Chapter Two: A Raven Flies

Though Vezanidi often napped during the day, she did not sleep well at night. After lying awake for a time, she needed to empty her bladder. All was quiet in the long lodge. Everyone else had gone to bed, except for Bodisar; she had yet to hear his heavy tread pass by. Like as not he'd finish whatever business he was about just in time to keep her awake with his snoring. A fine headman, that paunchy, loudmouthed gobwit.

She shuffled the short distance to the lodge entryway by the flickering light of a night-lamp. With a firm grip on her walking stick, she squatted over the ash basket and rose again, her bones complaining all the way.

A few muffled words through the thick hide of the outer doorway snatched her thoughts from warmth and bed. Who would have a midnight chitchat out there in the cold? She leaned her best ear closer to the hide, held still, and listened.

"The hardest part is still getting all the rest in line. They'd always rather scatter than bunch up."

Eh--Bodisar. Vezanidi made a grimace of disgust. The man spoke of his own tribe as if they were hunted animals. His notion of uniting all the bands under one leader, all of the time, was as foreign to The People as the wandering tribes he used for an excuse. It would be a bad day if he succeeded.

"I can make sure of that."

Ivergan--of course. The two of them were always going hugger-mugger.

"What, ah?"

"You'll see."

"Pah! You and your mysteries."

"You'd soil your breechclout if you knew."

"That's why I leave the spirit-business to you. I don't want to know about your mucking magicking."

"That's a healthy attitude. Anyway, I'm ready at last. I've been preparing right under your nose long enough. The White Horse softheads won't make any difference now, even if anyone listens."

"We could always arrange another 'accident' if they make too much noise," Bodisar suggested.

"Getting used to it, ah?" The shaman chuckled thinly.

The horror of confirmed suspicion made Vezanidi's skin prickle. The leaders of the White Horse band had not died by accident. She held her breath to keep from hissing with anger. No, it must not happen again. The Council will hear....

Her hand trembled, and her walking stick fell with a clatter that stopped her breath for a moment. No one stirred, thank the Good Ones. She groped for the stick, hanging onto the end of a mammoth jawbone that stuck out from the lower wall.

An arm snaked past the hide and yanked her outside by the neck.

Radovin's mouth watered. A great, savory slab of fat-rich mammoth meat dripped sizzling juices onto a bed of coals. Parched seeds, soaked and heated until they swelled and stuck together, were heaped in bowls and topped with fresh raw eggs, yolks glistening like golden suns. Smoked salmon and fresh roe lay on bone platters. Flat cakes of cattail root starch baked on hot rocks and slathered with bear fat filled a basket.

There were rabbits, hares, and hamsters stuffed with roots and fruits, wrapped in leaves and grass and roasted in pits. Rich soup made of ground nutmeats, mushrooms, and garlic. Boiled nettles with marrowfat. Dripping honeycombs, ripe berries, little birds soaked in hucha. Owoo, he didn't know where to start.

"Radovin!"

He spun around to see a man that he had never met, but knew by sight. Kayotar, of the White Horse band, Ivergan's archenemy, dead since last year. His mother had pointed the man out, that last summer before her untimely death. Kayotar, the shaman that Radovin should have been apprenticed to; murdered along with the headman of his band in a supposed hunting accident.

"What do you want?" His voice struggled out in a whisper. The old shaman's piercing black eyes seemed to look straight into his soul, gave him a falling-through-a-hole-in-the-ice feeling.

"There's no time," Kayotar said. "Go! Leave now. Tell them what you know."

"What? Who? Tell who?" Radovin's last tenuous grip on hope crumbled. The goal he had sworn to attain, worked so hard for, suffered so much for, neglected all else for, melted into slush and ran out of him for good. It left his heart empty.

The old man became a raven and flapped away into a storm-darkened sky. His voice came back mingled with distant thunder. "It's time to go. Get up!"

"Get up! Get up! Get up!" the words echoed. Radovin groped through sleep-fog to touch reality, which was his bed in Ivergan's hut, Ivergan's voice, and Ivergan's foot pushing at him.

"Ah, ayah--" He scrambled up, his dream-haze blown away.

"Pah! Stupid worm. Build up the fire. I have to get ready. Hurry it up, ah? The sun's nearly risen."

Radovin dove outside, icy dawn air slapping him wide awake. He darted behind the hut to take a pee. Then he dashed back in, with a double handful of kindling grabbed on the way, toes aching. The weather was definitely back to normal.

He dressed and put on moccasins while the fire took hold of its breakfast of dry twigs, then went out for more wood. A piercing scream from the rubbish dump made him drop half his armload of firewood. Someone must have fallen, maybe got hurt. He abandoned all of the wood.

Ah!--a hard yank on his hair stopped him. "Tend the fire," Ivergan snarled, and strode past, leaving him still regaining his balance.

Radovin blinked away a tear of pain. He looked at Ivergan's receding back, then at the scattered wood. His odd dream came to mind with a foreboding chill. He followed in blatant disobedience.

Others were gathering near the ravine, talking agitatedly.

"What happened?"

"How did she get there?"

"You know how much she's been getting up in the night. Must have fallen in the dark." Bodisar, with feigned sorrow leaking out of every word.

"Oh, my poor old Mama!" cried one woman: Enari, daughter of Vezanidi. She began a high-pitched wail, keening for the dead.

Vezanidi--no! Radovin stopped. Churning ice filled his stomach. Sleepless or no, Nidi would not have gone out that far, in the dark, in the cold.

It's time to go, the voice from his dream echoed.

Ivergan turned away from the scene of mourning with a warped smile of satisfaction that froze Radovin's heart. In another instant, anger twisted the man's face. "I told you to--"

He was speaking to air. Flying feet carried Radovin back to the shaman's hut. He dove inside, grabbed his pack, began to stuff in extra things, whatever came to hand. Time to go.

Ivergan came in while he was still shoving it all down tight. "Where do you think you're going?" The man grabbed at him, but Radovin ducked and swung his solidly stuffed pack into the hateful face. Ivergan staggered back, tripped over a hearthstone, and knocked a basin of water into the fire. He disappeared in billowing steam.

Radovin shot out the door headfirst, butting aside the heavy leather drape. His head rammed into Bodisar's substantial middle, briefly stopping them both. Radovin bounced off running. He was out of sight before the obese headman recovered enough breath to roar imprecations at him.

He ran until his lungs burned and his sides cramped. Bending to drink at a small stream gave some relief.

The sun was low when he stumbled and rolled down a grassy slope. He remained where he lay for a while. A trio of crows crossed the sky, making raucous comments on the rare human presence. "I'm not your dinner yet, little brothers," he whispered hoarsely.

The crows would have him soon enough.

He had to find the White Horse band, tell them the truth about the murders, that was what Kayotar meant. That was what he'd intended all along, but he had no idea where the band's new territory was. They had moved away before he knew the horrible truth, and winter came too soon after that. Ivergan had kept him so isolated that he didn't know the way to the winter camp of any other band.

The Lion band was nearest now; Vezanidi had told him how to get there. But would any other band believe him? A ragged stranger with a wild story about respectable people being manslayers? Pah! Most likely they'd hand him back, and that would be it. This last effort had to count. He didn't think he'd get a second chance.

His best bet was the Summermeet. All of the bands gathered annually at one of several locations, each one close to a place so full of power that only spirits held rights to it. This year's site was the same as the last one he had been to, the summer before his mother died--he could never forget. He wasn't sure how far it was, or how long it would take. It seemed more like a lifetime than a handful of years since that last journey. He was a boy then. Now...he was nothing.

The way was clear enough. Find the Veselta, the great river that flowed through the heart of the land, and follow it upstream. A small tributary joined the river near a distinctive landmark, a hill with a cave in it. The meeting place lay halfway between the river and Spirit Valley. No one else would be there until the Long Day moon. He could hide in the rugged hills nearby if too many others arrived before the White Horse band. It was a gamble, but with luck, he would make it.

Luck--Vahé! Sitting up abruptly, Radovin grabbed the ivory pendant that hung from his neck and yanked the thong over his head. With a fiercely whispered execration, he swung it once and sent it flying to disappear in a tangle of dry weeds. There! No one needed protection from his bad luck now--if they ever had. He wanted nothing that came from the hand of that curse-hacker, may his name be forgotten.

He got up and checked his pack. Nothing had spilled out. He had no food, but that was the least of his worries. If he'd had time to plan.... Yeah. Raven laughs at plans. Probably laughs at fools who put off making them too.

The next day there was more time to think. Would they try to hunt him down? Maybe they thought he would slink back. Ha, yeah. From the top of a hill, he scanned his back trail. He could see a long way over the nearly flat land, treeless everywhere but in sheltered river valleys. In dreams, he had seen all the way to the great ice. All he could really see of that from here was a hint of the vast bank of fog and clouds that often hung over it. There were no people in sight, not even a wisp of smoke.

Pah! Why puff himself up thinking anyone would follow him. They probably didn't give a toot-berry what happened to him. If they thought about it, they would expect him to end up as a snack for wolves before he got very far. The world was big, he was small. Very, very small, the wind's icy whisper told him. He moved on, as straight southward as he could, a course that should eventually take him to the Veselta with the least likelihood of encountering other people.

He took time to look for food. In the afternoon, he sat on a sun-warmed slope to let a few raw eggs settle comfortably in his stomach, and to savor another rare spring day. The season of rebirth came and went in a frantic burst, swift as the snowmelt floods. Look away too long, and it would be gone.

A sudden, early rainstorm had broken icebound rivers open to signal the time of the feast. More snow could fall and water still froze at night, but winter was over. In one day, swelling buds had transformed parts of the barren land with a haze of soft colors. Tiny dark bees appeared out of nowhere to dance among the first flowers. Flocks of returning birds called overhead.

Distant movement caught his eye. A long stream the color of dead grass rippled in a slow wave across a dip in its path; reindeer, following a trail worn deep by uncountable generations. They were headed in the direction he had come from. He couldn't tell at this distance, with the sun-shimmer, whether a band of the Reindeer People ran with this herd. Either way, those he had left behind would have plenty to eat.

The nomads who followed the herds granted a few animals to the bands whose territories they passed through. Their offerings to the Bull band were usually old and tough, unless some trade goods changed hands as well. Bodisar gave little else in return besides a promise to keep his hunters from raiding the herds. It was no credit to the man that he kept his word. The shamans of the Reindeer People had a reputation for paybacks, and Bodisar had a prudent fear of spirits and magic.

That had not kept him from committing an abomination when it suited his purposes.

Spring is a rotten, stupid, piss-headed time to die!

Radovin leaped to his feet, hands clenched; then he slumped.

He stood still for a moment, eyes closed. Your will be mine. All spirits come from you, and all return to you. Though I have broken my vow, I am still yours. Use me as you see fit.

He took a deep breath. The world around him was unchanged when he opened his eyes, but he felt that he could go on.

When it was done...if the spirits were not too harsh in their judgment, perhaps he would see his mother once more.