The Exile

by Jo Sandhu

  About the Book

  Tarin longs to be a hunter, but his twisted leg means he is feared and bullied. After a disastrous mishap, Tarin is forced to leave his family and travel alone across wild, unknown land to save the Mammoth Clan. Battling the hostile and savage Boar Clan, a deadly illness and treacherous terrain with twins Kaija and Luuka and their wolf cubs, Tarin begins to realise that if they are all to survive he must conquer his greatest fear – his true self – and embrace the magic that is hiding within him.

  Contents

  Prologue

  The Council Meeting

  Fever

  A Decision is Made

  The Offering

  Boar Clan

  The Journey Begins

  A New Friend

  Disaster

  Blizzard

  Washed Away

  A Meeting of Ways

  A New Plan

  A Difficult Discovery

  A Friendship Forms

  Prisoners

  A Strange Alliance

  The Spirit Hole

  Misfortune

  A Desperate Flight

  Walking with the Spirits

  Wolf Clan

  Acknowledgments

  The wind smells of snow.

  I pull my hood forward and wriggle my frozen toes and frozen fingers. I hunch in the shelter of the rock cliff and look down towards the valley. It’s the last mammoth hunt of the season, and below me, the hunters are moving into position.

  I wave to my brother, Taavo, but he doesn’t see me. It is his first hunt, and he grips his spear tightly and leans into the wind. A copse of sagebrush and stubby pine shelters him as he waits for the mammoths.

  My breath steams the air around me. I’m glad I have my warm clothes. My hood is made of wolverine, with two flaps hanging down over my ears. My foot-coverings and leggings are made of rabbit skin, like my mittens. My mother made them for me, with the pelts my father trapped down by the river. My mother makes the best furs and leathers, and my father makes spears that are straight and strong. Sometimes he tips the ends with flakes of flint and bone. He made Taavo’s spear especially for his first hunt, and carved it with symbols for good luck and good hunting.

  ‘Will you carve a spear for me, Father?’ I asked him, watching him rub the wood with sand to make it smooth.

  ‘For you, little rabbit?’ He laughed, his voice as big and deep as a bear’s. ‘For you I will carve a special digging stick, and you can help Old Mother gather her herbs and plants.’

  But I don’t want to help Old Mother gather the plants. I want to hunt mammoth and bison and reindeer. I want to have my own spear and tell my own stories. But it is hard for me to run and hunt with the other boys. I am not strong like them, and my leg twists beneath me when I run. Old Mother makes me medicine, to give strength to my limbs, and Old Father sings songs to the Spirits and asks my totem, my guide, to help me.

  ‘Spirit of Owl,’ he sings. ‘Silent Wise One . . .’

  But maybe my Owl guide cannot hear him, or doesn’t want to help me, because my leg stays weak and sometimes I find it hard to breathe.

  ‘Skinny rabbit,’ my mother calls me, but she smiles when she does.

  ‘Weak one,’ the other boys say, and they turn away to talk of hunting and bravery.

  My brother is the only one who calls me by name, who stands by me.

  ‘Tarin,’ he says, ‘when we are men, we will hunt together. You and I.’

  But now he is hunting mammoth, and I am alone on a rock shelf above him, watching.

  The wind has changed direction, bringing with it the deep rumbling boom of the mammoth herd. It thrills my heart. The ground trembles and I know they are getting close. Our runners have been out since first light, to find the mighty herd. An Old Mother is leading her tribe away from the heavy snowfalls in the forests and mountains and towards the open plains and their winter grounds, far away. It is the last herd to make the journey before Kaamos, and they will reach the grasslands as the world darkens and the Ice Mother covers the land in snow.

  I lean forward to catch sight of the herd as they come closer. Slowly I edge further down the rocks. A few stray stones scrape under my foot and roll down into the canyon. The hunters all turn their faces towards me. Angry faces. But they say nothing, because the herd has paused by the entrance to the canyon. The Old Mother, their leader, is wary . . . nervous. She moves her great body from side to side, tasting the air, her dark-brown fur swaying with the motion.

  My feet and my fingers feel numb, and I shift to try and ease the cramping pain in my poor leg. But it is a mistake. The loose rock beneath my feet gives way, and suddenly I am falling, the thunder of crashing rocks echoing around the canyon.

  The Old Mother lifts her trunk and trumpets a warning. My ears ring with the sound. All around me is chaos, and still I fall towards the floor of the canyon, the cascading rocks shredding the skin from my hands as I try to stop.

  The herd is stampeding away from the carefully laid trap. The hunters are shouting, running forward with flaming torches and spears, trying desperately to turn the frightened animals back. If they do, I will be crushed. But if they fail, we will have no meat to see us through the long, dark winter ahead.

  With a rush, I land hard on the rocky floor. My head smashes into the rocks. Blood stings my eyes. I want to cry out, but my chest hurts and I cannot draw enough breath into my body. Like a frightened animal, I huddle in the shadow of the rocks, whimpering, unable to move.

  A young bull thunders towards me, his new tusks already lethal weapons. I imagine them ripping open my stomach. My mouth and my eyes are full of dust and blood, but I can feel the ground shake as he charges.

  I hear a shout and a spear rushes towards the young bull, only to shatter on the rocks beside me. It is my brother’s spear. I can see the carving of his totem, the mighty bison, on its broken shaft. It is not lucky for him today.

  But it is enough to startle the bull. He turns and runs, following his mother’s frantic cries. The hunters try to follow them, but it is already too late – the herd have fled the canyon.

  I wipe the dust from my eyes and look up. A tangle of shaggy brown fur sways above me, so close I could reach out and touch it. The Old Mother is watching me. I push myself to my feet and I see her high domed head and deep liquid eyes. Her tusks curve proudly, but they are pitted and aged and the right is broken at the tip. She reaches out with her trunk and touches my head with a gentle caress. Her breath is warm against my face.

  I reach my hand towards her, and my fingertips brush her fur. Then she turns silently and is gone.

  I am left alone on the canyon floor, the angry, frightened hunters of my clan running towards me.

  Tarin huddled in the darkened corner of the earth-lodge and watched as the flames danced to the beating drums. The rhythm was urgent . . . angry.  The hollow sound of bone hitting bone echoed in his skull, making it ache. Normally, he enjoyed hearing the drums. In their rhythms and changing tones he heard stories of bountiful hunts and acts of great bravery. But tonight was different. Tonight, each beat of the mammoth skull drum was like a cold flint blade twisting deep into his stomach.

  He plucked restlessly at the soft rabbit-skin bandages binding his hands and looked around the earth-lodge. Bison and reindeer hides covered the floor. Interlaced bones of mammoth and deer rose in a dome above him, glowing pale in the dim light. A spiral of smoke floated upwards, and Tarin wished that he, too, could float away.

  His gaze dropped back to the fire and he studied the faces of the Mammoth Clan huddled around its warmth. Everyone was there, the young and the old, from the six hearths of the clan: Mammoth – his own hearth, Aurochs, Reindeer, Elk, Fox and Bear. Directly across from Tarin stood stern-faced Hanno, small rounded Salla and Markku of
Reindeer Hearth. Next to them was frail old Eero of Bear Hearth, nodding his head in time with the drums. The youngest children huddled beside him like a pack of small wolf cubs.

  ‘Tarin? Are you warm enough? Come closer to the fire.’ Sanna-Leena of Reindeer Hearth moved to make room for him. She held her new baby close to her chest and crooned softly.

  She looks worried, Tarin thought. They all look worried.

  He closed his eyes, blocking out the fear on their faces. But he couldn’t block the angry murmurings and muffled whispers.

  ‘Two hunts in a row have failed . . .’

  ‘We cannot survive the Long Dark this way . . .’

  ‘But I saw the She-mammoth touch him . . .’

  The drumbeat rose, drowning the heated voices. It was Miika and Jarkko on the drums tonight. Their muscles strained as they pounded the bones. Sweat ran down their faces, but in his shadowy corner Tarin shivered. Already the seasons were changing. The cold winds blew and the last seed heads hung grimly to the dry grasses of the plains. To the south, the red and gold leaves of autumn were falling to the ground. The days were shorter now, the nights longer. Soon it would be Kaamos, the time of the Long Dark, and without their stores of rich mammoth meat, winter would be a hard season for Mammoth Clan.

  ‘The boy is bad luck!’

  The drums stopped abruptly, and the woman’s voice carried clearly. From across the fire, Tarin felt the cold, spiteful glare of Maija of Elk Hearth. Her face was pinched and angry, her arms folded across her chest.

  Tarin dropped his eyes and tried to slide further into the shadows. He pulled at the bandage around his head. It felt too tight.

  ‘Old Mother, I want to go.’

  ‘Stop that.’ Asa, Old Mother, who shared his hearth, slapped his hand away. Deepset grey eyes glared at him fiercely. ‘And drink this.’ Tarin took the small bone cup from her and choked as the hot liquid burned his throat. He tasted bitter willowbark and meadow sage. ‘Tie your hair back and do not hide like a coward.’ She threw a strip of leather into his lap. Then her gaze softened and she clicked her tongue. ‘Little rabbit, you must be brave.’

  ‘I . . . I don’t think I can,’ Tarin whispered. His fingers shook as he wrapped the thong around his hair.

  ‘Shh, courage, little one.’ She gripped Tarin’s shoulder and forced him to sit tall. Her gnarled fingers dug deep into his flesh. Tarin kept his eyes down and stared at the flames. He wanted to look for his mother, but he didn’t want her to see the fear in his eyes.

  ‘Weakling child,’ Maija said. ‘He will never be the man Kalle is.’

  Tarin clenched his teeth. All his life he had heard people mutter and wonder aloud: How could Kalle and Aila, the two strong leaders of Mammoth Clan, have such a weak, sickly son? It must be the bad Spirits . . .

  ‘People of the Mammoth Clan.’ A deep voice filled the lodge, and all eyes turned to their leader. Kalle looked around the clan with a stern gaze. His eyes flickered briefly over his son, and Tarin winced at the pain he saw there.

  ‘We welcome the Spirits here tonight, and ask for their protection and guidance.’ Kalle raised his hands in the air and began a deep, rumbling chant. Slowly the drums joined in, and then the rest of the clan. They lifted their hands to the sky and beseeched the Spirits to look with favour upon the Clan of the Mammoths.

  But Tarin didn’t feel like singing tonight. He hung his head miserably and waited in the shadows. Maija was right. He would never be the man his father was.

  Once, Kalle had faced a full-grown cave bear. Tarin had heard the story many times: how his father laughed in the face of death, armed only with a small flint knife. Now, he wore the cave bear’s teeth and claws around his neck. A cloak of mammoth fur hung from his shoulders, just brushing the ground. Two boar tusks adorned his fur headpiece, and by his side hung the ceremonial clan knife, a narrow flint blade nestled in a pouch of bison leather.

  The chant changed. Now it was a song of hunting and bravery. The men’s voices dropped as the women’s took over. Tarin heard his mother’s voice rise above the rest. Her heavy necklet of amber and bone shone in the flickering firelight. Carved ivory beads and shells entwined through her hair and she, too, carried a knife at her waist. But Tarin also saw the dark shadows beneath her eyes and the way her fingers twisted in the long mammoth fur that fringed her buckskin tunic.

  The songs were short tonight. The drums stilled. The silence deepened. Tarin felt cold, although the fire and the press of bodies warmed the air inside the earth-lodge. Old Mother gripped his wrist, and her bony fingers felt like claws. But there was strength there, too. It was the strength that ran in the blood of the Mammutti. It was the strength that had always brought them through the harsh winters of this unforgiving land. But maybe this time – Tarin shivered and turned his hand to clasp Asa’s – maybe this time it would not be enough.

  Maybe this time, our clan will not survive . . .

  Valo, Spirit Keeper of Mammoth Clan, and Old Father to them all, stepped forward. He wore a crown of deer antlers upon his head and his face was marked with the sacred red ochre. He carried a staff made from the straightened tusk of a mammoth, and decorated with feathers and carved bone.

  Old Father closed his eyes and waved his hands over the flames. Sweat ran down his face and fell hissing onto the rocks piled around the fire pit. With a sudden movement, he plunged his hand into a small leather pouch at his waist and flung a handful of dried herbs over the flames.

  The clan gasped and cried out as the flames leapt upwards, the scorching heat forcing them back into the shadows.

  Tarin’s eyes stung as he picked out the strong, pungent scent of dried wormwood and pine. He tried not to cough, but his throat burned as smoke filled the lodge.

  A small, sturdy figure wriggled through the crowd and sat next to him. His sister’s hand crept into his and she leaned her head on his arm. ‘It smells,’ Saara said, wrinkling her nose.

  Old Mother shushed them both. Old Father was telling a story, his voice washing over the clan, soothing their fears and comforting them. He was telling the story of how the fearsome Ice Mother was jealous of her sister, the gentle Earth Mother, and each winter they fought a terrible battle. Tarin had heard the story many times. It was how Old Father began each clan meeting, because it was the story of their land.

  ‘And the gentle Earth Mother trembled, and the light left the world. And into the Long Dark came the Ice Mother, and she covered the land in her rivers of ice and laughed as the people wept. But the Earth Mother never gave up. Each year she fought the Ice Mother, pushing back the darkness, bringing life once more to the land.’ Old Father’s voice faded away and the children sighed in enjoyment.

  ‘But sometimes,’ Old Father continued, ‘we forget to thank the Earth Mother for her goodness. Sometimes, she chooses to withhold her light, her bounty, from us. Two hunts have failed.’ His wavering voice filled the silent lodge. ‘The Earth Mother has turned her face from us . . . and we are left alone.’

  ‘The Earth Mother has forsaken us. That boy has brought us misfortune,’ Maija cried, pointing an accusing finger at Tarin.

  ‘No, we do not believe that.’ Jarkko stepped in front of his mother and gave her a stern look. ‘I speak for Elk Hearth, and I say the boy is not at fault . . .’

  ‘But he did frighten the mammoths,’ said a younger voice, Miika of Aurochs Hearth. He folded his arms across his chest and glared at Tarin. ‘Taavo and I were nearly injured.’

  ‘And what were you and Taavo doing in the canyon?’ Matti, his father, frowned at him. ‘I told you to wait and be ready to light the torches.’

  ‘There would have been no need for torches if Tarin hadn’t frightened the mammoths.’

  ‘He didn’t mean to!’ Saara jumped up and confronted the taller boy.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Raisa of Fox Hearth, her voice gentle. ‘It was an accident. A terrible accident.’

  ‘There have been too many hunting accidents lately,’ Maija snapped.

>   Jarmo of Bear Hearth growled. ‘Are you now blaming the boy for Ristak’s death?’

  Maija shrugged and lifted her hands. Bone bracelets on her wrists clinked together.

  ‘But Ristak was gored by a bison. How could Tarin be held responsible?’ Raisa’s voice broke, and tears ran down her face. ‘Ristak was a brave hunter . . . and I miss him. I miss him every day. But Tarin was not there.’

  ‘Two spoiled hunts, and one of our strong hunters dead. He is bad luck.’ Maija scowled.

  The lodge erupted. Angry voices shouted, one on top of the other.

  ‘You will not blame my son for this misfortune, Maija,’ Aila said.

  ‘Then who should we blame? That was our last chance to hunt the mammoth before Winter, and now we will all starve.’

  ‘We will not starve.’ Aila’s voice was sharp. She placed an arm around the weeping Raisa.

  ‘Then what are we going to do?’

  Voices rose . . . anxious . . . worried. Tarin shook his head. He didn’t like this meeting. It was too angry, and too serious. A hard shoulder jostled him, breaking his train of thought.

  ‘Taavo, where have you been?’ Tarin whispered as his brother threw himself to the floor and sat glaring at the fire.

  ‘What do you care?’ Taavo snarled. ‘You ruined the hunt. My first hunt. It was to be my Manhood hunt.’ He turned angrily from Tarin and refused to look at him.

  ‘Enough!’ bellowed Kalle. His huge voice cut through the arguments. Silence fell on the lodge. ‘I will speak.’ Tarin felt his face turn red and he lowered his eyes. His father continued. ‘We will still have a First Hunt for Taavo.’

  ‘But what will we hunt?’ Taavo’s voice rose in frustration. ‘The mammoths have gone. The bison are far to the south. I will not hunt rabbits for my Manhood hunt!’

  ‘I said enough!’ Kalle’s eyes flashed in anger at his oldest son. ‘I have not finished.’ He waited until the only sounds in the lodge were the crackling fire and the creaking of the bones as the wind tried to find gaps in the lodge walls. Tarin once believed that when the bones howled and groaned, it was their ancestor Spirits come to talk to them.