He had felt very ill then. The earth got far away, and then closer, and then far again.
His fingernail caught on something, bent back painfully. Kerlew exclaimed at the hurt and heard the shaman's gasp of interest. The old man suddenly stooped down beside him, watched avidly as Kerlew's fingers pried the stone from the soil. Kerlew had picked it up, held it close to his face to look at it carefully. A tear had fallen onto its dirty surface, and the small drop let a sudden streak of red show through. Aahh!' Carp had sighed.
'Is this it?' Kerlew had asked, offering the stone to the old man. Maybe he would take it and leave him alone, let him crawl back to the tent. Maybe his mother would wrap him in a soft, warm hide and make warm, salty soup for him. He hoped.
But then the old man had leaped at him, had seized him in his wiry old arms and clutched him close. Kerlew's breath left him; he had no air to scream and he feared he would die now. But this man did not shake him or pinch him or throw him to the ground. The shaman only held him and muttered words of praise, then had helped him to rise and walk back to the tent. The shaman himself had taken the bowl of warm, salty broth his mother made and fed it to Kerlew and sat by him until he fell asleep holding the red stone.
Kerlew set the stone down reverently. The Knife and the Blood Stone. The two most important talismans in his pouch. Always they seemed to come forth together. Was the Knife asking for Blood? He shook his head perplexedly and wished Carp were here to advise him. He eased his hand into the pouch again. There was not much left in it, and he was not sure if the other items held power or not. He had picked them up because he felt drawn to them, and put them in his pouch because he could not bear to throw them away. There were few things that belonged exclusively to him. He parted with none of them willingly.
The withered but feathered foot of a ptarmigan. He had found it in a bloody patch of snow, amid the feathers that marked the fox's feast. He liked the way the toes were so tightly clutched, a bird fist, while the feathers were so soft still. He stroked it with a reverent fingertip and murmured to it before he set it with the other talismans.
Again into the bag. A wolverine's tooth. Tillu would be angry if she knew he had this. She had told him not to touch the dead wolverine when they found it tangled in some tree roots beside a stream. She said it had drowned. If it had drowned, why wasn't it still in the water, he had asked her. And she had said the water had carried the wolverine downstream and put it there. He had thought, and then asked her again, why wasn't it in the water, then? But she only said the same thing over again. Maybe Water-spirit had done it. Water-spirit might be strong enough to kill a wolverine and throw its body aside. Maybe his mother had been afraid Water-spirit would be angry if he touched her kill. Or maybe Tillu had just not wanted him to have the tooth. But he had crept back that night and gotten it. Alive or dead, Wolverine was a fierce spirit. To have one of his teeth might give Kerlew power over him. He rubbed his thumb along it, and then set it back beside the bird's foot.
The pouch was very light now. He tried to think what might still be in it, but could not. There were just too many things in it. He looked carefully over the many objects he had already taken out. There was the Knife, and the Stone, and the bird's foot, and the tooth, and the bird's foot, and the Stone. More than he could count. And there was still something inside the pouch. Something soft. He pulled out the puff of a rabbit's tail.
From a rabbit that Tillu had brought home. He patted it softly against his face, feeling the small scratch of the tailbone still inside the fluff of fur. He sniffed it, smelling the smell of Rabbit, and again ran it lightly over his face. Reluctantly he put if down. He liked it. He hoped it had power.
He put his hand inside the pouch and ran his fingers carefully along the seams.
Anything left? Yes!
It was wedged into the far corner of the bag. He picked it loose cautiously, wondering what it was. It was only when he brought it out into the light that he remembered.
The owl's nest had been wedged high in an old willow stump, on the far side of the dell. He had climbed up it one day when Tillu was hunting. In it he had found the remains of a nestling. He had known it was an owl's nest by the castings and feathers around it. But the tiny beakless skull had frightened and alarmed him. Men's skulls were not so different from this. He had left it in the nest, afraid to touch it. But whenever he saw the nest, he thought of the tiny, fragile skull. It drew him. And finally he had climbed the stump and taken it for his bag. These sockets had held the eyes.
They were empty now, just a tracing of old flesh in them. Here the beak had been; he wondered what had become of it. Or what if it had never had a beak? What if it had never been an owl at all? A strange thrill ran through him and he nearly dropped it.
Trembling, he placed it carefully among his other treasures. That this one had power he never doubted. Always it filled him with foreboding.
He gazed at his talismans, let the wonder of them fill him until the hair stood up on the back of his neck and prickled along his arms. There was a message here for him: Carp had told him that just by setting out the contents of his pouch, a shaman could learn many things. Again Kerlew's eyes roamed over his trinkets. The Knife, the Blood Stone, the bird's skull. The feathered claw, the rabbit's tail, the Blood Stone. His mind teetered on the edge of knowing all, understanding all. There was a pattern here. Knife wanted something done, something Bloody. And the bird's claw ...
As rapidly as the ideas had built, they fell apart. He was cold, staring at the arrangement of articles in front of the dying fire. The fire. Tillu would be very angry if he let the fire go out again. He would have to wait to eat if the fire went out. Hastily he scooped the items back into his pouch and returned it to the hollowed place beneath his pallet.
He brought an armload of wood from the pile by the door and tumbled it onto the embers and coals. It hissed, and steam and smoke rose from it chokingly and swirled up toward the smoke hole in the peak of the tent. Smoke. He wondered if Carp was still angry with him. Suddenly he had an idea. Taking the knife from his pouch, he went outside, to look for a good, thin willow wand to cut and peel. Maybe Carp wasn't angry at him anymore. Maybe this time Carp would speak to him.
KERLEW: THE POUCH
CHAPTER NINE
It had started out as a journey to no place, a long walk, the pace set fast enough to make himself breathe through his mouth and make the sweat trickle down the back of his neck. Now he stood on the hill overlooking the little tent and looked down, wondering if he had been hurrying here, or hurrying away from the talvsit.
The question irritated him, and he glared down at the tent as if it were at fault. She should turn it, he thought to himself. Turn it so the entrance didn't face the prevailing wind, and she should stack her firewood in the lee of it so the snow wouldn't drift against it. And she should soften the seams with grease, and lace them tighter. She probably didn't think about things like that. There were so many things that could be done to give them an easier life. Simple, easy things. He didn't understand why it almost angered him to look down at the tent and see the things that needed to be done.
The things that wouldn't be done.
He started down the hill, his boots breaking through the snow crust at each step.
They probably weren't even at the tent, and if they were, what was his excuse for visiting? 'To tell them,' he muttered to himself. 'To let her know I'm to join with Elsa.'
Glad news, he told himself, news a man should share with all. Did not all the talvsit buzz with it already? Did not every face smile at him and nod, full of the knowledge of his joining? Every soul he met asked him of it. When would the feast be, where would they build their hut, was he not glad to be getting such a strong and healthy woman?
Was he not happy to leave his lonely days behind? Soon he would never need hunt alone again, or sleep alone, or sit by himself of an evening. Soon Elsa would always be with him, sharing all the moments of his life. He took a deep breath, sucking in ai
r as if he were drowning.
'Kerlew!' he called as the boy poked his head out of the tent. The boy turned his face toward the man, and the smile that dawned there was all a visitor could wish. 'Come in!' he called, his voice going shrill with excitement. 'Come in and visit me!'
He threw the tent door wide to the man's approach and stood barely out of the way to let Heckram enter. His fingers ran excitedly along Heckram's sleeve, daring to touch and then leaping away, like a shy puppy's sniffing. Heckram grinned down at him and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezed it firmly. The boy stood still under his grip, grinning back.
'This is how men greet one another,' he said suddenly, the words awkwardly turned, but the meaning clear. His thin hand reached up to pat Heckram's shoulder shyly.
'Welcome to my tent!' he said grandly and waved an inviting hand at the small fire.
'I thank you for the shelter,' Heckram replied formally, sensing the significance to the boy. He remembered that formless ache of boyhood, the needing to be seen as a man by other men after being 'Ristin's son' for too long. Doubtless Kerlew was tired of being
'the healer's boy.' He pulled his cap and mittens off, advanced to the small fire, and sat.
Kerlew circled the fire and sat down facing him. The boy's grin faded slightly. They sat in a silence that threatened to become awkward. He knew nothing of dealing with people on his own, Heckram realized. No notion of how to talk to someone; his mother handled all that for them. Kerlew's smile was becoming desperate.
Heckram spoke, saying anything to help him. 'I thought I could come visiting today, to see how you and your mother were doing.'
'I do well. I keep the fire burning. Sometimes I make a spoon.' Kerlew paused, groping for more thoughts.
'And Tillu? How is she?' Heckram asked helpfully.
'She is fine. Fine. But Tillu isn't here.' Kerlew stopped abruptly, his face setting in a strange expression.
'Oh?' Heckram prodded gently, wondering what the problem was.
Kerlew looked into the fire, then aside into the shadowed corners of the tent. 'Gone hunting,' he mumbled, 'to get meat for us.'
'Oh,' Heckram repeated.
'I keep the fire going. If I went, too, the fire might go out. Or something bad might happen here.' The boy sounded on the verge of tears.
Understanding suddenly dawned within Heckram. He shifted on his heels, hesitated only a fraction of a moment. 'I wonder who will bring back the better kill,' he said slowly, his voice casual. 'Will it be Tillu, or' - he grinned wickedly, and the boy's eyes went wide as he finished - 'us?'
Kerlew had to take two breaths before he could ask, 'We hunt, you and I?'
Heckram nodded, all hesitation swept aside by the boy's eagerness. He was grateful that habit had put his bow on his back this morning. The boy's eyes clung to it.
'Get your bow, and dress warmly,' he told Kerlew, and wondered at the sudden fading of the light from the boy's face.
'Not a good day to hunt,' Kerlew said suddenly, addressing Heckram's boots. 'We wouldn't get anything. And I have other work to do. The fire. And a spoon.' The boy seemed to be pushing the words out one at a time, as if they were jammed in his throat.
Heckram remembered suddenly the awkward way the boy had gripped his mother's knife, how she had brought out hide scrapers for the boy to carve with. His own chest tightened. Poor they might be, but no boy Kerlew's age should suffer that humiliation.
No wonder the boy groped so desperately for manhood. Could not his mother see? He tried to think of the right way to say it, without making it worse.
'You could learn with mine,' he offered quietly, 'until we can make you a bow of your own.'
Kerlew stood very still and small. He stared into the fire when he spoke, if ever you need my life, I'll give it to you,' he offered in a tiny voice. He lifted his pale eyes to Heckram's face. Heckram nodded, knowing the offer was sincere. It was all Kerlew had to offer him.
'Let's hunt, then,' he said, and Kerlew sprang suddenly to life. The boy snatched up his boots. 'Dress warmly,' Heckram reminded him. 'We'll be gone all day. I'll bank the fire so it doesn't go out.'
'Doesn't matter!' Kerlew told him joyously, if it goes out, I can make another.
Sometime I'll show you how.'
The sun on the snow was brighter than Heckram remembered it, the air crisper, the sky more blue. Eagerness and inexperience made the boy clumsy, but Heckram was amazed at his own patience. He found good cover overlooking a game trail, and waiting for a rabbit became more engrossing than all the reindeer stalking he and Lasse had done all winter. The bow was hopelessly too large for Kerlew; Heckram had to draw it back and help Kerlew hold it steady. The boy exclaimed over Heckram's brightly stained and feathered arrows and had to examine every one in the quiver before he could decide which one to nock. Heckram blessed whatever spirit made the game move so well today. Of seven rabbits that came their way, they felled three, and made great fun of retrieving the other arrows that had gone wobbling off into the woods.
They spoke little, lest they scare the game, communicating with nudges and nods that made the boy's awkwardness with words unimportant. When the first rabbit fell, he let Kerlew retrieve it. The boy lifted if by the heavy deer arrow that had speared its entire body. He stared at it as if he had never seen a rabbit before. When he stood up, his shoulders straightened and he stood taller, his body opened in the light. His chin came up, and something kindled in his eyes. 'Tillu will see this soon!' was all he said.
He came back to their cover to wait for the next rabbit; the smile did not leave his face again.
The sun was fading before they tired, and they walked back in the dimness, his hand on Kerlew's shoulder while the boy hugged his three rabbits to his chest. They said little as they walked back, both too busy imagining how Tillu would react to this magnificent feast. 'They're heavy rabbits,' Kerlew said once, 'very, very heavy.' Heckram knew better than to offer to carry them for him.
The wind was rising as they crested the last hill, and Tillu's voice rose up to them like the ululation of a she-wolf. 'Kerlew!' Her voice drew the name out and threw it to the wind, her hopelessness riding the dark breath of the night. The pain in it split Heckram's soul; it was the cry of a woman who had lost her everything. 'Coming! We're coming!' he roared into the night, and hurried, pushing her son on before him.
They came out of the darkness and she stared at the large silhouette that walked beside her son. Relief flooded her and she rushed to meet them, throwing her arms around Kerlew with a glad cry. He shrugged her off with an embarrassed exclamation.
She did not even notice the rabbits in his arms. 'Where have you been?' she demanded of him, and then of Heckram, 'Where did you find him?' She looked down at her son, at the wide grin on his face despite the worry and fears she had endured. Anger rose in her, that he would wander off on his own, and make Heckram interrupt his hunting to bring the boy back. 'Why did you go off like that?' she scolded. 'Do you think I have nothing to do besides worry about you? Do you think Heckram has nothing better to do than look after you? You know you should not leave the tent when I am gone! What if Heckram had not found you and brought you home?'
Kerlew's triumph melted in humiliation. He stood speechless before her growing anger, his worthless rabbits clutched to his chest. Heckram put his arm around him, squeezed the boy's unresisting shoulder. 'We went hunting,' he told Tillu, amazed at the defiance he heard in his own voice.
'I would think you would have asked before you took my son from my tent,' Tillu snapped back. 'You left no sign, nothing! I have searched and called until my voice was hoarse! You had no right to take him without asking me.'
'Kerlew wanted to go,' Heckram defended himself, the woman's words suddenly understandable to him as never before, though their accent remained strange. 'And he hunted well.'
'He is not old enough to decide such things for himself. Is it your custom to take a woman's child from her tent, and make no word to her about it?'
'Is i
t your custom for a mother to humiliate her son before his friend, instead of rejoicing over his first kill? The boy did well! It is time he learned to hunt!'
'That is not for you to decide! You don't know Kerlew, he is not like other boys! He is
-'
'Gone,' Heckram pointed out to her.
It was true. Kerlew had discarded his rabbits in a pathetic heap at her feet and disappeared into the tent. Tillu stood staring down at them silently for a long moment.
Embarrassment flooded her face with warmth. How could she have quarreled with a stranger over her own child, admitted to him that Kerlew needed constant supervision?
How dare he pity them and make excuses for her son to her. She glared at the meat he had brought. 'You don't have to hunt for us,' she pointed out coldly, 'I can get the meat we need. And I can take care of my own son. Take your rabbits and go.'
'They aren't mine!' Heckram longed to shake her, and the urge echoed in his voice.
'Kerlew shot them. Every one of them. To please you. To be a man. Why do you treat him so badly? Why doesn't the boy have a bow, why do you keep him like a baby?
Don't you want him to grow to be a man?'
Tillu sank down slowly, almost collapsing in the snow. She lay her mittened hand on the soft fur of the dead rabbits. 'He really killed these?' she asked, disbelief still strong in her voice. Heckram nodded silently. 'My son can hunt.' She said the words aloud, but Heckram knew they were not for him. They were spoken to herself, in a voice full of wonder and thankfulness. She looked up at him, her eyes shining wetly. 'His first kill.'
She paused. Her face clouded as she realized what she had said and done, 'I was so worried,' she said softly. 'So frightened.' She glanced up at him, her eyes dark, 'I'm sorry.'
He shook his head, refusing the apology. 'Tell Kerlew that. I should tell you I am sorry, for taking him in such a way. I meant no harm.' Now that the quarrel was ending, Heckram felt suddenly abashed at the frankness of his earlier words. Who was he, to interfere between Tillu and her son? 'I should go back to the talvsit. It is late.'
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