Then again, knowing the dyheli doe, she would have no compunction whatsoever about invading their hosts’ minds and making certain that they wouldn’t panic when they first sighted the gryphon.
He had some qualms about that. More than a few.
Should I have forbidden her to do any such thing? He could have done that, but that didn’t mean she’d obey him. Dyheli had their own code of behavior, one that set the good of the herd above that of any individual, and that meant she would do whatever she thought was in the interest of her “herd,” in this case, the entire group she was with. She would dispassionately disobey orders, and lie to him about it. Of all the known creatures with Mindspeech, only the dyheli could lie successfully when using it.
There was no way to compromise with his conscience. He could only accept what happened and try to make up for it afterward.
Whether Neta had a hand in it or not, when they came out of the forest and into the sunlight, although the Snow Fox hunters looked a bit nervous to see Kel, they didn’t seem frightened. “This is our friend Kelvren,” Darian said carefully. “He has made two kills of his own, and wishes to present one of them to Snow Foxas thanks for your hospitality.”
Kel glanced longingly at the piles of offal laid to the side, but immediately turned his attention back to the hunters. “I am honorrrred to make thiss gift,” he said, with a graceful bow, and a broad gesture of his taloned forefoot.
“It is we who are honored by your generosity,” the chief hunter said bravely. “And - ah - are your tastes similar to those of the hunting birds? If so, would you care to take your choice of the - remains - before we leave this place?”
Darian was extremely pleased and a bit surprised by this display of tact and thoughtfulness. And it argued powerfully for the notion that Neta had only helped to explain Kel’s appearance, and had not taken charge of the hunters’ minds.
“Yesss!” Kel exclaimed. “And I thank you!”
The hunters tactfully looked the other way as Kel pounced upon the pile of discards with relish; watching a gryphon eat was something that took getting used to. It was all too easy to imagine what else that cruel beak and talons could do.
He made very short work of the meal - which was indeed a full meal even by a gryphon’s standards - and they were shortly on their way.
With the meat that would ordinarily have burdened them loaded on the backs of dyheli, the hunters set off at a lope that made conversation impossible.
Very clearly they wanted to be gone from this place, and quickly, too. Darian longed to ask them why, but knew that he would have to wait.
Whatever the answer was, though, he was fairly sure that it had to do with the Wolverine tribe - and that it would not be good news for them.
Fifteen
Keisha wasn’t the only one who felt the relief in the hunters as they crossed some invisible line into “safe” territory. They slowed their pace to a trot from what had very nearly been a run; they began to talk among themselves and even make occasional comments to their guests. And at last they finally looked back at the laden dyheli with the satisfaction and anticipation such a fine take of venison warranted.
She decided to talk to one of the young men herself, and asked her mount to take her up to the front of the group. She “picked” the first one that looked over at her and smiled, thinking it would be easier to approach someone who showed some friendliness from the beginning rather than trying to coax a reaction out of someone determined to keep a stony visage.
“How much farther do we go to reach your home?” she asked him, thinking that would be an easy way to begin a conversation, and grateful that they had all learned the Snow Fox dialect via dyheli before they left k’Valdemar.
“Not far,” the young man told her; he couldn’t be much older than Hywel, and was possibly younger. “We are within the range of our sentries now,” he added. And that was a curious addition, or so it seemed to Keisha. Why should that matter to her?
Unless he is reassuring me that no one can move upon his village without warning, she thought soberly. Like a war party from this Wolverine tribe, perhaps?
Their journey had brought them right up to the foot of the mountains, and soon it was evident that they were about to enter a kind of side valley, a cleft with steep cliffs on either side and a small, clear stream meandering along the base of the cliff on the left. If the village had not originally been situated with defense in mind, the setting certainly provided as much shelter as if protection had been a major consideration from the beginning.
Defensive cliffs, a water supply - the only thing they would lack if they came under siege would be food, and if they’ve stored enough, they might be all right.
“This is our valley,” the young hunter said proudly. “It has been the home of our tribe from the time of my grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather. The Snow Fox himself led us here, as the Snow Fox told our Shaman to send our sick to Ghost Cat, and then led our sick ones on the journey.”
Ah? They didn’t say anything about that back at the Sanctuary. But then again - they might assume we already knew something of the sort must have happened in order for them to find us at all. It seemed that the tribal spirits of these northerners took a very paternal (or was it maternal?) interest in their titular tribes.
:And the other deities of you humans do not?: came the impudent query from her dyheli.
:Other deities have a great many more people to Oversee, and rarely go so far as to personally lead their followers to help or safety,: she pointed out wryly. :Perhaps it is easier when your worshipers number less than a hundred to intervene directly in their lives.:
“I am called Bendan,” the hunter continued diffidently, looking up at her, but not meeting her eyes directly. “May I know your name, Wisewoman?”
Hywel had found a way to get the tribesmen to grant both Keisha and Shandi better status than “merely female.” Keisha was always introduced as the Wisewoman, and Shandi as something that translated as “woman whose soul is a man.” Apparently there were a few female warriors in the history of the tribes, and they’d had to come up with a category to fit them into. “Man-souled women” who passed the boys’ initiation trials could become hunters and warriors, but they sacrificed the traditional role of “wife and mother” in order to attain that status. They were considered neither male nor female - rather like the Shin’a’in Sword-Sworn, in a way.
At any rate, that was Shandi’s role, and she went along with it, since taking on that persona at least allowed her to sit at the Men’s Fire with the rest of the party, and not suffer a lonely exile to the company of the clan’s women.
It said something for the status of Wisewoman that Bendan gave Keisha his name. A “mere woman” would have had to learn it obliquely, by overhearing it or learning it from one of her friends, for he would never have addressed her directly if she had not had that rank.
“I am called Keisha,” she said. “Has Snow Fox a Wisewoman of their own, or does the Shaman conduct all healing?”
“We have only the Shaman, and he has no healing magic - that is why the Snow Fox sent to us to take our sick into the south,” Bendan said eagerly. “Have you been sent by the Fox to teach our Shaman in the ways of southern healing?”
:Boy’s a quick one, isn’t he?: chuckled the dyheli.
“I have; your people reached us safely, as you know, and I came in answer to your need,” she replied solemnly, taking the question as the gift it was. “That we bear trade goods is as a protection, so that others will not interfere with our passage.”
“It is wise - though I do not think it would avail you with Wolverine,” he replied, then shrugged and changed the subject, trotting along at her stirrup with no sign of effort. “We have some sick still with us; too ill to travel. I hope you will be able to help them.”
“I hope so, too,” she said sincerely.
When they reached the village, it was apparent that this was a permanent enclave, unlike some of the other
hunting camps they had visited. Here were the familiar log houses, decorated and carved, roofed with slabs of bark; the characteristic poles stood prominently before each house with totemic animals and spirit representations carved into them. Even more than at Ghost Cat, there were piecework blankets on display, made of felted and dyed fur, and the costumes of the inhabitants were covered with embroideries made with tufts of dyed fur.
It was clear that this was a prosperous tribe; it was also clear that the invisible sentries had already alerted the Chief and Shaman that visitors were being escorted in. Women and children clustered at the entrances to the log houses - craning their necks and straining their eyes for a good look at the strangers, but also ready to bolt inside at a hint that there was something amiss. The Chief and Shaman marched forward to meet them, surrounded by armed warriors older and more experienced than the young hunters.
Hywel bounded from his saddle, and together with Bendan, came forward to speak with the leaders of Snow Fox. He displayed the token that the Snow Fox folk back in Valdemar had given them, and soon the faces of those around him were relaxed, even smiling. The warriors lowered their weapons, and with that sign that all was well, the women and children began to ease closer.
The Shaman headed straight for Keisha once the formalities were over; she dismounted rather than tower over him as he approached. Gray-haired and bearded, he was a handsome old fellow by anyone’s standards, with strong features and lively eyes. Knot-work was layered down the front edges of his mantle, with points of antler serving as closures alternating from side to side. The colors picked for the tufting between the antler tips exactly matched his eyes.
“Wisewoman Keisha, I am Shaman Henkeir Told-True. I am warmed to see your presence. May your spirits bless you for coming to us!” he exclaimed, seizing her hand. “The Chief’s woman and children are ill, as are several more, too ill to send to Ghost Cat with the others, and I have had no success with them. The Snow Fox told me I must wait for a healer out of the south - ”
“Bendan told me,” she replied, clasping the old man’s hand. “Is it the Wasting Sickness? Summer Fever?” Those were both names for the same illness, the disease that struck the channels that carried the commands of the mind to the body, causing weakness and paralysis.
“Nay, it is something else, another new sickness out of the times of evil magic and heartsick skies; something that chokes the breath but does not weaken the muscles. So short of breath are they that we dared not send them over-mountain, for the mountain sickness would have killed them. When they move with any forcefulness at all, they become unable to breathe, but they cannot stay completely still,” he told her, and she felt a little thrill of excitement, though she immediately was ashamed of being excited at someone else’s misfortune. Still - the prospect of seeing something new -
“Let us go to them, and I will see what may be done,” she said instantly. “All else can wait.”
The old man’s eyes lit up. “Hah! You are a true Wisewoman!” he exclaimed, leading her to think that perhaps he had encountered those who had not been as dedicated to their duty. “Come, and I will show you.”
The sick folk had been isolated from the others in a separate log house. Although there were no windows, the roof had actually been propped up here and there to provide fresh air and ventilation. But the patients were bundled up near the fire, all of them weak, feverish, and thin. An effort had been made, using thick slabs of bark set upright in an overlapping-edged ring, to make sure that the smoke from the central fire was at a minimum; nevertheless, there was constant deep coughing coming from nearly everyone around the fire.
The Shaman told the stricken ones who this strange woman was, and in response there were murmurs of relief between rasps and coughing fits. Keisha examined the child nearest to her at the Shaman’s urging, opening her shields and sinking her awareness deep into the body before her.
It didn’t take her long to identify what was wrong - and it was a disease new to her, something that lived in the lungs, scarring them and turning them from a healthy honeycomb to a useless solid mass. But for all its toughness, for all that it was, if unchecked, absolutely deadly, it was no match for the forces she could wake in the body of its host with her power. It thrived because it walled itself off from those forces with scar tissue; she could break that wall down.
She gave the child a good first treatment before she emerged from her Healing trance, to see the Shaman staring at her with intense interest. “Have you the mastery of this magic?” she asked him. “The way of seeing inside the body, and going to war with sickness?”
“Nay, but my student has,” he said instantly. “I could not teach him, and he has been doing the best that he could without any learning, trusting to instinct. I shall go to fetch him, if you would deign to teach him.”
That’s a relief! “Please! That is why I am here. And if you would call upon the spirits as well, while we help the sick ones, it would be well,” she told him.
“It is not good to treat only the body and leave the spirit untouched.”
He grinned broadly and got to his feet, leaving the log house only to return in a few moments with a very young man - perhaps fourteen or fifteen - and a bundle, which proved to be a set of drums, wrapped in a charm-bedecked cape. The boy bobbed his head awkwardly at her, and she smiled in a way she hoped would encourage him.
She could tell already that he had used his Healing powers in much the same way that she had at that age - crudely, because he never had a real teacher. The Shaman at least recognized his power, but he was unable to teach him. Instinct and necessity had given him some direction, but to go any further, he needed proper instruction.
“You’ve done well by yourself,” she told him, as the Shaman donned his cape, and cast cedar on the fire. “You are like a carver who has been making good images with only an ax - I will give you fine knives as well, with which to do your work.”
He brightened at the praise, and nodded enthusiastically at her explanation. “Yes!” the boy all but shouted. “That is exactly how I have been feeling! I know that there is a way to do things, but I cannot make them happen! Oh, Wisewoman, but show me the way, and I will speak your name to the spirits forever!”
“Exactly.” She patted his hand, and placed it on top of hers, for the physical contact would help her make mind-to-mind contact. “Now, prepare yourself, and let me show you what I know. . . .”
Keisha worked with the young student until they were both exhausted; by that time, all of the people suffering from the illness that the Shaman had termed “Hammer Lung” had been given their first treatment. The disease was treacherous and tenacious, and would need many more treatments to be eradicated. The young student had gotten his bearings, and Keisha was certain he would make a fine Healer, in time.
Tomorrow I’ll ask Shandi to give me a hand; maybe Darian, too. We’ll get these people over the worst of their illness before we leave. Something in the back of her mind teased at her. There had to be a way to give this young man more of her own knowledge, but she couldn’t make the thought come clear. Finally she let it go; if she didn’t work so hard at it, it would probably surface by itself. That was how things seemed to work for her. When there was a problem that could be solved with quick thought, it would be at the forefront of her awareness, but if it would take a long time to solve a problem, then it would be mulled over behind her consciousness until finally popping up as a clear solution.
The patients were already feeling and looking better. She’d been able to advise some other things that let them breathe more easily, things that the Shaman could do in addition to his spiritual ministrations.
Although I have to wonder . . . I’ve never been able to work alone for quite so long before. Time seemed to move slowly for me, but it never dragged on. I am tired but not as completely exhausted as I would normally be. Maybe those spirits of his were helping out.
The student stumbled off to his bed, glowing with the satisfaction that only
comes with accomplishment. The Shaman packed up his gear and offered to conduct her to the Men’s Fire.
“Please,” she said gratefully. It was very dark outside the log house, and she really wasn’t up to stumbling around looking for the men. “I would appreciate that.”
Henkeir beamed his pleasure, his beard practically bristling with cheer. This had been a good day for him, statuswise; the foreign Wisewoman sent by the tribal totem had deferred to him, requested that he specifically tend to the souls and spiritual needs of the sick ones, and now had asked him to escort her to the Men’s Fire. If he had feared the possibility of losing status because of her appearance, those fears had been totally put to rest. Completely aside from her personality, for those reasons alone he would have liked her.
He led her out of the log house, as the patients settled into what must have been their first restful sleep for many weeks. Soft calls of thanks and well-wishes faded away behind as the pair walked. Even though there hadn’t been a lot of light inside the house, thanks in part to the smoke shielding around the fire pit, it was incredibly dark outside it. The cliffs on either side cut off most of the sky, and the moon was not yet up. Mist wreathed among the trees; the smoky air, cedar-scented and damp, penetrated Keisha’s clothing and made her shiver. She was quite glad that she had accepted his guidance before they had gone more than a few paces, for the Men’s Fire, as was the custom at Ghost Cat, had been sequestered in a remote pocket from the rest of the village. By contrast, the Women’s Fire, which they passed as they walked between two more log houses, was right in the center of the village, with the women and young children clustered about it, laughing, talking, and eating. There was a wonderful smell of roast meat and some sort of bread, of wild herbs and onions. Her stomach growled.
The fire they sought was in a little pocket carved into the cliff when an enormous boulder came crashing down from above some time in the far past. The boulder itself, the size of one of the log houses, shielded the sight of the entrance to the pocket from the rest of the village, and even hid the reflected firelight.
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