Corridor of Storms

by neetha Napew

  There was something of an overfed lynx about his features as one of his hands played idly with the thong that held the boy captive beside him. The hunter flinched and looked away.

  “The game has followed Torka to this camp!” declared Zinkh to the hunter. “Or did you and your boy-using brother not hunt with us and eat of the flesh of the great woolly rhinoceros?”

  “We hunted. We ate. But the flesh of the horned one is gone, and you, Zinkh, are always the first to complain about eating woman meat in this camp. Mammoth meat is the best meat for us, but Tomo and Jub, we will eat anything and not complain. We do wonder why a man who says he will not hunt the mammoth has come to this camp of mammoth hunters, and why, if Torka has come from a hunting ground full of game, he does not tell us where it is, so that we may go there. We are not afraid to hunt alone. You—all of you here—would be amazed at the stories Tomo and Jub could tell of the things that we have killed and of the kinds of meat that we have eaten.”

  “It is a land forbidden to men,” said Zinkh, bristling as he spoke in defense of Torka.

  “Yet Torka went there. He has brought prime skins. He has—“

  “Torka is a magic man! The spirits walk with him. He may go where he will go!”

  Torka waved the pugnacious little Zinkh to silence, needing no advocate to speak for him. “This man followed his totem, Thunder Speaker, into the Corridor of Storms. Although there may be game, there are no people, and so a man who is without a band—even if he is a magic man—must live in constant fear of what must happen to his women and children if his life spirit should walk the wind. For this reason Torka has come back into the world of men.”

  “No man has ever returned from the Corridor of Storms to tell of it!” Lorak’s tone was sharp.

  “I tell of it,” replied Torka evenly, momentarily regretting his kindness to the elder, which had been at his own expense. “Far to the east is an endless river of grass—the forbidden Corridor of Storms, a place of constant wind that speaks gently to a man in the time of light and savages him during the time of the long dark. No one could long survive the dry, freezing storms of terrible cold except in hidden, wind-protected valleys. In one such valley has Torka lived beside hot springs that feed pools of water that do not freeze, even in the darkest nights of winter, and to these pools game comes to—“

  “Torka must also tell the people that it is a land where the mountains rain fire and the earth shakes, to demolish the camps of men!” Karana, heart pounding, was on his feet. He had been sent a sudden vision of the land that he had reluctantly left behind. The image was as red and hot as blood. It laked within his eyes, scalding them as he looked at Tomo and Jub. He knew for a certainty that if such men entered the Valley of Songs, they would desecrate it by hunting its creatures to extinction, including Life Giver himself. “It was a bad land, a land wisely forbidden to men by the spirits. That was why we left it!”

  The intensity of Karana’s words affected all who heard them, including the youth. He had not meant to shout or to shame Torka by his outburst, but he was certain that he had done both. His face was burning with emotion as a terrible restlessness took him, and he strode boldly out of the firelight, leaving Torka and Lonit staring after him, confused by his violent change of attitude, and everyone else gaping in amazement at his audacity.

  Karana walked quickly. The darkness covered him. He was glad. Had it not, he knew that Ppmm would have followed him, as she had taken it upon herself to follow him everywhere, backhanding away any young girl who even dared to come close. She shadowed him even when he went to the latrine, where, angry and frustrated, he made no attempt to hide his bodily functions from her. She watched him with moon-eyed adoration, and not even the strongest of his epithets had succeeded in driving her away.

  He looked up now at the stars and the trembling, arching rivers of the aurora borealis. Somehow the light seemed to flow within him: He felt the colors, was warmed and strengthened by them as he picked his way through the dozing dogs. Aar looked up at him. Sister Dog did not move. She eyed him listlessly and exhaled softly; she had been moping ever since Torka had carried Aliga onto the Hill of Dreams and had commanded her to stay behind.

  Karana bent and touched her head, communicating understanding. She whined softly, nuzzling his hand. He walked on, restless almost beyond bearing as he passed the capacious pit hut that he shared with Torka and his family. It had been his intention to enter and throw himself onto his sleeping skins; now he could not bring himself to go inside.

  He turned and looked back to the communal fire. From where he stood, he could not see Torka, Lonit, or any of Zinkh’s people. He found himself smiling a little as he was forced to admit that the funny little headman in his outrageous helmet with the dead fox hanging over the top of his brow was proving to be a loyal friend.

  Then his smile vanished as he realized that Torka had been right: This was a good camp. It had been so long since he had been in the company of those of his own age that he had forgotten the enjoyment such associations could bring. His part in the killing of the rhinoceros had given him status not only among his peers but among everyone at the gathering. As much as he was loath to admit it, the prospect of wintering here no longer seemed repugnant—the thought of being anywhere near the magic woman Sondahr was enough to warm him and send his wits flying happily from his head.

  Thoughts of her took the moment. He looked up along the smooth, sloping contours of the Hill of Dreams. Sondahr had not been at the communal fire. She must be there, in the hut that Torka had described to him, working her healing magic upon Aliga. It was dark upon the sacred hill. The bones of the council house shone dully in the soft pink light of the aurora. He shivered at the sight of it, recalling the vision that had prompted him to interrupt Torka at the communal fire.

  Blood. Death. Desecration. These things filled his senses, then ebbed, leaving his mind almost painfully clear. Karana had felt so welcome here that despite the encampment’s circling wall of bones and tusks and the council house of bones upon the Hill of Dreams, he had forgotten that these people were primarily mammoth hunters. Tomo and Jub had caused him to remember.

  He looked again at the communal fire, which had ebbed into hot, glowing coals giving off smoke that smelled of burned bones and fat and of sods cut from the skin of the tundral earth. In their red, pulsing light, Karana could see that several middle-aged women had risen to dance for the assembly within the circle. He heard the flat, nasal, atonal resonance of their song. It had to do with the pride that women felt when their men killed mammoths, the joy they experienced when they were called to butcher mammoths, the pleasure they knew when working together at the stretching and scraping of mammoth skins. It chafed some inner portion of his consciousness that could not bear the sound of it. Just sharing the mammoth hunters’ encampment made him a consenting party to their ways. And he had sworn before all of the spirits of Creation and the great Life Giver himself that he would never hunt the mammoth. Never. He felt suddenly confined by his surroundings. He was desperate for the open tundra, for the song of the free, unfettered wind.

  With a grunt of determination, he took one of his spears from where it stood upright against the pit hut next to Torka’s weapons and walked across the broad compound, past innumerable huts, shelters, and drying frames, until at last he reached the break in the wall of mammoth bones through which he had first entered the camp with Torka. He paused, reached out, and lay an open palm against a great tusk.

  “Mammoth spirit, know that Karana has not come to hunt your kind. He has come with Torka’s people to winter in this camp with those who have not named you totem. But though they may draw their strength from your spirit, Karana and Torka will not wet our spears in your blood, nor eat of your flesh, nor point the way to the river of grass or to the Valley of Songs to which Life Giver has gone.”

  Beneath his palm the tusk seemed suddenly warm, as though the spirit of the great mammoth had heard the promise of the youth. Karana withdrew h
is hand, startled. For the first time he noticed that Aar was at his side.

  “Come, Brother Dog,” he said softly, grateful for the company of his faithful companion. “You and I will walk alone a while. Karana’s spirit feels small and confused in this place of too many people.”

  Together they ran beneath the open sky and breathed in the clean, cold, smokeless Arctic night air. The youth and the dog paused atop a high mound of tundral earth and listened to the singing of wolves, and Karana raised his arms, crying aloud to the forces of Creation. The wind carried his voice to the magic woman, unseen upon the hill.

  “Great spirits, bring forth the game to this land. Bring forth the bison and the caribou to die upon the spears of men who hunger for the red meat of life! But great spirits of the mammoth, hear Karana! Walk now away from this land. Do not come to this place wtare death awaits you!”

  The next day the people at the Great Gathering slept long, and only the magic woman, standing as a silent, lonely sentinel upon the crest of the Hill of Dreams in the light of dawn, saw dust and circling birds upon the far western horizon.

  Bison. The youth has called them! He has the power! Tomorrow we will hear them. Tomorrow most of the men will hunt. But the meat will not be mammoth meat, and neither they nor I shall be nourished by it.

  She turned and went back into her hut. The tattooed woman was awake, sitting up, sipping at a warm broth of strongly steeped bearberry leaves and thick, oily marrow extracted from the bones of many animals—but not from the rhinoceros whose flesh she had not been allowed to butcher.

  “The magic of Sondahr is great!” proclaimed Aliga, smiling, displaying her filed, tattooed teeth. “The woman of Torka feels stronger every day!”

  The magic woman expressionlessly observed her patient. Untroubled rest and the rich broths had done Aliga much good, but her eyes were still yellow, and her fever, although under control, was still there. The slightest stress would set it free to burn wild once again.

  “My baby sleeps, growing strong. It will be born soon, yes?”

  Sondahr felt such overwhelming pity for the woman, it was difficult to remain aloof; but she had learned long ago that a betrayal of emotion was also a betrayal of power.

  Frowning, she moved to sit beside the tattooed woman. “The youth, the one you call Karana. Tell me of him.”

  Aliga’s smile disappeared. “There is nothing to tell! He is a rude boy with eyes that see too much for his own good! With luck he will find a woman in this camp and follow Torka’s people no more!”

  “As Torka’s son is it not more likely that he will eventually bring the woman of his choice to walk with his father’s people?”

  Aliga rose to snap at the bait. “This woman will bear Torka’s son! Karana is named by Torka as his own only out of kindness and blind affection. But the boy is son to the headman Supnah, and by right he should walk with his own true people. Do you know the band? They have a wondrous magic man among them—Navahk, the most beautiful man this woman has ever seen. I mean no offense, but in truth I had hoped that Navahk would be in this camp.”

  “No, Navahk and his people have not been to the Great Gathering in many years. And I am not offended, Aliga. I have never known a woman who was not drawn by the beauty of Navahk—including myself long ago, when he was not much more than a boy who looked so much like Karana that...” She paused. She had known the truth from the first moment that she saw him.

  Aliga made a face of annoyance. “Karana thinks that he will be a magic man like his uncle someday! He goes off alone. He calls upon the spirits. He sees things, that one does. Things that no one but a true shaman has a right to see! You would do well to put him in his place, Magic Woman! For he will never be like Navahk!”

  “No one in the world of men or spirits will ever be like Navahk,” Sondahr replied guardedly, her eyes full of memories.

  Aliga dared to reach out and touch the forearm of the older woman. “Sondahr’s powers are great. If you called to him, if you put your summons upon the spirit winds, would Navahk come to this camp to help this woman’s baby to be born?”

  Sondahr rose. Her exquisite features hardened into reproach. “Navahk is a man whose magic is a thing of death, not of life. Be glad that he is not in this camp. Be glad that this woman will not summon him. I will summon a better man for you—Torka, He may take you back to your own pit hut now. I have done all that I can for you.”

  It seemed to Lonit that Torka was not ever going to come down from the Hill of Dreams. When he did, he carried Aliga in his arms and was quick to share with Lonit the information that the magic woman had given him about how the tattooed woman must be cared for.

  “She must have rest and plenty of sleep,” he explained, placing Aliga onto the piled sleeping skins that Lonit had arranged with great care so they would be ready for her return. Aliga settled herself without so much as a word of thanks, commenting huffily that the pallet of the magic woman had been thicker with heather and moss and therefore more comfortable, then added that Lonit must learn to make a better bed.

  “This woman has always tried to do her best,” Lonit countered. She was actually glad to have Aliga’s waspish tongue stinging her again; she must be feeling better! “Aliga has never complained before.”

  “Aliga complains now,” drawled the tattooed woman, folding her hands across the dress skins that were tautly stretched across her enormous belly.

  “She must have this to drink with her food,” Torka continued, handing Lonit a bladder flask of brew that Sondahr had given him. She took it, lifted it, sniffed it, and blinked in surprise. “It is what this woman has been brewing for her all along! Marrow broth with bearberry leaves.”

  “Lonit just thinks that this is what it is,” said Aliga haughtily. “Lonit’s brews never helped this woman! But look, Aliga is much better now! Sondahr has mixed much magic into the medicine that she has made for me!”

  The strangest expression crossed Torka’s face. “Yes, much magic to have made Aliga feel so much stronger. Lonit could not read his face. He seemed lost in his solicitude to Aliga, so much so that he did not notice when Sister Dog slunk in from outside. Eyeing Torka and Lonit warily, expecting to be commanded out at once, the dog made it to Aliga’s side and hunkered low, extending her snout in wary greeting. Lonit scolded the animal and made to shoo her away, but the tattooed woman was actually glad to see the dog. She ruffled the grizzled fur of the animal’s wolflike head with her fingers and asked Torka if the dog might stay, Lonit was amazed. Aliga had never shown affection to the dogs; indeed, she usually kicked the pups and complained about the fact that Sister Dog had taken such a fancy to her. And the dogs were never allowed within the pit hut. Even during the coldest storms they were content to stay curled close to the lee walls, tucking noses beneath tails, their thick coats forming more than adequate insulation against the cold. Karana had begged Torka to allow them inside, and he had agreed once. The pups had come in to loose such pissing pandemonium that the entire hut had nearly collapsed, and the interior had never been completely cleansed of the strong odor of puppy urine. Since then it had been an unspoken law: No dogs were allowed within the pit hut. So it was that Lonit was startled when she was reprimanded by Torka for trying to make Sister Dog remember her manners.

  “If it would cheer Aliga, let the dog stay, Lonit. And stop arguing with her. She needs her strength.” Hurt and confused, she bowed her head and backed out of the hut. lana sat outside with the baby, changing is swaddling moss. Summer Moon was sitting cross-legged before her, trying to untangle the mess that she had made out of an old fishing lure of musk-ox hair.

  The encampment was athrob with morning activities. Everyone was up and about. Smokes rose from cooking fires, so thick that they stung Lonit’s eyes—or were those tears that burned beneath her lids? She impatiently backhanded them away. Across the coals of her own meticulously made, nearly smokeless fire, a summer-fat ptarmigan was roasting to perfection, dripping pink juices that had the dogs up and at attent
ion.

  Karana sat close by. He had torn off one of the bird’s legs and was gnawing on it as he made certain that the rest of the bird did not burn or fall prey to the salivating dogs.

  Miserable, weighted by all of the old self-doubts that had plagued her since childhood, Lonit took up her bola and walked through the teeming camp, knowing that the men who looked at her as she passed must be pitying Torka for being burdened by such a worthless female. Several women said good morning. She answered and barely knew that she spoke at all. Perhaps along the shores of the tundral lake that lay south of the encampment she could snare a few waterfowl to add to her family’s main meal; because of her generosity, much of the rhinoceros meat that otherwise would have been drying within the peripheries of Torka’s camp circle was now in the bellies of strangers. Her man had given her permission to portion the butchered meat and share it, and as his first woman, she could have turned up her chin and said that until her own camp was fully stored, other women must be content to butcher the kills of their own men. But she knew that Torka wanted to make friends among the hunters. As she walked out of the encampment now, she nevertheless wondered if she had done the right thing.

  The sky was free of clouds, and the sun was warm. The wind was so strong that biting flies were instantly carried away on a wing-shredding tide of air that allowed no safe landing or return.

  Lonit walked across a russet-colored land and paused at the edge of sedge grasses that lay between her and the lake. The wind skimmed across the surface so that the lake seemed to be running like a river. Now, in that brief time of year when berries ripened and tubers were sweet and ready for picking, cranes were still standing stilt-legged in the shallows. Loons called, and Lonit saw the bobbing forms of myriad species of ducks and geese and the larger, more elegant swans.