The Reindeer People

by Megan Lindholm

  He let her talk on, hunching his shoulders to her words. He felt shamed that he had traded away her gift knife without even remembering it. She did have a right to feel insulted. But he would rather that she be insulted than that she scold him like a thoughtless child. He should never have told her he was going to see the healer. But, as the old tale went, in trying to please everyone he had pleased no one. He was sure his mother would soon hear about how unsociable he had been.

  He glanced across at the girl. Her cheeks and nose were flushed with more than cold. He supposed he had offended her, and she was only saying he hadn’t to save his feelings. But that was even worse. With an effort, he changed the subject and asked, ‘How is that calf doing? The orphaned one you were hand-feeding?’

  ‘It died,’ she said coldly. ‘Nearly a month ago. As I’m sure I mentioned to you at the time.’

  ‘That’s right,’ he hastily amended. ‘So you did. Well. That shows you how well my mind is working lately. I’ve had so much to think on, I can’t seem to keep my thoughts together. Even Lasse scolds me about it. I just -‘

  Elsa abruptly jammed her poles into the snow, halting herself. With an effort, Heckram checked his own skis and looked back at her. He was astonished. She was crying.

  ‘I’m sorry I forgot about the calf,’ he said, feeling ashamed of his thoughtlessness and baffled by her response to it. Had one calf become so important in her life?

  ‘You are an idiot. You and that boy make a fine pair. I really do believe you don’t know anything of what goes on with the people of the herd. All you think of is the reindeer and hunting, and dragging animals back to cut your mark in their ears. Did you know Joboam has said that he will marry me?’

  After a moment, Heckram shut his jaw with a snap. His head reeled with contradictory thoughts. ‘He’s a very wealthy man,’ he observed, addressing his remarks to a nearby pine tree.

  ‘Yes. And he smells like an ungutted carcass and has the manners of a wolverine, and I wouldn’t have him near me if he were the son of the herdlord. Which he seems to think he is, even if Capiam has a son of his own who will inherit that position. But he comes around, and comes around, and comes around, following me about like a dog follows a bitch in heat. And he gives my mother and father gifts they cannot refuse for fear of offending him, gifts of things I know they need, but I cannot supply for them. Things I cannot hope to pay back for. He sits by our arran late into the evening, and if I go outside into the night to be alone, he follows me. If I say I am going to visit, he says he will go with me. He will not let me avoid him. Even when I say I will not hunt with him because I prefer to hunt alone, he follows me at a distance. I know he does, even if my father thinks I am silly. He has already told Capiam that I am going to marry him in the spring by the Cataclysm. I heard from Marta that Capiam was pleased and said that there would be a fine celebration, with many gifts for us. I feel like I am being swept down a river current, with nothing to grasp at.’

  ‘Tell him no,’ Heckram suggested harshly. He felt he was suffocating, as if he were a salmon with the mesh of the net lifting him from the rushing water. The urgency of his mother’s matchmaking was no longer remotely humorous. Why hadn’t she spoken honestly to him of Elsa’s dilemma? Anger seethed through him. Who was Joboam, that all should fear to offend him?

  ‘I did tell him no. He told me to think again. He laughed and told my father that young girls didn’t know what was in their own best interest, but that if I thought on it, I would change my heart. I don’t want to offend him, but -‘

  ‘Why not offend him?’ Heckram demanded. ‘Surely he is just a herdman, like any one of us? He has no right to force his attentions on you. Is he of the herdfolk, or is he some forest savage who must steal a wife to find one?’

  ‘But what reason can I give him? What can I say to him?’

  ‘Say I don’t like you. Go away and stop bothering me. ‘ He tried to make the words sound like a jest, but the eyes she turned on him were swimming with tears.

  ‘Heckram … times have changed. Don’t you see that? Joboam has many reindeer, and his rack is always heavy with furs and meat and hides. My parents bore me late. They are getting old. My mother seems always sick, and my father’s eyes … I cannot hunt and herd for three. And’ - she paused. ‘Joboam frightens me. When he says that girls do not know what is in their own best interest, his eyes are … dangerous. He does not look at me like a man looks at a woman. He looks at me as I look at a harke who must be broken to packing. I do not ask the harke what it prefers, because that has no bearing on what will be. I do not think Joboam cares what I prefer. I think he believes I will marry him in the spring.’

  ‘Why do you tell me?’

  It came out harsher than he meant it to. She turned her face from him and he saw her stiffen. Cursing their mothers and their wagging tongues, he maneuvered his skis to where he could reach and touch her shoulders. She turned to him abruptly and he embraced her awkwardly. Little Elsa. Not even as tall as Lasse. Childhood friend. A good-hearted, sturdy woman, independent and skilled, capable of taking care of herself. But that was no longer enough. Her responsibilities were more than she could shoulder, through no fault of her own. He remembered, vaguely, her two older brothers. They had been close to his own age, and as small as Elsa. They had not survived the Plague Summer. He patted her awkwardly and felt her shoulders shake once in a great sob.

  ‘It’s going to be all right,’ he told her. Knowing it wouldn’t. Instead of one woman taking the responsibilities of a family of three, it would be the two of them taking the responsibilities of two households. His own mother was starting to feel her years. Or three households. He supposed they would have to have a tent of their own, and their own string of harkar. Their own cooking utensils and bedding, their own pulkor and meat rack.

  He reined his mind viciously from the list. ‘I’ll speak to Joboam. I’ll tell him we have an understanding. That will put an end to him bothering you.’

  ‘I can’t ask you to do that!’

  ‘You don’t have to. I’m asking you, aren’t I? To join with me,’ he pointed out gently.

  Relief made her tears break out anew. She put her face against his chest and leaned on him heavily. The top of her head did not even reach his chin. ‘You say so little. I had begun to think you did not care, would never speak. My mother kept saying not to worry, that you were like your father. Shy. But I was so afraid. I love you, Heckram. I’ll be a good wife to you.’

  Hampered by the skis and their heavy winter clothing, he patted her back awkwardly. ‘You’re a good woman, Elsa,’ he said, carefully choosing honest words. ‘Joboam doesn’t deserve a woman like you.’ And she deserves more than carefully truthful compliments, he told himself. He tried to find more he could give her. ‘I’ll be a good husband to you.’ He felt the words bind him as he spoke them, and his heart sank beneath them.

  ‘Will you come to my tent tonight?’ she asked softly. It was not an unusual question for a woman of the herdfolk. With or without the assumption of marriage, she was free to invite him. Nor was it the first time she had let him know he would be welcome there. But he felt the question like a wolf feels the thud of the second arrow.

  ‘No,’ he said quickly. And then, more gently: ‘In our own tent, when I have traded for the hides and you have sewn them. Then we will be together, as is fitting.’

  ‘You never used to mind,’ she teased him gently, her face against his chest still. ‘Mossy hillside or grassy meadow, it was all one to you. Even in the snow that time. Remember?’ She turned bright eyes up to him, challenging him playfully. But she found him staring up at the sky as it darkened over the forested hillsides. His mouth was solemn.

  ‘Heckram?’ she asked gently.

  ‘Bror has been wanting me to help him make a new pulkor. I’ve been telling him that I was too busy hunting. But, perhaps if I agree, he will trade me tent hides for the work.’ He glanced down to find her eyes uncertain. ‘Don’t worry,’ he assured her quickly
. ‘I’ll find ways to get the things we will need. You won’t lack what you need, Elsa.’ In the gathering darkness, he stooped to kiss her carefully. Her arms went quickly around his neck, holding his face close to hers as her kiss became warmer. Her weight dragged at him, and his back bent as under a burden.

  KERLEW: THE POUCH

  So Tillu had gone hunting without him. Good. He didn’t care. A shaman didn’t need to know how to hunt. A shaman had better things to do with his time. He didn’t really care if he never learned how to hunt. She could keep her secrets and he would keep his.Kerlew sat down carefully by the fire, his pouch beside him. He poked at the fire with a narrow willow wand. The peeled stick gleamed white against his sooty hands. He held the tip of it in the coals, watched it blacken and then suddenly flare alight. He lifted it carefully and held it as he would hold a flower with a long stem. He smiled upon it lovingly. It was short and fat if he held the stick still, long and thin if he moved it. He stopped moving it and there was the short fat flame again. Now he gently waved it, and it was long and thin. After a long time, he remembered that there was more to this game than the flame on the tip of the wand. He stared into the flame, opening his eyes wide to the light as the old shaman had taught him. He blinked involuntarily against the light, and started at what he saw with his eyes closed. He closed them again and stared. Pale wolf eyes inside his eyelids. Wolf looking into him as he looked out. Wolf watching, coming to him? He shivered deliciously and opened his eyes to the flame again. The bright, yellow, dancing flame. He brought it close to his face until he felt the heat of the tiny flame against his lips. He stared deep into the flame. ‘Carp?’ he whispered questioningly.

  In an instant the flame was gone, leaving only a thin streamer of spiraling smoke. Kerlew sighed. ‘He’s still angry at me.’ He threw the stick onto the fire. ‘He’s still angry at me,’ he repeated dismally. ‘For going up instead of down.’ He stared into the fire for a long time. His stomach felt heavy and his throat felt tight and sore. ‘Mother!’ he called out. Tillu, I think I’m getting sick. Tillu!’ Then he remembered she wasn’t there. She had gone hunting and left him here alone, and Carp was angry with him.

  He sighed again and rubbed at his face. He wished the stranger man, the spoon man, would come again. He liked how big he was, and how he didn’t hit. And he smiled at Kerlew. Usually the ones that didn’t hit didn’t look at him either. He pursed his lips and squinched his eyes, straining to group the ones who didn’t hit but did smile at him. There was … the spoon man and … Carp. He smiled. It was the first time he had put them together in his mind, and it pleased him. The spoon man and Carp. Too bad Tillu didn’t like them.

  Tillu. The fire. He looked at it in sudden trepidation. As he feared, it was burning low. He scrabbled to his feet and hurried to the woodpile by the door. He brought back an armload and let it crash down onto the coals. The fire sizzled and sparks leaped out onto the bare earth around the hearth. Steam and smoke rose as the new wood began to catch fire.

  Smoke. If only he had gone down instead of up with the smoke. If he had gone down, he would have a spirit brother now. And Carp would be with him, and he would be a powerful shaman. If he had gone down instead of up, he wouldn’t have to tend the fire. All people would respect him, as they respected Carp. They would bring him tongues and livers, gifts of soft furs and new tools. No one would ever hit him again. And if they did? His yellow eyes narrowed. Then he would curse them, would take their hunting luck, would make their women die in childbirth, would make their meat spoil and their children sicken. Yes! Then they would know Kerlew the shaman, would know his power and treat him well. Even his mother would hurry to build up his fire for him, to bring him the best of her kills. Not that she often brought home good kills. Usually it was rabbit or squirrel, little red-meat animals with thin hides. Kerlew liked meat that was edged with white fat, big pieces of meat he could grip with both hands when he ate. He held up his hands, pretending to grip a big piece of meat, and grinned. When he was shaman, he would eat big pieces of meat and wipe his greasy hands on his hair to make it shine. Carp did that. Carp. Carp was angry.

  The thought sobered him and the smile faded from his face. His hands fell into his lap and he stared once more into the flames. Maybe he should try to see Carp in a flame on a willow wand … No, he had already tried that. What else?

  He reached for his pouch and untied the strip of leather that held the mouth shut. Then he put his nose and mouth against the opening and breathed deeply. He liked the smell of the pouch. It smelled of tanned leather and his mother’s herbs. For a while he amused himself by taking a deep breath of the delicious smell and watching the leather sack go flat. When he breathed out, the sack would puff up like a fat little rabbit. It was very funny. He giggled into the sack; it sounded different from when he giggled out loud. It made him laugh even more. Finally, when his stomach hurt from laughing, he took the sack away from his nose and mouth. He reached in carefully.

  It was important to touch only one item at a time, and to take them out in the order he touched them. Carp said so. He touched the knife first. It seemed he always touched the knife first. It was biggest. Maybe Knife-spirit was trying to tell him something. He took it slowly out of the bag.

  The knife pleased him. It was a very good knife. Much better than the one his mother had, and he knew she wished she could use his knife. And it was the first tool anyone had given him. When he had offered the spoon man the special spoon with the good luck in it, the spoon man had seen what a special thing it was. That was why he had given him such a fine knife.

  Kerlew drew the knife from the woven sheath. There were reindeer on the knife. One was running, with its head thrown back so far that its antlers touched its rump. Another, near the handle, grazed with a calf at its side. That one had no antlers. Between the reindeer, there were swirling designs, that reminded Kerlew of the stars he had climbed. This reindeer knife was very important. Not only did it have the spirit of the animals he had seen in his first shamanic journey, it was carved from the bone of that animal. He turned it in his hand, gripped it with a tight fist and flourished it aloft. Such a knife! Holding it was almost like touching Reindeer between the eyes. The Knife had a strong spirit of its own. To show his respect, Kerlew pointed it toward the flames and sang to it: softly for a long time. Then he resheathed it and set it beside him.

  He reached into the bag again, wondering what would be next. His reaching fingers brushed a smooth, cool surface. The red stone. He pulled it from the bag and considered it. He wondered if it was still angry at him, too. He rubbed it with his hands until it felt warm. The time Tillu had thrown it into the snow, it had been very cold and angry when he found it. Now it did not seem so angry. He held it between his palms and sang to it. It was an important talisman, and he didn’t like it to be angry with him. The Blood Stone, Carp called it. Carp had shown him how to find it. It was the first sign of his power. That first day … Kerlew’s brow wrinkled as he reached for the memory. It was such a long time ago, and everything before that time was like a long dream. Carp had wakened him from the dreaming time.

  Yes. Carp had wakened him and made him stand up and walk with him, even though Kerlew’s legs had been as bendy as the tips of willow boughs. The sunlight was too bright for his eyes, and he had kept touching his head to make sure it was still there. His neck had grown long and his head bobbed at the end of it. But he had felt very good, very fine indeed. And the important man, the shaman, Carp, had held his wrist and led him along. They had gone behind the tents into the hills. Kerlew had felt cold and light; he had feared the wind would blow him away. He had wondered where they were going.

  Then they had come to a trampled place on the hillside. Carp had stopped him by a scatter of squashed berries. ‘Here,’ the old man had said. ‘Look for it here.’ Kerlew remembered squatting down on his heels and nearly falling over. He had wondered what the man wanted him to do. The shaman towered over him. ‘Find it!’ Carp had urged him. The man’s
eyes were serious, and Kerlew had cringed, fearful he would kick him.

  But the expected blow had not come, and after a few moments Kerlew had cautiously run his fingertips over the scattered berries. He still didn’t know what the shaman wanted, but sometimes they didn’t hit you if you pretended to understand them. He let the berries sift through his fingers, peering up at Carp through his eyelashes to see if this pleased him. Was this what he wanted him to do? But the old man had only watched him.

  When there were no more berries to handle, Kerlew had dragged his fingertips over the moss and leaves that coated the ground. He picked them up and looked curiously at them and again peered up at Carp. Did this please him? But the old man’s face never changed. He stood over the boy and waited.

  Kerlew had begun to feel dizzy and sick, but he dared not complain. Tillu was far away. She had gone to fetch water, he suddenly remembered, and she was gone when Carp had led him away. If Carp decided to kick and strike him, she was not there to make him stop. His lip jutted out and began to tremble. He had seen the bared earth through a shimmer of tears as his stubby nails dragged across it.

  He had felt very ill then. The earth got far away, and then closer, and then far again. His fingernail caught on something, bent back painfully. Kerlew exclaimed at the hurt and heard the shaman’s gasp of interest. The old man suddenly stooped down beside him, watched avidly as Kerlew’s fingers pried the stone from the soil. Kerlew had picked it up, held it close to his face to look at it carefully. A tear had fallen onto its dirty surface, and the small drop let a sudden streak of red show through. Aahh!’ Carp had sighed.