Kim Robinson - Shaman

Loon fell asleep between one breath and the next, and slept hard. When he woke to the cold on his back, and fed the fire, he saw the others were sleeping well also.

The dawn gray showed it was still snowing, although it was less windy than the day before. Big flakes fell straight down. They had to decide whether to stay or hike on, and Thorn took a brief walk out of their grove to get a better sense of the day. When he came back he said gloomily,—It’s walkable. We probably should go.

The others said nothing. The fire hissed and popped on its big bed of embers, inviting them to stay and be warm. It did not seem possible that the northers would be out in this storm hunting them, given how much the falling snow obscured the view. It was flocking down, and up on the ridges it would probably still be windy, with new piles of soft snow ready to avalanche or otherwise give way underfoot. Surely the northers too were tucked around a fire somewhere.

But if they were, then going on would be getting farther from them; and if they weren’t, and were out on the hunt, still in pursuit, then going on would be keeping their distance. Either way they should go. They could all see the sense of Thorn’s position. But it was a hard thing to leave that fire and go out into the storm.

It snowed all that day. The new snow lay thick and soft on everything, flocking the forest and making the world a dapple of black and white. Summer storms could be like that.

It was lucky they had snowshoes, because without them they would have sunk in thigh deep with every step. As it was, the one breaking trail sank in knee deep, and had to step high. Most of the day Click led, and as he was considerably heavier than the others, they stepped in his tracks and had it much easier.

Thorn went second and gave Click directions. Occasionally Loon could hear them from behind.—No, left, left! Left is to your left, right is to your right, straight ahead is straight ahead! Why can’t you get that? Tell me what you call them and I’ll say that instead! I’m tired of you getting it wrong!

—Roop, Click said, pointing right.—Roop roop, pointing left.

—So there you have it, Thorn said heavily.—If you can do that, why not call them right and left?

The silence from Click suggested he didn’t have an answer for that.

—Mother Earth, Thorn finally said.—You’re just trying to make me angry.

After that he hiked closer to Click, and with his spear tapped the old one on one shoulder or the other as he said,—Hey, hey, that way, while pointing with the spear.—Go that way, that’s left, roop roop, left, and he would whistle a piercing whistle with an upward slide, like a hawk. Later, with a tap on the right shoulder,—Go right, right, roop, that’s right, with a down-sliding whistle. All through that day Loon could hear Thorn badgering Click about this matter of directions.—Straight is just straight! Not right nor left, just straight ahead. That way!

Loon wanted to say, He knows the way better than you do! but he didn’t have the strength to spare for speaking. He could only put his snowshoes in the holes and try to avoid the pain on the left. Click was probably taking the best way no matter how Thorn jayed at him.

Late in the afternoon, the valley they had been descending opened onto a broad plain, so big that its full extent was not visible in the falling snow. Thorn considered the white sky flocking down on them for a while, and then pointed Click in a certain direction, and off they went across the soft new snow. After a time they came to a flat stretch that was clearly a river. Like the big river back north, this one was about to break up, but under its new blanket of snow it was hard to say when or where it might happen. All the usual sounds were muffled. There were snow-capped plates of ice poking up in irregular lines, and black leads visible in long stretches of the far shore. From downstream, farther than they could see in the storm, came a low wet roar.

Then right before their eyes the new snow lying on the river straight out from them started trembling, and in a series of muffled cracks broke off and crashed downstream, riding a black spate of immense power. Down the river at the farthest bend they could see, crackling ice dams stacked up, building quickly into log jams of ice, then bursting away and rushing downstream.

Upstream from where they stood the ice on the river still held. The black river sheeted out from under it like a giant spring out of a white hillside, an amazing sight.

—Go! Thorn shouted at the other three. They could barely hear his voice. He pointed upstream and then took off, and they hurried after him up the bankside. They were too tired to hurry very fast, even Thorn, and soon Click took back the lead and stomped the snow down for them, and Thorn was right on his heels talking to him, and Elga not far behind. Loon did the best he could to keep right behind Elga, hoping that Thorn would not lead them across the river too close to the broken edge and its stupendous flow. He knew the faster he went the sooner they would be able to cross, and the better their chances would be that the ice would hold long enough for them to cross. And if Loon was close behind, Thorn might feel confident enough in their speed to go a little farther upstream before crossing. So Loon put his head down and hiked and poled along in the tracks of the others, ignoring the hot flare in his ankle, huffing and sweating, intent to keep right on Elga’s heels. She was fast, and looked different in her newly sewn clothing—taller, rangier. Suddenly it came to him again that she was there, that this was his Elga right there in front of him, free of the ice men, on the run with him, fleeing captivity, running for home. Something in his heart flew at that realization, and he bared his teeth at his ankle and pounded along, taking care not to knock the front of his snowshoes into the busted rims of high soft snow separating one track from the next. Step high and clean, huff and puff, curse the pain. Feel the cold air go to his head, leaving him as sharp as if hunting, or terrified. He only looked at the snow under him, also the river beside them, still white and unmoving. Everything in that bubble of falling snow had become closer and sharper and brighter, all of it pulsing with his pulse, bright even in the dimness of a snowy day. Everything was lit from inside itself, and he was seeing the way hawks must see.

Thorn tapped Click and turned toward the river, and seeing it Loon began sucking air through his teeth with fear. He bent forward and redoubled his speed, wanting to be with the others whatever happened, even if it was wrong, even if it put more weight on the river ice and caused them to break through. Thorn looked back at him, as if aware of his fear, and pierced him with a glance.

I slipped up into him in that moment, and seized him as tightly as he was seizing his poles. Slow down. Remember what the northers taught you, out on the frozen great salt sea.

He watched Thorn and Click as they roamed up and down the bank, stabbing the snow-blanketed river ice. He realized that it was probable he knew more about ice now than they did. Downstream the roar of open water reverberated in the trees, pulsed up through their feet.

Loon saw a good patch against the bank, which looked like it extended most of the way across the river. He walked as if his legs were both all right.—Let me lead! he said as he passed Thorn and stomped down the snowy bank onto the river ice.—I’ve been doing this all winter.

He struck out over the ice, stabbing ahead with delicate taps, as if his walking poles were short unas. He shuffled along at a slow but steady speed, feeling the ice below him for any flex. His body was thrumming in a way it had once when he had been stung by several bees. The snow falling in the air was now very small, making almost a mist of floating little flakes, swirling as they were tossed on a slight breeze.