by neetha Napew
Her bola was a compound sling composed of four long lengths of braided sinews drawn together at one end. The loose end of each sinew was weighted by shell-shaped stones of equal size—rare finds gleaned in the far, undulating land that had smelled strongly of salt. She could not know that the shell-shaped stones were not stones but fossil remnants of another age. Yet somehow she sensed magic in them and a strange gentling of her spirit whenever she handled them.
Now, moving boldly forward, she took the secured ends of the thongs in her right hand and the shell-weighted ends in the other. She drew the thongs taut as, whistling and hooting, she deliberately frightened the birds into flight.
The sky was filled with the sound and presence of wings. Had she possessed no skill at all, she still could have easily killed one of the hundreds of eider ducks. She flung the weighted ends of her bola up and out and sent the weapon whirling in a deadly spin. Encircling the body of the hapless bird and breaking its wings instantly, the bola rode the duck to earth, where Lonit easily retrieved it, broke its neck, and in seconds had the bola flying again. And again, until she had a dozen birds strung through their beaks upon a carrying thong. She paused, breathing hard, forced to admire her own skill. Not one bird aimed at had been missed or struck in a way that she had not intended. The fat, pink meat of many ducks would be sweet in the camp of Torka this night. They would feast. Later, the white feathers would make lovely tunic trimmings. The down would insulate the winter boots and mittens of her family. And surely, as Torka, Karana, Align, lana, and the children wiped warm grease from their chins, they would praise Lonit’s efforts on their behalf. In this she was worthy, and nothing would make her believe otherwise!
Feeling better, she seated herself amid the soft, feathery, virtually unbloodied mound of dead ducks, plucking at them idly with her fingertips. Their eyes were glazing, looking at her.
Woman meat.
Did the admonition come from the spirits of the slain waterfowl? She had forgotten to thank the ducks for the gift of their lives. Shame replaced pride. She thanked them now, wondering why she should believe that her man would admire her for bringing back to camp the kind of meat that every woman knew how to kill?
o woman is as good with a bola as Lonit. No woman dresses better skins or makes a better fire or devises more clever fishing lures or cooks a better meal or raises a more wind-resistant pit hut or loves her children or loves her man more than Lonit does.
She drew her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms about them, waiting to feel guilty for agreeing with the voice that spoke within her. Strangely, she felt no guilt. Startled, she thought of all the years of childhood punishment and abuse that had cowed her and forced her to hone her skills so that, through their excellence, she who had been called ugly and unworthy would be useful enough to her people so that they would not abandon her to death.
For the first time in her life the memories made her angry instead of ashamed. The inner voice made her feel bold, heady, much as she had once felt within the Valley of Songs after drinking too much fermented blood and berry juice at a summer’s end feast, when her life with Torka was everything that she had never dared to dream was possible for her.
The grasses broke the wind, and the warmth of the morning was making her sleepy. She yawned. Dreamily, with her chin on her knees and her head tilted to one side, she eyed the ducks thoughtfully.
“Tell me, was the aim of this woman not so true that you fell from the sky before you even knew that you were being hunted? Was the strength of her thrust not such that, when her bola struck you, you fell stunned to the earth in little pain? And was her hand not steady when she snapped your necks so quickly that death was yours before you knew fear of the ending of your life?”
She stared at the silent birds and knew that had they been alive and able to speak, they would have confirmed her confidence:
The woman who has killed us is a bold hunter. The woman who has killed us struck us down before we could fully react to danger. The woman whose bola brought us to the earth flung it with such accuracy and power that we never knew what felled us from the sky. The woman whose hands brought quick death to us was merciful.
“Yes, Lonit is merciful, and because she is such an excellent hunter, the meat of her ducks will be tender from their quick death, for which she thanks them.” Another yawn stifled her words. She closed her eyes, drifted into sleep, and dreamed that she was a black swan such as one of the mated pair that she had seen upon the lake .. . flying away with Torka and her swan babies into the face of the rising sun, back into the Corridor of Storms where the Valley of Songs awaited her return and there were no people to disrupt her life or her love .. . forever.
“Where is Lonit?”
Torka’s question caused Karana to put down the second leg of the ptarmigan. “She went off with her bola. Birding, I imagine.”
“Alone?”
The youth shrugged and snapped an irritable answer. “How should I know? She is your woman, not mine!” He had been too busy staring off toward the Hill of Dreams, hoping to catch a glimpse of Sondahr; and he was still more than a little annoyed with Torka for not allowing him to accompany him to the magic woman’s hut when he had been summoned there to retrieve Aliga. “Why do you look so worried? She always hunted alone in the Valley of Songs.”
“Your memory does not serve you well, Karana, if you have forgotten that our pit traps and snares kept dangerous carnivores out of the valley. That is not the case here. And Zinkh says that the tracks of a leaping cat were seen not far from where we took the rhino.”
It was neither scent nor sound that roused her from her dreams. It was the sensation of being watched and the sudden, unnatural quiet of the tundral world around her. No loons called. No ducks chortled. No geese or swans cackled or honked or whistled. There was only the sound of the waters of the lake rolling incessantly landward, lapping at the shore as the wind hissed benignly through the tall grasses and, far away, the sounds of the huge encampment droned like distant insects.
She awoke with a start. Something was lurking, poised to spring upon her from within the grasses to her left. Panic screamed at her to rise, to run, to flee from whatever the danger was, but the inner voice of boldness overrode it. She knew from Torka and Umak that panic was her worst enemy. Panic fed upon caution, and without caution, prey stood no chance against predator. It was not often that the caribou fawn, frozen in camouflaged terror amid the scrub, drew the eyes of lions, wolves, and bears; it was the frightened animal, young or old, weak or strong, that bolted from cover and inspired the hunter to take chase.
She barely breathed. Her heart was racing, and she could feel her blood pounding in her veins. Whatever was watching her might be doing only that. It might not be hungry. It might have fed upon other meat and was merely drawn by curiosity to see what sort of animal was dozing in the grasses with a pile of dead birds at its feet.
Slowly, invisible under the fall of her windblown hair, her eyelids opened as her fingers tensed around the thongs of her bola. A small spark of relief flared within her—at least she was not totally unarmed. A bola was not a spear, but the thongs were threaded through her fingers, the weighted tips dangling loose, and the weapon was ready to be thrown in a deadly arc if—when—the moment came.
Lonit’s eyes focused on the grasses through the windblown stalks of gold and russet to a deeper gold that lay beyond, to meet the eyes of a great, fang-toothed, lion-sized leaping cat.
Panic threatened her again, but the inner voice counseled: Do not run! To run is to die! You have seen the thing you fear. It is the thing that one does not see that one must fear. The woman is wise, while the great leaping, cat is stupid. Be clever, Lonit! Be hold if you would live to see your man and your children again! Do what the great leaping cat will not expect! Make it fear you! Do not let it make the first move! What have you to lose? Only your life, and that may be lost already!
Without another moment of thought, Lonit leaped to her feet, shrieking as
ferociously as any lion. She lifted the thong of ducks and, with all of her strength, threw them into the grasses where the great cat lay waiting to pounce. And now, bola swinging and whirring above her head, Lonit went crashing through the sedges, howling like a wolf with its blood up for the chase.
Stunned by falling ducks and confused by the fearless onslaught of the woman, when the bola was released and its weighted thongs hit the cat squarely across its face, blinding it in one eye and shattering its broad, flattened nose, the animal jumped straight up in the air, screamed in terror, turned, and ran for its life.
Led by Torka and Karana—with Aar and the dogs running out ahead of them on Lonit’s scream—Zinkh and a small party of hunters stopped dead when they saw the golden body of the huge cat leap from the grasses. As it shrieked, its stabbing fangs flashed in the sunlight and its massively shouldered torso twisted into a grotesque circle of pain. It seemed to hang suspended for a second before it arched its body back and around and disappeared into the grasses.
The dogs froze, awaiting Torka’s command. On either side of him Karana, Zinkh, and the others, eyes wide with disbelief, stood with their spears poised. They had seen Lonit stand bravely to some unseen danger and had heard her wolflike howl. As they watched her throw her thong of ducks and hurl herself and her bola at something within the sedges, they realized that they were too far away to help her. Not even the spear hurlers of Torka and Karana could have sent a thrust the required distance. Besides, there had been nothing to aim at until the powerful body of the great cat had jumped straight up and then disappeared.
“Torka’s woman fears nothing!” exclaimed Zinkh in profound admiration as the hunters stared in gape-jawed awe of the woman’s unprecedented behavior. Torka was shaking with relief and pride. From where he stood, Lonit’s beauty and strength were at one with the wild, golden land and the incomparable grace and beauty of the black swans that had risen from the lake.
“We will go after that great cat, yes?” prodded Zinkh. “If the woman has wounded it, it will be doubly dangerous.”
The suggestion was enthusiastically taken up by his bandsmen. They spoke of the threat that a large, injured carnivore would be to their women and children when they ventured from the encampment to fish and gather berries and roots. Torka told them to venture on without him and insisted that Karana go along to command the dogs and to try to claim the first strike for himself. Torka watched the youth go off eagerly with the others, Aar loping at his side like a faithful shadow, as he had once run with old Umak.
They reached the lakeshore, and the dogs became invisible except for the indentations that they made in the sedges. He saw Lonit proudly stand to greet the hunters. She was as tall and beautiful as Sondahr, and he could tell from her stance that their words pleased her. Karana turned and pointed back, and he knew that she asked why he was not with them. For a moment she stared across the distance that separated them; then, purposefully, with her head held high and a newfound pride in her step, she strode toward him.
Strength was returning to him. He began to walk slowly. The tide of relief that had swept through him when the cat had turned away from her had awakened him. If the cat had leaped upon her, she would be dead-now, and for Torka life would be a burden to be endured for the sake of their children.
She was before him now, holding out her thong of ducks, her face radiant.
“This woman has driven off the great leaping cat!” she proclaimed, awaiting his approval. “Alone! With only her bola! The hunters of Zinkh were impressed! This did they say to Lonit: that she was bold and brave and beautiful, and in these things, a magic woman like Sondahr! Did Torka see how Lonit faced death boldly?”
“Torka saw.” He could barely form the words. He wanted to draw her into his arms, to hold her close, to kiss her mouth, her nose, her eyes ... to tell her that he did not need the words of other men to know that she was bold and brave and more beautiful to him than the strange and aloof Sondahr could ever be. He wanted to tell her that her love for him was the pride of his life.
But he had never been a man who could easily speak of his feelings. He felt ashamed for not having been able to help her, and shame became anger at himself, at the great cat, and at the woman who had put her life in jeopardy.
And so now he saw only the ducks. He glared at them. At feather-covered, stiffening flesh and beaks, and at webbed feet from which the juices of life had already faded. Suddenly he was furious. He struck the offending birds from her hand with such power that she spun around, crying out in dismay.
“Ducks!” he raged. “Lonit has risked her life for ducks? And for this taking of woman meat she is compared to Sondahr? Sondahr is wise! Sondahr is wary! Sondahr is watchful! Unlike Lonit, Sondahr would know better than to cause men to put their lives at risk so that she might return safely to her camp—from which this man gave her no permission to stray! For ducks?”
The cat died hard. Half-blind, fighting for breath through its mouth since its ruined nose would not serve it, it went down with Karana’s spear through its lower side, just above the pelvis, in the soft flesh that covered its belly. The barbed, obsidian spearhead tore through flesh and went straight through the animal to bury itself in the permafrost, pinning the mortally wounded cat to the earth.
Zinkh and the other men cheered while the dogs barked and circled madly. Karana stepped back to allow the others a chance to wet their weapons, observing as they closed for the sport of a prolonged kill. The great cat flailed in agony, screaming in outrage as each man placed a spear for pleasure, until at last, with a final and unexpected burst of power, it pulled itself free of the earth.
It was on its feet now. Its body bristling with spears, it staggered in pathetic circles while Zinkh and his men stamped their feet and chanted at it.
“Leaping cat spirit come forth!”
“Come to the brave men who have killed you!”
“Come, spirit. Too long have you lived in the skin of the one who leaps!”
The right side of Karana’s upper lip lifted into a sneer of contempt for the hunters. When the cat had been on the run, they had not been so quick to taunt or venture near it. It was the dogs that had run the injured beast to exhaustion, and it was his own spear, thrown from the spear hurler, that had struck the first blow. If Zinkh had not yipped with excitement at the moment of his weapon’s release, it would have struck true and the great cat would be dead, its spirit free to roam the world of spirits, not suffering such a dishonoring as Zinkh and his men were torturing it with now.
Karana was sorry that he had not killed the cat. He had no taste for this kind of hunting. Zinkh stood ahead of the others, directly between Karana and the cat. His hat slipped into an odd, sideways angle as he jabbed with his spear, brazenly flaunting safety as he ventured to within what would have been easy range of the swiping paws of a healthy animal.
Karana saw no bravery in his action. The cat looked as though it were incapable of doing anything more than dropping dead. But suddenly, with lightning-fast motion, the cat pounced. Zinkh fell, with the cat on top of him, and the dogs on top of the cat. The hunters surged forward, but only Karana’s position in the line of men allowed him to strike the mortal blow.
The cat went limp. Karana called off the dogs. A snarling Aar forced them to obey as the hunters approached and, cautious now, rolled the body of the cat off the headman. He had instinctively pulled himself into a fetal tuck when the beast had downed him. He lay unmoving, his clothes soaked in blood—his or the cat’s, no one could say.
“This man ... he is still alive, yes?” Zinkh did not sound certain.
No one could have been sure, except that common experience told them that dead men did not usually speak. He began to uncurl slowly. With the exception of severely clawed garments and several bleeding lacerations that would need stitching where the cat’s claws had penetrated the fabric, he appeared little the worse for his mauling. When Zinkh had gone into his tuck, the cat had sunk its fangs into his helmet, no
t his head. Now he sat up, looked at his hat, held it out, noted the punctures and the tears and the fact that what was left of the ornamental fox was conspicuously missing a head. His eyes strayed to the dead cat. The spears of each hunter were clearly incised as to ownership; only Karana’s were unmarked, and the one spear that protruded from the fatal heart wound was his. Zinkh looked at the youth, then at his mutilated hat, then back at the spear-riddled corpse.
“It is better the leaping cat eats fox instead of man, yes?” He set the ruined helmet purposefully back onto his head. “This hat has always been lucky for this man.” He rose, walked stiffly to Karana, and, to the youth’s astonishment, solemnly took the helmet from his head and placed it firmly onto Karana’s. “Now, for son of Torka, this hat be lucky hat. Now does Zinkh give in gratitude this hat to one who saves his life! Now will Karana wear this hat .. . always.”
So it was that when Karana walked back into the encampment of the Great Gathering, he wore the hat of Zinkh and the mutilated, spear-riddled skin of the leaping cat as he brought forth the fangs of the beast to a sad-eyed Lonit and was disappointed to find that there were no ducks for dinner.
Wavelike vibrations trembled within the permafrost, caused by the great herd passing far to the west of the encampment. Grazing as it moved, it passed slowly, in numbers so vast that, although darkness and distance made it invisible, the thudding of countless hooves was a low, constant rumble.
Karana awoke. Staring into darkness, he lay unmoving, his senses taking measure of the night, knowing exactly what it was that had drawn him from his troubled dreams: dreams of wild horses running toward him across the starry sky ... a pale stallion leading them, white mane flying, tail upturned and twitching upon the wind. The dream stallion tossed its head and tore open the skin of the sky with ripping teeth-fanged teeth, not the teeth of a horse at all, but the teeth of the great leaping cat that Karana had killed.
Dreams of falling stars and disembodied eyes watching him out of a bleeding sky .. . red dreams ... of blood ... of Navahk .. . coming toward him. He shuddered, glad to wake from such nightmares. He lay very still, wondering if they were drawn from fear or premonition. He could not tell. Or perhaps he did not want to know. Either way, he was awake now. He willed the dreams out of his mind as he listened to the sound of the distant herd and realized that only last night he had called the game, and now it had come. It had come! The realization sent shivers along his arms.