He came into camp and realized at the last moment that he had not announced himself, that he might surprise them, and so he hooted the little roop roop greeting that loons made when they came up after a dive and were locating their friends.
His people heard it and cheered. The men howled like wolves and came out to greet him, grinning hugely and shouting his name. Loon dropped Prong and they lifted him up under his legs and around his back and carried him to the fireside on their shoulders. Loon was glad he was all cried out; he was full but empty, he could see them all with a calm little smile. It was a big bonfire. All the women and girls and boys called his name and hugged him one by one, many hands always touching him, and then the women brought their finest fur robes to drape him.
Even Heather smiled for a moment, then ducked her toothless head and darted away, returned with a bowl of hot spruce tea and some little honey seedcakes.
—Don’t eat too much too fast, she warned him in her ordinary voice.—How did you do out there, are you all right?
—I twisted my ankle, he confessed at once.—There’s something still not right in there.
—Ah. She shot an evil glance at Thorn. She did not like the men’s wanders, nor any unnecessary danger of any kind.
Thorn ignored her, caught up as he was in his own close inspection of Loon. Loon could not guess what the old man was thinking, and turned to the others; but that didn’t feel right, that was too much like before. He didn’t want to fall back into the old habits of his life in the pack, least of all with Thorn. Even though it was a huge relief to be among them again. What a life it would be to be a woodsman or a traveler, hunted night and day, unable ever to let down one’s guard, and no one to talk to!
—Tell us about it! they were saying.—Tell us what you did, what happened to you!
—Wait a moment, he said, casting himself across what seemed an immense gulf of time, back into the present instant by the fire. It was hard. He had to collect himself. There were so many faces, and he knew each one like the palm of his hand.
—Well, I couldn’t get a fire started that first night in the storm.
They groaned and laughed to hear this.
—So I had to dance all night to stay warm.
—Oh too bad! A lot of the men were laughing at him, or with him.—I hate it when that happens!
—Then the next day I got a fire going. He took a deep breath, and they saw it and fell silent, all their eyes on his:
And I stayed with that fire three days.
I ate fish and old berries and meadow onions,
And I saw two bears attack a deer,
And they fought over it and I got part of it away,
Not much, when they were done.
Then I had something to work with,
But an ibex broke my first snare
And I didn’t get anything till later.
Third time I set a snare that held a deer
And I killed it. I used its skin for clothes,
And did pretty well after that.
But I ran into some old ones,
There are old ones around up there, you know—
And some of the men nodded, and Heather too, their eyes round. Loon kept glancing at Sage, he was telling this story to Sage most of all, Sage and Heather, and Thorn of course:
—they hunted me and I had to run for my life,
And walk in the creek to Lower’s Upper,
And I got away, but I hurt my ankle,
So I had to find a good tuck, and I did.
Up in a broken tree it was.
When my leg felt better I left there
And started back to here,
And when I saw there were two more nights to go
I ate a witch’s nightcap, and artemisia leaves.
This he said to Thorn, but here Thorn shook his head.—Tell me about that later, he said.—That’s shaman stuff.
—All right, Loon said. Although what followed had been the biggest night of the wander by far, and would have made a good story. Later he would tell it, he decided: now wasn’t a good time to defy the old man. Or was it?
Loon pondered this. But yes, now he could see what Thorn meant. He didn’t want to tell just how afraid he had been of the thing on the riverbank; he wouldn’t have been able to convey it, and so he would have had to lie about it, one way or another. And so far he had not lied.
He could see Thorn watching him closely, watching to see if he understood why he should stay quiet about the thing in the night, and the terror; looking to see if he had changed or not, and if so, in what ways. But two could play at stone face, and so Loon merely returned his gaze, happy at the warmth of the bonfire, and the sight of Sage there in the firelight. He was still seeing everything bounce and bloom before him, trying to fly up into the sky, and now the people of Wolf pack were all of them bouncing, on fire with themselves, every face the perfect image of that person’s character, bursting with his or her particular self, and he was among them; and although that meant trouble, it was the best trouble in the world.
Even Heather in her irritable way was pleased to have him back, he saw, and at some point, by the bonfire when she was passing nearby, on one of her perpetual errands, he put out an arm to stop her and give her a hug, as she was the only one who had not hugged him, but only touched his arm.—I made it, he said.
—Yes, yes, you made it, she replied, squeezing him briefly before she moved on.—Now you are twelve.
THE WOLVES AT HOME
In the chill dawn Loon woke under a blanket of ash flecks, mouth parched and head aching. His wander was over, he was back in his pack. Thorn was groaning and calling for water. The old man’s gray braids hung over his dark face, their broken hairs sticking out everywhere. His eyes when he opened them were red and gooey. He stared at Loon suspiciously; he looked like he was still wondering what had happened to Loon on his wander. Loon decided never to tell him. His wander was his. One of Heather’s sayings finally came clear to him: no one else can live your life for you. He felt the solitude of it, the loneliness. Another lesson of his wander.
Thorn growled, as if seeing Loon’s secretiveness and disapproving it. Then he grunted like a rhino and crawled across camp to its sunrise end, where Heather kept her nest. All her stuff was tucked around her on wooden shelves which made a tight little wind shelter. She was in there now, and when she saw Thorn she moved to stand in her entry, blocking him. Thorn reached between her legs for her water gourd and she kicked his forearm.
—I don’t speak to unspeakables, she said,—but everyone knows to stay out of my nest.
—I just want a drink of water, he whined.
—No one touches my things. They stay away from my nest. I’ve dusted it with poisons that will make you sick, everyone knows that.
Thorn lay there defeated.—Loon, he said,—get me a bucket of water, please. You can take it from Heather here.
—You get it, Loon said.—I’m not your apprentice anymore.
—You just became my apprentice, didn’t you notice? Do what I say and don’t be insolent. He laid a red eyeful of command on Loon.—That’s what your wander should have taught you.
Loon dug in a net bag for his real clothes, which Heather had kept for him.—It taught me I’m not your apprentice.
But of course that was just what he was. Unless he quit the shaman’s way entirely, which would probably mean leaving the pack. Thorn’s heavy red scorn speared the point home.
Loon got dressed and stumped around camp doing things for the old sorcerer, feeling like he had let himself get snared in a snare he had known to avoid. It made him sick as he saw it happening. Mornings after a big night could be like that, just a raven-shitted kill site, sunlight slivering the eyes, the camp all ashy and sordid, its people disgusting. Best to get out of camp on mornings like that, go down to the river and jump in.
So Loon did that. The one lead of open water had iced over in the night, but it was easy to crack through the thin clear layer and make a hole
into the black water below. What a luxury it was to plunge into the sandy shallows of the lead, rub himself until he began to shiver under the shock of the black water, all the while knowing that the campfire would be there to warm him back up, and his clothes right there on the bank. Ah the luxury of home!
Except for the people. Although it was true that last night he had been very glad to see them. People are more wolf than wolverine, people are more lion than leopard, because they run in packs. Seeing all their faces in the firelight: he had to remember the feel of that, so intense and comforting. Where had it gone already? There was so much to remember from his wander. He would be asked to tell the rest of it, and he wouldn’t; but he had to remember it. It was his, it was what he had. And it had taught him some things. If he could remember them. Already it was getting to be like a dream he had had.
He limped up the side of Loop Hill to the flat spot that ledged around to the tail of the Stone Bison. This was a fine prospect, with views up and down the river gorge, and over Loop Meadow to the gray rise behind it, where their camp was tucked at the bottom of a little abri.
From here their camp was as small as a child’s toy. The pack house was a neat round thing of spruce logs and hides, smoke rising from the hole in the high point of the roof. People were still coming out of it, stunned by the day, or rather the previous night. In the doorway of the women’s house Chamois and Bluejay sat where they always did. His friends Hawk and Moss were still asleep in their furs, on the ramp under the abri. There were Thorn and Heather, and across the camp Schist and Ibex, putting wood on the big campfire. Every person down there was known to him so well that if he could see them at all, no matter how small they were, he knew just who it was, also what they were likely to be doing, and what they would say if you spoke to them. It was enough to make you scream.
Heather was holding up her blowdart tube and aiming it at Thorn. Her darts were tipped with poisons that would kill in just a few heartbeats. Thorn had his hands up, but was clearly berating her. His words could be as poisonous as her darts. He had cursed people to death at the festivals.
Loon stared down now as if looking at some other pack. Rising smoke, people grubbing in the morning chill. Out on his wander he had wanted to be home, now he wanted to be back on his wander. But of course, Heather would say if he told her this. You only want things you don’t have. Things you do have, you forget to want. We’re stupid that way.
Their camp was laid out like most abri camps Loon had ever seen. Quite a few had cliff overhangs even better than theirs, many of them upstream and down on the gorge walls of the Urdecha, others in other river canyons east and west and south. The cliffs backing these camps were usually painted, as theirs was. From the Stone Bison the paintings were tiny, a jumble of red and black spots. Loon could just make out the long stretch of painted wolves on the hunt, something like four score of them overlapping in a run toward the camp. They were the Wolf pack. Two score and two of them, this spring.
Schist was standing by the fire telling Ibex something. Schist was broad-shouldered and deep-chested, not tall but nevertheless big, shaped like a river stone but light on his feet. A very clever hunter, and very accurate with the javelin. A mild friendly look, attentive to everyone in the pack, an easy manner. He made jokes often but at heart was very serious, because he took on himself the task of making sure they had enough food to get through the winters and springs. That was his version of being a headman, and it was something women usually did, but he joined them in their work and suggested what everybody do. So every summer when the birds returned and they had not starved, he became briefly cheerful; but after midsummer day he returned to his beavering.
Now the birds had not yet returned, and their saved food was getting low, and he was very intent as he talked to Ibex. He was always talking food: cooking and fishing with Thunder and the women, hunting and trapping with the men. He had dug their storage pits himself, and was always lining them with new things. He spoke with people from other packs to see what they knew. He and Thorn had worked out an accounting system similar to Thorn’s yearsticks, using clean lengths of driftwood to notch marks for their pokes of animal fat, bags of nuts, dried salmon steaks, smoked caribou steaks; everything they gathered to eat in the cold months was stored and marked down. He knew how much every person in the pack would eat, based on the previous winter’s markings and adjusted by everyone’s summer health, by how much fat they had put on, and so on. He knew better than you how hungry you would be.
The thing that made Schist complicated was that he was married to Thunder, sitting there by the women’s house. She along with her sister Bluejay were the headwomen of the pack, as involved as Schist in the running of things. And Thunder was a bruiser. She and Schist had grown up together in Wolf pack and married young, which was said to explain everything about them. But Schist was relaxed and agreeable, while Thunder was so intense and overbearing it was said her mother had eaten otter meat while pregnant. And her sister Bluejay was even worse, and the two of them were close. People joked that Schist had married two women, both meaner than him. How could he be headman of the pack when he wasn’t even headman in his bed? But somehow the necessary things got done. Their pack didn’t really want a headman anyway, he was always suggesting with his manner. They were better off this way. Except when it came to food. With food he was a boulder that could not be moved. Thunder and Bluejay left that to him, to avoid a push coming to a shove they would not win. And so he spent his days going from one task to the next, asking for help when he needed it, and people gave it when he asked. It looked like he was asking Ibex for help right now, although he was more agitated than usual. People said he had been good to Loon’s father when Tulik had married into the pack.
Looking down at the tiny people, Loon realized he could close his eyes and still see them all. Everybody knew everybody. The adults were married, the children were not, the young people were in between, thus on the lookout. Their bodies had begun to bleed or spurt, the older ones were putting them through their initiations. There was no way out of that, no place to hide.
Hunger shoved him back down to camp. He was not happy.
Hawk and Moss were sitting in the sun, straightening their tusk javelin tips with a bone-point straightener, Hawk laughing as he inserted the white point into the hole, miming a spurt into a kolby, in and out, in and out. Then a gentle twist on the bone handle to lever the point back into true. Mammoth tusk was strong and light, but it warped as it dried, also when it got wet. Point straightening was always a pleasure, it meant they were about to go out on the hunt again. But Loon was too hurt to go.
When you know a man you know his face, not his heart. Never help a person who doesn’t help anyone else. The more you give, the more you get.
To Loon these sayings seemed to suggest he should spend most of his time helping women. Heather often said it: find the right woman and do what she says. A woman will cook for you, and then you can hunt. And he dearly wanted to go with his friends on the hunt.
Heather told him he would only hurt his leg worse.—Real friends wouldn’t let you go, she said. She didn’t like the pack’s men. In her constant muttering Loon sometimes heard her quite clearly, though he didn’t always understand her:—Bunch of drunken old spelunkers, you shamans, and you hunters mere pig-stickers and jerk-offs, all your splendiferous vainglorious buffooneries and assholeries, hootenanies and corroborees, wandering around thinking you’re men, just get the meat! Get the nuts! Get the firewood! Do your work! Quit with the lies and the boasts and the tall tales, the flat-out undeniable fucking stupidity! Do your work and then brag if you have to, otherwise I shit on all your brave talk, it’s just the slubgullion left at the bottom of the bucket!
The people of Wolf pack had long ago stopped listening to Heather, as she knew very well. Sometimes she would shout at them just to see them turn their backs and move away. But Loon had to stay. After his parents’ deaths Heather and Thorn had raised him, and now, between them they had
him trapped.—All these widows and orphans, I’m tired of it! Heather told him whenever he complained about this.—Quit getting killed and then it won’t happen! Heather the midwife, the herb woman, the loudmouth, the witch, the crone, the horrible hag, the deadly poisoner. A very busy and bossy old woman, small and bent and proud to have three teeth left, two opposed. The spider was her animal, and it was said she turned into one sometimes.
Now she was dismissing him with a wave, staring up into the hemlock over her nest. The cat that hung around their camp, enticed by Heather’s gifts, had climbed into the branches over her and was daintily eating the tree’s new spring leaves, even the new twigs. It seemed uncatlike.
—Get out of here, I have to talk to Schist.
He couldn’t go out on the hunt. All that day and in the days after, a feeling of doom grew in him, the weight of the sky weighed on him.
If he killed everybody in the pack he would be able to go out on his own, find a high place to sleep at night, and have a fire always, everything he needed, a cave to paint, new people when he wanted them; come and go, drop in on festivals, no duties to a pack or to anything at all. A traveler, a woodsman, a green man. He could do the deed in the night before dawn, before Heather woke up; kill her first because she would be the one to know, the hardest to surprise, catch her asleep, a blow with a chopper to the back of the head or to the temple, go around to those who were always first to wake, then to the heavy sleepers, the late sleepers, they would be late indeed on that morning! And in the sunrise, with all of them dead, walk out on a wander that would never end. Live a lifetime every month.