by neetha Napew
She refused to oblige him.
He made a rude noise and danced on. His chant began to ramble as he spoke of his youth. He named the names of hunters long dead. He spoke the names of the more memorable mammoths that he and they had killed in days so lost in the past that only he was left alive to remember; but all men knew the names.
He spoke until his tales were finished, and this was for a very long time. And all the while, the people ate, and the smell of roasting meat and dripping fat and sulfur filled the night, and the magic men from the various bands responded by adding to the litany of names of mammoths to be remembered: Big One Tusk. Charger Who Is Unafraid of Men. Bald Tail. Two-Calf Maker. Mud Roller. Bull Who Walks With Females. Curl Tooth.
Thunder Speaker.
Torka’s head went up. Although he had not partaken of either meat, fat, or the rich drink made of blood and water and a mash of fermented berries, Lorak had demanded that he and his people join the others at the feast that the mammoth hunters had so long awaited. Torka had not demurred; this was their camp, and he and his people were guests. They would keep their own traditions; but they would not demean the customs of others.
He could see Lonit, lana, and the children sitting together at the women’s side of the fire circle, refusing meat but singing with the others when it was their turn to chant. Lonit looked strained. Summer Moon seemed to be having a wonderful time, clapping her little hands and captivated by Lorak’s tales of adventure and daring. Even lana seemed to be entertained and actually smiled, albeit wanly, when Wallah and her daughter, Mahnie, now and then spoke to her. The woman of Grek had brought a gift for Summer Moon, a little doll of buckskin. Torka could just see that it had real hair, probably snipped from the ends of Wallah’s braids, a face of stone beads, and a dress pieced of remnant fur. Torka had not missed Lonit’s pleased expression or the way his little girl had embraced the doll when Lonit allowed her to accept it. It sat on his daughter’s plump little lap, as Demmi sat upon lana’s.
And now he was suddenly distracted by the moon-eyed way that Wallah’s daughter was staring across the fire circle at Karana.
Karana spoke loudly, startling him, not in the tone of a boy but of a man who is not afraid to challenge other men.
“Thunder Speaker lives. No man in this camp has killed that mammoth. And any man who says otherwise is a liar!”
He felt the eyes of several youths upon him: Mano, Yanehva, Tlap, and Ank. He was no longer a child; he was a man who had been accepted by other men, who hunted with them and brought meat into their camp—not mammoth, perhaps, but meat nonetheless, and he had helped to save the life of Zinkh and also of the supreme elder. This gave him the right to speak his opinion to the others.
“The great one walks far away, in a land beyond the far mountains, within the Corridor of Storms. Karana knows this. Karana has dared to touch the twisted tusks that have killed lesser and greater men than he. Karana has breathed its breath into his nostrils; Karana has looked into its eyes and has not been afraid. In the firelight of this night, Karana listens to other men talk of their brave deeds and the mammoths they have killed, but what man—other than Torka and Karana—has dared to venture into that forbidden country to hunt in that game-rich land beneath the living shadow of Thunder Speaker, the great mammoth called Life Giver by the people of Man Who Walks With Dogs?”
He was suddenly and painfully aware of how cold the night wind had become. It was almost as cold as the resentful eyes of the people of the Great Gathering. From his position in the men’s side of the circle, he could see across the fire to where Lonit, clearly distressed, sat with Grek’s women. Mahnie, the young daughter of Grek and Wallah, looked as though she were about to cry. Beside her, Wallah’s lower jaw hung open in surprise, and Naiapi’s chin was turned so high that she stared at him as though from a height.
Beside him Torka reached to touch him imperatively with a warning hand. He ignored it; in truth, he barely felt it. His eyes had moved to Pomm and Sondahr and the magic men. Sondahr’s exquisite face was immobile in the firelight, but from the arch of her brows he knew that she was troubled. Just to her right, in his hideous skin, Navahk was leering at him, smiling like a great, raptorial bird, its eyes wide and unblinking, its mouth twisted cruelly as it fixes its gaze upon small, land-bound prey that it is about to tear to pieces.
“No man has claimed to kill the great mammoth that you say is totem to you,” Navahk pointed out as he slowly came through the ranks of the other magic men to stand beside Lorak, who was sagging with weariness.
“We have sung praises to its power—the power of bone and muscle and tusk, and the power that brave men reach to own when they set themselves to kill the great mammoths. But where is the spear that Karana has reddened in their blood? Has Karana, who boasts of such mighty and fearless deeds in a far land that no man here has ever seen, sought such power?”
Lorak made a low grumble of approval and nodded his head in vigorous agreement. “Karana has not killed. Karana has put himself outside the circle of the people. And yet we allow him in. The wise Navahk has suggested to Lorak within the council house that Karana, with Sondahr and Torka and the People Who Walk With Dogs, has called down dark spirits in the form of birds that rise to cover the sun and trembling earth. Perhaps from the first, Man Who Walks With Dogs and his son, Karana, have brought bad luck into this camp?”
“Bad luck?” Karana nearly choked on his anger. “Until Torka came to the Great Gathering, you and your people were going hungry! And until Navahk came, you had nothing but good to say of Man Who Walks With Dogs and his magic spear hurlers, which he used to bring meat into your camp-even if you were too stubborn to eat it!”
“Bison is not meat! Mammoth is meat!” Lorak roared, shocked by the youth’s willingness to challenge him in front of the entire assembly. “Navahk brought the mammoths to the camp of the mammoth eaters! Navahk! Spirit Killer! Man who walks not with dogs but in the skin of the wanawut! Navahk is magic man! Navahk will stand beside Lorak as his brother shaman! Torka is nothing in this camp. His magic is as weak as—that of a woman who claims to be a shaman but cannot bring a baby to be born out of its mother!”
“A baby!” Sondahr’s voice was cool, but the fever in her eyes was not. “At the births of how many children has this woman assisted? Speak, women of the Great Gathering! You and you and, yes, you! Over how many years has Sondahr brought life out of your bellies!”
“Too many years.” Pomm was not about to be left out of this chance at Sondahr. Her little eyes were on Karana, but her words were aimed at the magic woman like invisible little spears tipped with venom. “Sondahr grows old! Her magic grows weak, not like the magic of Pomm! Let this magic woman of Zinkh’s band put her wisdom to work on the baby in the belly of Torka’s woman, and out it will come quick, yes!”
“Torka’s woman?” Navahk’s query was as thick and sweet as the brew of half-clotted mammoth’s blood that he had been drinking. He looked to Torka, then to Lonit. Hunger for her rearranged his features, and when she looked away as though in fear of him, his smile widened.
Karana knew what was in Navahk’s heart and hated him.
Sondahr spoke. “It is Aliga who lies within the shelter of Torka, unable to be free of her child, not Lonit.” Her brows came together. The corners of her mouth moved with disdain. “Where is your Sight, “Shaman’? If it is as clear as Lorak seems to think it is, then show him! Show us all! Bring forth the woman Aliga into the fire circle. Let the great Navahk heal her and bring forth her child! Let him prove his magic and send away the bad luck that he believes Torka and Karana have brought with them to this camp!”
The sounds of the encampment were very loud now. Drum beating. Ferocious chanting. Aar began to salivate with the need to lunge and kill.
“Here, come, dogs. Stam and Het, we bring you meat. Yes, that is good. Come, eat! All of you! You, too, Brother Dog—Aar. Is that not what the whelp Karana calls you?” It was the one called Stam who cajoled. “Come, eat from t
he hand of Stam and die. It is not a good thing for dogs to live in the camps of men, and, once again, Navahk has need of the guts and liver and heart of one of you.”
Not one of the pups barked. Stam tossed the meat, and they fell upon it. All except Aar. He was standing now, head out, tail tucked, ears back. The hair on his back and shoulders was raised. He could not understand the words of the man, but instinct told him that the meat was bad and that his pups would die if they ate it.
“Beware of the big dog, Stam. I don’t like the look in his eyes.” Het was gripping his spear nervously as Stam crouched, holding a thick, gristly hunk of raw meat to Aar. “What’s the matter, Het? You still believe the dogs are magic?”
“They are not like other dogs.”
Stam snorted derisively. “They’re dogs, all right—just dogs, no more, no less. And soon they’ll all be dead dogs. Look at them gorging themselves on the meat. Stupid beasts. When they start yelping, drive your spear as fast and true as you can. We don’t want to damage the pelts. Navahk said we could have them when the excitement dies down. Your women will like that. They’re prime pelts. And if anyone comes near, remember the dogs attacked us.”
“I don’t like it....”
“You will when Navahk rewards you with his spirit powers. You’ll hunt as never before.”
“But if Man Who Walks With Dogs finds out that Navahk has sent us here to—“ “Stop being such an old woman. After tonight no one will listen to him. If I know Navahk, Torka will soon be as dead as his dogs!”
The words of the men were low, like insects droning on a warm, muggy summer day. The dog scented the apprehension of Het and perceived the threat in Stam as the man balanced himself on his heels and gestured the dog forward with his free hand. “Look at all of your fine, big children, Aar. You have been busy since we last camped together. Have you missed the pup I took from you then? No matter. Soon you will have no pups at all. Come. Eat from the hand of Stam, and then you will never have to eat again.”
Somehow Aar understood the intent of the man. He growled and showed his teeth, warning the man back. But Stam kept smirking, reaching out with the meat, flapping it, waving it in Aar’s face.
“Come ...”
To his shock and terror, Aar obliged him. The great dog leaped forward with such force that the stake to which he was tethered tore loose from the permafrost as he hurled himself straight up and out, knocking the man completely off balance. With one bold, tearing thrust, Aar turned his head sideways and ripped out Stam’s throat .. . but never saw the brutal sideward swing of Het’s spear that sent him hurtling into oblivion.
Het was trembling. Stam was dead. He was still twitching, but he was dead. How could he be otherwise? The man lay in a pool of so much blood that, had it not been for the hideous, gaping wound where his throat had been, anyone looking at him might have assumed that he had drowned in his own life fluids.
Het was shaking violently now as the dogs started to show signs of pain—all except the big dog that Stam had called Aar. It lay so still that Het was certain that his blow had killed it. He was glad for that. Stam had been wrong about it. Only a dog with magical powers could have pulled free of its stake and killed a man so effortlessly—as Het now killed the others, one by one. The kills were easy, although the dogs made more noise than he would have preferred. They cowered or lunged at him, according to their natures, but the stakes that held their tethers kept them from escaping his intentions for them. His spearhead bit deep again and again, and soon fourteen dogs lay dead and silent, and he was thinking that now he would have all of the pelts for himself. Prime pelts. His women would be pleased.
He stood a moment, drawing his splaying knife, walking from one dog to another, cutting the tethers that had held them fast, so that those who discovered the animals would believe that he had been forced to kill them when they had broken loose and attacked him.
The job done, he thought about which dog he would gut. The big dog, he thought, the one called Aar. It would have the largest heart, with the most power in it, and Navahk had said that he needed a large organ, the larger the better. But as Het looked at the motionless form of Aar, he hesitated. The dog was dead, but it still frightened him; he did not have the courage to disturb its spirit, else it come back to haunt him. So he turned to the largest of the other dogs, a big male that resembled its sire. He drew a length of thong and an oiled intestine from where he had folded them over his belt. He knelt and set to his purpose, working quickly to slit the underside of the dog from throat to crotch, to open the muscle tissue just below the rib cavity, to reach into the animal’s breast to free the heart and A great, snarling weight struck him from behind. He was too stunned to cry out. In the darkness, with the stench of hot blood in his nostrils, Het knew that it was the magic dog Aar that had leaped upon him.
But the dog, weakened and disoriented by his earlier blow to its head, tore into his shoulder, not his neck. Fighting for his life, Het lunged forward with Aar riding his back. In desperation he grasped for his spear, which lay just out of reach, next to the dog he had been butchering. Gasping, sobbing, he stretched his body out .. . out .. . feeling the teeth of the dog tearing flesh. With all of his strength, Het’s fingertips grasped the butt end of the spear and levered it toward him. It took every ounce of his strength and will to twist his body hard to the right, rolling the dog off, allowing him to jam the butt end of the spear into the animal’s side. He heard it woof with pain as it went down. Or was that his own exhalation of pain? He was not sure; he would never be sure. He only knew that the dog lay unmoving in the dark. The magic dog, the dog that would not die .. . but it was dead now, its eyes glazing and its tongue lolling and blood darkening the gray fur at the back of its ear.
The sounds of the feast fire reached him, moved him to action. Fighting against pain, he rose and tore the heart from the other animal.
Navahk was waiting.
The dogs had been making great commotion as, at Navahk’s command, a small group of women hurried to Torka’s pit hut to fetch the woman Aliga. No one was concerned—the dogs often barked and made a nuisance of themselves over trespassing rodents that wandered into the encampment. But Torka’s pit hut was far from the central fire, and the noise of the increasingly inebriated celebrants was so loud that the noise of the dogs was barely noticeable.
Aliga’s voice was very weak. “Why do you take me from my sleep?”
Lonit felt great concern for her and a terrible trepidation. What if Navahk actually could heal her and bring her baby forth after Sondahr had failed? That would be good for Aliga, but not good for Sondahr or anyone else of Torka’s band, for if Navahk eclipsed the legendary Sondahr, he would hold great power.
“I am not feeling at all well today,” she protested. She had been prostrate all day and had barely opened her eyes when the women had hefted her in her sleeping skins and carried her out into the night. The dogs were all quiet now. “Oh, it is night. There is a fire. A feast fire? What do you celebrate?”
“Surely you must remember, Aliga,” Lonit reminded gently. “I have told you. The men have hunted mammoths, and they celebrate the kill! Sondahr will be strong now. She has eaten the flesh of the animal that gives her great healing powers. Think of it! Soon you will be well!”
The women who had accompanied Lonit to Torka’s hut to bring Aliga into the gathering exchanged knowing looks. They walked on either side of the woman’s reclined form, supporting her weight by holding tight the broad bison-skin mattress upon which she had taken what seemed to be permanent residence.
“Sondahr has challenged Navahk to heal you,” informed Wallah.
Oga sighed and patted Aliga upon the shoulder. “Imagine it! Most magic men will not consent to touch a woman. But Navahk will touch Aliga and make chants and magic and dances! Oh, I would almost be willing to be sick if I could have that man tend me!”
“Navahk? Has asked to heal me?” Aliga’s eyes blinked and actually cleared. “Then I am healed already, for his
are the greatest powers of all!”
“He is only a man,” Lonit said quietly.
“He is a magic man!” snapped Oga. “Since he has walked within the skin of the wanawut, he has great powers,” said Wallah, frowning meditatively, as though trying to decide if she should say more.
“He is the most beautiful man in all the world,” sighed Aliga euphorically, too weary to make any attempt to hide her infatuation. “If Navahk says that he can heal me, then it will be so. I know it. I feel it.”
It was growing very cold as Aliga was placed on a raised dais of piled furs laid over the grinding teeth of mammoths. Women added fresh kindling to the ceremonial fire: dried mosses and grasses, lichens and sods cut and cherished until they were crisp and ripe for burning, bones gleaned from meals and scraped free of marrow, dung gathered upon the open tundra as the people followed the herd animals from hunting camp to hunting camp, and stones to absorb the heat of the fire and radiate it back to the people long after the flames had died.
But now the flames leaped high.
Navahk stood at the periphery of the circle, head high, arms folded across his chest, the arms of the wanawut moving slightly in the rising wind as though the skin of the beast still possessed a life of its own. From the shadows behind him a haggard, blood-spattered Het came close, making certain no one saw him. He whispered something. Navahk’s head rose a little higher; other than this he did not move. A small, intestine-wrapped package was passed from the hunter to the magic man, then Het slipped back into the shadows as though he had never been there at all.
For Torka it was like being trapped within a nightmare that propelled him backward into time, as if three years had not passed and he was back within Supnah’s band again, before the feast fire, watching Navahk dance.