family. I love you.
Also, to my editor at Wittily Writ Publishing, Jennifer E. King,
you are the sand in my shell.
You have irritated and annoyed me as only an honest, loving friend would.
I couldn’t have done this without you.
Thanks.
Crush of Time
Chapter 1
First Curse
Yaku Shaman, whose giant body time had shaped and worn, forced himself awake to icy silence. A sense of yearning, the last breath of his dreams, was shattered in an instant as he saw the faint glow of morning slipping around the hide door that shielded his entry and falling through the smoke hole in his roof. He was late. Never had this happened — and it could not happen now. The lives of his people depended on him. So important was it that he could almost believe time would stop and wait for him to catch up.
This day was the Trintoa — the first hour of the first day of the first season of the year. A hard winter had frosted but not frozen him. He had been granted another spring of life. Now was the hour to call the sun to warm his people, to call the plants to grow, to call the babies forth from their mother’s wombs, and to call the spirits to strengthen and nourish his people. This year he would also call for another holy one to guide his people when he should be unable. In his pride, he feared, he had waited too long. Strong and indestructible he had always thought himself. This Trintoa he discovered an old man dying where the young one had lived for so long.
The konis was difficult to mix. His hands trembled as he measured the herbs. The amount had to be perfect. His success, even his life, depended on it. It seemed slow to heat, which fed his agitation. This delayed his call, but he could not go without it. He poured the thick, bitter liquid down his throat and gulped it, then paused as it filled his body with energy and his mind with awareness. He felt his spirit raised and hints of the unseeable played at the edge of his sight. He was ready to talk to gods.
His people watched from doors and windows of their round, clay-coated homes as their shaman strode through the village, softly singing the first chant. The sky was already brightening. His people knew he was late. He imagined he could see the silent reproach in the eyes of some, but they would say nothing. The Trintoa was the prayer for their lives. No one would risk an ill word to curse it.
Yaku suppressed a stab of anger that he should so harshly be judged by these people for whom he had sacrificed so much. He pushed that unholy thought away. Not only must his actions be perfect now, but also his soul.
His gaze turned toward the snow-draped mountains surrounding their village beyond their fields and woods. The people trusted them as guards, but Yaku knew how easily breached they truly were. The mountains would keep no dangers away. Only the spirits could protect them…if they would. It all depended on him.
He climbed the eastern hill, his body groaning under its own weight. Even the strength of the konis could no longer carry him. He should take the women’s path, he realized, but his pride would not allow that. He would climb to Trintoa still like a man and hope the sun would wait for him. He was now in a race against the sky’s light and all his people would suffer should he lose.
Where his song should have grown stronger it failed. He had no breath to raise it. He gasped as he climbed and mouthed the words. “The spirits will hear,” he told himself. “They will understand.” In the distance, he imagined, he could hear them singing back to him, gently, encouragingly, with a child’s voice. It grew louder as he gained the top.
He mounted the hill and looked to the East. Already the sun had broken the horizon. He had missed the moment! Still the singing continued. A spirit, perhaps, had flown before to play his part until he arrived. He stepped forward wonderingly and followed the voice.
To the god’s tree he went, the tree that grew in twining fingers around itself, ever widening, which the Mother/Father had planted and in whose gnarled hands, it was said, the new world lay, waiting to be born. Nestled in its upper branches was the spirit singer, child’s face raised to the sun, calling it gently to fill the world. As if her voice were the string that pulled it, the sun came. Its warm touch caressed the girl’s face, making her dark hair and large, brown eyes glisten and her fair skin glow. She looked as though she were made of shadow-edged light. She reached out her hand to greet the first spring blossom on the sacred tree. It opened to her touch. Around her the day birds were waking — not with their usual chittering, but in silent reverence. They stretched their wings and floated upon the morning breeze. One circled Yaku Shaman’s head and landed at his feet, watching him curiously as the old man watched the child. A squirrel flowed up the tree, and from between two roots emerged a painted skunk, her newborn in her jaw, to introduce him to the world.
“I am here now,” Yaku wanted to say. “I can sing for myself and my people…” but he could not find his voice.
The girl sang their Trintoa. She used no words that the shaman could recognize, only sound, yet the meaning was clear. She gave to the spirits a n
atural gift. She shared with them the beauty of her spirit, its joy in its life, and asked nothing in return but that they feel welcomed and happy. They came. Yaku Shaman could feel them dancing around her, competing to please her. The sun rose higher, shone brighter, the day was warmer, the blossoms breathed sweeter scents. The holy tree had never bloomed before, he suddenly realized. Had it bloomed just to please her? The grass grew higher to tickle her bare feet and the wind bent the blades into dancing patterns swirling around the tree.
“You have them listening,” Yaku tried to cry. “Ask for protection, ask for abundance, ask that they keep our people healthy and happy!”
The girl did not hear. She did not ask. She simply gave, and the spirits gave back to her with all their power to please. They promised her the safety of her people and joy for them all, good hunting, abundant crops, a year of all the blessings they could bestow. She had made them happy and they would stay.
The Trintoa proper was sung. Soon his people would follow, dressed in vividly dyed wool and hides, ornamented with painted images of flowers and symbols of life and the spring that would soon awaken. The women would bring what could be spared from winter rations in hopes that they soon would be replenished. The men would come, helping the sick and dying so their spirits might find renewed health in this festival of life. The children who were old enough would kneel to the shaman to receive their first names. Those in love, some who had waited all year, would join their lives. He would assure them all that the spirits had listened and promised them a good year. But what would he tell them about the singer?
She climbed down out of the tree — not a spirit, he realized, but a human child — one of his own people. He recognized her as Polisa’s youngest — too young to have a name. She had barely seen five years. Her first name would not come for another two. She was not even considered a person yet. Why was she here, alone? Where were her parents? Why had they let her interfere in what she was too young to understand?
The little girl swung down, dropped from the lowest branch and started running toward the village. Only then did she see Yaku Shaman. Her joy vanished and her eyes went wide in fright. He was a huge man, like a bear, and holy with the power of the spirits flowing through him. His face, as he watched her, looked stern and angry. She had not known he would come to her hill today. Now he would tell her parents and they would beat her and never let her come again.
She did not speak, but stood before the holy man, eyes lowered, trembling.
He stepped to her and lifted her chin. His touch was cold and firm. Briefly her eyes met his. She dropped her gaze quickly, afraid.
The holy man could curse her with his eyes alone. He could change her into something different, an animal or a plant or a cloud. His powers were unlimited.
He released her chin and stepped back, out of her way.
“Go home,” he ordered.
She ran all the way.
Chapter 2
Ghostly Messages
Spring bloomed, summer ripened, and fall filled the people’s storerooms — portions of deep caves that had already been mined of the silver, the iron and copper, coal and the blue tearstone that they had held. The storerooms were carefully hidden in the hills’ depleted mines, dug deep and wide enough to hide ten of their villages — with all their livestock, horses, and supplies, should enemies threaten.
War had been common in their history. They had been a warrior people before the spirits led them through the earth tunnels during the destruction of the last world to this luscious valley. The spirits had taught them to harness the rivers, cultivate crops, domesticate animals, dig and shape metals and beautiful colored stones. Now, protected by the steep mountains that surrounded them on all sides, they were able to put aside their weapons and work the land and give back to the spirits full measure of thanks for the abundance granted them.
Only one nomadic tribe, the Gicoks, still threatened them with deadly regularity, but they had not come yet this year. The valley people saved enough hiding space in their well-stocked storage, just in case, and the rest was filled with supplies enough to see them through three winters. Babies had been born, the sick had healed, and only the oldest and most tired of life had died. It had been a better year than any could remember and thanks to the spirits were given generously.
In bad years it would now be the time to pack and follow the sun south and east — a long and dangerous trek to easier climes where hunting was good even in winter. This year the people rejoiced that they could rest where they were, safe from hunger.
Massern, the Summer Leader, the elected head of the council of elders during the warm, long days, felt at ease to devote more of his time to the simple matters of day-to-day life. Pens for the animals were mended, village records updated, new land cleared and prepared for planting, pipes made and mended for irrigating the lands from the lakes and rivers, new homes of wood and clay allotted space and built for newlyweds, and family homes expanded as children were born or apprentices added. Matters of families were addressed and the town’s well-being in general discussed.
“Have you thought of your successor?” he asked Yaku Shaman while they walked through the grain and fruit rich valley. His manner, as he asked, was good-humored but cautious. He had spoken the question before several times in several years and Yaku had always been offended. The great bear still stood tall and proud and did not like to think of his decline. This year, however, Yaku did not growl in response but nodded slowly.
“Fanthsen would have you consider his son Ganju, a quiet boy who might serve well,” suggested Massern.
“Ganju is a tiny boy whom Fanthsen thinks will serve for nothing else. He is wrong about that one. He will be a warrior of the mind, a designer, a planner perhaps — not for the spirits.”
“Is there another boy you prefer?”
Yaku raised his eyes to the eastern hill, to the holy tree growing there with a new world in its trunk.
“There is a child, two years before naming.”
Massern swept the babies of the village with his mind, but could find no boy of that age who would do.
“Harkon’s eldest is their only boy so far…” he started.
“No,” said Yaku Shaman. “The spirits themselves have chosen another. Polisa’s youngest.”
“But Polisa has only girls!” objected the village leader.
Yaku nodded and walked on.
“A girl cannot be a holy one!” insisted the leader, following. His shaman’s suggestion shocked him into unusual rudeness.
“The spirits, themselves, have chosen her,” Yaku said.
“It is a mistake. It is unnatural. Our people will not follow a female, will not let her sit in our counsels. It is not possible, Yaku. Choose another. Choose a boy.”
Yaku Shaman shook his head.
“I will offer her family gifts for her at the next Trintoa. It is early, but I am…I have waited long enough.”
“It will shame them,” warned the leader.
“They have six others — too many for the farmer Takan’s liking. Polisa will accept. The child will serve her family better for being turned into gifts.”
“But how can a female be shaman?” demanded the leader. “Our men will not follow a woman!”
“Our wise men will.”
“It is for the shaman to be wise, not for us.”
Yaku Shaman turned on him, a scowl on his face.
“Then listen to my wisdom. A shaman leads the spirit of the people. The spirit is not male or female but whole and perfect. A man’s spirit — a woman’s spirit — there is no difference. My shaman spirit, this child’s shaman spirit — both can lead, both can be followed. I have seen the great spirits come to her and dress her in light. This is significant. They have chosen to follow her, therefore you can.”
“Yaku Shaman,” answered Massern Leader gently, “there is time. You are still strong. Think on this some more.”
Polisa’s youngest had survived her fright from the Trintoa mo
rning. She had not known it was a holy day but had simply sneaked out of her family’s house, as she had every morning for almost a year, and had gone to her favorite place in the world.
Her first time there she had gone to listen to the world growing in the trunk. Her father told glowing stories of the Great God’s words to their people, promising them this sheltered valley until the new world should be ready to be born of the sacred tree. The people of the valley were to be the midwives to the baby’s birth and guardians of this strange new life. Polisa’s youngest, curious about the baby world, had listened intently at the growing trunk until she thought she could hear the tree breathe and a baby cry softly within.