Kim Robinson - Shaman

And running so, they came on a little herd of chamois, drinking at the meadow stream, and on sight they instantly threw their javelins, which had been nocked in their spear throwers ready to fly. The spears flew flexing through the air, and all three hit the same chamois. She was dead by the time they got to her. They howled and thanked her and set to cutting her to pieces, and Loon was as neat as Heather with his blade, as sure as Thorn. They did the work with a clean swift rigor.

On the way home they tired, struggled, got their second wind. Humped the meat over Quick Pass and down Upper Valley back to camp, bowed over but in a steady triumph. They scarcely spoke as they returned; they hardly spoke all day.

As they approached camp Loon said,—Remember how we used to do this? Remember how I used to be the fastest, how I used to be the best hunter among us?

—Seems like you still are, Moss said.—That was quite a hunt.

—No, Loon said.—That was just today. You’re the hunters now. But listen. Elga’s been telling me how things are going among the women, and between Thunder and Bluejay and Schist and Ibex. It’s getting bad, she says. She doesn’t like it, and she doesn’t think it’s going to get better. So I’ve been thinking we should move west and start our own pack. Maybe you’ve already been thinking about that.

Hawk and Moss shared a look.—Tell us, Hawk said.

—There’s too many of us now. So many that Schist and Ibex can’t keep the pack fed through the spring. And they don’t like you.

—They don’t like you either, Moss pointed out.

—True, but I’m going with you. And I’ll get Heather to come with us. Then beyond that, just our families.

—That will gut this pack, Moss said.

—I’m not so sure, Loon said.—Schist and Ibex will do all right with a smaller pack, just their kin and the others closest to them. They’ll have that many fewer to feed, and they get along. The only thing I worry about is what they’ll think of us taking Heather.

Hawk and Moss stared at him. Hawk said,—Loon, you’re the only person in this whole pack who isn’t scared shitless of Heather.

Moss and Hawk laughed at Loon’s surprise. They were sure they could take Heather without objections, despite her obvious usefulness. Apparently it came with too much scorn, too much weirdness. Loon was relieved to hear they thought so, because he wanted his Heather.

Moss pointed out that packs did this all the time, that it didn’t have to be a formal split or an angry thing, but just a matter of building a subsidiary abri upriver a ways, to reduce the crowding at the main site. If Schist and Ibex ever needed any more muscle, the younger crowd could come on down and help.

Hawk was nodding at this. Loon saw again that Moss proposed and Hawk disposed.

—But what about if they want Loon? Hawk said.

Loon would be shaman of both packs, like Quartz with the three Lion packs, or any number of the shamans at the corroboree. This Moss said while looking at Loon to see if it were true.

Loon nodded.—I want to do that, he said,—because I want to keep painting in the cave.

They were coming into camp, so Moss said,—Let’s talk about it again later. There’s no reason to hurry with this. Although we need to do it before we start gathering food for winter, maybe.

—Later, Hawk said.

Thorn lay sprawled over Heather’s furs, leaning back against the big log wedged into the hillside. A lot of the time he slept.

Once Loon and Elga helped him stand and shuffle out onto the hillside to shit, but it hurt him to do it, and when they were getting him back to camp he said,—That’s the last time I’ll ever take a shit. I’ll miss that.

He was mostly silent after that. When he spoke it was to himself, muttering away in a rumble no one could follow. Loon gave him water from a wooden cup, using an elderberry stick made into a drinking straw. Sometimes his cracked lips clamped down so hard on the straw that Loon could not pry it out of his mouth. Heather didn’t want him drinking too much at a time, so he had to put the right dose of water in the cup, because there was no way to keep Thorn from draining it once he got going. But this thirst struck Loon as a good sign. When Thorn was asleep, Loon sometimes looked at his desiccated face, and saw his eyes were sinking back into his skull as the fat pads behind the eyes got eaten away by whatever had him. His nose was bending down like an eagle’s beak, and his fingers and toes curled in as he rested. Drying out. Being eaten from the inside, by himself as well as the other thing. Living off himself for the final stretch.—Wait, I see something, he whispered once to Loon.—The river is tearing away things about me.

—An island, Loon said quickly.

—Yes. With a little snake’s smile. He watched Loon’s face for a while, then said,—Did something chase you, when you were out on your wander? You would never tell me. But I’ve been meaning to say, I think Quartz puts on his lion head and goes out at night, to put a scare in the other shamans’ apprentices. He was Pika’s apprentice too, the oldest one, and it made him mean. So, if some kind of thing came after you, it could have been him.

—Ah, Loon said.

Later Thorn shook off one of Heather’s attempts to help him.—I’ve been the healer many times, he said.—I know when it won’t work. You can’t fool me.

Once he saw Heather’s face above him, and complained to her,—I don’t like having it happen now. I’m only two twenties old.

—What do you mean only? Heather said.

—Ha! Thorn’s laugh was painful to him now.—Easy for you to say. What are you, four twenties? Five?

She shook her head.—Lots of twenties. But they’re all gone now.

—Ha, Thorn said again, and lapsed back into his silence.

Much of the time he slept. Heather dosed him with teas she had made for sleeping. Days passed, and Thorn never ate. Loon became more and more amazed by how long it went on. It was like a bear’s hibernation. There was an endurance in it that Loon could scarcely watch.

When Thorn woke and looked around to see what was happening, Loon would feel himself go calm. The old man’s gaze on him made him feel alert and distant, it drove him into his proper place. I helped him with that.

Thorn sometimes asked him to recite one or another of the stories he had tried to teach him. Loon did the best he could, without worrying about any details he might forget. That lack of concern made it a lot easier than it had been when he was a child. Just get to the point, say what was important, say what happened in the way he remembered Thorn saying it. He told the story of the bison man and the wife he took from the salmon clan; Thorn had the bison for his animal, and wore Pika’s tattered old bison head during the ceremonies, and now as Loon told the old story he wondered how much it had to do with Pika, and with Heather, and with Thorn.

—No, no, Thorn interrupted at one point in Loon’s telling.—Don’t forget to tell about the woman running away with a bison, before the man turns into one himself. If they don’t know that, they won’t be able to figure out why he does it.

After that Thorn stopped him once or twice to tell the story himself for a while, in a hoarse voice, short-breathed.

Sometimes he asked Loon to start and then seemed to fall asleep, but frowned if Loon stopped.

Once when Loon had stopped in the middle like this, Thorn clutched his hand hard.

—You’re what I had to carry it along. Do you understand? You’re what I had to work with.