by neetha Napew
On the ledge where he had been observing the hunt with Karana and the women, Umak roared with pride, and the women, including Lonit, shouted with amazement and delight. The hunters and boys came to Torka to speak their approval and tell him that never had they seen so fine a throw.
Only Galeena said nothing. The exhalation that hissed through his gap-toothed mouth was deep, reeking of resentment. And although the boy who had fallen was Ninip, his only son, he felt no gratitude to Torka for having saved the boy’s life. The boy had been careless. He had tripped and shamed his father. By saving his life, Torka had shamed Galeena further. And every man, boy, and woman in his band had witnessed the humiliation. He would never forgive Torka. Someday he would make him pay. The women came down from the ledge, and the butchering began. Umak joined them in his bearskin robe. He walked through the slaughter scene with the same imperious disdain as a great heron striding through a marsh.
“Hmmph. Just as Spirit Master said, a good day to hunt.” He would not let them forget that he had foretold their good fortune. As the hunters skinned their many kills, he stood stoically by. His face betrayed none of his inner turmoil over the wanton slaughter of the entire herd. What was done was done. If the life spirits of the game were offended, nothing could change that. Tonight he would make spirit smokes and send songs of veneration to the life spirits of the musk oxen. Perhaps that would satisfy them. If not, they would know soon enough. In the meantime, his songs and smokes and ritual dances would impress the people of Galeena’s band, especially the matrons. That, at least for Umak, would be a good thing.
To Lonit’s surprise, the hunters of Galeena’s band took part in more than just the skinning of their kills. She was amazed to see them force their women to stand back while they slit the throats of each animal, cut out its tongue, and hunkered down to eat on the spot.
As she watched, Torka cut the tongue from the bull that he had killed and brought it to Umak.
“For Spirit Master, whose magic brought much meat.”
The old man grunted, obviously pleased by Torka’s deference. As Galeena’s people stared, apparently unaccustomed to youth serving to age anything other than orders to walk away upon the wind, Umak accepted Torka’s offering as though he had not the slightest doubt that it was his due. He held the tongue high in a gesture of thanksgiving to the spirits. He made a loud and lengthy chant of praise to the animal whose flesh he was about to consume. Then, after cutting off and setting aside a small portion that Lonit was certain he would bring back to the ledge for Karana, he slit the tongue in half with his fleshing dagger and offered a share to Torka.
She saw them both pause and look for her among the women before settling down to eat together in silence. She was relieved that they had not seen her or called her forward to join them. She had deliberately chosen to stand at the back of the group of watching women, stooping, trying to make herself small so that she would not stand out from the crowd. From the way that the women hung back, she knew that they expected to receive none of this part of the kill. As among her own band, the choice portions were reserved for the hunters.
If Torka or Umak had invited Lonit to share in their feast, they would win only enmity from Galeena and his men. And Torka had already won more than his share of that from Galeena.
Lonit could see it in the headman’s small, rapacious eyes as he looked at Torka as though he were an animal whom he would like to hunt. Lonit was disturbed by the sight of him. He sat on the haunch of the dead bull that Torka had slain, as though the animal had been his kill and not Torka’s. She liked him less now than when she had first seen him. He had frightened her then; he frightened her more now.
The wind had dropped. It was warm and sluggish and did nothing to cut the smell of blood that rose from the dead and dying musk oxen. Satiated with tongue meat, the hunters began to fling their leavings to the boys. The youths leaped forward to fight viciously among themselves over every scrap while the hunters turned their attention to other delicacies. As Lonit watched, they gouged the eyeballs from the musk oxen with their thumbs and greedily began to suck the rich, black juices.
Lonit salivated, recalling the days when she had wandered the tundra with Torka and Umak and they had generously insisted that she share these delicacies with them. Those days were gone forever. She sighed with longing for them and was glad when she was called to work with the other women as the butchering began in earnest. Activity would drive back the bittersweet memories. Now there were skulls to smash and bodies to dismember. Brains must be scooped and cherished for the tanning of hides. Sinew must be separated from meat and saved. Fires must be made. Flesh must be smoked and roasted. Bones must be cracked, and marrow must be melted. The hunters were already urinating on the freshly taken skins. Once saturated, the skins would be wadded into tight bundles and kept warm by the fires. In a day or two, the skins would be soft enough to work, and the long hair of the musk oxen could be easily combed free. Then the women would spread them, scrape off the last of the flesh, and bind them to the drying frames to begin the long, tedious process of transforming rough skins into supple garments.
As Lonit took up her stone fleshing knife and began to work with three other women to cut the fat-rich hump of a large bull into long, bloody steaks, she ate freely of the meat. It was warm and sweet. Yet, strangely, it was also bitter, for as she ate, her mind wandered to the hunt in which the great bull had been slain. She was unsettled by her recollections of the wanton, wasteful slaughter of the musk oxen. She could not forget the pitiable sight of the little calves bleating for their mothers and the way the brave bulls had deliberately taken spears into their sides rather than abandon their old and weak and their stumbling babies.
The taste of the meat was suddenly repulsive. Lonit swallowed and tried to think of other things. To one side of her, the sad-eyed woman whom the others called lana worked in silence. Across from her, the other two women, who had introduced themselves as Oklahnoo and Naknaktup, ate and worked, laughed and chattered. They mocked the musk oxen for their stupidity. Lonit found herself resenting their words, reflecting on the ways of her own species. She wondered why humans—so much wiser and more adaptable than any animal-were rarely as self-sacrificing and caring of their own as the brave, dumb oxen that had died this day. She spoke her thoughts and was immediately sorry.
“Bah!” Naknaktup, the younger of the two matrons, snapped a rebuke. “Musk oxen not brave! Musk oxen stupid! If they run, they not all be dead now!”
Oklahnoo snorted in agreement. She was twice as plump as Naknaktup and several years older. From the set of their features and the sound of their voices, it was obvious that the two were sisters. She appraised Lonit as though she had doubts about her sanity. “Is good thing musk oxen not think like people! If oxen run away, if leave behind young and sick, we take only some meat. But because oxen stupid, because they stay with old and weak, we kill all Does Torka’s wuhman say this not good?”
The woman had asked a question. Lonit was bound to answer. “It is not good! There are no cows or bulls left to make new calves. The herd is gone forever. Never again will hunters feast upon its meat and offer thanksgiving to its life spirits.”
Oklahnoo shrugged. “What matt eh that? We feast now. This is not only herd musk oxen in all world! We find more. We kill many. Foreveh!”
“Eh yah!” added Naknaktup.
The sad-eyed woman looked up from her work and suggested that they get on with theirs. “Much meat to butcher. Sun will not slow its walk across sky while wuhmen talk.”
Oklahnoo flashed a smile in which her well-worn teeth were like mottled, mossy pebbles that have lain too long at the bottom of a stagnant pond. Her fleshing dagger was a large, rounded, crudely knapped stone that fit within her palm like a nut within its shell; where it protruded along the heel of her hand, it was razor sharp. It was with this edge that she sliced into the meat of the oxen’s shoulder, speaking with relish of how she had managed to suck hot blood from the neck of a still-l
iving calf. The hunters had slit its throat and cut out its tongue, but they had not severed its jugular vein. It had still been alive when Oklahnoo had fallen upon it. She chortled as she imitated the sounds it had made when she had buried her face in its torn throat. She used her arms to show the way it had kicked.
Lonit suddenly felt nauseated. The sisters were the same twosome who had come naked to Umak to offer meat and whatever else he would have of them. He had taken the meat and nothing else; but he had appraised them with interest. Lonit could not understand why. She found them revolting. Like all of the women of Galeena’s band, they were filthy. Their hair looked as though it had never known the soothing pull of a comb. A lifetime’s worth of grease thickened the snarled strands. As they hunched over their work, they chided her again for her concern over the fate of the musk oxen.
Lonit made no reply. She knew that they would not understand her feelings any more than she understood theirs. Could they not know that someday their own lives might be in jeopardy, forfeit but for the intervention of someone willing to put himself at risk for their sake? Did they consider themselves somehow beyond injury or illness or the onset of old age? Would they be so filled with laughter when the members of their band sent them away to walk the wind because they could no longer forage and fight for the leavings of those who were stronger and younger?
Lonit’s eyes strayed across the killing scene. Three or four women worked to butcher each musk oxen. The men and boys lounged about, restoring the energy that they had spent in the taking of so much meat. Not for the first time, Lonit noted that this was a band without children or babies or old people. She did not have to ask why. The young, the old, and the infirm were always expendable during times of trouble. And these were times of trouble—or had been until Galeena had brought his people through the storms of adversity to a safe encampment upon Torka’s mountain.
Her eyes rested upon her man. How proud of him she was! And of Umak, who hunkered beside Torka, scraping marrow from a broken leg bone with the marrow scoop that she had made for him. He did not look like a man at all but like a great bear; it was almost amusing to watch him, to see the delicate marrow scoop disappear into the human face that was hidden beneath the head of the animal. It was difficult to remember that the strong, clever spirit master was an old man who, not many moons ago, had volunteered to walk away upon the wind so that the People would not suffer for his sake.
The realization was distracting. Umak had survived. The People had died. And Lonit and Torka were alive only because of the wisdom and concern and inestimable strength of one old man who had not been considered fit to live. Through storm and cold and against the predations of wild beasts, they had stayed together and fought for one another until, at last, they had found safety within a new band. Soon Lonit would bear Torka’s child. And all because of one old man, the People would be reborn.
One life did matter. To risk one’s life to save another was not the act of a fool.
Within her womb, Lonit’s baby moved to affirm her thoughts. Her free hand went to her belly. The child within it was still very small, but it was strong with life and rippled within her like a tiny fish shivering within the confines of a protected pool. Usually the movement of the unborn child filled her with joy, but now it filled her with shadows. This baby would be born in the time of the long dark. Umak had told her this would be so. But could he assure her that a child born under the starving moon would be allowed by the people of Galeena’s band to live? Would the matrons, Oklahnoo and Naknaktup, laugh at her as they now laughed at the musk oxen if she were forced to expose her baby to the spirits of the storms? And would Torka allow it?
Lonit suddenly felt ill. Distraught, she rose and, without bothering to explain her hurried departure, went to stand alone, away from the killing site. She faced into the wind. It was too warm to soothe her. She was pale with nausea, and there were tears in her eyes when the sad-eyed woman followed and came to stand beside her.
The woman looked at her out of a gaunt face that would have been pretty were it not layered with soot and grime. She wore a stained, ragged dress that was stretched like a drum skin across the huge distension of a well-advanced pregnancy. When she spoke, her voice was soft and deep and sweet with empathy. “Torka’s wuhman have baby in belly?”
Lonit nodded.
The sad-eyed woman smiled and nodded. “lana think this so. First time baby, this?”
“First time baby.”
Again she nodded. “Is good thing. First time baby best. Hard to bring, but best. lana will help. Lonit not be afraid, lana have babies before. Two babies. And help bring many more.”
Lonit frowned. Many babies? And not one of them alive to ride firmly bound to its mother’s back? Had the deaths of her children saddened lana’s eyes? Many had died when the Destroyer had rampaged through Galeena’s encampment, but perhaps lana’s infants had been victims of the long, cold nights of the starving moon, which all too often had driven the women of her own band to expose or abandon their newly born. She shuddered. She did not want to think about it.
“Lonit not be sad,” said lana, indicating with a bloodied hand the slaughtered herd of musk oxen. “Not for them. Better all die. Better die than be sad for lost calves ... for lost mothers ... for lost fathers. lana say, better all die than some remember.” Lonit frowned and shook her head, understanding that lana was not speaking of musk oxen at all.
“No. It is not better to die. It is never better to die. And this woman will, never abandon her children!”
Even though her face was darkened by soot and grime, lana’s face paled visibly. Her eyes went very wide, and for a moment she stared at Lonit as though she was not quite certain that she had heard her correctly. Then, lowering her head, she sighed and whispered: “Not speak so. Galeena say, Lonit do. Is way of band.” “Lonit is Torka’s woman. Galeena camps in Torka’s cave. Galeena eats of Torka’s meat. Torka speaks, Lonit answers. To Torka. Not to Galeena.”
lana shook her head slowly, almost wistfully. “Much man Torka. But Galeena headman this band. Lonit listen what lana say now. Lonit remember: Torka must do as Galeena say or hunters of Galeena, they kill Torka. Then Lonit be sad. Then Lonit say: Better die than remember!”
They worked until the sun went down, and still the butchering was not finished. So much meat. So many hides. So much blood. Wolves came. And dogs and foxes—concealed by the shadows of encroaching night, but they were there, waiting.
Umak waited for Aar to come into the light of the fires that had been made. If the dog was there, he kept to the shadows, and the old man knew that Brother Dog would not come to him that night or any other—until he broke company with the people of Galeena’s band. And this he could not do . nor did he wish to.
At sunset he made a dance to the dying and stripped naked to bathe in the nearest of several deep, icy pools that lay at the base of the silt shoulders rising from the outwash plain. He made a ritual of the bathing. Torka guessed correctly that it was a ruse. Umak saw his grandson trying hard not to smile as, at Umak’s request, Galeena and his people solemnly stripped themselves of their garments and waded out into the water to be “purified” by the old man’s magic.
And it was magic to coerce such filthy folk into doing that which they had never done, supposedly to gain the power of the day that had brought them luck during the hunt and to keep the spirits of the game strong and sanctified within themselves. These were what he had assured them they would gain through their sacrifice of bathing. And he made certain that they were thoroughly doused, especially the matrons.
From the ledge, Karana watched the night gather and the fires of the hunters burn like suns upon the outwash plain. He sat alone and from his aerie saw the predators gather around the butchering site. He looked for Aar among the shadowy forms. If the dog was there, Karana could not see him. The lonely boy signed, wishing that he could have participated in the hunt. Tomorrow, when the butchering was done, Umak and Torka would bring him tongue meat—he w
as certain of that—and Lonit would have saved hump steaks for him and would roast them to his liking.
But now he was alone with his memories and his dissatisfaction. He sat in the darkness, holding the spear that Torka had made for him across his knees, with his small fists curled around the smooth, white length of its haft, and thought of all the chants that he had heard old Umak make. He tried them out himself, hoping to find the right sequence of syllables and chanting rhythms. Now and again he lifted the spear high into the night, an offering to the spirits. If he held it high enough and shouted loudly enough, perhaps they would hear and heed his wish to make the magic that would cause Galeena and his wretched band to disappear. But nothing happened.
The hours passed. He knew that upon the plain the armed hunters took turns forming a circle to guard the meat from the many predators that lay in wait to steal a portion. Karana knew that they would have a long wait. Galeena was too gluttonous to share a meal with anyone without a fight.
The night thickened around him. The stars disappeared. Clouds had covered them.
Karana sighed, wondering if his chants had brought the clouds. Perhaps he had worked weather magic instead of make-people-vanish magic? Something would be better than nothing. He rubbed his injured leg. It ached. The weather was in for a change. He hoped it poured rain onto Galeena’s butchering site; that would show his people what a luckless headman they had chosen to lead them.
But the clouds held no rain. They were only the cold congealed breath of the mountain. They smelled more like winter than early autumn. Karana bundled his sleeping skins around him and lay down to sleep.
When he awoke, Aar was beside him, curled close. He was certain that he was dreaming, but the dog was real enough. The dried blood on its shoulder and the fresh scabs on its nose told him that, as did the warm, rough licking of the animal’s tongue. “Brother Dog!” Karana joyously wrapped his skinny arms around Aar’s shoulders and held the animal as though it were indeed the brother of his heart.
