Life Giver

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by Lisa Lowell


  As he walked through the snow, Yeolani thought again about why he was so reluctant to give up his name. He clung like a barnacle to the memory of his parents, and he wanted to retain his name for their sake. Somehow giving up his name also meant embracing the magic and all the manipulation it would do to his life. On the other hand, how stubborn could he be if he deliberately did not remain anywhere for long? Perhaps Honiea had hexed him and made it impossible to stay where he’d settled. Maybe he just didn’t want to give up his past. Either way, he found himself again on his own, scrounging for food and hoping for shelter.

  Not that there wasn’t something to learn and experience. He had never seen mountains before, and as the trees thinned before him, he felt a sense of awe and a latent fear. How could anything so big exist? He strained to comprehend the vastness of the Land he had never explored. He thought of Honiea’s husband and wondered again at the magic encased in a mountain. Avalanches he could now somewhat comprehend, and perhaps earthquakes. But what about volcanoes? How terrifying must that be? The sheer size of the closest peak and those that grew up like weeds beyond it, they humbled him. What kind of magician would Vamilion be if he ‘controlled’ mountains?

  At the base of the nearest peak, the forest thinned and, so too, the opportunities for chopping wood in exchange for a night in someone’s barn or on a warm hearth. He dearly wanted to learn to hunt so he wouldn’t have to beg and hope he was within a day’s walk of the next cabin in the forest. Yeolani wanted to learn more than just a night’s lessons would afford him, and he needed someone to teach him. Where could he find someone willing to teach him how to survive?

  Yeolani had not seen a cabin in three days when the forest abruptly ended there at the foot of a sheer face of a mountain and he had to stop. He felt only the bitter cold of deep winter, even through his father’s coat into which he had finally grown. His hand-made boots needed patching, and he had no more food. He knew the next human he came across had better be a kindly soul, or Yeolani was going to die out here. Somewhere deep inside, he suspected that Honiea would never let him freeze and he could always call her by candle, but he was stubborn there too. He would need to be dead before he would humble himself that far.

  Yeolani walked the timberline for more than an hour, and just when the sun began to sink, he saw the telltale smoke of a cabin just under the forest rim. He struggled through the knee-deep snow, trying to beat the sun behind the trees, but didn’t make it and had to grope in the dark until he reached a small, humble home in the shadows. He could smell bread and some kind of meat roasting even from outside as he pounded on the door. Thankfully, the cook, an old man, came to the door with an ax and a suspicious look on his wrinkled face but eased his grip on the hatchet as soon as he saw Yeolani’s weathered and weak figure.

  “Please, sir, I’m looking for a place to sleep tonight. I can work in exchange.”

  The old man peered past his guest on the stoop as if he expected other, less savory visitors might take this opportunity to rush the door, but seeing none, the old man waved Yeolani inside.

  “Yer a sad wisp of a lad,” the old man grumbled. “What brings you out on a night like this? It’s bitter cold.”

  “Yes, sir, I know. I’ve been walking for months. I need someplace to winter over and find work,” Yeolani replied, leaning toward a warm hearth and the wonderful smells emanating from there.

  “What’s your name, boy,” growled the man in a voice that must have once been powerful but now sounded more like gravel at the bottom of a creek.

  “Yeolani, sir,” he replied and then bit his lip. He hadn’t meant to give away his name like that, intending to do as Honiea had admonished him, but it was too late now.

  “You can call me Gil,” the gentleman announced. “And you can serve that bread up, and by the time you’re done, that soup should be ready, though I’ve not made much. Enough for me.” With that, the ancient man settled himself at his table, easing painfully into the seat as if his arthritis might not let him rise again.

  Obediently, Yeolani jumped to the duties the old man had given him. He found an entire loaf that would surely make up for the lack of soup for two and cut it up, finding a pad of butter up near the one window in the cabin where it would be cooler. Next, he found a bowl and then fished out his own dishes to supplement the oldster’s humble crockery and set the table. He then used a piece of wood to hook the pot off the embers on the fire and was pleased to see that there would be more than enough for both of them. He dished them both up, and by that time, the old man was smiling, creating deeper valleys in the weathered grin.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen someone move that fast. You must be hungry if you’ll work that quick for your supper. What other work have you been doing, Yeolani?”

  Over a wonderful supper of venison stew and hard bread, Yeolani told Gil about his work on the ship and how he had left because of the seasickness and then his time in the wood cutting crew, skipping over his interludes with Honiea. “When my friend was nearly crushed by that log, I decided that there must be safer ways to make a living in the forest,” he added to explain why he now found himself with no vocation in the forest in the middle of winter. “That’s when I decided I need to learn some more skills, and I’ve been looking for a teacher ever since.

  “And what kind of skills would you find useful?” Gil asked frankly.

  Yeolani looked around the bare cabin, his eyes watchful for clues as to how a man alone in the woods could survive to be Gil's age, and he saw plenty to inform him. The bed in the corner boasted a bearskin blanket and snowshoes hung by the door. A bow and quiver of arrows, as well as a hooked staff Yeolani couldn't name, rested beside the hearth. Finally, on the floor by the single chair, a mound of wood shavings hinted at many a winter evening carving dishes, tools, and whatnots.

  "Can you teach me to hunt, sir? I could live on my own then, instead of leaning on the kindness of others," Yeolani blurted out, hoping he'd read the setting correctly.

  "What?" the old man half gasped, half chuckled. "You hardly know me, and I certainly don't know you. Hunting is a long-term prospect. I don't know if you are capable of learning, boy, and you don't know if I can teach."

  "But you can hunt, can't you, sir?" Yeolani protested.

  Gil's gnarled hands rested on the tabletop, and he tried to hide the tremor in them. "I used to hunt. Now I can barely tie a snare. Both skills I know from my childhood, but I've never taught anyone to do them. And what of you, boy? You've not learned much in your few years. How do I know you'll be able to learn?"

  "You could try me," insisted Yeolani. "I learned how to fish and sail, but there's no water here to demonstrate. I learned how to cut timber, and no one complained about my ability to work hard. I will learn to hunt if you can teach me, but I have to find a teacher. And…and…and frankly, sir, you look like you could use someone to do the chores around this place. I will do whatever you ask me to do, cut and haul, cook and clean if you will teach me to hunt."

  Gil straightened up out of his perpetual hunch and gave Yeolani a piercing glare with his watery gray eyes. "Boy, will you stick with the training? How long did you last with the wood crew? Months? How about with the fishing? Did you master it, or did you give up because you were sea-sick? Something else might just pop up and make you think you cannot do this either. What if you faint at the sight of blood or get squeamish at the thought of killing? Am I to do all this training and have you give up halfway? If I want to teach this, I won’t just have you into the woods and let you take a stab at it. You must learn how to make your bow, your arrows. Your eyesight, your hearing, your sense of smell might not be up to the task of tracking your prey. You must master how to clean a carcass and tan the hides and preserve the meat. You need to learn the rope tricks and how to tie the knots. It will take years. Are you willing to commit for that long?"

  Yeolani hadn't anticipated that much of a challenge, but again he couldn't survive without these skills, and the old m
an obviously knew the details needed. So, Yeolani had to ask himself those very questions. Would he stick it out? Could he endure the training and discipline? Would the old man survive long enough to finish the job seemed like a more apt question. Gil looked to be on his last legs, and if he could barely tie a snare, how did he expect to teach Yeolani what he wanted to know?

  But Gil seemed his only option, and Yeolani acknowledged it. "Sir, I promise, I will work as hard as I can, and you'll find no fault in my effort. I might not get it at first, but I will keep at it until you are satisfied," Yeolani swore. "But I have no way to assure you but with time. What can I do but give you my word?"

  Gil's eyes disappeared into the wrinkles around them as his serious glare changed into a chuckle. "You can wash up the dishes then. The creek is frozen, so I've been using snow for water. The bucket's beside the door."

  And that's how Yeolani came to reach his adulthood in the shadow of the mountains. He did as he promised: worked hard, obeyed instructions, and learned as quickly as his bright mind could master. Gil, for his part, worked Yeolani with dedicated precision. During the remaining winter months, he guided his young protégé in knapping his own arrowheads and stripping the straightest shafts for his arrows. They gathered feathers for fletching only after a long trek to a little lake hidden between two mountains where they collected cast feathers from the summer before.

  On the way, Yeolani worried that Gil wasn't up to such a trip, but the old man insisted and wouldn't allow the process to be taught out of order. "As I learned, so shall you," was all he spoke of the matter.

  Curiosity piqued, Yeolani asked about who had taught Gil his hunting skill, but the old man avoided the question or muttered something about his father. It seemed strange that such an old man once might have been a boy like him. He didn't seem to have any stories from his past or family to speak of and again resisted conversation on the matter. For his own part, Yeolani knew not to suggest it as a topic; he had his own reasons for not speaking of family.

  It was on the trip to the lake while trying to sleep under the stars that Yeolani remembered his former issues with the fairies and carefully schooled himself not to go looking at them as they camped out in the night. He didn't want Gil knowing how the fairies hovered, but it surprised him that the creatures also hovered over the old man's head like a crown of light, though the gentleman never seemed to notice. What had Gil done with his life that the fairies would be interested in him?

  After their week-long trip to the lake and back, with Gil instructing him on how to look for animal trails and other signs along the way, Yeolani next undertook the effort to make a bow, a far more tedious task. The bow had to be made to the person, crafted specifically for their precise size and strength, and since both those things were still changing on him, Yeolani's work inevitably failed. Gil insisted that this first bow would only be for practice, and that once he stopped growing, Yeolani could reliably make a more permanent weapon.

  When spring finally arrived, Gil had him outside in the sun practicing with the old forester's weapon which took tremendous strength to draw, let alone strike with any accuracy. It might not fit him, but this bow would teach Yeolani the technique and strengthen the needed muscles until he could utilize his own weapon on which they worked in the evenings. Twice during the spring, Yeolani had spied deer wandering near the cabin, but Gil would not let him try to shoot at them.

  "You'll only scare them away. They don't feel in danger here and later that will make your job easier," was his explanation. Yeolani grumbled about it but let it go. He trusted Gil despite the restrictions.

  Finally, as summer came into full swing, Yeolani finished his bow and hoped that now he would be allowed to go hunting. He practiced against a target set against a tree and pulled his own arrows back and fired, marveling at how much easier it was to deal with his own equipment compared to that of the old man. He practiced direct and lofted shots, went to the forest edge where the wind swept off the mountain and learned how to compensate for breezes. Then he even tried his hand at shooting at fish in the creek. When he brought back a trout for dinner instead of the dried venison they had eaten all year, Yeolani foolishly expected some appreciation.

  "Don't like fish," grumbled the old man and insisted that venison would do well enough for their meal. Rebelliously, Yeolani cooked the fish he had caught for himself and served his mentor his venison too. When Gil groused at the waste of cooking two meals, Yeolani insisted that now he wanted to go hunting.

  "I've done everything you asked, but now our stores of venison are getting old, and I'm tired of it. Can't we go hunting and eat something fresh?"

  "Something fresh…yes, berries. We'll find them on the way to the best hunting site I've found. Bring the bucket."

  It took hours of walking and a full bucket of berries before they got to the spot where Gil insisted they could hunt. And then Gil required him to rub the berries on his clothes, apparently masking some of the scents of man. Finally, the old man's definition of hunting meant climbing up a tree to a convenient branch and watching from the heights. While Yeolani had no inherent fear of heights, having been up in the rigging of his father's ship for years, hunting prey from a height seemed somewhat wrong. He didn't complain about the requirement, but he didn't enjoy the buzzing fairies that seemed to relish the berries, and he almost fell out the tree twice trying to swat them away.

  Finally, at dusk, with the sun putting the world below in silhouette, Yeolani saw movement between the golden towers of trees. The nearly bare ground left little to rustle, but the delicate thread of a buck pacing through the woods made Yeolani's heart beat faster. Gil's constant drilling chanted through his mind. Sight just above the shoulder mark, hold your breath, stop to sense the wind, point toward your mark, and draw only when you are ready to shoot. Yeolani's eyes followed the tawny shape, watching the play of muscle under its thin fur. The buck had not yet come into full view of his place in the trees, but any closer and Yeolani’s shot would have to come down on its back rather than down its neck, striking the heart. Still not breathing, Yeolani drew until the string brushed his cheek and released.

  True to all the training, the arrow sank into the very spot he had aimed, right at the neck and down into the heart. The animal bucked, startled to its haunches, and Yeolani lost sight of it behind the tree, but Gil came from his place three trees over, walking as if nothing was amiss, and so Yeolani slithered off his perch. Two trees beyond, the buck lay on its side, only its eyes moving now in alarm. Without remorse, Yeolani drew Honiea's magical knife and slit the throat to put the animal out of its terror and pain.

  And so Yeolani had accomplished his goal. He could now feed himself in the forest. He felt little sense of accomplishment. He still had some hard work to do, and they would be spending the night in the forest, for he would not want to drag the carcass all the way to the cabin in the dark. Also, he needed to get Gil settled before it grew too late. They set up camp and strung up the animal to drain it and keep the other creatures from reaching the meat. They would bring it home in the morning. It was quite late by the time Yeolani settled into his bedroll under the stars.

  Only then did he realize that the fairies had disappeared, at least for that night.

  5

  Lesson of the Coin

  And so Yeolani came to make his way in Fallon. He mastered hunting on the forest floor, tracking his prey. He learned how to strip and dry, preserving a variety of game. Gil encouraged him to purchase and train a dog, which he did, trading skins for a pup that together the two named Marit. The adaptable, long-haired hound followed Yeolani faithfully and learned to flush birds so that Yeolani could put his shooting skills to the prime test. When they were truly desperate for food, Yeolani even went shooting salmon in the creek. And everywhere they walked, they gathered other foods to supplement their heavily meat diet. During the winter, Yeolani learned to work leather more skillfully than he ever bothered in the wood crew, and he also crafted snowshoes so that he
could trek the mountain and forest in deep winter. Marit went with him everywhere, regardless of the game they sought, and that companionship was all Yeolani needed.

  Then, at the first snowfall of winter in the second year with Gil, after Yeolani had brought in enough wood for a week, Gil motioned him over to the hearth and sat close to the fire, poking a stick in the flames. "Do you know how to read," the old man began.

  Yeolani had never heard the term, let alone recognize the scratches that the old man began tracing in char across the hearthstones. At first, Gil simply drew, and the younger man followed his movements, gouging the marks in the packed earth of the cabin floor. Then Gil applied sounds to each shape.

  "Where did you learn this kind of silent message?" Yeolani asked curiously as he washed the char away and they began again with a clean slate. "It seems very efficient. I can leave you a message, and you can see it and know what I'm doing far later."

  "It's called writing. I write and you read, or vice versa. It is efficient. I was born in a land far to the south and east of here, far older than the culture of the Land. We had this writing for ages, but very few of the people who emigrated here could do this art, so it hasn't been established here. The Land has only had people settling here for about a hundred years. It was almost empty before then."

  "What a waste. Why was it empty?" asked Yeolani, again following his curiosity.

  In reply, Gil scratched out a message on the hearth and Yeolani laboriously read out the sounds. "It…w..a..s, was…se…al..e..e…d. It was sealed?"

  Gil nodded and continued to write as he explained. "The Land was sealed. No one could come here. Boats found themselves pushed away from the shore. Travelers overland could simply go no farther. The high mountains blocked some borders, and an invisible force stopped all other travel. Then one day, it wasn't Sealed. I was a trader and often traveled along the Seal, so I knew when it broke and got curious. I loved being able to travel to places I'd never entered before. I've been moving ever since, exploring this Land."

 

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