His skill with each weapon grew and grew, his mind seeing patterns and techniques that even the able Arnoon and the venerable Elders had never thought of employing. His aim with the bow, uncannily accurate, half the time not even needing to look at the target.
But through it all he kept a quiet and good-natured humility, never seeking to challenge Arnoon’s authority, for they had an agreement, a silent treaty, a bond of blood-brotherhood that nothing could sunder. Stone was content to practice with his new friends, demonstrating his preternatural skills but never showing off, happy to know, from experience, that he was of use and importance to his village, feeling no need to brag of it.
And it was partly because of these previous deeds, partly his open and honest demeanour, that the village embraced him as one of their own, no longer an outsider, no longer the Nagah-Slayer; merely ‘Stone.’ And it felt good to be just Stone.
But fresh challenges awaited him, that neither his physiology nor shamanic gifts could render easy, trials that only strength of character and iron will could see him through.
And so it was that Wrynn called him one night.
***
The summer air was warm and still as Stone pulled aside the hide curtain to the interior of Wrynn’s hut, breathing in the instantly familiar smell of herbs, spices, all manner of ingredients that the shaman used to concoct his cures and remedies.
That such simple and paltry medicines were used at all by wielders of spirit-craft was confusing at first for Stone; for had he not experienced the subtle, healing magic of Lanah? But it had soon dawned on him, for though, thanks to his extraordinary capacity for adaptation the blight of spirit-sickness had long-since ceased to be an issue for him, for Lanah and even Wrynn, the cost of calling on the spirits was an ever-present companion. Fevers, serious wounds, all were fair game, but to abuse their connections for the healing of cuts, bruises, sniffles and sneezes would be folly, rendering them weak and impotent as the spirits daily plundered their essence.
Instead, good, honest herbal remedies and poultices proved a useful and more freely dispensed alternative and so it was a shaman’s business to know about the earth’s bounty of plants and herbs.
Both the Shaman and Lanah were sat in the firelight of the hut, faces welcoming but serious. The fact that both were there was strange; normally Stone trained separately to Lanah, meeting only when they both had the free time to walk and talk. Something was obviously afoot.
“Sit, apprentice.”
Stone sat, taking a position about the hearth so that the three formed a triangle, before Wrynn began to speak.
“It is time, Stone, for you to take the Journey, as young Lanah has, and as I did before her.”
“The Journey?”
The shaman nodded, solemnly, the quietness and reverence of his tone betraying the gravity of what he was about to impart.
“There comes a time in every apprentice-shaman’s learning that he must take a journey of discovery, to learn the heart of the art of spirit-craft. Only by doing this can you gain true mastery of the art, and yourself.”
Stone responded, his question not formed by arrogance but genuine curiosity.
“But you’ve said yourself that you’re impressed by my power, that you’ve never seen the like. The elements are there at my beck and call.”
Wrynn nodded, patient, knowing his student well, before explaining.
“Yes, your abilities are formidable,” he admitted, “and I’ve never seen someone take so quickly to the art of spirit-craft. But while you have great power you still lack a degree of subtlety and finesse.”
His apprentice didn’t argue, but looked unconvinced, so Wrynn nodded to Lanah, who, with practiced ease, waved her hands in an intricate dance in front of her, the very flames of the fire twisting and twirling to match the patterns she wove in the air. Stone watched mesmerised, before Lanah let her hands drop back to her lap, the fire settling down to its former steady crackle.
“Fire-Weaving,” explained their tutor. “The shaping of flames into whatever form you desire.” He gestured to Stone with one hand. “Please, have a go yourself.”
Stone looked from teacher to fellow student, both faces curious, no malice or mockery evident, not that he’d expect any from either. He turned his attention to the fire between them.
Easy, he thought. Fire is my domain. I have mastery of it. I can light a cooking fire with my mind, incinerate arrows with a thought. To make it dance? Child’s play…
He concentrated, feeling the connection with the elements in his mind, the heat surging through his mind, then his veins, as the conduit opened like floodgates of fire. He could taste ash and smoke in his mouth that had nothing to do with the hearth in front of him. He narrowed his eyes and began to weave his hands in a simple pattern in the air in front of him.
Dance, he commanded with his mind. Dance for me. Follow my hands.
Straining with all of his mental might, he willed the flames to follow, but try as hard as he might, all he could succeed in doing was forcing the flames to burn fiercer and hotter, the wood of the fire cracking and splitting as the heat rose.
Dance! Dance! As he had learned to do, he channelled the strength of the earth itself into his summonings, lending him nigh limitless reserves, but to no avail.
With a piercing shriek, the last of the fuel was used up, the flames dying away, leaving behind nought but a crumbling pile of grey/white ash and the ring of steadily glowing hearthstones.
Sweat beading his forehead, Stone slouched back, defeated, the last dregs of burning fire draining from his mind, like smoke dissipating on the breeze.
“How?” he gasped, the ache from his exertions throbbing in his head now, the power he’d been channelling substantial, even for him.
Lanah went to hold his hand, recoiling with a start as she felt the air about him rippling with sympathetic heat.
“It’s not a question of power or control, Stone. I could feel your power from here; it’s frightening how gifted you are in the channelling of forces. You’re like a wide open river gushing with torrents of floodwater. But sometimes strength of arms isn’t what it takes, sometimes it’s knowing your enemy that makes the difference, knowing the subtle tricks that make the task infinitely easier.”
Stone thought for a moment, wise despite his impetuosity, before nodding in understanding.
“I get it; it’s like with the hare, the night of the bear-attack; to get at it we could have dug it from its burrow, shifting the earth and breaking our backs. Instead, you planted something small and simple in its mind and it came right to us.”
Wrynn smiled, his student learning fast.
“This is the truth of the matter, Stone. Sometimes sheer force of will isn’t the best way to go about these things. At present, with your gifts, you are a weapon of brute might, if you will; your power is beyond comprehension, yet at the same time limited in its application. If we wish to move a four-hundred pound log, then you’re the man for the job, but what if you need to heal the sick, bless a harvest or even,” he paused momentarily, “foretell the future?”
Stone was silent, thinking things over as the pain from the spirit-sickness faded away with preternatural speed. He didn’t want to be pigeon-holed as a warrior, as an instrument of brute force; shamanic gifts were a rarity and to not pursue them to their full extent would be a waste.
“So, you’re saying I need to know the elements more, how to tempt them and coax them, like the hare?”
Nods from both the others.
“And this is what the Journey is about? Teaching me how?”
“Correct,” Wrynn affirmed. “The Journey will take you to a place where you meet with the Spirits. There, you will learn their ways, their natures, and with that knowledge you will gain a greater mastery of the art – and yourself – than you thought possible.”
“Meet with them? As in, physically?”
“Oh aye, physically, face to face. You will meet with them, their avatars in this rea
lm, in order to receive their blessing that you might continue in your training.”
Stone paled slightly he was courageous, having faced all manner of dangers, but to meet with the spirits that he abused on such a regular basis?
“Isn’t that… dangerous?”
Lanah nodded at him, smiling but serious. His hands were cool enough to touch now, so she took his hand in hers.
“It is. But I did it, only two years ago, when I was fifteen. All you need to do is keep your wits about you and know that you’re in their domain. Show respect and you will come to no harm.”
“When do I go? And where?”
Wrynn answered.
“The end of the week is when the moons are aligned and therefore the barrier between our world and theirs is weakest. But where is up to you; we all find our own entrances to the world of the spirits. Sometimes a shaman will walk into a small mountain cave, only to find that it descends into the bowels of the earth. Other times, he will wait arms outstretched on a hilltop in the plains, when an eagle will carry him off into the sky. I’ve even heard of one shaman who found the entrance to the spirit-world at the bottom of a lake, just as he was in danger of drowning. The place will call to you, have no fear of that.”
Stone smiled, used to the Shaman’s outlandish tales by now.
“Well, I’ve had enough of caves and I’m afraid of heights, but at least I can breathe underwater.”
The other two burst into laughter, as though he’d told a particularly good joke.
“Breathe underwater,” gasped the elder Shaman, “the boy thinks he’s a fish!”
Stone joined in the laughter, eyes darting from one to the other.
“Hah. Yeah. Fish.”
***
It lay there, motionless in the water, enjoying the shade from the overhanging tree, the current flowing smoothly down either side of its streamlined, silver form.
The hunter stood up high, bare feet perched precariously on the gunwales of the canoe, long bow raised and corded arrow held steady.
With a twang, he released, the missile darting into the water with nary a splash and impaling its prey with expert precision. The hunter pulled on the thin cord tied about the arrow, reeling the fish in, heaving it clear of the water where it flailed and thrashed in the air, iridescent scales gleaming in the mid-day sun, cascades of water droplets spraying all over, before being thrown into the boat with the others.
“Ten for ten,” remarked Yalen, long pipe, as ever, dangling from his lips. “I take it back, you do know a bit about fishing.”
Stone smiled, dropping into the hull.
“Cheers!”
Sitting down, Stone carefully removed the barbed arrow from his latest catch, a mirrored carp, far tastier than the transparent ones further upstream, regarding the old man as he did; Yalen, sitting, eyes closed in the sun, wreathed in smoke, had made good on his promise to teach Stone how to fish in the style of the Plains-People and, as ever, it had taken him no time at all to become a master of the craft.
Still, the time passed quickly and peacefully on the boat, the river – called the Yow, in Plains-People tongue – flowing gently here, wide, serene and crystal clear, and it made a change to get away from the village for a bit. Lanah was off, honing her craft in her special retreat, Arnoon and Neroo leading the newest Youngbloods out on their first hunt, therefore Stone had a free afternoon, hence he’d come to seek Yalen.
“So what’s your story, Yalen?” enquired Stone, as he leant back allowing the sun to warm his chest.
Yalen puffed out a cloud of blue smoke before answering.
“A long one, my young friend, though I’m afraid you might find it too sparse with adventure for your liking.” He chuckled. “I’m the son of a fletcher as my father was before me and his before him. We’ve always made the best arrows in this region of the plains, always made a good living from it, keeping the roof over our heads and giving us a reasonably quiet life. I’ve never asked for anything more than to practice my craft in peace.”
“Never married?”
The old man laughed, taking a puff on the pipe and shaking his head as he exhaled the smoke.
“No, as I said, I like my peace.”
Stone grinned, then continued.
“But aren’t you worried that your craft will die out if you don’t have a son? If it’s tradition in your family for father to teach son the craft, then doesn’t it die out with you?”
Yalen shook his head.
“I have years left in me yet, young one, despite appearances. Besides, I’m teaching the trade to a couple of youths from the village; once or twice a week they come to me and I train them. Selfish, if you ask me, to keep a craft solely in one person’s family. What if plague strikes that household? All that skill, lost. Better that people learn to multi-task, to be skilled in many trades.” He nodded, sagely. “Flexible, it makes you. Able to cope with change.”
Change is one thing I can definitely cope with, thought Stone, wryly.
“Besides, young one, you speak of tradition. Let me tell you of tradition…”
The younger warrior closed his eyes, hearing in the tone of voice the same precursor that he often heard before one of Wrynn’s lengthy monologues.
“Fletching arrows is not tradition, Stone. It is merely a trade, it is practical, of use.” He paused, taking in a puff from his pipe, before continuing. “Tradition however, all the pomp, the ceremony, like the White Arrow, all of it,” he spread his arms in an all-encompassing motion, “means nothing.”
Stone opened his eyes at this, not what he expected to hear from a venerable elder. Yalen saw his surprise and laughed.
“What, you think that because I’m old I’m a believer in tradition? Well, to tell the truth, I am!” He laughed at Stone’s further confusion. “I believe that the past holds great value and that our ties to it can give us a sense of place in the world. But I don’t believe in tradition for tradition’s sake; over time, what started out as good becomes stagnant, meaningless and all it does is stymie you, prevent you from moving forwards until something comes along to break you out of your rut.”
Arnoon and his family sprung to Stone’s mind.
“Such traditions will have you worshipping long-dead and unworthy gods, taking orders from supposed betters that are nothing of the sort. Because tradition.” He snorted, blue smoke erupting from his nostrils like some amused dragon. “No, real tradition keeps your feet on the ground, reminding you of your roots. Real tradition raises up leaders of worth rather than succession. Real tradition is what holds you fast to doing what’s right by others, proving yourself by acts rather than blindly worshipping some god and praying that act alone wipes out all your selfish deeds.”
The old man laughed, his chuntering exhausted, before tapping out the last remnants of his tobacco on the side of the boat, Stone merely watching and thinking, amused and quite surprised at the zeal of this wizened elder; he seemed more like a frustrated adolescent, desperate to make his mark on the world, but resigned to the fact that he was a small fish in a big pond. All the same, the ideas he espoused, despite containing not a little frustration, seemed to resonate with Stone, make some sense. But this world was just too small, too simple for such grandiose ideas to make a difference.
But elsewhere, somewhere far away, a more jaded and crowded world, bereft of hope…
Stone shook his head, clearing his thoughts, before turning once more to the fletcher.
“For an old man, you sound like a teenager!” he laughed.
Yalen nodded, mirth shining in his eyes as he repacked his pipe from his pouch.
“Not so old yet, young one, though I’ll admit to seeing more than my fair share of summers, that’s true.”
“So you remember the Chief and Shaman Wrynn as Youngbloods, then?”
Yalen didn’t look up, still intent on tamping the weed in his pipe as he answered.
“Chief Farr, yes, now there was a Youngblood, for sure; he was a wild and reckless yout
h, make no mistake, always getting into fights, always chasing the girls.”
Stone laughed, trying to fit this description with the mellow and cheerful Chief he knew today.
“And Wrynn? What was he like?”
The elder shrugged as he withdrew a taper from his jacket, lighting it on the oil lamp ever-present at his feet, before touching it to the pipe-bowl and taking a deep chug.
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
Stone frowned.
“What do you mean?”
Exhaling, Yalen explained.
“When I was but a stripling of a youth, way back in the day, I remember my father being struck down with fever after a day of fishing the Yow in harshest winter. As he lay by the hearthside, shivering, my mother bade me run, run as fast as I could to the healer’s house to fetch him or we would lose my father. And so I did, my little feet burning as I ran through the frosty grass, before reaching his house on the outskirts of the village. I reached up, knocked on the hide door of his hut, then it opened.” He paused for dramatic effect, allowing a long tendril of blue smoke to half-obscure his eyes, long-lost in the depths of time. “There, in the opened doorway, loomed the largest man I had ever seen, like some kind of giant from a children’s night-tale to come and get me.”
Stone shook his head in astonishment as Yalen nodded.
“It was Wrynn, young one, sure as I speak to you now. Throughout my life he has looked the same, never changing. He’s a fact of life to our village, the same as the setting of the sun, the changing of the seasons. Always there, guarding us, healing us, training new shamans to carry on old craft.”
Stone’s ears pricked at this.
“New shamans? You mean Lanah…?”
Yalen shook his head.
“No, she’s not the first, not by a long shot.”
“Then what happened to all the others?”
“Oh, they drift off, find other places to be, called to wherever they’re needed. New villages spring up once in a while on the Plains and the Hills-People are always in need of a healer, always ready to offer food and shelter to someone willing to brave their ferocious winters. Others, of course,” his eyes looked grey and cloudy for an instant, as if reliving some terrible memory, “chose to venture south, sell their gifts to the barbarians in exchange for coin and debauched living.”
The Descent to Madness (The Graeme Stone Saga) Page 15
