Forbidden Land

by neetha Napew

  Mano nodded. “There will be better camps ahead.”

  Cheanah smiled. “Yes, through the black pass. But it is far, that pass. Yanehva and Ram have said that they are in no hurry to move on. They say we could spend the summer, store much more meat, then winter here. Perhaps stay on and see if the caribou come back through the pass as they return into the face of the rising sun before the coming of the time of the long dark.”

  Mano cast a sour look at his father. “And what does Cheanah say?”

  The headman smiled. He enjoyed riling Mano. “Cheanah says there are too few women in this band. Cheanah says that he longs to have a virgin tight and hot around his man bone again. So Cheanah now says to Mano: Take Buhl and Kap and find the source of the smoke that brings to us the scent of the camps of men. If it is Ekoh, kill him and his whelp and bring Bili to me. In the meantime, Cheanah and the others will make new spears and flake new blades, for if you bring word that Torka’s camp is ahead, we will be fresh and prepared to travel, to surround him while he sleeps, to kill him and Simu and the old man and the shaman. To take his women and girls ... to eat of the flesh of his totem .. . and to take back the luck that Torka and his band have stolen from us!”

  For days Karana watched smoke rising from the fires of the band encamped at the base of the western slope of the mountains. The pit huts were tiny from this height, the people no larger than insects, yet he knew them by the way they spaced their huts and by their wasteful manner of hunting. Cheanah. Why?

  But the madness was on him, and the question seemed of little importance. No sooner had he turned away than he forgot Cheanah’s encampment entirely. The thing that he most feared in the world was not in that camp. No! The thing that he feared was the abandoned son. Manaravak was following him, was on the mountain with him. He could feel the threat in the mist of his mind, rising and thickening with the coming of night, ebbing and thinning by day, driving him to stalk the heights, to prowl the canyons, to listen for the voice that had answered him one blue night .. . the voice that had echoed his own and spoken the name of the ghost that he was now set to destroy.

  He walked on, a madman in white, hands pressed to his temples. He took himself to the west, and there he resumed the occupation that had driven him these past many moons: the setting of snare lines, the laboring over pit traps, the cutting of branches to conceal them—and the placement of deadly spikes and spring traps that he fashioned from the sinews and long bones of the animals that he killed.

  Obsessed, he stopped making fires. If he ate at all he ate his food raw. The white skin of the winter-killed caribou that he wore became bloodstained and foul, and when he slept, he slept like the dead—hard, black, and dreamless sleep—until the dreams came, and then he woke up screaming.

  After a three-day fast, Torka and Simu had led Umak and Dak, as naked and weaponless as First Man, from the cave and to the base of the hills. The headman held out a forked breastbone of a tera torn and instructed Dak to take hold of one fork and Umak the other. Lonit and Eneela had snared the bird and dried and polished this bone for this day.

  “Torka now holds before Umak and Dak the bone of choosing. The boy who breaks off the larger portion will walk to the east. The boy who breaks off the smaller portion of the bone will walk to the south. When you return from your final testing you will wear cloaks of its feathers and neck lets of its talons. The tera torn has always been a sign of good fortune for this people. May you both return to us safely, clothed and with bellies full and with the weapon of a hunter of the band within your hand.”

  When Umak cracked off the larger portion, he suspected that things would go well for him. Hunger from the long fast sharpened his senses, and as he set off under the eye of the warm sun, dreams came to him. Dreams of food .. . wonderful piles of meat and eyeballs and intestines, steaming in a flood of red-hot blood that poured from the freshly opened bellies of some sort of prey animals. The dreams shifted subtly as the flood of blood became a flood of water pouring out of the mountains across the land—water so dark and deep that it filled the wonderful valley. Only the tips of the white mountains showed above it. He trotted across the valley toward the distant ranges, alone and unafraid of anything but failure. But Torka had taught him well, as had Simu and Grek. A herd of dun colored horses, each with a broad brown stripe running along its spine, nickered and wheeled away as he moved toward them. They were heading toward an area of broken country ahead. He could see their round eyes bright in the sun and their tails jabbing upward at the wind as they galloped away, trailing tides of blackflies.

  The flies were his first challenge; a roll in the nearest bog bested them. He slathered mud over every inch of his body, including ears and genitals and the tips of his fingers. It dried on his skin and cracked in the wind. He did not mind; it disguised his body scent, and no flies could bite through it.

  A great bear and her cubs digging for tubers in a broad meadow looked up at him as he went by. He gave them space, and they allowed him passage; he did not look like meat, nor did he smell like it.

  Before the day was out, he had found his own little meadow and ate well of starchy, sweet roots that the great bear would have envied. He contrived crude snares, using the grasses of the steppe and tail hairs of horse, which he found tangled within the scrub growth. Soon he was eating birds and rodents.

  He fashioned needles of bone and thread of sinew, then set himself to hunt larger game. He followed the horses farther east. From willow branches taken along a stream bank, he contrived a bow drill with which he could raise sparks and a fire when he collected sufficient kindling and burnable refuse. He saved the bones from every meal and gathered the leavings of grazing animals as he went. He took the time to break them up and dry them in the sun and wind before moving on.

  After several days he reached the base of the far pass. He had gleaned enough dung and deadwood and collected enough bones from his many meals to make a fire for shaping and hardening the spear he would make. He had already found good-quality stone for the spearhead and a cast caribou antler that would serve as a perfect straightener for the shaft. He planned to create a spear of fire-hardened bone over which Torka would exclaim with pride.

  With every ounce of skill that was his, he tracked the small herd of horses, set fire to a grassy area of broken hills, and panicked them into an uphill flight that sent them hurtling and screaming over the crest of a high knoll. From there they fell into a rocky defile, just as he had planned. He climbed cautiously down after them, burying himself under their twitching, broken bodies until the grass fire died.

  He feasted on sweet horse meat He ate the eyes, and the intestines steamed in the air as he opened the bellies. This was what he had seen in his dream! He ate until he could eat no more; then after a brief rest, he examined his kill. If cured properly, horsehide could be soft. He skinned the animal that had the best and least-scorched pelt, fleshed it, and set it to dry while he fashioned the hafts of the spears not only for himself but for Torka, Simu, and Grek. These were gifts to honor those who had taught him so well. He was so filled with pride at his success, he raised his spears, shook them, and bellowed, “I am Umak! Son of Torka!”

  His happiness lightened his step westward, back to the cave. Clad in horsehide and feathers, with his spears in hand, he returned to the encampment to learn that Dak had yet to come home. He smiled his widest smile while his people alternately sang and slapped at drums and blew upon bone whistles, and Torka came forward in his ceremonial finery proudly to proclaim him a man.

  It was not long before Dak made his way to the encampment. The band drank the fermented juice of summer. The blood of the tera torn was mixed with it and streaked boldly across the brows and cheeks of the two young men, who sat unmoving and proud as Torka and Simu draped cloaks of black-and-white tera torn feathers across their backs. Umak’s euphoric bliss abruptly faded and grew cold as he stared westward. The sadness, the terrible, aching sadness of the boy inside him had broken his mood. No, he thought, gr
itting his teeth. Not today! My brother will not come back to life today. I will not let you!

  “Is your gift for your parents ready?”

  Umak nodded, grateful to Dak for the question; it made him feel better.

  “Yes,” he said. “My gift is ready.”

  Distant music and beast sounding drew the beast ling from his sleep. The wind carried the sound from the east, from somewhere beyond the blade-edged peaks that speared the clouds on either side of him. It was there one moment, gone the next.

  The beast ling sat up. He went to look at the little beast family. They still slept undisturbed under their shaggy dead animal skins. The more he had watched the beast family, the less inclined he was to kill them. Their erect form and their gait were so much like his own. But how unlike the quarrelsome beasts traveling in their wake! The family, which he recognized as being a male and female and their cub, cared for each other and shared their food willingly.

  The music and singing drifted to him again. He was captivated, enthralled.

  Only half aware that Sister was trailing him, mewing for him to come back, he moved eastward. Sister tugged at his arm. Briefly he considered whether he should heed her and go back. But a neatly arranged circle of stones caught his eyes and invited further investigation. Fire had not lived in the charred hollow within the stones for a long time; but beast scent lay there, so tenuous that he could barely perceive it. Perceive it he did, and he reacted to it as though some inner portion of himself were being tweaked by memories. But memories of what? Instinctively he knew that the answer lay ahead.

  He went on and up until at last he found himself within a broad highland basin. He came upon an enormous gray lake in which islands of ice shifted and groaned. The look of the lake disturbed him. It seemed a captive thing, restless and brooding.

  He veered south, turned east, and paused for a moment. Was danger here? The east wind distracted him with the scent of music and distant beast-made smokes. There was the smell of roasting meat and dripping fat and of the beasts themselves—not rank and foul like the other beasts in the far western camp, but a good scent. It was similar to the essence he had just picked up from the charred hollows—disturbingly, painfully familiar.

  He hurried on, knowing that he was on his way to something important. Sister grasped his shoulder and tried forcibly to draw him back. He knew that she was frightened by these strange surroundings and longed to run away. But the beast ling held his ground, annoyed by her persistent attempts to pull him away.

  He crouched on the ridge; dark, lichen-encrusted boulders allowed him cover as, with Sister peering over his shoulder, he looked across a valley of such magnificent proportions that it took his breath away. He saw at last what he had come to see: the distant encampment of the singing beasts. Of his own kind? Yes!

  Now, for the first time, he accepted the truth. He was a beast, like the old corpse on the plain, like the ones who had injured and killed Mother. But also like the three who were plodding up the canyon, caring for and nurturing one another. He was touched to the quick by a sense of oneness with them.

  He strained to see but could not see enough; it was too far away. And yet he was just close enough to the encampment to make out tiny figures. All made wonderful sounds while two young males stood apart from the rest, being celebrated. They were wearing collars of the feathers of great black-and-white birds. The beast ling hand went to his throat, for an excruciating longing to be with them became a terrible sadness, then a devastating loneliness.

  He started to sound back to them, but Sister shoved him hard. For the first time in his life, he saw her as being alien to him. She was a furred, fanged, clawed wanawut, and her fear of everything she did not understand bound him to her as surely as lichen was bound to a rock. He snarled and struck out at her so hard that he nearly knocked her down.

  Frightened and bewildered, she stared wide-eyed at him. He knew at once that he had hurt her, but his feeling of resentment had not yet passed. He snarled again and gestured threateningly. With a wail of anguish, she turned and fled, hooting and screeching.

  He wept with a violent suddenness. He stood on the ridge with the sound of song and laughter and music beating in his brain, and he wept. If he went to them now across that broad and beautiful valley, would they recognize him as one of their own and accept him? He would never know. Bereft, his deep love and concern for Sister’s safety caused him to tear himself away and follow her.

  Yanehva crested the ridge just as something big and gray went screeching past him in the mists. Something else followed it—white and maned like a lion. His heart pounding, Yanehva turned to look. But whatever had gone racing past him had disappeared into the mists before he had got a good look.

  He stood dead still, listening. Wind spirits? Yes, he thought, and gripped his spears more tightly; this was a good place to see wind spirits. Fortunately they had not seen him.

  He went on slowly, measuring each step. Only a few more paces brought him to look out across the most magnificent valley he had ever seen. The music and singing had attracted his gaze right to Torka’s encampment. He was actually sorry to have found it.

  He did not want to be here. He had no heart for what Cheanah planned for Torka or what Mano intended to work upon the little camp of Ekoh; with his brother and Buhl in the spear-sharp mood for murder and rape, he had known that it would have done him no good to try to stop them.

  So, tired from the climb and shaken by the sighting of the apparitions, Yanehva rested. Hungry, he reached into the larder pouch at his belt and pulled out a few strips of dried bison tongue. It was a little moldy, but during a wet season, that was to be expected. He ate slowly, watching the distant camp, listening to the celebratory songs and observing the dancing. Pleasant memories of life as it had been long ago, when Torka had been headman of his band, cut the acrid taste of the mold; for a moment it actually tasted good to him—until he heard Bili scream. He jumped to his feet, knowing that no matter what the risk to himself, he could not allow his brother to work murder and rape upon those who deserved better.

  Honee cowered behind the rockfall. She had been having second thoughts about her decision to follow her brothers and Buhl secretly in the hope that she would be able to discover Torka’s camp, run ahead of the others, and beg the man for refuge. But each time she experienced doubt, she remembered why she had run away in the first place. Now Dili’s scream had brought her to pause, her heart pounding. She could not move, for what was happening in the little camp of Ekoh was too frightening to look at . and too fascinating not to observe.

  Mano and Buhl had taken Ekoh unaware. Mano thrust a spear into Ekoh’s belly, pinning him to the ground. Bili boldly rose and, with a spear in her hands, threatened the attackers. They laughed at her. She had told them that her boy had been hurt in a snare and begged them to take pity on Seteena. Mano went to the child and cut his throat.

  Honee clasped her hand over her mouth to keep from being sick. The boy was still fighting against death as Ekoh, making terrible gurgling sounds and gripping the spear embedded within his gut, tried to rise. He might have succeeded had Buhl not come to work the weapon even deeper. Bili flew to the defense of her man, screaming her rage and hatred, but Mano tripped her. The spear flew from her hand, then Mano was on her, straddling her, then pulling her back.

  Honee felt a terrible nausea sweep over her. Seteena was dead in a lake of blood now, but neither Buhl nor Mano even looked at him. Buhl was holding Ekoh’s head up by the hair, telling him to watch and enjoy his last moments of life. Mano was ripping at Bili’s clothes, hurting her, choking her into semiconsciousness before mounting her, all the while taunting Ekoh.

  Suddenly a howling scream of pure animal rage echoed up and down the canyon. A spear came flying as though from out of nowhere. It struck Buhl through the neck with such force that he went down backward with the spearhead clean through his throat and protruding out the other side.

  “Yanehva?” Honee squinted up.


  The beast ling hurled one throwing stick as hard as he could, although not at the beast who was hurting the female for fear that he might accidentally strike her. He screeched with pleasure when he saw the other male go over backward, grasping at his throat; he would die slowly, and in agony. That made the beast ling smile.

  He came down on the shoulders of the beast on the female, but the beast did not react in blind panic as a caribou or antelope might have done. Instead, he skillfully reached up and sent the beast ling flying heels over head to the ground.

  The beast with a scarred face was standing over him with a spear at his throat while, far off upon the mountain, the sounds of Sister squealing in agony and terror rent the beast ling to his heart.

  Scarface looked startled and turned toward the terrible sounds that Sister was making .. . and then not making at all.

  With one ferocious roll and lunge, the beast ling was on his feet, making for the rockfall. He was dizzy. His thoughts were running wild. Sister was dead; the beast ling knew it. He ran full out and began to climb over the rocks. Sister needed him now. When he heard one high, pitiful, lost cry, he sounded out to her. “Man-ara-vak!” he screamed, just as something from behind hit him hard across the back of the head, and he went sprawling.

  Torka could not remember when he had felt better. The boy had performed superbly! Now Umak stood before him, wearing the cloak of tera torn feathers. “For my parents, from whom my life has sprung and whose names I speak with pride and honor, I give these special gifts, symbolic of their love for each other and for their band. For they are as the great black swans that have always flown out of the face of the rising sun to give heart to the people—always and forever, to Torka and Lonit, Umak gives these cloaks!” Umak brought them forth and held them high, one in each hand. “For many moons I have been making them in secret just for you.”

  Torka stared. Everyone in the cave stared at two full length cloaks sewn entirely of the skins of white swans-except for the shoulder portions; these were black. The two rare black swans would never again fly out of the face of the rising sun at the return of the time of light. Umak had killed them both. He had slit them open, then stretched them wide. He had gutted them and dried them and softened them with infinite care so no feathers would be lost. Out of the great outstretched wings he had fashioned hoods, stitching the wings to the long extended necks so that when worn, the heads of the swans would extend over the heads of the wearers with beaks still attached and eyes replaced with polished stones.