17 Stones

by Paul Telegdi

  Ruba blinked up at the big man. What could he say? That Moro had turned into something other than human... into every refusal that Cora gave him, into every rejection and every humiliation. Maybe he could not win that fight either but... he would endure.

  In the morning meeting Baer had announced that he would challenge for the leadership. Not that he wanted to be a Chief, far from it, but he wanted to restore a healthier balance to the contest. A four way race was much harder to control and manipulate.

  In Council meeting Corrigan was again furious. He ranted at the assembled, “Some people think it is their right to interfere with the smooth and effective workings of leadership. Some people think they could do a better job of it even than their betters. In their arrogant imaginings they think they know more, they can do better, and are more suitable than those who have earned people’s trust through long service.” Corrigan strode up and down in front of them, highly agitated by this latest effrontery. “Does a beetle ask the sky not to rain? And think you the sky will harken to it? Let the beetle do its duty, roll that ball of excrement into its nest and leave well enough alone those things beyond its puny comprehension...” It was a fine, impassioned performance.

  “Hear! Hear!” Chaiko applauded along with some of the rest. Let Corrigan make what he will of it. Tomakon grabbed Chaiko by the elbow and whispered, “Methinks someone spoiled the Head-Shaman’s peace of mind.”

  “No, I fear the worst, it has actually challenged him. I think he relishes the fight and is aching for more. No, I think we should play our game not his.”

  “How so?” Tomakon asked, but Chaiko merely cocked his eyebrows. The old man mused, “You know Bogan would have stayed above all this petty bickering.”

  “I know it, but I am not Bogan,” and Chaiko smiled. “A cripple has seen the underside of men and knows what vileness crawls around in the darkness. Turn over any rock and you will see it, too.” Tomakon made big eyes at him, asking, who is teaching who here? Chaiko, seeing the look, added, “A snake remains a snake. You cautioned me about that, or have you forgotten?”

  “No and I repeat it. Corrigan may look at times like a fool, or even a spoiled child wanting to have his way, but he’s dangerous. Do not forget he has concentrated a lot of power in his hands. It is only bad that he uses it for self-aggrandisement, and has forgotten all other aims.”

  “What could he do to me?” Chaiko thought it wise to ask.

  “He could not bar you from Council, but he could make your sitting a most miserable experience. He would challenge you at every turn and undermine all your thoughts and ideas. He would mock you, hound you. The man is relentless. But that is not the worst, for he must do that in front of us all. It is what he does in darkness that worries me. He would start a lying whisper campaign against you to ruin your reputation. Then he would try to stir up your foes against you, bribe your allies, turn your friends and threaten even your family. He would not stop until he has humiliated you, debased you and then made a pet of you to praise his glory.”

  “Can he do all that?” Chaiko asked a little sceptically.

  “Believe it, for I have seen him do it repeatedly. Our Head-Shaman is a dark person and has no conscience. He knows only to serve himself.”

  On the way back to camp he was followed by a gang of boys who whispered to each other, “There goes the magician. Don’t let him look at you for he will turn you into a warthog.” Then they ran away, a little proud to have dared to cross the magician’s path, and a whole lot scared.

  Chaiko thought of Tomakon’s warning. Had the whisper campaign started already? Of late, people were accusing him of being a magician. His brows furled and his mouth pulled into a grim line.

  On his return to camp Chaiko called on Makar who looked a little worse for wear over a sleepless night. The shaman felt guilty for the man’s predicament. Perhaps he had overdone the cure.

  Chaiko came straight to the point. “I need a verse to ridicule someone. I would not throw a stone on my own but I will certainly return one thrown at me.”

  “Who?” Makar asked hungrily. “About whom?” Chaiko told him and Makar’s eyes blazed up with intrigue. They discussed it at length, then Makar promised to have something ready for him on the next day.

  Chaiko returned to working the wood, which was now trimmed to the proper length, and the cup refined. Tikki had been ecstatic. After the fitting he returned with an armful of quality furs, some shells and colored feathers, wanting to pay Chaiko, but the shaman refused.

  “I remember how it felt before and the freedom that this leg gave me.” Chaiko tapped his own wooden leg. “For a small thing perhaps I would accept a small payment. But this... is like giving your life back. I could not place any price on it, nor would I accept any.” Tikki looked disappointed, his eyes pleading to show his gratitude. “Find a need among your own people, an old person or an orphaned young, surely Pelican-Sands has a few, and be kind to them, help them.” When Tikki looked confused, Chaiko elaborated. “I do this for you because in my own life, I have been given to and I am now paying back my obligation by helping you.” He thought of Baer and Samar. Still Tikki looked dissatisfied. “Friend, I have no more need of furs but the thought of you helping someone... warms my heart.”

  Tikki hobbled off on his crutches, thinking soon to be free of them. He left thoughtful and fired up to find a need great enough to pay off such a huge debt.

  Tired of the congestion of people, Chandar took Tara and Cora for an outing. They had started early and by midmorning they were in the hills that lay to the northwest. It was refreshing not to look up and be confronted by people everywhere. It was equally restoring to leave the pervasive smell of overcrowding behind. Aside from the hill camp of the Black-Pearl, the land was flat and uninteresting to people used to hills and mountains. It was thus a relief to be hemmed in by up-slopes, wondering what lay beyond the next crest.

  Chandar was in a good mood because the mountains around them reminded him of his former home. Tara shared his mood, joking with him occasionally.

  “Watch out Cora,” Tara warned, “he will go bear hunting and leave us here.”

  “Ah bear,” he said, matching her playful tone. “You have not lived until you have eaten bear meat. The drippings are especially tasty and the bear gall is a great restorative. Yumm.” And he caressed his stomach appreciatively.

  “Look out now,” Tara whispered loudly, “he is going to tell us what a great medicine bear droppings are.”

  “Bear droppings?” Cora wrinkled her nose in distaste.

  “Yes, it has wonderful medicinal properties,” Chandar assured her.

  “Uh, how is it taken?” Cora wanted to know.

  “Why you ingest it,” Chandar said innocently. Cora shuddered violently. Tara’s laughter came echoing back faintly from the hills. By a small pond they paused to enjoy a meal. The food tasted delicious in the fresh air after the long morning’s walk. Chandar lay back, his head resting on Tara’s lap and he was soon asleep. The brook murmured cheerily nearby and a light wind played in the foliage.

  Left out by this couple’s mutual obsession with themselves, Cora became restless and went for a stroll along the brook, picking some yellow flowers. She wandered further off, attracted by some strawberries on a sun drenched slope. The berries were quite small but filled the mouth with a burst of tangy flavor. She picked as many as she could find, then a sprig or two of mint to freshen her mouth. On a nearby bush a songbird burst into a trill and an echo came sweetly back. Intrigued, Cora listened to the duet of the bird singing with its own echo. Cora could not resist joining in, but it startled the bird into quiet. Then it was Cora singing a duet with herself. She moved about looking for the source of echo. She came upon a shallow cliff face, with a crevice near the centre of it, and a stone facade that curved outward like outstretched arms. She threw a sound at the cliff and delighted at the lively echo that came back, slowly fading away. She found that directly in front of the crevice the echo was the purest. But
it was strange that the echo that came back did not sound like her own voice, coming back just a little different. Fascinated she sang into the split and listened to the sound that rebounded, clear and distinct, familiar and beautiful yet strangely different.

  Cora was very impressed; for the first time she could really hear herself sing, but it was as if she were listening to someone else. She heard how pure her voice was, how smoothly it slid up and down her range, or stopped on one tone, ringing clear, the sound amplified by the crevice. She was mesmerized. Tone after tone she sang into the split rock face, listening critically to the sound that returned. At times she was so full of the beauty of the sound that she wanted to cry, not from sadness but from an overflow of elation. How can sweetness be so sweet? Or beauty more beautiful?

  She did a cascade of tones, and the echo came back slightly off timing. She slowed her voice down and the echo returned, harmonizing with herself. It was as if she and Lana were singing a duet. She played up and down with the tone, mesmerized by what came back. How can rock sing? It was beyond her understanding. Although this wasn’t the first time, on this occasion she was the only source.

  Time flew by but she was not aware of it, being so totally engrossed in the enjoyment of this experience. Finally, Tara and Chandar found her by the sound of her singing and they too were enchanted by the singing rock. But of course they grew tired of this activity sooner than Cora. In the end they almost had to drag the girl away. As she was leaving, she threw back a trill and listened to the changing echo that followed her. They were well out of sight of the rock but still it answered her. Chandar hoped she was not going to do that all the way back to camp. But they crossed a ridge and the echo became silent. Regretfully, Cora gave a deep sigh, already longing for such a loyal, obedient companion.

  The trip back was uneventful. For Cora it passed as in a dream, while she puzzled the secret of the echo. Where had the sound come from? Why did it sound different?

  On their return, Cora ran to Lana and told her all about the Singing Rock, “You will have to come and hear it,” and declared with great confidence, “You will love it.”

  Lana smiled indulgently, well understanding the enthusiasm of the girl for anything musical; after all singing was such an important part of her own life. “I will love to hear it, and we shall soon,” she promised. Cora beamed in response. She was almost twelve, her passions yet unfettered.

  Most people returned for the evening meal but it was a dismal affair. All of them were sick of fish yet again, but in the land of Black-Pearl the abundance of fish was probably the only way to feed such a large Gathering. People were tired of frog delicacies, gamy birds, eels, and shell fish. Eggs were sparse, and red meat even rarer.

  “This morning I looked and there were fish scales growing on my stomach,” Makar lamented.

  Cosh made a pained face, eating cooked prawns that were very rubbery. He chewed and chewed but could not bite through the all-too resilient muscle. His jaws were getting tired and he had not eaten much yet. Disgusted, he spat the lump out, wiped his hands on the grass and complained. “If I have to eat another clam, crab or crayfish I will have to regurgitate the lot. Nor frog legs, nor fish eggs, nor tough and stringy pelican. My stomach can’t take much more of this. Everything tastes of the swamp and smells like it. All my furs reek of algae, and my fingernails are full of mud.”

  “We need some bison meat!” Tusk exploded, chucking his pinch of oyster back into the swamp. Cosh’s description had taken away his appetite.

  “There are no bison here,” Baer said, then he looked at Chandar at a near fire and called to him. “When you were out today in the hills, did you see some deer perhaps?”

  “No, but plenty of rabbits, beetles and grubs.” They all groaned, the impoverished diet of starvation.

  “I hear tell there are moose in the swamps to the north,” Cosh contributed. Yes, moose would be just the thing!

  “We would have to ask permission of Black-Pearl,” Baer said quietly; “It is their land.” They groaned again, for that meant asking Corrigan. With Baer running against the Black-Pearl interest, the chances were slim to none that they would be allowed to hunt.

  “Just no more fish,” Cosh pleaded.

  “You did not complain among the Makeyes,” Tusk said still chewing on the same piece of prawn.

  “That was not fish, that was salmon and sturgeon,” Cosh threw back and they all nodded in agreement.

  “And plenty of turtles,” Kray recalled at the next fire.

  “I don’t know, I enjoyed onagers the best,” called Gill from a fire further still. Obviously the whole camp was discussing the food situation.

  “Well let’s not get our hopes up people,” Baer called out aloud, “I will ask, but it will be up to them.”

  “We should host a Gathering,” Cosh grumbled. “With bison to eat for dinner, antelope for lunch and quail for breakfast.” Their mouths filled with juices at this suggestion, then they returned to eating their fish.

  “We could look for some rhubarb,” Tanya said, recalling a time in the hills when they were forced to eat that bitter vegetable for they had not much else to put into their stomachs. Cosh groaned again. Now they had enough to fill their stomachs but were concerned about taste and appetite.

  “Grubs are good, especially with dill and fresh onion,” Ile suggested impishly with a smirk. There was a fresh chorus of groans.

  “Meanwhile... Meanwhile, let us go fishing,” Baer cut through the laments. “Stow, Rea and Makar. You go to Catfish Pond.” Feeding such a multitude that came together for a Gathering was a considerable problem. The clans had brought some of their prepared meats, smoked, dried or salted, but those were long gone and now by tradition the host clan had to provide some fresh food supplements. That was why in most instances this coming together was hosted by a clan with a seasonal supply of food. The Makeyes had the river to fish with a run of salmon and a windfall of sturgeon to provide some food. The Dorgays had the migrating herd of onagers and buffalo. Pelican Sands could provide the seasonal pass over of geese and ducks and other waterfowl, though their season was later and a little too close to winter.

  Chaiko wondered how long it would take Black-Pearl to recover from the demands this Gathering had placed on it. The rivers and ponds were fished intensively, the nests robbed of eggs, and the bushland scoured for deer. Around the different camps the grass was worn down in many places, with bare pathways joining the many bald spots. The autumn rains would turn it into mud and erode the exposed soil. Yes, sadly, the land would long remember this Gathering. It had not been a good choice, but it was Corrigan’s ambition that had gotten them all here.

  “And with the smell that’s around, everywhere, it is a good thing that I can’t smell anymore,” Ido said.

  “Put a little bag of lavender around your neck, that will mask some of the smell,” her mother Ile suggested.

  “Or pinch your nose as Rea does every time you go by the amenities,” Tanya joked. Indeed they were becoming a problem. With so many people, it was impossible to keep the places fresh, with straw and some aromatic pine to absorb some of the smells.

  “The place is full to overflowing,” Lana complained, “and there is never enough broadleaf to clean oneself.”

  “You must take your own,” Tanya advised her daughter.

  That was also part of any gathering, with problems of overcrowding, sanitation, water and food supply a constant headache for the host clan. The locals were grumbling that their efforts were not being appreciated, and the visitors were complaining that the services were shoddy or non-existent. Chaiko tried to imagine what a Gathering would look like back at home. Certainly they would have more open space, more fresh water, fewer insects, and even in a normal year an abundant supply of bison meat. But Standing-Rock was so far off to the periphery that some of the eastern clans would have to cross the entire extent of clan lands. No, that was why the central clans had the honor and prestige of hosting a Gathering, and the responsi
bility as well.

  After the meal, people left to visit their neighbors and friends or receive their visits. The fires were freshened and covered with greenery to provide a smoke screen against the expected influx of insects that buzzed about, especially with the setting of the sun.

  This night Laars came to confer with Baer and he brought with him Otter-Cry to talk with Chaiko. Otter-Cry was rather an unperceptive man, who stumbled through life on a limited set of rigid principles, had few interests or ambitions, and was apt to repeat a few well-rehearsed topics that Chaiko had already heard. Before he could launch into one of those, Chaiko asked the man what he thought of the evolving contest for Chief. Not surprisingly, considering the source, he got a very conservative viewpoint. “Why do we need a Chief anyway? We have the Head-Shaman to be the ultimate arbiter of any conflict; why would we need another? A creature with two heads, each apt to bite the other, yet bite itself in the process, don’t you think?” Chaiko had heard of this objection and analogy already, straight from Corrigan’s mouth. Otter-Cry was merely parroting the prevailing view of the Council which Corrigan hammered into their heads.

  “We need a Chief to balance out the power of the Head-Shaman,” Chaiko started, but seeing the defensive flicker in the man’s eyes, gave up his effort, for the man was a lost cause who did not wish to be drawn into any controversy. He would always take the safest route of the herd.

  “You are a magician, are you not?” Otter-Cry surprised him.

  “No, I’m not!” Chaiko rebuffed the suggestion with enough emphasis to rock the other back on his heels.

  “So I have heard,” the shaman of Lesser-Bear-Claw mumbled.

  “From whom??!” Chaiko wanted to know.

  “Just being talked around. By everybody. You know how it goes.” Yes Chaiko knew. Words said in whispers, behind a person’s back, besmirching a reputation. A magician was feared, for he dabbled in the black arts and was believed to be malevolent. Chaiko decided he’d best find out what else was in the wind.