by Kate Forsyth
‘She has lived through twenty-one winters, however, and so in truth is no child. She has been silent and learnt as no child of four can. She has pleased her teachers and now, in the contest of the wooden stave, has struck a blow against one vastly her superior. In the eyes of the Firemaker and the Scarred Warriors, this is proof. Khan is ready to seek out her name and her totem.’
Despite herself, Isabeau’s eyes flew up in excitement. Her great-grandmother made the gesture of assent, and a little shift and murmur ran over the crowd. Isabeau lowered her face again, though her fingers gripped her stave tighter than ever. The naming-quest was one of the most significant events in the life of the Khan’cohbans. Isabeau would never be truly accepted as one of their own until she had undertaken the dark and dangerous journey to the Skull of the World, and returned safely with the knowledge of the White Gods’ intentions for her.
Although Isabeau knew her destiny lay outside the Spine of the World, she still longed to undertake her quest and attain real status within the pride. The storytellers often told the tale of how her famous father Khan’gharad, Dragon-Lord, had won his name. Until Isabeau had survived the journey to the Skull of the World too, she would never truly understand her father and her great-grandmother, or her twin sister, Iseult, whose characters and philosophy had been so moulded by the Khan’cohban way of life.
The queen-dragon had once told Isabeau that she would never find her true calling until she had embraced both her human and faery heritages. Thee must know thyself before thee can know the universe, the queen-dragon had said. Thee must always be searching and asking and answering, thee must listen to the heart of the world, thee must listen to thine own heart. Thee must search out thy ancestors and listen to what they may teach thee, thee must know thy history before thee can know of the future.
So Isabeau had sworn to do as the queen-dragon had commanded, thus accepting a geas that had taken her far away from those that she loved best in the world. She had travelled up to the Spine of the World, spending six months of the year with her newly discovered parents at the Towers of Roses and Thorns, and six months with the Pride of the Fire-Dragon in their snowy mountain home. In the summer she studied the lore of the witches in the great library at the Towers, and in winter she studied the art of the Scarred Warrior and the wisdom of the Soul-Sage with her Khan’cohban teachers. Although she was often lonely and unhappy, Isabeau had worked hard, eager to grasp the secrets of both cultures and philosophies, and now she had her reward in the words of the Firemaker.
Before Isabeau had a chance to feel more than a flush of pride and self-satisfaction, her Scarred Warrior teacher came to her and dissected her performance critically. She had been too quick to attack, he said. ‘The art of the Scarred Warrior is not to fight, but to be still. Not to act, but to react. When the wind blows, the tree bends. When an enemy strikes, the warrior responds. The warrior is not the wind but the tree. You try too hard to be the wind.’
She bowed her head, accepting his words. She knew them to be true.
‘You shall set out on your naming-quest in the morning,’ her teacher said. ‘You must reach the Skull of the World, listen to the words of the White Gods and return to the Haven before the end of the long darkness, or die.’
Isabeau nodded. Fear touched her like an icy finger, but she repressed it sternly. He said then, in an unusually gentle voice, ‘You fought well, Khan. I thank you, for now I am released from my geas and can once more hunt with my comrades. I had thought it would be many years before I could once again skim in the chase.’
‘I thank you,’ Isabeau replied. ‘It is not the art of the student but that of the teacher which struck that blow today.’
Although his fierce dark face did not relax, she knew she had pleased him. He said gruffly, ‘Make your preparations. I shall see you in the morning,’ then dismissed her with a gesture.
Isabeau went then to the fire of the Soul-Sage. The shaman of the pride was sitting in meditation, her legs crossed, her eyes closed. In one hand she held a stone of iridescent blue, flecked with gold. A falcon’s talon hung on her breast from a long leather cord around her neck. It rose and fell gently with her breathing.
Isabeau sat opposite her, closing her own eyes. She felt the soft brush of feathers on her hand as the little elf-owl Buba crept out of the blankets and into her palm. She cupped her fingers around the fluffy white bird, not much bigger than a sparrow, and let herself sink into nothingness. Against her sensitive palm she felt the flutter of the owl’s heart and it was like a drumbeat leading her down into a profound meditation. For a long time she floated in this exquisite nonbeing, her heart and the owl’s heart and the pulse of the universe in perfect rhythm.
So you go in search of your name and your totem, the Soul-Sage said without words.
Isabeau felt another little stir of fear and excitement. Yes, she responded. The Firemaker thinks I am ready.
I shall cast the bones for you, the shaman said after a long silence.
Thank you, teacher, Isabeau responded, her excitement quickening. She opened her eyes. Across the dancing flames the Khan’cohban’s face was inscrutable. She passed the skystone in her hand through the smoke and dropped it back into the little pouch of skin she carried always at her waist. Taking a smouldering stick from the fire, she drew a large circle and quartered it with two swift motions. Then she poured the contents of the pouch out into her hand and brooded over them. Suddenly she threw the bones and stones into the circle without opening her eyes.
Isabeau gazed anxiously at the pattern the thirteen bones had made in the circle. She then looked at the Soul-Sage, who was regarding the pattern intently. After a while the shaman pointed one long, four-jointed finger at the bird’s claw.
‘Sign of the Soul-Sage, a good omen for your quest, so high to the roof of heaven,’ she said. ‘A sign of death as well as wisdom, though, and shadowed by the closeness of the nightstone and the skystone. Change ahead for you, like the change wrought on a landscape by an avalanche. Much danger and struggle.’ Her hand swept down to the fang and the knucklebone and the fiery garnet, and then across to the fish fossil. ‘Dangerous pattern indeed. There are things in your past and in your unknown which shall seize you in their jaws and seek to drag you under.’
The Soul-Sage had said unza, another word with many different meanings. With a gesture out into the distance it meant ‘the unknown place’, anywhere beyond the pride’s boundaries. With a circling gesture over the head it meant ‘the place of nightmares’, the dreaming unconscious mind. With a sweep of the hand towards the heart and then between the brows, it meant secret thoughts, secret desires. The Soul-Sage had used all of these gestures, and Isabeau struggled to understand her meaning. ‘My unknown,’ she repeated with the same gestures, and the Soul-Sage nodded impatiently.
The shaman’s hand then darted to touch the finger bone. ‘Forces in balance, past, future, known, unknown. Puzzling. Quest could fail, quest could triumph.’ She touched the purple and white lumps of quartz, and then the skystone again. ‘I think triumph, though many pitfalls in your path. Beware too much pride, too much impetuosity.’ Her finger circled the fool’s gold. ‘Deception, or perhaps a disguise. Hard to tell. A strange conjunction. Troubling.’
She was silent for a long time, her hands folded again in her lap, then slowly she reached out and stroked the smooth green of the moss agate, tracing the shape of the fossilised leaf at its centre. ‘Harmony, contentment, healing. Calm after the storm. You must be at peace with yourself, whatever you discover yourself to be. A good place for this stone. I think all will be well.’
She looked up at Isabeau, and her fierce face with its seven arrow-shaped scars was even grimmer than usual. ‘Not a good casting. Much remains dark to me. I do not know if you will return from your quest at all, let alone with a good name and totem. I am surprised to find your pattern so incoherent.’ Her finger reached out and touched the triangular scar between Isabeau’s brows. ‘I had thought you already chosen
by the White Gods.’
Her hand dropped and she brooded over the pattern of the bones for a while longer before sweeping them up and purifying them one by one in the smoke of her fire. Isabeau longed to question her, but knew the Soul-Sage had said all she would say. The little frisson of fear passed through her again, raising the hairs on her arms and causing her stomach muscles to clench. Buba gave a little hoot of reassurance and Isabeau hooted back.
The Soul-Sage looked up from her task and gave an odd little smile. ‘But I forget,’ she said. ‘The owl chooses to fly with you. The owl is the messenger of the White Gods, the queen of the night and death and darkness, the Soul-Sage of birds. That is an omen that should not be forgotten.’
Wondering if the shaman meant her words to be a comfort, Isabeau gathered together her shaggy furs and followed the Soul-Sage to the Rock of Contemplation, a small rock ledge that faced east towards the rising sun. She had to meditate here from sunset to sunrise, without food or water or fire, a harsh tribulation in the bitter cold.
The snowstorm passed some time during the evening and the clouds cleared away so she could see the stars, huge and luminous in the overarching sky. Although she sat still, she moved her fingers and toes constantly in their fur-lined gloves and boots, and concentrated on her breathing so that the blood in her veins ran hot and strong.
A while before dawn Isabeau saw, far away, a strange greenish glow that hung across the horizon like a slowly rippling curtain, edged with crimson and occasionally crackling with gold fire. Her own people called that fiery curtain the Merry-Dancers. She stared at it in awe and wonder until at last it sank away into embers. It too was an omen of some kind, though what it foreordained she did not know.
Then dawn came, the stars fading. Colour slowly swept over the vast panorama of billowing cloud and peaked mountains. The clefts of shadowed valleys darkened to indigo, and the little owl blinked her round eyes and crawled within Isabeau’s sleeve to sleep. Isabeau stood and stretched, chilly and stiff but filled with serenity.
The Soul-Sage came up the uneven steps and crouched at the back of the cave, not speaking but scanning Isabeau’s face with eyes so heavily hooded that the colour could not be seen. What she saw seemed to satisfy her, for she nodded curtly and indicated her pupil follow her back down into the cave.
The central bonfire had been built high and the members of the pride crowded about it. The first meal of the day was always communal, and as usual Isabeau was one of the last to receive her portion of gruel and dried fruit, being still nameless and without status. She waited till everyone else had finished, then clustered close with the other children, most not even reaching her waist, holding up her wooden bowl for the scrapings of the large pot. No-one spoke to her or even glanced her way, but Isabeau was not upset by their disregard, being used to it.
Once she had eaten, the Soul-Sage and her Scarred Warrior teacher came and led her to the fire of her great-grandmother, built on a platform of rock at the back of the great cavern. The old woman sat ramrod-straight, her snow-lion cloak gathered close around her thin shoulders. Isabeau was carefully washed with melted snow and rubbed all over with fats scented with the sharp aroma of native hemlock and silver fir. Isabeau endured the ministrations, although the touch of animal fat on her body made her feel rather nauseous. She repressed her revulsion firmly, though, knowing the ceremonial anointing would help protect her against the cold and wet and that any protest would be misunderstood by the pride.
Carefully Isabeau was dressed again, in warm clothes brought by the First of the Weavers. The First of the Woodworkers brought her a new staff hung with red feathers and tassels, and a new skimmer, freshly painted with the ferocious shape of a fire-breathing dragon. Isabeau seized this last gift excitedly, for she had been taught to skim on an old battered sleigh that did not have the same sharp edges or sleek polish as this one, and was therefore much slower and less manoeuvrable.
A small satchel of supplies was given to her next, containing wild grains, dried fruit and several flaps of unleavened bread. There was only enough food to last a few weeks, if rationed carefully, and Isabeau clenched her teeth together, knowing they expected her to hunt for herself.
Next came the First of the Metalworkers and the First of the Scarred Warriors, their hands full of shiny tools and weapons. There was a long skewer, a small axe, a mace with a detachable head which could be swung on a leather strap, and a curved serrated dagger. Isabeau took them with the same ambivalence, part of her excited to be armed like the rest of the pride, the other part filled with trepidation and a sort of fascinated horror at their wicked glitter.
She had often seen the same weapons hanging from her sister’s belt, however. The thought of Iseult brought new courage and resolve, and she hung the weapons on the supple belt of the plaited leather the weaver had brought with pride.
Next to come was the Firekeeper, a tall woman with a stern face slashed with the shape of dancing flames. With no hint of warmth or friendliness, she gave Isabeau a little pouch of fur that was warm to the touch. Within nestled a single live coal and Isabeau made the gesture of heartfelt gratitude before tying the fur pouch to her belt. Everyone knew that Isabeau was kin to the Firemaker and so could conjure fire with a snap of her fingers, but the gifts were all part of the sacred ceremony and Isabeau had once before insulted the Firekeeper grievously by using her abilities without thought.
Last to come was the First of the Storytellers. He inclined his head to Isabeau and said in his deep, resonant voice, ‘When you seek, you cannot find.’
Again Isabeau gestured her gratitude for his advice, though she had been hoping for more than this well-worn riddle which the Khan’cohbans used for everything from finding happiness to drawing upon the coh in battle. He inclined his white head and sat with the other guild leaders around the fire.
Isabeau then knelt before the Firemaker and received her wordless blessing. The old woman drew her great-granddaughter to her and kissed her brow, a gesture of affection most unusual amongst the Khan’cohbans. ‘Be wary,’ she whispered. ‘There are many dangers in the mountains. You have to cross land belonging to other prides so remember your manners. You are kin to the Firemaker, though, and should be shown respect. Know that once you leave the haven the taboos on your Firemaker powers are lifted, but not your debt of honour to the children of the White Gods.’
Isabeau nodded. She knew her great-grandmother was telling her she would be allowed to use whatever powers she had to help her in her quest, but that she must not use her powers against any other Khan’cohban, no matter the provocation. The Firemaker was bound by a rigid code of rules and very rarely drew upon her powers in case she should offend. Isabeau had been confined by the same restrictions, which had sometimes chafed her unbearably, used as she was to drawing upon her witchcraft whenever she wanted.
Isabeau pulled on her boots and satchel, wrapped her coat around her, and gripped her tall wooden staff, the skimmer tied to her back. Any excitement she might have felt was totally overwhelmed by fear. She realised that all she really knew was that she had to journey across the harsh snowy wastes to the Skull of the World, where some gods she did not really believe in would somehow give her a new name.
As she walked towards the mouth of the cave, the pride all bowed to her and made the good luck gesture, and she wondered sombrely if she would ever see any of them again. She cast a despairing look back and saw that both her teachers, the wise shaman and the stern warrior, were following close behind. Although neither gave her any smile of reassurance or comfort, she was both reassured and comforted, and left the dark, stifling warmth of the cave with a slightly lighter heart.
They led her round the side of the haven’s valley and up the steep slope to the crown of the mountain. With the sun at their backs they faced the Skull of the World, which bit into the sky as white and sharp as the incisor of a sabre leopard. Between them and the towering pinnacle were tier upon tier of sharp-pointed, ice-white mountains, their spreading
roots hidden in gloomy shadows. Isabeau stared in cold dismay. How was she to climb all those mountains? How was she to find her path?
‘The fastest route is not always the straightest,’ the Soul-Sage said. She pointed to the north. ‘That way lie the snow plains of the Pride of the Fighting Cats.’
‘The glacier sweeps down from the Skull of the World,’ the Scarred Warrior said. ‘Although it has its dangers, it is much easier to cross than the peaks. There the slopes are smooth and one can skim for long distances before one needs to climb again.’
‘Are they not the enemy of the Fire-Dragon Pride?’ Isabeau asked anxiously.
‘Remember you are on a sacred quest and therefore cannot be challenged by any you pass. They will see your feathered staff and let you alone,’ the Soul-Sage replied.
Isabeau nodded, staring out towards the north. ‘What do I do once I get to the Skull of the World?’ she asked.
‘You must be eaten, swallowed and digested,’ the Soul-Sage replied. ‘Only once the Gods of White have devoured you may you be reborn as an adult.’
Isabeau stared at her. ‘Do you mean that literally or metaphorically?’ she said, unable to prevent her voice from quavering.
The Khan’cohbans did not reply, their faces blank. Their language did not have such subtle distinctions. Isabeau grinned, feeling a little bubble of hysteria floating up her throat. Their expressions only darkened. Khan’cohbans did not have any sense of humour and abhorred any sign of levity in Isabeau. She controlled her face with difficulty and said, ‘How am I meant to know what to do?’
‘Have you not listened to the wisdom of the storytellers? Their tales are not only told to divert but also to teach.’
