by neetha Napew
As they came to the bones of the encampment that they had shared with Supnah’s people near the Land of Little Sticks, they veered away into unfamiliar country, until the sun disappeared behind the high, glistening blue walls of the Mountains That Walk. At last they shrugged off their packs and gratefully began to make camp in stony, broken country beside a wide, shallow tributary of the River of Caribou Spring Crossing. From here they would continue toward the northwest until they came to the broad outwash plain at the base of the high, forested hills, where they would join the Great Gathering.
Torka and Karana raised shelters against the rain that they knew would come before morning. The wind had changed. The clouds had thinned to mere streaks. Tomorrow, thicker, darker, more potent clouds would follow. Now the sky glowed. It took on the color of clear water into which blood has seeped. Only if they looked very hard could they see stars at all. This was the time of light. There would be no night, except in their bones and muscles when fatigue told them that it was time to sleep.
Lonit, lana, and Summer Moon searched for additions to the traveling rations of dried meat and cakes of fat into which berries and bits of wind-cured fish had been pressed. In the shade of scrub willow, birch, and alder growing along the river, the women speared graylings with their fishing tridents.
Lonit and lana used digging sticks of fire-hardened bone to uproot tubers and picked the crisp, deep-green leaves of mountain sorrel, munching as they worked. Summer Moon followed them eagerly, imitating their every move as Lonit instructed her tiny daughter in the names and uses of the growing gifts of Mother Below.
They feasted upon fish, fragrant leaves, and sweet roots, saving their less desirable traveling provisions for another camp. Aliga sighed, rose weakly to her feet, stretched her great girth, then leaned on Lonit for support as the younger woman helped her to hobble off to a private place within the shrubs where she could relieve herself. This done, Lonit helped her back to the campsite again and gently assisted her as she seated herself.
Seeing that Torka and Karana had gone off to attend to their own needs, Aliga leaned close to Lonit. “Do you think that Navahk will be at the Great Gathering?”
Lonit frowned at the ever-deepening sallow color that she saw within Aliga’s swirling tattoos. She touched Aliga’s brow, testing for fever. “This woman has no wish to see that one again,” she replied. Her fever was still there, but low, barely perceptible, like a tiny ember glowing within the ash of a well-banked fire. She wished that Aliga would drink the bearberry brew that she made for her at Karana’s advice, or at least chew on fever-eating willow leaves. But Aliga was not willing to give much credence to either Lonit’s or Karana’s attempts at healing.
“That one was the most beautiful man that this woman has ever seen,” exhaled the tattooed woman, closing her eyes, smiling at memories. “And so powerful, so strong in his magic. Navahk called the bad spirits out of Hetchem. He called them out of her and held them up for all to see! He could do that for this woman!”
Again Lonit frowned. The mention of his name caused an unwelcome and instant quickening of her heart. “Aliga’s memory does not see beyond the face and smile of the man! Has she forgotten that Hetchem died? Navahk’s magic smokes and chanting did not save her.”
“He could have. But Hetchem was too old for baby bearing. Aliga is not so old. The magic of Navahk could help this woman. Aliga is sure of it.”
“Karana says that his magic is trickery, that there is a darkness in him.”
Aliga’s blackened lids fluttered open. She shook her head weakly and smiled conspiratorially at her friend. “What does a boy know of how a woman sees a man, eh?”
“We are Torka’s women!” Lonit replied defensively.
“Yes, but we would have to be blind not to respond to Navahk or want to be with him, at least once.”
“This woman never wants to see him again!”
The intensity of Lonit’s reply did not pass Aliga unnoticed. “Not even if he could save this woman and bring forth her baby?”
Shame and guilt burned Lonit’s face. She wondered if Aliga had seen into her heart. “There will be many magic men at the Great Gathering, Aliga,” she responded evasively. “This woman asks the spirits every day that one of these healers will help her sister. Also she asks that it not be Navahk. Navahk’s magic is bad.”
Aliga measured her out of jaundiced eyes. “Bad for whom?” she pressed, then shook her head again and clucked her tongue knowingly. Sighing, she drifted into sleep, leaving Lonit to ponder a question that she had no wish to answer.
Karana first saw the strangers, although the dogs were on their scent long before the youth pointed toward them. Alerted by the frenzied barking and circling of the animals, Torka rose from his sleeping skins, hefted his bludgeon, raised his spear, and stood tall, unmoving, and silent as the interlopers advanced.
Lonit was instantly awake, alarmed by the dogs and the tension that she saw in Torka’s back. She sat up beneath their lean-to and called out to lana, who shared another shelter with the children.
“Keep the little ones close!” she commanded as she shoved her bed skins aside. Jamming her feet into her hoots, she took up her bola from where it lay close to her lynx-skin headrest, and clambered to stand beside her man, thankful that they had not all stripped naked before retiring.
The strangers were clothed in well-worked skins. Theirs was a small band, not more than thirty people. But next to Torka’s tiny company, the number seemed enormous, as was the noise that they made. Bent forward under heavy pack frames, they boldly sloshed across the shallows of the river.
Then they paused, transfixed with amazement and terror as they saw the pack of wild dogs that threatened them from the far embankment. They stopped dead, squinting, trying to make sense of the fact that the dogs seemed to be a part of Torka’s tiny band. The women began to murmur against grave misgivings. A child began to cry. The hunters took their spears and waved their arms, shouting and hooting, pretending they were not intimidated.
Under Aar’s leadership the dogs were entering the river, heads out, teeth bared, entire bodies straining forward as if about to leap to the attack. A single word from Torka caused the animals to hold. When one of the younger males moved forward, Aar and Sister Dog leaped upon him and sent him yipping back to join his siblings.
“Aiyeeeh!” The cry of amazement went out of every mouth in the strange band. The threat of the attacking dogs was less frightening than the specter of a lone man controlling a pack of wild animals with a single word. As one they stepped back, stumbling over themselves until they were safe on the far shore. The women clutched their children while the men again raised their weapons and shook them violently. One of their number levered back and hurled a spear at Torka. It was an impressive throw but short of its target. It landed near the water, its head embedded in the riverbank, its painted shaft quivering as though with embarrassment for having failed to serve its master.
Torka did not move. Behind him, kneeling within her lean-to, lana struggled to hold the children while Summer Moon was straining angrily to be free. From beneath the skins of her own shelter, Aliga peeked with groggy curiosity from her jumbled sleeping skins.
Karana stood brazenly with spear in hand beside Torka, who was proud that neither of them flinched when the man hurled his weapon from the far shore. Three long years of hunting together had taught them that a spear thrust from such a distance could be no threat. From the way that the stranger balanced and hurled his weapon, Torka was certain that the man must have known it too; it was simply his way of keeping his pride.
“A fool’s throw,” Karana sneered. “The spearhead will be ruined, and from the way the shaft quivers, the bone is cracked.”
Torka nodded. “Nevertheless, the spear spoke well for the man. He does not want us to think that he is afraid.”
“But why does he fear us?” Lonit asked, herself fearful.
“I would imagine that he and his people have never seen men w
alk with dogs before,” Torka answered. “It was so with Supnah’s people until they learned that there was no special magic to the relationship. But this man will not make the same mistake twice. The few are always weak among the many unless the many have cause to fear them. Karana, bring this man his spear hurler. We’ll show them some real magic.”
It was a graceful, elegantly carved tool. Years of refinement had made it much more accurate and easier to handle than his first design. This hurler was of caribou antler, considerably lighter than the first, made from the pelvis of a bison. He smiled in anticipation of the strangers’ reaction to the spectacle to which they were about to be treated.
“Are you going to kill him?” Karana asked eagerly.
“Not unless I’ve lost my eye and touch,” responded Torka, and knew that he had lost neither as, commanding Lonit and the youth to stand aside, he balanced himself squarely on both feet, pivoted to the right, then leaned back, back, until all of his weight was on his right leg. And still he twisted his body back until he felt his power burning along his entire right side—the exquisite pain of absolute control—as he took meticulous aim, and in a sudden burst of energy, whirled around and felt his power uncoiling, releasing up through his body as he hurled himself forward, caught his balance on his left foot, steadied it again on his right, and threw the spear, not just with his arm, but with a sharp snap-and-fling motion. The spear hurler effectively became a second forearm and wrist as it launched his weapon with twice the speed of any normally thrown spear and across twice the distance.
The headman jumped straight up as Torka’s spear landed at his feet. He stared, gape mouthed. No spear could fly so far! But this spear had. It could have struck a killing blow. But clearly the man who had thrown it had not intended that.
“Aiy yah!” cried the women.
Every man and boy of the band sucked in his breath with wonder and covetousness while their headman tentatively touched the powerful, magical weapon.
And so, with the thrust of a spear, an alliance was begun; for in that moment Torka raised his now empty spear arm in a sign of greeting and, alone but not unarmed, waded out across the river.
“You hold the spear of Torka,” he offered, striding out of the shallows. His right hand was open and extended imperiously toward the headman, his left curled about the haft of his bludgeon.
The man had pulled Torka’s spear from the ground at his feet. He was small and burly. His large head, puffed along his right cheek and jaw, seemed even larger from a turban like helmet of bison skin, to which the time-worn, fly-bitten body of a fox had been stitched. The tail trailed down the man’s back, and the ferretlike face stared with eyes of polished stone over his brow. From beneath the fox’s snout the man’s heavy features were lean with hunger. There was wariness and fear in his eyes as he stared at Torka, but no malice, anger, or cruelty. A chapped, chunky hand shot outward, fingers curled about Torka’s spear. “The point will need re knapping but the shaft is still sound. “Here. You take! Torka is a man of much power to walk with beasts and tell them what to do! To throw a spear so far, so fast, with so much strength! The spirits of hunting magic must be strong in Torka, says this man, Zinkh!”
Torka held his tongue, letting Zinkh think what he wanted him to think. Torka looked past him to his equally lean looking people. He counted children of varying ages, infants, women, and several faces so seamed with age that, were it not for their clothing, it would have been difficult to guess their gender. This band is lean, but it has not sent its old to walk the wind so that its young might grow fat upon their leavings. He scanned the watchful faces of at least eight strong hunters—young men in their prime, all with eyes like their spokesman. Watchful and wary but without guile.
Torka allowed himself to relax a little. Had he found the band he had been seeking? “Zinkh will keep the spear of Torka.”
“Ahhh ...” The man’s face puckered with pleasure. Then he winced, his free hand flying to his swollen jaw, where his fingers pressed to relieve pain. “And what does this man Zinkh have to give in return to Torka?”
“Torka asks for nothing.”
“Good. Zinkh and his band, we have nothing. Has been bad season for hunting. Not much meat. Many say passes to far north and west are closed by walking snow. Game cannot come through to eat spring grass. So now in lean days of summer, Zinkh and his people, we journey to make winter camp at Great Gathering. It is good place to winter. Hunt mammoths if nothing better turns up. Phuggh! Stinking mammoth! Taste like trees! Torka of much power, you like mammoth meat?” “This man does not hunt the mammoth. It is his totem. But Torka also journeys to the Great Gathering, to winter there and to find a wise woman with healing powers for one of my women who is. slow to give birth. But Torka knows no hunger. My people walk out of the east with bellies full. And Torka’s camp across the river is filled now with fresh fish and much dried meat. Gladly would we welcome Zinkh and his people to share meat. And perhaps, among your women, there are wise ones who could ease the worries of my woman who is with child?”
The man’s face expanded into a smile that seemed to split his face. “We travel to Great Gathering together! Make one band. Zinkh and his people could use a hunter of much power like Torka! We tell old Pomm to make baby-come forth songs for woman of Torka! Old Pomm, she knows everything about babies!”
Old Pomm thought she knew everything, but she knew nothing. She possessed such absolute and aggressive conviction, there was no arguing with her. She was not a wise woman in any sense of the word, nor did she pretend to know magic; but she was the closest to wisdom and magic among her simple, straightforward people. They were proud of her, and she marinated herself in their pride like a prime, plump fillet of haunch meat set to soak in fermented berry juice at summer’s end. She absorbed it and grew fat upon it—so much so that when Zinkh called her to cross the river with him, fear of the strangers was absorbed by her pride. Great indeed must her knowledge be, if such a man as Torka asked for her!
The people of Zinkh stared with solemn anticipation of the worst as their headman escorted Pomm across the shallows. Not one wished to make the crossing, even for the promise of food. They were intimidated by the large, wolflike dogs and murmured respectfully of the unprecedented bravery of their headman. But that was what headmen were for; after Zinkh had tested the waters of Torka’s camp and found them safe, only then would his people follow.
So Zinkh and Pomm came alone and were greeted with friendship. Custom demanded that strangers be given food, so Lonit stood by, ready to offer leftover roasted grayling to the headman and the fat woman the moment they sloshed out of the river. Both eyed the fish as though it were offal. lana held out a skin basket filled with cakes of fat and long ribbons of dried meat. Zinkh and Pomm greedily took handfuls of both, and while the fat woman grunted her approval and appraised Karana with eyes as ravenous and bold as her appetite, the headman nodded with exuberant appreciation of the food.
“Not taste bison, fresh or dried, for long time now,” said Zinkh. “Eat fish, all the time fish—and bird and rodent. Phuggh! Not man meat! Woman meat!”
Lonit was glad that her eyes were downturned, lest the stranger be offended by what he saw in them. After three long years of living with Torka in the Valley of Songs, she had forgotten how rude other men were to their women. The grayling she had offered were whole and untouched. Each weighed well over five pounds, gutted, and had been prepared with care, stuffed with sorrel leaves and slow-cooked over the coals. Now, although they were cold, they were still fragrant and tender. Anyone who claimed to be hungry but dismissed such well-made food was not only rude, he was stupid. Lonit gritted her teeth.
Both Pomm and Zinkh eyed the well-packed basket as they stuffed their faces, chewing with infinite pleasure, as the headman asked through a mouthful: “Torka of much power has much man meat to share?”
“Torka has packed much man meat out of the east. Bison, camel, antelope, horse—“
Zinkh’s small, bright eyes
went round with surprise, then narrowed with speculation. “East! Where east?”
“Between the Mountains That Walk, within the Corridor of Storms.”
A well-chewed spattering of food exploded out of Pomm’s mouth. She choked. Zinkh slapped her on the back hard enough to drop a horse; she did not fall.
The headman stared at Torka. “No man hunts there,” he whispered, as though he feared being overheard.
“Torka hunts there.”
Lonit cast a sideward glance up at her man, proud of the disdainful authority with which he spoke to the overdressed, rude little headman.
“It is forbidden.” Zinkh was still whispering. “No man has ever walked into that far country and come back to tell of it.”
“Torka has come back to tell of it and to share its man meat with Zinkh.”
The man gulped, no longer certain that the meat was as tasty as before. But he had already eaten it, and it would be an offense to the life spirit of the game animal that had died to provide it if he vomited it up. now. Besides, it was the tastiest dried meat that he had ever eaten. Even the disgusting white flesh of the river fish had given off a tempting aroma. He wondered if Torka’s women cooked with magic. Perhaps Torka himself was a spirit man. He gulped, wondering what powers the spirits would grant to him and to his people if they walked with such a man. “Torka is a man of much power?” The question trembled with excitement.
Torka’s face was expressionless. “Torka is what Zinkh sees,” he replied obliquely. “And now, if Zinkh would bring this woman....”
It was obvious from their behavior that they would do whatever Torka asked. They followed him obediently to where Aliga lay, and while Pomm winked at Karana and flashed a snaggle-toothed smile that caused the boy to blush to his hairline and turn away, Zinkh openly admired the neat lean-to.
The little man in the enormous headdress eyed the sky. “Torka think rain will come soon?”