Shadows

by Ken Altabef

  Qotirgin crouched beside a protective rock, but it would not be enough. Vulnerable and exposed, he could see nothing.

  Vithrok measured his response exactly. He took the charge of the dagger-tooth on the tail end of his spear, deflecting the great bulk of the animal with a sharp blow to its belly. He grunted under the tremendous weight of the lunging beast. The muscles of his arms wrenched, his legs pushed hard against the ground. One knee buckled under the strain. Through it all, his eyes never left Qotirgin.

  “Down!” he shouted. Qotirgin dropped to the ground, slashing blindly with his spear to no good purpose. Having put off his attacker with the blunt end, Vithrok whirled around, launching his spear at the dagger-tooth soaring toward Qotirgin. This throw, hasty as it was, did not miss. The spear pierced the animal’s throat.

  The cat hissed violently as it tried to cough up the shaft embedded in its throat. Qotirgin stooped and felt around for a way to make the kill. He couldn’t see his way close enough to the writhing animal in the pale starlight. It flailed about, a horror of slashing claws and snapping teeth. The haft of Vithrok’s spear, still imbedded in the cat’s neck, struck Qotirgin behind the knee.

  “Fall back into the line,” said Vithrok, “and go forward. That one’s done. Leave it.”

  He had escaped his own attacker but its raking claws had slashed his shoulder. His flesh was sliced open and bleeding. The icy air felt good on the torn skin.

  When Vithrok eventually reached the flats he saw that his message had been delivered. Makite had already sent the men forward to the sheltering caves in Black Face. He had hung back, overseeing the men across the gap. Makite, Vithrok and Qotirgin were the last. The three would have to make their crossing unprotected.

  “Keep close to me,” said Vithrok.

  As soon as they began their dash across the open space, the growls and roars of the great cats erupted from the darkness. These were meant to startle their fleeing prey, perhaps even to paralyze them with fear. They would have no such effect on the Tunrit. Instead they revealed the positions of the enemy to well-trained ears.

  They were being attacked from both sides at once. “Straight on!” Vithrok shouted to Qotirgin. “Strike low!”

  Qotirgin lunged immediately with his spear. The dagger-tooth passed deftly around the blow, toppling Qotirgin to the ground. Vithrok threw himself at the beast, burying his knife to the hilt in the animal’s shaggy neck. As he withdrew the blade and plunged it down again, he looked to Makite.

  “Behind you!” he called out, but it was too late. Makite had already fallen beneath the lunge, the beast full upon his back. He screamed as the cat tore into him. It was a death scream.

  “How long can we stay here?” asked Qotirgin, indicating the interior of the cave. “We’ve no food.”

  The dagger-tooths had now given up all attempts at stealth in favor of intimidation and bluster. They passed noisily in front of the mouth of the cave, growling and roaring as they went.

  “If we had something to burn, maybe we could drive them off,” suggested another of the Tunrit.

  Vithrok scanned the interior of the cavern but found nothing that might easily burn.

  Outside, a burst of hissing and spitting rang out as two of the cats took to fighting. The tussle ended with a screech of pain and the sounds of the victor noisily chewing on meat, and snapping and crunching on bone.

  “They kill us,” said Qotirgin. “They kill each other. They even kill the mamut.”

  “If something isn’t done about it, we’ll all be killed,” moaned Uivvaq. “We will all be gone.”

  “I won’t allow that,” said Vithrok. The low mood of the men alarmed him. Their soul-lights, often so fiery and strong, appeared dulled by this most recent ordeal. In a show of personal power, he placed his hands on a sizable rock in the center of the room. In the Beforetime it had been a simple thing to make rocks burn, but in this new reality it was much more difficult. Difficult, but not impossible.

  Vithrok sought out the spirit within the stone, a dull gray wisp at rest in the center of the rock. He eyed the naked soul-light with disdain. It seemed nothing more than a feeble fragment of the Beforetime, the merest sliver of the greatness that had gone before. Sleeping was all the rock spirits ever seemed to do.

  “Wake up,” said Vithrok with the power of his mind. “Wake up!”

  The dumb brute stirred only slightly.

  “I want you to burn,” ordered Vithrok. The spirit of the stone shook him off. Vithrok, enraged, dug deeper. His mind had hands of its own, with long sharp fingers that could penetrate the stone, seeking out the soul within. It could not hide from him.

  He dug in. The stone creaked as, twisting, it grated upon itself. “You will burn!” thought Vithrok, mind to mind. His will grappled the soul of the stone, offering it no choice in the matter. The struggle lasted only a short while and although the exertion was great, Vithrok would not relent until the surface of the boulder burst into brilliant orange flame.

  The Tunrit gasped in surprise, then cheered their leader. They crowded around, rubbing frosted hands before the fire. As they rubbed warmth into their faces, Vithrok saw their expressions change. Their weariness and despair receded just a little as a glimmer of hope kindled in the orange light. Eyes alight with the fire’s glow turned toward Vithrok.

  None of others could hear the stone’s silent screams. Vithrok thought it good Tulunigraq was not there. When Vithrok had demonstrated this technique to the other three who had the sight, Tulunigraq was solidly opposed to such behavior. He said that dominating other spirits, no matter how small, disrupted the natural order of things and could only bring disaster. Vithrok had countered that their current circumstance was a far cry from the natural order of things, and so obviously a twisted perversion of the way they were meant to live that they should make good use of any resource available to them. Tugto seemed intrigued by the process, but Oogloon, who could see no spirit but that of the snow, simply shook his head and commented bemusedly that the snow could never be made to burn.

  All of a sudden Savikkigut, the spirit guardian of the dagger-tooths, appeared outside the cave. A deep-throated growl, loud and terrible, shook the earth. It was the voice of supreme confidence, a sound of dominance and sheer joy at killing. The powerful turgat seemed to view the Tunrit with much the same derision as Vithrok had spent on the helpless stone.

  The taunting, arrogant voice of Savikkigut chilled the optimistic mood Vithrok had tried to create. Its guttural tones sent a message to the Tunrit, saying it had enjoyed fine sport this day, that it was never going to stop, and the echoes of its voice would be heard long after all the Tunrit were gone. Faces darkened again and Vithrok began to share their wretched pessimism as well. He had no leverage to bargain with the turgat of the dagger-tooths. He could not threaten to kill all the cats, as he had done with the caribou or the musk ox or the others.

  The cruelly self-satisfied voice of Savikkigut rankled him to the core.

  “It drinks the blood of Makite,” said Qotirgin.

  “Meantime we cower here,” said another.

  “After time passes, they will move away,” said Vithrok.

  “We cower. And die.”

  “No,” said Vithrok, “We are not prey! Not us. There must be a way to win. And I will find it.”

  A few murmurs rose up but sounded unconvincing in the face of Savikkigut’s noisy feasting.

  “We have our own songs,” suggested Uivvaq, who had painted the walls of the cave with pictures from his imagination. He ran an encouraging eye around the circle of men, fortifying their spirits. “Let us sing,” he said. He had a particularly soft voice, high and mellow as opposed to the deep rumbles of the other men. He took up a song of the vast spaces, of the desolation of ice and snow that they faced daily. At first his solitary voice evoked a desperate longing rather than the inspiration he had hoped for. But then Qotirgin joined in. His deep, resonant voice provided perfect counterpoint as it sang of the camaraderie of the Tu
nrit, the teamwork of the hunt and their determination to best the dangers of the wild.

  “How about a song of Makite?” suggested Vithrok.

  Qotirgin lead them in a song of mourning, a slow and low-pitched melody. It was a song of profound loss, as were all their songs, but woven across the fabric of the tune were truths universally understood — unity, courage and joy. Together, their song drowned out the screeching of Savikkigut, at least for a little while.

  Vithrok smiled. The faces of the Tunrit were beautiful to him. They were hard faces, bearded and scarred, whose eyes glowed from deep sockets beneath overarching brows. Even hunched in a dank cave by guttering firelight he saw how very alive they were, alert to any hint of danger, as a Tunrit must forever be in order to survive. They had been gods and now they were men but they had risen to the challenge, just as he had predicted. They had solved the problem of food. With the game turgats bound now to Vithrok’s agreement, food was plentiful. But the cats were killing them. The cats were pure death; the Tunrit could neither stop nor defeat them.

  But the Tunrit were a match for any challenge. As long as they stood together, there would be a way to win. He would find it. They would survive. Vithrok took up the song, adding his deep, powerful voice to the mélange in the cave.

  CHAPTER 18

  SAVIKKIGUT

  Vithrok remembers.

  “You have a strong link to Punnik,” said Vithrok. “I can smell him on you.”

  Tugto snickered. “More likely it’s just these furs you smell.”

  “No. It’s in your soul.”

  Tugto shrugged, admitting the possibility. The two sat cross-legged in the snow on a ridge above the Tunrit camp. When Tugto heaved his massive shoulders, draped in the heavy mammoth skins, it seemed as if the entire world shook.

  “It’s all a matter of concentration,” explained Vithrok. “When Tekkeitsertok drew my soul from my body he brought it to another place.”

  “We thought you were dead.” Tugto indicated the men camped about the entrance to the cave, sharpening their blades and skinning their kills.

  “It seemed that way,” said Vithrok, “because you saw an empty shell. And that’s all the body is, without the soul. When Tekkeitsertok forced my inuseq from my body the pain was incredible. I didn’t know what was happening, but I paid attention. Later, when he returned me, I paid more careful attention. He did not mean to give me this great gift. I took it from him.”

  Tugto shrugged again. “If you show me the way, I will try.”

  “The way is simple, but it is also hard. Even so, I am sure you can do it Tugto. You are the strongest of any of us.”

  Tugto narrowed his eyes beneath bushy brown eyebrows. “That is flattery.”

  “No, that is important. In order to leave the body, you must believe you can do it. There can be no doubt.”

  Tugto met Vithrok’s eyes with a sly smile. “You’ve done it?”

  “Many times.”

  “Well, then certainly I can do it!” he rumbled. They both laughed. The sound heartened the quiet night, a clear sky with stars twinkling above. “Just show me the way.”

  Vithrok nodded. “The body is nothing. It’s just the tool. The mind holds all the strength and the power. You have to let go the body. Leave behind this reality of snow and ice and barren crags. It is nothing. There is another reality, a beautiful and mysterious world.”

  Tugto’s eyes flashed intrigue under their heavy brows.

  “Yes,” Vithrok said, “The world of the spirits. When it opens before you it will seem surprising and new, yet in some ways ancient and familiar. There is a profound joy in the experience, but you must not lose control. I will be there. I will try to guide you. Remember, this voyage is taken not for play but for serious purposes. We must find Punnik.”

  Tugto grunted his approval. “Where you lead, I will follow.”

  “The way to leave the body behind is this: close your eyes, forget everything around you as if it isn’t real.”

  “Easily done,” muttered Tugto. “Snow and ice. No great loss.”

  “That’s the idea,” said Vithrok encouragingly. “Let the mind control the journey. Now slow your breathing — this helps prepare the way.”

  Tugto bent his oversized head forward, resting the long sloping forehead on his clenched hands.

  Vithrok remarked, “It’s helpful to chant something. It might be best to call its name.”

  “Punnik, Punnik, Punnik.”

  “The rhythm isn’t right,” said Vithrok. “It has to match your breathing. Slow and steady. Try this: Punnik, hear me. Guide me. Punnik, hear me. Guide me.”

  They worked on it for a time, and Vithrok paid close attention. Subtle alterations in Tugto’s soul-light enabled him to guide Tugto toward the proper mental state. It was easier than he thought. Tugto was the perfect test subject, an ineffable powerhouse of determination. Once he fixated on an idea, he wouldn’t let it go. He took direction well. His chant became a true power chant, automatic and hypnotic. Tugto’s massive shoulders slumped, his mind relaxed, the body completely forgotten.

  “Good,” whispered Vithrok, careful not to break the mood. “Now you must make the jump. The first time is difficult, because you’re not familiar with what lies on the other side. It’s a leap in spirit, away from the useless body and into parts unknown. Do it! Go!”

  Of all of the Tunrit, Tugto was a staunch pragmatist. His feet rested firmly on the ground; taking such a chance was difficult for him.

  “Let go!” urged Vithrok. “Fly! Remember how we used to fly?”

  Tugto’s shoulders trembled slightly and then fell limp. Vithrok watched the man’s soul take flight as it streaked blue-white up into the night sky.

  “Glorious,” whispered Vithrok. Taking a deep breath, he slipped out of his own body. Although he had made the ilimarpoq several times before, he had always made the trip alone. He feared that he might not be able to follow Tugto. Perhaps each spirit flew to its own hidden reality and could meet no other, or perhaps Tugto would already be far away. As far as Vithrok had learned, physical distance meant nothing in the spirit world.

  His spirit-man sailed up into the night sky leaving his own body an empty shell perched in the snow beside Tugto. His fears faded away. For a moment, he was himself lost in the ecstasy of it, flying free, bathed in the great white light and the fondling warmth, but Vithrok turned those feelings aside. As to locating Tugto, the big brute was making such loud, joyful noises it was impossible not to find him.

  It seemed to Vithrok that Tugto enjoyed the thrill of his first soul flight a bit too much. He sailed about the ether, careening here and there, completely out of control.

  “Tugto!” Vithrok said. “Remember what we came here for. Our people depend on us. It’s for them we make this journey.”

  Tugto continued his errant flight, making great whoops of delight. His inuseq spun and weaved amid the ether, spilling cascades of tiny silver bubbles this way and that. Vithrok kept close behind him as the two swam in the sky. Tugto, so happy and free, was like an unstoppable juggernaut. His spirit-form had the same shape as his corporeal body, huge and square, swathed in the bulky mamut furs he always wore.

  “Concentrate!” Vithrok said, following Tugto’s erratic, blissful course across the starry sky. “Our brothers need us now.”

  Still Tugto dove and frolicked until Vithrok thought it might be hopeless.

  Suddenly Tugto stopped and turned toward Vithrok. His eyes were clear, his face in serene repose. “I heard you the first time,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  They hovered above the vast spirit-plain below. It was clear from his wild-eyed gaze that Tugto still desired to roam. “So many places to explore…”

  “There will be time,” replied Vithrok. “We seek Punnik now.”

  “Yes, Punnik,” Tugto agreed. “But where will we find him?”

  “Where would he be?” asked Vithrok. “Relax your mind and feel your way.”

  “On a plain,” s
aid Tugto. “On a vast rippling plain with open spaces and plenty of tall grasses.”

  “Yes!” said Vithrok. “Yes.”

  The scene around them melted away. The expanses of snow and ice dissolved, the tundra reforming itself into a long, grassy flat of open country. In the distance the spirits of several mamut grazed lazily along the heath. The animals moved so slowly they appeared like large gray boulders strung out in a meandering line. At the head of the line went their great protector, the turgat Punnik.

  Punnik was a gigantic figure, shaggy and indistinct. As Vithrok and Tugto zoomed closer Punnik’s massive size became ever more apparent, while its shape came no clearer. It posed a menacing sight — a tremendous beast striding along the tundra. Each step made an incredible thumping sound like a great beater striking the drum of the earth, sounding the same dull note over and over. Thump. Resignation. Thump. Humility. Thump. Forbearance.

  Another sound — Punnik sang softly as it went, its trunk swaying from side to side. Its song was a series of deep rumbles, produced by a profoundly sensitive soul. The melody echoed across the vast plain. It told the story of the mamut, a tale of toil and strife, of long lonely treks across lands of desolation and darkness, and a stoic struggle against the inevitable pull of oblivion.

  The eerie lament, punctuated by the thumping, plodding footfalls, was a song of great power.

  “We don’t belong here,” said Tugto, his voice faltering slightly. “We are as nothing, grains of sand adrift in a world of such gigantic spirits. What can we do here?”

  “Even such a gigantic beast feels a thorn in its foot,” said Vithrok. “We are not so insignificant as you imagine. Speak. You have a connection to him. He will hear you. I am certain of it.”

  Tugto and Vithrok came to ground before the massive figure. Tugto raised his arms in greeting. “Punnik! Punnik, great spirit of the mamut. Hear us!”

  The thundering fall of the turgat’s footpads drowned out all sound, just as its determined advance threatened to stamp out the two tiny spirit-men. The danger was real. Vithrok imagined the other Tunrit finding their lifeless bodies kneeling in the snow. Such a fate was certain if the huge flat disc came crashing down on them, crushing their spirit-forms.