by Gabi Moore
Laova smiled as the wind lulled, just for a spell, and the full heat of the passing sun shone on her white face and neck. Not this time.
It was still day, maybe for the last, but for at least a few more minutes.
It wasn’t dark. Not yet.
***
They had set camp together seven times before this night, as was custom. Seven nights, seven companions. Tonight, the short tents were constructed, the fire lit, and a small supper was ready to prepare. All of their party sat about the fire, but the attention was upon the Hunt-Leader and the Initiate, the adult-to-be.
Laova loved to hunt, and had known without doubt what she wanted when the time came to choose her future life. On the twentieth dark moon of each life, a man or woman was born, and expected to make a decision. Laova chose to become a hunter; nothing else was possible. Her life would wither without the freedom of the woods and mountains, and the feel of her spear, of her bow, in hand. So she had told the clan Chief, who had bowed her head in approval.
Excited, Laova sat opposite Rell and tried not to fidget.
It was full dark, now, and snow still slanted and sifted down around the oasis of heat that was their little fire. The sky overhead swelled black with sloughing clouds, not a star to be seen, nor the silver-drop face of the moon. Rell cleared her throat and began the short ritual; the Hunt was beginning.
“Laova,” she pronounced clearly. “Tonight begins the twentieth long night of your life, and a decision is before you. Make it now. Who will you be?”
Of course, the decision had been made months ago. She kept eye contact with Rell, although she nearly let her betraying gaze slip away across the fire, to someone who had only watched her so intently in her fantasies. A flush of heat crept up her back beneath her wools and furs, but Laova replied resolutely.
“Laova, of the Hunters.”
Rell smiled; as always, Laova felt a pang of gentle envy as she did so. Rell the Hunt-Leader was an older woman, this being her thirtieth-something dark moon, but she was beautiful and fierce as a mountain cat. Her smile was not warm but precise, as if the gods had carefully crafted her face for only unexpected loveliness. But more, she was crowned with shining orange tresses that ripped a hole in the dark of the night as if with the coming of dawn. Laova’s own river-bed brown locks looked quite dull in comparison.
But as they shared a smile, Laova’s admiration turned to camaraderie, and she smiled in return.
“Then join us, Laova,” Rell replied; a coy tease between stoic ritual and the thrill of a beginning—something new and alive—thickened in the air. “Be a Hunter with us. Track with us. Fight with us. Live with us. Die with us.”
“I will,” Laova promised.
“As you are born tonight a Hunter, so you will live, and so you will die.”
“I will,” Laova agreed.
“The clan’s life, and our life. Our life, and your life. Your place is decided, and you must live by it.”
“I will,” Laova breathed, grinning.
A roaring cheer went up between them, a joyful howl like the song of wolves. It echoed briefly through the night, unafraid—just this once—of what might hear. It was a fearful life they lived, aware of the harsh world whose heart they rested within. The cold, bitter, endless winter. The ravaging of bear and wolf and mountain cat. The threat of other tribes, other clans that sometimes grew desperate, dangerous, in the mad grip of the long night…
But here and now, Laova felt again the promise of the sun, and curiously felt in her soul that still, even now, it was not dark. Not yet.
“Time for the story,” Ghal announced gleefully.
All of them groaned. Even solemn Rell rolled her eyes.
“Must we?” Khara teased. She gave Laova a wink across the flames.
“Yes,” Ghal grouched. It was good-natured grouching, however, and good-natured teasing. They all knew the way of things. Each new adulthood must begin with remembering.
Now that attention was off of her, Laova let her eyes wander, let them fall heavily where they’d longed to go.
He was perfect. Nemlach.
This was his twenty-seventh long night, so he was a little older than herself. He’d never married; by some immense luck, few girl-babes had been born in the years near him, so men of the clan had sometimes been left solitary. Some had chosen to leave and marry women of other tribes; Laova was fervently relieved Nemlach had not been one of them.
His hair was black, like the night sky over their campfire. Carved white stones woven into braids were picked out like stars, and Laova had always longed for the opportunity to examine them more closely. His hair was wild compared to his beard, which he kept short and neat. It cupped a long, dusky face, a quiet face, a face Laova had spent much time examining with both her eyes and heart.
She knew she was young to be coveting such a fine man. He was a respected Hunter, and beloved of the Grandmother. It was said that Nemlach had been expected to submit himself to the ways of the spirits when his initiation came; instead, he’d chosen to hunt, and no one except the Grandmother could regret it. The Grandmother was their link with the gods, their shaman, and she accepted few into the House of Spirit.
Laova was also relived at this; the Spirit-speakers could marry, but rarely did. It was unlucky.
Some happenstance of fortune had brought him here, unattached, available, within her grasp tonight. Just the thought sent an excited shiver across her skin. And now that she was an adult, Laova was permitted to act on her feelings. If she dared.
While she’d been gazing with embarrassing frankness at Nemlach, Ghal had situated himself and now cleared his throat.
“We live in the shadow of greatness,” he began.
Without warning, Nemlach’s blue eyes—clear and blue as ice—crossed the fire and met Laova’s. She was so shocked she froze, staring at him, motionless, like a deer locked eyes with a wolf. In her mind, Laova waited in agony for him to smirk or frown. He did neither; to her surprise a tiny, shy, welcome smile turned up one edge of beard, and he gave his attention back to Ghal and the Losing Story once more.
Her heart punched at the inside of her ribcage as Laova did the same.
“Before us, there were the Eldermen,” Ghal was continuing. This role was his because in their group, he was the oldest, at forty-two dark moons. Laova couldn’t imagine. Such years seemed so far away.
Ghal peered at them all, the grays in his hair and beard catching the firelight. “The Eldermen—and women—were not as we are. They were powerful, masters of this world. They could turn even the long night into day. Their houses were mountains, and their villages were thick with more of their people than you could imagine. No sickness was beyond their reach to heal. Even the Summoning God of Death agreed to wait on their will, and their lives stretched outward, endless, like long summer days.
“They understood the turns of the earth, and looked beyond to see other worlds, realms only the gods were meant to know.”
No one present had heard this tale any less than a thousand times. It was told at this coming-of-age rite, and also at the naming of children, at the deathbed of elders, in times of crisis and times of joy. The words were worn and rehearsed, but at this part, there was always a coil of something slippery and cold in Laova’s gut. They all felt it; it betrayed them each in the stiffness of their smiles, the down-casting of their eyes.
“They say the gods turned against them,” Ghal murmured, shaking his head. “They say the tides of sea and winds of storm came crashing down on their great cities. They say the earth opened her mouth in a war cry and swallowed their world. I dare not ask the gods for the truth.
“But we remember always the lost Eldermen,” Ghal recited the beginning of the end of the short, terrifying tale. “We remember than they climbed too high, and forgot that they were not gods.”
Silence fell. The fire crackled low, and Bamet added a few branches of deadwood. The flames exulted and raised praising arms upward, lively in the midst of a su
dden stillness.
On her left still sat Rell; on her other side, Taren turned to Laova and grinned.
“Well, you’re an adult now. Before you know it, it’ll be your turn to tell that old story.”
Laova shoved him playfully. “You expecting to die, soon? You’d better pay attention and start practicing.”
This seemed almost absurd; Taren was only one year older than she, and to imagine either of them as old as Ghal was like imagining herself to be as tall as a tree. There was something impossible and odd about it. Something… uncomfortable.
“Hey!” Bamet tossed a stick at Nemlach. “Give us a song, you badger!”
Nemlach smiled and muttered something about tomorrow’s early start.
As one, all of them protested and insisted and pleaded. It didn’t take long to convince him, and Nemlach sighed dramatically and stared into the fire, thinking.
Laova held her breath.
His first notes rumbled out wordlessly like summer thunder. Full and rich and sweet, Laova had nothing to compare it to. There was nothing in her life so wonderful, except, perhaps, Nemlach himself. His voice as it rung out was better than the bonfires of feast days. Better than the smell of the pine trees, or the glittering light of stars. It was as if the All-Mother had rolled together the warmth of her parents’ arms, the familiarity of the common-house hearth, and the unmeasured majesty of the sweeping mountains and given it to Nemlach to sing with.
The opening tones became words, long, drawn syllables in mournful cadence. Laova’s chest squeezed as she watched him, and she wanted him. If he would have her, she wanted him.
His mournful, hopeful melody strung outward into the dark night and wrapped them in a magic, and Laova forgot to stop staring, forgot to worry that he might catch her open gaze again. This did not happen; Nemlach’s eyes were fixed on the fire as he sang, concentrating, or perhaps fighting his own stubborn instinct to avoid attention. Either way, Laova was free to gaze, and dream, and wish.
Nemlach’s song tonight was a story, as many of their clan’s songs were. It was the tale of the Bear and the Summer-Woman, of love that died with the cold breath of winter. But, if only the sun agreed to return after the long night, there was hope, at least. Hope that the two could meet again in the spring.
It ended in a gentle fade of heart-rending beats, and Laova wished he could only continue, endlessly…
“It time for you to rest, Laova,” Rell told her with another small smile. She patted Laova’s arm. “You take no watch this first night. Go, and sleep. When we have rested, the Hunt will begin.”
Laova nodded. Her fellow hunters were not ready to sleep, so alone she crossed to one of two low hide tents lashed between the gnarled fir trees and crawled inside. Of all they carried, the warm hides that formed the tent walls were among the most important. It was not unheard of that a hunter might freeze in their sleep if they slept exposed. Another hide was laid out over the packed snow, and Laova settled down to rest, to sleep, to prepare for the sunless morning that waited.
Sleep was playing coy tonight, however. Laova sighed and loosed her scarf from her neck. In the small space, her heavy winter skins were too hot for thinking of Nemlach. But think of him she did, imagining him there with her. No one saw much more than hands and faces during winter, but she’d seen him take off his shirt in the summer… Her hands twitched, thinking of all that muscle, the rippling, dark skin that spent most of the year beneath his layers of warm clothing. She longed to see the rest, to have her imagination satisfied.
She’d never been with a man. Laova tried to avoid admitting this, as she could offer no excuse or proper explanation. No one in the clan waited so long to act upon natural desires, natural needs. But for her, it had simply never happened. Before Laova realized, she was twenty moons old and a maid. It was embarrassing.
But then, she couldn’t deny a part of her situation was her own doing. She’d been watching Nemlach for years without the courage to approach him. It was viewed as strange for an older man or woman to couple--even temporarily—with a teenager, so he’d seemed quite beyond her reach. In truth, he likely would have refused her out of nothing more than propriety.
Longing for him had surely blocked the chance to explore sexuality with someone her own age, Laova realized. It continued now, here in this tiny tent on her ritual hunt. In her head, she wished him to come to her, to open the flap of the tent and crawl in with her, to kiss her, run his lips down her throat, loose the ties of her hide clothing.
Heat flushed up Laova’s neck; it suffocated her, made her legs weak. She imagined his beard against her skin, running her fingers through his thick hair. His weight, his scent, his body against hers, against and then inside, inside, hot and rumbling like his voice in song. His voice, speaking her name—singing it—in her ear, only for her…
The tent flap rustled. Laova sat up, shaking. Was it possible?
Taren smiled in at her, and Laova half-relaxed.
“Still awake?” he asked as he settled in by her side. Laova nodded.
“I’m too excited to sleep.” It was, after all, the truth.
Taren nodded, folding an arm under his head. “I was too excited to sleep this time last year. Do you know what you want to hunt?”
Laova grew very still, trying to think up something to say. Taren saw it at once; thankfully, he mistook her reaction.
“I don’t think anyone is really sure the night before,” Taren assured her. He pushed back strands of his long sandy hair absently. “I kept thinking I might try to slay a mountain cat, but I ended up with a nice elk, instead. We’d have to move away from the mountains for elk, though, I think.”
“Yeah,” Laova agreed. “I’ll know by tomorrow.”
Taren lay there grinning at her a moment, and Laova knew what he was thinking. They both always knew what the other was thinking. They’d grown together, played and learned together, and were more like siblings than Laova even felt from her own two elder sisters. Perhaps it was because she could run in the forest and hunt and laugh freely with Taren, who had a wild spirit, as she did.
Or maybe it was because, as Taren believed, they were meant for each other.
“You can marry now,” he murmured, hushed.
Laova groaned and pulled her hood over her face.
“I’m serious, Laova!”
“That’s the worst of it.”
She peered with one brown eye out from under the hood; he was trying to look serious, and maybe he was succeeding, because she felt it impossible to joke at a time like this. Taren was closer to her than anyone. Her lust after Nemlach was insatiable, but she really knew Taren. His likes and his needs and his life. Perhaps too well, Laova thought, looking into his brown eyes, so much like hers.
Taren inched closer. “We’ve never been able to talk about it seriously.” He brushed a lock of dark hair out of her eyes. “Even I haven’t been able to stay serious. But do you really think it would be so bad? To marry? Me?”
Wasn’t that the question! Laova had been asking herself for months, would it really be so bad? The answer, of course, was no. She did love Taren, but what she felt for Taren and what she felt for Nemlach were two opposite creatures. Neither would depart, but where one felt like the comfort of a loyal pup, always near and happy, the other felt like the insistent press of a wolf at her door.
It would be easier to speak freely of this if she could at least decide which man was which.
Taren moved closer still, and Laova allowed it. She was curious, always curious, and her scalding dreams of Nemlach had left her wanting. Taren was a different sort of man, younger and slimmer, lighter of skin and hair, with nothing of the beard that Laova imagined brushing against her skin, coarse and intimate.
Taren’s hand lined her jaw, his long fingers melting into the hair at the base of her skull. Laova’s heart picked up a sprinting beat, gaining speed, sending blood pounding through her ears. She’d never lain with a man, but she’d kissed before, and she knew she liked
it. And Taren’s kiss was just as she expected: smooth and fast and dizzy with need.
Inside the little tent, it was growing warm, indeed. Taren held her close—no easy task, with both of them padded with thick hides—and rolled her onto her back, propped on his elbow next to her, not on top of her, not yet…
That possibility was eminent, and it shot through Laova’s mind, what was left of it, as she moved her lips to Taren’s jaw, clutched her fingers in his hair. The sounds he made brought out a wild and feral instinct in her, primal as the hunt, primal as a fresh kill.
For a moment the clouds seemed to roll away, and Laova saw how happy her life with Taren could be.
And then she recalled the other hunters just outside the tent. Sex was a natural part of life, and no one would do more than tease the two of them come tomorrow. Except Nemlach. He wouldn’t tease. He would just go about his morning respectfully, sadly, or worse, with utter indifference.
Like cold water to the face, this image broke over her and Laova drew away from Taren.
He frowned, puzzled. Rightfully so, Laova thought ruefully. Why had that thought come to mind now? Why had she thought of Nemlach now, of all times?
“What’s wrong?” Taren asked, panting.
“It’s just… I’m just… I’m… I’m… anxious,” Laova stammered. “I… I can’t stop thinking about tomorrow.”
But Taren knew. Laova couldn’t bear to look at him, afraid he’s see the truth in her face; but not-so-deep down she knew it was herself she was trying to spare, because Taren always knew what she was thinking.
He waited, but she had nothing more to say. Taren drew nearer; Laova flinched and didn’t know why. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, but didn’t try for more.
A moment later the tent flap shifted, a wash of cold burst in as Taren stepped out, and then Laova was alone again. Alone.
Tears welled up in her eyes, and Laova huddled into her skins.
