Wolf's Brother

by Megan Lindholm

  She came up, not on the other side of the harke, but beside him. She walked close to him, matching her hurrying strides to his. He glanced down and across at her and smiled, but said nothing. Instead, he imagined. He and Tillu were journeying alone on the tundra. Their own small herd of reindeer followed them, and they were journeying, not to the Cataclysm nor to the talvsit, but to lands beyond, to a place where the people were taller and slender and lived a settled life. To places where folk spoke a different tongue and ... his imagination faltered. And what would he do among such a people? And there was something else. Kerlew, they would have to have Kerlew with them, to be complete. Both of them, he realized, he wanted both of them, as if together they made up the whole of a new world for him.

  Stars were dim against the still blue sky when he led the rajd from the rugged upthrustings of the earth and back onto the tundra. The lights of the night camp were lower stars against a blacker sky of tundra. 'No sense in hurrying anymore,' he muttered. 'We're coming in late and everyone can talk.' They slowed to a comfortable walk and looked ahead to the lights, not at each other, and suddenly she spoke.

  'About Elsa.'

  The name hung between them like smoke blowing from a moss fire. With its utterance, she seemed to move apart from him without changing her position at his side. He didn't know what she expected him to say, but the silence grew until he felt compelled to fill it. What was he to say about Elsa? He took a deep breath through a tight throat. Was he supposed to say that he understood why she had given Elsa the medicine that let her slide from sleep to death? Was she asking for forgiveness? Or was she asking how he could lie with her so soon after his loss?

  'Elsa was my friend,' he said slowly. He paused, and was ambushed by the sting of tears. His throat went raw. He gasped for air and was blind as the sudden tears ran. He put his hand on the harke's shoulder. The depth and suddenness of his grief made him powerless before it. He stumbled beside the harke, his words running as freely as his tears. 'I don't know ... what is the use of my tears now? I don't know why I cry. I didn't weep for her then. I couldn't. If I wasn't going to kill Joboam for killing her, then I had no right to mourn. Do you see? If I was only going to miss her as a friend, not as a husband should, then ... she wasn't mine to mourn. The night she died, when I slept by her and held her hand, I dreamed of her. Not as 'Elsa my wife' but as my friend. I was on a hill, watching her, and she was going off to hunt, with her bow on her back and her hair blowing in the wind. I was glad to see her go, because she enjoyed hunting and was good at it. I didn't run after her, or call to her. I let her go.' He swallowed and dragged his arm across his eyes. 'I never told anyone about that,' he said in a strangled voice. 'I let her go.'

  'Hush.' He felt her hands, touching his arm, and then her arm twined around his waist as they walked together. 'You didn't want her to die. You only wanted her to be free.' She spoke hesitantly, as if convincing herself.

  Fury stormed up in him as suddenly as grief had. 'I should have killed Joboam. I didn't have to see him do it to know that he's the only one who could have done it. He cut Bruk's tendons, he killed Elsa, he tried to lose Kerlew and leave him to die. Why don't I kill him?' Bafflement filled his voice.

  Her voice was calm beside him, coming out of the darkness. 'Is it so common, then, for your folk to kill each other?'

  'No.' The idea disgusted him. 'It may happen, sometimes in an accident. Once, when I was small, Nes shot an arrow at what he thought was a bear near his vaja and calf. It was Oso, in a bear coat. Nes was sorry, but Oso died.'

  'They do not fight, then, to the death? Over women or status in the tribe?'

  Heckram peered at her through the gathering dusk. Her face was unreadable. He shrugged. 'Do other peoples do so? I've heard of such things but ... Why fight over a woman? She will mate where she will. One may be sorrowed by it, or angered. But he is only a bigger fool to let others know of it. And a man's place in the herdfolk is the place he grows to. Capiam is the herdlord, and Rolke will be so after him. Unless his line dies out, so will the position be passed. And if the herdlord has no child to take leadership, then the elders choose a new herdlord. But no man can say, 'I am the leader now,' and have it be so. Followers choose a leader; a leader cannot choose followers.'

  'Some folk choose their leaders that way. The biggest, the strongest, he who can knock down all the others.'

  'Not the herdfolk.'

  'But your folk ...'

  'My folk. Hm.' There was a bitter edge in his short laugh.

  'What?'

  'Sometimes I think they are not my folk. That blood has more of a say in me than my rearing. Like a fox cub raised with puppies, I may run with them and try to bark, but it does not make me one of their pack. No, nor Joboam. I can say, they should rid themselves of him, he doesn't belong, he is hurting them. But what of me? What of a man who feels pleasure when he thinks of killing Joboam. Does he belong among the herdfolk?'

  'Your heart is here.'

  He was silent, his long strides eating up the trail. 'Sometimes. I like the calving times, I like putting my mark into a new animal. I like watching over my feeding reindeer and keeping them safe from wolverines. But when I dream ...'

  'You dream?' Tillu broke the dangling silence.

  'I wonder about my grandfather's folk. I remember the trading trip I made with my father. I think of their bright bronze tools, and the strange tales they told of the folk that lived to the south of them. And I feel like the marsh birds feel when the edge of fall is in the air. The young ones stand on the rocks and stretch their necks and lift their wings and yearn. And when the pull gets too strong, all of them rise and go. The pull is getting very strong, Tillu. Perhaps it would be a way for me. To leave, before I kill Joboam and shame my mother.'

  Tillu nodded reluctantly and the conversation lapsed. The night closed softly around them as the last of the colors left the day. The midges hummed and the hooves of the reindeer clicked in their eternal rhythm. Heckram felt drained, body and soul. There was no part of him that Tillu had not explored today. She knew him now. It troubled him that he knew so little of her in return. But time would lower her barriers. Time or pain. If she had not been so hurt today, she might never have let him near. He wondered how the night would shape itself.

  He decided he would pitch his shelter beside Ristin's. He would leave it up to Tillu where she slept, in his shelter or Ristin's. He wondered where Kari would set up her tent for Carp. Had Kerlew missed his mother yet? He doubted that the boy realized her pain. Then he wondered if it would make any difference if he did. Kerlew would regret causing her pain, he knew that much. What he didn't know was if the regret would be enough to make him reconsider the path he had chosen. He doubted it.

  Tillu had become very quiet. Was her head busy with the same thoughts? His free hand had been resting on her shoulder for some time. Now he snugged her closer for an instant, acting before he could wonder if she would resent the action. She didn't. Her own arm around his waist tightened, and for a few strides they walked that way. Then, with a soft shrug, she freed herself, and walked unencumbered at his side.

  The fullness of night had caught them. The wind that slipped the clouds past the stars blew the midges away as well. 'There's rain on the wind,' he said softly.

  He felt her assent, although he didn't see her nod. 'I hope we can get the shelter up before it comes down,' she said, and a small tension that had been riding on his shoulders lifted away. She would be with him tonight. He felt her cool fingers touch his hand briefly. He smiled without looking at her and walked on toward the lights of the camp.

  But just when the lights became fires, and the crouching shadows tents, a shape reared suddenly from beside their path and stepped between them and the lights. Shaggy but manlike it stood, too tall to be a man. He heard Tillu gasp and without thought he swept his arm wide to carry her behind him. It spoke.

  'If the herdlord's wife and son die, we won't have to look far to fix the blame.'

  'Joboam,'
he hissed, and set his feet.

  'Yes. Joboam.' A sneering satisfaction in the reply.

  The shagginess resolved itself into a hide flung across his shoulders against the night chill, the hugeness became merely Joboam's usual height and bulk. Revulsion swept through Heckram, and for the first time, he thought he might be right to kill this man. It would not be like killing an animal, where the challenge was in the stalking and the satisfaction in the meat afterward. No. Here the challenge would be in matching his strength, and the satisfaction in wiping the blood from his hands. A shiver ran lightly over his shoulders and back, readying him.

  Did Joboam sense it? He held out one hand in a gesture bidding him wait.

  'I haven't come to challenge you, Heckram. Though we both know the time for that comes soon. I've heard the things you've said about me, and I'll make you answer for them. But not yet. Capiam sent me, to find the healer he has so generously fed and provided for. Where is she, now that there is something more than a splinter or a rash to cure? When both his wife and his son toss in a fever and vomit and shiver with pain? Has not he upheld his end of the bargain, even taking in her half-wit son and the trouble-making najd that teaches him? The healer has a few questions to answer. And you, too, Heckram. Capiam wonders about a man who does not feel bound by the herdlord's word or the customs of his people.'

  'He will have his answers,' Heckram replied evenly. 'If the healer is late, it is no fault of her own. I will answer for it. And any other questions he may ask me. But only if they come from his mouth, not from a dog that grovels on his threshold.'

  Joboam growled and his shoulders hunched with his anger. Heckram waited calmly for his rush. But it was Tillu who pushed past him brusquely, saying, 'And will not the herdlord wonder what delayed the healer even after she was found? Snarl and savage each other at your own leisure. I won't have time to bandage you tonight. Let's be on our way. Ketla is in pain.'

  Joboam straightened slowly. 'Yes,' he agreed with slow satisfaction. 'Hurry, Healer. Or you may be too late.'

  Something in his voice triggered Heckram. He surged forward, and his fist carried the momentum of his movement as it hammered into the center of Joboam's chest. It was not the most telling spot to hit a man. Even Heckram knew that from his childhood tussles. A blow to the face would have hurt more and been more debilitating. But the force of his fist was enough to sit Joboam down flat in the mud-churned moss. Heckram braced himself for Joboam to rise and attack him. Instead, Joboam sat, head bowed, trying to pull air back into his lungs. Heckram stared at him, amazed, as he realized that Joboam wasn't going to get up. This was it. It was over.

  'That was stupid!' Tillu's voice sizzled like snow spilled on a fire. She started to crouch down beside Joboam, but Heckram surprised himself by taking her elbow and pulling her to her feet.

  'He's not hurt, and you don't have time. Run ahead, toward the fires. I'll bring the harkar as fast as I can. Here,' he turned and fumbled at the bundles one harke carried. 'This is your healer's pouch, I think. Do you need anything else?'

  She shook her head, staring up at him in the darkness. On her face was a strange mixture of anger and admiration. He nearly smiled.

  'Well, go on, then. And when you are finished, you'll find my tent near Ristin's. I'll check on Kerlew for you. You go to Capiam and see what you can do. Hurry, now.'

  She took a few steps, and then looked back at him. 'Well, go on!' he urged her, and she turned and ran. He took up the lead rope of his harke. As he started the rajd forward again, Joboam had gotten to one knee and was trying to stand. Heckram looked down on him as he passed. The hatred he had felt for the man so long was suddenly lost. Instead, he remembered Wolf, in what might have been a dream, and a bargain. There was another task for him this night, one that had nothing to do with Joboam. He uttered the thought aloud, without thinking. 'I don't need to worry about you. You're Wolf's meat.'

  Joboam gaped at him, his face awash with feelings. Incredulous, angry, and somewhere in a corner of his soul, afraid. Heckram didn't look at him. Instead he fixed his eyes on the fires and the small silhouette with the flying hair. He walked on.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Tillu walked resolutely down the row of shelters and fires of the camp. Conversation died as she walked past each fire, to be taken up in whispers after her. But what had she clone that was so terrible? She and Heckram had been late coming in. That was all.A large fire blazed before Capiam's tent, and gathered about it were the elders of the herdfolk. As she approached, all eyes turned her way. Acor stared at her accusingly and Ristor's black eyes peered at her from their nest of wrinkles. Pirtsi moved about the fire anxiously, crouching to poke at it, and then rising to glance at her. She met his eyes, and he turned aside quickly, to lift an armful of moss and dump it on the flames. Smoke billowed, and the midges drawn to the firelight dispersed. She strode up to the fire, still panting from her run.

  'Isn't she here yet?' Capiam's voice preceded him. He thrust his head and shoulders from the tent and glared balefully about. No one else spoke. As his eyes settled on Tillu, they widened in a look between relief and anger. 'Get in here!' he commanded her harshly. He jerked himself back into the domed tent, and she followed apprehensively.

  Within the tent, a bright fire blazed, making the interior so hot that Tillu felt breathless. Ketla was swathed in blankets on a pallet beside the fire. She rolled her head restively, murmuring discomfortedly. Not far away, Rolke moaned inside a huddle of hides. He lay very still. Capiam stood glaring at the healer. His face was etched deep with worry. 'When her fever first came back, I sent for you. No one could find you. So we pressed on to this stopping place, and again I sent for you. And again no one could find you. By then Rolke was sick, too.'

  'What have you done for them?' Tillu interrupted brusquely. She dropped her pouch and knelt beside Ketla. The rank smell of fever sweat and urine rose from her. Tillu placed her hand gently on the woman's face, felt the fire that burned within her.

  'Ibb remembered that our old healer, Kila, used fire to drive out fever. Like fears like, she used to say. So we built the fire, and bundled them close to it. Where were you?'

  'With Heckram.' Tillu spoke tersely, and when she looked up to the anger in Capiam's face, she was tempted to let the words stand alone. But that would focus his anger on Heckram. She bit back her annoyance. 'I was very tired, after rising so early to see to Ketla. Heckram noticed it, and took his rajd to one side of the trail and stopped so I could sleep for awhile. I slept longer than I meant to. Have they taken any water?'

  'No. I didn't want to interfere with the fire driving out the fever. Heckram knows better than to leave the trail. This makes twice he has defied my rules. Does he think I will ignore his insulting behavior?'

  'I don't know what he thinks.' The heat of the fire had already given Tillu a pounding headache. She pinched a fold of Ketla's flesh. 'Bring them water. As much as they will take. The fire may drive out the fever, that is true. But I've had more luck using water to wash fever and illness from a sickly body.' She turned her attention suddenly from Ketla to Capiam. 'And although I don't know what Heckram thinks, I know that I am responsible for my own acts. If I hadn't rested today, do you think I'd have the strength to be tending Ketla and Rolke now? I don't want to talk to you right now. Perhaps what I did was irresponsible. But right now, I must give all my attention to these two. Get me water. Please.'

  He might have argued, but at that moment, Ketla gave out a long, cracked moan. Capiam stepped to the flap of the tent, and ordered Pirtsi to bring water. Tillu pushed the hair back from her face and considered. This was no longer a simple case of gut ache from overeating. She didn't know what it was. Was it spreading? Or had Ketla and Rolke shared some food or drink that had poisoned them both? She moved from Ketla to Rolke, and cautiously lifted a comer of his blankets. The fever burned as hotly in him as it did in his mother. Worse, perhaps, for he did not toss and mutter, but lay still and only moaned. His lips were swollen and shiny. The skin of h
is hand was dry and brittle as birchbark. As she moved to tuck his arm back under his blankets, she felt a swelling inside the bend of his elbow. She prodded it gently. He pulled away from her, whimpering. She flipped the coverings back and examined him more closely.

  He had been stripped naked before they had bundled him in the hides. His hairless chest was narrow and childish. There were swellings inside the bends of his arms, and in his armpits. She prodded them, and his cry of pain was like the hoarse caw of a crow. 'Like boils,' she mumbled to herself. 'Or cysts. But I don't think I'll try to lance them.' She covered him again. A noise behind her was Pirtsi. Water dripped from his buckets.

  'Where'd you fetch it from?' Tillu demanded as she ladled the yellowish water into a cooking pot.

  'A pond at the bottom of a sink near here,' he replied uneasily. He glanced about restlessly, lines of distaste between his brows. Like many folk, he was uncomfortable around sickness.

  'It will do. But moving water is always better. Is there a stream?' When the boy nodded unhappily, she gave one of the buckets back to him. 'Dump this outside. And bring me another bucket from the stream. Hurry.' He left, pouting. She measured willow bark and a few yarrow leaves into the warming water. She pulled the sorrel from her pouch, cut off two of the wilted roots and wiped most of the dirt from them. She cut them into tiny bits into the bottom of a cooking pot and added a splash of water. This she set to simmer, and then rocked back on her heels. The heat in the tent was stifling. She rubbed her eyes and looked up to find Capiam watching her. He had been so quiet, she had all but forgotten him.