The Exile

by Jo Sandhu

  ‘But Miika says –’

  ‘I know what Miika says!’ Tarin stopped so suddenly that Niko collided with him. Tarin wobbled as he steadied his footing.

  Suddenly, Niko grabbed his arm and hissed. ‘Tarin, give me your spear! Quickly!’

  Tarin followed Niko’s intent gaze, but saw nothing. Then a tuft of grass twitched. A steppe hamster, round with summer fat, was digging at the base of a tussock, unaware of the danger.

  ‘You . . . you can’t use the Offering!’ Tarin gasped, holding the spear to his chest as though to protect it.

  Niko snorted. ‘I’ve seen you using it to help you walk.’

  ‘Th . . . that’s different.’ Tarin’s face turned red.

  ‘No, it’s not. Hurry up, Tarin!’ Niko hissed in irritation, his eyes fixed on the hamster. ‘If we starve to death, then the Offering doesn’t matter, does it?’

  Still Tarin hesitated. He knew Niko made sense, but he didn’t feel right about using the gifts. ‘We . . . we don’t have fire to cook it –’

  ‘Then I’ll eat it raw!’ Niko said with a growl. ‘Quickly, Tarin. Give it to me now!’ He reached for the spear and wrenched it out of Tarin’s grip. At the same time, the hamster realised its danger. It squealed and dived into a stand of tall grass. Niko bellowed in rage and lunged after the frightened animal.

  ‘Niko! Wait!’ Tarin yelled, but the boy kept running, the spear clasped firmly in his hand. ‘Niko!’ Tarin ran his hand through his hair and snorted in irritation. But there was no answer. He paused, then followed Niko into the long grass.

  The grass towered over his head, bleached and brittle now that the soft greenness of summer was over. Tarin heard Niko’s shouts and his running feet. Then the grass closed over him, muffling sights and sounds. Hampered by his pack and his leg, Tarin felt as though the grass was pushing him backwards.

  ‘Niko?’ His voice fell flat, and the grass swayed above him. Sweat dotted Tarin’s forehead. His chest felt as though a heavy weight was crushing him and he was having trouble breathing. He dropped to one knee and clasped the pendant at his throat.

  Spirit of Owl . . . help me fly . . .

  He raised his eyes upwards and tried to catch a glimpse of the sky, just to make sure it was still there. A breeze parted the tall grass, showing him a patch of blue. The two kites still wheeled and swooped above him. Tarin heard a muted shout, and he pushed onwards through the grass, nearly falling in relief as it gave way to scrubland and then short, tufted meadow grass. Niko was standing on top of a rocky outcrop, his arms raised, his head thrown back as he screamed up into the sky. Lying at the foot of the rock was the steppe hamster, blood running from a wound in its side.

  ‘I did it! I killed the hamster!’ Another bellow of triumph burst from him. ‘I am a hunter!’

  Tarin stared in surprise at the small, crumpled creature, then he reached forward and picked up his spear – the spear of the Offering. The shaft was still strong and straight, and the carvings still told their tale . . . but the tip was shattered and the spear head missing.

  ‘Niko . . .’

  ‘I am a hunter! I am a man!’

  ‘Niko!’ Tarin raised his voice sharply, cutting through Niko’s cries of triumph. The boy stopped and looked down at Tarin in surprise. ‘The spear! It’s broken.’ Tarin held the shaft up for Niko to see.

  ‘It must have hit the rock after I skewered the hamster. Tarin, did you see? I did it. I made my first kill!’ His eyes glowed.

  ‘I saw,’ Tarin said. ‘I saw. But the spear – it’s broken. Niko, where is the spear head? Where is Taavo’s spear head?’

  Niko frowned, confused for a moment. ‘Well, it must be in the hamster.’

  The two boys had just started towards the dead hamster, when there was a piercing cry from above. Like lethal black spears, the two kites plummeted downwards, talons outstretched. Tarin cried out and lunged for the hamster – for the spear head – but as his fingers closed around the blood-soaked fur, one of the deadly talons struck him across the face. Warm blood spilled from the gash into his eyes. Tarin lashed out with his fist, but the birds were experienced hunters. With the hamster clutched firmly in their grasp, they rose skywards, leaving Tarin lying in the dust, holding nothing more than a tuft of fur.

  ‘No!’

  Tarin searched the sky, but the birds were already small black specks on the horizon. He dropped his head and banged the ground with his fists. Taavo’s spear head was gone! He pushed himself to his feet. He didn’t look at Niko – he couldn’t. He gripped the shaft of the spear grimly, feeling the familiar carvings. Mammoth for protection, Bison for thanks, and Cave Bear for strength. All these mighty totems, these mighty Spirit guides.

  And yet they had been defeated – by a hamster and a bird.

  How can I go to the Mountain now with no Offering to give? Tarin wondered. How can I face the Earth Mother and say: I have failed?

  Two days’ march to Bison Clan. Twice that to return home. Tarin stood undecided.

  ‘My hamster!’ Niko still stared into the sky, his empty hands hanging by his side.

  Tarin felt numb. He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice stuck in his throat and he could only whisper, ‘The Offering . . .’

  ‘You still have the spear and the rest of the Offering.’ Niko scowled at him. ‘I’ve lost everything! That was my kill, and I didn’t even get to eat the liver!’

  Tarin stared at him mutely and Niko snorted in annoyance.

  ‘Miika says you have to eat the liver of your kill. That’s what the hunters do. They eat the liver while it’s warm and it gives you the strength of the animal.’

  Tarin felt his stomach shrivel. ‘The strength of a hamster?’

  Niko glared at him and turned away.

  The rest of the Offering . . . Niko was right. Would the Earth Mother mind so much if she didn’t receive the spear head? To return to Mammoth Clan would be certain failure. Tarin imagined his father’s face . . . his mother’s face . . . how they would feel if he gave up so easily.

  The journey will not be easy . . . it was never meant to be. Tarin could almost hear Old Father say the words. To give up now would be a mistake.

  ‘Tarin! I’m so hungry. Can’t we have another travelling cake?’

  ‘No!’ Tarin dabbed at the blood still oozing from the wound on his face. ‘We can’t. We don’t have . . . we just can’t.’ He swung his pack onto his back and turned to the north, angry tears stinging his eyes.

  Two days. Two days to Bison Clan.

  ‘But you’re going the long way,’ Niko wailed, hurrying after him.

  Tarin didn’t answer. He clenched his fists and steadfastly refused to listen to Niko’s shouts.

  The river, he thought. If they could just make it to the river. They could catch a fish, or dig for bulrush roots. Or even find a clutch of eggs. His mouth watered just thinking about food. And sedge roots. We should have dug for sedge and sweet flag back by the stream. It’s too late now. We can still collect barley and rye . . . but then what?

  Tarin tried to remember how his mother prepared the grain. She used wide woven baskets to thresh the grain from the husk before parching it in the sun. But the only time Tarin had tried to help, Miika had laughed to see him doing women’s work. After that, Tarin would run away and hide when it was time to pick the grain.

  Now he wished he had watched more closely. He rubbed his stomach, trying to quell the emptiness. Now, all he could do was put one foot in front of the other and keep walking towards the distant line of trees.

  The first snowflakes fell mid-afternoon.

  ‘We could still cut across those hills and reach the river this afternoon.’ Niko stood by a small stream, his hands on his hips, his gaze surveying the rolling hills.

  Tarin ignored him and broke one of the traveller’s cakes in half. He passed a piece to Niko.

  ‘When we get back to camp,’ Niko continued, ‘I’m going to eat mammoth stew and roast bison, and those hazelnut cakes Helvi makes. A
nd fresh fish, and roasted pine nuts, and willow grouse stuffed with wood mushrooms – the big, fat kind.’

  A reluctant smile stole over Tarin’s face as he nibbled his cake. ‘Currants mixed with lingonberries, sweet strawberries and fresh clover . . .’

  ‘Giron roasted in the ground.’

  ‘Reindeer stew and beechnuts.’

  ‘Roasted aurochs with sweetest thistle greens and blackberries.’

  Both boys sighed as they finished their meagre meal.

  ‘Tuuli makes the best sunflower and hazelnut mash,’ Tarin said. ‘She spreads it on little pollen dumplings she cooks on top of the stew.’ He shifted his weight and rubbed his leg. He could feel his muscles growing stronger each day, but towards afternoon the familiar ache became almost unbearable. He wished he could heat some water to make a soothing tea.

  ‘Let’s keep moving,’ Niko said. ‘Are you ready? Let’s go.’

  Tarin looked upwards, studying the heavy clouds swirling and tumbling above them.

  ‘Perhaps we should camp here,’ he murmured.

  ‘Maybe we can just follow this tributary to the river,’ Niko said, sounding sulky. ‘Come on, Tarin. The snow will stop soon, and I want to get warm and dry and have food in my belly.’

  Tarin struggled to his feet and frowned. Niko was already fording the stream. He really had no choice but to follow him. The water was icy cold, but only reached knee high. Tarin clenched his teeth as he followed Niko to the other side. He grasped handfuls of reeds and pulled himself out of the water, his feet shattering the ice that crusted around the riverbank.

  ‘Niko! We can dig for sedge roots.’

  ‘Later,’ Niko called, his voice whipped away by the wind. Tarin frowned as he scanned the sky once more. Clouds were closing in fast. He shook his feet, aware of the chill seeping through his layers of wool. He hoped they didn’t have too many more streams to cross.

  His father had warned him about the streams crisscrossing the steppes. Soon the water would stop flowing, as ice covered the land. Even the big rivers couldn’t hold back winter. For as many as six cycles of the moon they would sleep under the ice, waiting for the warm breath of spring to awaken them. Then they would become raging torrents, carrying melt water from the glaciers south to the inland sea. Tarin had never been so far, but like the rest of Mammoth Clan, he enjoyed hearing stories of trading missions and travels to faraway places.

  Only last winter, Jarmo and Markku had journeyed as far north as the Great Ice, crossing glaciers in their path. And Matti, Kalle’s brother, often told the story of his travels, south past the inland sea, to a land where it was always warm and the sun always shone. Tarin shook his head. He wasn’t sure if he would like that. How do people live without the snow? he wondered.

  A shout interrupted his thoughts. ‘Slow one, hurry up.’

  Tarin shifted the pack on his back and leaned into the wind. The snow was falling faster now, and thicker. It swirled around his feet in eddies and lay in thick drifts on the ground before him. The temperature dropped. The sky darkened and a blustery wind buffeted him. Tarin pulled his hood closer around his face, his nose and throat aching as he breathed in the bitter, frigid air.

  ‘Niko! Wait!’ Tarin bent his head to follow Niko’s footprints, but already they were blurring, disappearing under a blanketing of heavy, wet snow.

  A sudden blast of wind nearly knocked him off his feet. It flattened the grass and whipped the snow drifts back into the air, enveloping him in white. Tarin glanced at the sky, and felt his heart drop. The clouds were a swirling, ominous mass. A snowstorm . . . and they were unprepared.

  ‘Tarin!’

  He heard the call far off to his left and turned towards it.

  ‘Niko!’

  The wind whipped his voice away, driving icy needles into his exposed skin and sucking moisture from his lips. His feet and legs were numb, his wet leggings frozen. The pack on his back felt as though it contained rocks.

  Time became meaningless. The afternoon deepened and they lost what little light there was. In the gloom, Tarin struggled onwards.

  ‘Niko, wait for me!’ he shouted into the wind. He felt as though he had been fighting against the storm for hours.

  ‘Tarin!’

  He heard Niko’s desperate cry, and this time it was closer. A dark shape loomed before him, and suddenly he was grasping Niko’s arms.

  ‘We need shelter,’ Tarin gasped. Niko was shaking so much he couldn’t speak. Tarin looked around frantically, but the world was completely white. He tried to move forward, but floundered in a deep drift of snow.

  Fear gripped him. Without shelter, they were in grave danger. Tarin had no idea which way to turn. He had lost all sense of direction. He spun around, desperately searching for some sign of shelter – a cave, a fallen tree – anything that would protect them from the driving winds and glacial cold.

  A shrill cry pierced the wind. A flurry of wings and claws speared downwards, so close that Tarin felt the brush of softest feathers against his cheek. He yelled in fright, falling backwards, the image of fierce eyes burning in his mind as the large snowy owl swooped away. Tarin gasped for breath, each freezing mouthful searing his throat. He struggled to his feet. Through the flurry of snow, he saw a shape . . . a shadow. He staggered towards it, dragging Niko with him.

  It wasn’t a cave, it wasn’t even a shelter, but in a blizzard it was enough. An embankment had caved away with the last spring rains, almost taking a birch tree with it. But the tenacious roots had clung desperately to the crumbling bank, forming a small overhang.

  Tarin pushed Niko in first, before following him and dragging the pack behind them. With shaking fingers, he struggled to untie the wet leather thongs that held the pack together. He found the fox furs and wrapped them around them both, fur side in, followed by the reindeer hide. Then he took the aurochs hide tent and pulled it over them, tucking it under their frozen feet and over their heads. The darkness enveloped them, and slowly the boys stopped shivering.

  Finally they slept, exhausted by their fight against the blizzard.

  In Tarin’s dreams, he was walking with Old Father to the top of the rise, where the grey granite stones rose towards the sky and cast their shadows over the rocky gorge. It was the day before he was to leave the Mammoth Clan.

  ‘Tell me about the dreams,’ Old Father said, narrowing his eyes against the wind. He settled his back against one of the large, flat rocks and motioned for Tarin to do the same. Tarin sat hesitantly, and studied the Spirit Keeper out of the corner of his eye. His hair was as grey as the rocks, his body bent and twisted with age. The lines that carved his face were ancient, like the gullies gouged from the plains by the constant winds and shifting ice. And yet, the spirit that burned within his deep-set eyes was as bright as the sun.

  ‘How did you know?’ Tarin asked.

  Old Father didn’t answer straightaway. He plucked a downy feather caught in a crack in the rock and held it out to the wind. They watched it dance as the wind captured it and stole it away.

  ‘This place, Tarin, is a wild place . . . a sacred place. Remember that.’ He drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes. ‘Spirit of Wind, Spirit of Ice – these are the Old Ones. The Ancient Spirits that formed our land. Before Mammoth and Bison. There are few left who remember such Spirits . . .’

  Tarin frowned, unsure what he meant. He wanted to edge away, to return to the lodges where Taavo and Erik were knapping flint to be shaped into spear tips. He wanted to sit with them, to talk and laugh. To take pleasure in the work and the feel of the stone. But Old Father was continuing his story. Tarin hoped he would hurry up and finish.

  ‘Before our ancestors found this rich hunting ground and decided to call it our own, there were others who walked here.’

  Tarin looked down at the river and scratched his nose. He felt he should know what Old Father was talking about, but the meaning escaped him. If this were a test, then he had failed. Unless . . .

  ‘Do you mean . . . �
��the Esi?’

  A smile softened the harsh lines on the old man’s face. ‘The Esi,’ he said, sighing the word in reverence. ‘The Old Ones, the Ancient Ones . . . also called by lesser names. The Hidden People, Short Necks, Flat Heads . . . animals.’

  Tarin nodded. He had heard all those names. He had used many of them, too, with the other children of Mammoth Clan – when they would tolerate his presence. They would sit in a circle around the fire and snigger about the short, bowed legs and ugly, coarse faces of the Esi. They lived in caves, reeking of animal waste, the older children whispered, and wore rotting furs upon their backs. They spoke in grunts, and they would come in the night to steal sleeping children from their furs, carrying them away to their caves to gnaw on their bones.

  Tarin had never seen the Esi. They had left the plains long before he was born.

  ‘This was once their land,’ Old Father said. ‘Remember that, Tarin. And remember the Old Spirits, who have walked this land since time began.’

  ‘I will, Old Father.’ Tarin frowned, puzzled. He didn’t see what the Old Spirits and the Esi had to do with him or his dreams.

  The Spirit Keeper’s eyes gleamed. Tarin was a marmot caught in the gaze of an eagle.

  ‘So polite, little owl,’ Old Father said with a chuckle. ‘Unlike others, who think they know better than an old man. But you listen, and learn, and you think. That is your strength. Yours is not the strength of the body. It is the strength of the heart and the mind. It is the strength of a Spirit Keeper.’

  ‘I would rather be strong of body,’ Tarin said. Dust made his eyes water.

  ‘We do not always have the choice,’ Old Father murmured. ‘There are things we cannot control. We cannot control the wind. We cannot control the changing of the seasons, or the passage of the sun in the sky. And we cannot control the Spirits when they wish to talk to us.’ Old Father looked down at Tarin. ‘Dreams are the songs of the Old Spirits. It is how they speak to us. They bring us much knowledge, but they also bring fear and uncertainty.’

  ‘I . . . I do not fear . . .’ But Tarin’s voice shook. Images crowded his mind. A dark cavern, stone walls wet and shining, a smell like rotting flesh . . .