Shaman

  —No, Loon said.

  —Yes, Elga said.—Four days. So we came in.

  —I’m glad you did, Loon said.—My lamps went out. I couldn’t get them relit. It’s been dark a long time.

  —Where are we? she asked, looking around the part of the cave they were in. It had no animals on its walls, although in one area there seemed to be cross-hatchings that did not look like a cave bear’s, they were so squared off.

  —I don’t know, Loon said.—I don’t think I’ve ever been in this part. I don’t recognize it. A quick violent shudder of cold and fear rattled him, and she held him closer.

  —This is the way out. Toward Moss.

  They had trailed a rope behind them from the last spot they could see Moss’s torch; it lay there on the cave floor like a snake. Now they rolled it back up as they returned, and soon saw a glow in the passage ahead. As they came through it, Loon saw that they were actually returning to his chamber, with his new painting there on the wall to their right. He had gone down a passageway deeper into the cave, but in a different direction than Thorn’s lion room. There was his painting right there, and he peered at it curiously, wondering what he had done.

  The others were caught by it too, and stopped briefly to look. But Elga wanted them to leave as soon as possible.—We’ll come back with the whole pack, she said.—First let’s get you out of here.

  Loon picked up the cave bear skull he had stumbled over in the blackness. Feeling it in his hand as he looked at it, he could see the blackness in how it had felt to him in the dark. Something had tried to eat him.

  He put the skull on a block of stone that stood waist high in the middle of the room. He looked around at the chamber he had spent four days in, first painting, then in darkness. He could not tell which part had been longer. It had felt like four years, or four lives. When they came back in here, he would ask his pack to gather every cave bear skull they could find, and bring them in here to mark those four lost lives. Something had to say what had happened here.

  Elga nudged him along. Past the owl on the rock, past the stone reed bed. Then there was Moss’s light beyond, at the far end of the big empty chamber. Moss shouted loudly, excited to learn they had found Loon alive. He ran down the room, torch blazing, and seized Loon up in a great hug, swinging him around in the air.—Good man! You made it!

  —I did.

  —But you’re so muddy!

  —I crawled a lot, Loon admitted.

  They stood there for a while chattering at him. He was shivering. There was a dim light in the far passageway that they all knew to be the light of day. That was a good light to see.

  Suddenly Loon felt how tired he was. Now that they were almost out, he found he could hardly walk. He couldn’t feel his feet. Moss and Elga walked at his sides, held his elbows and helped him over the lumpy mud of the old bear beds. They stopped and let him gingerly stomp the ground, trying to restore some feeling to his feet. His left leg was achy. He did a little circle dance to loosen it up.

  He found himself facing a wall that had a big smooth expanse, there between the two doors to the room of the bear beds. There was a red paint mark on this wall, and suddenly Loon said,—Wait, I see something. I need to do one more thing.

  They all disliked hearing this, and said so, but Loon cut through them.

  —I have to do one more thing!

  He stared at each of them in turn, and they quieted and let him be. The world waited for them, after all, just a few score steps toward the light, around the last corner. Given that, they could not deny him.

  Loon took the bag of earthblood powder from his sack, got out a bowl, asked Elga for water. He mixed up the powder and her water into a bowl of red paint, thickened by spit he had to ask the others to provide; he was too dry-mouthed to spit.

  When the paint was ready, he went to the wall and put his right hand carefully in the paint, so that only his palm was wet with it. Then he pressed the wet hand against the wall, pulled it away: a red palm print, almost square.

  He did that over and over. He crouched to work low at first, then stretched up as far as he could. He placed his handprints so that they made the rough shape of a bison. A new kind of stump drawing, one might say. The more he pressed his hand against the wall, the angrier he got. He didn’t know why, or at what. Somehow it had to do with Thorn, or with Thorn dying. We had a bad shaman, we had a good shaman; we had a shaman. And by this stump drawing of a bison, made with his own living hand in earth’s own blood, he would stick Thorn’s spirit to the wall. Let it reside forever in this cave that had almost killed Loon, while Loon would escape out into the world. Something to show what the bison man had been like, his greatness, his power. He pressed his hand into the paint and onto the wall: he wanted to show the sheer mass of him. His hand when he pressed went in the rock right to the elbow. All the worlds in this wall. He made the red marks until the paint was entirely gone. That was Thorn.

  Then he was truly tired. He drank some of Elga’s water, and as they walked up and out of the cave, he put his arms over Moss’s and Elga’s shoulders. His left leg was going numb. Trying to keep him in the cave forever. He ignored it and stumped on up into the day.

  The cloudy daylight made him throw his arm across his eyes.

  —Mama mia, you really are a mess, Elga observed.—You have mud all over you.

  Moss said,—You look like you caught fire and then jumped into a mud pit to put the fire out.

  —Yes, Loon said.

  After a while his eyes adjusted, and he could stand to look at the world. Down below them spread Loop Meadow. Early summer and the Stone Bison straddling the river. All still there, calm in early morning light. It was cloudy, wind pouring over them. They carried him down to camp.

  In camp they washed him off and set him in bed, and Elga took care of him for a day. His feet throbbed as they warmed up. He was thirsty, even though he had already drunk a lot. He was hungry too. And he wanted to see things.

  After a day of rest, he went out for a walk.

  Looking around their river valley, he saw it all very clearly. He only wanted Elga, he only wanted their days together. They would have a certain number of days, a certain number of years. But he was the shaman now too, no matter what he wanted. In that regard, he would never get out of the cave. And his wander would never end.

  He went out with Hawk and Moss on the night of that full moon, sixth of the year, and they walked up to the gorge overlook, as they had so many times before. In the moonlight the air held its usual shimmery awe.

  —We should go, Loon said.—Elga told me it’s time. She knows just which ones will go where. Time to be our own pack, and live here at the overlook. You two will guide us, and I’ll be your shaman.

  His friends nodded, looking a little uneasy. This was just Loon here, after all. They knew he didn’t have any magic powers. At least he hadn’t in his childhood. Loon saw what they were thinking, and he said,

  —I don’t know how I’ll be as a shaman. I’ll find out when I try it. You both know me. You’ve known me since before we even had names. I can’t travel in my dreams, or above the sky. There aren’t any spirits that talk to me or through me. I can’t sing the songs. I can’t help people who are sick. But I’ll tell you this,

  and he raised his right forefinger before them and seized them with his eyes:

  —I can paint that fucking cave.

  Moss and Hawk nodded.—We know, Hawk said.—We saw.

  No one else could paint the way he did, Moss told him. The cave was certainly his to take care of. It had been passed along to him from Thorn and Pika, along with the other shaman things. As for the packs, Wolf pack new and old, they could all visit in there together during the ten ten festival, sing the songs and look at the animals in the torchlight, the way they always had. Those were big nights, remembered for years. Those nights would help keep the two packs one, and the nearby packs friendly as before. The Lion pack would surely support them. Loon could definitely lead them throug
h all that. And Thorn’s flute would play the old tunes through Loon. Hawk and Moss could see that in him already; they had heard it; they were sure of it. Maybe there was other shaman’s magic that could be learned later, that the old shamans passed on one to the next. He would find out at the corroborees. Heather could help him too. A way of seeing, a way of being. Cast yourself out into the spaces you breathe, watch what happens.

  —All right? said Moss, looking at Hawk.

  —All right, Hawk said.

  So late the next day Loon went looking for Schist. He found him down by the river. It was the sixth day of the sixth month. The half moon hung overhead in a twilight sky, which on this evening was a rich mineral blue, arcing east to the coming night, roofing the world with its gorgeous span.

  —I’m the shaman now, he said to Schist.—Thorn taught me how, and I spoke with him in a dream when I was in the cave. He told me I’m ready. We’ll go into the cave soon, and you’ll all see what we’ve done there.

  Schist nodded, watching him closely.—All right. That’s good. We need a shaman.

  Loon said,—But look, some of us are going to move upstream to the abri at the Northerly overlook. The pack is getting too large to make it in one camp. You and Hawk keep fighting, and we all see it, and it could get ugly. It’s already a little ugly. But if one of you beats the other up, it will be even worse. And it’s like that among the women too. They are split worse than anyone. So I’m going to move Hawk and Ducky and Moss and Heather and Nevermind and Rose and all their kids down to the new abri. We’ll be close enough to stay together and work together. We’ll all be the Wolf pack still. I’ll still be your shaman too, and I’ll take care of the cave. Heather will still be your herb woman. We’ll keep doing our ceremonies together, like we do now with the Lion and Raven packs. It will mean you can get what you need to live here. You’ll have your kids you’re bringing up, the pack to handle. You can’t do that with Hawk on you all the time. You’ll be better off without that. This is how we’ll do it. The Northerly overlook is a good campsite, we should have put a claim on it a long time ago, made it a Wolf place. Now we’ll do that, and on we’ll go.

  All the time he was saying this Schist was glaring at him, jaw muscles bunching and unbunching like a hyena chewing on bones. Loon never flinched, but spoke as peaceably as he could. He felt peaceful. After what had happened in the cave, this kind of thing was really nothing. He could see it all as plain as Schist’s bulging face: things that happened in the light of day, on the surface of Mother Earth, these were very clear and simple things. In this moment he felt like he might stay calm forever.

  When he finished, Schist did not at first reply. He stared at Loon’s face as if trying to recognize him, as if he had lost his Loon and was trying to find him in this new person. As he failed at that, he realized he had a different Loon to deal with. Becoming a shaman changed you, of course. Shamans got strange, went crazy. Loon could see all this in Schist’s face. He almost grinned, almost made a shaman’s story face, even a woodsman’s crazy face. A wooden mask with a look to chill.

  But he didn’t want to distract Schist, who was now thinking over what this new Loon had said to him. He was a quick thinker, this was why he was the Wolf pack’s headman. He had made a lot of decisions and judgments over the years, and they had not been hungry for most of the winters he had led them, and people had gotten along. It was an achievement. Thorn had respected him.

  Now at last he looked away and said,—I’ll have to talk to Thunder about it.

  He glared quickly at Loon, as if Loon might scoff at this, or point out that this was precisely Schist’s problem.

  But Loon knew better. He merely said,—I’ve already talked it over with Elga, and she’s the one who told me to do this. The women run every pack. We aren’t any different in that.

  Schist nodded, his glance surprised and grateful.

  Seeing that, Loon added,—Elga said you should get Starry in charge of things as soon as you can.

  —Starry is nine years old, Schist said.

  —Elga said that doesn’t matter. She said some people are just born ready.

  Schist nodded slowly.—All right. You all moving up there could be good. It will make it possible for us to take in the people from Mammoth pack who were asking about joining us. That would be good. But if we do that, we won’t be able to help you if you get in trouble. I mean, we won’t be able to take you back in.

  —That’s all right, Loon said.

  At the summer solstice ceremony he stood to sing the solstice song, feeling still very calm. Both parts of the pack had regathered for the occasion. Everyone could see and feel the change in him. He stood before them in Thorn’s bison headpiece, and the loon cloak Elga had sewn for him, and raised Thorn’s last yearstick to the midday sun, and sang.

  That night, after the eating and drinking, but before the dance, he led them all in a torch procession up to the cave. On the ramp they passed all the paintings and engravings on the cliff, all the lines and dots Pika had painted there, sparking a welcome to the world inside the cave. They went in together, in a line, and left a series of lamps on the floor to light their way. Loon told them the story of his visit. He showed them Thorn’s great lion hunt, and it almost shook him to see it again; he felt Thorn so strongly he almost wept, but then the shaman’s calm came back over him in a blink, and he took them all to see his new wall of bison and horses. They sat on the chamber floor where he had groped and crawled in the blackness, and he moved the torches around so that they could see the animals move and flow in the flickering light. He told them to watch the horse rear its head, and moved the torch to help them see it, and some of them gasped. He took out Thorn’s flute and led them through the end of the solstice song:

  Thanks be to summer come again

  Please give us this winter enough to eat

  We rejoice in the glory of this day

  He instructed them to take lamps and go off and look around the nearby chambers of the cave, and bring back any cave bear skulls they might encounter. They enjoyed this hunt, which lasted half a fist or so, and when they reconvened in the horse chamber, they had seven skulls. They laid the skulls with ceremonial care on the ground around the block where Loon had placed the one that he had found in the blackness. Then he led them singing back out of the cave, the ones at the end of the line picking up their lamps as they went: out of the cave, down the ramp to their midnight fire, which they built up and danced around through to the dawn which came so quickly. Summer was here again. Soon they would trek north to the caribou and the eight eight, the two packs one again for a time.

  I am the third wind

  I come to you

  When you have nothing left

  When you can’t go on

  But you go on anyway

  In that moment of extremity

  The third wind appears

  And so it is I come to you now

  To tell you this story

  In the hour before that early dawn, Loon left the dancing and went back to their new camp up at the overlook, and lay down on the bed he shared with Elga and Lucky and the finch. He felt all of a sudden as tired as when he had first emerged from the cave.

  He looked down from their ledge over the river, seeing the entry to the gorge, the Stone Bison, the ridges behind. Dawn’s light leaked into the world. He sat there on his bed and watched the day begin. The sky shifted from gray to blue, like a jay’s back when the jay hops around.

  Then he was standing on the back of the Stone Bison, the river flowing under him, and Thorn standing there beside him. The iced-over river was soon to break up, and it rumbled and cracked from time to time.

  —I thought you would stay in the cave, Loon said.

  Thorn shook his black snake’s head.—You can’t get away from me that easily.

  Loon sighed. It was obviously true.—I’m sorry about what happened to Click.

  —Don’t you worry about Click, Thorn said.—Click is my spirit to bear. I’ll
find him and keep him away from you. You don’t have to worry about him. It’s me you have to worry about.

  —I can see that.

  Thorn nodded.—Me, you’re not going to be able to get away from. I live inside you now.

  —You should feel free to go, Loon suggested.—You did what you had to do. Now you can go be the base of the Firestarter, the star in the middle, where the stick meets the base.

  —I don’t think so. I’m going to stay here and haunt you.

  Loon sighed again. All those red handprints sticking him to the wall of the cave, but Thorn didn’t care. Loon said,—I wish you wouldn’t, but I can’t stop you. You’ll do what you want. Whatever you do, I’ll do what I want too. You’re going to have to follow me around. You’ll be like Heather’s cat. You’ll be just another camp robber hanging around.

  Thorn nodded.—That’s fine, so long as you remember. Remember the old ways, and all the old stories. Remember the animals, your brothers and sisters. Remember to take your place and play your part. Remember me and what I taught you. Remember!

  Then he stepped to the side of the Stone Bison and dove off and flew away, down the gorge, holding his arms out like an eagle. The sight of his flight was so startling it woke Loon up.

  He looked around at the morning. People were lying on their beds, asleep after the big night of dancing. Elga was down at the riverbank, talking to some of the other women. Lucky was at Loon’s feet, sitting on the head of their bearskin, talking to himself. The finch was beside him, wriggling in her basket and babbling. Heather was just above the camp on her new shelf, digging around in her bags and buckets.