Forbidden Land

by neetha Napew

  His left hand clenched around the bone haft of the throwing stick. He had one stick; the beasts had many! He held it up and looked at it. The sharp tip was of stone. A wrapping of animal skin secured it to the stick. The stick itself was old bone, camel or bison. He brought it close to his face, smelled it, and tasted it with his tongue. It held the stink of fire. He frowned. How could this be? Where had the beasts found this stick? Where did they find all of their sticks?

  His eyes narrowed. From far across the grasslands in the direction from which the beasts had come, there was the smell of smoke and burned meat and—charred bone! His eyes widened as he understood that the beasts had not found the thing; they had taken bone and stone and skin and somehow, with fire, had made a thing that had not been before ... a throwing stick! And if they had made one, he could make one .. . and another .. . until he carried as many throwing sticks as he needed to kill the beasts!

  It was an epiphany that staggered him with the pure, dazzling joy of revelation. He was breathless with euphoria as he lifted the throwing stick and shook it at the sky. And then he laughed. It was a light, bubbling, new sound that brought pure pleasure to his spirit. Sister huffed at him in worried puzzlement. He did not care. He was smiling as he turned and led her on. Now, at last, he knew exactly where he was going and what he was going to do when he got there.

  He sought the hill country due north of the valley in which the beasts took shelter. Here, high on a southfacing slope that allowed him a broad overview of the hunting territory of the beasts, he found a perfect nesting site deep within an old rockfall, close to a shrub-choked stream.

  Sister sulked. He knew that she was unhappy. Time and again, she tugged at his arm in a vain attempt to persuade him to return to the cave. Now that she knew that there was no hope of this, she would not help him to gather branches for their new nest. She chose a cool, relatively smooth boulder, sat on her broad, stub-tailed bottom, her long, hairy arms wrapped around her short, equally hairy legs. With her chin resting on her knees, she stared at him petulantly until the nest was done.

  Then, suddenly curious, she ambled over, made low hoots of approval, and promptly climbed in and went to sleep. He laid a loving hand upon her heavy muscled shoulder; she twitched contentedly in her dreams. What a simple, uncomplicated creature she was.

  The hole in the sky was warm, and its golden light filled him with a need for sleep. He lay down, closed his eyes, and dreamed ... of Mother ... of the white lion .. . and of a pair of black swans winging to the east, into that far, mountainous land where the sun was born.

  Lonit stood at the edge of Torka’s cave in her favorite, heavily fringed, elks king dress, with necklaces of shells and feathers around her neck. In the valley far below, Umak and Dak were hunting with Aar for fresh meat, their contribution to the special feast that would be enjoyed later in the day. Their movements had caused the pair of black swans to rise from the lake.

  Lonit stared westward, feeling sad. The old longing was back and her arms felt empty. “Manaravak ...” she whispered.

  “This is not a day for tears,” said Torka, coming up behind her and putting his arms around her.

  She turned and looked up at him, smiling, as he wiped the tears from her eyes, then bent to kiss her blossom and-leaf-encircled brow. He had donned the full regalia of his rank: the head circlet of feathers drawn from the wings of eagles and hawks and the great black-and-white flight feathers of the condor like tera torn the massive collar of intricately woven sinew strands adorned with stone beads and fossilized shells, from which hung the paws and fangs of wolves, as well as the claws and stabbing teeth of the great short-faced bear he had killed so long ago. She caught her breath in wonder at the sight of him.

  “How did you know that I was sad?” she asked, reaching up to touch his face lovingly.

  “Because after all of our years together, I share your spirit, Lonit. And I confide in you now that I, too, am sad. But it is a sweet sadness that we share—reflections on our youth, on all that we have endured together. Such great distances, so many years, so many tears, so much laughter and joy. On this day when our firstborn daughter is to- be welcomed into the band as a woman, it is good that we should remember it all and long for the ones that we have left behind.” His hand moved to rest across the swollen span of her belly. It pressed ever so gently, and yet, as if in response to an unspoken command, a strong ripple of movement stressed his palm. “Perhaps this one will be a son. A brother for Umak, a son that I can—“ He stopped, obviously not wishing to speak the rest of his thoughts out loud.

  She looked up. His jaw was tense, and the sadness in his eyes was so deep that she felt as though she would drown in it. The white lion rose to roar within her from out of the past, and the old fear was back again. Does he suspect that Umak may not be his son but the son of.. . ?

  Torka looked down at her. “Do not look so concerned, woman of my heart. Another daughter would please me.”

  Relief flooded her. The white lion disappeared. Torka was not worried about Umak’s paternity, after all. She laughed out loud at her own foolishness. “It is all right for Torka to say that he would prefer a son. If the forces of Creation are listening, on this special day may they grant your wish, for Torka honors the female spirits among them by consecrating Summer Moon’s maturity as a woman. Not all bands celebrate the coming of age of their daughters. My father would never have celebrated my first time of blood. He did not care whether I lived or died, except when he could use me. As for Cheanah, I doubt if that man would make much celebration except for his wolf eyed sons.”

  The corners of Torka’s mouth worked with droll amusement. “Do you remember Cheanah’s daughter? How homely she was, and nasty.”

  “Still, I hope that Zhoonali has made a ceremony of welcome for Honee. She would be a woman by now.” She sighed, painfully aware of the passing of time. “So long ago! I wonder what has become of her and of all those who chose to remain with Cheanah.”

  He held her close. “Forget them. Look. Karana comes toward us across the valley under the shadow of the circling swans. Today is not a day for the past. It is a day for the future.”

  At the back of the cave, Summer Moon lay naked within the little tent of woven dry branches that the women had raised for her, and in which she had ceremonially passed her first time of blood. The soiled scraps of fur that had absorbed the blood of her menses had been handed out one by one to the women who attended her every whim. The furs had been collected upon a special hide; later, she would come naked from the hut of first blood and would be given a burning brand, with which she would set fire to the furs and toss their ashes from the cave as a symbolic offering to the forces of Creation—the ashes of the “death” of her childhood.

  Tears stung Summer Moon’s eyes. She was afraid. Something important was about to happen, and she did not know how much it would hurt. She swallowed hard. She had seen babies born; could it be worse than that?

  The girl sat up, listening. Outside the tiny tent, the women were talking low, secretively, conspiratorially, happily. Lonit had come to unlace the thongs that held the hide doorway closed. When it was parted, Lonit bent low and entered with her arms loaded with skin flasks. From outside, someone lashed the tent flap closed behind her.

  “It is time to prepare you to be reborn as a woman,” proclaimed Lonit, unburdening her arms and kneeling close.

  Summer Moon swallowed hard and nodded. The fragrance of her mother’s necklaces and armlets of leaves and blossoms filled the hut. Lonit looked beautiful and radiant.

  “I am afraid,” Summer Moon told her bluntly.

  Lonit smiled tenderly. “On this day, dear one, you need not fear. You need only to bask in the love that we all feel for you. We are so proud! So glad for you!”

  “When all is finished, must I go to Simu’s fire?”

  “Of course! A woman must be a woman! She cannot live with her father and mother. She must be with a man and make babies for the band.”

&nbs
p; “I would rather go to Karana’s fire. He is younger and better to look upon, and—I ... I have always loved him.”

  Lonit embraced her as though she were still a child. “Ever since he was a youth, all the girls and women have had an eye for Karana! But why would you wish to go to the fire of one who is as a brother to you? There is little enough for poor Mahnie to do. Karana would not make you happy. I doubt that he would give you any more babies than he has given to her.”

  “It is Mahnie who makes him sad. I would make him happy! And I am not sure that I want to make babies-unless they are Karana’s.” “Nonsense! This band is small, and we need babies to make us strong. Besides, a woman without little ones is like a hunter without a spear—not of much use to the band at all! The blood that has been shed will not be unshed. Be glad! The forces of Creation smile upon you this day, for on the way from this tent to the fire circle of Simu, you must first stay awhile in the hut of rebirth, and there you will discover the magic that will surprise you.”

  Dak, Umak, and Aar intercepted Karana on his way to the cave.

  “We hunt for gifts for Summer Moon and for Torka and Lonit!” declared Dak, proudly hefting the weight of a thong of fat geese.

  “Special gifts for a special day,” added Umak jubilantly, showing off two large, limp loons. “Have you seen omens for my sister?”

  “Omens?” Karana growled. “I have seen no omens.”

  Dak frowned. Coming in contact with Karana was like bumping into a storm cloud and waiting for the lightning to strike. “Come on, Umak. I’m sure that the magic man has things to attend to at the cave before the ceremonies begin, and I want to take a few more geese before we return home.”

  “I’ll meet you at the lake. I need to talk to Karana for a moment.

  About my dreams.”

  “Dreams!” Dak, openly annoyed, could not understand how Umak could be a normal friend one moment and a depressed, dreaming mystic the next. “Not about your brother again!”

  “What sort of dreams?” Karana demanded.

  Umak felt as though he were looking up at a wolf that would bite off his head if he said the wrong thing. “J-just dreams. I’ve told Dak about them, but .. . m-maybe this isn’t the best time to bother you with—“

  Dak took an inadvertent step back. He did not like the way the magic man’s eyes had suddenly focused upon Umak as though in all the world there was nothing more important—or threatening—to him than that one middle sized, antelope-eyed boy. “Come on, Umak. Karana has more

  important things to—“

  The magic man’s eyes spitted Dak. “There is nothing more important than dreams. Nothing! And believe me, boy, I am in no hurry to return to the cave this day!”

  Dak gulped and nodded. He felt that he had ceased to exist for both Karana and Umak. He frowned, not liking the exclusion; on the other hand, he had no desire to be involved. “Well, then, if it’s dreams you two want to talk about, I’ll be off and leave you to it!”

  Umak regretfully watched him go. Aar ran off with him.

  “Dreams?” Karana’s strong ungloved fingers gripped Umak’s chin. “Tell me of your dreams, Umak.”

  Umak’s eyes went wide. He saw the threat in Karana’s eyes. “I ... th-thought you could tell me what they m-mean. I’ve had them for a long time. Sometimes they aren’t really dreams about my brother at all, but simply a knowing.”

  Karana’s face went as white as bleached bone. His eyes were as blank as the tundral steppe in the depth of the darkest winter night.

  Umak decided that it was best simply to plunge ahead.

  He would be glad to be away from the magic man. “I see my brother as a baby sometimes, all blue, with a thong around his neck. Always he looks like Torka but is very dirty. Sometimes I feel him inside me, lonely and sad, and very often, I have the feeling that he is in danger.” He stopped. The look on Karana’s face was terrifying. He was a wolf. He would eat him if he said another word about his dreams.

  He nearly dropped his thong of loons. “I’m sorry, Karana! Today is Summer Moon’s day, not mine! Go on about whatever it is you have to do. I’ll talk to Torka about the dreams another day when—“

  “No!” Umak had already turned away, but Karana’s hand gripped him by the arm and turned him back. “Your brother is dead, understand? And if you do not wish to make Torka angry or cause your mother pain, you will not speak of him again.”

  Umak wilted under the tirade. “But if he is in danger?”

  “He cannot be in danger if he is dead, can he?”

  “N-no.”

  “Then you will not speak of him again. Ever!”

  “N-never,” promised Umak, astounded and terrified by the twisted mix of wrath and anguish in Karana’s face. “Never again.”

  Never had Umak seen a man’s face as contorted with emotion as the magic man’s was now. Wrath pulled the fine, even features into those of a snarling, moon-maddened wolf.

  Madness. Yes. The boy had never seen it before, but surely it was madness that glittered in Karana’s eyes and transformed his face into a visage of pure rapacious ugliness as he pulled Umak closer, twisting the boy’s arm until Umak cried out, terrified.

  “Could it be? Is it possible? Does he live in you?” Karana was muttering to himself, reasoning with himself. His eyes took in each and every one of Umak’s features as though he had just seen him for the first time. “No. It could not be. It is not.” The ugliness began to recede. He released Umak with a shove that sent the boy sprawling.

  “Remember my warning, Umak. Speak no more of your dreams to me or anyone. For if you do, if I ever have cause to suspect that his spirit lives in you, I will seek you out even though Torka names you Son. In the night I will come, as an invisible owl with talons bared and poised to rip your throat. And when they find you dead, no one will know that it was my magic that stole your life. No one.”

  Torka stood at the base of the hills, and when Umak ran past him without so much as a word, he waited for Karana to stop before him.

  “What did the boy want of you?” “Words. Advice.” Torka sensed evasion. “He looked upset.”

  Karana met his gaze. “I tell you, it was nothing of importance.”

  Torka nodded. If the boy had gone to him for personal advice, the words they had shared were their own. “I am glad that you are here.”

  “I will not do what you and Grek have asked of me. I will make the songs and the smokes and lead the dances but no more than that.”

  “You must, Karana. Our people must have your magic. Grek and Simu agree. What we do now will be the honored rituals for the generations that come after us. Years from now, when Summer Moon is old and dry and barren, let her be able to draw her granddaughters around her and tell them that when she was a girl, before she went to the fire circle of her first man, there was a gift of magic given to the first new woman in this new land.”

  Karana scowled. “Simu has agreed to be her man. He can—“ “He is not a magic man, my son. There is no real love between him and Summer Moon. There is no ‘first-love man’ in this band for Summer Moon. There can be no magic for her, no fire, unless you create it for her.”

  Karana stared, silenced by the bitter truth. Yet could he give to Summer Moon what he denied to Mahnie? No! He could not, he would not, he dared not—not with her, not with any woman ever again. Yet he could not tell Torka why. “I ... she ... is my sister.”

  Torka waved the protest away. “A shaman is beyond such kinship. What I ask is common custom in many bands to the west. The ritual gift of opening may be of your devising. Gentling a girl into womanhood need not be a coupling. Only let it be magic, Karana! Magic in the darkness, in the firelight.

  A gift that will live in her heart forever.”

  He did not know how long he sat within the little hut of green branches. He entered it secretly sometime after Summer Moon came out of the hut of blood. Before that he had danced and drunk deeply of some half-bitter, half sweet fermented brew that was passed
too freely from hand to hand. During the dancing and drinking, Grek came close and growled a few words about lingering with Mahnie after the ceremony.

  A special fire circle had been made and readied. With his “magic” kindling Karana made a “magic” fire, raised up “magic” smoke, and sang “magic” praise songs in honor of the new woman of the band.

  And all the while he tried not to look at Mahnie or at little Naya. Mahnie looked tired, thinner and smaller than he remembered—frail almost—and yet so lovely and soft in a simple, membrane-thin summer tunic of doeskin, with flowers around her neck, wrists, and ankles and in her long, un plaited hair. Karana turned his back upon his woman and daughter lest he weaken, go to them, sweep them into his arms, smother them with kisses, and speak his love to them. And once he spoke he would never be able to go back into the cold, lonely mountains.

  He was grateful when, with a great, clamorous shouting, the men and boys demanded that the new woman among them come forth. As Karana watched, Summer Moon came out of the hut of blood, naked and oiled and as glistening as a newborn baby.

  But she was no infant and certainly no child. Amazed, Karana stared. Everyone stared as, guided by a proud Lonit, Summer Moon blushingly displayed a young woman’s body for all to see. Torka handed her a burning brand. With this she strode to the entrance of the cave and ignited the pile of bloodied furs that the women had collected and covered with oil. When they had burned to ashes, Summer Moon proudly cast ‘them to the wind.

  Cries of delight went up, especially from Simu. Eneela frowned and elbowed him in the side. He leaned close and kissed her hard and long, then whispered something to her that made her smile and kiss him back. Tears of pride shone in Lonit’s eyes. Torka took her hand as garlands were placed around the new woman’s neck and all the members of the band gathered around.

  Demmi, looking very regal and almost grown up in a new fringed dress of elks king similar to Lonit’s, carried little Swan up to Summer Moon and gave her big sister a long and surprisingly tender embrace. Umak came forward with uncharacteristic shyness to murmur words of congratulations.