Corridor of Storms

by neetha Napew

  What sort of an ungrateful female was she? Could she ever forget the way Torka had rescued her and the others from the Ghost Band? Or the way he had noticed her shame as all the other captives—younger, less tattooed—had found places beneath the sleeping skins of Supnah’s hunters? What the men of the Ghost Band had found beautiful, the men of Supnah’s band found amusing at best and repulsive at worst. Although she had a round, pretty face with bright eyes, a small, flat nose, and a pert mouth that revealed a pleasant nature and a propensity for sudden laughter, not one of them had offered to take the tattooed woman to his bed skins. To save her the humiliation of rejection, Torka had welcomed her to stay at his fire until another man spoke for her.

  So far, no man had. She was not sorry. The only one she encouraged with her smile and her looks of longing was the magic man; but she knew that she had little hope of winning so much as a glance from him. And, in truth, she found more than a little pride in the knowledge that the people of Supnah’s band assumed that she was Torka’s second woman in every way. She knew that Torka would never dishonor her by saying otherwise to his fellow hunters.

  With a sigh, she recalled that from the first he made it quite clear to her that he was more than content with only one woman. His love for Lonit was absolute and without bounds. Aliga marveled at their relationship. In the night, when they lay in one another’s arms, Torka not only made love to Lonit, he actually talked to her as though she were a male and thus his equal. He shared his thoughts with her as he would share them with a father or brother or trusted hunting companion. Aliga had never seen anything like it. Sometimes she found it unnatural. She told herself that it was this way because they had been long alone together, without other men and women with whom to form friendships. She was not certain if she would want such a relationship with a man; their thoughts were not woman thoughts, and their actions were often befuddling to her. She was more comfortable with other women, working, chatting, gossiping, and laughing together.

  Although she was loath to admit it, she knew that her place at Torka’s fire was puzzling to them. Sometimes she overheard “What does he see in her?” whispered behind her back. Bitterly, she would think: He sees nothing! He feels sorry for me! But she could never explain that to the women of Supnah’s band. Pity was alien to them; indeed, she suspected that Torka’s compassion, for which she was so grateful, would be viewed as a flaw in an otherwise praiseworthy hunter.

  She cast a sidelong glance at Lonit, glad that she and her man were not uncaring like the others. She had become close to Torka’s woman. Aliga knew her young friend well enough to be certain that Lonit would never knowingly speak words to bruise the spirit of another. Nevertheless, Lonit was fiercely possessive of Torka. She wanted what was best for Aliga but made no secret that she had no wish to share her man.

  “Aliga is the best of women!” she would exclaim to the other females when they worked together within earshot of their men. “Such a hard worker! So quick at her tasks! How fortunate is Lonit to have Aliga sharing the burdens of her days!” And to Aliga she would say, “If Aliga would have a man of her own, she must try harder to make them see through the skin to the merits of the woman beneath!”

  Aliga was not offended. Torka’s fire circle was becoming crowded:

  Karana was often there, and Torka had taken the widow of Manaak, his murdered friend, to dwell within his protection. Poor, mind-blighted lana, raped by the men who had murdered both her husband and her newborn son, had not spoken a word since she had been rescued from the Ghost Band. Torka insisted that lana’s responsibilities as a wet nurse for Summer Moon freed Lonit for other chores. Even now she slept within Torka’s hut of bones and fur, with his daughter contentedly suckling at her breast, thus allowing Lonit the freedom to await the return of her man while she worked with Aliga, desperately trying to distract herself from worry.

  “He will come back to us soon, and with the boy!” insisted the tattooed woman, herself distracted not by the work at hand but by her wandering thoughts.

  For the first time in her life Aliga was happy. To share Torka’s shelter was to hold the hope that someday, when Lonit was in her time of blood or again great with child, Torka would hold back his sleeping skins and welcome Aliga beneath them. She might never bear him a child, but the thought of pleasuring a man as powerful and handsome as Torka was enough to make her forget her years of sexual abuse at the hands of the Ghost Band.

  Kneeling beside Lonit, Aliga’s lustful thoughts of Torka caused her to blush with guilt. What if the younger woman could read her mind? The boy, Karana, sometimes did. She would find him watching her, and it was as though his mind had melded with her own. Startled, she would demand that he look away. But someone else was watching her now. And, suddenly, as she met his glance, her thoughts flew from Torka.

  Navahk was looking at her! He stood before the painted hide door flap of a pit hut covered in the white skins of winter-killed animals. A hut before which his ceremonial staff stood, butt end piercing the tundra, with its antelope skull gleaming and taloned, feathered skin streamers streaming gently in the wind. A hut he shared with no woman.

  Aliga nearly swooned with disbelieving delight as his eyes met hers, narrowing with what appeared to be almost sleepy speculation as he smiled. Yes! At the tattooed woman!

  It was all she could do to remain seated as he began to walk slowly across the encampment toward her. As he passed the dogs that lay in the sun beside Lonit’s and Aliga’s drying frames, Sister Dog growled at him and the pups whimpered. Navahk proceeded as though the animals were not there. Aliga gave Lonit a sharp, meaningful elbow jab to the ribs and practically sang a joyous whisper out the side of her mouth as she held her head high, in the way of a woman accepting a man, and looked directly at her suitor. “Look! When Torka returns, he will have one less woman at his fire! Navahk comes! He comes for me!”

  But when he reached her, acknowledging her presence with a gracious nod, his smile was more demeaning to her than death, for his eyes swept over her and rested upon the downturned head of Lonit.

  “There are too many women at Torka’s fire. Navahk has no woman. Lonit will come with me.”

  It had not been a question; it had been a command. It struck Lonit like a stone. She heard Aliga stifle a sob. She looked up, not knowing whether to be flattered or angry. “My man is not here. Navahk has no right to ask for me.” His smile was barely perceptible. “A man may ask. A woman may accept or refuse. Only the spirits know if Torka will return.” Lonit allowed her anger to surface. “Do not speak so! Would you bring the words to life?”

  His smile grew. It rearranged his features, softened them, warmed them, made them not only more perfect but infinitely likable and openly seductive; yet somehow the smile did not reach his eyes. They remained cold, raptorial, as hard and oily as the stone pestle in Lonit’s hand. “With Torka here—or with him gone—Navahk says that it would be good for Torka’s woman at the fire of the magic man.”

  “Lonit has a man! With Torka, she needs no other.”

  His smile did not waver. He extended a hand to her. “Come.”

  She stared up at him, her mind swimming in confusion, her body inexplicably responding to him, betraying Torka. From behind her Wallah, the woman of Grek, came from her own pit hut to see the cause of the young woman’s exclamations. Her wide-eyed young daughter, Mahnie, peeked at Lonit from behind her mother’s hare-trimmed skirt while the other women of the band followed from their own dwelling, including Naiapi, the woman of Supnah, and midnight-haired little Pet.

  With his hand still extended down toward Lonit, Navahk’s voice was as soft and low as a summer wind hissing through the ripe grasses of the tundral plain. “Come .. . Navahk will make magic for Torka’s return—a magic he cannot make alone.” Lonit dared not move. Her hand was curled so tightly about the pestle that her aching fingers were growing numb with the resulting stress.

  “Lonit must go!” insisted Wallah, appalled by the obvious hesitation of the y
ounger woman. Did she not care for her man? Did she not understand that when it came to the making of magic, a magic man might ask anything and not be refused lest the spirits be offended and turn against the band?

  The face of Naiapi, Supnah’s woman, was unreadable. Her chin was up, and her long, generous lips were pressed so tightly against her teeth that they were devoid of color. Her eyes were fixed upon Navahk. They were unwavering and demanding eyes. “Has Navahk seen a danger, then, that Torka and Supnah will not return?” He did not look at Naiapi.

  “Navahk always sees danger. That is why he is a magic man,” he replied obliquely, his hand still extended to Lonit, his eyes holding hers, his smile unchanged and beckoning. “Come. We will make magic together. It will be a good thing.” Naiapi moved forward. “Navahk has no need of

  Lonit! She is Torka’s! I am the headman’s woman! Naiapi will make magic with Navahk! He needs no one else!” The eagerness in her words betrayed emotions that she had not intended to reveal. The color bled back into her lips, and she looked away from the watching eyes of the

  women of her band. They were no longer alone; drawn by the raised voices of their women, Supnah’s hunters had gathered around. Flustered, Naiapi stared down at her booted feet until she became aware of Pet, her little daughter, looking up at her, perplexed. She made a rude noise at

  the child, then defiantly met the gazes of those who were staring at her. Her voice was unnaturally high, with an odd, brittle edge that cracked as she proclaimed: “For Supnah! For the headman’s safe return to his people does Naiapi offer herself to Navahk! Come! Now, to assure the safe return of her man, will Naiapi and Navahk go to his hut, where we will make magic together!”

  Navahk laughed. It was the merest exhalation of sound, but it was so ripe with derision that all who heard it were stunned but none more than Naiapi. “Navahk and Naiapi will never make magic together.”

  A young girl ventured forward. “This girl will make magic with the magic man for Karana. Has everyone forgotten Karana?” The question was a peep such as hatchlings make, except that there was fear in it as Mahnie, barely eight years old, looked imploringly at Navahk.

  The magic man’s head pivoted and his eyes focused on the little one. He saw that she was shivering, and his smile grew liquid with pleasure. “This man could never forget Karana, little one.”

  “Nor does Karana need his magic!”

  Everyone whirled at the sound of the boy’s voice. Supnah was with him, and Torka, and the wild dog Aar, all returned safely from out of the night. And as Lonit dropped the pestle, sprang to her feet, and leaped to stand joyfully beside her man, Navahk’s smile disappeared.

  Torka could not remember when last he was as angry as he was now. “What is this ‘magic’ that allows Navahk to walk into my fire circle and attempt to take any woman from me when I am not here to face his arrogance!”

  The magic man raised his head with imperious disdain. He folded his arms across his chest and smiled. “Magic is not for hunters to understand. It is a thing of smokes and dreams.”

  “Navahk’s smokes, made to cloud other men’s dreams!” snapped Karana.

  Torka looked at Supnah now. “Among Torka’s people, custom demands that if a man wants another man’s woman, he must first ask her man—not swoop behind his back like a vulture hoping to steal what is not his!”

  Torka’s statement had been so molten with anger that all who heard it stepped back lest they be burned when his temper burst into flame. Supnah was taken aback by the intensity of Torka’s feelings. He shrugged his shoulders apologetically and spoke in the tone of a born conciliator. “Among Supnah’s people, if a man wants another man’s woman and the woman wants him also, the woman may go with him ... if her own man is not man enough to keep her. This is the way of Supnah’s people. From time beyond beginning.”

  The headman’s words stung Torka but did not drain the anger from his heart. “It is a bad way,” he said. Beside him, Lonit was trembling. Her tall, slender body pressed against him, and he could feel the opulent curve of her hip and the softness of her shoulder. Her wide eyes, as deep a brown and as thickly lashed as the eyes of a frightened steppe antelope, looked up at him. “Torka is man enough!” she said loudly for all to hear. “This woman looks at no other!”

  The magic man, apparently unperturbed, was smiling again. His arms unfolded like the wings of a graceful white bird, and his hands swept outward in a gesture of conciliation. “Torka’s people are dead. Their ways and customs died with them. Torka is of this band now. He will accept the ways and customs of Supnah’s people, or he may walk away into the wind. The choice is his. As for this man, Navahk only sought to make the magic that would bring Torka safely back to camp with the others. To make this magic, it was necessary to seek the assistance of Torka’s woman. Ask Naiapi if this is not so. She and little Mahnie, Grek’s girl, were both willing to speak to the spirits through Navahk’s magic smokes on behalf of Karana and Supnah. Would Torka not have permitted his woman to do the same for him?”

  Torka glared hatefully at the man. He had seen the way Navahk had been looking at Lonit and had not misread the sexual provocation that underlay his seemingly innocent invitation. And he had clearly heard him refuse Naiapi’s almost panting offer of assistance.

  “It is so,” Naiapi quickly affirmed. Her face was unnaturally pale as she looked at Supnah, hoping that he would believe her lie. He had been several paces behind Torka and Karana when the gathering had parted to allow them through. Perhaps he had not seen the wanting in her eyes or heard it in her voice.

  But the headman was not looking at his woman. He was observing his brother with stern-eyed speculation. A guileless and pragmatic man, Supnah usually heard what others wanted him to hear, accepting as truth that which offered the least resistance to argument. But Supnah had seen the look of wanting in his woman’s eyes, and he was emotionally torn by the realization that last night, for the second time, Navahk had been in a position of control over the life of Karana, and he had chosen once again to negate that life.

  After Karana had stalked away from the gathering, Navahk had portended a thousand dangers to all who would walk after Karana and into the “night of the wanawut.” He had the hunters cowering and the women moaning in fear for them until, in frustration, Torka and Supnah had said that two men were all that was needed to find one small boy. Navahk had shaken his staff at them, warning them to beware lest they offend the spirits, and had said that for the good of the band they must not put themselves at risk for one useless, disobedient child. But they had gone despite his warnings, leaving him to chant and whirl in foul smokes of his own devising.

  There had been a moment, as he had watched his brother perform before the feast fire, when memories of their boyhood had risen within him, and he had been ready to forgive Navahk everything. But then he had seen Naiapi looking at his brother across the flames in a way that no man ever wants to see his woman look at another. Resentment and jealousy congealed into pure loathing, inspiring Supnah to suggest that Torka, a stranger, might better serve as magic man in Navahk’s place. His public humiliation of Navahk had cleared the way for Karana’s misbehavior.

  The recollection made Supnah feel ashamed. Naiapi had looked at Navahk, but then all of the women looked at him; his beauty was that rare, that perfect. Supnah had to admit that he had never seen Navahk look back. Never. Navahk had not openly taken a woman to his bed skins since he was barely more than a boy and had lived with a wandering magic woman.

  Supnah looked at Navahk now, hoping to see that young boy somewhere in the lean, magnificently imperious, hawklike face but failing. In his weariness, with everyone making him the focus of their attention, he himself felt like a boy trapped within the skin of a man. As often happened, he longed to be free of a man’s responsibility, to be a youth again, with elders to tell him what to do and when to do it ... as Navahk had so often done.

  Guilt rose in him again. Since Torka had come to the encampment with Karana, S
upnah’s behavior toward Navahk had been hostile and belligerent. He had actually enjoyed making his brother suffer and ground the fact of Karana’s homecoming into Navahk’s pride at every opportunity.

  By now Supnah had no doubts that Navank was capable of seeing clearly into the spirit world. When he and Torka had separated in their search for Karana, Navahk’s warnings had been proved right—there had been a thousand dangers. Supnah had seen lion and wolf sign and strange spoor that he could not identify. Just before joining Torka, he had seen shadows moving upon the horizon—shadows that had so defied his understanding that they made him feel old and weak with fear. He had seen the wanawut.

  How long would it be before Navahk’s words were once again fulfilled? No man may see the wanawut ... no man may find its spoor or follow its tracks lest it leap upon him from the world of spirits to feed upon him. Was he marked for death by the wanawut? Or by his own brother?

  No! He would tolerate no further suspicions! Navahk was of his band! Of his flesh! When he spoke, he spoke with the wisdom and the power of the spirits, and although Supnah would never again follow him blindly, neither would he impugn his authority.

  In the tone of one who has been severely wronged, the magic man was speaking earnestly to the headman. Startled, Supnah realized that he had not heard a word. Again he felt old and weary and wished that he were a boy.

  “... must tell Torka that if he is to dwell among Supnah’s people, he must accept Supnah’s ways. The things that Torka says are bad, crooked things that enter the thoughts of Supnah’s people to make them question the ways that have been their ways since time beyond beginning.” The magic man’s words fell into the receptive soil of his brother’s mind. Supnah nodded. The weariness was growing in him. He thought of his bed skins. “Torka has heard the words of Navahk?”