by neetha Napew
He gasped and blundered on. Although the torches lighted the way, he could not see where they were headed; too many men crowded ahead of him and on all sides, moving at a rapid pace. His breath came hard from bruised lungs. He looked up, his vision clearing. Above him the torches bobbed up and down with the movements of the men. Fashioned in a hurry from the long leg bones of bison, they were sloppily packed wads of oil-soaked grass and moss bound to the tips of the femurs with thong. They stank, and their light was hot and tremulous. Fragments of burning grass broke off in the wind and rained cinders down upon those who carried them and upon Torka, burning his skin where his loosened hair did not cover his scalp and battered face. When he shook them away, pain broke loose behind his eyes, so intense that it nearly dropped him.
Still dazed, in confusion and pain, he felt himself supported and pummeled and heard himself mocked as he caught a glimpse of Zinkh’s face in the fire lit crowd to his left. The little man looked lost. Simu and Cheanah were at Zinkh’s back. Torka looked at them imploringly for answers, for help. They both looked back, grim and angry—at him or at his tormentors, he could not tell, but neither man moved to aid him. They slowed their steps and fell back into the crowd. In a moment Torka could not see them anymore. He looked back, straining to be free of those who held him, panic and anger rising in him as he recalled the feast fire—Navahk’s dance, and his words.
The wanawut will feed upon the people of this camp unless Torka and Karana leave—alone. The woman of Torka, she is for Navahk!
“Lonit!” he screamed. The thought of her and his children with Navahk infuriated him. He fought madly against those who held him. Bending, bucking, oblivious to his pain, he used his head and shoulders to gouge his way to freedom, ramming forward, kicking sideways at shins and knees, which buckled under his onslaught. He heard the startled grunts of pain from those who stood in the way of his fury until the butt end of a spear jabbed him so hard in the spine that he stumbled, and his head swimming, he cried out in agony and rage as he was caught beneath the armpits by two men who closed ranks on either side of him.
“There’s no use fighting,” sneered one, striking Torka across the face. “You will pay for what your dogs have done. The magic man was right about you and your son. Bringers of bad luck, that’s what you are. We should have known it from the start!”
The man was not well-known to Torka; he could not recall his name or his band. Nevertheless he was one of those who had left the encampment to hunt bison with him. He was a man who had shared meat and danger with him, and one whom Torka had assumed to be a friend.
Beside him Karana was also unsuccessfully twisting violently to be free of the two who held him. The youth was sobbing, but not with despair. He was half choking upon his own rage. “The dogs have done nothing but tear out the throat of Stam. He must have fed them poisoned meat! I saw the dogs in the torchlight as they dragged us out of the encampment. All bloated and dead. At least one of them gutted. And Aar, our brother, with them! Navahk must have—“ One of the two who held him drove a fist hard into his face. His head went limp for a moment, then rose as he was carried forward, his mouth swelling, his nose gushing blood.
Anger struck Torka harder than the butt of the spear had done. He could not help Karana. He could not help Lonit or himself. He felt as though he were caught in the turbulent rapids of a river at spring flood. Aar dead? It could not be. Yet it must be, or Karana would not have said it. The thought of the bold, brave dog lying lifeless was numbing. His step lagged. His head was pounding again mercilessly. He was certain that he was going to be sick. The butt of the spear found the small of his back again.
“Hurry on. We don’t want to be out of the encampment once the torches have all been burned out!”
Again someone clouted him from behind, and for a span of time that could have been moments or hours, he ceased to exist except in his dreams .. . dreams of fire and pain and blood.
The dog whined softly. The rest were still—one gutted, the others stiffening in the twisted, unnatural positions created by terrible paroxysms of pain. All had been pierced at least once by a spear. Mahnie crept from dog to dog in the freezing dark. She touched each animal on the side, pressing for the feeblest tremor of heartbeat. There were none, except within the great dog Aar.
Mahnie crouched before him. He did not look great now. He alone among the dogs had not been pierced. She could find no wound except a bloody gash below his right ear, where someone had struck what he had intended to be a killing blow. But the blow had struck low, hard enough to open his flesh, but stunning instead of killing. The dog looked dazed, vulnerable, confused, and in pain ... as Karana and Torka had looked after they had been beaten and carried from the encampment and into the night.
Her heart was pounding. She felt weak with fear for them and yet very angry—angry enough to have defied Wallah by refusing to help the other women carry Lonit to Navahk’s hut or to go with her mother when Pomm had called several women to Sondahr’s shelter upon the Hill of Dreams when the magic woman had suddenly taken ill. Instead Mahnie had followed Grek and the other men and youths. Hiding within the shadows, she had watched them sweep Torka and Karana along with them in a great avalanche of shouting and cursing and—yes, laughter! Some of them had actually laughed! Only hours ago they had numbered themselves among the friends of Torka and Karana. Now they were like wolves and wild dogs, turning on those among them who were chosen by the master of the pack to be expelled. She was heartsick as she recalled how the men had turned on Torka and Karana when Navahk had declared what their fate must be.
As they had channeled through the wall of bones, Grek had seen her and warned her back. She had no choice but to obey as, sobbing over Karana’s fate—a fate that forever ended her dream of someday being his woman—she had hurried back to the dogs, hoping against hope that some might still be alive. They were Karana’s brothers, these dogs! Especially the big animal with the black fur around its pale blue eyes, making it seem as though he were wearing a mask. How she had loved watching Karana and Torka hunt with their dogs in the days when they had traveled with her band. The animals came at their command and worked with them to drive the game as though they did indeed possess the spirits of men instead of beasts.
Kneeling beside the prone, erratically breathing form of Aar, Mahnie sighed restlessly, then rose to examine the tethers. All had been cut. Sister Dog had dragged herself to die by her mate. A question formed; she pursued it. Bending over the dog that had been gutted, she found the answer and caught her breath. The heart was missing! Might a heart not have been the bloody mass of tissue that Navahk had thrown at Sondahr’s feet, declaring that it was the flesh of the pain he had drawn from the woman Aliga? And years ago, when Navahk had drawn the pain from the poor old woman Hetchem, was a pup of the great dog and its mate not missing soon after? Mahnie blanched, realizing that all the times in the intervening years when Navahk had drawn the visible substance of pain from those who were ill, it was always after a hunt, when there was fresh gut and blood meat at hand. Yes/ And so it was tonight! A trick, not magic! A trick worked at Navahk’s command by Stam and Met at the expense of Karana’s dogs! Kill the dogs by poison. Gut one.
Take the heart to Navahk. Spear the rest and claim that they attacked viciously and without provocation. Then lay the blame on Torka to affirm Navahk’s claims against him. But the dogs had turned, Stam was killed, and in the end Navahk’s lies against Torka and Karana were better served by Stam’s death than by his life!
She felt sick. Who would believe her?
Sondahr. Yes. The magic woman might listen. She had accused Navahk of practicing guile and deception. But she had taken ill so suddenly, and Naiapi was among the women who were with her on the Hill of Dreams. Mahnie had seen Naiapi’s treatment of Lonit and the way she looked at Navahk with longing. Mahnie would not ask Sondahr questions about Stam and Het before Naiapi, lest she use them against her with Navahk.
The dog stirred beneath her hand, whined s
oftly, and lifted his head to lick her fingers as though in gratitude for her solicitude. “Stam should not have come hunting you, Brother Dog. Karana said that you were not like other animals. Stam should have listened. He has killed your band, but he has not killed you. Now he is dead. Tomorrow his body will be put out to look upon the sky forever, and Mahnie is glad.”
Within the hut of Sondahr, Wallah crumbled dried willow leaves between her palms. She let them sift through her fingers into the waiting cup that she held steady between her knees. The cup belonged to the magic woman and was made of the hollowed tip of a mammoth tusk. The little fragments of faded leaves filtered down through a steaming brew of watered mammoth blood: blood for the giving of strength, willow for the killing of pain.
But this would be the second cup, and Sondahr was not stronger. If anything the crippling pain that had come upon her so suddenly at the climax to the events at the fire feast seemed to be growing worse.
Wallah was sorry that she had been drawn by Pomm’s command onto the Hill of Dreams with the other women, and sorrier still that Sondahr had selected her. She did not want to be here. She knew the basic way to alleviate minor pain, to stitch wounds, to salve burns, and to lessen fever; any woman worth a man’s keeping knew them. But she was no healer, not in the true sense of the word. There was no magic in her skills.
The confines of the overcrowded room were stiff ling Wallah felt trapped, even though she sat apart from the other women, listening to their singing and spirit calling as her carefully heated brew cooled in its ivory serving cup. She thought about her daughter and wished that she had immediately gone after Mahnie when the impetuous girl had run off, deliberately ignoring Pomm’s command to stay. Where was the child now? Her limbs twitched to be up and after her. She would be in serious trouble if, as Wallah feared, she had dared to follow the men out of the encampment.
But when Sondahr had put the cup into her hands and had specifically requested that she prepare the brew of healing while Pomm led the other women in the traditional chants designed to drive away pain, how could Wallah refuse? She had told the magic woman that she was no healer, but Sondahr would have no other, even when Naiapi offered to ready the cup instead.
“Have you not done enough already for Sondahr, Naiapi, woman of Grek?”
Although the crowded interior was lighted by only a single oil lamp, Wallah had seen Naiapi flush, and as she had stammered that she did not know what Sondahr meant, her handsome features had twisted with an expression that had filled Wallah with suspicion.
As the last of the brittle willow leaf fragments settled into the cooling brew within the cup, the eyes of Wallah, first woman of Grek, found Naiapi in the gloom. She was sitting with the others now, in a circle around the raised sleeping platform where Sondahr lay thrashing. Wallah frowned. Naiapi was smiling a tight, smug little expression of contentment inspired by Sondahr’s ever-increasing pain.
The first woman of Grek rose, suddenly sick and wary and uncomprehending of the befuddling and savage events of this night. She wished the sun would rise so she could look out upon a new day that mocked all that had transpired! Mahnie would be back where she belonged; Sondahr would be well; Torka and Karana would be asleep with their women and children within their pit hut. And Navahk would have vanished into yesterday, along with the smokes of last night’s feast fire—and Grek would be headman in his place!
She sighed. Such things could not be. Life moved forward, never back. And the cup was growing much too cool within her palms. Sondahr had need of more of the strengthening, painkilling brew of blood and willow. Now.
The magic woman cried out against her pain.
“Drink this,” soothed Wallah. “It will ease your pain.
The magic woman sat up, eagerly grasping Wallah’s hands, drawing them close as she drank greedily from the cup. Wallah tipped it, assisting her, heartsick as she saw the agony in the woman’s eyes and felt the clammy texture of her fevered skin.
Sondahr shuddered, and although the cup was drained, she continued to hold Wallah’s hands. “This pain will not end until my life has ended with it, for I have eaten death. Is it not so, Naiapi?”
Wallah saw the smile slip from Naiapi’s mouth.
“You should not have challenged Navahk, Sondahr,” Naiapi replied with a scowl of vindictive wrath. “If death eats at your gut, it is your own doing. You have invited the punishment of one whose magic is much greater than your own. You were once his teacher, his lover. But Navahk loves Naiapi now. He cares not for Sondahr. Before the sun rises, Navahk will teach you that no one has power over him—not you, not Lorak, and certainly not Torka or Karana, for Navahk is more than a man. His will shall triumph, and your spirit will walk the wind forever, along with the people of Man Who Walks With Dogs!”
Wallah was so stunned by the wide-eyed, slavering madness that distorted Naiapi’s face that she did not hear Pomm’s sigh of distress. But there was no missing Pomm’s hissing admonition to Sondahr: “What has happened to Karana is the fault of Sondahr—all of it! He wanted you instead of Pomm because of your black powers of enchantment. If he and his people have fallen out of favor in this camp, if they have become bringers of bad luck, if Karana dies instead of lives to pleasure this woman, it is the fault of Sondahr ... all of it, the fault of Sondahr!”
The room was hot from the combined body heat of the crowded women, but Wallah went cold as the smile that had vanished from Naiapi’s mouth now reappeared upon Sondahr’s lips. The magic woman’s eyes moved to Pomm. “Woman Who Knows Everything .. . when Sondahr is no more, when you dwell as a woman alone upon the Hill of Dreams, upon whom shall you heap your blame and excuses for failure when all of the bands of the Great Gathering see what you can and cannot do?” A wave of pain stopped her words. She went rigid, and her hands closed so tightly about Wallah’s that Wallah winced and gasped in pain.
“Go!” Sondahr issued the command through clenched teeth. “Go, all of you, and leave me with this woman Pomm, who brags before all that she can fill the space of my shadow! Go!”
Still holding the cup, Wallah got to her feet and, with the others, backed out of the hut in silence. She was the last to leave. As she bent and stepped backward through the entryway, she put the cup down upon the floor skin of mammoth hide just as a thoroughly flustered Pomm rose to stand angrily before Sondahr.
“I am Pomm! I am magic woman! My powers are great! But woman am I, and before the powers of Navahk, not even Mother Below could—“
“You are where you have chosen to be. You have dared to boast before all that your powers are greater than the powers of Sondahr, so offer no more excuses to me, fat woman! Cast off your feathers and heal me—if you can!”
Torka stared up through thinning, pain-filled shadows. A wall of hostile faces glared down at him, the features red and black in the torchlight. He saw Grek, grim, scowling, his thoughts impossible to read. When their eyes met, the older hunter exhaled through his teeth and turned away, to be absorbed by the darkness of the heavily clouded night. Dimly-from somewhere beyond the edge of the world, it seemed-Torka heard the lapping of water and the hiss of the wind. The wind was cold, well below freezing, but Torka was in so much pain that his shivering brought flames of heat rippling through him.
Lorak stood over him imperiously. The slag heap of his time-ruined, raptorial face twisted with pleasure as he poked Torka with his feathered staff and watched the younger man flinch from pain. “Now does Lorak speak these words to Torka!” He shouted so that all of those who stood behind him might hear and be impressed. “Lorak says, go from this land—you and Karana-and return to the far and forbidden land out of which you have come. Look no more to the country of the mammoth hunters, for if you return to this land or to the encampment of the Great Gathering, you will die as your dogs have died—but not before you see the deaths of your women and children.”
From deep within some inner well of reserve, Torka glowered contemptuously up at the old man. “Lorak does not speak .. . Tork
a hears his voice, but it is only a puny echo of Navahk’s voice. Where is Spirit Killer? Has he decided to step aside for a little while in order to allow Lorak a continuing delusion of authority?”
“Navahk is with Torka’s woman.” Lorak’s reply was sinuous with hatred, a sharpened awl probing for pain he knew must come. “But she is Navahk’s woman now, isn’t she? And she must be mated with him by now. In the light of Navahk’s fire she will forget that she ever had another man.”
“She will remember. And Torka will come back for his Lonit ... for all his women and his children, and when he does, Navahk had best look to his throat. For like Aar, who has ripped the throat of Stam, Torka will rip the throat of Navahk wide, and when he is done and Navahk’s spirit has bled out of his body, Lorak had best look to his own neck, because as long as Torka lives, you will not be safe in your bed skins, old man!”
The old man’s booted foot swung out fast and hard, striking Torka in the belly. The second kick cracked two ribs. “Then this ‘old man’ will see to it that Torka will not live long enough to carry out his threat!” His promise was a curse. “Let the mammoth hunters see what Man Who Walks With Dogs can do without his dogs, without his spears, without his flying sticks. He and his son are alone upon the tundra, alone in the night and the coming storm, alone with the wanawut-with their hands tied behind their backs!”
The vibrations of Aar’s low growling awoke Mahnie. Startled, she opened her eyes to find herself slumped against Aar, her arms embracing him. His fur was soft and silken against her face. His body was warm against her own. With a start she looked up, surprised that she had been asleep. It was snowing hard now, and the wind was whistling. A good distance away men and youths were filing back into the encampment. Led by Lorak, they walked as though in need of rest and broke ranks the moment they came through the wall of bones, scattering to their individual campsites. She watched them, stroking the dog, whispering into his fur to shush him until all the men and youths had gone and she was alone in the snowy dark with the dog. Suddenly Grek was standing close, hesitant to come too close to the animal.
