Kim Robinson - Shaman

It was so windy they had to stay in the trees. The chorus of pine needles sang a constant roar. How big the world becomes in a wind. They were as ants on Mother Earth now, crawling under grass stalks, grateful for their shelter. Even down there in the trees the wind poured through and slapped them from time to time, ransacking their clothes of any heat they might have held. Even the jende would be taking shelter in a wind like this.

They could not see far in any direction. It was hard to believe their pursuers could still be out in this, and hard to believe they could have followed them into this particular canyon. They themselves didn’t know where they were.

Still Thorn hiked on, and Loon put his head down and followed, taking it step by step. Except for the clicks of agony, it seemed like the third wind was still flickering in him, fronting up to the storm. You have to face up to Narsook. He would go until Thorn told him to stop. That was simple enough; it was a thought he could hold on to. Go until Thorn says stop.

The wind roared. It was evening all day. Snow began to pelt them, even in the trees; heavy flakes at first, then icy sand thrown from the side.

Thorn stopped next to a little knot of trees and shrubs that filled a flat spot near a lead in the canyon creek, chuckling blackly as it ate the snow that fell on it. Here the wind was more heard than felt.

—Let’s make shelter, Thorn said.

—Oh good, Loon said.

Thorn set about starting a fire while the other three gathered wood, then tangled branches into a shelter wall on the windward side of the knot of trees. Loon hopped around on his poles, gathering wood from the ground, snapping off dead branches from the undersides of trees. He had to keep his weight off Badleg, but he could do that, and it was good to be able to hop around and do something useful without causing himself pain.

Thorn was crouched on the windward side of a flat rock he had prepared for the fire, piling sticks and twigs on one side of the rock and dripping on them some of the fat from his bag. He got out his firestick and spin block, set the duff from his pack around the spin hole and in the cut that ran from the hole to his little pile of fat-soaked twigs. He spun the firestick hard, the shift of his hands from the bottom of the stick back to the top so fast Loon barely saw it. Back and forth he spun the stick, his red eyes bulging out of his black snake’s face, his teeth bared in a fierce scowl, hands rubbing down then jumping up and rubbing again.

The tip of his firestick blackened, and little wisps of smoke came from the duff nearest the spin hole. While continuing to spin hard, Thorn also leaned his head around his arms and puffed lightly on the block, contorting his whole body in the effort to call forth flame. When the duff pricked yellow at its edge, and smoked some more, he stopped spinning and crouched even lower, his face right next to the flame, one hand cupping it, the other pushing the duff gently as it burned. The duff’s flame remained little more than a tiny glowing ember, and when the twig next to it caught fire, the miracle popping into existence again, he began to puff faster, blowing it up in the way he would play a quick tune on his flute. Loon helped him by getting rocks into position on the windward side of the fire, and then all around it. By the time he had made a proper fire ring, Thorn had a good blaze going in the twig pile, and was carefully balancing small branches over the flames to get them started too. Click came crashing in from time to time with armfuls of wood. Elga was still making a weave of branches between the trees on their windward side, and then around them in a complete circle except for one gap between trees on the lee side. She stuffed so many branches into her barrier that it became a woven wall of wood and leaf and needles.

When they regrouped around Thorn’s fire, now a young blaze that no single gust could blow out, they wrapped themselves in their furs and sat like four taller stones in the fire ring, jammed together in a curve around the windward side. Loon sat to the left of the rest and let Badleg lie straight before him. The warmth of the fire helped calm the hurt. Thorn stood up and went out into the storm, and came back with his dovekie bag filled with water from the creek. After they drank from it until they were full, he held it as near to the fire as he could without burning it.

The fire was even more beautiful than usual. Even Loon’s first fire during his wander had not comforted him as much as this one. Sometimes gusts blew its heat away for a time, then it slammed back with the full force of its radiance. Loon’s face and fingertips and ears burned and itched furiously. Finally he could give Elga a look in reply to her anxious gaze: he was all right. Beside this fire he would be able to rest, warm up, drink water, eat some of their remaining food. It was true that they were running out of food. But if the storm ended and the jende had lost track of them, then they could find food as they hiked on. They could find out where they were, if Thorn didn’t know. Loon certainly didn’t.

—Do you know where we are? he asked.

Thorn gave him a sharp look.—We’re here!

—And you know where here is?

—Close enough, Thorn said. He was looking through the bags in his sack, checking the food left to them, Loon supposed. Instead he pulled out one piece of clothing after another, to hold them up to the flames and dry them out: bits of leather, scraps of fur, mittens… After a while he stood and turned and stuck his rear toward the flames, growling at the heat burning his butt. His clothes quickly started steaming. Inspired by his example, they all stood and did the same. Click still hissed his quick triple whistle, as if dreaming he was still on the march.

When the fire had dried them and they were thoroughly warm, Thorn picked up one of the bags from his sack and took from it his sewing kit. Elga had made the entire hike so far wearing only her leggings and a bearskin robe from the women’s hut, and now Thorn offered to help her turn the robe into a proper shirt and coat, and to extend her leggings.

She agreed at once, and while Thorn worked on her robe she stood arched to the fire dressed only in her leggings, like a jende woman. Loon’s breath caught in his throat as he stared at her.

Thorn cut her robe up with his sharp blade, putting pieces of the bear hide up against her from time to time as he did so. When he finished the cuts, he punched holes around their edges with his antler awl, biting his lips. Then he sewed the pieces together with a length of leather cord he pulled from his sack, wound around a short stick.

Click stared into the fire as they worked, but Thorn frequently looked up and regarded Elga’s body closely, flickering there in the firelight. Her breasts were only half the size they had been the last time Loon had seen them, and in general she was thin, although her thighs were quite a bit thicker than any of the men’s, and longer too. And they were all thin now, even Click. Loon could feel his belly button just a finger away from his backbone. There wasn’t much left to him. Thorn too was skin and bones; he always was, and now more than ever.

But here they were, warm in the storm, and Elga’s body gleamed darkly against the snow and the flames and the trees flickering in the firelight. Thorn worked on, and held up pieces he was sewing against her from time to time. It was night before he had her dressed again.—There, he said when he was done, and added,—You look good. Even now when I’ve dressed you!

Elga laughed and hugged herself.—It feels wonderfully warm. Thank you Thorn.

That night they lay around the blaze like a fire ring of flesh, just outside the ring of stones. From time to time they fed in branches from their pile. The wind kept blowing, the snow drifted down onto them through the trees. If a snowflake landed on them it melted on their hair or the tips of their furs and quickly burned away. They were more comfortable in this storm than they had been for months now, any of them, and the thrill of that was another kind of warmth.