Megan Lindholm - The Reindeer People

Carp bit off the partially masticated piece and swallowed it. 'I'm not. I'm a shaman.

I'm seeking for Kerlew, my apprentice. Capiam's herdfolk will lead me to him.' He thrust the end of the jerky into his mouth again and spoke around it as he chewed.

'Tillu, his mother, is a healer. When you go to have her mend that gouge down your face, you can take me along.'

Heckram put cautious fingertips to his stinging cheek. It wasn't that deep a gash, 'It won't need healing. It'll close up on its own.'

'Do you think so?' asked the old man. 'I don't.' He cackled short and sudden, then grinned at Heckram around the jerky in his mouth, 'I wouldn't be surprised if it was infected. Wolf claws can leave a nasty scar. The sooner we go to the healer and her son, the better.'

The cavalcade of reindeer crunched their slow way down the hillside. Their toe bones clicked as their wide cloven hooves spread their weight out on the frozen crust of the snow. Their heads bobbed, their white tails flicked in an endless pattern too complex to be deciphered. Somewhere, at the head of the line, Jakke guided the herd's lead animal down through the dark pine fells. They returned to their talvsit now, traveling by night under white stars in a black sky. Usually he was sensitive to the stark beauty of these nights, but tonight Heckram felt irritable, and deadened to such things.

Jakke was an experienced herder, and he set an easy pace that would still have them back at the talvsit by morning. The vajor were heavy with their calves now, their sides bulging out like misshapen packsaddles. They minced awkwardly down the trail, their swollen bellies swaying gently from side to side as they felt for the best footing.

Heckram guarded them jealously, seeing the doubling of the herd in their bulging sides.

He had another reason to travel slowly. While Lasse skied ahead of him through the darkness, alongside their animals, Heckram came at the rear of the herd, leading a harke with Carp perched atop it. The old man had attached himself to Heckram; Heckram did not enjoy the role. Heckram made enough sense of his strangely accented words to know that a shaman was a najd, a wizard, one who crossed ceaselessly between the day world and that other world of which no man spoke lightly. Heckram knew enough of that world to know that Carp was not a man it would be wise to offend. Yet he did not want to know more of the man or be drawn into his confidences.

Just being physically close to Carp made Heckram nervous. It was hard to ignore his endless bragging stories and impossible to avoid his nagging questions. But while Heckram patiently led the harke with Carp clinging and swaying on its packsaddle, he made no effort to befriend the old man or to ask any questions of him. He deliberately kept his eyes fixed on the rump of the animal in front of him, ignoring the shaman at his side. It didn't discourage the najd.

Carp nattered on, unashamed of riding a harke like a child while Heckram plodded beside him in the dark. His words rattled off Heckram's bent shoulders like flung pebbles.'... and in that hunt, three men were able to bring down the bear that had been raiding our food stores. Enu fell to the bear, but that was as the spirits decreed and not a thing to mourn. Enu had offended Bear in the first place, by letting his woman eat of the heart of the first he-bear killed that season, or none of that bad luck would have found us. Then, after we had skinned the bear and taken the meat, I put the skull in the hollow of a burned birch stump, and within its jaws I placed the bear's heart and Enu's heart, joined together by a pine stake thrust through both of them. Thus was Bear satisfied, and we lost no more meat caches that year. And four moons later, Enu's woman birthed a man-child, and on his skull and on the back of his shoulders was coarse black hair, just like Bear's. Such a hunter as that boy grew to be! What furies could take him!

Sometimes in the heat of a hunt, he would fling his weapon down and leap at the beast, his teeth flashing whiter than a wolf's. He would grab the deer by its antlers and force its nose to the earth, and then ...'

Heckram plodded on, letting the old man's voice blend with the clicking of the reindeer's hooves and the crunch of snow under them. By morning they would reach the talvsit, he told himself. And then ... Images of a sod hut, its hearth cold, of old Kuoljok's empty eyes, of Ristin's careful smile. The unfinished traveling chest crouched in his hut like a reproached dog. In the gray light of dawn, he'd have to face it.

Each thought dragged at him, pulling his spirit down deeper into a cold, numb place.

He pushed his mind on. After a few days of rest, the real spring migration would begin.

All the herdfolk, all the animals, moving from the foothills and forest out onto the open tundra. Sweet spring grasses springing up as soon as the snow bared the ground, the vajor dropping their gangly calves, the gentle wind smelling of tundra flowers as it wandered in and out of the scattered tents. The wide places under the unsetting sun.

It was no good. None of it would be any good, until this thing with Elsa was finished. It was like a task that would give him no peace until it was accomplished. The rest of his life would have to be put off until it was solved. He would take no joy in spring, would not find satisfaction in the new calves, would not relish the fresh greens, until he had made some sense of Elsa's death. Like a terrible debt he must pay. He scratched at the cut down his face, distracting himself. It was healing well, despite Carp's prediction.

'... but that is the value of a shaman. We are the go-betweens, who stitch the worlds together like sinews joining hides into garments. People without a shaman are people alone and half blind. Their lives can make no sense, for they are only living half of it.

Things happen to them, and they cannot understand why, or what they can do about it.

Some lose their spirit guides, and sicken and die without knowing why. Children are born and grow and go blindly through their lives, sometimes offending the very spirits that would shelter and guide them. Their days are long and sad and filled with misfortune. Life becomes a burden to them, and they are vulnerable to any who wish to work harm upon them.'

Heckram found himself nodding to the najd's words. Long, sad days, filled with misfortune.

'Don't you want to ask what I can do for such a one?' Carp's words hung black in the night. Heckram turned to him slowly.

The old man's pale eyes showed almost white in the night, gripping him with their strangeness. He stared into them, unable to reply. Carp answered his own question.

'Such a one can be put on a pathway, and ushered into a journey back to his spirit beast. The journey is dangerous and only the strong return. No one can go with a man on that journey; he must undertake it alone. Along the way, he may meet spirits. If he has wisdom, when he meets his spirit guide he will know him, and he will know how to bind his spirit guide to himself. Then, when the man returns from his journey, his spirit guide comes back with him. If he is very wise, he listens to his spirit beast and accepts his aid. Wisest of all is the one who seeks the guidance of a shaman to find what his spirit beast desires, and what he must do to restore balance to his life.'

Heckram realized with a start that he was standing still, his feet numb in the snow as he stared into Carp's clouded eyes. He no longer heard the click and crunch of the moving herd. He was alone in the blackness of night with the peculiar old man crouched on the back of the harke like some predator ready to sink its claws. A wind slipped past them and wandered off through the trees. An unworldly silence followed it, quenching all familiar night sounds. No branch sighed in the wind, no twigs rustled to a lemming's passage. The stillness was complete.