by Bjorn Kurten
“You always try to put false hopes into the poor things’ heads,” said Beaver reproachfully.
“While there’s life, there’s hope,” mumbled Glutton.
Tiger listened to the talk in silence. He thought he could manage that chief of theirs. But who was it? Shelk? If so, he was close to his goal. In his mind he started to review his plan. Meanwhile the conversation about his probable fate continued. Soon, though, Beaver hit upon a new topic.
“I told you he was limping,” he said contentedly. “Now you see, I was right. They must be sorely pressed to send a lame fellow on such a trip.”
Glutton did not condescend to answer, and Beaver put his face in front of Tiger’s. “I saw it from his footprints, that he was lame, but you didn’t believe me. You said he was carrying a heavy pack. Ha ha!”
Glutton looked displeased. “So what? You don’t have to kill a man because he’s lame. Enough to break both his legs. Then he can limp evenly in future. I don’t like all this hanging.”
“The Witch likes it,” said Beaver with an attack of laughter which almost made him lose grip of Tiger’s arm. “In the night she sneaks out and cuts the tongue off the hanged. Then she serves it as caribou tongue. You’ve eaten many of those without knowing it, Glutton.”
“It’s the Chief who gives the orders, not the Witch,” grumbled Glutton. “And speaking of tongues, you have borrowed yours from the hyena.”
Beaver was amused by this scandalous charge, but before he had time to answer, Glutton said, “We’re there.”
“Yes!” cried Beaver happily, and for the first time he turned to Tiger: “Look, there’s your comrade! We’re going to hoist you beside him. Then you’ll both be ripe and good when your friends find you.”
With a shudder Tiger looked up at the hanged man. Then he heard a fierce scream, and a very small, old, and wrinkled White woman came rushing toward him. She wielded a sharp stone and babbled excitedly through toothless gums. Beaver raised his hand and checked her. “Chief!” he said.
“Chief!” said Glutton as a distant echo.
“Chief!” roared Beaver.
There was a rustle in the bushes, and out stepped Wolf, the man who once was the Chief of Big Lake, the man who had promised Tiger his beautiful daughter Hind. Tiger recognized Wolf at once, though his hair and beard were now white.
“Wolf!” he cried. “Don’t you know me?”
The former Chief of Big Lake walked toward Tiger with a puzzled frown. His left arm swung energetically, but his right dangled.
“The voice sounds familiar,” he said. “Familiar, it sounds. Almost it is as if Ferret of Trout Lake were talking to me. Yet he is dead these two winters. By the Great Mammoth, what’s this? Isn’t that you, Tiger, Ferret’s son? Bound? Cut the ropes at once, Beaver! I’d embrace you if I could, Tiger, so happy am I to see you; yes, happy to see you. My right arm doesn’t obey me any more—a scratch from the fight against that monster Shelk, a trifle…But this is incredible! Tiger! Tiger, Ferret’s son! I’ve mourned you as dead.”
Before long, Tiger, now an honored guest, was sitting by the fire with Wolf, the chief who was to have been his father-in-law. His gaze took in the simple camp, only a few hastily made huts.
“Not like Big Lake, you’re thinking?” said Wolf. “No, you’re right. But we never stay long. We’ve learned a thing or two these winters, a thing or two. And we’re on our way, Tiger, we’re on our way. I haven’t said my last word to Shelk. My spear-arm is no good, but I have many brave men. With you I have one more.”
“Beaver and Glutton thought I was one of Shelk’s warriors, didn’t they?” asked Tiger.
“So they did. They didn’t know you; they come from the west, from Swidden Moor where that big fire was, many winters ago. Shelk took their village, but they escaped. They took you for one of his messengers. We got another a few days ago; he’s hanging in the tree over there.”
“Have you been here long?” asked Tiger, and Wolf chuckled.
“Does it look like it?” and he described the situation. Shelk had put in garrisons at Big Lake, Blue Lake, Swidden Moor, and doubtless other places too. Wolf had escaped from the fight at Big Lake with a handful of his men, and spent some time as a fugitive. Other fugitives flocked to him, until finally he felt strong enough to attack Shelk’s garrison at Blue Lake.
“That was a mistake,” Wolf admitted. “We were repulsed, and my spear-arm destroyed. We use another tactic now. We have divided into three groups, and we harass Shelk’s lines of communication. We don’t stay more than a few days in any one place, so we keep him on the run. He’s sent many troops against us, but we always avoid them. Meanwhile, we’re gathering strength to assault his headquarters at Caribou Lake. This is the road from Big Lake to Caribou Lake, and it’s time for us to decamp. There will be an enemy patrol before long.”
“How many men have you got?”
Wolf had some thirty warriors all told. “And the Witch, of course,” he added with a grin. “She comes from one of the Troll villages, and she hates Shelk’s gang worse than anyone else does. Nobody can make out what she says, but she’s learned to understand a few words of our language, and now she’s our cook.”
To her surprise and pleasure, Tiger greeted her in the White language and exchanged a few words with her while Wolf listened, intrigued.
“Well, well, well,” he said. “He speaks the tongue of the Trolls, too. You have much to tell us, Tiger. All we knew was what one of Shelk’s messengers told us before we hanged him, that you and every other male from Trout Lake had been killed. Ferret and Ferret’s son Tiger, he said. But you seem to have more lives than Shelk himself, since you are sitting here by my fire. I couldn’t wish for a better man.”
So Shelk knew his name, Tiger mused, while Wolf went on talking and outlining his plans, which were simple enough. He intended to continue his war of attrition, to sting and escape. “I’m a wasp, Tiger,” he said. “I fight like the wasp. I collect a swarm. One day there will be enough of us to sting Shelk to death. Look here!”
From under his neckband he pulled out a piece of amber. It was as long as his finger, flat, and polished by wear. Inside it was a wasp, motionless in a golden prison, as if time had stopped. Tiger admired the powerful talisman, in which the sunshine seemed to gather. For a moment, he wavered in his decision. Maybe with such a protector Wolf could win. When the little troup set out, Tiger went with them.
The calls of migrating cranes filled the air. Tiger walked for a while with the old White woman whom the Blacks called the Witch, and she told him her story. She came from the Land of the Osprey, from a White village at Caribou Lake. That was where the Devils had struck their first blow, four winters ago. Some of the Whites had been killed, her daughter among them. The others were taken to the vicinity of the Gorge, where they lived with the roar of the rapids in their ears, day and night. All the people had prostrated themselves to the Supreme Devil, for they saw that he was the Guardian of the birds. His guiding spirit, in the body of a raven, alighted on his outstretched hand and spoke to him in the words of men. Later, the Blacks brought the caribou and taught the prisoners how to tend them. The Great One must be the Guardian of the caribou, too. He made them so fond of human piss that they became quite tame. But this woman had wanted her freedom, and in the end she managed to get away. No one took any heed of what an old woman did. Now she lived for the day when the Devils would be chased away, when everything would be as it was in the old days.
Tiger also talked to the two men who had taken him prisoner, and found that they quarreled about the future just as they did about any other topic. The solemn Glutton was fanatically convinced that Wolf would lead them to eventual victory, while Beaver scoffed at his hopes. “You’re dreaming, Glutton,” he said. “For every one of our men, Shelk can raise a hundred. What can we do but make a snap at his back and run? It’s fun while it lasts, but it won’t last long.”
“The Shelk can’t live forever,” Glutton muttered.
&
nbsp; “I know what I would do in his place,” said Beaver. “I’d send a hundred women against us instead of all these fighters. Then we’d give in at once. By the Great Mammoth, sometimes I get so keen on a woman I almost want to try it with the Witch.” And he doubled up with laughter.
Tiger saw that Beaver was right, and when they stopped for the night, he told Wolf about his decision and his plan. Wolf tried to talk Tiger into staying, but gradually he came around, admitting that it might be useful to have a friend in the enemy’s headquarters. Next morning, when Tiger bade him farewell, Wolf embraced the younger man.
“I wish you luck,” he said. “You’re following a more dangerous road than we are and you need all the help you can get. Take my wasp; it’ll help you to sting the Shelk to death. Send it back as a token when you have carried out your plan. I’m lending it to you, mind, but it was to have been your own when you married Hind. Perhaps that too will happen, one day.”
THE OVERSEER
Our county sheriff is really a brute;
Broad as a bull, and shameless to boot.
Join him for ale and a few hands of poker,
But don’t call his bluff, or you’ll be the joker.
—Swedish lampoon
The calls of the cranes followed Tiger on his journey as the birds came in endless arrays. Watching their slow, purposeful wingbeats, Tiger felt uplifted. If Shelk had power over caribou and ravens, as the Witch had said, the cranes at any rate were flying as they did in the old days.
Then Tiger became conscious of a new sound in the forest. It was a strange, deep murmur that seemed to roll at him from a great distance. He stopped and listened. In front of him was a clay slope, bare of snow but full of meltwater puddles forming a pattern which reminded him of the islands he had seen in that strange vision long ago. When he put his heel into the rim of the biggest puddle, the water broke through, and started to run down the slope in a widening stream. Then he realized what he was hearing. It was the roar of the Gorge. He must be almost there.
A bit farther on, beside a birch, he saw a Black woman. She was cutting into the trunk of the tree with a stone knife, and on the ground there were several vessels made out of birchbark. Tiger approached her and greeted her courteously. She spun around, frightened and wide-eyed. She was a young girl.
“Oh, you scared me!” she cried. Then she looked closer at him, and her fright gave way to a coquettish smile. She saw a tall young hunter, and the great tooth on his breast was more impressive than any trophy she had seen before.
“Isn’t it lovely,” she said, fingering it. “You must be a great hunter. What’s your name?”
“Wildcat,” said Tiger, who had decided on that name because it was close enough to his real one. “And yours?”
“I’m Tern,” she said, looking up at him with her big eyes, which were beautiful in spite of a slight squint. Actually that only enhanced the piquancy of her appearance. Then her expression changed, and she took a step back.
“You haven’t got a feather,” she said accusingly and pointed to his head.
“Feather?”
“Yes, the eagle feather. All the warriors have them.”
“Of course.” Tiger smiled. “I’m a stranger. But I’ve come here to become a warrior. Whom should I talk to?”
“Oh,” she said, “is that so? I suppose you’d better talk to the Overseer. He’s coming here today, so you can stay awhile with me.”
“Who’s the Overseer? What’s his name?”
“Ooh, I’ve forgotten. He’s new, but he’s nice. Much nicer than the old one. Not as good-looking as you, though, Wildcat.”
“What’s wrong with the old one?” inquired Tiger, amused.
“Oh, he was terrible. Old Crow. Crowshit, we called him. You wouldn’t believe it, but he promised to make an extra cut in my work-stick if I slept with him! But nothing doing,” said Tern primly, whereupon she spoiled the effect by continuing chattily, “He was no good anyway. He’d just pant and paw at me, and I didn’t get a rise out of him, though I tried to help.”
“So the new one is better?”
“Well, I mean he seems to be nice. I’ve just met him once.” By now, she had moved so close that her body touched Tiger’s, and he observed, “But I’m keeping you from your work.”
“Ooh!” cried Tern. “I must hurry.”
“I can help you.”
“You can’t do that. You’re a warrior.”
“Where I come from warriors can do anything,” said Tiger. “Here’s your knife.”
They worked side by side, cutting the bark, thrusting sticks into the wood to lead the trickle of the sap, and fastening the birch-bark vessels. Tern had made them herself, she said, and caulked them with resin.
“You really are nice to me, Wildcat,” said Tern, wiggling her hips. “A great warrior and hunter like you has never cared to help me.”
When all was done, Tern sat down on the ground. “I have to wait for the Overseer before I go to camp,” she informed him. “He’s going to check what I’ve done. Ooh, I’m hungry!”
Tiger brought his bundle. He had a great deal of meat left, and Tern accepted the food gratefully. They had barely finished their meal when she looked up. “The Overseer,” she said.
Tiger rose in surprise. The man who approached them, with an eagle feather stuck jauntily into his headband, was none other than Goshawk, the fat God from Blue Lake, somewhat less obese than Tiger remembered, but still exceptionally fullbodied. Goshawk smiled radiantly and embraced Tiger as if he had been a boyhood friend.
“Tiger, my dear fellow, what a surprise! What brings you here?”
“Ooh,” said Tern, “is he called Tiger, too? You told me your name was Wildcat.”
Goshawk paid no attention to her. He was busy patting Tiger’s shoulder.
“I’ve come here to join Shelk’s warriors.”
“Ah,” said Goshawk, “you’re well advised to do so. It’s a good life. Our Master is lucky in everything; and we, his men, are the bravest warriors in the world.”
Then he struck his forehead.
“But by the Mammoth, Tiger, you can’t!” he cried.
“Listen, Tigercat, what’s your real name?” asked Tern. “Not that it matters. You’re nice, and good-looking too.”
“Why can’t I?” asked Tiger.
“Why, don’t you know, Tiger…Ahem, you aren’t exactly…I mean…Well, to put it briefly, I’m afraid the Master will have you hanged in the tallest pine tree at Caribou Lake, if you show up there.”
“He can’t do that,” cried Tern agitatedly. “Such a nice man. Say something, Wildcat!”
“Why should he do that?”
“Why? Well, you are…I mean, everybody knows you’re a tremendous shaman, the enemy of the Sun, the man who killed Shelk or at least his shade, or the other Shelk…Forgive me, I’m a bit confused.”
“Ooh!” cried Tern. “Are you a great shaman, Tiger-cat? Please show me what you can do. Look here, I’ve got such a funny spot on my breast, couldn’t you…”
“By the Great Mammoth,” Goshawk exclaimed, annoyed, “who are you?”
“I’m Tern, don’t you remember? You said I was pretty, too,” said the girl reproachfully.
“But Shelk never met me,” said Tiger.
“No, that’s true, but he’s heard about Tiger, the great shaman…”
Tern, who had now uncovered her chest, jumped up and down in her excitement. “Look here, Wildcat, look here, Tiger! I’m sure it is an evil spirit, and you can blow him away. I always wanted to meet a great shaman. Old Crowshit said he could…”
“My name isn’t Tiger now,” Tiger explained, “it’s Wildcat.” Goshawk held his forehead with one hand and pointed at the tiger tooth with the other.
“Your name may be Wildcat or Mole, but if you appear at Caribou Lake with that thing on your chest, I swear you’ll hang before sundown.”
Tiger slipped the tooth inside his neckband. “You’re right, Goshawk, I didn’t think
of that. Many thanks. Do you think I can have this one instead?”
He pulled out the golden wasp. Tern’s eyes widened more than ever, and forgetful of everything else she began to finger it, sighing ecstatically. Goshawk seemed to become aware of her presence for the first time.
“By the Guardian of all hyenas,” he said, “why are you standing there half-naked like a Troll bitch? Tiger—Wildcat, I mean—you’re lost! She knows who you are! She can’t hold her tongue any longer than you can belch!”
“Don’t think I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” said Tern angrily. “I’m not such a fool as you think. He’s my shaman and he’s nice to me. He’s promised to blow away the evil spirit. And you’re mean, mean, to call me a Troll bitch. I’m much prettier than any Troll bitch. They’re pale-skinned and have crooked legs and no waist at all, and their tits are like flaps of skin, and they have big jaws like a bear—but I—I—I was the Master’s woman for two moons—and you promised last time that you’d cut the marks without caring too much about what I had done if I only—just like Crowshit—”
Groaning, Goshawk sat down on a tree-trunk, waving his hands in an attempt to stop her. “There you are, Tiger,” he said. “She’s the worst talker this side of the Salt Sea. She’ll bring us both to ruin.”
Tern looked at him critically. “You look poorly, Overseer,” she said. “Do you feel ill? Please give me my daily marks before you drop dead.”
She pulled a small wooden stick out of her bundle. It was scored with a row of notches. She waved it in front of Goshawk’s nose.
“You’d better give her what she wants, Goshawk,” said Tiger.
“Goshawk, why, that’s his name,” said Tern delightedly. “I knew there was something funny about it.”
Tiger patted her cheek. “Tern, you’re a clever girl, aren’t you? As clever as you’re pretty. And you want to help me, don’t you?”
“Of course I want to help you, Ti—Wildcat. Your name is Wildcat. May the Guardian of the caribou strike me dead if I forget it. I don’t want you hanged in a pine tree, no, I don’t.”