Chapter Five: Luck

Jerevan, Gambasor, and Langalen stalked toward the hazel thicket at the base of a steep rise. At a signal from hunt leader Jerevan, Langalen tossed a stone into the bushes. To their astonishment, not the rabbit or hare they expected, but a wolf dashed from the scanty cover. It ran right in front of Jerevan. He threw his spear without hesitation, and hit it. The wolf whirled once around, yelping, and then bolted away, leaving the spear behind.

"Thunderfire!" Jerevan froze for a few heartbeats, then leaped forward to pick up his bloody spear. He gaped at it and at the trail of blood left by the wolf.

"Mamari's Underworld, Jer, a wolf!" blurted Gambasor, all fish-eyed. "If I'd known that was in there, I'd've been outta here."

"Pah, Gambo, an aurochs is more dangerous," Jerevan said. Still, his heart beat faster than he cared to admit. It was not one of the camp-following jagals, but a lone wolf. Now it was wounded. He squinted at the sunward path the wolf had taken. "I better follow and finish it off...."

"I think we better lay off hunting for the day," Gambasor said. "It's almost time for dinner, and we were on our way back already anyway. Lango's hungry." He gave the younger boy a sharp look.

Langalen nodded, for once agreeing with his older brother.

Jerevan shook his head and rubbed his chin, where some day he hoped to sport a bushy reddish beard like his father's. "'S not that late. I have to make sure it's dead, ah? You coming?"

"Uh-uh, no way." Gambasor shook his head, hair flopping.

Jerevan set his jaw. "I wounded it, it's my job to finish what I started."

"Shit, Jero, it's a wolf."

"Ayah-kayah! Can I use your spear?"

"Uh-uh." Gambasor ran off. Langalen followed, hollering like a baby.

"Thanks a lot," Jerevan snapped at his fleeing companions. It would have been nice at least to have an extra spear. Had he known this little play-hunt was going to get serious--thunderfire! Papa was pissed off enough this morning. But then he wasn't expected home tonight, so it wouldn't matter if he was late. Besides, it would be in his favor if he had something to show for it. And it was the right thing to do. Wounded animals left to die slowly gave you a bad name with the spirits when they got to the Underworld. If they didn't die, they could be more dangerous for someone else. He took a deep breath and began to follow the blood trail.

Along the way he picked up a horse's leg bone, from the scatterings of an old kill. He hefted it and got a good grip on the end with the smaller knob. It was solid, heavy enough for a club and long enough to hold off slashing fangs. A weapon in each hand felt good. It was a good omen, too, a horse providing the extra protection.

The wolf went a long distance, considering the amount of blood along the way. Jerevan glanced back at times to see how things looked from the other side. He would have to backtrack in a hurry. His sense of direction was good, but a shortcut straight east might take longer than the "long" way in this unfamiliar, rugged terrain. Ravines and thick brush that nothing but a badger could get through had to be gone around over and over. Though he wished now that they had not combined exploration with hunting, he had no doubt he could get back well before the sun touched the hills.

The blood trail ended at the edge of a long, deep ravine. The wolf lay at the bottom, dead at last. Jerevan studied the situation for a few moments. He wanted proof of this kill, at least a tail to flaunt on a pole in front of his band's camp. This wash must be the one that ended in that fierce bramble patch to the south, and he wasn't sure how far it went north. It could take too long to find a way around or an easy way down. Something would drag the carcass away if he left it for tomorrow.

He knelt at the edge for a better view. The side looked rough enough to climb, with roots and rocks to hang onto. Laying his weapons on the ground, the young hunter eased over the edge.

His toehold crumbled, the roots his hand clutched were dead and brittle. Jerevan went somersaulting down with a yelp of dismay.

Hacaben accompanied Ottavar to Balekara's elegant pavilion, set some way back from the other tents of the Crane band. Unlike the smaller tents of most shamans, hers could hold a good-sized group for special rites. Every hide of it was painted with meaningful designs and symbols, inside and out.

A little farther back stood the Maiden's Tent, also much decorated, at least on the outside. No man was allowed inside. It was entirely dedicated to women's use, more so than the common women's tents of every band. Girls underwent the mysterious passage into womanhood in that one. Kewarratiwa would soon be in it, if all went well.

Ivergan had assumed the role of host for most other rituals or meetings that could not be held in the open because of weather or a need for privacy. The Bull band was well able to provide and transport the materials for an extra tent of generous proportions. Their real motivation, Ottavar thought, was to gain one more wedge of status and power. The general meeting tent of the priesthood could just as well be put together from materials contributed by all of the bands. It had once been. One step at a time brings the fox closer to his prey, until it's too late.

Balekara greeted them cordially. A visiting student from the Grouse band named Andoval fetched cushions from a handy pile. Firanaya, one of her own trainees, ladled cups of tea. Then the discreet young folk left.

She did not look at all like her younger sister, Zopira. Her large bones well covered, the rock-solid woman reminded Ottavar of one of the two great stones that formed the Mammoth Gate, a notable landmark of Spirit Valley. The other side of the dual outcrop looked more like a mammoth.

Both weight and age were taking their toll on Balekara. It was well known that her hips gave her a lot of pain; she used a stick to walk. Though it was customary to sit on the ground--preferably with a mat or cushion under one's tail--she used a sturdy stool made of bone and hide. She could rise with less pain and more dignity from the higher seat.

Balekara smiled benignly down on Ottavar. "I have a number of things to discuss with you."

Ottavar cleared his throat. He still felt closer to Jerevan's age in her presence. "I s'pose you want to talk about Kewarratiwa."

"Actually, no. Sherilana has already spoken to me. I see no problem with it as far as keeping with custom, though I know there have been some grumbles. I'll want to meet her, of course, get her acquainted with the other girls; she will have to prepare for the rites with them. Damagi is handling most of that for me this year. If you can bring her over tomorrow or the next day, that would be fine. Sheri tells me she won't need much preparation."

"Oh, uh, yes, certainly." Ottavar wasn't sure whether he felt relieved that there was no problem (yet) or annoyed at having one concern removed so easily. It left him more exposed to the other dark worries that gnawed at his mind. Who did it, or who knew who did it, and how would they present their case.... "Um, what did you wish to speak to me about, maduana?"

"Ottavar, your grandfather was an unusual man." Balekara paused to take a deeper breath. "He was learned and wise. He used his power and knowledge for the good of all. I may have disagreed with him now and then, but I never distrusted him." She pursed her lips, then continued with her carefully chosen words.

"Everyone returns to our mother, the Earth, some day. But it is difficult for those who remain when death comes suddenly. It was a great shock to everyone to lose both Kayotar and Ludoven at the same time. We hoped that their spirits were content. There was no sign that they were not. None that I knew of, at any rate." Her eyes swept over and beyond her guests to the open entrance of the tent. Ottavar kept himself from glancing over his shoulder.

"However, there have been disturbing dreams. And these." From a basket next to her stool she pulled out a rolled piece of leather, letting it drop open to reveal yet another work of crude art. "Yes, I believe now that we were in too much of a hurry to accept what happened--what we were told happened."

Ottavar sat a few finger widths taller, his attention fixed on her. She cocked an eyebrow. "Patience, you two, I'm getting there. Evil has a way of making itself look good from the front, but its true face is its ugly arse."

"A Bull's arse," Hacaben murmured. The woman's eyebrows rose.

Ottavar leaned forward, head tilted uncomfortably up. "What you're saying is that now you don't believe it was an accident?"

"What I'm saying is that more questions should have been asked sooner. Someone is trying to tell us we made a mistake, a lot of mistakes. I'm ready to admit that it may be so. Hacaben, you've inquired into Ivergan's affairs lately." She smiled at the old shaman's look of chagrin. "No, you've been very discreet, as always, but little birds tell me things too. It's time to compare the songs, ah?" Balekara wheezed a short laugh. Ottavar grinned at Hacaben.

Returning his own cockeyed grin, Hacaben delivered the small scraps he had gleaned so far. "Ivergan did have an apprentice of sorts--young fellow named Radovin. No family, apparently, and somehow cursed with ill-luck...."

Ottavar listened intently. An apprentice who was not permitted to take part in any rituals, but was a healer? Hacaben shrugged and wagged eyebrows at his inquisitive frown.

Late afternoon was as good as it ever got, a warm and friendly time of day in the kindest season of a world dominated by winter. Slanting light sharpened nearby grasses, rocks, and shrubs with contrasting shadows while distant hills lay obscured in a shimmering haze. Radovin was meandering back to his hidey-hole, not in any great hurry. The hindquarters of his roasted rabbit, the best part, dangled from his left hand in a hastily woven net of grass.

Now and then he stooped to pick a sprig of green leaves, or went all the way down on one knee to gather strawberries straight into his mouth. He plucked grass plumes to chew sweet juice out of the stems.

When he crossed the next rise, a dry wash lay across his path. Rapid snowmelt and the occasional heavy rain rushing down from the plateau left many raw gashes in the earth, carving them deeper every year. The longest ran roughly north-to-south. Even the lesser ones were hard to cross with any encumbrance and bothersome to go around--ten paces sideways for every one forward. They were one more feature of the landscape that helped to keep casual visitors away from Radovin's temporary home. He recognized this one; he always went around the north end to get to and from the camps. A massive tangle of brambles choked the broadening south end. Beyond that was prime hunting territory, the valley of the Red River.

Radovin stood lost in thought a few paces from the edge. He was much farther from his lair than he should be; he'd have to run to get back before dark. Most of the day had passed by and he couldn't say where it had gone. Lack of sleep must be getting to him more than he knew. That was dangerous.

He remembered going to the big bramble patch with his mother, long ago, to see if there were any early berries on the bushes. There hadn't been any, so the group of women and children had straggled northwards alongside the dry wash for some way and then east over the hills, following the stream back to camp. They must have gathered other foodstuff on the way, but he only recalled playing and eating strawberries. Lots of strawberries, tiny red explosions of intense, sweet flavor....

Other summers, friends long gone; memories were all he had. Cold ashes of innocence. Sometimes it was better not to recall what he could never bring back.

Something moved over there! He ducked behind a thick clump of wormwood. The bobbing blond head that he had glimpsed over and through a sparse thicket of stunted pines belonged to a young man--no, a boy. Younger than himself, but prepared to get a lot bigger, by the look of him. He was following the trail of something, head weaving to scan nearby cover, spear ready. Alone? Radovin frowned. That wasn't likely. During the Summermeet, hunting was as much a social activity as a means of adding to the family's food supply.

The boy knelt at the edge of the ravine, peering down into it. He set down his spear and the long bone that he held in his other hand, and started to climb down the side. With a sharp cry he dropped out of sight.

Radovin held his breath. Nothing but wind and the distant chitter of a ground squirrel.

He crept forward, ready to spring back at the sound or sight of any human. Bird and insect noises punctuated the wind's long sigh, nothing more. The boy lay sprawled over a recently dead wolf on the rocky bottom of the ravine. He had to get down there, but he wasn't going to make the same mistake. A collapsed undercut formed an easier slope a short way off. He jumped up running for it.

Radovin knelt at the boy's side just as he moved an arm and moaned. He realized that he was still clutching his leftover rabbit, and laid it on a flat rock. The boy made another sound and raised a hand. He opened his eyes when Radovin grasped the hand.

"Hai, where'd you come from? Oahh...my head."

"Does anything else hurt? Can you move your legs?" Radovin peered at the squinting blue eyes, trying to see if the pupils were equal in size. His growing muzziness had vanished.

"Ah! Ow. Yeah. Mucking rocks." One leg moved, then the other, and the other arm. "Nothing's broke. I hit my head hard. Knocked the sense outta me, almost. If I have any. I was thinking about getting up. Just thinking."

"That's good. I mean that nothing's broke. You want to get up now?" Radovin offered a hand.

"Yeah. Thanks." The youth rolled slowly onto his side and got up on one knee. He held a hand to his head as if trying to keep it from falling off. "Aowww, sh--it hurts."

"Mph. Let me see here--ah, sorry, I know it's sore." Radovin probed the bruised head as gently as he could. No dent, just the start of a swelling above and well back of the left ear. The skin under the straw-colored hair was unbroken. The boy had blood smeared on him from the dead wolf, but none of his own, as far as Radovin could see. There were light scrapes and scratches, and more bruises that would make a colorful show later. "You're going to have a big lump, but that's all. You weren't really knocked out, ah?"

"No, I just didn't want to get up right away, not 'til I figured out if I was all in one piece." A wry smile pushed back the frown of pain.

Radovin sat back on a boulder and studied the young fellow. He had neatly trimmed hair, and that speckly skin that often goes with the light color. Good clothes, though mucked up now. No son of shiftless folk, this one. He glanced upward. There was still no sign of anyone else. Flies buzzed over the carcass, loud in the still air of the ravine. "You aren't hunting alone?"

"No, I was with some other kids. Younger. They ran off." The lad looked down. "They didn't want to mess with a wolf," he mumbled.

"But your folks'll be looking for you when you don't come home with the others...."

"Nah. I told Mama I was staying over, and Gambo'll be too shamed to say he ran out on me."

"Gambo's your brother?" The name gave Radovin no clue. Anyone younger than this lad would have been little more than a toddler when he lost contact with anyone outside the Bull band, no one he would remember.

"Uh-uh, cousin, sort of. Grouse band. Vah! I wish Havo'd come along, he'd have stayed."

So, no one following who might jump on Radovin, but it left him feeling responsible for the boy. A bang on the head that knocked you half out of this world...any sort of spirits could sneak in. Or out--they said Zakelar's spirit was stolen when he was dropped on his head as a baby, most of it anyway. The man was certainly missing something.

"Why can't I see right?" The boy rubbed at his eyes. "It's all blurry."

"That's because...when you bang your head real hard it stirs everything up in it, like muddy water. It'll settle after a while. Are you dizzy? Feel like maybe you'll throw up?" Blurred vision was not a good sign, but it didn't mean much by itself. Radovin had been slammed upside the head enough times to know. It did mean he was going to have to help the boy home.

"Nnn...no, just hurts. Are you Dedicated? I thought I knew all of'm."

"Sort of." He didn't want to get on that subject. "I know some healing stuff. Listen, don't worry. Lots of people get banged on the head and there's no harm. I've been knocked silly a few times, that's how I know about it. You'll be all right after a while. I'll help you get home. Then you can get something for the pain and lie down. I wish I had some snow to put on it. You should've waited 'til winter to fall, ah?"

"Yeah. Next time I'll wait." The victim had to smile again. A good sign, though it would not be a good idea to make him laugh just now. Radovin rose and held a hand out. The boy took it and lurched upward. "Thanks. Oh, thunderfire--oww!" Both hands went to his head. "What a stupid thing to do," he muttered.

Radovin wasn't sure whether that meant falling or getting up too fast. He steadied the wobbling boy, who was close to his height. "Put your arm over my shoulder." A quick look up at the edge of the ravine told him they had better get going. The sun would not last out a long walk.

The boy gazed up at the diminishing sunlight too. "How d'you get out of here?"

"There's a slope just up a way, but it's on the wrong side. We have to go way around from there." He waved his free hand northward. "Easier walking than in here, anyhow."

"Around the north end? Is it a long way?"

"Mm...it's about the same either way, I think. I know the north best, makes it shorter for me."

"Vahé We'll never make it back before night. I don't think I can run."

"Don't worry, once we get by the creek I know the way in the dark. We'd best get going. Keep moving steady on and we'll make it." He stepped forward, picking the best path over the rough ground.

"I'm sorry," the boy said. "I feel like a useless crapsack. I'm lucky you came along. My name's Jerevan...White Horse band. Lovaduc is my father."

Radovin nearly made a misstep. White Horse band? The son of the White Horse band's headman? "Ah. Um. Jerevan. Uhm...." Woh! The unexpected turn of fortune knocked him speechless.

"Uh-huh." Jerevan gave him a puzzled squint. "I wish I could see better," he added in a mumbled aside. Then he stumbled on a loose stone. "Ow!"

Radovin braced him. "Careful, ah? Here, it's better to the left. Let me change sides."

They clambered up the caved-in bank. Jerevan nattered on all the way to the upper end of the wash, to distract himself from pain. He kept up a pretty good pace in spite of it. Radovin said "Uh-huh," made encouraging remarks, or gave warning of minor obstacles ahead. Jerevan seemed to have forgotten--or didn't care--that he didn't know his companion's name.

"Hacaben is nosing around again," Ivergan snarled.

"So, what's new?" Bodisar spat on the ground. He stood with his thumbs hooked in his belt, feet wide apart, surveying the campground from in front of Ivergan's tent. "He's as bad as that other old meddler. With any luck, he might not be around much longer either."

"Accidents do happen." Ivergan paused, not long enough for a reply. "He's been asking about Radovin."

Bodisar swung his head around to face the shaman. "Curse the day! Why did you keep that little rat so long? You could have had a proper--"

"Because I had a use for him."

Ivergan's eyes snapped as impatiently as his voice, but Bodisar was hard to stop once he got going.

"What? To fetch and carry? To pound on when you get pissed off? You were never going to let him be initiated. He's nothing but trouble now if he ever was anything more. How much d'you think he really knows?"

"Quiet, Bodo, ah?" Both men looked around anxiously. No one was close enough to hear. "You want to be leader of all bands, don't you? With the power of that one's spirit, I could turn the herd for you easily. One way or another I'd have had it. I only wanted to wait until he had his full strength. He had no idea what he was capable of--or why I strung him along. I can still get it, if Pavo comes through." Ivergan laughed, a bitter chuckle with little humor in it. "And I won't make it easy for him. That little shit will pay for running out on me."

Bodisar shifted his weight, an unconscious preparation to step away. "But that's...." He stopped short of saying, "that's only done in stories about evil sorcerers."

Once you have crossed over one of the lines that society draws between right and wrong, it gets harder to draw any more. Besides, Ivergan was the last person he wanted to anger. Lately the shaman was scary enough as a friend. Bodisar took a couple of breaths to sort himself out, keeping an uneasy eye on Ivergan. "Well, Pavo had better get him before he turns up with more than pictures. Not that anybody would believe what that little rodent might say, but we don't need more questions."

"Where is Pavo hunting?"

"We decided he should start in the northwest, because we've looked everywhere else so far. There's enough space between here and Long Meadow and Spirit Valley to hide in, and nobody goes up that way to hunt, it's all rocks and hamsters. Why didn't you think of that?"

Ivergan's face went through some unpleasant contortions. He glared toward the rising land beyond the creek, now obscured by deep shadows as the vanished sun colored the sky above it. "Yesss, why didn't I?"

Bodisar gave him a quizzical look. "You kept telling me you saw this and that in a vision quest, almost had him pegged, but you were shitting me all along, ah?"

The shaman's head turned, a living fire of reflected sunset flaring in his eyes. His voice was ice cold. "Don't call me a liar, Bodo."

"Hai, I was just pulling your ear."

Ivergan said nothing. Bodisar took a short step away, but hesitated before turning. The shaman ignored him, his gaze gone back westward. Bodisar gave himself a mental shake and left for his tent. He looked back once more before entering. Ivergan still glared intently at the horizon. His right hand hovered over his chest, fingertips moving slightly against his pale tunic.