by Miles Archer
Donathan and I were busy all that day making charms and amulets for the newest arrivals—there had been four births in the past six weeks and somehow we had fallen a bit behind in this duty. The mothers were chafing for our intercession and could be put off no longer. I watched Donathan. His actions were correct in form, but when he was finished I took him inside the hut to speak.
“My boy,” I offered him a cup of wine and sat heavily. “It’s not enough that you do the magic. You must convey to the recipient the gravity of it.” I could see no look of understanding in his eyes. I tried again.
“It’s not enough that you assemble the proper herbs and stones, bones and shells. It’s not enough that you say the right words at the right time. You are going through the motions, without, without…” I was trying to find the word I wanted, “…without the right importance. You are the medicine man; you are interceding in the spirit world. You have to make your words and actions sound as though they are what they are—not just words and gestures, not just bits of magical things. The people want to leave with the feeling that something deeply mystical has happened, that their fate has been changed.” I looked at him. “Do you follow what I’m saying here?”
He nodded, albeit reluctantly. “You mean it is not enough to just do things the right way? Why not? I mean, if these are the words and the items that work, will they not work, no matter how I sound, no matter if the recipient believes so strongly?”
I pulled my stool closer to him and laid a hand on his arm. “My boy, my boy. Do you not yet understand what we do here?” I leaned forward and whispered. “We are offering faith, son, faith that man can have some control over his future, his destiny. It is faith that causes the clan to obey the chief; it is faith that lets each one go on, no matter how hard their labor, how desperate their circumstance. Faith that tomorrow will be better than today. That there are good things to come. Without faith, we might as well be animals, grazing in the meadow, unaware of the hunter in the brush.”
I saw the light of understanding then in his eyes. “So, it’s not so much what we do as how we do it.”
“Exactly. The strength of man and woman is the strength of the clan. It is only as a group we can survive. Alone in the world we would each of us be overcome by myriad dangers and disasters. It is not the survival of the individual that makes us strong. It is the survival of the clan.” He nodded quietly. We both drank deeply.
“And what, my Master, of the chip of stone from the blade of the spear? Did you determine from whom it came?”
“Yes.”
He looked expectantly at me.
“I believe the one who did this will do what is best. Best for the clan and best for his own spirit.” After that I said no more.
The sun god was painting wildly in the evening sky—purples and golds breaking through deep crimson clouds, shafts of bright yellow skipping over the tops of the firs and bathing the white shafts of the birches with bright gilt, when the hunting party returned.
The men bore their burden with difficulty. They lay Balog down gently near my doorway and sank to their knees with fatigue. One look was enough to tell me all I needed to know. Balog’s belly was ripped from chest to flank; his viscera could be seen through the tear in his flesh. It was a horrible wound, black with pooled blood. But his face was strangely peaceful, as though welcoming the long dark journey.
They told their tale piecemeal, first one, then another. They had come to the lair of the boar. Balog had directed them to flush the creature from behind. None of them had dared to object to his plan, although they had all privately thought him reckless to face the monster himself. When the boar charged from the thicket, they said, Balog threw two spears, so quickly the eye could not follow. They both struck, but still the great animal charged. Balog had already drawn his long knife. Leaping to one side he met the animal’s charge with a thrust to its throat.
They fell together, great spurts of hot blood covering them both. It was not until they arrived to pull the huge creature off that they realized Balog had received a mortal slash from the huge tusks.
“And did he speak, before he died?” I asked.
“Yes, Father. Only these words: ‘For the good of the clan.’”
I smiled grimly. “Organize a party to fetch the corpse of the boar, quickly, before the carrion eaters have their fill. And don’t forget to remove the scent glands, the meat will become tainted. I hate the taste of boar that hasn’t had the scent glands removed.” Their pale faces looked up at me.
“Do you want Balog’s sacrifice to go to waste? Go! Donathan and I will prepare our great chief for his passage. We will have a tremendous feast, to send him to the fires of the ancestors.” They nodded tiredly and walked off.
I threw a reed mat over the corpse.
“Balog, your desires got the best of your judgment, but in the end you did the right thing.”
As I turned into the doorway to assemble the things I needed I heard myself murmur: “For the good of the clan.”
End