by Paul Telegdi
Several times they all had to scramble to hold on as someone initiated a quick attempt to take the others by surprise. But to no avail. The web moved a foot or two but not enough to justify the effort. It was now midday and they had been at this all morning. Chaiko could sense a shift of mood take hold. He could detect that the lesser spirits taking stock were slowly falling away. They were tired, aching and very, very thirsty. They wanted to be somewhere else. Imperceptibly they eased their weight off the ropes. Still the next attempt failed, the web stretched and moved a step or two but not near enough.
Some of the spectators drifted away, as boredom set in. They could of course, but not the ones on the ropes. It did not matter if one was dying of thirst or oh so badly needed to relieve oneself, it was truly like a spider’s web; as long as the web stood they were stuck to it.
Then, well past midday, in the midst of a renewed effort, a couple of women ran into the ranks and with feathers started tickling the straining Omaanis. They of course swore and wished the women to various less favored places to do some rather unlikely things to their persons, but it was hard to argue with the feathers and the web began to oscillate this way and that. Maximum effort was required by all to bring the sway to a halt. The stables managed to chase the women off and the contest continued. By now the web was quite off centre, favoring the Black-Pearl. Was this a machination by Corrigan? Rumors once again flew.
Just when balance seemed to have been restored, the women with the feathers reappeared and ran into the web. The men on the ropes protested loudly but the crowd cheered them on, let’s resolve this now, don’t be such a lazy bunch, pull! came at them variously. This time the women attacked the Dorgays and the line gave in that direction. A fresh spasm followed, legs scrambling for foothold, hands slipping on ropes soaked in sweat. “Water,” more than a few were groaning with the sustained effort.
A Black-Pearl on the line was taunting the rest, “Think of a nice cool stream. Water bubbling over rocks, refreshingly cool, to slake any man’s thirst. Cool, clear water.”
“What are you doing?” his teammate asked irritably.
“I am tempting them to give up... you know chuck it all and go for a drink.”
“If you do not want me to kick you, you idiot, then you better shut up,” the teammate next to him in line advised.
Again Oslu suggested a new strategy and passed it down the line. If it did not work, at least the whole thing would be over. They whispered back and forth, arguing. The problem was that both Tusk and Simm had to be convinced, as both preferred strength and endurance over a clever ruse, but finally they, too, agreed. The Makeyes and the Lesser-Bear induced a new effort, and the web again vibrated with tension. When the opposing pull was at its strongest, Oslu and the rest suddenly gave way and the opposing side went sprawling backward onto the dirt. The line of Black-Pearl, Sharp-Owls and the Omaanis lay scattered on the ground, victims of their own strength. The line was then pulled the other way and the fallen men were dragged ignominiously through the dirt into the center of the circle again, regaining lost ground. By then the innermost huts on that side were all crushed and swept aside as the web with its harvest of men collided with the crowd that surged against it.
Unbelievably, it was all over. In just two blinks of an eye, the matter was settled and a half day’s effort suddenly decided. Amidst great groaning, winners and losers alike let go and dropped to the ground. Painfully, finger by finger, each had to pry their hands off the ropes. The web lay slack on the ground.
“Water! Water!” the men pleaded and women ran among them splashing water over their heads as they greedily tried to drink. Others staggered about trying to work some life into their limbs. One man was screaming in agony as his mate tried to straighten him out. Simm was grinning from ear to ear, hands on hips, his great belly shaking with laughter. “I said the mountain would not move, but I did not promise not to have a few landslides.”
Taragon advanced into the centre of this vortex of fallen humanity and pronounced in a loud voice, “This Gathering proudly makes known that the teams of Blackfoot and Pelican-Sands, with the team of Makeyes and the Lesser-Bear-Claws and the team of Dorgays are declared winners of the Spider-Wars.” A loud cheer greeted the victors. Corrigan Lebow was nowhere to be seen. He had withdrawn at the first sign of the ignoble defeat of his Black-Pearls.
From all over the camp people were running, much disappointed to have missed the grand finale. “I was only gone a minute,” a woman tearfully protested. Her man was among the losers and she was not there to console him.
The crowd slowly dispersed, leaving behind it total devastation of the inner ring of huts around the close. Half the huts had collapsed and quite the few of the rest leaned crookedly. The owners looked in dismay at the ruins, trying to salvage their possessions. A woman cried inconsolably; her rare pottery had been trampled underfoot into shards. People pitched in to help, to right and erect the huts and to pick things up. A semblance of peace and quiet returned. Where the contest had been, the ground was torn and trampled in many, many places, the soil weeping a darkish spill of dirt.
Of course around the smoking campfires the battle was refought over and over again. “If we only this, if we only that,” could be heard all over camp. Only by the fires of the victors was there smug satisfaction. The Standing-Rock clan proudly shared in the victory through Tusk’s involvement. He confessed he did not really believe the trick would work, of upsetting their opponents’ balance, but it did, and he had to give Oslu full credit for the ploy.
Chaiko said quietly, “Strength is good, strength with a smart head is better.” Tusk looked at his shaman, knowing full well that the lesson was meant for him. He nodded but shrugged his shoulders at the same time. From him it meant, you do what you do but let me do what I can do.
That evening there were many sore limbs that grew stiffer overnight. By morning there was such a chorus of complaints and groaning that the whole camp resounded with it. Winners and vanquished alike whined as they tried to move seized joints and aching, wooden muscles.
Corrigan Lebow did not show up for the Council of Shamans. It was widely rumored that the great man was sulking, things not having gone as he had planned. Yesterday’s loss of a coveted title was the latest blow to his ego and the glory he had hoped to glean from holding this Gathering on his home turf was slipping from his grasp. He was left only with the duties and responsibilities of being the host, too much work for too little luster.
His absence allowed the Council an undisturbed sitting; the shamans conversed freely without the oppressive feeling that they were being overheard. Even so they remained quiet in their talk, feeling the shadow of the man over their meeting.
Chaiko asked Tomakon, “How could such a self-serving man have risen to such prominence?”
The other paused only briefly. “He was not always so arrogant and headstrong as you see him today. There was a time when he was actually considerate and helpful to others. He founded the Society of Badgers, renowned for their assistance to the needy, and he was a very active member. We all thought he was an excellent choice for shaman and then later for the Head-Shaman position. At that time, it was difficult to find a harder working person than him, always so ready to help.”
“So what happened to him to change all that?” Chaiko asked incredulously.
“Hard to say, but it did not happen overnight. He had always been persistent and opposition seemed to fuel his fire. The more he was opposed, the more it fanned the flames of his ambition. I think over time he ran out of opposition and ended up having no one to fight but himself. His ambition is consuming him. What other goal can he find than to seek glory for himself?”
“Sounds like he lost his sense of calling,” Chaiko mused. “That is very sad.”
“Yes that would be even tragic,” Tomakon nodded, “but I don’t think he ever had a calling in a real sense. Sure he was helpful at first, but gratitude was not enough to fulfill him. He had only ambition and as it t
urned out it was not enough, not nearly enough. Not for him and not for us.”
Chaiko was silent a long time, his eyes absently on his surroundings but not seeing anything. Then he sighed. “Is there any way to reclaim such a life?”
Tomakon shrugged noncommittally. Was he, too, beyond caring? “I have seen a snake change his skin year after year, a bear change his lair winter after winter, but never a man so set in his ways as Corrigan.”
Chaiko cleared his throat but said no more on the matter. A little later he went over to Shaman Lefay of the Blackfoot Clan and introduced himself, but the man waved him back. “I know who you are. Seems that all I hear is Chaiko this and Chaiko that. And full of magic, people claim of you.” His eyes on Chaiko burned with some inner brilliance that pierced the younger man. “What do you know of magic?”
“Nothing,” Chaiko replied instantly.
“And of spirits?”
“Even less.”
“Well that is a start anyway, for then you do not have to unlearn anything.” Lefay nodded and stuck out his lower lip, a sign of approbation as Chaiko was to learn later, but at the moment of this first meeting it struck him as singularly odd.
“Will you teach me then?” Chaiko asked, unable to keep the eagerness out of his voice.
“Me?” the older man asked, his face crinkling humorously. “I was hoping perhaps you would teach me.”
Chaiko was crestfallen. His face showed it all, his utter disappointment that no matter where he turned he could find nothing substantive to grab hold of. He felt like a teething baby wishing to chew on something solid, but still forced to drink liquids. Lefay, seeing his face, relented a little. “Come my young friend, between the two of us maybe we can come up with a few useful things. Though I know much less than people give me credit for.” Chaiko knew that feeling well.
A little later, Otter-Cry the Lesser-Bear-Claw shaman smiled at him from afar and in a loud voice congratulated the Standing-Rock Clan on their showing in the Spider-Wars the day before. Chaiko suppressed a smile; the man was obviously fishing for compliments so he obliged him and praised his clan’s effort in the contest voluminously. He watched amazed as the man preened himself with pleasure over the tribute. I hope that I am not so obvious in seeking recognition and approval, but then he shook it off, never!
After the meeting Chaiko wove his way through crowds of people compressed into the tight layout of this Gathering. It seemed that one activity overlapped another. For example, the stone throw of the boys was set back to back with a rope weaving contest for the girls. The crowd reaction on the boys’ side was definitely more vocal as cheer after cheer greeted a good throw. On the other side the girls were twisting and braiding ropes furiously; the first to reach a prescribed length would be declared the winner. In their haste the ropes would often became tangled and result in frantic efforts to separate them. High-pitched, excited screams filled the air; “Hurry, hurry!”
Past them, a more docile group of elder women browsed through piles of skins, some as rare as sable and some from very far away. There were heaps of thongs of various thickness and suppleness as well as cords of all kinds. It seemed incongruous to place them so close to the young people’s events, as the shouting must have disrupted the older women’s long winded exchanges. Gossip was the real commodity here. Who did what and with whom. “Have you heard...?” Chaiko picked out the phrase several times as he passed them.
A group of boys chasing one of their own, all yelling, nearly swept him off his feet on the narrow path. Then for a good part of the last stretch he had to listen to a mother berating her young son, “You cannot simply do it... in full view of people... We are not at home now!” The boy, having confirmed what was bothering his mother, promptly squatted down on the path. This, of course, elicited a fresh torrent of admonition. Chaiko winced at her tone and made a detour around the boy’s contribution to the place’s decor.
He was not in a good mood when he arrived back in camp, finding only a few of his clan there. Dawn and the children were gone. Lana, who was nursing the still stiff Crow, mumbled something to him through a big smile.
“A new society?” Chaiko asked, both his eyebrows raised. “We need fewer societies not more. And what is this society about?”
Lana’s voice was choked by giggles. “Society of Treasure?” Chaiko repeated to himself, “Now what could that mean?”
He sat down on his furs and tried to sort his thoughts as there was so much to think about. Most pressing was Corrigan’s domination of the Council. There had to be a diplomatic way for the Council to reassert control. A roar came from over the fields of cane screening the camp, intruding on his concentration again. He frowned, let go of his thoughts and decided to try his luck fishing. Tusk might object to it, but Chaiko had always liked the tender white meat of cooked fish. Grubs he deplored and frog legs he was not sure about. In his pack he found his fishing line, and grabbed an extra hook. On a clear patch of ground by the fire he drew the sign of a fish to let Dawn know where he was going. Then he set out, taking long strides to burn off the irritation that had dogged him all morning.
The air was balmy but freshened by a light breeze off the water. Near the lake he had to shorten his step as his wooden leg sank into the spongy soil. He walked along the water’s edge, crossed a narrow spit of land, and circled two more lily choked ponds to find a larger body of open water inviting him. It was a short way to a willow trailing its branches in the water.
There, to his surprise, he found an old man looking inquiringly up at him from under the tree. Obviously he was attracted by the shade as had been Chaiko.
“How’s fishing?” Chaiko asked politely.
The man nodded happily and drew a line from the water on which dangled six or seven fish, strung through the gills. His smile was toothless, his eyes vulnerable. Chaiko recognised the look of a devalued person past his prime, past his productivity, whom few took seriously. The man’s face looked almost apprehensive, or was it a trick of light? Chaiko guessed that he had no living relative to care for him. The unobtrusive posture told him so.
“May I share this place with you?” Chaiko queried, always a shaman, quick to feel the pain and need of others. The cripple within needed company sometimes.
“Sure,” the old man responded, moving over to share the favored spot. Chaiko unwound his line, hooked a worm for bait and cast it into a dark shadow of the water, thinking there might be a deeper hole there. He leaned back against the tree and looked sideways at his companion.
“My name is Chaiko. Of the Standing-Rock Clan.”
“I know. I recognized your... leg,” the man pointed. Chaiko just nodded.
“This is a nice spot,” he said easily. “Where are you from?”
The old man looked briefly taken aback; he was not used to encountering interest from others since most people overlooked him altogether. “I am a Black-Clam.” Then he stammered, “I mean Black-Pearl... but I was born in Pelican-Sands.” His face took on a faraway look.
“It is a long way to Pelican-Sands,” Chaiko prompted but the man just nodded as he tugged on his line to entice a fish to strike.
For a while they fished quietly side by side. The noise of the camp did not reach this far and only insects and the swelling and waning sound of crickets could be heard, with the occasional sharp cry of a bird.
The man spat and noisily cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he apologised, with his fist striking his chest to loosen it. Gently he cleared his throat again.
Chaiko caught a large catfish that, served with watercress, would make an excellent meal. The old man waded in the water to help him land it. Proudly he strung the still-moving fish through the gills and held it up for Chaiko to admire with his empty, toothless smile. No wonder you like fish, Chaiko thought, you cannot chew anything else. The man self-consciously closed his mouth and his chin disappeared.
“What do I call you?” Chaiko asked warmly.
The man blinked, then with mouth contorted,
said, “‘Saasha.”
Given his difficulty pronouncing it, the shaman had to guess, “Saasha?”
The man’s eyes flickered, “Yes.” Close enough.
“Well Saasha, I guess in your long life you have landed many such?”
The man nodded. “‘Sturgeon even.”
Chaiko looked him over more closely, trying to see behind the wrinkles, behind the watery eyes. Why did old age hide so much? The man must have many, many memories. Chaiko started digging in earnest then, posing question after question. Hesitantly at first, Saasha answered and soon his few words grew into a sentence and the sentences into an outpouring of words. Chaiko listened to a life unfolding in his ears. They each caught another fish; Chaiko pulled on a struggling pike which he then clubbed senseless. They settled back and Saasha resumed the story of his life. Chaiko listened, growing sad that so much life experience was trapped in this man and would be lost with him. He thought of Malek the painter. Perhaps he could have documented this person’s life, somehow, with his colors and ideas.
“You knew Bogan?” he asked abruptly, catching the shaman’s name in the flow of reminiscences. Instantly, the man’s past and his intersected. “What can you tell me of him?” Chaiko urged, pursuing his longing to know more about the great man.
Saasha paused, his face closed, and Chaiko was immediately contrite. “I do not mean to interrupt you, but Bogan is like a part... of my family. Bogan this and Bogan that.., I have heard all my life.”
The man nodded in understanding, and resumed talking. When he was a young man, he had accompanied Bogan on a long trip that visited clan after clan, to build support or discuss some important issue of the day. Which, he could not recall, there had been so many. What he did remember well was Bogan. “You know, he was just a man. A real flesh and life man. He ate, he drank, defecated, even spat... just like us, like you and me. But inside his head he was different. He saw things differently, thought about things differently. Yet when he spoke, he always made things clear and bright as day.” The faraway look grew and erased all the worry lines from his face.
