Megan Lindholm - The Reindeer People

'Look!' The shaman's shrill whisper cracked the silence. 'Look who follows!'

Heckram turned wide eyes back the way they had come. There was nothing there, only the trail wending off into darkness. He held his breath, listening, as his eyes scanned for any shift of shadow. There was none.

'Nothing follows us, old man,' he rumbled softly.

'Not us!' hissed Carp, a note of laughter in his whisper. 'Not us. You!'

Unwillingly Heckram looked back once more. He stiffened. His grip tightened on the harke's lead rope. Something large and shaggy slipped across the trail behind them and merged with the trees on the other side. He did not breathe as he eased the reindeer into movement. The harke's eyes shone round and black, his nostrils flaring as he snorted out his fear. When Heckram tried to breathe, the air jammed in his throat and he wheezed. He stumbled off the hard crust of the trail and plunged knee-deep into softer snow. Frantically he dragged himself up and tried to increase his pace. On the harke's back, Carp rocked back and forth in silent paroxysms of laughter. Heckram longed to strike him and knew he did not dare. Only a fool offended a najd. His movement made the panicky animal stagger. It jerked against the halter and tried to rear despite the shaman's weight on its back. Heckram dragged it on, taking long swift strides.

A part of him knew what followed. Another part of him refused the possibility of such a thing. Glancing back did no good. The treacherous moonlight showed a flash of fang, a glint of silver guard hairs, a gleam of lambent eyes, but never betrayed the follower entire.

Sweat broke out over his whole body, trickling down his back and ribs. 'Grip to the pack frame,' he croaked to Carp. 'Hold tight so that if we have to run, you won't be thrown.'

'There's no outrunning him!' Carp cackled, spraying spittle. The old man rocked in the packsaddle.

'Maybe not,' Heckram muttered. 'But we'll try. I'm not going to try to stand and face that.'

'Run, then!' cackled the old man. 'I'm sure he won't mind! The faster you run, the sooner we'll get there.'

Heckram burst suddenly into motion. The reindeer beside him sprang forward gladly, stretching and straining to put distance between itself and that which followed.

The najd clung to the lurching packsaddle. Heckram gave the harke the best part of the trail, so that at every fifth or ninth step he plunged through the snow crust and had to wallow up again. Twice he dared to look back, and each time found his pursuer no farther behind. The whisk of grayish shape, the flash of glowing eye, haunted him.

He lifted his eyes to glance down the trail before him, hoping to see the other reindeer and herders. Wolves did not attack groups of men and animals. In numbers there would be safety. His feet pounded on. Any moment he expected to see the gray shape slip past him, to head the reindeer off and turn them back into the pack that certainly followed. He ran until the reindeer was staggering and a lancing pain stabbed up through his ribs. Sweat stung his eyes, the najd stoically bounced on the packsaddle, the reindeer made a bad step, and, as the snow gave way beneath its hooves, it went to its knees.

Heckram turned, pulling his knife, to face their pursuer. He caught a glimpse of something blending suddenly into the gray shadows and trunks of the surrounding forest. It should have been pressing its advantage, rushing forward to harry the exhausted man and animal. Nothing. The blowing reindeer shuddered its way back onto the path and stood with its head drooping. Terror had wearied it as much as exertion; the old shaman was no heavier than its normal workload. The harke had run as only wolves make a reindeer run.

'It was real!' Heckram turned defiant eyes to the old man.

Carp no longer smiled. 'Real. That's what I've been telling you. But you did not seem to be listening.' He leaned so close that Heckram saw the tiny bubbles in the spittle on his lips. 'You insult him,' the old man whispered harshly. 'Was not the bargain made last night, and sealed with blood? Trust him. Give over your vengeance to him, and let your own mind be emptied, ready for what he will ask of you.' Slowly Carp straightened on the reindeer. 'Let us go now.' Despite the jostling ride, Carp sat calmly.

His fogged eyes looked deep into Heckram's eyes, but barred all entry to themselves.

Heckram turned aside from him, shaking his head wearily, baffled and somehow angry with him.

He looked back again. Nothing. Just white snow. He realized abruptly that dawn was well begun. Looking about himself again, he recognized the trees and the lay of the hills. The village was not far now.

As if to prove him correct, he heard a glad call from down the trail and turned to find Ristin hastening toward them. Welcoming words spilled from her.

'I was worried when you did not come in with the rest. Lasse said you were right behind them, but did not know why you were coming so slowly. He offered to look for you, but he was nearly asleep on his feet, so I told him not to bother.' Her words were nearly apologetic, but her eyes roamed over her son in obvious relief. Heckram's glance was equally piercing. Was the dawn light that harsh, or had she aged in the days he had been gone? There was strain in the lines about her eyes and mouth, but also relief and gladness as she looked on him. Then, as she noticed the man with him, she became more formal.

'You must be Carp, of whom Lasse spoke. Welcome to the talvsit of Capiam's herdfolk.' She glanced quickly at Heckram. 'When Lasse said you were bringing a guest, I took it upon myself to kindle a fire on your hearth and prepare food for you both.'

'It will never be said that Capiam's herdfolk were inhospitable to a stranger,'

Heckram said to Carp, but he wondered for whom she had really kindled the fire. Had she known how much he had dreaded coming home to a hut with a cold arran and the musty smell of emptiness throughout?

He smiled his thanks at his mother, and she met his eyes with warmth and sympathy. Then she frowned. 'What have you done to your cheek?' she asked, reaching to touch his face.

'Scratched it on a branch. It looks much worse than it is.' He pulled away from her touch.

'Let's hope so. Still, I think you should see the healer as soon as you can.'

Heckram frowned. 'Can't you make me a poultice for it, Ristin? We used to manage without a healer.'

Ristin moved her head, studying the slash. 'Yes, we managed well enough, if you don't count the people scarred and dead that didn't have to be. If that gash were on your arm, I might try to treat it myself. But not that close to your eye. It's for a trained healer, and as soon as possible. Eat first, and get a bit of sleep, but then go to her. An infection like that is nothing to trifle with.'

Heckram reached to pat at his face. It was swollen stiff, and throbbing pain echoed through it. He glanced with narrowed eyes at Carp, but the old man said nothing.

He made no move to dismount from the harke either. With a sigh, Heckram tugged at the weary beast's halter. They started down the path to the talvsit. His mother gossiped as they went. Heckram listened numbly, letting the words slide by him, responding to her questions by rote as his tired brain chewed at other mysteries. He thanked her for unloading his gear and putting it in his hut. Yes, he knew they'd have to break a few more harke to pack this year; no, he hadn't decided which ones yet. No, he hadn't had any problems with the reindeer on the grazing grounds; yes, it might very well be an early spring. He nodded as he heard that two of Bror's vajor had already calved. It was early, but calves born now would keep up with the herd better on the migration. He was rather hoping his own vajor would calve soon. It never hurt a calf to have a few days to find its legs before having to follow the herd.