by neetha Napew
“We go,” he said at last, impatient to find just such a site before nightfall. They went on.
Lonit’s arm arched within its sling, and a low fever burned within her blood. She felt hot, tired, and irritable, but she made no complaint. She walked resolutely behind Torka, doing her best to keep up with his long stride. Twice she tripped over nothing but kept her balance and did not break her pace. She bit her lip. To do less would prove her unworthiness to Torka. Despite all of her best efforts, she knew he still thought the worst of her. She tried to remember the times when he had been kind to her, so long ago, in another world, when she had been a child. Now she was a woman, the only woman, and he hated her for that. She could not blame him. She drew in a breath and held it, drawing off as much strength from it as she could. In time, perhaps he would see that she was not so bad. In time, she might come to see that, too. But now she was tired, disgusted with herself for being a miserable excuse for a female. Her arm hurt so much. The wolf had done more than rip skin and muscle; it had bruised the bone as well.
Despite herself, she slowed her pace, grateful that Torka did not look back to see her display of weakness. Umak would see to it that she kept up. The old man seemed to be concerned for her. Why? She could not say, other than she was the only female in the world. Still, it was apparent to Lonit that, even with this in her favor, she was not worth much.
Umak watched the girl plodding on ahead of him. It was obvious that she did not feel well. He saw her trip and regain her balance with only the slightest break in stride. Admiration for her sparked. At their last rest stop, he had noted fever shining brightly from her eyes. She had said nothing. He knew that her arm must be hurting; it had taken many sutures to repair the damage that the wolf had done to the tender flesh of her inner forearm. As Umak watched Torka walking steadfastly on, he growled to himself. The dog looked up at him curiously as the old man wondered how Torka could have no concern for the girl. Not once had he turned back to make certain that his pace was not too fast for her. He had seen the extent of the wolf’s mauling. He had witnessed her bold leap into danger when she had seen the wolves menacing her men. How could he be so calloused toward her? The old man’s mouth puckered over-his teeth. He worried about Torka. The wounds of grief were not healing. He had never been a hard man before. Never. But he was hard now.
Hmmph, thought Umak, feeling protective and tender toward the girl. If Torka is too stubborn to see Lonit’s merit, Umak is not. A growing sense of sole responsibility for the girl made him feel almost young again. “Hmmph!” he said aloud, and again the dog looked at him, cocking its black masked head. Umak directed his conversation toward the dog. “Next time wolves come against this old man, they will see that he is not so old as they would like! Lonit will see this, too.”
Umak nodded, satisfied with his boast. He had no doubt that he had spoken truly. He felt strong again, virile again; his bad leg barely ached. He paused beside an ice-flowered freshet that ran through a small grove of finger-high budding willows. Half-buried within a thick embankment of marsh plants, the little stream invited the dog to drink. Umak watched the animal lap at the cold water, then bent and began to break off several twigs from the green-stalked willows. Half of these he stuffed into the all-purpose medicine bag that he carried at his belt;
Lonit had made it for him out of the skin of the condor, with the downy breast feathers still attached.
He rose, placing the remainder of the twigs between his teeth as he wiped his hands on his traveling robe. His fingers ached with cold, but he barely noticed as he trotted purposefully after Lonit. He was not the least bit breathless when he caught up with her. He held the twigs in his right hand as, with his left, he cupped her elbow and brought her to a stop, turning her toward him.
“Here. You take. Magic spirits live in the green stalk of the willow. Good spirits, too small for a girl or even a spirit master to see.”
She was grateful for the chance to rest but hoped that he did not see this in her stance or expression. She stood still, not understanding what he wanted her to do with his strange gift of twigs. Seeing her hesitancy, he explained with robust enthusiasm. “You chew stalks! You release willow spirits into your mouth. They will run away into your body. They will do the willow-spirit dance. They will eat your fever. They will steal your pain. Then they will go away, grateful to Lonit for nourishing them.” She bowed her head. He had seen her weariness. He had probably seen her stumble. Umak must think that she was the most unworthy female ever born. But to her surprise and confusion, before she could vilify herself further, the old man’s strong, big-knuckled fingers poked at her chin, gently prodding her to look at him. And when she did, she was shocked to see that he was smiling.
“Lonit has walked far with wounds. Lonit is brave. Lonit is strong. To Lonit, Umak gives the willow spirits. They are not for those who are unworthy.”
Her face flushed with shame. Did he actually believe what he said? No. He was just being kind. He was trying to make her feel better. Slowly, as she walked beside him, she obliged him by chewing on the willow stalks. They were bitter, but soon she began to marvel at the old man’s magic. Not only had he mastered the spirit of a wild dog, but now he commanded the spirits of a tree! As he had promised, her fever lessened. The ache in her arm decreased. She thanked him. He grunted, obviously pleased with himself as he told her to thank the willow spirits instead. This she did and tried to envision them; tiny green feasters dancing within her body. She wondered if they had names, as men and women had names. She wondered if they looked like trees, with branching arms and limbs and leafy hair. She wondered if they ate pain raw or cooked it in the heat of fever.
She walked on, feeling immeasurably better; but as her fever ebbed, her fear grew. The mountain towered ahead, shadowing the world. And from its savage heights, something was watching them. Torka paused. Umak and the girl came to stand beside him. They could all feel it now. The dog stopped near the old man’s side, head down.
Wind spirits, thought the girl, and knew that against their fierce and vicious nature, the gentle, healing spirits of the willow would be powerless.
Lions, thought Umak. Or bears. Or wolves. Memories pierced through him. His chin went up. He did not want to think of his earlier failure with the wolves, but he did. He wondered how he would perform when they came upon larger and more dangerous prey.
Torka stood tall, his eyes slitted against the wind and glare. It could be anything, he thought. A great, stalking mountain cat. A short-faced bear just emerging from its winter sleep. Or only a bird, a falcon or an eagle. Or a lemming, or mouse, or a fat marmot sunning itself on a ridge, its shiny little eyes taking in the progress of human travelers with only the dullest form of interest. Whatever it was, it could not be more threatening than anything that they had already faced on the open tundra. Even if it proved to be a large flesh eater its threat was lessened by their knowing that it was there to menace them.
As his eyes scanned the heights, they focused upon a high cornice that jutted out from the up-thrusting, west-facing wall of the mountain. Above that huge, protruding pout of granite, a series of caves pocked the wall. Their size and placement intrigued him. If they could be reached, the largest and deepest would offer excellent shelter from the wind and weather and give them protection from predators as well. If the cave were not already occupied by predators. He was certain that Umak would give him an argument. He was not disappointed.
“Hunters of the band do not live like beasts in caves!” the old man protested. “Hunters of the band must live as our fathers have always lived—beneath the open sky!”
The light of day was fading. Rain clouds were gathering. A cold wind was sliding down off the summit ice pack. Far below them on the tundral plain, dire wolves began to howl. Torka saw Lonit cringe against the sound and measured her weariness against his own fatigue and the many miles they had come this day. “We must make camp,” he said. “Soon it will be dark. Wolves or even larger prey hunters may be on our
scent. Father of my father, we are all that is left of our band. We are at risk as long as we camp in the open. To camp against the mountain wall would be a good thing. To camp within it would be even better. Umak has spoken the words of wisdom himself: In a new life, men must seek new ways.”
The old man harrumphed. He looked up at the caves with a hostile squint. He did not like the look of them, but he was a spirit master and could not bring himself openly to oppose his own words of wisdom. “We will see,” he pronounced.
And they went on.
They found the way to the caves with little difficulty, although they continued to feel eyes watching them. They had been walking across the tough, spongy skin of the tundra, but now they stepped out across the bare bones of the mountain, traversing the high, sandy shoulder and picking their way across a tumbled outwash of glacial till and scree. They walked around the mountain, and as they looked up from the base of the mountain’s eastern wall, the peak seemed to be a part of the gathering night. Although miles around, the mountain was not as high as it had seemed from a distance.
They stood in the lee of a narrow canyon, where an ice-choked stream flowed sluggishly over a stony bed. Here and there were patches of hardy soil, just enough to support a few clumpy mounds of sedge grass and low-growing alpine shrubs. Where the canyon wall absorbed the most sunlight, there was a bedraggled stand of spruce trees. They clustered close together, droop-armed and bent-headed, like costumed hunters frozen in a dream dance. In the rapidly thickening twilight, the trees looked black. The strong, unmistakable stink of a musteline cut the frigid air.
Weasel or wolverine. Not much danger there. While the dog sniffed out the unfamiliar terrain, the travelers searched for signs and scents that would reveal the presence of other, larger animals, but nothing indicated that they were trespassing into the territory of any creature that might prove a threat to them.
They turned their attention to their destination. The caves were some three hundred feet above them, hidden from view by the overhanging lip of the cornice. Torka pointed out a series of horizontal breaks in the narrow fissure that angled steeply upward from the base of the rock wall to the cornice. It looked as though a giant hand had gouged a stairway into the stone. It was the only access route to the caves and would prove a dizzying, difficult climb for any creature that did not possess wings, but its degree of difficulty was proof that no larger cat or bear would have made the climb before them.
Except for the dog, they made the ascension without incident. The precipitous alignment of the route caused the dog to hesitate. It stood at the base of the wall, watching with perplexed apprehension as its pack climbed without it. It barked twice. Umak, the last in line, paused and called down, urging the dog to follow; the way was steep, but with effort, Aar could make it. The dog, not convinced, stood its ground. “It is nearly dark, and a storm threatens,” Torka reminded Umak. “Come, Father of my father. Leave the dog to make its own way.” The old man bristled. “Umak will not leave his brother!”
Torka was distracted by the quick, shallow breathing of the girl. Lonit, right behind him, was obviously exhausted. He reached down and extended a hand, offering to assist her. He would reason with Umak later. The old man had a blind spot when it came to the dog.
“Here,” he said, gesturing to the girl to take his hand. “Torka will help you.”
She was leaning into the cold, rough face of the rock. The weight of her pack was a frightening burden; not only did its straps cut into her shoulders, but she was desperately afraid that it would throw her off-balance and pull her backward into a fall to her death. Her heart was leaping in her chest, and her mouth was dry. Her wounded arm was hot and aching once again, for using it in the climb had caused it to bleed anew. She was certain that several sutures had pulled free. But she would not let Torka see this further display of weakness. Although she longed to reach up and grip his hand, she demurred. “Lonit is strong! Lonit needs no help from Torka!”
He hissed his annoyance through his teeth as, disgusted with her, he turned to complete the climb. What a willful, ungrateful creature she is! Females! Old men! Dogs! Let them all make their own way!
He reached the lip of the cornice and hauled himself up onto a broad ledge that ran, cavelike, deep into the mountain wall. The girl was close behind him. He could hear her smooth-soled boots slipping on the slag that lay within the footholds. The rasp of her breath came in scrapes of pain. Torka slung off his pack, leaned down, took hold of her pack frame’s straps, and pulled her up onto the ledge beside him. She slumped to her knees, head bowed, and visibly trembled as she told him that she had been capable of completing the climb without his assistance. He fought back the impulse to kick her. It never occurred to him that she might not be speaking out of arrogance.
It took Umak a while to convince himself that no amount of persuasion was going to get the dog up onto the ledge without his help. Unfortunately, Aar had not forgotten the unhappy incident with the tether, and although it was Torka who had sought to confine the dog, it did not trust Umak enough to allow the man to touch it. Umak harrumphed. He understood the dog, knew its thoughts as clearly as if the animal had spoken them. Carefully, slowly, he climbed down and tried to assure the dog that if it could not climb as a man climbs, then Umak would carry it. But each time he tried to get close to the dog, Aar backed away from him.
The wolf pack that they had heard earlier was closer now. Its howls sent shivers up and down the old man’s back. Torka called down to him, but Umak did not reply. He felt small and vulnerable and very tired beneath the soaring walls of the mountain. It was beginning to rain, and he could not delay his ascent much longer, lest the rocks become too slippery to climb safely. He also felt angry with the dog for not trusting him despite all that they had been through together and frustrated with his powers as spirit master for having failed to coerce the animal into doing his will.
“You! Aar! You will come to Umak!” The command was as bold as the gestures that accompanied it. The dog cocked its head and looked at Umak as though he were crazy. “Aar will come to Spirit Master!” Aar lowered his head. He did not like being shouted at.
“Come! Your brother calls to you’! The dog must obey the man!” The dog began to back away.
Umak leaped at the animal, hoping to grab it and show it that he meant no harm by his touch. But Umak grabbed at air where, scant seconds before, hair and hide and bone had stood. The dog had also leaped. Backward.
Flat on his face, Umak levered up with his gloved hands and glared at the dog. “Stay alone, then! Be meat for wolves! But do not say that Umak did not try to help you!” He rose and wiped clay and pebbles from his trousers and rubbed his bruised knees. “In new times, men must make new ways! So, too, must it be for dogs!”
He turned his back upon the dog. He readjusted the weight of his pack and began to climb. By the time he reached the halfway point, he was feeling guilty. He paused and looked down, then smiled.
Brother Dog was following.
Although the ledge was an alien environment to those born and raised on the open face of the tundra, it had the advantages of being dry, out of the weather, and devoid of threat. A brief exploration revealed that no animal had yet claimed it as a den.
In the darkness, they dropped their packs, spread their sleeping skins, and yielded to exhaustion. They lay at the very back of the enormous, low-ceilinged, room like ledge, curled in their furs, close to one another. The dog lay near, but not too close, to Umak. Aar licked his paws, for the way up to the cave had bloodied them, but after a while even the dog slept. The night was filled with the sound of the travelers’ deep, even breathing and with the all-pervasive whispering and drumming of the wind and rain. Now and again the rank, musty stink of musteline caused Lonit to stir restlessly in her sleep, as did Torka, but only the dog was roused by it.
Aar raised his head and snuffled. It was pitch black in the cave. Every hair on the dog’s back stood upright. Its snuffle became a low, menacing grow
l. Something was moving in the darkness at the entrance to the cave. It heard the dog and froze.
Suddenly the wind changed. The scent and shadow vanished. The dog, not certain of its own senses, was at the lip of the ledge, where the scent was strongest, sniffing, still growling. Something had been there, but the dog could form no picture of it. Its scent was like nothing that the animal had ever smelled before. He lay down. If it came back, he would be ready for it. All night the dog kept vigil for his man pack. Only toward dawn, when the rain turned to snow and the mountain wall became slick with ice, did Aar allow himself to sleep. Nothing could climb the mountain now. Nothing except a wind spirit.
The snow fell in eerie silence—thick, wet snow that smothered the night and filled Lonit’s dreams with hauntings. She awoke and saw the dog keeping watch. She let her dreams ebb away. She was glad to release them. Wind spirits had taken form within them, dancing and whirling like snarling, snapping weasels, weasels that stood upright like human hunters as they hacked one another to pieces with bloody, sharpened clubs made of the thighbones of men.
She awoke in a sweat, wishing that she had more of Umak’s magic willow stalks to chew on. She knew that she was feverish, but she had no wish to disturb Umak to get more of the stalks from within his medicine bag. She could see it, lying close at his side as he slept, but she would not think of taking anything from it without his permission.
The snowy, clouded light of morning was thin and gray. It gave the stone walls and ceiling of the cave a cold, sinister appearance that seemed to be a remnant from her dreams. But it was real enough, and she did not like it. She longed first for the tundra and the open sky, then for the snug, familiar confines of a pit hut as she rose and began the rituals of morning. Her arm was hot and hurting. She bit her lip. She would tend to it later. Her discomfort was not important. What mattered was to have a fire made and a meal ready by the time her men awoke. She must serve them before she even thought about her own needs.