by neetha Napew
The sound was an explosion of power as the two bull musk oxen came together with the skull-splitting intensity of the autumn rut.
Torka leaped to his feet. He had his spears in hand before Karana shouted the news that he had sighted the herd grazing in the willow scrub on the outwash plain. Torka was beside him in an instant. They stood together on the lip of the cornice.
“Look!” exclaimed Karana, pointing off. “Many musk ox!”
Torka looked, then beckoned to Galeena’s people and gestured them forward. “Come! Now we will hunt! Together!”
Not one of them moved. They stared at their headman, waiting for a signal from him. No signal was given.
Galeena yawned. He lay on his side, his tufted head propped on an elbow, with his two women sitting cross legged and stark naked on either side of him. “Not hungry. Hunt tomorrow,” he announced, and reached up to tweak the nearer nipple of his younger woman as though it were a fruit that he thought of picking.
The woman giggled and shook herself.
Torka was annoyed. Galeena had promised to hunt. A day and a night and a morning had passed, and still he lounged in lazy squalor. “Come!” Torka attempted to persuade him. “See for yourself! A man can spend only so many hours on his back with his women. Come away now, before you find yourself as soft-bellied as a female. Look! There are musk oxen below the mountain, so close that this man can feel their life spirits riding the wind, asking to be hunted!”
Slowly, Galeena sat up. Slowly, his fingers twisted the nipple of his woman until she cried out. He roughly shoved her back, released her breast, and smiled when he saw frustration in Torka’s eyes. It gave him pleasure to irritate this man. He did not like the way Torka tended to assume authority. Galeena yawned again, widely, with profound deliberation. Then, when the yawn was done, he said, “Not hunt today. This day be nearly finished.”
Impatience hardened Torka’s words. “So is the meat that was to have been food for Torka’s people during the time of the long dark.”
A low murmuring went through the members of Galeena’s band. They looked from Torka to their headman, awaiting his response to Torka’s audacity.
It came with an insolent smile. “When the meat gone, we hunt then.”
Never in his life had Torka heard such foolish reasoning. Wait until food was gone before seeking more? Lounge on one’s buttocks while an entire herd of musk oxen grazed within one’s hunting range, and never lift so much as a spear to take meat? It was unthinkable! It was an offense to the spirits of the game. He said as much.
Beside her fire, Lonit shrank within her garments and stopped stitching the new winter gloves that she was sewing for Karana. Across the ring of stones, Umak rose. She knew that he would have gone to stand with Torka, but the weight of the great bearskin slowed his steps. He wore it as a robe, and with the head of the huge beast balanced atop his own, he looked twelve feet tall, yet she barely saw him. She looked aghast at Torka, remembering the laws of her band: One did not set oneself apart. One strove to be like all others, to exist within the whole for the survival of the whole. Torka had chafed against such strictures before, and clearly he was chafing now—so much so that it frightened her as the stunned incredulity of Galeena’s people had quickly settled into well focused anger. Torka had openly impugned the judgment of their headman. By so doing, he had indirectly impugned them all, for they had chosen Galeena to lead them.
Several hunters rose, took up their spears, and shook them warningly at Torka as the boys skulked out of the shadows to stand behind Galeena. The headman’s women scowled, while at the back of the cave, sad-eyed lana looked on listlessly and Manaak stood up and stared expectantly at Torka. More than the threat of the raised spears of Galeena’s hunters, it was Manaak’s expression that cooled Torka’s temper and reminded him of his place. Whatever grudge the scar-faced Manaak held against Galeena, it was Manaak’s grudge, not Torka’s. Galeena might not be headman forever, but he was headman now. He might appear to be little more than a lazy, flatulent fool, but his people had thought enough of him to follow him, and he had brought them to a safe encampment. Whether he liked him or not, Torka had to concede that Galeena had accepted him and his people into his band without question.
He rebuked himself for his impulsiveness. He had been wrong to challenge Galeena. The man had come far. If he was not ready to hunt, Torka must accept his unreadiness with understanding. It was not as though the herd of musk oxen was going to disappear; the habits of the animals were such that, unless threatened, they would remain where the browsing was good. The bulls would be charging and rutting or muzzle-deep in the autumn-yellowed willow scrub. Last spring’s calves, fat now and sprouting the stubbly beards that were characteristic of their species, would be looking on while the cows bawled and slobbered and were impregnated by the bulls.
Torka’s hand tightened about the hafts of his spears. It was not the way of the People to refrain from hunting when stores were low and game was near, but it was evidently the way of Galeena’s people. He recalled Umak’s words: In new times, men must learn new ways. So must it also be within a new band.
He sighed regretfully. His blood was up for killing, but he could be cooled. “Torka will hunt tomorrow,” he deferred amiably to Galeena.
The headman’s greasy brow expanded outward toward his even-greasier hairline. His topknot skewed to one side as his loose-skinned scalp twitched and slid over his broad, foreshortened cranium. He leered smugly at Torka as though he had just gulped down a piece of contested meat without sharing so much as a bite. “Torka hunt when Galeena say hunt! Torka not hunt when Galeena say not hunt! Or Torka go! Take people and leave Galeena’s khamp!”
“Galeena’s camp?” Torka nearly choked at the man’s brazen insolence. The malicious glint in the headman’s eyes was unmistakable. His people saw it. Once again they murmured among themselves. Pleased, they nodded and smiled.
Torka’s eyes narrowed. His willingness to compromise was shattered by the realization that Galeena’s refusal to hunt had nothing to do with weariness; it had to do with his desire to put Torka in his place and demean him before his own people, as well as before the members of Galeena’s band. So far, he had succeeded. Torka was aware of little Karana looking up at him expectantly, and of Lonit looking away, pretending not to see his shame. Torka knew that within the skin of the great bear, old Umak was watching him. If he backed down to Galeena now, he would never again be able to command respect from anyone, especially from himself. But for the sake of his little band, and for his unborn child, he must walk cautiously in pursuit of his pride.
So it was that he assumed an Umak-like stance, head high, chin up, mouth down, his face as hard and blank as stone. “Hmmph. Galeena has said that his people and Torka’s people will be one band. Many will hunt safely and live easily. Torka would not speak against the wisdom of Galeena. Rather would Torka say that in the time of the long dark that will soon send the sun to hide beyond the western edge of the world, the wisdom of Galeena’will speak for itself.”
Galeena’s people looked in confusion to their headman. They waited for him to tell them whether Torka had spoken in deference or sarcasm.
Galeena glowered. He was not sure himself. Beside him, Ai, his younger woman, sat very straight. She was staring at Torka with an interest that no female belonging to one man should ever show to another without the expressed permission of her mate. He backhanded her across her face so hard that he cracked her nose. It spurted blood. Her small, pudgy hands flew to her face. When she cried out, he hit her again.
Disgusted, Torka turned away. He went to sit at his own fire. Karana followed. And at the back of the cave, Manaak observed the harried, resentful expression upon Galeena’s face and smiled.
The day ended. A night passed. A new day began.
Umak rose with the dawn and leaned close to Torka, indicating Galeena with a nod of his head. “That one is bad. That one has a heart that is small and rotten with too much pride. But that one is a
lso stupid. This old man can make his heart smaller. But Torka must not challenge Galeena again. Torka must watch. He must stand back and observe how Spirit Master masters the spirit of Galeena.”
With these words, he donned his bearskin and his necklaces and balanced the head of the great short-faced bear upon his own. If the weight of the huge skull stressed his scalp wound, he showed no sign of pain. He streaked his cheeks with ashes—bold strokes that gave his features a look of imperious disdain, as though he were at odds with the universe and confident that he was somehow more powerful than the forces of the earth and sky.
He rose and flung his arms wide. Chanting loudly, he strode to the very edge of the cornice. He made invocations to the dawn, not in words but in syllables, at first short and staccato, then long and drawn out, as though the wind were sucking the words from his head.
When he turned at last to face those whom he had awakened, the sun stood at his back. He shone like an eagle soaring in the very heart of a midsummer noon. He looked magnificent, larger than life. When he threw back his head and howled, from across the miles far below the mountain Brother Dog howled back.
His audience stared, transfixed and awed.
When his howling stopped, the wild dog was also silent. With a harsh, whooping cry, Umak flung his arms straight up, nodding his head so that the skull of the great bear appeared to be moving of its own power. One of the matrons swooned with fright, and the ferret-eyed boys were sobered. Even Torka was impressed. Umak swayed, and Umak danced. But it was not Umak—it was the great, short-faced bear that moved and breathed. When the shadow man within it spoke, he spoke with the voice of the great bear, and Galeena’s eyes went so wide that they appeared ready to pop from their sockets.
“Today the spirits of the game await the spirits of the hunters!” roared the great bear that was Umak. “Today will be a good day to hunt!”
And it was so.
Even if the sky had poured rain, or clouds had gathered to whiten the tundra with snow, no one who had witnessed Umak’s transformation into the bear spirit would have thought to question him. They took up their weapons and went out, men and boys together—all save Umak and Karana, who stood watching with the women on the ledge.
“Soon we will join them,” soothed the old man, one hand upon Karana’s shoulder, sensing the boy’s need to follow the hunters. “When we are healed and strong, we will run ahead of them and show them how it is done, and all will envy this old man and this small boy.”
Karana looked up along the wall of fur that was shaded by the out-thrusting head of the great bear. Umak was in there somewhere. The boy could see the jab of his chin, the black hollows of his nostrils, and a few wisps of his hair threading through the claws and paws of his necklaces. “Will Brother Dog run with us, Spirit Master?”
Umak heard the longing in the boy’s voice. It touched him. He too missed the company of Brother Dog; but last night and the night before, the baying of wild dogs had joined Aar’s howling to puncture the darkness. Umak reflected on this and spoke his thoughts. “We have found a new band. So too has Aar found others of his own kind. Our brother will have no need to hunt with his man-pack now.”
“But we are his brothers!” protested the boy. “How can we know that he is happy with his own kind? Karana is not happy with these smelly ones! Karana is—“ He stopped. His words had grown loud, and the women of Galeena’s band were staring at him, as was Lonit. He saw the reproach in their eyes and glowered resentfully, “waiting for Umak to speak.
But Umak made no reply. He had forgotten all about Karana, and the farthest thing from his mind was concern for the whereabouts or welfare of a wild dog.
The two matrons were coming toward him. They were carrying offerings of meat scraps piled onto platters made of the pelvic bones of large grazing animals. They were both looking at Umak in that way again. And they were completely naked.
Blood beat behind Torka’s eyes. It was all that he could do to keep himself from shouting with the joy of exhilaration. It was, as Umak had promised, a good day to hunt. The sky was clear. The sun was warm. The wind blew to cool them and to keep the biting insects away.
Although Torka hated to admit it, it was obvious from the first that Galeena knew what he was doing. He led his men well, in the same age-old way of hunting musk oxen that Torka had learned as a boy from Umak and the hunters of his own band.
They did not approach the herd head on. They went around it in stealth, in small groups that did not come together until they were well beyond the grazing grounds of their prey.
Now they formed into a single line. The wind was their ally, blowing their scent away from the herd. They stood squinting, facing into the wind, with the good, rich stink of the animals exciting their need to hunt.
Galeena’s arm went up, signaling the men at either end of the line to begin to move forward. Slowly, the line became a loop. Gradually, it enclosed the herd, leaving it only one route of escape, into the dead-end glacial canyon in which Umak had slain the moose.
It was a while before the animals realized that they were being herded. The tundra! scrub was high enough to conceal the crouching, stalking hunters. Then the first bull caught sight of them. It froze; then its head went up, its nostrils working as though trying to disavow what its small eyes had already confirmed to its brain.
But there was no denying the presence of the hunters now. They stood erect, their spears at the ready. Galeena screeched a signal that echoed out of the mouth of every man and boy who burst forward in a howling tide of enthusiasm for the chase to come. “Ow-yah! Hail”
They raced forward like men pursued by hornets. The oxen panicked and ran before the hunters until, sensing entrapment within the canyon, they whirled and paused to form a protective circle on the high flank of the mountain. It was a defensive formation that served them well against wolves and lions. With their calves safe inside a bastioning circle of outward-facing cows and bulls, the musk oxen lowered their heads and displayed their massive up curling horns to the two-legged flesh-eaters who came howling and yipping at them like wild dogs.
But they were not dogs—they were men, and much more dangerous. They were not intimidated by the oxen and kept well away from the ripping horns, not once coming close enough to place themselves in danger. Their spears gave them the advantage of distance, and their knowledge of their prey gave them absolute supremacy. They knew that the musk oxen would not charge them. The animals would not break their defensive circle. They would die where they stood rather than abandon their calves or wounded to the predations of the hunters.
And so the men and boys of Galeena’s band killed them, and Torka joined in until at last he stood back, wondering why the hunt continued. They had dropped over three-quarters of the herd. Only two old bulls remained standing, and a few cows and calves. The dead and dying animals would provide so much meat that their women would be hard-pressed to prepare it all. Still the hunt continued, with Galeena’s men and boys making dashes in to retrieve their spears so that they might be used again and again.
Torka was appalled. To take all of the musk oxen would be to destroy the life spirits of this herd forever. He could not believe that Galeena would allow his hunters to do such a thing; it was against the strictest taboos of the People to kill in such a profligate manner. Always a few animals must be left, for it was said that if the last calf died, so too would the last child die in the time of the long dark when the herd animals refused to come to be hunted by those who cared not for their continuance.
Scar-faced, hard-eyed Manaak came to his side. “Why Torka not hunt? Do you fear a few old oxen as much as you fear Big Spirit?”
He was gone before Torka could reply, but the words had gored him. Still, he would not have killed again had Manaak not provoked the last of the old bulls into a charge.
It was the largest animal in the herd. Over five feet tall at the shoulder, it was massive, with grizzled, shaggy hair cascading to its fetlocks. Every square inch of its fift
een hundred pound body was layered with muscle except for that portion of its skull above its eyes. That was horn.
Galeena had already placed a spear into the old bull’s shoulder, so that blood loss and pain caused the animal’s head to drop. Its broad horns seemed to flow together above its brow, like a flattened band that spread downward into deadly, upturned points at either side of its eyes.
Manaak hurled the last of his spears, which buried itself beside Galeena’s weapon. The bull’s knees buckled, then locked. It did not fall but fixed its antagonists with small, pain-filled eyes. Behind it, one of the few surviving calves bawled, and at the bull’s cloven feet, another bull lay on its side, eyes glazing, tongue lolling as its rib cage heaved in the last paroxysms of death.
“I will make the final kill!” proclaimed Manaak.
“Only if you can get to your spear before I get to mine!” Galeena answered Manaak’s challenge.
As Torka stared and as the others goaded them on, Manaak and Galeena approached the bull. They feinted this way and that while the boys came up from behind the animal. Clambering over the bodies of dead and dying oxen, they poked at the bull’s already bloodied hindquarters with their spears until an enraged cow forced them to retreat.
Blood was showing in the thick, dark pelage of the bull’s shoulder. It was salivating heavily—thick, pink foam that betrayed internal injuries. It wheeled just as the boy who had driven Aar from the ledge tripped and went sprawling flat on his belly.
Incredibly, the bull charged. It was nearly dead on its feet, but rage fueled its effort. Several men loosed spears at it, all falling short. It was Torka’s spear, longer and lighter than the projectiles used by the hunters of Galeena’s band, that buried itself in the soft flesh at the base of the bull’s cranium. It sliced deep. Torka’s position had allowed him the perfect angle for the killing throw, and his strength, skill, and the quality of his weapon made it possible. His projectile point severed the balance center at the back of the bull’s brain, and cerebral hemorrhage did the rest. The animal dropped dead inches short of crushing the fallen boy.