Kim Robinson - Shaman

Thorn still had the spirit to smile a little as he ducked back into their camp.—I guess we’re supposed to stay here today. Let’s gather more wood, and see if we can find anything to eat.

Sixth month after a bad spring: one of the worst times for foraging. A time of starvation and drowning in snowmelt. Well, that meant they might be able to scratch up some dead little creatures. It was easier to face that kind of foraging than another day of walking.

So they spent the day making short excursions out into the storm, bringing back more firewood after scratching around with sticks looking for things to eat. They kept the fire big. At one point in the afternoon, feeling weak with hunger, plopping down by the fire to recover from a bout of light-headedness, Loon again said to Thorn,—Do you know where we are?

—Yes, Thorn said shortly.

But he couldn’t know, as far as Loon could see. Not that Loon doubted that Thorn’s knowledge exceeded his own in many things. And maybe here too. But maybe all he meant to say now was that if given a chance, he would be able to find out where they were. Loon saw by his look not to inquire further. They weren’t going anywhere that day, and even the next day was now questionable; all this new snow dumping down, being blown into drifts, would make the flats difficult and the slopes dangerous. And Loon was discovering he could barely walk. He could not put any weight on Badleg, he felt weak with pain when he tried. Thorn shook his head when he saw that, out near their boulder pile, and waved Loon back to the fire. Nothing to be done now but eat some more leather and wait it out. Find their way when they could move again.

That night was long. The hungrier you are, the colder you get: they proved this old saying again. They had to eat fire, as it was said; it was all they had. Only the fire kept them going that long night.

The next day it snowed harder than ever. There was no question of walking in it.

Late in the day, as the dark got darker, Elga went out and found a little meadow under its snow blanket, and came back with her sack stuffed with meadow onions she had dug up with a stick. They went back out with her and got more.

Roasting them on the fire made them taste bigger. They were not much in their stomachs, but something to join the leather strings. They ate some portion of the green stalks topping the root bulbs as well, and at one point, chewing on roasted greens, Thorn eyed Elga and said,—I never really wanted to live the swan wife story, but here I am. And only as the old helper at that.

Elga pursed her lips and shook her head.—I’d fly away if I could, she said.

Thorn barked his short laugh, not unlike a snort from one of the unspeakable ones, trundling through the forest. He held out one of the meadow onions at her.

—Have some more goose food and maybe you will.

Again the night was long. At one point Loon woke from a dream in which his father was warning him against crossing the ice on a river. He had been telling his father that it was all right, that they had already made it across. But now apparently they were supposed to be crossing the other way. It was going to be hard, he said to his father anxiously, with the ice gone.

The fire was almost out. Just a flicker inside the bed of embers, a pink glimmer all crusted with gray, going black and hissing where snowflakes fell on it. He placed three branches on the bed and fell back asleep before they had even caught fire.

In the morning Thorn woke them, kneeling on the snow behind Loon and Elga. His lips were pursed and he looked like a big lizard.—Click is dead.

—What? Loon cried.—How? Why?

He had not meant to say why, and the word hung there in the air like a hummingbird standing on its own flight. It could have been awkward, but Thorn was busy in his own thoughts, and did not appear to have heard him.

—I don’t know, he said at last,—he might have choked on something. Or been hungrier than we thought. Anyway he’s dead. Nothing to be done.

Loon and Elga found themselves sitting up. It was still snowing. Elga had a fist to her mouth, and was looking across the fire at the hide-covered lump that had been Click. His body lay there in its furs, motionless. Loon saw that it was true: there was no mistaking a dead body. So much went away.

Thorn stood, took one of his deep heavy breaths: in, out.—I’m going to move him away from the fire.

He stomped unsteadily around the fire to Click, crouched and stared at the old one’s face, which was turned away from Loon and Elga, as if Click did not want them to see him dead. Thorn reached down and pulled the man’s bearskin blanket up over his head. It already wrapped the rest of him; now he was no more than a man-sized lump in a bearskin hide. Thorn grabbed him by the part of the bearskin wrapped around his feet and hauled him away, following the path in the snow they had stomped while passing in and out of their tuck. Snow fell in tumbling flurries, and the hillside pines sang their airy windy song.

When Thorn had pulled Click’s body out of sight, on the other side of some trees, Loon and Elga could hear him singing one of his shaman songs, one of the ones he sang to help dying people into the next world:

Then for a while there was silence, punctuated by some grunting and thumps. When Thorn returned to the fire he had Click’s coat bunched in his hand. He sat down heavily on his rock by the fire, got one of his blades out of his pack. Without a word he began to cut Click’s coat up into lengths of leather.

After a long time he suggested that the other two go out and gather firewood. Elga got up and left the tuck, avoiding the way that would lead past Click. Loon stood and hopped around. Badleg would not move at all, and his whole left side ached, also his chest and shoulders. It was clear by the parts of him that were sore that he had made extreme efforts to walk on his poles. He went to the closest trees and knocked around, looking for dead wood under the drifts. Snow flocked down.

That night was windy. They kept the fire big, and slept hungry.

The next day was stormy again. They lay wrapped in their furs, staring into the fire. From time to time one of them would get up and venture out to relieve themselves, or to collect more wood. They had a bed of embers now that would burn damp or green wood, so it was not hard to supply the fire. But it was hard to get around in the deepening snow, hard to think about anything but their hunger, eating them from inside. It was hard to believe it was the sixth month. Although sixth-month storms were known to be bad.

That night was windy again. They kept the fire big, and slept hungrier than ever. And hungry means cold.

In the gray morning light Thorn built up the fire to a roar, then stood facing east, his arms raised and outstretched. He sang a song with words Loon didn’t know, words so strange that maybe they were just sounds.

When he was done he turned to face Loon and Elga and put his hands on his hips. They looked up at him from their wraps.

—We need to eat, he told them.—We can find our way home when this storm is over and the snow settles, but we have to have food, or we can’t do it.

He stared down at them.

Elga said,—So we have to eat Click.

Thorn nodded deeply. He looked at her in a way he had never looked at Loon.

—Yes, he said.—Exactly. Click has been dead two days. He’s frozen. So I am going to go cut a few steaks out of him, and we will then cook and eat them. It will be tough old meat, but it’s all we’ve got. I’m sorry to do it, but Click will understand. I’ve just finished talking to him about it, and his spirit is well clear of his body by now, out in the stars. He said he is happy to still be of service. He said thank you. Just like he always did.