by neetha Napew
Coincidence, he told himself, reasoning that the encampment of the Great Gathering lay upon the migration route of many game animals. Nevertheless, instinct told him that it was more than coincidence.
He closed his eyes. He saw the herd. Bison—not caribou or mammoth or elk—but a teeming river of bison, which would take days to pass. And while it passed, the people of the encampment would hunt and hunt and hunt again. When the time of the long dark fell upon them, they would have meat and marrow, hide and horn, tallow and sinew to last them well into spring. They would have no need to seek the flesh of mammoths.
He had to be sure. He had to see with his own eyes if reality would mesh with what he saw within his vision. He rose from his sleeping skins, glad that he had slept beside Aar outside Torka’s pit hut, as he often did on summer nights.
Fully dressed and still in his boots, he hushed the dogs and, with Aar treading quietly beside him, silently made his way across the encampment to the break in the wall of bones.
Above him the aurora was not nearly as bright as it had been the night before. The night was afire with stars, but already the first pale glow of dawn had turned the sky above the horizon to a thinner, softer darkness against which the distant mountains stood in black, impenetrable silhouette. A faint gauzing of dust sheened the air above them, and as the wind blew out of the west, it was strong with the stink of herd animals. But just what species of animal were they? Had his vision been correct?
“Bison.”
The affirmation was not his. Sondahr stepped out of the shadows directly to his right. Her clean, mild, smoky scent had been masked by the overpowering stench of the wind. She was slightly taller than he. Even in the dark her beauty was staggering. Karana was startled to see her. Aar gave off a “woof and then a low growl that somehow sounded more embarrassed than threatening.
The magic woman stood her ground, as though the dog were not there. “The encampment will awaken soon. I thought you would come long before now.” Her statement was puzzling, her tone vaguely hinting of rebuke, as though he had disappointed her.
“How could you know that I would come at all?”
“I knew. As you knew the name of that which walks within the night.”
“I did not speak to name it. You did.”
“Yes. But last night, was it not you who raised your arms and implored the forces of Creation to hear your voice as you called the game to come to die upon the spears of men?”
He was appalled. “You could not have heard. I was too far away.”
“Have you never heard without your ears, Karana? Have you never heard from within the core of yourself, understood things unspoken in the hearts and dreams of men?”
He blinked. She had trespassed into his soul, into that portion of himself that not even Torka could accept or understand, and she had understood. “It is so,” he assented with wonder.
“Yes, I knew it the moment I saw you. You are his son, and yet, as I have watched you I have come to know that you are all that he could never be. The gift is yours. You will be a man of spirit as well as of flesh.”
“He?”
“Your father.”
Somehow he knew that she was not speaking of Torka. Your father. You are what he could never be.
Was this, then, why the magic man had hated him?
“He is nothing to you, Karana. Flesh holds no lasting bond to the spirit. Put away the past unless it serves the present. Soon, when the dawn is fully ripe, you will see the bison summoned by your power as a gift from the forces of Creation. For now, since you have not yet come to trust your inner vision, breathe in the wind. Let it be your eyes. Let it serve your other senses.” Her voice was no louder than a sigh. “The herd comes closer. Do you feel it? Do you hear it? Do you smell it?”
She was so close to him that her left arm brushed his as she turned slightly and stood poised within the night. Her head was raised. Her eyes were closed as, through her nostrils, mouth, and skin she drew in the smells of the wind and the night.
Karana looked up at her. The night did not exist for him. The wind did not blow around him. He was aware only of her. He smelled the exquisite, earthy essence of her body, her soft skin and hair and garments redolent of the smoky fires kindled with fragrant artemisias and dried, crushed tundral blossoms. He knew at last what it was to be totally enraptured by a woman. Although she was probably twice his age, she was the most perfectly beautiful creature he had ever seen; and she was beside him, seeing into his heart, talking to him, expecting an answer from him.
His mind was blank. He forced himself to speak, lowering his voice, trying to sound manly and intelligent and fully in charge. To his dismay a boy’s voice mumbled about the smell of grass and cud and urine. He was grateful to the fading darkness for concealing his blush as he cursed his ineptitude and wished that the tundra would open to swallow him whole, as it had once before within the Corridor of Storms; this time, he would not come out!
He thought he saw her stifle a smile. He knew only that she was looking at him now, her hand ipon his forearm. His reaction to her touch was so intense that he nearly cried out. He would have run off like a frightened animal had her fingers not tightened upon his arm as she spoke with enthusiasm and the rising excitement of anticipation.
“Yes, you are right. Grass and cud, and a urine that smells so strong that it burns the eyes and can strip the hair from a hide at first contact! That is bison! Tell me now of caribou!”
He gulped. He forced himself to think. He spoke reluctantly, afraid that his voice would humiliate him again. This time it held steady, at a normal pitch. “Caribou reek of the moss and lichens that are its favorite browse.”
“Yes! And at this time of year bull elk whistle and scream like women giving birth, while mammoths walk in the ever present scent of spruce, and highland shadows seem to cling to their backs like mists that smell of fog and rain and rock gone rotten under ice. But you are a hunter. These things you have been taught to see. There is another seeing, and Sondahr tells you now that, had your eyes been bound and your nostrils, mouth, and ears packed with moss, you would have known that the herd that walks to the west of this camp is a herd of bison, not elk or caribou or mammoths. And this sense—this Seeing—is what brought you out of your dreams and led you to stand here in the dark to affirm to yourself that what you summoned from the world of spirits has indeed come to walk among the world of men!”
“I hoped that the game would come.”
“There is no power in hope. Hope is nothing. Hope is as a man cowering beneath darkening clouds and saying that he hopes it will not snow, but if it does, he will deal with whatever comes! Does the hopeful man want it to snow or not? If not, why does he not clearly say so! As Karana clearly asked the game to come. With your arms raised and your voice a command, you made the spirits listen as you commanded the forces of Creation to bring forth bison or caribou but not mammoths.”
“Mammoth is forbidden meat to my people.”
“Not to mine!”
He was startled by the sudden angry intensity of her tone. It vanished as quickly as it had flared.
“You have much to learn, Karana, of your gift and the power of Seeing. You will be a great spirit master someday. This woman will teach you all she knows. It is what I do best, for the spirits have named me Teacher. I have lived among many bands, but I am at this camp because my power comes to me through the flesh and blood of the great mammoths. That is why tonight, while the others feast upon the meat of the bison that you have called to die, you and I must stand together and call upon the forces of Creation to inspire the spirits of another kind of game to come forth.”
“Mammoth?”
Despite his overwhelming attraction to her, he felt like a guileless animal that has been suddenly maneuvered toward a pit trap. But he had seen the overlay of branches in time and now veered to escape. “You are a magic woman, Sondahr. If you and your people hunger for the meat of the great tuskers, you call them forth! Your powers
are greater than mine!”
“I am a teacher, Karana, and a healer, but because I am a woman, denied the use of a spear, so, too, am I denied access to the power of calling. Through me the forces of Creation work for the good of all, but they will not respond to my command. That is a gift given only to spirit masters, only to hunters, only to men.”
“Then you must seek another man to call the mammoths, Sondahr. Lorak, perhaps.” “Lorak is a man of flesh, not of spirit. Few indeed are the true callers, Karana. So few that in my lifetime I have known but a handful, and all were weak, all put flesh above spirit.” She paused. “You might be a true spirit master ... if you let me teach you.”
“I will not call forth mammoths to die upon the spears of men, Sondahr. Not even for you.”
“Bison!”
It was Lorak who gave the cry from the Hill of Dreams as several of the younger magic men, hunters now, hurried out of the house of bones and, still pulling on their outer clothes, poured down from the hill to join with various bands, eager, after their predawn chanting, for the excitement of the chase and kill.
In the thin light of the rapidly growing morning, the encampment burst to life as people clambered out of their huts. Men gathered their spears, and whole families rushed past the wall of bones to observe the passage of the bison.
The herd was still several miles away and would probably not come much closer. Nevertheless, the sound of it filled the sky, and the weight of its passing shook the earth. As far as the eye could see, it was not so much a grouping of animals as a vast, surging wall of life that obliterated the horizon. Little children were held high by their mothers and fathers to view the distant parade as their parents named the beasts and spoke of past hunts.
With Summer Moon riding excitedly on his shoulders, Torka joined them. At his command, Lonit followed, withdrawn and obedient, as she had been ever since the incident with the great cat, as though she were waiting for him to forgive her for her carelessness with her own life. But he would not do that, ever. Surely she must have known how much she meant to him when he had drawn her to him in the night and had made love to her, wordlessly lest he disturb the others; yet she had seemed sad and listless. No doubt the confrontation with the beast had exhausted her. No doubt she would think twice before going off to hunt alone again. He nodded, satisfied; if she had learned that lesson, then to the end of his days he would thank the spirit of the great cat whenever he saw its fangs dangling from Karana’s neck.
Karana. The boy had not been in his sleeping skins when he had gone to wake him. Where was he? As Torka made his way through the crowd, he saw him slipping back into camp from beyond the wall of bones with Aar at his side and Sondahr following.
“That’s an interesting twosome, he said to Lonit, startled and curious.
She made no reply, but Pomm did. The fat woman had fallen into step behind him, along with others of Zinkh’s band.
“That one is old enough to be his mother!” Pomm glowered when they passed her. Her mumbles of frustration were intended for herself, but Torka heard every word. “What does he see in her? Everyone knows she is too bold for her own good! She has used her magic on him, just as she uses it on all of the magic men, who should make her behave as a proper female. It would be like Sondahr to take a better woman’s man! Karana is mine! Zinkh has said so! The youth may not have seen my fine points yet, but he will if Sondahr stands away and minds her place! Bah! Her magic’s no good. Can’t people see that? Torka’s new baby should be born by now. This woman told Lonit to change the sick woman’s name and drive the bad spirit off in search of it. But does anyone listen to Pomm? No!”
The men who intended to hunt gathered before the wall of bones for a meeting that would set their strategy. All wanted Torka, with his magic spear thrower, to lead them, and his dogs to run point for them, as they had when they had successfully taken the rhinoceros.
It was to be a team effort, yet to Torka’s surprise, fewer than a third of the able hunters had the desire to go out after any other meat except mammoth, and Lorak enthusiastically supported their reticence.
“Most men in this camp are mammoth hunters,” he explained with a condescension designed to imply that a man who hunted any other kind of animal degraded himself.
“You hunted rhinoceros quickly enough,” reminded Karana, who had joined the hunters after retrieving his spears.
The supreme elder’s head went up defensively. “Rhinoceros is rhinoceros! Like mammoth, it has great spirit, great power!” He paused, allowing the words to settle, then gestured widely with a benign equanimity that was canceled by his scowl. “This man would keep no other from hunting when there is meat on the hoof waiting to be taken. Torka has said that mammoth is his totem. He cannot hunt it or eat of its meat. So go, all of you who are caribou people and bison people and eaters of anything that walks. You have not come to this camp to hunt mammoth. You have come here in days of lean hunting to seek shelter during the coming winter. So go, those of you who would follow Torka, those of you who have need of magic spears and dogs to help you make your kills. Strike the bison! Kill the bison! It is man meat .. . more or less. But it is not mammoth!”
Once again Torka regretted having gone out of his way to restore the old man’s pride. Lorak’s reasoning was dangerous, but too many thought he could do no wrong. “This man intends no disrespect, but what if the mammoths do not come?”
The question brought the old man and the mammoth hunters to absolute attention. “The mammoths have always come! Then Lorak and those who are mammoth hunters will take meat. Until then we will fast. Our sacrifice will call the spirits of the great tusked ones to us.”
Several men scowled at Torka. Others laughed. A few youths elbowed each other and shook their heads. Karana stiffened resentfully as Lorak’s frown expanded into an expression of contempt. “Since time beyond beginning, men have come to this camp to hunt mammoths and to feast upon their flesh throughout the long dark winter. Since I was an infant sucking the milk of life from my mother’s breasts, I have known the taste of mammoth, for her milk was strong with it, and its meat was all we ate when we wintered in this camp to which the mammoths have come always.”
Always. The word troubled Torka as he tried to conceptualize it. The mountains, the sky, the mile-high glacial lobes that extruded from the passes onto the broad, rolling skin of the tundra—these things were always. And yet he had seen the mountains fall and the glaciers collapse and the sky rain fire. Uneasily his eyes scanned the thousands upon thousands of bones and tusks that comprised the long, encircling windbreak walling the encampment. Was it possible that so many mammoths had ever lived? Even the majority of the pit huts and the council house of this encampment were built of mammoth bones. Could it be that these mammoth hunters had killed all of the world’s mammoths with the exception of Life Giver and those that walked within the Corridor of Storms? Could it be that the great beasts that were always a part of the seasonal migration of animals would never again set their shadows upon the earth because of wasteful hunting practices of generations of mammoth hunters? Could the consistent hunting of one species annihilate another?
The premise was shattering. Torka was stunned by the thought that a time might come when hunters might be forced to become grazers because they had hunted to extinction all but themselves.
No! It could not be! He had only to look at the vast, black river of bison to know that there were not enough hunters in all the bands in the world to deplete the great herds of grazing animals. Men were few. Grazing animals were many. They would feed man—always!
Yet the mammoths were late this year. And in their place had come bison. To watch them walk away while men capable of hunting stood by seemed to Torka to be an offense to the spirits of life. He felt a need to speak.
“Among the people of Torka it is said that when the spirits of the game come forth to die upon the spears of men, they must be honored, they must be hunted, unless the camps of men are already full of meat and any fu
rther kills would be wasted. Among my people caribou is to our hunters what mammoth is to the men of this camp. Of its meat and skins and sinew and antler were our lives made. The caribou, upon which my people had always depended, failed to return along the migration route they had always taken, because one winter the storms of the time of the long dark refused to end and snow blocked the passes. More than half of Torka’s people starved to death that winter.
“And so Torka says now to Lorak that he and his mammoth hunters must do as the custom of their people commands. But since the mammoths have not returned, Torka would lead as many hunters as would follow him in pursuit of bison. The days of light will soon be ending, and the time of the long dark will follow. In this camp are many men, many women, and many children. But where is the meat that will feed them if the mammoths do not come? There, to the west, is meat. It may not be mammoth, but in these times when mountains walk, when winter snow closes the passes and does not melt in spring, and when game must find new ways of migration to calving and wintering grounds, Torka remembers that it was said by the father of his father that in new times men must find new ways ... or die.”
They approached the herd at a trot, running into the wind so that the beasts would catch no scent of them. They could see individual animals now, no longer a black blur of noise. Their shaggy, fat-rich humps rose an average of six or seven feet above their hooves, and their horns were enormous, horizontal projections that spanned outward on each side of their skulls, narrowing into deadly, forward-curving tips.