Three of them had birds standing on their rumps, the birds patiently poking around in the beasts’ fur in search of the fly grubs growing in there. The grubs were a delicacy, as the men well knew. Loon’s mouth was running a little with saliva anyway, just seeing the beasts.
But the bison appeared to realize the men were there. All their tails were raised, and several were shitting or pouring out thick streams of urine, the clear yellow arcs steaming in the morning light. The majestic beasts did not have great eyesight or hearing, but their noses were good. And often if humans were close enough to see them, they just seemed to know it. Bison were hard to hunt for that reason.
Now again it was happening. They hugged the far side of the meadow from the boulders. But even over there, they were within reach of the spears. It was just about as far as they could throw them with spear throwers, so far that it would be a matter of luck to hit anything in particular.
Thorn whispered,—Shall we try?
Hawk nodded. As quietly as possible they placed the cupped ends of their javelins on the knobs on the end of their spear throwers. It took some silent maneuvering to get themselves lined up so that they weren’t in each other’s way.
—Don’t hit anyone with your spear thrower, Thorn whispered as he always did, and they all checked their throwing space and nodded to each other: they would not hit each other, nor the boulder they were on. Ready to throw. They shifted back and forth on their feet like cats getting ready to leap, feeling in themselves how their throws should go. Then Hawk whispered,—Everyone aim for the bull in front. Ready—set—now! And they all threw at once, silently.
Most of the bison bolted as the javelins flashed through the air toward them, but two spears thwacked into the big bull, and the men cried—Yes! Or—Ha! or—Thank you! as they saw it.
—Oh I norbled my throw, Nevermind lamented,—I wristed it again.
Thorn, however, was holding his lower back with his right hand.—That hurt, he said, looking puzzled.—I must have thrown it too hard, maybe, and pulled a muscle.
—Sorry to hear, the others said.
Most of the bison were now at the lead in the meadow outlet, stamping about uneasily, looking back at the chief bull. He had his head down, and was stepping forward hesitantly, as if trying to figure out what he could do. Blood began to pour from his mouth, and some of the men said,—Yes! because one or both of the javelins must have slipped between ribs and punctured a lung. That meant the end of the chief bull. The men slapped each other on the shoulders, watching closely.
They still had their short spears left, and it was a simple task to get off the back of their boulder and stalk the mortally wounded beast, dispatch it with a charge and several thrusts to the gut and in the ribs. One of those thrusts was a heart stab, and the big beast went to its foreknees with a groan, then collapsed onto its side and died.
After that they had a hard day’s work of it, getting the skin off it and breaking up the body into quarters, boning the rear legs and getting it all ready to carry home. Thorn got a fire going, and they ate the usual kill site lunch of liver and kidneys, and changed around the tasks as they got tired, while always keeping guard against lions and hyenas. A little cloud of ravens gyred over them, so they wouldn’t be alone for long. It was important to get the bison chopped up as fast as was convenient. But they were in a good mood too. All but Thorn, who stayed silent.
—Are you all right? Loon asked him.
—I don’t know. I must have pulled something.
Thorn was looking for Click but not seeing him. Loon considered taking another antler fragment and carving an image of Click and putting it gently down in the water of the pond where they had buried him. Then again, if he did that he might disturb one of Click’s bones and distress the old one. The thought of seeing Click’s skull with its familiar teeth in the water looking up at him was also bad. But to keep Click away somehow… surely there was something he could do. If this, if that: it was a little eddy of ifs that he could circle in too many times, always thrust out by that last bad image of Click’s skull in the water looking up at him. Leave that spot, go somewhere else!
So it was better to keep a little distance from Thorn.
They got through the winter without too much hunger in the spring. But sometime during that winter, Loon noticed that Thorn never threw things anymore, and that he avoided lifting his right arm above his shoulder. And he got gaunter than the rest of them in the hunger month. His was just an old black snakehead now, with lion fangs swinging from the few strands of hair left behind his ears and on his neck. He seemed to be peering out at them all through something that lay between him and the rest of them. He watched Elga and the new baby, and Lucky by the fire, with a most curious expression.
One afternoon just before sunset Pippiloette came by with Quartz, the shaman of the Lion pack to the east. They hallooed into camp with gifts for all, Quartz singing a song and the women all clustering around Pippi as always, but Pippi went through them right to Loon and hugged him, held him and looked at him, saying—I’m really glad to see you here, I’m sorry about that night you got taken, I heard those northers grabbing you and I rolled into a tuck before they saw me, and after that there was nothing I could do, except follow you a while and then go tell Thorn what happened, which I did, as I’m sure he told you.
—Yes, Loon said.—It’s all right. I figured that was what happened.
Pippi nodded.—And all’s well that ends well.
—We made it back, Loon said, feeling a little uneasy, as if it might not be true.
That night by the fire Pippi told them the story of his travels, and Quartz told the story of the bison man in the cave, one of Thorn’s favorites. After that he and Thorn retired to the edge of the firelight with a bucket of mash and talked together long into the night. Loon joined them for part of this, and while he was there Thorn and Quartz discussed whose turn it was to paint the caves. The Lions were to have the spring, the Wolves the autumn. This meant the Wolves would have to deal with the problem of the cave bears coming back to sleep for the winter.
—I’ll get them to leave you a cleaned bit of wall to work on, Quartz promised.
—That’s good, Thorn said.
It occurred to Loon that Thorn was probably going to have to paint with his left hand, unless he made a stool to stand on.
—What will you paint? Quartz asked Thorn.
—I’m thinking about horses, Thorn said.—How about you?
—We’re talking about doing some ibex and mammoths. Quartz looked at Loon and said politely,—And what about you? If Thorn lets you do anything?
—I saw two bull rhinos fighting, Loon said.—I’d like to try that.
Then one night Thorn froze once more as he approached his bed nook.
—Not you again, he muttered, followed by something else Loon couldn’t make out. After a while standing there, Thorn raised up his hands and entered his little nest. He sat down hard on his bed.—Let me be, he said in a low voice that Loon could just hear.—What else could I have done, you tell me that. You see what came of it. That’s all I have to give you. Look at them and leave me alone.
But Click must not have been convinced. Thorn saw him often now, usually at night when he went to bed.
And something kept hurting him in the ribs. Just talking sometimes he would wince, or when walking come to a sudden halt, sometimes with a hiss. Once in the forest, when he thought he was alone, Loon saw him stop and sit down.
He even went to Heather about it. Loon was there helping her, and when Thorn saw he was there he frowned, and then sat down and asked Heather to take a look at him. Heather had him take off his cloak, and touched him all over his torso with her fingertips. Then she put her ear to his back and chest and mouth, smelled his breath and skin, felt his pulse. She made him move his arms around, and noted when he winced. She saw what Loon had seen, that his right arm could not go over his head.
When she was done, she crabbed over to her herb shelf a
nd nosed around among the little bags lined up on it.—I don’t know, she said without looking at Thorn.
Only Loon was there with them, and with a brief glance at him, Thorn said,—Come on, tell me. Tell me what you don’t know.
She snorted.—I don’t know anything. Just as you have always told me.
—Well, it’s true, isn’t it?
—Yes. So, here. She gave him a bag.—It will dull the pain. And smoke your pipe.
—But if it’s my lung?
—A little smoke won’t matter.
Thorn gulped, then glowered at her; he didn’t like what she was suggesting, he didn’t want her telling him that. His lip curled in an ugly little snarl, and she stared back at him flint-eyed. Loon saw that the two of them were not going to be getting along any better now that Thorn was sick.
After that Thorn ignored Heather and everyone else, and got on with his days as usual, often going out to scavenge firewood, or gather shaman herbs and mushrooms. He started the day by smoking his pipe. Around the fire he watched Elga and Lucky and the baby. By the way his eyes stayed fixed on things and did not look around, Loon concluded that he was seeing Click follow him around through the course of his day. After this went on for a while, something in the way Thorn wouldn’t look to his right revealed both that Click’s ghost was sitting there beside him, and that he did not mind it as much as he had before. He forbore to look that way not because he was afraid, but as a kind of courtesy.
He started calling their new baby the finch, because she was alert and her movements were fast and jerky. He would sit around and watch the baby and Lucky while Elga and Loon went off to do things. And when the suncupped snow left the earth, he went off on his scavenging forays in a better mood.—Things happen, he said to Loon once when they were standing by the river watching it purl through a sunset.—There’s not a thing you can do about it.
Then one morning putting wood on the fire he crouched to the ground with a muffled cry, curled around his right side. He crawled to Heather’s nest, refusing help from Loon and groaning from time to time. Loon could only walk beside him, shocked and frightened.
When Thorn got to Heather’s he stared up at her.—It hurts, he hissed.
—Lie down, Heather said. She helped him onto her bed.—Get yourself comfortable.
—I can’t get comfortable!
—As comfortable as you can.
She was digging around in her bags. She gave him some of a root to chew, and rubbed some mistletoe berry paste into his gums. She sent Loon to get Thorn’s pipe and shaman herbs. When Loon came back with them, she dug through Thorn’s stuff as if it were hers, and had him eat some of his own dried mushrooms.
—Now’s the time to be a shaman if ever you’re going to be, she said.
Thorn did not reply. He smoked his pipe when Heather loaded and lit it for him with a splinter brought from the fire.—Why this sudden thing? he asked her when he had exhaled a long plume.
—It cracked a rib.
He stayed on her bed that night. They brought him seedcakes and bits of cooked meat, but he shook his head at them and wouldn’t open his mouth even to speak, until the food was taken away. After these attempts to feed him he would sip water from a ladle, and look at Heather.
—Why should I? he said to her.
Heather didn’t answer. She arranged for his furs to be brought over to her bed, and put them against a log so that Thorn could sit up. She knew before he said it that this would be a less painful position for him. She set a bucket of water by his side, with a ladle in it, and sat beside him when he tossed and turned.
—I could try to drain it, she said to him after inspecting his right side.
—Could you? Thorn’s red-rimmed eyes gleamed with sudden hope.
—We can always try. It might hurt to puncture it.
—It can’t hurt more than it does.
She sniffed at that, but the next morning she took him down to the riverside with Loon. She had him lie down on his left side, on the leather side of a big bearskin, right on the bank where he could put his feet and hands in the cold water of a long black lead.
—Chill yourself as much as you can, she instructed him.
He put his feet and hands in the black water. Heather washed the skin over the bump under the bottom of his ribcage, and then with one swift motion stuck him there with an awl. He hissed and trembled in the effort to stay still. She pulled out the awl, wiped the blood away with a leather patch, and stuck a long elderberry tube, like her blowdart tube but longer and narrower, into the wound she had made. Thorn was sucking air in through his teeth. Heather instructed him to move onto his belly so that the tube was pointed slightly down from the wound. He shifted and rolled onto his chest and belly, pulling his feet and hands out of the water. Blood began to run from the tube. Heather said to him,—Stick your head in the water and keep it in there as long as you can hold your breath.
He took a breath, held it, and ducked his head into the water. Heather crouched down over him and sucked hard on the end of the tube. She spat out a mouthful of Thorn’s blood, then sucked again and spat out some whitish pus, not much of it. Thorn yanked his head out of the river and blew a quick few breaths and ducked in again. Heather sucked again on the tube, cheeks folding far into her toothless face. She spat out a little bit more pus, but not much was coming. She tapped the tube in a bit farther, which caused bubbles to burst the surface of water around Thorn’s head. He hauled himself out yelping.
—Once more! Heather said sharply.—It’s working now.
He ducked his head under again and she tried several more hard sucks, but got very little out.
Finally he pulled out of the water, gasping, and she pulled the tube from his side and pressed some dried moss against the puncture wound. Thorn crawled up the bank and sat, then dried his head with a clean leather patch. Heather washed her mouth out several times with river water.
—Any luck? Thorn asked.
—Not much, she said, looking downstream.—It’s not like pus. It’s more solid.
—Could you cut it out?
She looked at him, eyes round.—It’s inside your ribs.
Thorn stared at her for a long time.—Fuck, he said. For a little while he breathed hard, looking down the river. Heather put her hand to his knee, and he looked back at her. For a long time they looked at each other.
—All right, Thorn said.
After that he stayed in Heather’s bed.
Most of the pack’s people stayed away from camp more than they might have otherwise. Loon passed his days with Elga and the kids, down by the river. Some days he went to see Thorn in the afternoons when Heather was out gathering. But Thorn did not want to talk.
One day Hawk and Moss were going out on a hunt, and Loon decided to go with them.
It was a cool morning, and his two friends fell into their hunting lope almost as soon as they got out of camp. Loon found he had no problem keeping up with them; he could run on his left leg in a way he hadn’t since his wander, poling over that foot as if he were still wearing his wooden boot, in some kind of leaping limp. In most ways he felt stronger and faster than he ever had, and the stiff leg was like a stout walking pole, powerfully deployed. He crashed through brakes and danced over talus and scree with a speed he had never felt in him before, and when he saw how it was he took the lead from his friends and ran off with it.
He saw as he passed them how he was the third friend to them, the walking pole for their two legs. But they knew him well, and he knew them. They were grinning now to watch him fly, surprised but pleased to be huffing to keep up with him; they followed him gladly over Quick Pass and down into the meadow in Lower’s Upper. On the last slope they shushed each other and began to run silently, which took the utmost finesse in one’s footwork, also a complete control of one’s breathing, which had to be open-mouthed and silent. After a bit of silent running it was as if their bodies were catching fire.
And running so, they came on a little herd
of chamois, drinking at the meadow stream, and on sight they instantly threw their javelins, which had been nocked in their spear throwers ready to fly. The spears flew flexing through the air, and all three hit the same chamois. She was dead by the time they got to her. They howled and thanked her and set to cutting her to pieces, and Loon was as neat as Heather with his blade, as sure as Thorn. They did the work with a clean swift rigor.
On the way home they tired, struggled, got their second wind. Humped the meat over Quick Pass and down Upper Valley back to camp, bowed over but in a steady triumph. They scarcely spoke as they returned; they hardly spoke all day.
As they approached camp Loon said,—Remember how we used to do this? Remember how I used to be the fastest, how I used to be the best hunter among us?
—Seems like you still are, Moss said.—That was quite a hunt.
—No, Loon said.—That was just today. You’re the hunters now. But listen. Elga’s been telling me how things are going among the women, and between Thunder and Bluejay and Schist and Ibex. It’s getting bad, she says. She doesn’t like it, and she doesn’t think it’s going to get better. So I’ve been thinking we should move west and start our own pack. Maybe you’ve already been thinking about that.
Hawk and Moss shared a look.—Tell us, Hawk said.
—There’s too many of us now. So many that Schist and Ibex can’t keep the pack fed through the spring. And they don’t like you.
—They don’t like you either, Moss pointed out.
—True, but I’m going with you. And I’ll get Heather to come with us. Then beyond that, just our families.
—That will gut this pack, Moss said.
—I’m not so sure, Loon said.—Schist and Ibex will do all right with a smaller pack, just their kin and the others closest to them. They’ll have that many fewer to feed, and they get along. The only thing I worry about is what they’ll think of us taking Heather.