Megan Lindholm - The Reindeer People

'Fire! Tillu, Tillu, it burns, it burns for me!'

Cold air moving against her face. As cold as it would be outside, not inside, the tent.

Tillu released her grip on sleep and stirred slightly beneath the hides that covered her.

Had the fire gone out? She dragged her eyes open and peered out from her huddle of skins. No, the fire was still aglow, though it would need more fuel soon. The draft came from the open tent flap, where Kerlew stood in his long nightshirt, staring out into the darkness. 'The wood is right by your left foot,' Tillu pointed out. 'You don't need to chill the whole tent to find it.'

'Not looking for wood,' Kerlew mumbled. Cold air flowed in past him, misting slightly as it met the warmer air inside the tent. Kerlew stood motionless in the swirling fog as it eddied past him.

'Well, put some on the fire anyway,' Tillu instructed him grouchily. She pulled the hides up to her chin again. Kerlew still stood in the doorway, staring out into the snowbound darkness.

'I heard Carp.' He swayed slightly, as if he were still asleep. 'Calling me.'

A chill ran over Tillu and the hair on the back of her neck hackled. Stupid! she chided herself for her reaction. But there was something in the boy's slow words and unseeing gaze that spooked her. In the dim light from the dying fire, he turned his face to her.

His eyes were black holes beneath the straggle of his hair, no trace of sleep in them. His intentness reminded her of a great wolf sitting, ears pricked, as his prey moved into his range. Not for the first time, she said, 'Carp isn't coming, Kerlew. You dreamed it.'

'I know.' The boy spoke in his hesitant way, as if each word had to be found before it could be uttered. He strung his words on the threads of his thoughts, visibly manufacturing his sentences. 'But it was one of the real dreams, like he taught me. I saw Carp, walking through the snow of the forest.' Wonder transformed the boy's face. 'He looked up at me and smiled so I could see where his teeth are gone. He was leaning on the staff we carved together. And I knew he was coming for me. He said, "You are mine, Kerlew. And I will come for you, because the spirits will it. Be patient, but do not forget." Then it started snowing and it fell between us until everything was white and I couldn't see him anymore. But I thought I heard him calling me, so I woke up and got out of bed to see.'

'Kerlew.' Tillu kept rigid control of her voice. 'Carp is not coming for you. He doesn't know where we are. And we have come a very long way since we left Benu's people.

They don't come this far west. We are out of their territory now. I don't think we will ever see Carp again.'

Kerlew stood silent, his brow crinkled, nodding slowly. Then he let the tent flap fall, shutting out the night and the greater darkness it sheltered. The tent became a small, safe place again, and Tillu could look at Kerlew and see her child. His bare legs stuck out from under his soft leather nightshirt. His thick black hair was tousled, some dangling before his strange eyes. For an instant she saw all his vulnerability and loneliness, and her conscience smote her. In all her travels, Carp was the only adult male who had ever shown anything near tolerance for her son. To some, Kerlew was an object of ridicule; to others, disgust. He had always been taunted by other children, ever since he was old enough to betray his differences with speech. Women either pitied him and treated him as a babe, or pitied Tillu and treated him as a misfortune. In running away from Benu's folk, she had taken him from the only person who had ever befriended him.

'Then why did he say he was coming?'

Tillu tried to keep her patience before the slow words of the dogged questions.

'Because you only dreamed it. He didn't really say it.'

He stood nodding by the fire, his mouth slightly agape, his tongue wetting his lower lip. Then his lips moved as he carefully repeated her words to himself. 'Ah,' he said, nodding at the flames. 'A dream.'

Tillu sighed in relief and began to settle back into her nest of hides.

'Do you think Carp will come tomorrow, then?' Kerlew's hopeful question jerked her back.

Tillu sighed. 'No. Carp won't come tomorrow, either. You never hear a word I say, do you? Bring in some wood for the fire.'

He stooped to obey her, dragging in sticks of wood frosted with last night's snowfall.

They sizzled as he dumped them clumsily onto the red coals.

'Not too many at once,' Tillu cautioned him. 'You'll put it out.'

'Then I'd have to start it again,' Kerlew observed, an edge of resentment showing in his slow-spaced words.

'That's right,' she agreed firmly.

They both fell silent, feeling the silent tension hanging between them. Part of her said it had been necessary, that the boy had to learn, however he could be taught. Part of her felt only sickened and sad. How well he remembered anger and hurt. He might forget what she had said to him moments ago, but his memory of last month's confrontation was still fresh. It was how his mind worked. As if he could sense the things that pained her and chose to keep those things for himself.

She looked at him now, saw his eyes steal up to the tent support where the meat hung. She smiled at him slowly, remembering his face shining with the triumph of fire.

That she would keep for herself. He stared back at her, then smiled uncertainly.

'It's nearly time to get up, I think. Shall I bring snow?' he offered hopefully. Then Tillu knew what had really awakened him. He was hungry.

She pushed wearily at her blankets. She knew she should make him go back to sleep and wait to eat until the true morning. But she felt guilty and, she realized, hungry herself. She was not providing well for them. She knew the forest offered ample food, even in the hardest winter, for the skilled hunter. But she was not skilled.

In the time since they had left Benu's folk, she had been feeding them on rabbits and ptarmigan and the like. At first, there had been the dried meat and oil to supplement what she caught, and the late vegetation of autumn. But snow had locked the plants away now, save for bark teas and the like, and they were reduced to whatever meat she could bring home. Yesterday it had been two hares, neither of them large. She had stewed them up, reserving the hindquarters of one for breakfast. The little creatures had already lost their autumn fat. The lean, stringy meat had been more tantalizing than satisfying. She craved fat, and no amount of stringy hare could satisfy that craving.

She gave in to Kerlew with a curt nod. He snatched up the pot and ran to pack it with snow, not even bothering with his boots. Tillu pushed her sleeping fur back and dressed hastily in the chill of the tent. She added more fuel to the fire and set the pot of snow close by it to melt. The semifrozen hindquarters of the rabbit were hanging from one of the tent supports. She took them down, shaking her head at how small they were, and cut the meat into tiny bits that would cook quickly. Bones and all went into the pot. She poked at the fire to bare the coals and set the pot among them, screwing it into place to brace it. Kerlew had dressed quickly. Now he picked up the bone knife she had used to cut up the meat and licked the traces of blood from it. Tillu chided him:

'Don't cut your tongue.'

'I'm careful,' he told her and ran his fingers over the piece of wood she had cut the meat on, licking them eagerly. His hunger and the crudeness of their surroundings struck her suddenly. Shame vied with anger, but weariness won over both of them. If she didn't start doing better, they weren't going to last out the winter. She stirred the pot of stew thoughtfully. Everything they had was on the verge of wearing out. The bone knife needed to he replaced, mittens needed sewing, the small scraped hides of her kills needed to be worked into useful leather. But there was only one of her and most of her time was taken up with hunting. The solution would have been simple with any other child: Put the boy to work. But experience had taught her that teaching Kerlew a new skill took more time than doing it herself.