by neetha Napew
Sister, restless and hungry, sniffed out a vole at dawn and ate it. He had no appetite, nor would he have until he returned to the cave and saw for himself what the beasts had done.
He knew the contours of the mountain as he had once known the contours of Mother’s breasts. Even in the icy fog of daybreak, he led Sister easily, yet he hesitated before entering the cave. The smell of the beasts was strong, as was the smell of something else, which caused the beast ling to grit his teeth and clench his fists so hard that the man stone cut his palm. Beside him, Sister made a sound of revulsion, but she did not hesitate to go on ahead. Silence followed her. Then she screeched. Only once.
The beast ling drew in a breath to steady himself. He held it as he entered the cave, then exhaled as he stared ahead, so shocked that he could not move. Sister was mewing and whimpering and circling around and around in a frenzy. Never had he seen her so distraught, but then, never had he been as sickened and appalled as he was now. He stared past her at entrails and meat and piles of bloody, broken bones, all that was left of Mother.
They had opened and gutted her. They had skinned her and left her head and her hollowed-out arms and limbs intact. With these still attached to her hide, they had thrown the empty casing of her body down from the cave to save themselves the trouble of carrying it. That was the sound that he had heard! He forced himself to stare at the leavings of their desecration. He could not understand why the beasts would leave meat and take skin .. . the long, loving arms that had once held him .. . the breasts that had nurtured him.. ..
He could not bear it. He turned and went to the edge of the cave and howled in anguish. He howled and howled until, from out of the vastness of the world below, wolves howled back at him as though they recognized his pain and wished to ease it. He did not know when his keening became an ululation, or when his ululation became a song of perfect, albeit grief-torn lyric beauty. He only knew that he was in agony and that somehow the song allowed a release of pain.
Sister came to him. He saw a blank yet questioning look in her eyes and knew that she was afraid. She could not understand the sounds that came from his mouth, comprehend why hot liquid was welling in his eyes and running down his cheeks, or know why, as he drew her into a brother’s loving embrace, his body was wracked with convulsive sobs.
He held her close. Comforted, her arms went around him and hugged him tightly. When he hugged her back, her eyes cleared and she began to purr softly. He knew that his love was enough for her, but it was not enough for him. Sister was a wanawut, and the beast ling was beginning to understand that he was something less than that-undefined, unfinished, and unable to take the world on its own terms. Why was he so different? What was he? Who was he? And how would he and Sister survive in this world of beasts without Mother?
Hatred congealed within him, thickening in his gut and nostrils until he felt sick with it. His fingers curled and uncurled around his man stone. They tightened and squeezed until pain flared and blood seeped from his palm. He wanted the pain. He wanted to leave a scar that would be so deep that he could never forget. From this moment on, whenever he looked at his palm he would recall the agony.
With a start, he remembered the throwing sticks the beasts had thrown at Mother. One had cut her arm and then gone wide and disappeared into the fog. It must still be there ... as the white lion must still be there, weakened by its wounds. With his man stone and a throwing stick he could kill the lion and skin it, as the beasts had skinned Mother. And armed with his man stone and a throwing stick, he could kill the beasts who had killed Mother. Yes!
But first Sister and he would have to find another shelter, for the beasts had seen them flee with Mother and had heard Sister screech at them as they had climbed the mountain. Someday, when the mood was on them to hunt wanawut once again, they would return to the cave. At length Sister slept, and the fetid fog of his hatred thinned into a clear, heady thing that filled him with energy of pure purpose. While Sister slept peacefully on the ledge, he rose and went down from the cave. He knew that when she awoke, she would not go from the mountain alone. Although he walked alone into the savage Arctic night with his man stone in hand, he was not afraid. Soon he would come back to Sister—with a throwing stick in his hand and the skin of the white lion on his back.
The days of endless light poured out across the world. Life was good in the wonderful valley, full of the sounds of the newly born and of the laughter of the women and children of Torka’s band.
Great flocks of birds nested in the wetlands around the lakes, streams, and rivers. Long-legged cranes and herons stepped high through the marshes. Phalaropes pirouetted in the shallows, beaks stirring the water into their favorite soup of crustaceans and larvae. A thousand ponds mirrored the reflections of loons and other waterfowl. To Lonit’s delight, in the lake that was closest to Torka’s cave a pair of black swans swam elegantly side by side, ahead of graceful wakes.
Once again the cave was stacked high with winter provisions. Once again the caches were full. Once again ribbons of meat, fish, and fowl hung like banners from the drying frames. Once again while the men and boys stood by and watched with infinite pleasure, the women and girls picked blossoms, festooning their braids and weaving brow bands and necklaces and wrist lets of riotous, sweet-smelling color.
With Aar at his side, Karana observed them from the ridge. He squinted across the distances.
Naya was walking and talking now. He could just make out her form in the valley far below—one of a trio of tiny flower-bedecked toddlers being supervised by the women and girls as they romped happily amid the flowers with the many pups that had been born to Aar and his two leggy mates.
Karana was lonely, and it was always cold on the mountain, but it was better that he stay on the heights and dwell in the small shelter of hides he had erected on the ridge.
It occurred to Karana that he was already living as an outcast and thus need not worry about Torka’s banishing him from the band should his betrayal become known.
Karana frowned. Someone was coming up the canyon. He tensed, listening to the footfalls. They were slow and plodding, but they were also strong and true. It took no magic for Karana to know that Grek would soon stand before him.
Karana did not like the expression on the old man’s face. “Speak.”
“I come to talk two talks. The first is for Mahnie. Too long she is without a man. She does not eat or sleep as she should. She longs for you.”
“I am a magic man.”
“So? Where is the magic?” The old man’s face was set. There was anger in it. “You must come down into the valley.”
“I cannot.”
Grek shook his head, then shrugged. “The spirit of a man may be dead in you here on your mountain, Karana. But life goes on. Down in the valley, Wallah and I grow old. Mahnie grieves. Simu and Eneela, Torka and Lonit, they make new babies. Children grow. Boys become men. And that brings me to my second reason for coming here to talk to you. Summer Moon will soon become a woman. Preparations must be made. There are things that must be attended to ... things that only a magic man may do.”
“I do not like the way Mano looks at me,” Bill complained to Ekoh.
“He can look at you any way he likes, but as long as there is a baby in your belly, he will stay away, as will Cheanah.”
“Like a pair of foxes—watching, waiting ...”
Her head went up. Her nostrils flared. “You can tell them no!”
“I can tell them nothing!”
“Why?”
“Because one is headman, with the head of a wanawut over the entrance to his hut and the skin of the beast upon his back. The other is the headman’s son! Tradition demands that I must say yes to whatever they ask.”
“Tradition ...” She sighed the word as if she could not bear its weight. “I only know that you must be careful, Ekoh, because once this baby is born, between Cheanah and Mano and the rest of the men of this band, you may soon have no woman left to share!”
“So do I,” whispered Bili, and buried her face in his chest. “Oh, so do I!” For a moment, but only for a moment, she considered telling him her secret—that she had stuffed old skins beneath her tunic so that she would look pregnant and thus keep the “foxes” at bay. But she kept silent. This secret was hers alone. But how many moons could rise and set before someone noticed that this “baby” had been growing far too long?
Old Teean was busy following Honee as she carried fresh water to the headman’s pit hut from the stream beyond the encampment.
“Go away,” the girl told him.
He smiled an old man’s ruined smile. “Why be in such a hurry to return to your hut? Wait ...” He kept after her, displaying his old penis. “Look what I have just for you!”
She paused and stared at what he offered while those members of the band who were lounging out of the wind beside their pit huts looked on with open amusement.
“That is not a pretty sight!” Honee informed Teean. “Put it away, old man. No matter what you say or do, you will not be first with me!”
“In a band with no magic man to perform the rite of first piercing, some man must be first,” he reminded her. “Cheanah has not said no to me!” Her face flushed red. “He has not said yes, either! Zhoonali has said that I may wait as long as it pleases me.”
“In a band with so few females, Zhoonali must know that you cannot put off your choice forever!”
“Perhaps just long enough for you to die!” She turned and walked off.
Laughter rose from the watchers. Teean did not care. Sooner or later, he would have his turn with her; all of the men of the band would. No man really wanted to take Honee to his fire circle; she was too homely, too fat, and much too nasty for anyone to want to cohabit ate with on a permanent basis. Except old Teean. Her youth stirred him. He had only to think of her fat, tender little breasts, and of her taut, tender little nipples, and of the moist depths of her tight, unpenetrated secret place, and he was ready, his organ up and waving.
But the thought of first piercing made all men hard, and now several men called out to the girl.
“Come to my fire, daughter of Cheanah!” invited Buhl,
clucking his tongue lasciviously. “Come while you are still tight between your thighs. You will not regret it.”
“No, come to mine, and afterward you will smile and ask for more!” invited Kivan as his woman came out of the hut of blood and, hands on hips, scowled across the camp at him.
As Teean glared, Ram lowered his head and, moving deftly, caught up with Honee. “Don’t save it too long, girl. It may dry up.”
Honee snarled and fixed him with black eyes as sharp and shining as obsidian splinters. “You are disgusting! All of you!” she said as, with a disdainful flourish, she walked on and disappeared inside her father’s pit hut.
Aroused by the sight of her backside, Teean worked himself.
“Don’t waste it, old man,” cautioned Ram. “You may not have enough strength left to enjoy it when your turn comes!”
“My strength would surprise you .. . and her!” Teean worked himself to quick climax. When he was finished, he made a deliberate show of sighing, shivering, and shaking himself. Then he took his time sauntering to his own pit hut, where he seated himself next to old Frahn, out of the wind.
She was not moving. The sinew that she had been twisting and stretching into cord lay in her lap looped around her lax hands.
Teean picked a black fly from his ear with his little finger, then leaned against his backrest and talked to Frahn about the advantages of having a young woman to help her with her workload. He droned on, justifying his hope of winning Honee.
After a while Frahn’s lack of response caused him to realize that she was either asleep or dead. He looked closer. He winced—it had been a long time since Frahn had been a reasonable-looking woman. But now, as she leaned against her lichen-stuffed backrest, stiffening in her summer furs, she was not at all good to look upon. Her life spirit must have left her body hours ago.
Amazed, he stared at her. He had never really liked Frahn. If she had pleased him at all, it was because she had been a hard worker with a creative and insatiable appetite for coupling. Now that she had apparently breathed her last, Teean smiled.
“You have lived long enough,” he told her, leaning forward and putting a resounding kiss on her brow. Frahn had just made Teean a man with no woman in a band where all mature females were spoken for. If Teean asked for Honee now, Cheanah would have to give her to him, whether the girl liked it or not. Zhoonali, the wise woman, would insist upon it. The traditions of their people since time beyond beginning would demand it!
“No!” yowled Honee.
Cheanah drew back in amazement at the loud, rude, and absolutely definitive sound. “I have asked Teean to reconsider, but he will not. You are the one he wants. You have no man. Custom decrees that you must go to him.”
“I won’t have him!” Honee lowered her voice; she looked like a
cornered badger, all fat and glint eyed and showing her teeth. “It is
my right to name the one who will be first with me! And I know who I
want: Karana! Maybe he will come back someday soon and—“
“Karana! Karana is dead in the Forbidden Land along with Torka and all who followed him!” He was suddenly violently angry.
Zhoonali shook her head with obvious regret. “It is my fault. I have done wrong to spoil you. But in this matter, you must defer to the customs and traditions of your people. It must be so.” Honee’s face was set. “Why? Why must it be so? I don’t want Teean.”
“What you want does not matter,” the old woman informed Honee emphatically. “It does matter.” Honee’s lower lip was quivering. “Teean is old. He has practically no teeth. I will have to chew his food for him! And his man thing is blue and crooked.”
“Crooked?” Cheanah slapped his knees and laughed out loud.
Zhoonali shushed him. “It will straighten with the proper coaxing,” she said sagely. “There is no room for laughter in this matter, Cheanah. The songs of first blood have been sung for Honee, and the dances of first blood have been danced. The song of first piercing has yet to be sung. Now the spirits have chosen a man for her.”
Honee bit her lip. In childlike desperation she did the only thing that could possibly have won a victory for her. She sobbed like a hurt little girl and ran to the protection of her father’s arms. “Cheanah does not have to let Zhoonali tell him what to do! You are Man Who Walks in the Skin of the Wanawut! Not even the spirits of the wind could make you say yes to one skinny old man with a crooked man bone!”
Zhoonali saw the girl’s words work their magic on Cheanah’s pride.
“There, there. I had no idea that you felt so strong an aversion to going to him. So you shall not go. What is the point of being headman if I cannot make my own decisions on such matters and—“
“No!” Zhoonali felt suddenly cold as a terrible wave of dread washed through her. “You are headman because the forces of Creation have chosen you to lead your people with the wisdom of your forefathers, to make decisions predicated on the traditions of the band and the customs of the ancients!” Cheanah’s head went up. He had made up his mind. When he spoke, his tone caused Zhoonali to shrink back. He was talking to her in a manner that allowed no rebuttal. He was headman! At last! For the first time in all of their years together, she knew that she had no power over him. “You are the wise woman of this band, but I am its headman. There is a difference between us. It is your role to advise. It is mine to listen to your advice and act upon it. You have advised. I have listened. And now that I have spoken, you will say no more. Is that understood?”
Slowly, the old woman rose to her feet. Her eyes were on
Honee as she nodded and said with grim emphasis: “I understand more than you think.” Then, with her head held high, she said coolly to Cheanah: “Beware. The forces of Creation are watching. The decisions that you make now are the decisions that your people will have to live with tomorrow and for all of the tomorrows to come.”
Although Sister hung back, the beast ling grew bold. He walked in the skin of the white lion now. It was a scarred, bedraggled-looking skin, for the lion had been dead when he found it, and he had no skill at all with Mother’s man stone. He expected to feel anger toward the lion and gladness in its death; he felt neither. He took the pelt, leaving the head and paws, and after he had eaten, while Sister continued to gorge herself on the strong, stringy, unpalatable meat, he sat beside the head of the lion.
He touched the great, ruined head and let his fingers drift across its fly-eaten eye socket, its many scars, and its once-fine fur. Give your wisdom and your strength to this cub, White Lion. I have found the throwing stick of the beasts. Make me bold and strong enough to use it against them, for they are the great wasters of life. When I kill them, I will kill for you as well as for Mother. I will be the white lion. The beasts will fear me and run from me as they once must have feared and run from you.
It was no easy thing to find a new place in which to live after abandoning the cave. Sister tried to make him go back to the mountain, but the beast ling refused. In the skin of the white lion, with Mother’s man stone in one hand and the throwing stick of the beast in the other, he led her westward with no specific destination in mind. He knew only that if he was going to prey upon the beasts, he would have to remain in the vicinity of their hunting territory; besides, their wastefulness would make feeding easy for Sister and him as long as they were careful not to be seen.
