Shaman

  —How would you know? Nevermind asked, trying his best to fend off the old man.

  Thorn waved this weak riposte aside.—I was married. Back in the dream time, before you boys were even born. Now I don’t have that burden or that blanket. You should enjoy it while you have it, be thankful. Mother Earth speaks through those silly girls. I’m surprised you weren’t taught that, growing up in this pack. Mama mia, if Heather ever hears of this! Shit. Really, the way it is now, any of us could get you killed with a word to the old hag. So you are the weakest lunkhead in the whole pack.

  With that Thorn hefted his chunk of the bison meat and headed toward home. The others followed, at first subdued, then enjoying the prospect of bringing such a load back to camp. Even Nevermind cheered up; he was well named. And killer goddesses or not, their women would be pleased to see this much meat, and the cooking and smoking and drying would go on long into the night. Some of the young hunters would give meat to young women who didn’t have it, and some of those would give them a spurt in return, that was just the way it was. So in the slant light of late afternoon they got more cheerful, and ran back to camp dancing with their own long shadows, singing a particularly rude song to irritate Thorn, who after his outburst had retreated to wolverine silence, surly and brow-furrowed. Then as they came over the last low pass and dropped into camp, they heard the women singing the sunset song. And their hearts were filled with a fearful joy.

  The wolverine nearby lived under a boulder in a south-facing tilt of boulders overlooking the river. His home was warm and dry, and over the years had been made into a comfortable nest of a home. It had four entrances, uphill, downhill, upstream, and downstream.

  No one bothered the wolverine. This was not because of his size but because of his ferocity. Besides which, if you did manage to kill him without getting killed yourself, his flesh was fatless and tough as roots. He wasn’t worth the trouble. Only very hungry wolves or lions would even consider it.

  So wolverine walked the gorge by day, or under the moon when it was big, looking around for food. Berries were just green dots now, but he ate a few just to get their taste to start the day. Berries in the morning and meat in the evening, this was wolverine’s routine. Bears were big fools who bumbled along eating whatever they found, they didn’t bother with a plan. Wolverines had plans. This one was going to walk his big walk. He would go down the river gorge, up the second loop creek, up that creek’s left fork, and then over the pass at the top of the fork, and down the first loop to the river gorge again, after which a short stroll would bring him back to his boulder.

  This circuit provided his food and allowed him to view his territory. Of all the animals he shared it with, all the cats, raccoons, weasels, foxes, bears, horses, porcupines, beavers, muskrats, ibex, chamois, elg, skelk, rhinos, hyenas, lions, leopards, mammoths, squirrels, and all the rest of the various beasts, the pack of humans was by far the most dangerous, to him as to everyone else. But they were also the most interesting. Not interesting enough to take him near their camp, but he knew all their traps and snares, although it was true he had to keep sniffing out new ones, which they kept making because of the other animals they caught. He kept his distance. Regularly, however, he would walk the gorge wall at a part that allowed him to look down onto their warren, and sometimes he tracked them when they left it. As with all pack animals, they were not as dangerous on their own as they were in groups. A single one would avoid him on sight, unless it was a young male with a spear, in which case the wolverine definitely kept his distance. The rest were just as happy to keep their distance from him. No one bothers wolverine.

  On this morning, near the ridge at the top of second loop’s west fork, he was surprised to hear a small moan. He stopped and sniffed, then smelled one of the long-headed humans, who were mostly heavier and slower than the ones from the warren, and mostly lived toward the sunset, except for some solitaries. This one’s arm emerged from a thicket as if reaching for him, and wolverine hopped upslope, landing on all four paws in his usual way, ready to bite and claw. But it was not necessary. The human male held only a loop of birch bark in his long-fingered hand. His blunt flat claws were useless compared to wolverine’s. The arm hung there out of the thicket forlornly. Behind it, through the leaves of the brush, he could see the human’s eyes looking at him, watery and sad. It was hurt. In a day or two it might be an easy meal. Trying to trap a wolverine with birch bark: it was desperate. Its wound smelled bad.

  The human whistled a perfect imitation of a female wolverine’s hello. Wolverine, startled at first, then impressed, stepped closer to see if the human would do it again. He did: a truly inviting hello. The long-headed humans were really good vocal mimics, wolverine had heard that before. Now this one shifted into a whistle like a lark’s, liquid and burbling. Again very impressive. Wolverine sat up on his haunches like a big marmot, settling in to hear more.

  The human whistled and hummed for quite some time, giving wolverine the calls of several birds and animals—even the wet smack of a beaver tail on the water.

  Finally it quit.

  Wolverine got up and went on his way, wondering what would become of the human, and if it would be worth returning on the following day before moving on in his big walk. Humans tasted strange, but that made for an interesting change. The long-headed sunset people were exceptionally dense and heavy in their meat. Well, he could decide the next morning, depending on hunger, weather, the little sprain in his right foreclaw. On whim.

  But then he came on a female human he knew. He smelled her before he saw her, and that was enough to be sure. Old female often out alone, now wandering upslope with a basket hung over one arm. Herb woman; no one else in the forest smelled like her.

  Today she appeared to be interested in the new mushrooms. First mushrooms were thin and bland. She fell to her knees in front of them and plucked them up and sniffed them, then either put them in her basket or dropped them. She got up by putting a hand down on the grass and shoving herself up, like a three-legged thing. No other creature did this.

  When she straightened she saw him and raised her basket above her head, then pulled up her dress and displayed her sex to him. This was her usual hello. Wolverine stopped and raised his head to sniff hard two or three times, which always made her laugh. She put down her dress and looked around the hillside above her, confident that wolverine would go on his way. And usually he would have. He had seen this human kill a bobcat that was leaping at her by putting a hollow stick to her mouth and blowing something into the cat’s face; the cat had run off howling, and over the next hill died, writhing and frothing from the mouth. Wolverine had been afraid to eat it.

  So he left this human alone. When they happened to pass each other in the forest, they always said their brief hellos, and she laughed, and that was that. But today wolverine was still thinking of the male human who could sound like so many other animals, and he thought the herb woman would be interested to know about him. So he stood up on his rear legs like a marmot again, and caught her eye, and then jerked his head toward the pass, just a short stroll above them.

  The woman laughed at this and said something agreeable. Wolverine led her up the slope of the forest to the pass, ignoring the switchbacks that she used, but always making sure she could see him. When she reached the pass he whistled her down the western slope, which was thick with trees, to the little copse holding the longhead. When he saw that she had seen this person in the thicket, whose eyes were round at the sight of his return, he veered back up the slope, working his away around her. For a moment he tarried, peering down to see how the two humans were getting along. They were whistling back and forth in a friendly manner. Wolverine strolled back up to the pass and wabbled off on his way.

  Heather came into camp and asked Thorn and Loon and Hawk and Moss to help her, that she was treating a wounded old one over Lower Upper Pass.

  She didn’t want the old one moved into their camp, she told them. Everyone was relieved to hear that, b
ecause she had brought all kinds of wounded creatures into camp before, which was why her nest was located out on the edge away from the fire. This time she just wanted their help getting this wounded old one into a protected spot.

  What that turned out to mean was building a shelter right over him, because he was too hurt to be moved. So they wove a spruce shelter around and over him, while he stared at the ground and occasionally glanced at them, sometimes emitting a cooing whistle.

  —We say, thank you, Heather told him.

  —Tank oo, he said.

  Weaving the spruce branches into position took them a while, and during that time Heather sat Loon down beside her to help her care for the old one.

  He was broad-shouldered and squat. Once he had been strong, but now he was emaciated. It gave Loon a quease of disgust to be so close to him. He smelled like an old one, and had that old face, a real saiga of a face, distended and foolish. His skin was mushroom pale, so much lighter than normal skin that it apparently was translucent, as Loon could see blue veins under his pale skin. This was truly disgusting. One or both of his legs was badly hurt. His coat was roughly sewn, his fur skirt made of a fur Loon couldn’t identify. His shoes were simple bearskin wraps.

  He did not meet their eyes, but while looking at the ground, glanced up at them from time to time. He had a huge beak of a nose, big furry eyebrows, and a forehead that receded to a balding head, somewhat like Thorn’s but much longer and paler. His ugly face, which might have somewhat resembled a beaver’s if it were not for the great nose, held an expression attentive, intelligent, concerned. In a speechless face the eyes do all the talking. What these eyes said was clear enough: this old one was sick and in trouble, but trying to be hopeful about their intentions.

  They finished building the shelter over him. He whistled and clicked and hummed at them, and Heather said reassuring things in return, and even whistled something he appeared to understand, one of his words it seemed. Immediately he whistled away at Heather, but she shook her head and repeated a few low warbles, and words in their language. Eat, drink.

  —Tank oo, he said.

  After that Heather sent the boys up to guard him and give him some of the worst overwintered nuts, and she worked her medicine on one of his legs. It was mostly a matter of rest, she told Loon.—Injury needs rest, you can’t take things too fast. Healing happens, but it takes time. So you have to give it time. A moon and fortnight for that hurt you had, and him too.

  She appeared to whistle a similar message to the old one, for he did lie around for most of a moon, eating and drinking what Heather and Loon brought him. She taught him a number of words in that time, but the one she said the most was,—Slowly, slowly, with her hands and movements illustrating what she meant by it. He nodded from the waist when assenting to her, and with a visible effort said,—So-ly, so-ly.

  When he was finally getting around on his feet pretty well, he came to her one morning after dawn and held her hand in both of his, whistled briefly, and took off toward Lower Upper Pass. After that they saw him from time to time in the distance, in the way they occasionally spotted other local woodsmen, who mostly tried never to be seen, but sometimes got careless. And from time to time there was an offering of snow hare or baby goat, or flowers, left in front of Heather’s nest. And she left things out there near the old one’s broken shelter as well, in the same way that she left things out for her cat.

  Because Loon slept near Heather and helped her, he got more of a chance to see the old one than many of the group; and because he went out with Thorn, or on Thorn’s behalf, to gather chunks of earthblood from the spot under Northerly ridge called the Giants’ Knapsite he continued to see the old one out on the land. The old one was like a woodsman, it seemed: cut off from his pack, if he had ever had one. He bumbled through his rounds like a bear, setting traps for little animals and birds, eating berries and grass seed along the way. He moved strangely, and his smell was as if a little fermented. His beard was like a saiga’s beard, straggling under his chin, providing a point to balance the massive shelf of his eyebrows. His beaky nose had perhaps been smashed to the side at some point. His hair was held back by a leather band, and hung down freely over his shoulders. He wore a fur cape all the time, and now went barefoot, as if his bearskin shoes had worn out and he could not make new ones.

  Thorn believed one could not become a good engraver without learning to make good tools. A good straight burin, some good blades, and a nicely edged scraper made all the difference. When it was rock against rock, you wanted your cutter as hard and sharp as possible.

  So they sat in the sun and hit blocks of flint with choprocks of granite and schist.

  Thorn stretched like a cat in the sun, and said,—Wait, I see something.

  —Not another one of your riddles.

  —They are not my riddles. They are the world’s riddles. Listen:

  Silent my clothes when I walk on ground

  Or stay at home or cross a stream.

  Sometimes my life and the lift of the wind

  Raise me above the place where people walk

  And then the power of clouds carries me far

  Above the human world and my clothes

  Loudly echo and send forth a song.

  They clearly sing when I am not in touch

  With earth or water but a flying spirit.

  Now find out what I am.

  —You are the second wind, Loon said, thinking of his recent night return from the hunt with Hawk and Moss, and pleased to have seen the answer so readily.

  Thorn laughed.

  —What, aren’t I right?

  Thorn tipped his head left then right, which was his sign for yes and no.—It’s like the second wind, he allowed,—but you think small.

  —The second wind is never small, Loon objected.

  People said Thorn had been a very strong hunter in his youth, but Loon had not seen it. Maybe he had forgotten what the second wind felt like when it came into you.

  —Granted, Thorn allowed.—The second wind is big. But it’s even bigger than that.

  —I’ll think about it.

  —And smaller too, don’t forget. Most boys posed that riddle say it’s about a grasshopper. And he laughed at the look on Loon’s face.

  Thorn spent a lot of his mornings taking care of the kids on the flat at the east end of camp, where the trees gave them a mix of sun and shade. He was much different with the little ones than he was with adults. He sat among them playing with their toys and goofing around, while also running them through their lessons.—They’re so much easier than you, he would say to Heather and Loon.

  —Children are the true human beings, Heather intoned, whether sarcastic or not Loon could not tell.

  —Well, it’s true. They’re not old enough to have problems. I’m so tired of you all and your problems. Men and women are just big bags of problems.

  —You should know, Heather said.

  —Indeed I should, watching you and all the rest. My time is much better used with the kids.

  —A pinch of mother is worth a pack of shaman, Heather reminded him.

  Thorn only waved her away with the back of his hand.

  But with the kids in the morning sun it was different.

  —Wait, I see something: little dots in the distance.

  —The birds are coming back! the kids would say.

  —That’s right. Our summer friends. We’ll see that again real soon. But wait, I see something: little wood crumbs falling out of a tree.

  —The grouse is up there eating, one of them said. If just one of them spoke up, it was usually Thunder’s daughter Starry.

  —That’s right. Some people call them rock pounders because of the funny whirr they make when they run. You’ve heard that sound. On the coldest nights they sleep under a blanket of snow. You can walk around on a snowy morning and surprise them sometimes, catch one for breakfast. But you have to be fast.

  The kids assured him they were fast, and he agreed.


  —Wait, I see something: tiny bits of charcoal scattered on the snow.

  Silence.

  —No? It’s one of the white-in-winters. The beaks of ptarmigans. They’re so white in the winter, all you can see is their beaks. It looks funny. Wait, I see something: we are wide open in the bushes.

  Again silence.

  —Another white-in-winter! It’s the eyes of the snowshoe hare. They watch you when they’re hiding, and their eyes are the only part of them you can see. How about this; wait, I see something: a bit of charred wood waving around in the air.

  —Same again! Starry said triumphantly.—The ermine’s tail in winter.

  —Very good! And then wait, I see something more: far away yonder, a fire flash comes down.

  —Fox in the summer, Starry declared.

  Thorn tousled her head.—You’re going to be a handful, kid. All right, last one. Wait, I see that the river is tearing away things around me.

  —Is it you? Starry asked, eyes round.

  Thorn laughed.—Yes, you bad girl. But it can be an island too. But we’re all islands.

  And they decided to make a toy village on a puddle island and then drown it all in a terrible flood from a bucket. They all loved that game, Thorn most of all.

  Out with Sage, at the bog where the Edich dropped into the Urdecha, to collect herbs for Heather.