by Rose Estes
Chapter 4
FILLED WITH GRIEF that was deeper than he would have imagined himself capable of, Mika-oba plunged into the forest and tried to lose himself in its vastness. Like a wounded animal he sought out its darkest corner and lay there hoarding his pain, all that was left of the man who had been his father.
Voices were heard dimly on the first day, and torches flitted through the forest like giant fireflies during the night. The voices grew louder on the second day, calling his name like a relentless echo. But Mika did not answer, unwilling to share his grief with others who did not matter. Somehow he felt that to accept their kind words and soft glances, to allow them to ease the pain, would somehow diminish the reality of his grief, and would put his father firmly into the land of the spirits.
Mika knew that by now the body would be placed atop a pyre of roanwood and that his presence was both required and expected. It was one of the most sacred rituals of the Wolf Nomads, the burying of a shaman. But he was not ready to appear, to watch the flames consume the small body. The man that had been his father still lived as long as he remained silent, remembering.
On the fourth day, his body rebelled and his mind was sluggish and would not focus. TamTur had renewed his efforts to cause him to rise, pawing at him, raking his sides with long claws. The memories of his father faded and refused to be recaptured. His stomach growled and his throat ached with lack of moisture. TamTur watched anxiously as Mika stumbled slowly to his feet, knowing that it was time to go. His grieving was done. He would return to camp and become the man his father had wanted him to be. He would don the cloak of shaman which had been in his family for generations. He would study his father’s works until he knew them by heart. He would collect every green stuff known to man and learn its uses. He would become a tribute to the memory of his father.
The new resolve lasted all of a mile before he remembered how much he disliked gathering weeds and how they made him sneeze.
He pulled himself up short, lecturing himself sternly as he walked. “I will do it. I will! I know I can do it!”
“But you don’t want to,” whispered a tiny voice, filling his mind with visions of stinking weeds and dusty scrolls that unfolded to his knees covered with tiny printing, all to be memorized.
He pressed his hands over his ears to shut out the tiny voice inside him and tried to think noble thoughts.
He pictured how pleased Enor would be, as well as
Celia. Perhaps . . . yes! Now was the time. He and Celia would be married and would have children, all boys, of course, whom he could train to follow in his footsteps. None of that nonsense about women and playing around, he would see that his boys grew up straight and somber as befitted future generations of shamans and magic-users.
Enor-oba and Whituk and the others would be dubious, of course, thinking it all a joke, but Mika would convince them eventually. Soon, he would be a respected and valuable member of the clan, the chiefs right-hand man. Maybe ... in time, he might even become chief himself. And he would name his firstborn Veltran. Everything would work out fine.
It was curiously silent as Mika entered camp. Women were moving about their chores silently, eyes to the ground. There were few children about, and those few who were visible were playing quietly, no running around or loud games. No one seemed to notice him. It was as though he was invisible. People seemed to fade away as he approached, turning in the opposite direction as if they did not see him, or entering their huts, almost as though they were avoiding him for some reason.
He made his way to the center of the camp and there, just as he expected, were the remains of the still smoldering pyre. The heavy scent of burned flesh still hung over the camp and Mika bowed his head and whispered, “Be at peace, spirit of my father. I will honor your memory always.”
TamTur whined low in his throat, mincing sideways nervously with the smoky scent of death in his nostrils.
“Everything is all right, old friend,” said Mika, dropping a hand to the head of the great beast. “Come, I must find Enor and tell him of my plans, relieve him of his concern. I am sure that he will be anxious to have me don my father’s cloak and responsibilities as soon as possible.”
As he drew near to the largest dwelling, the building that housed the chief and his family, the camp grew quieter still and a woman appeared briefly in the doorway of a hut, snatched the arm of a child who was seated outside, and dragged it hurriedly inside.
A hush seemed to fall, almost as if the camp were holding its breath. Mika looked around him, puzzled at the silence. There was no one to be seen. Not one child played in front of one campfire, not one woman bustled about doing her daily chores. Not one wolf cub scratched at the midden heap for a bone. All windows were drawn and door flaps sealed as though the inhabitants were readying themselves for a storm or for war.
Mika was confused. Had something happened while he was gone?
Mika approached Enor’s lodge, a large wooden affair with tall painted posts beside the door, cleverly carved to depict generations of wolves, piled one atop the other’s shoulders.
As he drew near, the door creaked open and Whituk stepped out, an unpleasant smile on his narrow lips. His stringy grey locks were draped with a mantle of brightly colored feathers and shells and crowned with the whitened skull of a great wolf whose empty eye sockets gleamed with the yellow of topaz.
A heavy robe of black wolf pelts hung from his shoulders, the neck and armholes edged with white wolf tails. The familiar pouch of herbs hung from a belt at his waist. In his scrawny fist he clutched the shaman’s staff of office.
Mika stopped in mid-step, stunned as though he had been dealt a blow to the head. His mind whirled as he tried to think of some reason why Whituk would wear his father’s robes and carry the staff of office which should, by right, be his.
Rage began to build within him the longer he looked upon the vision of the lesser shaman, whom he had never liked, wearing the familiar robes.
Whituk, never a stupid man, undoubtedly realized his danger and, clutching the staff tightly, stepped back and thrust open the door calling out: “Mika-oba has returned, honorable chief. Perhaps you might step outside and speak to him.”
Mika breathed deeply, sucking his anger down, and resolved to speak calmly and gently. This was surely a misunderstanding that could easily be set right. Enor was a just and intelligent man and a wise chief. He would settle everything.
Enor emerged from the hut, followed by Enor-oba and several of the lesser chiefs, all of whom stared at him with cold disapproval, although Mika also discerned a smirk of pleasure curling at the edges of Enor-oba’s thin lips. Celia peeked from the corner of the door, her small face shadowed with worry, before Enor-oba stepped in front of her, blocking her from Mika’s sight.
“So, Mika, you are back,” said Enor, a deep frown creasing his forehead. “Whituk here thought you had gone for good.”
“No, I am here as you can see. I was in the forest, saying my farewells to my father.”
Whituk snorted. “In the forest. A dutiful son would have been at the funeral pyre where he belonged, saying the prayers that would speed his father’s spirit to the land of our ancestors. A good son would have . . .”
“Would have what, Whituk?” demanded Mika, a steely note entering his voice as he moved within a pace of the shaman and stared into his beady eyes.
“We each must grieve in our own fashion and say our good-byes as we see fit. No other man may say what is right at such a time,” said Mika.
“What matters is that I have returned and am here now to take the place that is mine by birthright. To wear the mantle that now seems to be on your head. To don the robe that sits on your shoulders. To carry the pouch that hangs at your waist. To hold the staff that is in your hands. I have returned and now ask you with all due respect to give me that which is mine.”
Whituk shifted nervously. His eyes flitted sideways, unable to hold Mika’s gaze, and his knuckles whitened as he clutched the staff m
ore tightly. He began to edge away, attempting to slip behind the body of the chief. Mika’s hand shot out with the speed of a ferret going for the kill, grabbed the shaman, and dragged him forward, lifting him up to the level of his eyes so that the man’s toes barely touched the ground.
“Do not play with me, Whituk. I have asked you nicely to give me that which is mine by birthright. I do not wish to be unpleasant. Do you understand me?” He surprised himself with his vehemence. He gave the shaman a gentle shake that tipped the wolf skull down over Whituk’s eyes and rattled him as though he were a sack of bones.
“They’re mine!” hissed the shaman. “I’m head shaman now. Tell him, Enor!”
Enor stared at the shaman with open distaste, then sighed deeply and signaled for Mika to let the man down.
“Come inside, Mika. We must talk,” he said heavily. Turning, he entered the building without even looking to see if Mika would comply.
Mika’s heart sank at the somber tone in the chiefs words, and he lowered Whituk to the ground with only token roughness, which was still enough to send the man reeling dizzily into the embers of a nearby fire.
Mika found the chief seated before the fire in the lodge.
“As you know, it is the duty of the firstborn son to sing the death songs, lead the prayers, light the pyre, and send the spirit on its way to the hunting grounds of our ancestors. With your brother’s death, that responsibility became yours.”
Mika opened his mouth to speak, to explain the deep grief that had come over him, making it impossible for him to share his feelings with anyone or take part in the ritual. Enor held up a hand, silencing him.
“With your father’s passing, once the pyre is lit and his spirit safely sung on its way, according to our custom, as you know, the mantle, the robe, the staff, and the pouch became yours, as well as the title of head shaman, healer, and magic-user.”
Mika’s shoulder’s straightened and a weight lifted from his heart. Enor had spoken the words he himself would have said. The words detailing the custom that would ensure his rightful place in the clan.
“But you were not here and we could not find you, even though we delayed the building of the pyre and allowed your father’s body to remain in his dwelling place from one sunrise to the next, risking the danger of his spirit slipping away and becoming earthbound forever. We could not find you, even though we searched the farthest corners of the forest and called your name until our voices rasped in our throats. You did not answer, though you must have heard us.”
Enor stared at Mika with a keen piercing look from his dark eyes, as though begging him to deny the fact, his great beaked nose giving him the look of a questing eagle. But Mika hung his head and tried to swallow the lump in his throat, for he had indeed seen the torches and heard their voices and had not responded.
Enor sat quietly, waiting for Mika to reply, stroking the long wolf tails that cascaded over his shoulder among his thick black braids. Mika had always thought of Enor as an old man, but in truth, he was no more than in the middle of his years. His body was firm and well-muscled and there was nothing wrong with his eyesight, which saw far more than Mika gave him credit for. Enor had great hopes for the young man to realize his potential, but the clan as a whole was his responsibility and no one member, no matter the circumstances, could be allowed to disrupt it.
The silence stretched out to an uncomfortable length. At last, just as Celia gave a tiny hiccuping sob somewhere in the shadows, and a pine knot cracked on the fire, spreading a bright shower of incandescent sparks that sprayed through the air and fell on Mika’s legs, Enor spoke.
“Failing to find you, we continued the ceremony without you. You, as you well know, are the last of your line. But your father could not go unsung into the spirit world, nor could his staff lie unclaimed.
“There must always be a shaman and magic-user; no clan would be safe or complete without one. And so, even though some few begged me to defy tradition and wait until you returned, others, many others, spoke out, saying that it was not possible. In the end I bowed to their voices and Whituk inherited the staff.”
Mika lifted his head, which had become heavy and unwieldy, and stared dully into Enor’s eyes. He saw pity and compassion as well as intelligence in the large brown eyes, and he hoped he might yet explain himself and beg for a reversal of the decision.
But Enor had not become chief by birth alone, and quickly he spoke again, cutting off the younger man before he could begin his plea.
“There were other things that entered into our decision beside the fact of your absence,” he said. And one by one, Mika heard a listing of his misadventures over the years since the time of his youth. Taken individually, they had seemed no more than the pranks of an impish mind, but laid end to end, they made a formidable list that depressed even Mika.
“And finally,” continued Enor, “it was felt that you had no real interest in the study of herbs and healing. Some were concerned with the fact that their lives might well rest in your hands one day. They were worried that you might make some terrible mistake, by accident or intent, rather than heal them. To be honest, I could not deny that it was a real risk.
“Eventually, you would have recognized that the time for jokes was over and tried to do your best. But Mika, you should have been studying these many years past, and none, not even you, can deny that you have spent your time in other ways.
“As chief, I had to agree that the well-being of the clan would be best served by other hands. I am sorry, Mika. I would that it had been otherwise.”
“What ... do I do now?” Mika asked quietly. “Am I still part of the clan?”
“That is a difficult question to answer,” said Enor, looking into the fire.
“There are only two answers,” said Mika. “Yes or no.”
“Yes, there will always be a place for you at the fire,” Enor answered heavily. “But I do not think you would find much comfort there now . . .
“Every single member of the clan pays for his space at the fire with his services. Even the women and the children contribute. And it must be so. If it were otherwise—the whole supported by the actions of the few—the clan would perish. This has happened to many clans. There is no room around the fire for those who do not bear their share of the burden.
“Up until now, your presence was paid for by your father’s diligence. But that is no longer true.
“We must ask what you would do if you remained. Are you a hunter? A warrior? Would you be a shaman’s apprentice under Whituk? Mika, you are none of those things. You play at all and master none.”
Mika’s face burned with shame and he looked down at his tightly clenched hands. TamTur lay by his side and whined.
“Then I am banished,” Mika said in a low tone.
“There is a way . . .” Enor said. “But let us drink a cup of mulled mandrake and smoke a pipe of wolf’sbane to take the sharp edge off the words that have been spoken here.”
Mika did not object and sat motionless, his thoughts whirling in his head while Celia crept out of the corner and knelt at her father’s side. Uncorking the narrow mouth of a bulge-bottomed gourd, she poured two shares of the thick gold brew into copper mugs and placed them on the stones that ringed the central fire.
While they were waiting for the wine to heat, Enor took down a long slender bone pipe from its hook on the carved rafter. It was a soft, pale shade of yellow, worn to a creamy patina by generations of reverent hands. The shaft was delicately incised with a frieze of running wolves, and the bowl itself was carved to depict a snarling wolf’s head.
Enor filled the open mouth loosely with the powerful narcotic weed which was normally used only during political or religious ceremonies. He passed the pipe to Mika and lit a splinter from the fire.
Mika took the pipe without comment and, as Enor touched the flame to the tobacco, inhaled deeply. The hypnotic smoke filled his lungs, and almost immediately, he felt the tight bands of pain ease from his heart and mind.
Enor took the pipe as it was passed to him, but he did not inhale. Instead, he permitted the sweet smoke to dribble out of his mouth untasted. Mika did not even notice.
When Enor judged that Mika was ready, he handed him the mug with a brimming share.
Mika gulped the hot liquor in a single draught and held out his mug for more, unmindful of the hidden power of the potion.
Celia studied him carefully as she poured out the second portion and placed it beside the fire, her big blue eyes reflecting her concern. But Mika only stared at his cup, refusing to meet her eyes and see the pity that he knew would be there.
Enor held his counsel and allowed Mika freedom of drink, smoke, and his own thoughts, knowing that the powerful narcotic tobacco and hypnotic drink would soon ease the worst of the young man’s pain and make him more malleable.
After six mugs, Mika was able to focus on the flames and consider their beauty, rather than comparing them to the color of Whituk’s blood, if he had any. After eight cups, he felt at peace. Almost.
“What is this solution you have in mind?” he asked between numbed lips, slowly setting the still-full cup down on the ground in front of TamTur.
“It’s the caravan,” said Enor, watching curiously as the wolf inched forward on his front paws and quietly lapped up the contents of the mug.
“The caravan?” Mika asked stupidly, wriggling his fingers to encourage the return of feeling.
“Yes, the caravan,” Enor repeated patiently. “You remember the caravan you helped rescue.”
“Oh, THAT caravan,” said Mika, and his face grew dark. “Damn kobolds.”
“We have serious problems with the caravan that only you can solve, Mika-oba.”
“Not ‘oba’ any more,” Mika said solemnly, wagging his finger under Enor’s nose. “Just Mika. Plain ‘ol Mika. Only Mika-oba while father is still alive. Father’s dead. Gone. Mika’s all alone now.” Mika stared into the fire, pondering the sad turn of events.
“Yes, I know,” Enor said with a sigh, already regretting that he had allowed the young man the freedom of the gourd and the pipe. Two drinks of mandrake were more than enough for a normal man. Three would render even the strongest unconscious. The pipe had been pure overkill. Yet he had wanted to avert the violence that he knew lurked just under the surface of Mika’s control and spare him the consequences of precipitous actions.