Chapter Eight: Empty Dreams

"So, what do you think, Nechebar?"

The wiry, older hunter of the pair facing Hacaben shrugged. "Not a lot to go with, but Jaroden has been pissing and moaning about Pavolen getting more than his share, and some other small matters. I think he'd give a straight story if he knows anything. As for that missing boy of Ivergan's...." He shook his head slowly. "That's a queer case. But you can get a word here and there. I can't believe they'd have just left him there alone every summer. I mean, I can see it for a few days now and then. My grandson says it strengthens the spirit, and the Good Ones know it's done wonders for him."

Hacaben smiled, nodding. "Yes, Thedo is coming along well, isn't he? What about your cousin, what's his name, Meroven? He isn't right on Bodo's belt, is he?"

"No, and yes. He does like the one-leader idea." Nechebar wrinkled his nose. "But I think he has some doubts lately about who it should be."

"Zako has more than doubts," the other man put in, with a wry smile.

"That he does, Tigo, but he hasn't got a pot to boil 'em in," Nechebar said, tapping his head. "What about Tereken? I didn't see him around today."

"Hunting." Tigoren shrugged one shoulder.

"Not with Pavolen, ah?" Hacaben lost his nonchalance.

"Shit, no. Not him. He told me some time ago he's had it with that one. Tero's so fed up he's been thinking of quitting the band. He hasn't said anything, not in so many words, to Bodo, nor Pavo. Might be a surprise to either when he does. He'll take a few with him." Tigoren grinned. Then he frowned. "They're hunting for that Radovin fellow, I think, Pavo and his raiders. I hope they don't find him."

"I know. I hope so too," Hacaben said.

"D'you think that's who's put those pictures around," Nechebar asked, with new interest. "Is that what we're stalking?"

"Woh! You'd better not leave camp alone," Tigoren exclaimed. "They don't like some of the snooping you've been doing already--ah, pardon my choice of words."

"Hmm, no, I suppose not," Hacaben said. He stroked his beard thoughtfully.

Ottavar brought Jerevan back from the sweat lodge, both of them damp-haired and clean as new cooking stones. He told Jerevan to lie down and keep warm, then turned to watch Radovin playing a game of flint-bone-hide with Tucali. It seemed so natural, they might have been brother and sister.

"How is it going?" he said after another round was over.

"All right," Radovin said, his voice and face expressionless.

Tucali beamed. "I'm winning. My bone chipped his flint two times." She held up three fingers.

"That's nice." Ottavar patted her head. "Rado, I need to talk to you some more, but I don't know if I'll have time tonight. I have to see Hacaben, talk over what else he's found out, maybe see some other people."

"I don't know any more," Radovin said.

Ottavar squatted by Tucali to study her playmate, whose guarded face lost its liveliness the moment the attention of any adult focused on it. "Not about that, about you."

"Oh." Radovin looked at his hands, lying limp on his lap, not flint, hide nor bone any more.

"You know healing, and herbs, ah?"

"Some."

A lot more than some, I'll bet my best beads on it. According to Jerevan, his on-the-spot examination had been thorough and professional. "Let me show you where I keep the medicine things. Then you can make Jero some tea if his head aches. Or to help him sleep better if he needs it. I might not get back until way late tonight." Likely with a skinfull of hucha if Hac is in the mood...better count cups.

A hide painted with a white horse and other symbols hung between two of the tent's supporting poles, creating an enclosed space between it and the sloping tent wall. Ottavar lifted it to reveal an array of objects and containers. "All of the medicines are here, and anything else you might want. Use whatever you need. This basket has the sleeping-herbs, the mild ones. I don't think anything stronger will be needed. The willowbark is in here, and the feverfew. But you would know what's what, ah?"

"I know the herbs, yes."

Radovin's gaze moved over the baskets and bundles with little show of real interest, but lingered on several hoop drums of different sizes leaning against a log drum. Ottavar picked up a drum and offered it to him. "Here, play the drum for Tookie, she'll sing for you. That'll keep her happy for a while." He saw a faint glimmer of response in Radovin's eyes and went for it.

"You like to drum, ah?"

"Yeah."

Radovin's voice was still flat as a grass mat. Only the way his hands curved lovingly over the drum's frame betrayed any feeling. Ottavar regretted not having time to push further. Tomorrow, after taking Tiwa to Balekara--dash it, he should have done that today but--well, anyway, after that, he'd sit down with Rado and try to loosen him up. Or maybe Mama could...no, except for that crying fit last night, the most she gets from him is please-and-thank-you. She's got enough to do anyway. Ottavar sighed.

"All right, I'll see you later, then. May all good be with you."

"And with you," Radovin said, more to the drum than to Ottavar.

Tucali had gone to see how "poor Jerevan" was, but she came skipping back to Radovin when he sat down with the drum. "I can sing," she said, plopping herself down on her cushion again. Ottavar paused near the entrance to watch them.

Radovin tapped the drum a few times, testing its tonal qualities with obvious expertise, then began a steady beat. Havener came in the back way, holding his grandmother's hand. He sat near Tucali while Zhamavi got a warm fur to wrap around herself when she joined them.

Ottavar turned away and slipped out the door. Tucali's chant followed him as he strode away from the tent:

A ray from the lowering sun glanced through the smokehole to illuminate the tent. Radovin delivered the end of another story to his entranced audience.

"...Raven was too quick and clever to be caught like that. He flew off, and instead of hitting him, the magic bounced back on the three bear-sorcerers and they turned to stone. You can see them to this day, in a valley west of here."

"Jero an' me climbed all over 'em once," Havener said. He made growling noises at Tucali to make her giggle.

So did I, once, Radovin thought, with Pug and Skimper and those kids from the Bison and Hare bands. The ones whose names he hardly remembered were probably alive yet.

The children heard new voices outside. They scrambled up and left the dim, stuffy tent. Zhamavi followed, after thanking Radovin for entertaining them. He nodded politely.

The brooding storyteller was alone except for Jerevan, who seemed to have dozed off. His store of fables and legends, stirred up to the surface by Tookie's demands, still distracted him, but not pleasantly. What came to mind now might give a little girl bad dreams. Radovin hunched forward, staring at the floor mat, seeing only the pictures inside his head.

Once upon a time there was a shaman who wanted more power than he was given. This man left the true path and spoke with spirits of darkness. He learned that he could steal the spirits of other initiates, and he became very powerful. But as he ate the hearts and souls of other men and his power grew, his own heart turned to stone.

The first sorcerer lived longer than three men, but met his downfall at last. That was not the end of it though. The evil one's body crumbled to dust; and lying in that dust was the stone that had been his heart. When his unsuspecting apprentice picked it up, a craving for power possessed him.

The Good Spirits themselves had to intervene. The heart-stone was put in the sky, a wandering red star to warn men not to step over the bounds of decency and respect for life.

According to another storyline, the sorcerer kept his own spirit in a stone, and added stolen power to it. He could not die as long as he had the stone. One day it slipped out of his hand and dropped into a hole in the earth. A badger found it and gave it to his enemy, and so he died. But the stone still held the evil spirit and wreaked mischief on whoever held it.

In all versions of the ancient tale, good intentions went bad, violence and death followed until some deity or hero stepped in. Radovin wrenched his mind back into the present with a shudder. The story of his crappy life had no great villains, and no great heroes. His final role was to help ordinary men defeat a couple of mortal sons-of-jagals with bare truth for a weapon. There would be no happy ending for him, just an end.

Friends, Hacaben had said; he had friends here. No, too late. He had sworn his life away and then broken his vow. The good Earth would swallow his shame soon enough. He hoped it wouldn't hurt too much, though physical pain would be easier to handle than this.

He clenched his hands and jaws against the relentless assault of his own weakness. Shut up, ah? You know how to do it, turn everything away, stand aside from yourself. He closed his eyes and reached for a very dark and quiet place. There were a few things he had to do yet, but he didn't have to feel everything.

Ottavar had not had much hucha, but the growing moon chose a bad moment to hide its face and he stubbed his toe on one pole of a sturdy tripod that had not been there when he left. It held a fresh supply of meat out of the reach of bold scavengers. Evidently the hunters had found quarry sooner than expected. Though he didn't yelp and cuss very loud, he was noticed. His brother emerged from the tent while he was still rubbing his toes, holding onto the offending pole with his other hand.

"Hai, you hurt your what?" Bazenaber whispered.

Their old private joke, funny enough if you knew how it started. Ottavar smiled. "I see the hunt was successful. I hope I didn't wake anybody up."

"You weren't that loud. Anyway, Lovo's snoring again." Bazenaber's grin gleamed in the scant light.

Ottavar laughed quietly. He could hear it, like a bass cicada. "Sheri will roll him over soon." He straightened up and stood closer. "Anyone else up yet?"

"No. All gone sleepy-byes. Making up for the last couple of nights. I just stayed up to keep the fire going 'til you got back, in case you wanted tea."

"Thanks, Baz."

"Pah. I can lie in as long as I like tomorrow. We have plenty of meat, anyway."

"I see that." They both chuckled. "You had good luck," Ottavar added. "I thought you wouldn't be back 'til tomorrow, at least."

"Yeah. We almost fell over the deer, never thought we'd find any so close. Everybody had to drop everything and bust ass when we got back. Mama roasted some good bones for tomorrow's soup. You hungry? You could snag a few bits off 'em. That's all there is ready to eat except the old dry stash."

"No, I had a bite here and there."

"Any good news?"

"Some. Nothing to get excited about. How's everything here? Jero?"

"Jer's fine, no headaches. Except maybe from everybody asking him."

"Radovin?"

Baz hesitated slightly. "Worse. Closed up like a cache. I could see the difference when I got back. He's all right with Tookie. She's claimed him for herself. Had him telling stories, Mavi said." Bazenaber paused, nibbling at a fingernail. "Otherwise, he's like a rock, except for making sure Jero was all right. Well, he ate what he was given, Mama said. She'd have a grass-fire if he didn't, ah? He doesn't offer anything, doesn't ask anything. Acts like he's trying to be invisible. Mavi said he almost talked to her. You're worried about him, ah? I would be."

"Almost!" Ottavar chuckled again, but with no mirth. "Yeah. I'm worried. Something's very wrong there. I'm going to have a talk with him tomorrow, find out what's eating him. Then we can get him settled in right. He's asleep?"

"Uh-huh. Mama put him in your bed again. I'm flopping with Jero and Havo. I'll be warm, anyway. Everybody's at home tonight. The giggle-tent is full, Sumi and Bani both have friends over. They grabbed all the spare bedding. Again."

"I hope he doesn't mind my company."

"Some people have all the luck."

"Luco will be free tomorrow." Ottavar patted his shoulder in half-mocking commiseration.

"Ah, I'll survive another night. I don't think he's a clout-flipper anyway." Bazenaber dodged a brotherly punch to the ribs. "Besides...." His smile fell into a yawn. "I better crawl in and get some sleep too. The wiggly-boys will've settled down by now."

"Go on, then. I need to think a little, then I'll flop."

Ottavar watched him vanish into the tent. They had shared a bed as long as he could remember. It was inevitable that brothers would separate, unless they shared a woman; not an option for Baz, who preferred men. The comfortable habit was hard to break, but the change was harder on Baz. His strong, protective older brother had bad dreams if he slept alone. Even Kayotar had never been able to help with that.

The evening fire was a bed of coals buried in ash. With all but two lamps put out, darkness revealed life within the embers, a rippling play of ruddy light. Ottavar stood naked at the hearth. He lifted his arms and raised his face toward the smokehole, eyes closed. His lips formed silent words.

"Baradezhada, Lady of Fire, I seek your help, I seek your wisdom. Kindle my spirit with your burning light and guide me, help me to bring Radovin back, to free him from the dark spirit that binds him. Give me your sight, I pray."

He stood there for a short while, his arms spread in a wide arc embracing the radiant heat of the hearth. Then he bowed his head and lowered his arms to his sides. After another moment, he walked slowly to his bed.

Radovin lay asleep in a tight curl. His head jerked up when Ottavar lifted the covering hide to slip in. He squirmed backward against the side of the tent, a cornered animal. "Hai, relax," Ottavar whispered. "Thanks for warming the bed." Radovin remained immobile while the shaman slid in.

"Good night, Radovin. May you dream well." Ottavar settled on his side, facing away from his reluctant bedfellow. Let bad enough alone. Tomorrow I'll draw him out. He yawned and closed his eyes.

Radovin woke out of a dream of running from something he couldn't see.

A warm fur covered him and someone else. Ottavar--he remembered the shaman coming to bed. He had awakened, disoriented, when his covering moved. By habit, he had anticipated the violent blow of a foot, fist, or stick of wood.

The sides of the tent wavered with shadows. Light snores from bundled sleepers broke the hush of night. An owl called, another answered it. The man beside him stirred, rolled onto his back without fully waking. Radovin raised his head higher to gaze at the peaceful face so close to his own, eyelids twitching over a dream. He smelled a trace of hucha.

How odd, to share the bed of a kind-hearted stranger. He wished that he could have known this man before. They might have been friends. He'd had friends once, had slept warm in a boy-heap at Summermeets.

Memories haunted the night; lost, untouchable spirits of the past. Radovin's mother, always loving and patient, telling him the names and uses of herbs as he helped her gather them. The last Summermeet before her death, where she had pointed out Kayotar. The man stood some distance away, too involved in a conversation to notice them. "That is the shaman of the White Horse band," she had said. "Next year, I'm going to ask him to take you as his apprentice. You're a little young for it yet, but I'm sure he'll take you."

"Why him, Mama?" Radovin wanted to dedicate himself to the Way, like his grandfather, a kindly man who told wonderful stories. Grandpapa was dead, along with so many others. The only constant in his life was his mother. They would be staying with the Bull band this winter, with people who were strangers to him though some were his mother's kin. They were not close kin, nor very welcoming. The band's shaman was distant and cold. Children didn't ask him to tell stories, they avoided him.

"Because he is the best. That is enough for you to know, my curious little blackbird." She smiled her sad smile that had once been happier. He smiled back, and she poked his nose with her forefinger. Then she hugged him tightly. At the time, he had felt he was getting too old for all that hugging and nose-poking. Less than half a year later, he would have given anything for more.

Whatever plans she had died with her. The Bull band had no use for a solitary orphan, especially one who was a bad luck bringer. He fetched and carried so he could ask for a little to eat, slept wherever he was not driven away from.

Ivergan had waited until he was desperate with cold and hunger. The offer of apprenticeship seemed like an act of generosity. Radovin was a nobody, a liability to the band. But Ivergan would help him overcome his spiritual contamination, and teach him as well.

He had little choice if he wanted to stay alive. At least he sort of knew where he stood. He had a place to sleep and something like regular meals, and he was following his chosen vocation, if not quite as planned.

Now, after years of dogged study, of trying so hard to win the approval of a harsh teacher who constantly beat down his hopes of attainment, he had nothing. He would never be initiated, never be anything or anybody. There was nothing left for him when he was done here. These good people had their own lives. He had none, he had thrown it away, spent it on a broken vow. He should have died too, should have gone out into the winter night and let the cold claim him.

One task remained to give him purpose. Once it was done, he could finish the rest himself. After he told what he knew at the Council meeting, he could slip away someplace and bust a sharp flake off what was left of his dull knife. Bleeding to death wasn't such a bad way to go. Why wait around when he was doomed anyway? The spirits had better things to do than to arrange for the removal of one insignificant failure.

Radovin wormed closer until his head lay against Ottavar's shoulder. He could pretend, just once, for a little while.

He walked barefoot in a sheltered valley where trees grew well over man-height. Thick foliage shrouded the forest, disturbingly quiet with no wind or birds. A sunlit opening beckoned to him.

In the clearing lay the bleached skull of a mammoth, tusks swooping in long, dazzling white curves. A raven perched on one of them.

"I see you again, Radovin," the bird said, in a hoarse whisper.

"I see you too, dark-winged one." The ambiguous spirit had not spoken to him directly since the Long Night of last winter. Raven had told him to wait. The time would come, he had said. The time for what, Radovin had asked. Raven had vanished without answering. That was just like him.

Raven liked to remind men that nothing was certain but uncertainty. It figured that such a one would honor Radovin with his protection and guidance. Raven was said to have assisted in the creation of the world. That could explain a lot of things.

"What do you want with me?" Radovin frowned at his spirit mentor. It was a bit late for any guidance or teaching, with his life story at its end.

"Why are you here?"

"I don't know. To die, I s'pose. I'm going to anyway." Radovin poked his toes into the soft black peat beneath the carpet of lush green ferns and moss, the dark womb of the Earth from which all life comes and to which it all returns.

"That would be a foolish waste," a softer voice said.

"Wha--?" Radovin jerked his head up. The raven was gone. Instead, Kayotar stood between the arching tusks, sad eyes meeting Radovin's baffled stare. Kayotar? Again?

Kayotar shook his head. "You have better things to do than die."

Radovin glared at the old dead man. Frustrated tears burned behind his eyes. "Like what? I don't have anything to live for. What do you want with me? I don't know you, I just got mixed up with you because that lying worm that stole my life killed you."

This was only a dream, after all, only another dream like all the dreams he had wasted his life on. What good had being respectful and polite done him? Just got him shat on, that was all.

"It was all lies," he shouted, fists clenched. "I fooled myself and let myself be fooled. I don't even know if it'll do any good to tell what I know. Who will believe me? I'm nobody, nothing, useless. I threw away my life, gave it to that defiling curse-hacker for--for nothing! Everything I ever had, ever hoped for, is gone. There's nothing, it's all gone! I'm empty!"

"What fills the sky?" Kayotar held up his empty hands. His eyes were dark and mysterious as Raven's. "A drum is empty."

The dream slipped away into darkness, the last words echoing on. "A drum is empty...."