So he was happy as he ascended Lower’s Upper to his new nest. But as he approached the flat over the spring he saw that his prepared hearth had been swept clean of the wood he had left there.
The sight froze him instantly, and in his stillness came the jolt of fear, when the most likely explanation for the change struck him fully. He slipped to the ground behind a rock as smoothly as he could, feeling more afraid heartbeat by heartbeat. Everything in the little canyon quivered in his sight. It was quiet, no squirrels in the area chittering away. Gurgle of the spring’s water sliding out of the spring. The air was flowing downcanyon, and he sniffed repeatedly, tried to sniff like a bear, tried to identify and locate by smell whatever was out there lying in wait for him. If there was anything. Actually, to have swept his fire rock clean of wood was a strange move.
Then a sniff gave him the answer he most feared, a waft of smoke and grease almost like his own smell, but different. Old ones. They smelled different than people. Thorn had forced this knowledge on him once when they had come upon a dead old one, lying in one of the shallow cliff caves downstream in the gorge. Thorn had grabbed the dead one’s bearskin cape and held the collar of it to Loon’s nose. Lunkheads always smell like this, Thorn had said, flicking him hard on the ear.
Now Loon was sweating from his face and palms. The day had suddenly become one of his nightmares: a silent still world, stuffed with dread, something unseen in it hoping to kill him. Stories about boys on their wanders being eaten by old ones had always seemed like just stories; all the men Loon knew had come back from their wanders. And if you ran into an old one, they always seemed about as harmless as any woodsman.
But woodsmen could be dangerous. And the old ones were burly people, as strong as bears or wolverines. One of Thorn’s stories told how an old one had married a bear by mistake, and neither of them had noticed; their daughter told them about it years later, not at all pleased with them.
They definitely knew how to hunt. They didn’t use spear throwers or javelins, and they only used stone for their points, never antler or bone or tusk; but their spears were stout, made for thrusting and short throws. They were experts at ambush, that was their way. When they were in pairs or trios, one would sneak around while the other watched from a blind. They hid better than any other animals, even humans.
So setting up his firewood stack had been a mistake. It would only have saved him a few moments anyway. Something to remember. If he survived.
He regarded the live ember there in his hand, still glowing in its needles and burl. It would be giving off its own smell, he realized. There’s nothing like the smell of a fire! as the saying had it.
He put the ember on the ground, the open end of the burl down, so that it would perhaps suffocate the ember. Now it could be a decoy.
He crawled back downstream as smoothly and quietly as he could. It was like hide and seek when they were kids, now horribly suffused with nightmare dread.
Where there were trees and boulders big enough to hide among, he moved up the west slope of Lower’s Upper. Lower’s Upper fell into Lower over a short cliff; the waterfall there was called Old Piss. Probably the old ones would know about the cliff, but if they didn’t, and tried to follow him directly down the creekbed, they would be briefly held up, and he might get away.
When he had traversed high enough that the trees were shorter than him even when he was crouching, he lay in a moss-filled hollow between two of the gnarled little pines and looked back down toward the copse with the spring.
There they were: three of them. Danger comes without warning. Big-headed, hairy, heavy under their fur capes. Spears at the ready, thick short things with perfect leaf blade tips of red chert: spears made to stick in mammoths. Loon shrank down as far as he could. The nightmare world had jumped into day. And just as it would have happened in his dreams, one of the three old ones suddenly pointed at Loon and skreeled like an angry hawk.
Loon leaped to his feet and dashed for the ridge above him. The three old ones croaked to each other like ravens as they clambered after him, somewhat slowed by their spears. Loon had a good jump on them, and was close enough to the ridge to reach it while they were well below. He ran south on the ridge to make them think he was going that way; if they angled to cut him off, they would hit the ridge where it was cliffed on the other side, the same cliff that made the Old Piss waterfall farther down.
But the old ones were much faster than he had thought they would be, and closed on him despite his panic speed. When they saw he had crested the ridge and would soon be out of sight, all three threw their spears, which lofted up toward him with awful quickness. People said they never threw their spears, and yet here they were! Two were going to hit below him, but one was flying right up at him, he had to jump off the other side of the ridge to dodge it, something he watched himself do, feeling amazed he was making such a leap, down the first little drop of the long cliff.
He landed and felt something twist in his left ankle, rolled to keep it from twisting worse, and at the end of the roll smacked that same ankle against a tree. The two pains merged to one, and together they made it hard to run, but he had to, so he ran down the slope into Lower Valley, each landing on the left leg a shocking burst of pain, despite which it was necessary to run on at full speed and in complete silence. He ran open-mouthed, sucking in and blowing out in a way that made no noise. It took a lot of air to run all out, and he had to set a pace he could hold for a time, but it also had to be faster than the old ones, no matter what, even if they burst a sprint. Old ones were supposed to be a slower than people, but now Loon didn’t trust anything he knew about them. They were so strong, no doubt they could run uphill as fast as people. But now Loon was heading downhill in Lower Valley, limping hugely and hoping nothing was broken in his left leg. He had always felt fast before, but not now.
By the time the old ones topped the ridge he was almost down to his old site, where his fire was still burning. They had indeed hit the ridge too far down, and were looking down the cliff at him, so now they had to backtrack up the ridge. Loon saw that and came into his camp and looked around. They could easily have come upon him here and killed him before he knew they were nearby: it had been a bad way to camp when alone. He knocked at the fire with a stick, wanting to make more smoke to mask his scent, also to disturb their sense of what was happening. Possibly they would stop to ponder why he had done this, they were said to be slow thinkers, so he took a burning branch and threw it across the creek, then three or four more in different directions, then continued pegging downcanyon, past the confluence under Old Piss, along the creek trail, feeling his muscles burning almost as much as the hurt in his ankle. He was not bleeding, not leaving a blood trail, although his right big toe had been abraded and was beginning to bleed enough to leave drops. He bared his teeth in dismay when he saw that, and paused to sit on the ground and suck the first flow of blood out of the cut, run his tongue back and forth to start the stanching, then press some creekside sand into the broken skin, after which he hopped up and away. For speed and endurance both he should have these old ones beat. They would know that too, and hopefully give up. But he had to go on to make sure. It was time to shift modes, find his second wind, pace himself for a run down Lower Valley, then up one of its slopes to east or west. Climbs to the valley’s ridges could not be made everywhere, in fact both sides of the canyon had long low cliffs right at the ridge, making it a hard valley to get out of. But he knew there was one break in the cliffs to the east, so he headed for that, hoping the old ones would continue downvalley. Once over the east ridge he would be on the high etched tableland overlooking the gorge and its canyons, and could find some kind of tuck that would keep him hidden.
He ran favoring his left leg, breathing hard, really sucking it in, needing the air. After a while, he felt the second wind catch him up: that was good. He looked back often; no sight of them. Hard to know if they would continue their pursuit for long. They had had to recover their spears. Why mam
moth spears down in the canyons? Maybe it was true they had nothing else. And they hadn’t used spear throwers. Almost-people, nightmare people, crossed over into the day world. Or he had crossed over into theirs.
The ramp he was climbing was clean. He could see the break in the cliffs that would get him to the ridge. The cliffs were the usual white rock, flecked with black lichen. He was bleeding a little again from his right toe, so he stopped as he climbed to shove dirt into it again to clot the blood. He was working so hard that his blood was shooting out of him, even though the scrape was not very deep.
The ramp cut through little cliffs, and the slope lay back and gave him a clean run to the ridge, well covered by head-high trees. He sped over the ridge, which was broad here. Surely now he was clear of the old ones. They would not come up to this particular spot just to look.
Still he kept on, impelled by the memory of that spear flying up at him. It had been spinning on its axis like a firestick. The long chert blade would have pierced him right through. Think what that would be like! He had seen it often with small animals, speared them himself and watched them writhe, heard them shriek before they died. Best to keep running. Run in the same way one would run on the hunt, just as hard and steady, just as long. Indeed given what was at stake it made sense to go much longer than when on the hunt. Run right through his second wind, run until the rare and elusive third wind filled him, then run some more.
Finally the long afternoon of running slanted to its close. The moment came when afternoon became evening, a matter of failing light in the still-blue sky. He kept on through the dusk that followed, and even when darkness began to fall. The moon was now a day less than half there, thus almost directly overhead. Still over half a fortnight to go before he could return to the pack! He could not imagine getting comfortable enough with his situation to start another fire, not with old ones somewhere nearby. And his ankle still hurt. He could not move his foot without pain.
But he was alive. And he could go a week without food if he had to. And a week without fire, too, at least if it did not storm again. Even if it did storm. Anyway the important point was that he was alive. This was his wander, it was not meant to be easy. He had escaped three old ones! If he had. Now he would really have a story to tell! If he could bring it home.
He gathered some dry leaves and branches and pulled them after him into a nook of boulders under a dense cluster of ground-hugging spruce. The trees had been splayed over the rocks by the force of the constant downslope wind. He ripped a tear in his bark vest getting into the nook, and his leggings were already in tatters. But he was able to make a rough bed, and he felt he was well hidden. Spruce gum daubed over his chest masked his own scent, although he ended up sticky, and felt pricked everywhere by spruce needles stuck to his skin. He was going to be cold, and his ankle throbbed with every heartbeat. He needed some artemisia tea to suck down, some mistletoe pollen to smoke. As it was, he could only clench his teeth. He named his hurts, as Thorn had always insisted he do; the cut in his toe was Spit, the hurt inside his ankle he called Crouch. Spit and Crouch sang their little duet, and he listened past them to the wind in the pines, nervous at any other sounds. There were some rustlings, and some of these made his heart pound; he wondered if he could leap out of his lair before the spears plunged through it and pinned him to the ground. Probably not. Loon had speared snow hares through just such cover. He knew just how it would go. Probably the rustlings were only hares or grouse, or even squirrels or mice. But the image from one time he had speared a snow hare through the neck was a hard one to fall asleep to.
He slept lightly, and when he stirred to huddle in a new position against the cold, cuddling chilled parts and thus inevitably exposing warm parts, he would listen, and sniff the air, and worry a little, before dipping back under. Sleep with one eye open. Thorn claimed you could do it. It meant he did not so much dream as think, but in a jumpy disconnected way. A moment came when he surfaced to full wakefulness, both feet cold, ears and pizzle cold, even though he had wrapped his arms around his head when he fell asleep. He began to shiver, and realized he would therefore not be able to fall back asleep, and indeed could not even continue to lie there; he was shivering too hard.
Fearfully he pulled himself out of his tuck and looked around. The near-half moon was about to set in the west, so the night was half done. Unhappily he began to bounce up and down in place, staying always on his right leg; also to bunch his fists, and twist side to side. At first it felt like he was too tired to be able to dance hard enough to warm up, but by the time he had gotten the shivering to stop, he was fully awake, less tired, and interested to see what he would not have seen in the tuck, which was the plateau in the last of the moonlight, shadows stretching across it broad and black. Nothing moved. The night was still. He rearranged his bark clothing as best he could, trying to tighten it around him, and after a time burrowed back into his nest. Any tuck is better than none. This was his wander, he told himself, he was becoming a shaman, it was supposed to be a trial. He had not only to survive, but survive in style. Now with Crouch, and the old ones wandering about, his task was made more difficult. But he was halfway through, almost. Eight days left at most, maybe nine. He was actually having trouble keeping count. But the moon would do it.
Whatever he managed in terms of style would have to come later, and be accomplished by day. At night, to avoid both the old ones, who might spot his fire, and night-hunting animals, who were only held off by fire, he was going to have to find a better refuge than this one, which was both cold and exposed to view. Some hollow, some cathole or marmot house where he could keep a little warm, and yet see anything approaching him. Under a boulder, perhaps, with some boughs dragged in for warmth. Live like a marmot for half a fortnight.
Crouch was barking and it was hard not to groan. The memory of his big bed of embers, radiating heat so intense he had had to keep a distance from it, now struck him as an incredible gift. Luxury is stupid: another of Heather’s favorites. It goes too far, she would explain. Enough is as good as a feast. But tonight he didn’t have enough.
He had been acting as if the womb canyons etching the border of the uplands would be empty, just because no packs made their camp in them. His own presence should have told him he was wrong. Old ones, woodsmen, travelers, lions, any could have wandered by and killed him by his fire. Starting in the storm had apparently frozen his wits. Wrong from the start. In the storm itself one could assume everyone would be hunkered down. After the storm, no. Strangers could always pass by. You have to beware. He had forgotten that, seduced by his fire. Fire was a giveaway, there was no denying it. Although perhaps a very little one, down in some hollow, lit at twilight, kept barely alive, fed just before dawn: surely it would be all right?
No. Not really. Just hop in place and sing a little back-and-forth song, right right left, right right left, on and on. No real weight on the left. All the while looking at the moon, trying to see it fatter than it was. He truly had lost count of how many days he had been out, but ran back through them in as much detail as he could recall, to recover the number. He kept track with his fingers, using them like one of Thorn’s yearsticks. He had been out five days. Yes, five. He had gotten a fire started on the second day; watched the bears kill a deer on the third; made deerskin clothing on the fourth; tried to shift camps on the fifth. This was going to be the sixth day. He almost groaned aloud, but let Crouch do the talking. He was going to have to find a way to stay warm without a fire, and he was going to have to find something to eat. He could forage, but it would be best if he also found something to kill. Some animal with fur.
The moon set, ever so slowly. Best not to look, it went so slow. But he did look. The stars creeping down blinked out over the furred black horizon, one after the next. He danced from time to time, in a kind of waking, standing sleep. Let it all settle into one’s breathing. Let Crouch do the talking.
At some point he opened his eyes and saw that the eastern sky just over the horizon
was a pale gray. Just a fist or so to sunrise. Always coldest before dawn. But he could endure. He felt the life in him, barking like Crouch.
When it was light enough to see, he limped across the plateau, downslope to a trickle of a creek that ran to a drop into the gorge of their river. He braided some tallgrass and set a small snare near a grass bank marked with hoof and paw prints. After that he stood behind a downed tree that served as a blind, rock in hand, and waited.
The sun rose. A pale watery light filled the air over the plateau. Where sunlight struck his skin he could feel the warmth like the burn from a fire. Please prosper, oh radiant god. Come back to summer again.
For a long time he sat there, sleeping lightly in the sun. Then a crashing sound launched him to his feet and when he saw the deer in the snare he threw the rock in his hand as hard as he could, and hit the deer in the rear leg at the knee, a solid clunk that buckled the deer just long enough for Loon to throw himself across the log onto her. He grabbed her short antlers from behind and twisted as violently as he could, trying to break her neck or choke her. She rolled to keep her neck from breaking, and he rolled with her, snatching up the same rock he had thrown and swinging it hard onto her head between the antlers, trying for a clean hit. He missed the spot and hit again, over and over as fast as he could while the deer thrashed and rolled, but his were glancing blows, while he took a hard kick on the thigh, then missed outright with the rock, and then at last connected: a desperate swing crunched into the skull. The deer slumped, and he smashed her on the forehead several more times, just to be sure. The deer lay there quivering as she breathed her last breaths, bleeding from her eyes and a big gash on her forehead.
—Thank you sister! Loon cried, joy filling him like a drink of water.—Good deer!