The Exile

by Jo Sandhu

  ‘Do I . . . do I want it?’ Kaija strained to understand. ‘No! No, you can have it.’ She pushed herself to her feet as her rescuer wrenched his spear from the side of the lynx. It was a handsome animal, but the sight of it made her sick. He was welcome to his kill.

  ‘Th . . . thank you,’ Kaija said. She studied the boy curiously. She had never been so close to one of the Forest-dwellers before. He was younger than she had first thought. The top of his flattened head came only as high as her shoulder, and despite his muscled arms and chest, he didn’t have the powerful size of a full-grown man of the Esi. Kaija judged him to be the same age as her and Luuka, about twelve summers.

  She chewed her lip thoughtfully. She had been warned about the savage Esi, who would attack without reason and tear her limbs from her body, but looking into the boy’s shy brown eyes, she felt no threat.

  He spoke to her – his words rough and jagged to her ears – and Kaija shook her head.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t speak your words. My brother knows some of your words. He learned them from a trader up­-river . . . but he’s not here.’ Her voice trailed away and she shrugged helplessly.

  The boy shook his head. Kaija tried again.

  ‘Esi.’ She pointed at him. Then she pointed at herself. ‘Kaija.’

  ‘Yi . . . yaaa?’ His voice was deep and low.

  ‘Kaija!’ She nodded and smiled, and the boy smiled, too.

  ‘Yorv,’ he said, pounding his chest. ‘Yaiya . . . Yorv.’

  ‘Yorv? That’s your name?’ The boy looked confused and stepped away from her, and Kaija realised she had sounded too excited. She took a deep breath and spoke slower. ‘Kaija thanks Yorv for saving her . . .’ She pointed at them both and placed her hands over her heart. ‘From the lynx . . .’ She pointed to the lynx. ‘Yorv take lynx. His kill.’ She wasn’t sure if he would understand, but the boy nodded. He hoisted the dead animal over his shoulders and nodded again.

  ‘Yaiya,’ he said, in his deep voice, before disappearing once more into the forest.

  ‘Safe journey, Yorv.’

  Kaija stood and looked after him. ‘You have to be more careful,’ she scolded herself. She picked her way over the rivulet and started following it downstream. ‘You think you’re a hunter? That lynx nearly had you for dinner.’

  A twig snapping underfoot, a sudden silence, followed by the stealthy rustle of undergrowth.

  Tarin froze. He pushed his hood away from his ears and listened. Branches of pine and birch danced gently in the breeze. A squirrel darted along a fallen log, fossicking for fallen nuts. From far above came the plaintive cry of a windhover as it floated on the air. But beneath these sounds of the arctic forest, Tarin caught a whisper of something more – the sound of cautious footsteps. Someone was following him.

  His pace had been slow, even slower than he had anticipated, and the river that would lead him to Bison Clan still seemed a long way off. At first, he had followed the course of a rivulet, as it wound through a shallow gully. A few green larch and alder trees clung to the riverbank, protected from the desiccating winds by the steep sides, but soon, the ground rose, becoming rockier and harder to traverse, and Tarin slipped often on the uneven ground.

  His mammoth hide boots, which had seemed so warm and sturdy back at camp, were already soaked, and the sense of freedom and lightness he had carried from Mammoth Camp gave way to the gnawing ache of loneliness and a constant ache in his leg.

  And now – someone was tracking him.

  With trembling fingers, he threw his tent over a low-­lying branch and anchored it with rocks. Then he ducked beneath the branches of a gnarled willow tree, and waited.

  He didn’t have long to wait.

  Tarin held his breath as the figure moved downhill towards him. In the growing shadows, it was impossible to see clearly, but Tarin knew immediately it wasn’t his father or any of the other Mammoth Clan hunters. It was too small. And making too much noise.

  Suddenly, a rotten tree trunk gave way beneath the tracker’s feet, pitching him into a tangle of undergrowth. He cried out as he tried to extricate himself, lost his footing and came rolling downhill towards Tarin’s camp.

  Tarin launched himself from his hiding place with a roar, tackling the tracker around the waist as he fought to regain his balance. But he wasn’t used to attacking, and the tracker fought back, pushing Tarin off and springing to his feet. Breathing hard, both boys stared at each other, their eyes wild and their faces smeared with dirt.

  ‘Niko!’ Tarin was the first to find his voice. He stared in disbelief at the younger boy. His hair was matted with leaves and twigs, his tunic and leggings plastered in mud. Scratches covered his face and he looked hungry and tired. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Niko scowled, still crouching and ready to attack.

  ‘Nothing.’ He stood up and wiped his nose with his arm, leaving behind a long smear of mud. His eyes were watchful.

  ‘You followed me from camp!’

  ‘No, I didn’t!’

  ‘You did!’ Tarin’s voice rose. ‘You followed me! Why did you do that?’

  ‘Why?’ Niko shouted back at him. ‘Because you’re going to fail, Tarin. That’s why. Miika says so. My mother says so. Even Jarkko and Tuuli say so –’

  ‘That’s not true!’

  ‘It is. I’ve heard them talk. They think I’m sleeping, but I’m not. Everyone in camp knows you can’t do this. They all know you’re not going to return. You won’t get to the mountain to give the Earth Mother the Offering. You won’t even get to Bison Camp, because you’re weak, and pathetic, and –’

  ‘Aargh!’ With a snarl, Tarin lunged towards the other boy and wrestled him to the ground. A red mist clouded his eyes and his heart felt as though it would break through his chest. He wanted to hit Niko – hit something – and he swung his fists wildly. Niko fought back, swinging his own fists. They were evenly matched, despite the difference in age, and they rolled around and around in the dirt.

  Tarin managed to pin Niko down. He sat astride him and pummelled him, until Niko kicked out with his legs, twisting away from Tarin and pushing him facedown into the soft earth. Tarin swung his arm behind him, catching Niko on the nose. The younger boy cried out as warm blood spurted over his face. He lashed out with his foot, grinding Tarin’s weak leg against a fallen tree. The pain was like a fire, shooting through Tarin’s body. His head spun. He fought against the dark hole that threatened to engulf him, and wrapped his arms around Niko, like a bear.

  Then the two boys were rolling, one on top of the other, crashing through undergrowth and tangled briars, through rushes and clumps of sedge grass, down the grassy bank to the water. With a thud, they landed on top of a sheet of ice that covered a small, still pool. For one breathless moment they lay there, stunned. But the ice was too thin to support their weight, and with a resounding crack it splintered beneath them, dunking the boys into frigid water.

  The pool wasn’t deep, but both boys were still thoroughly soaked. They heaved themselves out of the water and up onto the riverbank, then lay there, coughing up water and shivering.

  ‘G . . . get d . . . dry.’ Tarin’s teeth chattered so much he could hardly speak. Niko didn’t even try to answer. He staggered to his feet and followed Tarin back to his campsite.

  ‘Th . . . th . . . this is it?’ He stared at Tarin’s small tent. ‘This is your shelter?’

  ‘And where’s yours?’ Tarin didn’t bother to look at him. He hurriedly stripped off his soaked clothes – his beaska, tunic, leggings, undershirt and boots. Quickly, he rummaged in his pack for a spare reindeer hide and rubbed it vigorously over his frozen limbs. ‘Here.’ He tossed the hide and a spare fur wrap to Niko.

  ‘I have my own spare fur,’ Niko muttered. He flung it back at him and it caught him in the face. Tarin gritted his teeth and remained silent. He crawled into his tent and wrapped himself in his sleeping furs. They were softest fox fur, sewn together with sinew to form a warm cocoon, and soon his shive
ring subsided. He glanced up as Niko, wrapped in his own furs, crawled into the tent after him. Then he set about silently making a fire in the cramped space.

  He made a ring of stones, placing the nest of tinder inside, and leaned close to strike the firestones. His hands trembled, and the sparks were weak. One or two landed on the tinder, but no matter how carefully Tarin blew the ember, he couldn’t awaken the flame.

  ‘You’re doing it wrong.’ Niko pulled his furs tightly around his shoulders. ‘You have to blow it faster.’

  ‘My father says you have to blow it gently.’ Tarin frowned at him. He picked up the nest of fungus, but the ember had blown out.

  ‘Well, Miika says it’s better if you blow faster.’ Niko hunched his shoulders and glared at Tarin.

  Tarin pressed his lips together firmly and struck the stones again until three or four sparks landed in the tinder. He drew a deep breath and blew sharply on the ember. A shower of hot sparks and dried bark jumped out of the fire-pit, scorching his skin and blowing dust into his eyes.

  ‘That was too strong,’ said Niko.

  ‘Then you try,’ Tarin said with a snap. He rubbed his eyes and pushed the firestones towards the other boy.

  Niko held the stones awkwardly, unsure what to do.

  ‘Doesn’t Miika say anything about how to strike the stones?’ Tarin blinked the last of the dust from his eyes. Niko didn’t answer, but took a stone in each hand and brought them down sharply on each other. The strong flint hit the softer pyrite with a crack, shattering the fragile nodule.

  ‘What have you done?’ Tarin shouted.

  ‘I . . . I . . . didn’t mean to.’ Niko looked horrified, holding the broken pieces in his hand. ‘I . . . I’m sorry.’

  Tarin took the pieces from him. His journey had only just begun. He was cold, he was wet. Without fire, how would he survive the harsh conditions of the tundar, the great stretch of barren lands he would have to cross to reach the mountains? He tried to speak, but no words came to him. He just sat staring in disbelief at the crumbled rock.

  Niko dropped his head onto his knees and closed his eyes.

  ‘Tarin?’ he whispered. Tarin raised his eyes and looked at the younger boy. He could see his own misery reflected in his eyes. ‘Do you have anything to eat?’ When Tarin remained silent, Niko continued. ‘It’s just that . . . I haven’t eaten . . . anything . . .’ His voice trailed off and he dropped his head once more.

  Tarin roused himself and put aside the broken stones. He rummaged in his pack, bringing out the small packets of food. He had finished the dried reindeer strips the previous day, and the currants. Now, there were only the traveller’s cakes.

  ‘Your brother gave me these,’ Tarin said, remembering Jarkko’s kindness. It seemed so long ago that he was standing there on the riverbank, the cosy earth-lodges clustered on the terrace behind. He unwrapped one of the travelling cakes and passed it to Niko.

  Niko nodded his thanks and took a small bite, then ravenously pushed the whole cake into his mouth. Tarin watched as he swallowed the food, then passed him another.

  ‘Th . . . thank you.’ Niko’s voice was subdued.

  Tarin broke one of the cakes in half and nibbled the edge. He had four cakes left. Enough for one, maybe, but not enough for two. How long until they reached Bison Camp?

  The thought caught him unawares. Did that mean they were both continuing on? He should send Niko back to Mammoth Camp, but without shelter and food, and without dry clothes . . .

  Tarin’s thoughts trailed off. He wasn’t sure what to do. He wished his father were here. But if Kalle had been with him, they would now be sitting warming themselves in front of a crackling fire, food in their bellies, and dry clothes on their backs. If Kalle had been with him, they would already be at Bison Camp.

  Tarin groaned and let his head bow and his shoulders slump. Three days into his great journey, and already he was failing. Everyone was right. He would never make it to Great Mother’s Mountain. He would never return home and see his family again. He would die somewhere out here, cold and alone, and because of him, his clan would also die.

  The howl of a wolf in the distance made Tarin jump. His hand stole to the pendant at his neck and closed over the cool bone. He felt the marks of Owl under his fingers, and it gave him strength. The tension across his shoulders eased and he lay listening to the sounds of the night.

  Tonight, maybe, he would have that dream where he was Owl, flying high above the plains. Maybe, flying so high, he would see the mountains.

  A soft snore told him Niko was already asleep, the last few crumbs of traveller’s cake still clinging to his mouth, his bare feet sticking out of his fur wrap.

  Tarin eased out of his sleeping fur and threw it over both of them like a blanket, tucking it around their feet and up under their chins.

  The wolf howled again, then the night fell silent.

  A lone wolf, Tarin thought. Maybe a long way from home, just like me. Cold and hungry. Lost and alone.

  But at least now, he thought, as he drifted on the edge of sleep . . . at least now . . . I’m no longer alone.

  Tarin and Niko awoke the next morning to a world white with frost. In low-lying hollows, morning mist softened bare branches and grey rock, and the pale sun reflected off icicles dripping from the trees. The ground crackled beneath Tarin’s feet as he carefully picked his way down to the stream for an early morning drink.

  ‘Today we should get as close to the river as we can,’ he said as Niko joined him. ‘Then tomorrow we can cross.’

  ‘But that still gives us two days until we reach Bison Clan.’ Niko rubbed the icy water over his face.

  ‘Two days, at least.’ A frown crossed Tarin’s face. Two days . . . and a river to cross. The knot of anxiety in his stomach tightened. He sat down on a fallen tree trunk, stuffing soft mammoth wool into his boots. It felt snug, and hardly damp at all.

  ‘Do you have more wool?’ Niko asked, scraping his beaska against the rough bark of a pine tree to break the crust of ice. Their clothes were still damp from the previous day.

  Tarin shook his head. ‘Use sedge grass.’ He frowned thoughtfully as the younger boy pulled at handfuls of the insulating grass, recalling something that had occurred to him in the dark hours of the night. Two days to reach Bison Clan, one pack between them, and more snow on the way. Tarin could feel it in the air, and in the way his leg ached.

  ‘Niko, do you have any supplies?’

  The boy didn’t answer.

  Two days, if nothing goes wrong . . . two traveller’s cakes each . . .

  Tarin’s heart sank. The steppes and meadows were rich with bounty, but it took time to gather grains and dig for roots. And you had to know where to look. Old Mother had taught him how to find wild carrots and blackberry brambles, and mushrooms hiding beneath the autumn leaves, but as winter tightened its grip upon the land, food was becoming scarce.

  ‘I don’t need supplies.’ Niko jutted his chin forward as though daring Tarin to argue with him. ‘Miika told me what the hunters do. We can set traps for food, and eat roots and berries . . . and you have the cakes my brother gave you.’

  Tarin rubbed his face and ran his hands through his hair. ‘It takes time to set traps, and now we have no fire to roast the meat. The leaves are already falling. There are no berries left.’

  Niko scratched his nose and shrugged. He pulled on his mittens and hood. ‘Then we dig roots and eat nuts –’

  ‘Your hood is rabbit skin,’ Tarin continued, feeling his frustration grow. ‘When the snow starts falling, you will need a wolverine hood to stop the ice forming around your face.’

  ‘Then we can hunt wolverine. You have a spear. If you can’t throw it yourself, then give it to me.’

  ‘That spear is part of the Offering.’ Tarin’s voice was sharp. ‘We can’t use it to hunt!’

  ‘Why not? Old Father always says we have to use the gifts the Earth Mother gives to us – to show our appreciation.’

  ‘This
is different.’ Tarin shouldered his pack. ‘You have no snow-shoes. How can you cross the tundar? We have no fire –’

  ‘Jarkko says the snow on the tundar is firmer than the snow in the forests, and we can cut strips of birch bark and tie it to our feet and slide through the snow. He says that’s what the traders do when they travel to the northern clans.’

  ‘And does Jarkko tell you how to make fire without a firestone?’ Tarin knew he sounded angry, but lack of sleep and the constant worrying was taking a toll on his spirits.

  ‘Jarkko says you can make fire the old way, rubbing wood together,’ Niko said as he started scrambling up the side of the gully. He looked back at Tarin and scratched his nose. ‘You want me to carry the pack?’

  Tarin pressed his lips together and shook his head. He hoisted the pack onto his back, staggered a little, and started to climb.

  ‘There’s no wood on the tundar,’ he said. He paused as he reached the top of the gully to catch his breath.

  Niko shrugged. ‘You worry too much, Tarin.’

  The boys stood and looked out over the wide plain before them. The sky was a clear, pale blue, but already, clouds were building to the north, promising snowfall before dark. Tarin raised his head and followed the flight of two black kites far above. They were tracking something moving down in the grasslands, probably a lemming or marmot, he thought, and he felt his empty stomach contract in hunger.

  Far away on the horizon was a darker line of trees, marking the river and Two Rock Peak. They would have to bear north for a time, and try to cross the river at the Peak. It would take them longer that way, but the crossing would be easier. Tarin settled his pack more comfortably across his shoulders and started down the hill.

  ‘But what about breakfast?’ Niko called, hurrying down the slope after him. ‘And why are you going that way? Miika says it’s quicker to head south. We can cut out a whole loop of the river and cross about level with Bison Clan. That would save us a whole day!’

  ‘My father says we need to cross at Two Rock Peak –’