The Shaman

by Christopher Stasheff

  “Is your pouch filled with stones, Kragni?” little Holkar asked—little, but four years older than toddling Lucoyo, and already bossing others about.

  “Filled!” little Kragni answered. “Where is the rabbit?”

  “There!” Little Palainir pointed at Lucoyo, laughing.

  Her two brothers laughed, too. The little half-elf stared at them, not understanding, then started to laugh, too. Whatever the source of the jest, it must be funny, since they were all laughing.

  “No, sister,” said Holkar, from the lofty superiority of eight years. “Rabbits have big legs and cotton tails. Lucoyo has only very spindly shanks.”

  Palainir pouted. “How then do you find rabbits?”

  “By their noise,” Kragni told her. “They thump the ground with their feet.”

  “He can find them!” Holkar pointed at Lucoyo. “With those big ears of his. Go find us a rabbit, Lucoyo!”

  And little Lucoyo, not understanding the insult, not realizing the slight, had actually gone out and tried to listen for a rabbit—then endured Holkar’s scorn for not being able to find one. He had felt that he was a failure, deeply and truly, when he could find no game.

  He remembered that now, convulsed in pain, and the old humiliation burned in him again. Once having found their choice insult, they used it over and over again, until, compared to it, a dry bone would have been fresh. They had mocked him, calling him “Rabbit!” and “Hare!” The worst humiliation of all had come when he found that someone had sewn a rabbit tail onto his leggings.

  That had been the pattern of their growing: Lucoyo alternately befriended and insulted by Gorin’s children. For all that, he had thought them friends, until he grew big enough for them to side with the other children against him. For all that, he had loved Palainir in his heart of hearts, from the straw-haired child she had been then to the shapely, golden-haired young woman she was now. But he had always had sense enough to keep his peace, to endure her mocking and teasing in silence. Now, though, when he had brought down an aurochs by himself, with nothing but his own arrows, not even a horse beneath him—now, when he had brought home the beast’s head, though the other young men had taken the meat as their own right for hauling it on their ponies—now, he had dared not even to tell her of his love, but only to ask her to walk alone with him in the sunset. And it was good he had dared no more, for she had mocked him, and spurned him, had called her friends to laugh at the temerity of this little half-elf who would dare woo a real woman!

  Lucoyo managed to straighten up against the pain in his groin, drawing a deep and shaky breath as he searched his heart for some trace of that love he had felt all his life—but it was gone now, transformed into the flame of anger that was burning down into hatred. No, there was no love left there now, and he was a fool to have ever let there be. She had deserved the spider’s bite, and even now, facing death, he felt a grim, exultant satisfaction in it.

  Surely he could not really die! Surely there must be a way free of these bonds! He was half an elf—surely he had half an elf’s magic?

  But he had thought that before, had wished it many times, had yearned, had learned a rhymed curse and uttered it—but nothing had happened. Perhaps, if he’d had an elf to teach him how to work elfin magic ...

  Perhaps. Oh, there might have been much that was different if his father had stayed with him! But he had not, and Lucoyo had always had to face life alone ...

  Even as he now faced death alone.

  Looking up, he was amazed to realize that the sky had lightened with dawn. Could another day really come? Could he live so long?

  “Down, elf-get!” Hard hands tore at the knots, snapped the thongs from his wrists, scraping them raw; hard boots kicked him away from the rock, kicked him down to the ground. Lucoyo started to shout a curse, but one of those hard hands pressed down on the back of his head, grinding his face into the dirt, filling his mouth with loam. “She lives, elf’s bastard!” Gorin’s voice hissed in his ear. “She lives, so you will only suffer as she has suffered—and perhaps die, as she might have died. Turn him over!”

  The hard hands lifted him up, flipped him, and slammed him down again; Holkar and Kragni pinned his arms to the dirt while two more held his feet and a dozen others stood about watching, eyes burning with gloating satisfaction.

  Gorin tore Lucoyo’s shirt open and slapped a cup of bark down, open side against the skin. “Three white crones, woman-striker!” he said between his teeth, and began to drum on the bark. Lucoyo felt one of the spiders bite and stifled a curse. But Gorin saw his pain and his fear, and grinned. “Now let us see whether or not the bite kills you!”

  Lucoyo twitched again, pressing his lips tight.

  “Did another bite?” Gorin jibed. “Or did you only pretend? No, I think I will play my drum a while longer, dagger-nose— long and long, until your skin is freckled with their venom.”

  And he did.

  At last he took the cup away and snarled, “On his feet!” Holkar and Kragni yanked him upright and threw him forward. Lucoyo stumbled on feet gone numb from squeezed ankles, then fell. A boot dug into his side, harsh laughter echoed around him, and the hard hands yanked him upright again, then sent him stumbling once more. “Out into the world, traitor!” Gorin bellowed. “If the company of your ... of this clan does not suit you, go find one that does! If any will take in a bastard halfling. If you cannot respect your betters, go leave us!”

  “What betters?” Lucoyo grated, even though he knew he was too lame to dodge the blow that came and rocked his head. Through the buzzing, he heard the massed bellow, and the chief’s shout, “Go! And do not linger within ten miles of us, for from this day forth, any who finds you may kill you out of hand, without breaking our law! Go find life if you can—or death, as my daughter might have!”

  Lucoyo limped away, not deigning to humiliate himself by asking if he could have food or water; he knew the answer, knew how savagely they would delight in denying him. He limped away, jaws clamped tight against the savage insult he ached to return—for in spite of it all, he wished to live. He limped away, hearing the woman’s keening behind him, back where she could not even see him, knowing it was his mother, barred even from saying good-bye.

  His heart filled with scarlet fury, and in that heart Lucoyo swore revenge. Ulahane, he prayed silently, I am yours henceforth. Only give me vengeance, and I will serve you in every way I may! Vengeance against these small minds and hard hearts, vengeance against all who mock the weaker— vengeance against all their kind! Human-hater, save my life—so that I may slay humans, aye, and slay them in torment!

  But Ulahane did not answer. Why bother? Lucoyo realized that, with sick irony, the god’s answer would be in his own life or death.

  Palainir had been bitten by one spider, but Lucoyo had been bitten by three. For days he lay in torment, the fever burning him, the chills shaking him apart. For a week he lay in the little cave by the water under the oak’s roots, sipping from the muddy drops that trickled near him when he could, shivering and cursing when he could not, and dreaming, always dreaming—of the huge and mighty Ulahane, surging forth to battle the human-lovers, roaring with rage, dwarfing even his own bastard sons by human victims; dreamed of the reeking sacrifices that were the sinister god’s delight; dreamed of the agonies and tortures in which he reveled ...

  Dreamed of revenge.

  Revenge against all that was human, revenge against all that was elfin—revenge against all that lived but was not Ulin.

  Then, finally, the fever passed, and Lucoyo woke to discover, with amazement, that he still lived. So the scarlet god had saved him after all! He still had to crawl out in the mud to grub for roots to sustain him, he still had to lie hidden for weeks while slowly, slowly, he gained his strength again. He still had to crawl down to the river to drink as dogs drink, crawl back up to hide in the bracken—but finally he was once again strong enough to throw stones and bring down rabbits and squirrels to eat. They were the only food that c
ame near, other than tubers, but that was enough, and it felt good to kill. He dared not kindle a fire that might attract men to kill him, but that, too, was as well—he found that he enjoyed the taste of blood. Enjoyed the taste, and reveled in the thought of human blood to come.

  Lucoyo ate and rested and regained his strength, planning his revenge.

  Ulahane, he prayed, send me someone upon whom to vent my anger! Send me a victim for vengeance! Someone of my own erstwhile tribe, by preference—but I will take whomever you send me! Only let it be human!

  He liked to think that the scarlet god heard.

  Chapter 4

  Ryl gave a racking cough, then thrust herself up to catch Ohaern’s hand. “Husband ... please .. .”

  “Hush, dear one. Lie still.” Gently, Ohaern pushed her back down on the pallet. “You are ill, my love. Conserve your strength.”

  “But, Ohaern . . .” Her hand tightened on his, and he fought against the sudden tears in his eyes. “Husband, hear me. I ... if I ... die ... our son . . . who shall ...”

  “Hush, hush!” Ohaern spoke through the tightness in his chest. “I know I am a great worthless hulk when it comes to small babies, but there are women enough in this village to see that the child is well cared for. Rest, and recover; your friends shall ward your babe for you.”

  “But if I should die!”

  “You shall not die,” Ohaern commanded. “The fever will break!” But his stomach was hollow within him, for he knew it might not.

  Ryl started to speak again, but he pressed a finger over her lips. “For now, be still. Lie and sleep during the hours of darkness—for the child’s sake. For mine.”

  Her body tensed to struggle against his hand again—but she saw the pleading in his eyes and sank back. He took a deep breath and murmured, “Rest, and gather your strength to fight the illness. That is the greatest thing you can do for all of us now.”

  She swallowed, eyes closed, then nodded. “As you wish it.”

  “Dear lady.” His hand closed around hers and he bent to kiss her again, then straightened—and saw Mardone watching him, eyes stern.

  Ohaern nodded, patted Ryl’s hand again, then rose and stepped aside, so that Mardone might kneel by the sick woman, bathing her forehead and face with a cold, wet compress.

  A touch on his arm startled him. Ohaern looked up and saw Chaluk, the clan’s other shaman. Chaluk beckoned, and Ohaern followed, with one last, anxious look back at Ryl.

  By the doorway, Chaluk whispered, “That was well-spoken—but you must not stay here any longer. She will feel more fear from your fear, and that will keep her from the sleep she needs. Go outside, Ohaern.”

  “No—”

  But Chaluk held up a hand, and Ohaern closed his mouth, biting back a refusal.

  “Be sure, I shall summon you if she nears death—but step outside, Ohaern. You can do no more here. Leave her to sleep, and to those of us who know the spirits that bring illness.”

  “What spirit plagues her now?” Ohaern hissed.

  “One sent from Ulahane, of course.” Chaluk frowned. “What else?”

  What else, indeed? Just as Lomallin did all he could to bring humans happiness, love, and life, so Ulahane did all he could to bring them misery, loneliness, and death. But why Ryl? Why this one poor woman, twice in three months?

  There was no answer to that, nothing the shamans could tell him that he did not already know—because told him they had, and several times each. Ryl had been weakened, that was all— and where there was a weakness, Ulahane would seek to break through and destroy. He was a god and could do what he pleased; all that stopped him were Lomallin and the gods who were Lomallin’s allies.

  Ohaern looked back at the still form of his wife, so small, so frail, her eyes so unnaturally huge as they fluttered open and gave him another stare filled with the agony of helplessness. Fear wrung his heart again, then a surge of tenderness followed. He turned back to Chaluk, closing his eyes and nodding in submission. “As you will, Chaluk. But tell me.” His fingers bit into the shaman’s shoulder. “Will she live? Can she?”

  Chaluk gazed steadily into his eyes, then slowly turned away to look at the young woman. “That is a matter for greater shamans than me,” he said, as if the words were dragged out of him, “but they are not here.” Then he spun on his heel, pushing through the hides that covered the doorway, out into the night air. Ohaern swept the skins aside with a forearm and followed.

  Out in the chill of the early spring night, Chaluk turned back to Ohaern. “Can you not bring Fortor? All the Biri clans are under his care. But his dwelling is four leagues away.”

  Ohaern thought furiously. “It would take all the night, and most of tomorrow . . .”

  “And you might return to find her spirit sped.” Chaluk nodded, lips tight. “And the chief shaman of the nation is farther still.” He turned his head slowly from side to side, holding Ohaern with his gaze. “No, Ohaern—we are not the greatest of shamans, Mardone and I, but we are all that the clan has. Ryl’s illness has surpassed my knowledge, and Mardone’s, and our skill. She is in the gods’ hands now.”

  “What then can I do?” Ohaern cried in agony.

  “Pray,” Chaluk told him. “Stay here, outside the lodge, and pray. If Lomallin hears you and can bring all his forces to combat Ulahane, and if Mardone and I can give Ryl strength enough, the fever may slacken and she may live. Stay, Ohaern, and pray with all your spirit to Lomallin.”

  Ohaern held the shaman’s gaze for a long minute, then bowed his head. Chaluk turned away, stooping through and brushing aside the hides, leaving Ohaern to the cold, crisp air of a night of very early spring, and to the company of his own soul.

  Ohaern took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the chill freshness, and felt a stab of guilt at the relief it gave him—but there was peace out here, peace in gazing at the hills, and the bare oaks and elms climbing their sides to the pines above. He turned slowly, surveying all the land about in a circle, then finally felt his lips quiver with the urge to smile. Chaluk was right—he must let his soul rest, that he might have strength to give Ryl, if the unseen Guide came near her in the night. He filled his spirit with the peace of the deeps of the night, the sweep of the hills, the well-beaten trail leading up over them ...

  And remembered how, in the depths of winter, he had seen Manalo come forth from the trees. Ah, if only he would come down that trail now! If only he were within the forest, if only he would step out from the pines once more ...

  Ohaern waited, hoping against hope, his whole soul surging upward in a silent, unvoiced prayer to Lomallin, that the sage might come, might yet save Ryl ...

  He waited, he waited, the tension drawing his soul out thinner and thinner ...

  But the pines stayed obstinately dark, and the sage came not.

  Ohaern relaxed in defeat; his heart twisted within him. Of course he could not summon Manalo, nor compel Lomallin.

  But he could petition. And he did, all that cold, dark night. His soul yearned upward as Ryl lay bathed in sweat; he prayed to Lomallin while the land was coming alive around him and Ryl was dying; prayed for a miracle, prayed for Manalo ...

  But the sage came not, and at last the sky lightened with the coming of dawn ...

  And the coming of Chaluk, from out of the lodge, to lay a heavy hand on Ohaern’s shoulder and say, “We have done all we could, Ohaern, but it is not enough. Come then, to say good-bye.”

  Ohaern still knelt, rigid as iron. Then, slowly, he rose and went back into the hut.

  Chaluk followed.

  They came forth again as the sun broke above the horizon, to welcome Ryl’s soul to the sky. They came forth in silence, Chaluk in fear and alarm, Ohaern with a face filled with thunder and a heart filled with rage.

  “Ohaern,” the shaman pleaded, “we could do no more.”

  Ohaern chopped his hand sideways in an impatient gesture. “It is not you who deserves my anger, Chaluk. Indeed, you and Mardone made Ryl’s passing as easy
as you might. No, it is not you who merits revenge.”

  “Who, then?” And Chaluk was instantly sorry he had asked, for Ohaern grated, “Lomallin!” and strode away to his forge.

  There he picked up the hammer and struck blow after blow on the anvil, until the hammer broke and the metal bore the imprint of his anger. Still, unslaked, he turned to glare into the fire, silently berating Lomallin, hurling insult after insult at his god—and slowly, as his anger began to abate, the notion of a fitting revenge began, the idea that he could strike back at Lomallin only through Ulahane, and that surely it would serve the human-lover right if Ohaern were to turn to the worship of his rival ...

  He howled, throwing his head back and sinking to the floor. What nonsense, to give obedience and worship to the god who had taken Ryl’s life! But to whom could he turn? What god could he worship? Ulahane was his enemy, and now he swore a deep and dark revenge upon the human-hater, swore that he would fight Ulahane in every way that he could, frustrate his schemes wherever he saw them. He knew which god to fight, well enough . ..

  But with whose power? What god would lend him strength for such a revenge? If Lomallin had failed him, to whom else could he turn?

  Finally, worn out with his rage, he tumbled to the floor of his smithy and wept his way into sleep.

  The excited clamor brought Ohaern back to wakefulness. He looked about him, astonished, and saw the long golden streak of sunset striking through the doorway to stripe the smithy floor. He looked about him, astonished that he still could live when his grief was so great, that the world still could exist when Ryl was gone from it.

  The remembrance of her death made his chest feel suddenly hollow again, as if his heart were gone with Ryl. In a desperate search for distraction, he stumbled to his feet and fled outside.

  The clansmen were gathered around a pony laden with a double pack, accompanied by four men who carried staves and wore long knives at their belts. Everyone was speaking at once, demanding news, wanting to know what goods the men had to trade, or bringing out their own amber beads or caches of the tin that they had dug from the cliffs a day’s travel away. Ohaern watched with dull disinterest, and was amazed that he could feel only leaden sadness when, always before this, the coming of the amber traders had been an occasion for excitement and delight. But what joy could there be in a world without Ryl?