The Shaman (2 page)

“And
you are very welcome,” the older man said, with a smile. “Thank Lomallin,
too—it is good for the heart. But pray also that the babe will be born with no
further obstacles, Ohaern—she is not safe yet.”

“I
shall,” Ohaern assured him fervently.

“That
is good. I must see to your wife again—though if all goes as it should, there
is nothing that Mardone cannot see to as well as I, and perhaps better. Be
steadfast.” Then the sage was gone again, back into the birthing lodge.

Ohaern
breathed a silent prayer of thanks for his presence, then threw his whole being
into another prayer, and another, while the moans sounded again and again behind
him, then finally grew into screams once more—one final scream that made Ohaern
whirl about, poised and ready to plunge back into the lodge. Before he could,
though, Manalo emerged, smiling, and beckoned. Ohaern bolted in after him like
an arrow from the bow.

There,
in the light from the fire, Ryl lay, face pale and damp, eyes closed—but her
breast rose with breathing, and Ohaern felt something loosen a little within
him. Then he saw Mardone, holding a small and squalling bundle, murmuring to
it, then smiling up at him.

Ohaern
wasn’t aware that he had moved—he only knew that he was standing next to
Mardone, that she was moving aside a fold of fur and he was staring down into a
little, wizened, red face with eyes squeezed shut and a mouth opened in protest.
It seemed to him that he stared at the miracle forever, then finally looked at
Mardone, wide-eyed and incredulous.

“A
son, not the daughter you expected,” she said, “but whole and hale—and Ryl is
worn out, poor thing. She has lost much blood, but not enough to be in danger.
She must rest, rest long, but she will be very well within the week.”

“I
cannot thank you enough!”

“Of
course you can—by being good to her and helping her in anything she asks. Kiss
her now, for I must give the babe back into her arms for a few minutes—what it
seeks, I can no longer give.”

Ohaern
turned away and sank down on his knees, then reached out with a trembling,
gentle touch. Ryl opened her eyes, gave him a very weary, very exultant smile,
and his kiss lingered long on her lips. But he had no sooner lifted his head
then Mardone was nudging him aside and laying the baby on Ryl’s breast. Ohaern
stared, fascinated, as the child began to nurse, and a wave of tenderness
engulfed him, then bore him up on a surge of desire.

No.
Time enough for that when she was well—in weeks, in a month. For now, he turned
to the sage, who stood watching and smiling in the firelight. Ohaern bowed. “How
can I thank you, Manalo? Ask anything of me, and I shall give it!”

“Some
food, and a bed,” Manalo told him, “for I am wearied.”

“The
best of beds, and the best of food! Come!” Ohaern led the sage out into the
night, where the sky was burgeoning with the light that spread before the
sunrise, making the branches stark and skeletal against the washed sky. Across
the clearing they went, past the great central lodge and into the one that was
Ohaern’s. He swept the hides aside with a forearm and bowed Manalo in. “Enter
my house!”

The
sage gave him a weary smile of thanks and went in. Ohaern hurried after him,
kneeling by the fire pit to add kindling and blow the coals aflame, then
leaping up to open the smoke hole. The flames leaped up, revealing a neat,
clean home that fairly breathed of Ryl—the dried flowers, the fragrant herbs,
the neatly mended curtains around the wall-bed.

Manalo
eyed it and shook his head. “I cannot take your bed, Ohaern. Make me a pallet
on the floor, if you please.”

“Surely,
Manalo! A pallet, just as you say—but I shall rest there, not you! No, do not
protest—you have saved my wife! After so long a journey, and such a night of
watching, you must have a proper feather bed and blanket!”

Manalo
opened his mouth to protest, but Ohaern said quickly, “I shall not sleep in any
case. I am too excited, and too much relieved.”

“Very
well, if you will have it so.” Manalo gave in with a smile. “I shall rest,
then.”

“But
first, you must dine!” Ohaern snatched flat bread and cheese, and began to cut
thick slices with his belt knife. “It will be poor fare, only bread and cheese
and beer. It would be much, much better if Ryl were here—but since she is not,
and since I think you would rather have plain food quickly than—”

“Bread
and cheese will be a blessing.” Manalo hung his cloak on a peg, then sat down
on the bedside and kicked off his boots with a sigh.

“Plain
fare, but quick!” Ohaern presented the meal on a wooden platter, with every bit
as much deference as if he served a god himself, or a southern king. Manalo
took the platter, and Ohaern pressed a tankard of ale into his hand. “Dine and
sleep, O Sage! Then wake and dine, and rest again! You must stay with me
several days at least, that I may show you my gratitude!”

“I
am nothing loath to stay awhile, to not go upon the road again,” Manalo
admitted, “for my life is given to wandering from village to village. I would
be glad to stay with you some days.”

“Wandering?”
Ohaern asked, puzzled. “So worthy a man as you? Why would you not stay and
become a chieftain?”

“Because
I am devoted to Lomallin’s cause,” Manalo explained, “that of serving
humankind, of uplifting them and bringing light to their souls.”

“You
are a teacher!” Ohaern cried.

“I
am. And I go where Lomallin sends me—to this village, then that, staying until
the Ulin tells me to go to another.”

“As
he has told you to come to us! Praise Lomallin!” Ohaern knew the term “Ulin,”
of course—it was the kind-name of the beings humankind worshiped as gods. It
was seldom that anyone used it, though, and he wondered why Manalo had.

“Praise
Lomallin indeed, for the woman lives.” Manalo handed back platter and mug with
a sigh. “Now I shall rest— then tomorrow, I shall teach.”

Well,
it was not the next day, for Manalo slept through half of it, then hovered over
Ryl until he was sure she was well and would be so without him. After that it
was time to dine again, and time to sleep, so it was the day after before he
began to teach.

But
once he had begun, there was no stopping him. He taught the arrow makers how to
twist the feathers to make the arrows fly more truly; he taught the women new
plants to gather and showed them some seeds that they could bury in the earth,
promising that when they came to this village site again the next year, the
seeds would have grown into plants, assuring them food. He showed Ohaern a
strange sort of glittering rock, then showed him how to build a fire that made
part of it melt into grooves dug in the earth. When that part had cooled, it
was a metal stronger than copper, and Manalo showed Ohaern how to heat it
again, then take a hammer-stone and beat it into any sort of shape he wanted—an
arrowhead, a spearhead, or even a knife, and, wonder of wonders, a great long
knife called a sword. For, “You shall need such things,” the teacher assured
him, “if the creatures of Ulahane should come against you.”

Ohaern
shuddered—even he, the mighty hunter and warrior—for he, too, had heard of the
twisted, misbegotten shapes that the evil god, the human-hater, had made to
plague the younger races. He bent to the work with a will, learning how to make
weapons far better than any he had ever seen, for he had a wife to protect, and
now a child.

Ryl
continued to thrive, and the child grew even in those few days, while Manalo
taught the women new medicine and new ways of healing. But the truly esoteric
lore he saved for Mardone and Chaluk, the shamans.

He
taught the hunters new signs to seek out when they tracked game, new ways to
trap the wolves and wildcats that stole the quarry, and a new way to ask the
bear for its meat. He taught the children new games and a set of signs they
could draw in the earth with sticks, to talk to one another when the other was
not there. He taught everyone everything; there seemed to be nothing he did not
know.

Then,
one day, he said to Ohaern, “Lomallin summons me away. This will be my last
night among you.”

Ohaern
cried out in protest, but the sage was stubborn—go he must, but this last night
he would teach something new to all the village. So they all gathered around
the great fire in the big lodge, and Manalo sat in the chieftain’s chair and
told them a tale they already knew—but told it in a way that made them feel
they had never heard it before, and surely he told them parts of it they had
never heard. They sat spellbound half that night, the youngest child and the
oldest grandmother and everyone in between, hanging upon his words as Manalo
told, all over again, and all anew, the tale of the Ulin.

Before
He created humankind,” said Manalo, “the Creator made the elder kind, the Ulin,
from the four elements of Earth, Air, Fire, and Water—not in equal parts, but
in those most suited to magical beings, who would be best equipped to enjoy the
world that the Creator had set before them. He gave each Ulin-man a mind of his
own, each Ulin-woman a mind of
her
own, and did not compel them to thank
or worship their Creator in any way—and being so well-suited to pleasure, they
set themselves to worship that instead.”

“Therein
was a mistake,” said one of the men.

But
Manalo shook his head. “The Creator does not make mistakes, though it may seem
so to humankind—and of course, to the Ulin, it seemed that
humankind
was
the mistake”

“Would
they not then challenge the Creator?” another asked.

“No
more than you—for you, too, are each born with minds of your own, and it would
do you well to remember that. Oh, to us they seem to be giants, each born with
the power to work magic, each a hundred times stronger than any of us, with far
greater minds and senses—but intelligence by itself does not confer wisdom, and
greater perception does not bring insight.”

“But
the Ulin are immortal,” a woman objected.

Manalo
nodded. “Left to themselves, they will not die—nor can any mere mortal slay
them. But they can slay one another, yes, which is why there are so few of them
left—for none of them saw any reason why he should not take all the pleasure he
could, even at another’s expense.”

An
old woman shook her head, muttering, “Surely they had pleasures enough at their
beck and call, without slaying one another!”

“They
did indeed. They drew their sustenance from the elements themselves, so they
did not need to work; though they enjoyed eating the fruits of the earth, they
did so only for pleasure, not from need. They only hunted for the joy of it and
gathered what they wished to dine upon—but they enjoyed fighting, too.”

“And
their greatest fighter was Marcoblin!” a boy cried with excitement.

Manalo
nodded. “Marcoblin was the best with sword and spear, and stronger than any but
Agrapax the wondersmith— and Agrapax had no interest in fighting, of course.”

“But
Marcoblin could compel him!” the boy insisted.

Manalo
shook his head. “None could compel Agrapax, for it was he who made the weapons,
and no warrior dared risk his displeasure. Those who did, saw their swords
break in then-hands in the midst of battle, and died. But Marcoblin could slay
others, and many were the Ulin who thought twice about defying him if he told
them to do something.”

“Only
thought twice?” the boy frowned. “Did he not rule them all?”

“You
do not ‘rule’ an Ulin,” Manalo said slowly, “no matter how great a fighter you
are, for all Ulin work magic, and few indeed were equally skilled with both
weapons and spells. Marcoblin certainly was not, and himself had need to beware
of those mightier with magic.”

“Then
he was not truly their king?” a man asked.

“Not
truly, but he was as much of a king as the Ulin ever had. Still and all, he
could not truly command any who did not willingly follow him, especially since
there were many Ulin who did not wish to fight at all, and withstood him by
magic alone, or by banding together against him.”

“But
he formed his own band,” the man insisted.

“He
formed his own band,” the sage acknowledged, “and foremost among them was
Ulahane—not quite so skilled with weapons as Marcoblin, but that was no wonder,
for there had been many who had not been quite so skilled as he. The difference
was that Ulahane still lived.”

A
ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the throng. “But Ulahane was still
mighty,” the man insisted.

“Still
mighty, but by virtue of his anger and the intensity of his vindictiveness,”
Manalo said.

“And
Marcoblin’s band fought another band?”

“They
did,” Manalo confirmed, “and many died on both sides—but none won, for where
Marcoblin’s band assaulted with weapons, Harnon’s band excelled with magic. In
the end, both bands stepped back, leaving many dead, but none a clear winner.
There were no more fights between bands after that.”

“Lomallin
was Harnon’s lieutenant, was he not?”

“No,
but he was one of the magic-workers who repelled Marcoblin’s band.”

“Was
that when the enmity between Ulahane and Lomallin began?” asked a woman.

“No,
it had been there for some time already, but that is not saying much, for there
had been enmity between Ulahane and nearly every other Ulin almost since the
beginning.”

“Then
after that, the only Ulin who fought one another were those who enjoyed it?”
another boy asked.

“That
is true, but there were many who enjoyed fighting. Indeed, it seemed that the
greatest pleasure of most Ulin men was combat.”

“And
coupling,” an old woman said dryly, “but not marriage.”

Manalo
shrugged. “No Ulin woman needed to marry, for she had no need of a huntsman to
bring her food, nor of a protector, for the Ulin women were as mighty as the
men.”