by neetha Napew
The only things that were different were the skin that the magic man wore upon his back, the taloned necklace of feathers that had once been Supnah’s, and the desiccated head balanced atop his own as he whirled and postured in ever diminishing circles around the pallet of the sick woman.
“In the beginning, when the land was one land, when the People were one people ...”
The words and the cadence were the same, flowing into the night, into the cold, growing wind that had trespassed through the wall of bones to lick the perimeters of the communal fire.
“Before Father Above made the darkness that ate the sun, before Mother Below gave birth to the ice spirits that grew to cover the mountains, the wanawut was born to hunt the children of First Man and First Woman—to follow them as they followed the great herds, to feed upon the People even as the People fed upon the meat and blood of mammoth and caribou and bison. For this alone was wanawut born: to teach the People the meaning of the word fear.” He stopped and flung up his arms, and with the arms of the beast laced to his own sleeves, it seemed as though two pairs of hands rose in adoration of the night. “But I, Navahk, have eaten its heart and drunk of its blood. I, Navahk, have killed the wanawut! Behold ... I wear its skin and know fear of no man, of no spirit, and so I call upon Father Above and Mother Below to witness this dance, to hear the song of Spirit Killer, who alone is worthy to demand that they bring forth the child of the woman known as Aliga!” Torka sat straight and unmoving in his black-maned, tawny outer coat of lion skin, his face impassive, his heart pounding. The man was a magic man. The man was an enchanter. The people sat spellbound around him as he danced close to the flames, gesturing, circling, and the flames leaping high, as though at his command.
Torka looked at the magic woman. She sat unmoving, reserved, and calm, her face devoid of expression, her hands folded gracefully in her lap. His eyes moved to Karana. He was sitting rigidly, as though carved of stone. Only his eyes moved, watching, hating, resenting, seeing ugliness where others saw only beauty.
The firelight colored Navahk red and black as he danced in the skin of the wanawut. A man of two dimensions ... or not a man at all? Perhaps something in between: half human and half animal, half beauty and half ugliness, half light, half shadow .. .
Torka leaned forward. The man had become the wanawut by embodying the fears of men, of all that was wild and threatening and savage in the world. It was as though the wanawut itself stood before them—fanged, powerful, the undisputed master of the night. He danced as gracefully as a hawk, with wings spread wide upon the wind, soaring, then plunging, mimicking the piercing, stabbing moment of a kill. He sang the high, wild, wordless song of wolves and wild dogs, of stallions driving mares before them upon the vast, open grasslands of the summer tundra. He raced, he reared, he vaulted. Then he hunched into a bestial crouch, rocked on his heels and wailed and hissed, then leaped and prowled, no longer flesh but spirit, no longer man but beast. He was the thing whose skin he wore. He was the wanawut. He was fear.
Torka was enthralled but not beguiled as Navahk paused before him and raised the skin-beribboned staff of office with which he had been dancing. It, too, was a thing out of memory, and as he had done on that night so long ago in Supnah’s camp, Navahk raised the fire-hardened thigh bone of a camel atop which was affixed the horned, oiled skull of an antelope. He shook the staff viciously, and all the claws and talons and beaks sewn onto the streaming ribbons of skin rattled and clicked. “Does Torka not fear the wanawut now that he sees its spirit dancing within the skin of Navahk?” Torka did not move. The question, like the dance and the song and the chanting, was of the past, as was his reply. “Torka is wary of all things he does not understand.”
The magic man glared at him rapaciously. “Not wary enough.” He sighed the words as, beneath the fanged skull of the wanawut, he smiled, showing his white, serrated teeth as an animal does when it warns another that it is ready to attack. Then, suddenly, he leaped straight into the air and turned, dancing again, chanting again, this time without words. The sounds he made were the wanawut’s. The hands of the beast dangled over his own hands. He circled the fire once, twice. On the third time he stopped before Aliga’s pallet, swooping down upon her with arms outstretched.
She screamed.
He straightened, threw back his arms, holding up a clotted mass of fatty, bloody tissue for all to see.
A startled gasp of incredulity rose from the mouths of everyone at the assembly except Torka, Karana, and Sondahr. Several little children began to cry. Summer Moon buried her head in Lonit’s lap.
In a feigned trance, Navahk whirled and wheeled away from the staring Aliga, arms still upright, tissue dripping blood. “Behold the spirit of the woman Aliga’s pain!”
On her pallet Aliga wept with joy and covered her face with her hands.
“I am healed!” she cried. “I am well and without pain at last! Soon my baby will be born and—“
“No!” Navahk screamed the word. Again he leaped straight into the air, twisting violently so that when he landed, he stood on both feet, poised before a gaping, awe struck Lorak, who sat with the other equally hang-jawed magic men.
Never had any of them seen a performance to equal the magnificent display of sorcery that Navahk, Spirit Killer, had just completed. From beneath the skull of the beast, his magnificent face shone with sweat. His eyes pierced them until they were forced to turn away lest he suck the life spirits from their bodies and draw what little power they had into himself.
His smile broadened. His teeth glistened. “No baby will come forth out of that woman .. . not as long as Torka is allowed to live in this camp .. . not as long as the youth Karana continues to offend the spirits.” A laugh bubbled at the back of his throat. He held it captive, then threw back his head and howled like a beast at the gathering storm clouds.
From beyond the wall of bones, from somewhere within the nearby grass-choked lakeshore, a terrible howl answered that of the magic man. It was like the high shriek of a woman in pain; and yet no woman had ever made a cry like that, for it was the cry of a beast .. . the cry of a wanawut.
For an instant Navahk stiffened. Torka felt Karana’s hand reach to close upon his forearm. The youth had seen it too: The magic man was afraid.
But only for an instant. He immediately threw back his arms again. “Do you hear? The wanawut answers the call of the man! It is close! It comes at my command! It is hungry now. It feeds from my hand. It will feed upon the people of this camp, one by one, unless Torka and Karana leave this camp—alone.”
“No!” Now it was Sondahr who nearly screamed the word. She was on her feet, shadowing a bewildered Pomm. “Your guile and trickery have not fooled this woman!”
“Guile? Trickery?” He hurled the bloodied mass of flesh at her feet. “Here is the substance of my claims! Where is yours, woman? I have driven the pain of Aliga out of her body and into my own hands! What have you done for her? What have you done for anyone in this camp except to keep the mammoths away? It is Sondahr who has practiced guile and trickery, welcoming within your bed skins a youth who has been bad luck in every camp that has been foolish enough to take him in!”
Torka rose. The wind was cold, but somehow the night was hot. The light that burns behind a man’s eyes when death is near was blinding him. He started to speak, but again, from beyond the wall of bones, the cry of the wanawut pierced the night. Beside him Karana was on his feet, and from where he stood before the other magic men, Navahk turned and malevolently pointed with his skull-topped staff.
“If the skies are to clear and the mammoths are to continue to come to the people of the Great Gathering for future generations, Karana and Torka must go from this camp. If they will not go, they must be driven. If they will not be driven, they must be killed. The wanawut cries for their flesh. Across the long distances it has followed the people of Navahk because it has known that this man would lead it to them.”
Torka was shaking with suppressed rage. His righ
t hand flexed, longing for a spear. “By the forces of Creation, Navahk, I will not stand here and listen to this!”
“No, you will not! Het. Mond. Stam. Take him!”
Torka felt shadows moving at his back and turned, eyeing the men away with deadly intent.
“Stam is dead. He cannot answer the summons of Navahk!” Het’s proclamation stunned the assembly as he came forward through the shadows where he had been skulking, parting his way through the throng, his garments torn and bloodied as he waded through the men’s side of the circle to stand beside Navahk. “Because of Torka and Karana, Stam’s throat has been torn by an unprovoked attack! The dog that usually walks at the side of Lion Killer tore out his throat. I, Het, could not save Stam, but bravely did this man kill the dogs when they broke loose from their tethers to attack me.”
“Liar!” The accusation was hurled across the night at Stam by Karana. Torka was as stunned as the youth. The dogs dead? All of them? Aar too? Surely it could not be!
Het glanced nervously at Navahk, was bolstered by an encouraging smile from the magic man, then gulped audibly before saying in a voice that sounded well rehearsed, “Has Navahk not said that it is not good for men and beasts to walk together? Has Navahk not said that it is not good for Man Who Walks With Dogs and Lion Killer to share this camp? Yes! It was their presence here that has kept the mammoths away from this camp. And this night Stam is dead because the spirits frown on all men who walk within the shadow of Man Who Walks With Dogs!”
Torka’s rage broke loose within him. “I’ll give you a shadow to walk within!” He would have gone for the man’s throat, but he was suddenly grabbed from behind by Mond and another man.
“Let him go!” Karana leaped to his defense, only to find his own arms pinioned behind his back. He fought, twisting and snarling at Navahk and glaring at Het with loathing. “That skinny little vole could not have killed my brothers!”
“Brothers?” Navahk turned his question with sweet malevolence. “You see? Out of the boy’s own mouth he admits that he runs with dogs—with wild beasts—and names them kindred. How can Lorak have allowed such men as these to take shelter among the people of this Great Gathering? Navahk says now to Lorak that he must let beasts live with beasts, not with men! Send Karana and Torka from this camp! Their presence among us offends the spirits. Father Above and Mother Below will not smile upon this encampment as long as such violators of tradition are allowed to live within it!”
Torka strained against those who held him as, at the women’s side of the circle, Lonit snapped to her feet. Never had she looked so bold and beautiful and recklessly defiant. “Navahk is a liar! It is he who wants Torka and Karana out of this camp, not the spirits! He has wanted them dead before. He—“
“Silence, woman!” Navahk’s command cut the night like a blade.
“This woman will not be silent! This woman will—“
Her words were cut short as Oga took a step forward and slapped her so hard that she nearly fell. All of Oga’s long but ill-contained jealousy of Lonit flared to disfigure her face with hatred. “No woman speaks so to a magic man! Many a woman in this camp will be glad to see Lonit go with Torka and Karana! This camp will be well rid of the People Who Walk With Dogs!”
Torka’s anger was blinding as, to no avail, he twisted violently to be free of those who held him. A knee drove hard into his groin as, beside him, Karana bucked and lunged helplessly against those who bent his arms up across his back.
“And we will be glad to be free of the fools who dwell within this camp!” retorted the youth.
Sondahr’s voice was low with warning as she said, “Beware of what you do in the name of the forces of Creation, Navahk. Father Above and Mother Below may be listening and may not approve of what you do in their name.”
Torka saw Navahk’s eyes narrow as they fixed her with cold and venomous resentment. Then, slowly, the magic man’s gaze moved from Sondahr to Lonit and then to Torka. His smile changed, broadened, to become thoughtful and so full of virulent malice that Torka recoiled, somehow knowing what his words would be.
Navahk’s head swung in slow negation. “I am Navahk, Spirit Killer. I walk in the skin of the wanawut, and I bring forth the living flesh of pain from those who believe in me. In my dream times I leave my body to walk the wind from this world of men and into the world of spirits. Mother Below and Father Above speak through my mouth, and so I, Navahk, speak without fear in their name: Torka and Karana must go from the Great Gathering. But the woman of Torka, she is for Navahk! Since time beyond beginning her spirit has belonged to this man. Torka has stolen her from me.”
Torka’s anger was so great that he could not speak. He hurled himself at Navahk with such force that he broke the hold of those who tried to keep him in his place. He was across the center of the great circle, with several men at his back, and he would have been at the magic man’s throat had they not tackled him and brought him down, flailing into the fire. He rolled savagely to be free of the flames and the heat, kicking out at those who grappled with him until the butt end of a spear found the side of his brow and the world exploded into light and pain and he fell alone into darkness.
“Torka!” Lonit shrieked the name of her beloved and, hefting little Summer Moon in her arms, ran toward her man, telling lana to follow with the baby. Lorak had begun to beat upon his drum again, ferociously. She looked toward the old shaman but could not see him or Sondahr or any of the magic men. A crowd of women had gathered around her, shouting, punching, and shoving with unrestrained hostility as she tried to sweep past them. Summer Moon began to scream in terror. Confusion and rage swarmed within Lonit as she tried to understand what she had done to make them all so angry. Only moments ago most would have smiled at her, and many of them would have named her friend.
But that was before Navahk had claimed her for himself. Navahk! So many of them wanted him. Even in the hideous skin of the wanawut, he was more handsome than she remembered, but there was no doubt in her mind that she hated him now. Men were chanting, making new sounds inspired by Navahk’s exhortations to drive Torka and Karana from the encampment. No matter what he said, she would not stay with him. Just let him try to stop her from going with Torka!
But many men surrounded Torka and Karana, and she could not see them. Panic filled her. Someone had carried Aliga off into the crowd, and she could not see lana or Demmi when she turned back to see if they were following.
Oga was behind her, with several others whose faces were contorted with grim little smiles and leers of hatred. Suddenly, accosted by a sharp, painful push to her shoulder, she was stopped in her tracks by Naiapi.
The woman’s face was engorged with jealous loathing. “Navahk has told me to escort you to his hut on the Hill of Dreams.”
“You go!” Lonit hissed hotly, her shoulder stinging from contact with the heel of the woman’s hand. “You’ve always wanted him, even when Supnah was alive!”
Naiapi’s features tightened, and her head went up. Then, as Oga pushed Lonit, distracting her so that she could not duck away in time, Naiapi’s hand came out and slapped Lonit hard across the face. “If I had my way, there would not be enough left of you for any man to desire!”
Lonit reeled, staggered by the blow. Her face stung and her ears rang as several women maliciously echoed Naiapi’s sentiment. Several more shoved her from behind. She nearly fell. Summer Moon was gasping and wailing hysterically in her arms as blood spurted from her nose and ran warmly in her mouth.
Then, to one side, the woman Wallah spoke up for her. “Leave her alone! Can’t you see you’re terrifying her child?”
Lonit would have thanked her, but Wallah was shouted down and shoved away, with her frightened little daughter, Mahnie, holding onto her arm.
“What do we care for the child of Man Who Walks With Dogs? No doubt she’s as unlucky as her parents. We ought to do ourselves a favor and smash her little head in!” snapped Oga, grabbing for the little one, who shrieked and wrapped her arm
s about Lonit’s neck.
Lonit screamed in outrage as her child was ripped from her arms by Oga and Naiapi. She managed to land a solid kick into Oga’s belly and to rake her fingernails deeply into Naiapi’s cheeks. She knew that she drew blood. The woman screamed in anger, and both Naiapi and Oga retaliated by kicking Lonit so hard across the shins that she nearly fainted. She did not see an enraged and protective Wallah pounce upon Oga and wrest the little girl from her grasping arms, nor did she hear Mahnie cry out with despair as several women backhanded Wallah out of the way and descended upon Lonit to pummel her with blows, knock her down, and kick her brutally.
Lonit curled into a protective tuck, wrapping her arms about her head, wondering why Sondahr did not come to help her. She wanted to scream curses at those who were abusing her, but she could barely breathe. The booted toes of one woman after another found her side and legs and arms.
“Stop! He’ll be angry if we kill her.” It was Oga’s voice, pinched with frustration. “Don’t, Naiapi. If you ruin her face, he’ll set the forces of Creation upon us to blight us all!”
The kicking stopped. Lonit felt herself being lifted and carried. She heard Wallah imperatively calling for Mahnie above the din of the encampment. And then she felt and heard nothing.
Torka awoke in a haze, surrounded by a whirlwind of shouting, angry men who were dragging him across the tundra, holding torches high to light their way. Stunned and disoriented, he did not know where he was. Then he heard Karana curse and, through a pounding headache, saw the youth being driven forward, his brow bloodied, his lips drawn back, his arms bound behind his back.
“What--?” He paused; his mouth hurt so badly that he reached to touch his lips, only to find that his own hands were tethered at the wrist behind his back. He explored his mouth with his tongue. His lower lip was split and swollen. His mouth tasted of blood.
Someone pushed him forward hard. He nearly fell, but strong hands hefted him from behind and shoved him on. When he hesitated, a hand closed on his right wrist and jerked his arms up across his back, half breaking his right arm.
