Forbidden Land Page 13

  A shadow of lost love would haunt Karana forever, even as Lonit’s hatred for his father, Navahk, still shadowed her. She cringed, unable to bear the thought of him—of his hands on her, of his body forcing her, hurting her, entering her.. ..

  And yet she could not help herself. Deep within her mind, the threatening specter of Navahk rose from her memories. She tried to focus her thoughts on Mahnie as she willed the past away .. . away .. . forever away .. . back across the bloodied miles .. . back into a far land where it could not touch her again.

  “What is it, Woman of the West? You look so strange and pale. Here, I’ll carry the bird. Lean on me. I am small, but I am strong. We will go back to the fire and sit together.”

  Lonit drew in a deep breath. It steadied her, as did the consoling sweetness of the girl. How could Karana be so cold to Mahnie? In all her days, Lonit had never known a more caring, more affectionate girl. Karana had led a sad life, but the forces of Creation had rewarded him when they had put Torka in his path and had given Mahnie to him as his woman.

  “Be patient with Karana, my sister. There is a terrible sorrow in him. He wears it ‘night and day, like an invisible robe, but one of these nights, warm in your arms and sure of your love for him, he will cast it aside.”

  “Do you truly think so?”

  “Yes, I truly do,” assured Lonit, but in her heart she wondered.

  They ate well that night, and on all the nights that followed—usually the meat of winter-lean steppe antelope, stringy, pink-fleshed hare, crunchy-boned voles and ground squirrels, or ptarmigan, the plump little grouse of the Arctic. Although they suffered no hunger, Torka’s people dreamed of a settled life in the promised valley and of real meat—haunches and humps and flanks, livers and tongues, sweet, juicy eyeballs, and intestines packed tight with partially digested grasses and lichens, made delectably sour by the stomach acids of grazing animals. Meat.

  The time of the great spring migrations was at hand, but the frozen, wind-scoured, and often snow-covered grassland between the mountains offered only small game: wintering birds, the occasional fox or hare, and burrowing animals. Woman meat, the men called it, but in a land that was devoid of big game, it was better than no meat at all.

  When their traveling rations had been renewed and the area around a given camp was depleted of a ready food supply, the little band moved on. Traveling ever eastward, following in the tracks of Life Giver, they sought the herds of large grazing animals. And as they walked, the hunters offered up the time-honored chants that men of all bands made when they wished to call the great game that had been sustenance for the People since time beyond beginning.

  For Torka, the chant was a calling to the caribou, for, to him, that meat was the sweetest, its skin the softest, its fur the warmest, its sinews and bones the most malleable, and its blood the lifeblood of his people. Grek hungered for bison and longed for the sweet taste of horse. His chant was of horns and dust, of flying hooves and manes. Simu sang of blood-rare steaks skewered on the sharpened bones of any big game animal that would deign to honor him by coming to die upon his spear.

  And so, with their magic man echoing their chants, the hunters sang of meat while their women sang of the good, shared work that would come with the flaying of skins, the making of oil, the stretching of sinew, and the cutting and sewing of furs.

  Days and nights passed for them—in wind and in storm or under clear, cold skies. The new star was still in the sky, its tail seeming longer now. It was almost transparent, as if the winds of earth also ripped across the sky and, like the mammoth, chose to point the way into the face of the rising sun.

  At the confluence of two major rivers they kept to the wider, more easterly course, following the mammoth into an enormously broad, beautiful, river-cut valley in which flood plains stretched for miles. Great grassy dunes banked frozen lakes that glistened in the cold, thin light.

  “Is this the wonderful valley?” asked Demmi.

  Torka scanned the land. “No, Little One. This is no wonderful valley. The dunes tell us that there is too much wind. The land may be firm now, but all signs point to its being a fly-eaten bog during the days of light. We will rest in this valley and hunt in it. Then we will go on—as Life Giver goes on. Look, even now he walks ahead of us. He will not stay in this land where we have found no sign of his kind.”

  “Or of ours, either,” Grek said, his voice low and troubled.

  The wind took the older hunter’s words and blew them fast and far. Nevertheless, they stayed to burden the hearts of those who heard them.

  Before darkness fell, they tracked and took a moose in one of the nearby sparsely forested stream canyons. It was an old bull, so far gone from lack of adequate winter browse that when Simu’s spear brought it down, it seemed to sigh with relief. They butchered it, feasted off its carcass, and prepared steaks for travel rations. But the wind in this valley was cold and brutal, and in less than a day it not only sealed and dried the moose steaks, it so pitted them with dust and grit that they became unfit for eating.

  The people broke camp and moved on. The mammoth walked ahead of them, its shaggy, mountainous form barely visible in a thin, dry snow that blew horizontally in the low, constant whistling of the wind.

  Now, at. last, they began to find sign of past migrations of great herds of bison, caribou, horse, camel, musk-ox, elk, and the fleet, big-footed, hook-nosed little antelope of the grasslands. But it was old sign, so old that the hunters knew that their grandfathers had been boys when game had walked across this land. Nevertheless, it was sign, and it gave them hope that newer game trails would lie ahead. But nowhere did they find a single sign that any man, woman, or child had ever passed this way before.

  With her arms wrapped about Torka’s neck, Summer Moon looked around and frowned. “Will there be no children for us to play with in this new land, Father?”

  “It is lonely country,” observed Simu.

  “No longer,” said Torka. “We are in it now, and we will fill it with our songs!”

  The great mammoth foraged on dried sedges and cotton grass or feasted upon entire groves of spruce trees and bare, stunted, miniature hardwoods such as larch and willow. Whenever the mammoth stopped, Torka and his followers made temporary camps on south-facing slopes, dreamed of the great migrating herds that must soon return, and continued to hunt small game and set snares.

  The bolas of Lonit and lana, and novices Mahnie and Eneela, whirled and hissed in the brief light of day. The people sang songs of hope.

  They found nourishment, if not satisfaction, in their way of life, and as they rested in the long, cold nights of an Arctic spring that had yet to hint at a thaw, the wind was a constant companion, filling their huts with a song of its own and plucking at the thong lines that secured their lean-tos. Often they lay awake, trying to understand its meaning. They pulled their sleeping robes over their heads and tried not to listen, for the wind sang of emptiness, of endless, rolling steppe and towering snow-clad peaks, of glistening glaciers extruding through distant passes, rivers of frozen water, and grass that lay waiting for herds that had yet to come.

  While the others slept bundled tight against the song of the wind, on this night Torka rose, wrapped himself in his sleeping furs, and left his lean-to, to stand alone beneath the stars.

  The wind keened all around him. It was a dry, subfreezing, dust-laden wind, which bore the scent of primordial seas and the ancient ice of eternal winter as it moved out of northern wastes and blew downward across the world.

  Will this winter never end? he wondered. Will this wind never cease? Will the rivers never grind and roar with the great, joyful birthing of spring? Will caribou, bison, horse, and elk never come to feed my people and bring the songs of happiness and good hunting to their lips?

  The great herds may never come, taunted the wind in reply. The spring migration routes may be blocked. You have experienced that before, in the far land. You have survived bitter winters that bled their unnatural coldness in
to springs and summers, so the snow packs in the passes grew and rose like living beasts to walk out of the mountains and flow like rivers of ice across the land.

  “Yes ...” Torka exhaled the word, troubled by memories that confirmed the whispering warning of the wind—or was the warning from his own heart? “I have seen this....”

  The wind rose. It slammed against him. When the ice mountains walk, old migration routes are cut off, and as the grazing animals come westward they must seek new ways through the mountains toward ancient calving grounds. And if this is so, then to what has Torka boldly led his people? How long will Torka’s hunters be content to eat woman meat? Perhaps it is time to go back where you belong, Torka, Man of the West .. . return to the land of your ancestors .. . to the fine, fat encampment that you have allowed Cheanah to steal from you.

  And give up the life of my son? A muscle throbbed high at Torka’s jawline. “Never!” he vowed.

  The wind, hissing, seemed to veer up and away. His eyes followed. Above, among uncounted and uncountable stars, the new star shone. How bright it was, with its golden, upturned tail! How beautiful!

  Umak’s star! He smiled at the thought. It was comforting, as was the star. It was a good omen; he knew it in his heart. He drew in a breath and held it, then exhaled it along with his doubts.

  Let the wind wail and whisper! Torka would not listen. He set himself against the marauding, confidence-consuming sedition of the wind, certain that it was only the voice of his own fears. The mammoth was his totem. When Life Giver had left the Place of Endless Meat, he had no choice but to follow into the Forbidden Land. He was a fool if he allowed himself to worry over his decision.

  He was about to return to the warmth of his lean-to when he saw a figure emerge from Karana’s shelter. Beneath the stars, the dog rose to stand silhouetted against the night beside the magic man. For a moment Torka assumed that Karana had come out into the night to relieve himself, but the young man stood very still, unmoving. head back as though in a trance.

  Slowly and quietly Torka went to him. “The wind speaks to us both this night, it seems,” the older man said.

  In the darkness, the magic man was a motionless shadow against the stars, standing stiffly, as if made of stone. “The wind always speaks.”

  “And what does it say to a magic man that it might not reveal to one who is only a hunter?”

  There was no reply. Even with the wind rive ring all around, Torka could hear Karana’s tense, measured breathing. Was the young man listening to the wind, attempting to translate its song? Or was he merely thinking, as a troubled man would think, trying to come up with a reply that would satisfy the moment?

  “The wind .. . says that it is with us ... always.”

  Torka frowned, sensing Karana’s evasiveness. “Tell me something that I do not know.”

  Karana told him nothing; he neither spoke nor moved, but at his side, the dog lowered its head, reacting to the magic man’s tension.

  “What is it that troubles you?” Torka pressed.

  Karana remained silent.

  Miles away, within the distant ranges to the east, an avalanche roared and echoed like the exhalation of a dying giant. The mammoth answered. Giant to giant. Life to death.

  Karana gasped. There was fear in the sound.

  Even though he was naked within his sleeping robe, Torka had not been cold until now. With a wide, powerful hand he reached out and touched Karana’s shoulder. “The wind speaks to men in the night. A mountain calls, the mammoth answers. What does this mean?”

  Karana hesitated. Then: “That we must follow.”

  “To the valley of which you have spoken?”

  Again hesitation was unmistakable. “Yes. To the valley.”

  “You have seen it? Truly seen it?”

  Yet again Karana hesitated. Then, in a tone so brittle that had the wind turned in that moment, his voice would have cracked and fallen back into his mouth to choke him: “Of course I have seen it! I am a magic man, am I not? Beyond this place, in the tracks of the wind and the great mammoth spirit, I have seen it. Life Giver walks before us. We must follow. Has our totem ever led us wrongly before?”

  They stood together in silence for a long while before, at last, Torka turned and walked away.

  Karana watched him go as his conscience screamed: Do not turn your back on me! I am not to be trusted! I am no magic man! I follow our totem as blindly as you do! The Seeing wind has not risen in me this night! I have come out into the dark to escape the wailing of the wanawut, which prowls in my dreams.. .. And in those dreams I have heard your Manaravak crying .. . and I have seen him—a man grown, with your face and your form, clad in the raw, white skins of beasts .. . following .. . calling his name in the voice of a beast.

  But was it dream or vision? I do not know! I only know that this night I have seen you dead in my dreams—you and Lonit and all those who trust in you. I have seen you drowned in great, roaring tides of blackness, which fill the wonderful valley that I have caused you to seek. But have I seen the truth, or have I only glimpsed the black, ugly heart of my own fear?

  I do not know! I only know that long ago Navahk foretold death for us within the Forbidden Land.

  But all men must die someday, somewhere, and so I will remain silent; I am Karana, and I will be your son! I will follow your totem! And if my dark dreams are true, I will beg the forces of Creation to bring wisdom to me, so I may see the dangers that lie ahead and guide the father of my heart, Torka, to all good things!

  The steppe narrowed ahead of them. They walked between jagged, stony hills until, at last, they found themselves once again within a broad, river-cut, dune-channeled valley.

  It was a gray, bleak day. The air felt thick, and the wind was pouring out of distant passes and surging down across the world in a great, whistling, dust-and-snow-laden tide. Gathering clouds, plummeting temperatures, and Wallah’s aching bones told them that a storm was coming.

  “This bad weather will last awhile,” she declared. “This woman’s bones are never wrong!”

  The people of the band observed the sky. It was a sobering sight. High banks of wind-ripped clouds raced toward them like maddened herd animals running ahead of a summer firestorm. This storm would freeze them where they stood if they did not have adequate protection.

  Without a word, the men set to work hacking out a broad, foot-deep circle within the frozen skin of the steppe. Using sharpened caribou antlers and stone wedges, they cut away thick sods of grass and earth, which would later be piled high around the peripheries of the circular shelter to help anchor it to the ground and secure the entry against wind, snow, and dust.

  The materials that would ordinarily have gone into the construction of individual family huts were consolidated by the women and girls, who worked together to lay out the bone-and-antler framework for a large communal roundhouse. The long bones and ribs of large animals were carried solely for this purpose by the men, wedged in their heavily loaded pack frames next to their spears.

  “Why do we build one big hut?” Summer Moon asked.

  “Because this storm comes on fast and may last long,” replied Lonit, removing her neatly rolled travel pack, while, at her breast, an ever-hungry little Umak sucked happily. “The storm will be on us before we can each make a separate shelter against it. And in one big hut, we will be warmer and enjoy the passing of time more. Soon you will see!”

  Despite the lightness of Lonit’s tone, Summer Moon sensed her mother’s worry. “Is Mother afraid of this storm?”

  “Mother is not afraid! retorted Demmi in quick defense. “Not ever! Mother Mine is brave!” “It is always wise to fear a storm,” said Lonit soothingly. “And it is always wise to prepare for the worst, so that if it comes, you will be ready for it.”

  The worst. Summer Moon did not like the sound of the words or the way Demmi was making a nuisance of herself.

  “Demmi is too small to help!” Summer Moon complained.

  “Am not!”
Demmi whined.

  “Hush!” Lonit insisted. “We must work together, First Daughter. If Demmi does hot try to do her share, she will never learn how to be of help to anyone.”

  Summer Moon hunkered back on her heels and sighed wistfully, wishing that she were Only Daughter instead of First Daughter.

  “Come now, do not pout,” Lonit admonished. “See? lana has already unrolled her pack and has taken her skins to be placed atop the big hut. Here, help me to free your sister’s mitten from the thong.”

  Summer Moon watched the others hurriedly laboring together to raise the big hut. It seemed to be a great deal of work. She felt guilty. She should be doing her share. But how could she, with Demmi always in her way? Within her ruff, her eyes turned skyward. The storm clouds were beautiful as they raced like wild gray horses, away, away.

  “Magic Man could catch the clouds,” she said, and smiled with pleasure. Just thinking of Karana made her forget Demmi. He was so handsome! And his eyes were so sad and kind! “Karana could catch the clouds with snares of magic and whisk them away!” she declared. “Why does Father not ask Magic Man to make the storm go away?”

  “Perhaps he already has,” said Lonit with an unmistakable edge to her voice. “But now the clouds continue toward us, and every hand—including Karana’s and yours, Daughter—is needed to build a shelter! Hurry now. There is no more time for talk!”

  Demmi felt hot with shame. The hides had been unpacked, but the fringes of her mitten had become entangled in the pack-frame thong. She watched as long, fitful gusts forced Lonit to lean forward and slowed her progress toward the other women. The wind grabbed the heavy hides from her arms and filled them with air. Demmi’s eyes widened as Lonit turned her back to the wind and tried to gather the hides into a neat, controllable bundle. But with little Umak bound to her bosom, her arms would only reach so far. The hides billowed out like wings, pulling Lonit back and around and throwing her down on her side.