The Exile

by Jo Sandhu

  I am alive because of the Earth Mother.

  And yet . . . there was also a girl in his dreams. She gave him water to wet his parched lips, and her voice was like a song.

  As he lay there and tried to follow the fleeting memories, a figure appeared at the entrance of the cave, a dark shadow against the bright sun.

  ‘You’re awake!’

  It seemed a stupid thing to say, but Tarin nodded his head. It didn’t spin so much this time, so he tried to sit up. The girl hurried to his side and held a fur-covered flask to his lips. It was the sweetest water he had ever tasted, and icy cold. Her fair hair hung over her face and she frowned as she felt his forehead. Her lips moved, but a fog still surrounded Tarin’s brain, and he couldn’t hear her words. He shook his head and suddenly sound rushed in upon him.

  ‘ . . . broth of dried meat and grains.’

  The words sounded good. Tarin nodded weakly.

  The girl left him with the water flask and hurried out of the cave. Slowly, Tarin followed. His legs felt as though they were made of water and he grabbed the rocky cave walls to stop from falling. Sunlight beckoned.

  At first, the light was too bright for his eyes, but then shapes and shadows formed themselves into solid trees – spruce and alder – and rocky cliffs. Tarin moved further out of the cave and sat on a rock. His legs shook with the effort but he looked around in interest.

  He was on a rocky beach beside the swiftly flowing river, surrounded by grey cliffs. Pine and scarlet rowan reached for the sky, their roots clasping grimly to the sheer rock. Far above, a bird soared, gliding on the wind. Tarin shaded his eyes to watch its graceful flight and thought it might be an eagle, hunting, its keen eyes trained on the forest below. With breathtaking speed, the eagle plummeted earthwards to swoop on its prey. Tarin’s belly grumbled at the thought of food.

  He turned his attention back to the beach. It was strewn with driftwood and bleached bones, debris forced through the cataract of cliffs . . . just like he was. Tarin picked up a grey stone and hefted it in his hands. Flint! And there, lying along the shore, were fire stones, cast up by the surging water. He could replenish his stock before leaving.

  The thought sobered Tarin. He must continue his quest . . . but . . . where was he? He had been taken by the river – but how far had he come? The forests and cliffs looked nothing like the sparse steppe-forest of his home. Sick panic squeezed his heart. And the Offering!

  Tarin plucked at the snow leopard skin wrapped around him. His tunic and beaska lay over rocks, drying in the warm sun, as well as his furs. His backpack was spread out on the beach, next to his boots and mammoth felt linings. But there was no sign of the Offering.

  The breeze changed direction and Tarin caught the tantalising aroma of rich broth. With unsteady steps, he moved towards the girl. She watched him approach and tucked a strand of fair hair behind her ears. She smiled at Tarin.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  Tarin nodded and tried to smile back. Worry creased his forehead, and he lowered himself to a rock next to her. He wanted to thank her . . . or ask where he was . . . or ask her her name . . . Any one of countless questions. Instead, he frowned.

  ‘Why am I wearing this?’ He pulled at the fur. Even to his own ears his words sounded harsh. The girl’s eyes turned wary. They looked red and Tarin wondered if she had been crying.

  ‘It was the only dry thing in your pack.’ The girl leaned over the cooking pot and stirred the broth. Tarin’s stomach clenched. ‘The broth is ready if you’d like some?’ She handed a cup to Tarin and he clasped it in his hands. It was made from bone, and felt familiar. He recognised the shape and feel of the cup he carried from Mammoth Camp.

  The girl sat back on her heels and watched him sip the liquid.

  ‘This is good,’ Tarin said, choking slightly as the hot liquid burned his throat. But he was too hungry to wait. He drained the cup and held it out for more.

  ‘Soon.’ The girl took the cup and placed it on the ground. ‘Let your stomach settle first, or you’ll be sick.’

  Tarin nodded and rubbed his face with his hands.

  ‘Do . . . do you mind . . . if I use your cup?’ The girl sounded worried and tense. Tarin looked at her in surprise. Her eyes were on the pot of broth and she stirred it with a long, bleached bone. Her gaze flickered upwards. ‘I have no cup of my own,’ she said. ‘I have my water flask . . . but that’s about it. We had to leave in a hurry, you see.’

  Tarin nodded and she filled the cup for herself. Her eyes closed as she sipped the liquid and she clasped the cup with trembling hands. Tarin wondered who she was and where she had come from. Who were her people? There was something about her words that worried him, but his brain still felt sluggish and slow. He let her words wash over him and raised his face to the sun, enjoying the warmth.

  ‘ . . . starving . . .’ she was saying. ‘There’s less and less food to find . . .’ The girl scrambled to her feet and picked her way over the rocks to the water. She splashed her face and continued talking. ‘I promise I’ll find something to make it up to you.’ She dipped the cup into the water and handed it to Tarin.

  Tarin took the cup and drank the water. It was cold and clear. Some of her words penetrated the fog around his brain.

  ‘You were starving, too. I . . . I didn’t know if you would survive . . .’

  Thoughts shifted in Tarin’s mind, coming together to form pictures. He stared at her in dawning realisation.

  ‘The . . . the Offering?’

  The girl frowned and shook her head. ‘I don’t understand. What Offering?’

  Tarin stared at the pot, still half full of broth. At the fur around his shoulders. At the reindeer hide wrapped around the girl. Not part of the Offering, but still, it was the reindeer hide from his pack.

  His hands clutched his hair. His stomach churned. He bent over and the cup of broth rushed up his throat and spilled on the rocky ground. Tremors clenched his stomach until it was empty.

  ‘I told you not to eat so fast,’ the girl said, jumping backwards.

  Tarin shook his head. He wanted to tell her that was not the problem, but the words stuck in his throat like sharp bones.

  The girl disappeared, then returned with a cup of water. Tarin took it and tried to rinse the bitter taste from his mouth, but it stayed with him.

  ‘That food . . . the fur . . .’ His voice was hoarse. ‘I was to take it to the Mountain . . . but now . . .’ Tarin stopped, unsure what to say. What should he tell her? That now his clan would die? Because of her, and because of him. That he would never be able to return home?

  ‘I don’t understand you.’ The girl stood before him, her hands on her hips. She frowned at him with darkening eyes.

  ‘It was the Offering!’ Tarin shouted. His voice bounced off the cliff walls. He picked up a rock and hurled it into the river. ‘It was an Offering to the Earth Mother.’

  ‘Well, how was I supposed to know that!’ The girl shouted back and waved her arms.

  ‘You shouldn’t have touched it!’

  ‘You were dying –’

  ‘Then you should have let me die –’

  ‘Fine! Next time I will –’

  ‘What am I going to do now?’ Tarin struggled to his feet and stumbled back to the cave. He felt numb. He felt helpless.

  ‘You’re still weak,’ the girl’s voice followed him. ‘Let me help you.’

  But Tarin hurried to the cave before she could reach him. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to go to sleep and never wake up. He wanted to dream of his family, but he knew their faces would bring him no comfort.

  Perhaps we will see each other in death, he thought. When we walk in the Spirit World.

  He heard the girl enter the cave, but he kept his eyes shut and didn’t move. Her hands brushed his hair off his forehead and her fingertips felt rough against his skin. He wanted to push her away, but his limbs would no longer move. They felt as heavy as rocks.

  ‘You have fever,’ she said, her vo
ice low and soothing. ‘Drink this.’

  Tarin tasted willowbark as she pressed the cup to his lips. He wanted to tell her he didn’t want her medicine. Or was it his medicine? Was that, too, part of the Offering? Had he been soothed and comforted by Old Mother’s herbs while lying helpless in the cave? He rolled onto his side, away from the girl.

  ‘You should have let me drown,’ he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut.

  The girl didn’t reply.

  Tarin heard the scrape of the cup against the rocks as she placed it next to him, the scuff of her feet and her footsteps fading as she left the cave. Then there was nothing but silence. Soft, sacred silence.

  Tell me about the dreams, Old Father had said.

  Tarin shook his head. His dreams . . . his curse . . . how could he tell anyone? How could he say that he flew above the earth like an owl, his hearing keen and his sight sharp? They would say it was the bad Spirits . . . the bad Spirits that had been inside him from the day he was born. They would laugh at him, spit on him, and kick him into the dirt. His father would look at his son and see only shame. His mother . . . his mother would be brave, but inside, her heart would break.

  But Old Father had known. He’d looked at Tarin with eyes that saw everything. Every secret. Every hidden shame.

  ‘How did you know?’

  A small owl feather was caught between two rocks. Old Father plucked it free and the wind carried it away. They watched it until it was no longer visible.

  ‘Because I, too, have the dreams,’ Old Father said. ‘They are the dreams of the Spirit Keepers.’

  ‘No!’ Tarin shook his head. ‘I don’t want to be a Spirit Keeper.’

  Old Father laughed and his eyes glowed. ‘You don’t want to fly like the eagles? Or run like the antelopes? You don’t want to burrow deep beneath the ground like the marmots, or glide through the forests like the lynx?’

  ‘No!’ But this time Tarin’s voice wavered, and Old Father heard it.

  ‘It is not your choice, Scared Rabbit. It is the Great Mother’s will. And she will ask of you a great price. One you may not be willing to pay. See . . .’ And Old Father pointed to the horizon. Tarin shaded his eyes and stared into the setting sun. Then he saw them.

  ‘Mammoths!’ he gasped, and then, he was there with them. He was one of them. Their pungent animal scent was all around him and he could feel the heat from their bodies. He followed along behind the herd as they pushed their way through snowfall that was growing thicker by the minute. It was heavy work. His shoulders bowed and his legs were too small and weak to push through the drifts. His thick fur was heavy with ice and snow, and he called desperately for his herd to slow down and help him. Each step became harder and more painful. He wanted to stop and rest, but he knew if he did, he would die. His fur would freeze fast to the snow, trapping him.

  He cried out again, a high-pitched trumpeting. An adult female turned and called back to him, urging him on. His mother. Tarin recognised her scent, but then she, too, turned away. She had to keep up with the herd.

  They were leaving him. The herd was leaving him behind!

  ‘Mother!’ Tarin cried, but he knew if she stopped, she too would perish.

  He could no longer see them in a world that was completely white. But he would keep going. He would find them. One day. He lowered his head and took another step. The snow was now up to his shoulders.

  Where they go, you cannot follow . . .

  Was that Old Father speaking to him in his dream?

  ‘I will. I will follow them,’ Tarin shouted, but then the ground he was standing on shook and trembled. It split apart, right at his feet, and he had no choice but to step back, away from the fissure that had opened before him. Steam hissed upwards, melting the snow, but the chasm was too wide to jump and the great heat from below scorched his fur.

  ‘Mother!’ he shouted, as the world trembled around him.

  But they were gone. And staring down at the chasm, Tarin realised Old Father was right. He couldn’t follow them. He was no longer a part of their herd.

  He was alone.

  Tarin watched the girl from the mouth of the cave. She stood by the edge of the water, hands on her hips, and stared at the cliff face opposite. Then she bent and picked up a handful of stones. She tossed them into the churning water, watching some sink and others bounce off the rocks. With each throw, she gave a little grunt of frustration. When she had cast all her rocks, she paced up and down, shoulders tensed and hands curled into fists. She kicked at the pile of bleached bones washed up on the beach and stooped to pick up the tip of an aurochs horn. She jabbed it savagely towards the rocks.

  ‘Er . . .’ Tarin cleared his throat, unsure what to say. His anger had melted away, leaving him empty inside. And his dream . . . He closed his eyes, feeling again the weight of the ice on his back and the effort to push through the snow drifts. Every detail was still with him. Every sensation. The loss. The abandonment. The desolation. He opened his eyes and dragged himself back to the real world.

  The girl spun around and dropped the aurochs horn, but she, too, seemed unsure what to say. They stood on the rocky beach, studying each other.

  Tarin saw a girl of about his age, but taller. Her pale hair was matted with small sticks and leaves, and her skin stretched too tightly over her narrow face. Sunken eyes stared at him warily.

  ‘My . . . my name is Tarin . . . and . . . you saved my life. I . . . I thank you.’

  Kaija let go of her breath in a gasp and words tumbled from her lips. ‘You’re awake! You’re well! You . . . you can help me.’ She grabbed his wrists and the bones of her hands jutted through her skin. ‘I’m sorry, so sorry, about your Offering,’ the girl said. ‘I didn’t know.’ She bit her lip and released him. ‘I’ll make it up to you.’ Her voice was soft, almost lost in the rushing of the river.

  Tarin sat down on a rock. The pallid sun warmed his face and arms. He was alive. And he still had half the Offering. He swallowed the bubble of panic that constantly threatened to choke him.

  ‘Is . . . does your clan have the sickness, too?’ The sadness in the girl’s voice surprised Tarin. He looked closer, seeing lines of weariness and deep shadows beneath her eyes. Her lips were pressed together, her small fists clenching and unclenching by her side.

  ‘No.’ Tarin shook his head. ‘What sickness?’

  The girl shook her head and faced into the wind, letting it brush her tangled hair away from her face and eyes. Then she breathed deeply, and came and sat next to him.

  ‘My clan has a sickness.’ She kicked at the rocks beneath her feet. ‘Many have died. My brother . . . he was so young.’ Her voice broke, and she dropped her head, letting her hair fall over her face once more.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Tarin said.

  Kaija sniffed and tossed her head back.

  ‘Death is a part of life, that’s what they say. That’s what they used to say – the Spirit Keeper and the leaders. If it’s the Earth Mother’s will that we walk with her in the next world. But how could it be Her will that so many die? How could it be Her will that all the children . . .’ Her voice cracked and she stopped, tears welling in her eyes.

  Tarin caught his breath. What sickness could destroy an entire clan? He thought of his mother and father and the rest of Mammoth Clan and felt his heart shrivel.

  ‘How?’ His voice caught in his throat. ‘How could that happen? Surely your healers . . .’

  Kaija almost laughed. ‘My mother is the best healer in all of River Clan, but even she couldn’t help.’ Her voice wobbled and she dropped her head onto her knees. Tarin had to sit down on the rocks next to her to hear her as she continued. ‘There’s a special tea she makes using wood horsetail and dead nettle. It’s difficult medicine to make, and she only uses it when someone is spitting up blood . . . and a poultice of river horsetail and sweet vernal. It eats into the wounds and weakens the evil Spirits. Then the Spirit Keeper can battle with them and drive them out with sage smoke.’ Her voice faded, a
nd she stared miserably in front of her. Tarin could tell she wasn’t seeing the river rocks and running water. She was back at her camp, seeing the tormented bodies of her family and friends, smelling the heavy scented smoke mixed with the stench of festering wounds and body waste.

  She shivered and rubbed her arms.

  ‘In the end, all my mother could do was brew the mustara root tea that . . . that . . .’ She stopped speaking and dropped her head again. Tarin understood. Old Mother had a special tea she brewed to relieve strong pain, and sometimes, to bring on death. She had given it to Ristak when he was gored by the bison. Tarin could still remember the bitter smell.

  ‘She thought it was her fault, you see,’ Kaija continued in a small voice. ‘She was the Healer. She should have realised how serious the sickness was. But in the beginning, it was little more than fever and stomach cramps. The weakness, the red eyes, the wounds – they all came later. And then . . .’ She stopped and shivered, covering her face with her hands. ‘Tarin . . . if you could hear them trying to breathe! It was as though their chests were filled with water! My mother thought the whole clan paid for her mistake, and all she could do was tell us to run. They blamed us, you see. They said we were bad luck. We didn’t even have time to pack a bag, and for days we had no idea if we, too, had the illness in us.’

  Tarin couldn’t help but lean away. ‘How do you know you don’t?’

  Kaija shrugged and pointed to the sun.

  ‘That is the seventh time I have seen the sun rise since we fled our camp. And I’m still strong. But I’m not sure about Luuka.’

  ‘Luuka?’

  ‘My brother.’ Kaija turned to Tarin and grasped him by the arms again. ‘He is all I have left in the world, and now Boar Clan has him. You have to help me. Please, help me!’

  Tarin prised her grip from his arms and held her hands. Her whole body was shaking. He frowned and shook his head reluctantly. He had his own quest. His clan was relying on him to save them. Again that feeling of bereavement washed over him.

  ‘I wish I could help you,’ he said slowly.