17 Stones

by Paul Telegdi

  “Exactly,” and Ushi laughed until he was rolling on the ground. The youth beside him started laughing too, though he had no idea of why. Finally, Ushi recovered enough to say, “She can make water remember and stone forget, so sharp is her tongue. It moves her rather than the other way around.”

  “Well, congratulations then! You must be a happy man,” Chaiko said genuinely pleased for his friend.

  “Well I am...” Ushi acknowledged but there was a shadow in his voice.

  “And this is a problem?” Chaiko prompted.

  “Well yes,” Ushi blurted out again. “Hardly am I free and trying to enjoy myself, when my current girlfriend seizes upon my sudden availability and wants me as her mate. Imagine that! Hardly am I single, some woman wants me tied down.” His face was wrinkled in consternation. “I had not realized it but it was convenient to be mated already, after all.” He then added hurriedly, “as long as she and I were very, very far apart.”

  Chaiko asked the youth his name and age. Tamel, and he was seventeen.

  “Seventeen? Do you have a mate then?” Chaiko asked. The quick way the youth shook his head said a lot about his mother; it seemed unlikely that he would be in a hurry to find a mate, just like his father. Dawn came and offered some sweet fruit and the water skin. Ushi declined, consumed as he was with his present predicament, but his son ate his father’s portion too. They left soon after, Ushi and his spitting image, separated only by a generation.

  After the recent encounter Cora remained close to the camp. She had realized how much trouble Tara got into on account of her. If these new people discarded them, where would they go? Not back to the Tolmecs surely? So she sat about pensively, her natural mischievous spirit subdued. She watched people come and go, envious of Tay and Sosa for the intact family around them.

  Ruba had tried everything to attract her attention but she ignored him. He had kept at it, having to learn patience by suppressing his yearnings for her. Then, reminding himself how long it had taken Makar to win Ido’s heart helped his own restless heart grow quiet and steady. He decided to sit placidly aside and wait for her to grow and catch up with him. In the meantime he dreamed how he would fight for her, as Crow had for Lana taking on the Tolmecs all by himself to rescue his love. Ruba despaired of declaring himself to her. How would he do that? Chaiko had taught him many things, but nothing vital and useful like how to win a girl one was interested in.

  Thus it was that when Cora would look up, Ruba would be there, quietly biding his time. Cora was not yet interested in boys, and she had no female age-mate she could dream with about the future. At times she was filled with unexplained longings, more from seeing Tara and Chandar together, but not the sight of Ruba pining away.

  Ork and Sosa had no such inhibitions. To them she was not an object of desire but simply a playmate, and they engaged her in their various misadventures. Once, the three of them hunted the fields capturing a large bagful of grasshoppers. Then in the early half-light of dawn, they buried the bag and its contents in the earth, leaving only a hole into which they stuck the ceremonial wand of the Flight-of-Ducks, a society of elderly women interested in aches and pains and herbal remedies. They were known experts in constipation, gout and infestations of warts.

  The three miscreants watched eagerly as the head-woman plucked the wand from the ground to brandish it about ceremoniously, thereby unleashing a stream of grasshoppers that came shooting out of the hole with a popping sound. Pop, pop, pop. One landed in an old lady’s hair and she ran about screaming, flailing at her head. Another landed in someone’s wrap, causing a dance with more energy than the woman had expended in years, her body jiggling, her tone warbling through its entire range. Like a geyser the grasshoppers kept erupting from the hole exploding among the startled women, scattering the stately meeting of the Flock, all taking alarmed flight. The three culprits had to stuff the corners of their wraps into their mouths to keep themselves from howling.

  They then successfully repeated this trick using large hairy caterpillars to disrupt a staid meeting of the noble Brotherhood-of-Moose. It was almost obscene how the fat caterpillars just kept emerging from the hole, one after the other, crawling this way and that, the meeting retreating before their slow progress. Yes, it was fun to be young, with the whole world their playground. Tay begged to be taken along, but she was too young as Ruba had become too old.

  After eating some boiled eggs and a pulpy salad, Chaiko treated his wooden leg with some flax seed oil. He examined critically the wood which was showing a number of nicks from heavy use of late. There was a split developing but it was not yet bad enough for him to switch to the spare leg. But this was a signal to find some wood for a new spare, no small task seeing that there was no handy forest in the vicinity. Where was he going to get the right wood? Dawn suggested some of the traders might have something he could use. Accordingly Chaiko went wandering through the moving throng, on the lookout for some wood among the displayed wares. There were many likewise interested, for along this line of traders with their skins spread out and wares displayed, some of the best crafts of the clans could be found. He saw furs, finely cured skins, baskets, flint implements, rope, footwear, spears, and clam shell razors. Multicolored beads of all sizes, bear claw necklaces and the flashing nacre of shells. There were also many roots, dried herbs and seeds for healing and seasoning. Then everywhere talismans of all sorts, for good luck and protection, to ward off evil spirits and to cure all kinds of diseases, or so they claimed.

  Chaiko found the many aspects of trading highly interesting for it represented the best that the clans could provide. He stopped in front of a trader who had a variety of weapons spread out for viewing. Among them Chaiko’s eye was caught by a handsome Falcon. The trader, observing his interest pressed it into his hands. “Note the smooth feel, smoother than finely washed clay still wet and slippery. See the care and workmanship. A master craftsman made that, I assure you.” Chaiko, running his hands up and down the weapon, had to agree with the man. Expertly he hooked the string over one end and strung it. The curve was strong and well proportioned. He plucked the string and the Falcon hummed with a promise of power. Chaiko was reminded of the first, Singing-Stick, the father of all Falcons. He struck the string and listened to the familiar hum; all hums sounded familiar to him, but this one especially so. He strummed it again and listened for the pure note to fade.

  “Yes I tell you, this is a very fine weapon and I can tell by the way you handle it that you are an expert in using it. Look, it fits you as if made for you.” Indeed the Falcon exactly fit his hands and reach. Chaiko raised it and drew the string back, testing the pull of the curved wood: it was strong, without any shiver in the wood to cause uneven strain. Chaiko relaxed the wood and it straightened politely without the harsh snap of Falcons of less pedigree.

  “This is indeed a very well mannered and trained weapon. Any idea who made it?” Chaiko asked the man, curiously.

  The other shook his head. “I acquired the piece from a Sharp-Owl who had gotten it from a Dorgay. The first owner claimed it was made by a real craftsman who was also a practitioner of magic, and he instilled good hunting magic into the piece. He was loath to let go of it, but he needed to accumulate a gift to thank the family of his son’s prospective mate.”

  “All weapons have magic, or so people claim,” Chaiko said deprecatingly. “But this was turned out by a real master, of that there can be no doubt.”

  “True enough, but this one really has magic. Can you not feel it?”

  Chaiko tried it again and had to agree with the man that it certainly had quality and something else. It was more than workmanship, his caressing hands could feel it, it was perfectly balanced with strength, ease of pull, steadiness, all perfectly matched. It was as good a Falcon as he had ever held, or ever made. Minutely examining the wood again, its burnished sheen, he saw a faint indication of the maker’s mark, obscured by oils and resin residue. Intrigued, Chaiko spat on his fingers and rubbed the spot then
peered at the mark and straightened laughing.

  “What is the matter?” the trader asked concerned, accepting back his merchandise. “Is there something amiss with l’bow?”

  “No, not at all. It was made by a craftsman of the Standing-Rock Clan. Though people ascribe magical powers to him, he has none. He is a credible master of his craft and you have a fine sample of his workmanship.”

  “What’s his name, sir?”

  “He is named Chaiko, and the falcon claw is his mark.” Chaiko was still chuckling as he let the flow of people carry him along. Imagine that, one of his weapons had come all this way to greet its creator!

  Chaiko paused again and found another trader hawking his wares. Chaiko saw a Falcon among his collection but though it was well-made, he recognized it as not his. He chuckled again. His eyes were arrested by a club of hard hickory wood. It was a little gnarled, but extremely tough and about the right length. He measured it again visually and saw that he could easily convert it into a spare leg. Ahead of him was a couple, the woman haggling with the trader over a piece of chamois. The trader was shaking his head, “No, no. I could not let it go for such a paltry exchange. Feel its softness, its suppleness, the way it caresses the skin. Try it.”

  The woman did, caressing her cheek with the soft piece. A dreamy expression awoke in her eyes, then they closed with pleasure. The trader had sprinkled a lily-of-the-valley fragrance that even Chaiko could sense, heightening the experience even more. “All right, seven beads, and a length of rope,” the woman said decisively. Beside her the man shook his head horrified; “All that for just a piece of skin?” The woman extended the skin toward him as proof but hastily the man backed away from it, not wanting to fall under the same enchantment that had gotten his mate. “Just pay the man,” she said and he reluctantly did, laboriously counting out seven beads and then the length of rope. They had paid four highland antelope hides for the beads and a set of moose antlers for the rope. The only consolation was that they had less to carry on the way home. But such frivolity, he was shaking his head. The trader looked dejected as well, making it known that he had been forced to trade his merchandise way below its value. Then he smiled as he turned toward his next customer, sizing up Chaiko with a quick sweep. His eyes narrowed; this was not an ordinary customer, for this man was watching him, the eyes not greedily fixed on a piece of merchandise.

  “What can I offer you, Sir?”

  “That club would interest me,” Chaiko said to the trader’s surprise. A club was a brutish weapon unless one was a Dorgay, but this man was not attired in their style.

  “A good choice,” the man hurried to agree with his customer, hefting the club in his hand, measuring its substantial weight. “It will crush a bear skull with ease, I assure you,” but privately he thought that only a fool or a Dorgay would attack a bear with a club. “I could let you have it cheaply. What have you to trade?” The man craned his neck eagerly. No matter how many trades he had made, there was this instant where it was just possible that the customer would have something unique to trade.

  Chaiko reached under his wrap and pulled out three eagle feathers to present to the trader whose face fell at the sight of them. He shook his head regretfully. “I am afraid, Sir, that these would not be enough for such a fine war-club. Not nearly enough.”

  Chaiko did not put the feathers away but held them unwavering in front of the trader. “I could tell you these are magic feathers but they are not. But they are marvellous nonetheless. Look at their construction, have you seen anything more perfect? Feel this hair-like piece, so delicate yet so strong. Look and wonder. How can this fragile looking thing hold up the great eagle and carry him so high in the sky, above the clouds, beyond our view?” Still the man shook his head; he was not a novice at this.

  “Now I am not giving you the feathers in exchange, for that would be cheating you. I am giving you the sense of wonder at their construction.”

  “But they are only feathers,” the trader protested but he was intrigued.

  “To you perhaps these are just feathers of little value. But to the eagle they are his life. Without these he would be unable to climb into the heights, unable to swoop down to hunt his prey, unable to live.” The man looked more intently at the feathers as Chaiko continued. “Just imagine this cutting through the air, the flow of air over this gentle curve and look; in spite of these minuscule gaps the wing can still hold the air beneath its extension.” The man carefully took the feathers in his hand and ran a finger along their serrated edges. “These feathers not only tell you about the bird but also about the air. Air flows in a smooth motion and accommodates all things passing through it with just a modicum of resistance. These feathers are in the shape of the wind, curved to pass over an obstruction. In these feathers is hidden the magic and the mystery of flight. Perhaps you and I can unlock the secret of it? Would that be not worth something?”

  “Surely to a man interested in a club, feathers are of little value. But for one looking for feathers ... he would gladly trade a war club for them,” Chaiko said, reminding the man that value was often a matter of intent.

  The trader still hesitated for a heartbeat, but his imagination had been excited, yes the feathers had gained much in value. Finally before he could change his mind, he gave the club to Chaiko, “Here take it.” But Chaiko gave the club back. “Only if you are sure, will I take possession of it.”

  This time the trader was sure: “Yes my friend you have shown me a great lesson and have earned it.”

  “What lesson was that?” It was now Chaiko’s turn to be intrigued.

  “That there is often greater value in things we cannot see.” The trader carefully put the feathers away. This man had had something unique to trade after all.

  “What is it?” Dawn asked, puzzled, when Chaiko got back to camp. “We do not need a war-club.”

  “But I need a spare leg,” he said pointing to the split developing in the one he wore.

  “How much was it?” Dawn wanted to know.

  “Three eagle feathers,” his eyes sparkled, “and a little imagination.”

  “That’s cheap.”

  “Inspiration is never cheap. He got value for value,” and with that Chaiko closed the matter.

  With Fire-Dancer spending so much time with her sister, Hollow-Tree found himself at the shaman’s rather a lot. He liked Chaiko but was also overawed by him, thinking him out of reach. So he looked for something to occupy himself. Ushi, who spoke his language, was rarely available because of his many exploits. Chandar and Tara were busy with his relatives. That left only Kray and Stow whom he could easily call upon. Stow advised him to join one of the societies and promoted the Society of the Sacred Ox of which he was a member.

  Hollow-Tree, thinking the Ekulan to be a superior race, had deigned to learn clan language; although he had absorbed quite a few words without trying, he was not secure enough in his own linguistic abilities to tackle such a tricky topic as an obvious superstition. He therefore was reluctant to investigate the venue that Stow was obviously eager to share with him. He had this peculiar itch in the back of his neck that had reliably warned him in the past. “Oh, that is nice,” he said noncommittally.

  This time he let Stow drag him off to a meeting of the Sacred Ox. To his horror he found himself sitting in the middle of a crowd of bleating devotees. He had no idea why they were doing this, but felt compelled himself to join in. Before he could make up his mind, to his great consternation, he was bleating too. But then he out-bleated the rest.

  “What was that all about?” he asked Stow afterward in a tired, strained voice.

  “It is to share togetherness,” Stow enthused, “to evoke the spirit of the Sacred Ox, and to be one with him.”

  Kray sympathised with Hollow-Tree, shaking his head disapprovingly at his friend’s experience, but then he took Hollow-Tree to join the Sacred-Oak, where they sat about waving the sacred bough and making strange utterances. Hollow-Tree once again found himself par
ticipating. Afterwards Kray asked him, “Now was that not refreshing?”

  “Very,” Hollow-Tree quickly agreed, but determined never to attend anything “sacred” ever again.

  “What is wrong with your voice?” Fire-Dancer asked.

  “Never mind,” he croaked. But when she asked again, he replied, “It has gone sacred.”

  Chapter 7

  Next morning Baer sat glumly around the campfire chewing on a piece of dried fish. The rest, Chaiko, Tusk, Cosh and Ushi regarded him warily. It was hard to tell which among them felt the most downcast. The low morale was firmly centred on food.

  “We need some fresh meat,” Baer said; “my stomach rebels at one more bite of this dried out thing.” He regarded the piece suspiciously and was reluctant to put it back into his mouth.

  “Well there are plenty of fresh fish and waterfowls to be had,” Cosh said helpfully.

  “Fish?” Tusk spat aside in distaste, “I’m starting to grow scales.” He scratched his skin irritably. “Bison would be nice.”

  “That I can’t serve you,” Cosh said, thinking of back home, of the bison pushing through the chest high grass. “But there are lots of snails and fish eggs,” he added, trying to work some enthusiasm into his voice.

  “Sturgeon here?” Ushi perked up, looking toward the lakes.

  “Not sturgeon but large white fish full of roe. Then there are crabs and crayfish, clams and frogs.”

  Tusk spat again, accurately hitting a cattail near the edge of their camp.

  “And don’t forget all the eggs,” said Cosh, but all he could think of was a succulent roast of bison flank, deliciously dripping with flavor.

  “Well you go and get us something fresh,” Baer fixed baleful eyes on Cosh. “Just don’t tell us what it is, and we won’t ask.” Then he put an arm on Tusk to restrain him from spitting again. The hunter was working on quite a volume of saliva, which he then had to swallow. Ushi winced because the wads had been flying by him and he was afraid that he would be the victim of some lateral splatter.