Kim Robinson - Shaman

Now again it was happening. They hugged the far side of the meadow from the boulders. But even over there, they were within reach of the spears. It was just about as far as they could throw them with spear throwers, so far that it would be a matter of luck to hit anything in particular.

Thorn whispered,—Shall we try?

Hawk nodded. As quietly as possible they placed the cupped ends of their javelins on the knobs on the end of their spear throwers. It took some silent maneuvering to get themselves lined up so that they weren’t in each other’s way.

—Don’t hit anyone with your spear thrower, Thorn whispered as he always did, and they all checked their throwing space and nodded to each other: they would not hit each other, nor the boulder they were on. Ready to throw. They shifted back and forth on their feet like cats getting ready to leap, feeling in themselves how their throws should go. Then Hawk whispered,—Everyone aim for the bull in front. Ready—set—now! And they all threw at once, silently.

Most of the bison bolted as the javelins flashed through the air toward them, but two spears thwacked into the big bull, and the men cried—Yes! Or—Ha! or—Thank you! as they saw it.

—Oh I norbled my throw, Nevermind lamented,—I wristed it again.

Thorn, however, was holding his lower back with his right hand.—That hurt, he said, looking puzzled.—I must have thrown it too hard, maybe, and pulled a muscle.

—Sorry to hear, the others said.

Most of the bison were now at the lead in the meadow outlet, stamping about uneasily, looking back at the chief bull. He had his head down, and was stepping forward hesitantly, as if trying to figure out what he could do. Blood began to pour from his mouth, and some of the men said,—Yes! because one or both of the javelins must have slipped between ribs and punctured a lung. That meant the end of the chief bull. The men slapped each other on the shoulders, watching closely.

They still had their short spears left, and it was a simple task to get off the back of their boulder and stalk the mortally wounded beast, dispatch it with a charge and several thrusts to the gut and in the ribs. One of those thrusts was a heart stab, and the big beast went to its foreknees with a groan, then collapsed onto its side and died.

After that they had a hard day’s work of it, getting the skin off it and breaking up the body into quarters, boning the rear legs and getting it all ready to carry home. Thorn got a fire going, and they ate the usual kill site lunch of liver and kidneys, and changed around the tasks as they got tired, while always keeping guard against lions and hyenas. A little cloud of ravens gyred over them, so they wouldn’t be alone for long. It was important to get the bison chopped up as fast as was convenient. But they were in a good mood too. All but Thorn, who stayed silent.

—Are you all right? Loon asked him.

—I don’t know. I must have pulled something.

Thorn was looking for Click but not seeing him. Loon considered taking another antler fragment and carving an image of Click and putting it gently down in the water of the pond where they had buried him. Then again, if he did that he might disturb one of Click’s bones and distress the old one. The thought of seeing Click’s skull with its familiar teeth in the water looking up at him was also bad. But to keep Click away somehow… surely there was something he could do. If this, if that: it was a little eddy of ifs that he could circle in too many times, always thrust out by that last bad image of Click’s skull in the water looking up at him. Leave that spot, go somewhere else!

So it was better to keep a little distance from Thorn.

They got through the winter without too much hunger in the spring. But sometime during that winter, Loon noticed that Thorn never threw things anymore, and that he avoided lifting his right arm above his shoulder. And he got gaunter than the rest of them in the hunger month. His was just an old black snakehead now, with lion fangs swinging from the few strands of hair left behind his ears and on his neck. He seemed to be peering out at them all through something that lay between him and the rest of them. He watched Elga and the new baby, and Lucky by the fire, with a most curious expression.

One afternoon just before sunset Pippiloette came by with Quartz, the shaman of the Lion pack to the east. They hallooed into camp with gifts for all, Quartz singing a song and the women all clustering around Pippi as always, but Pippi went through them right to Loon and hugged him, held him and looked at him, saying—I’m really glad to see you here, I’m sorry about that night you got taken, I heard those northers grabbing you and I rolled into a tuck before they saw me, and after that there was nothing I could do, except follow you a while and then go tell Thorn what happened, which I did, as I’m sure he told you.

—Yes, Loon said.—It’s all right. I figured that was what happened.

Pippi nodded.—And all’s well that ends well.

—We made it back, Loon said, feeling a little uneasy, as if it might not be true.

That night by the fire Pippi told them the story of his travels, and Quartz told the story of the bison man in the cave, one of Thorn’s favorites. After that he and Thorn retired to the edge of the firelight with a bucket of mash and talked together long into the night. Loon joined them for part of this, and while he was there Thorn and Quartz discussed whose turn it was to paint the caves. The Lions were to have the spring, the Wolves the autumn. This meant the Wolves would have to deal with the problem of the cave bears coming back to sleep for the winter.

—I’ll get them to leave you a cleaned bit of wall to work on, Quartz promised.

—That’s good, Thorn said.

It occurred to Loon that Thorn was probably going to have to paint with his left hand, unless he made a stool to stand on.

—What will you paint? Quartz asked Thorn.

—I’m thinking about horses, Thorn said.—How about you?

—We’re talking about doing some ibex and mammoths. Quartz looked at Loon and said politely,—And what about you? If Thorn lets you do anything?

—I saw two bull rhinos fighting, Loon said.—I’d like to try that.

Then one night Thorn froze once more as he approached his bed nook.

—Not you again, he muttered, followed by something else Loon couldn’t make out. After a while standing there, Thorn raised up his hands and entered his little nest. He sat down hard on his bed.—Let me be, he said in a low voice that Loon could just hear.—What else could I have done, you tell me that. You see what came of it. That’s all I have to give you. Look at them and leave me alone.

But Click must not have been convinced. Thorn saw him often now, usually at night when he went to bed.

And something kept hurting him in the ribs. Just talking sometimes he would wince, or when walking come to a sudden halt, sometimes with a hiss. Once in the forest, when he thought he was alone, Loon saw him stop and sit down.

He even went to Heather about it. Loon was there helping her, and when Thorn saw he was there he frowned, and then sat down and asked Heather to take a look at him. Heather had him take off his cloak, and touched him all over his torso with her fingertips. Then she put her ear to his back and chest and mouth, smelled his breath and skin, felt his pulse. She made him move his arms around, and noted when he winced. She saw what Loon had seen, that his right arm could not go over his head.

When she was done, she crabbed over to her herb shelf and nosed around among the little bags lined up on it.—I don’t know, she said without looking at Thorn.

Only Loon was there with them, and with a brief glance at him, Thorn said,—Come on, tell me. Tell me what you don’t know.