It should have been a warm day. It looked like a warm day. The sun was shining. Winter had long passed. A gaggle of children were leaping and splashing in the water, drenched from head to toe. But all he could feel was a cold ache throbbing in his legs and arms.

He had been a young man once. He had hunted and chased the mammoths, and the buffalo. He had helped kill many a long-tooth cat, and more wolves than he could count. Until the Great Winter. He had failed the spirits; he had not made the Clan give the spirits the respect they demanded. The memories of the dead were a testament to his mistake.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts of the dead. It was bad for them and bad for him as well. But it was harder and harder to push them away. Especially his wife. Visions and memories of her had started to torment him ever since the first of the Starfall children had gotten married. It seemed incredible that the Clan had even survived the Great Winter, but yet on a late summer day, only six months ago he had married Reya, child of the Starfall to Korak, a widowed hunter. Everyone else had celebrated and sang and danced, and he had sat on a log, watching it all with his aching feet and stiffening hands, constantly slipping back, thinking of his youth, his wife, and his children.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts of the dead. Pak was still here, and he had fit into his adopted family very well. Shaman scanned the campground – there he was, with a gang of older boys, carrying spears off into the grasslands to practice their hunting. He looked so much like his father did at that age. A little taller, perhaps, and with hair like his mothers’, but so often he had caught himself calling the boy by the father’s name. A natural mistake, perhaps, to call a grandson by a son’s name. And then the memories and the pain would come anew.

Shaman could still remember the day the hunters had brought Poro, his son, back from a hunting trip, bloodied and broken, crushed in a buffalo stampede. The boy’s mother had been struck down two years before, collapsing suddenly in the middle of sewing. He glanced at Pak again. The boy had only seen nine Starfalls, but his omens already seemed bleak.

Shena walked past carrying a bag stinking of fish. She seemed to take extra care not to look at him. This was nothing new – she had been angry with him for many years, ever since he had forbidden her from using the Song of Thanks to make food. She had felt it was wrong not to use the gifts of the spirits. But Shaman knew. He had made the mistake of underestimating the ferocity of their wrath and the ease with which they were angered. He would not make that mistake again. You must never use the Song. It was given to us in a time of great need. They will be angry if we use it for our simple convenience.

You don’t know that, Shena had responded. Her former tribe had no religious leader, and she did not have the respect for him that the Red Cave Clanspeople had. It will make our lives so much different. This is powerful magic, not like the rain dances and the buffalo songs that you have taught us.

But in the eyes of the tribe, Shaman’s word was law with regard to these matters, and she had backed down. But she had never forgiven him. And he suspected she had been defying him as well.

“Shena. A moment.” She reluctantly stopped, and turned to face him.

“I would like to see your catch.”

Doubt crossed Shena’s face, or was it fear? “Shaman, the Clan is hungry. I must get these fish to the fire.”

She is up to something. He shook his head. “They can wait a moment. I just want to look at them.”

Shena shrugged, and opened the sack. He reached inside, and pulled out a trout, neatly speared behind the eyes. He pulled out another – speared through the middle. It flopped weakly in his hands. Perhaps I have misjudged her.

He studied her face. She looked relieved. No, she is just clever. He reached in again, and pulled out another fish – no, wait, it was the same as the first, with a neat hole behind the head. And another, with a hole through the middle, flopping weakly. Now she looked worried. Transferring that fish to his left hand, he dug into the sack, ignoring the slimy scales and sharp fins, and pulled one out of the middle. Still wriggling, with a hole through the middle. He held the two fish up against each other. The holes were identical.

He thrust the fish back in the bag. “You have disobeyed me, and endangered the Clan. This will not stand.”

Shena did not respond. Turning, she walked quickly towards the cooking fires. He watched as the other women surrounded her, praising her skill with the spear. If they noticed the fish were almost all identical, they didn’t say anything about it. Within moments the fish were sizzling on a stick over the fire, baking on hot stones or being filleted for their bones and skins.

A flame of anger sizzled and spat in the back of his head, but he kept it in check. This was not the time or the place.

He limped back towards Red Cave. Daro was out front, carefully shaving down the edge of a large tree trunk. Every once in a while he would look around for someone or something. He was a great toolmaker and builder, and carried great respect with most of the clan. Attempting to punish Shena would be a disaster. He would make his accusation, Daro would call for a council, the council would side with the toolmaker, and Shaman’s power and prestige in the Clan would be greatly reduced.

Hopefully the spirits would not punish them tonight. He would need time to gather support to his side. And even still, he had other concerns.

“Have you seen Roggo?” he asked a passing hunter. The man gestured towards the top of the hill rising over the entrance. Of course, he thought. Another challenge for my day. He turned and headed eastwards, searching for the path that led to the top. Roggo often spent his mornings on the hilltop, claiming a desire to watch the plains. But Shaman was certain it was at least in part to make an old man’s life difficult.

The trip to the top was as frustrating as it was tiring. As a young man, when they had wintered here he had raced others to the top of this hill almost every day, and won as often as not. Now, it was painful, and slow, and even a little scary. The path wound back and forth through mixed patches of rock and grass, slowly working towards the summit. As he walked, Shaman chanced a peek over the edge, down towards the camp, just a good stone’s throw below. Still the Sun had moved well across the sky before he reached the gently rounded heights. The wind greeted him as he crested the hill, whistling through the rocks and low bushes. Two voices drifted across the top, two men, one older, one younger, hidden behind two great boulders. Shambling forward, he rounded the rocks and stepped into Roggo’s creche.

The chief was in his ceremonial place, a flat bench of stone, sheltered from behind by the boulders, with a view of the northern plains and the silver river as it twisted and turned through those plains, and up into the mountains. Armis, his son was at his feet, listening intently as Roggo narrated a story.

It is good that Armis is here. This concerns him as well. It was inappropriate to interrupt Roggo while speaking, and frankly he was glad for the respite as his heart pounded heavily

“The trap had worked – the buffalo were trapped at the bottom of the pit, and the sides were too steep and slippery with rain for the beasts to scale. Murg was with me, and we both laughed and shouted and danced like fools at the top of the pit.”

Shaman recognized this story – he had treated Murg’s wounds, although the man had never been quite the same thereafter.

“And fools we were, because the lip of the pit gave way under Murg’s weight, and he tumbled down to the bottom, his head smashing against a rock and lay very still. That is where he received the great scar that burdens his face. The buffalo were angry at being captured, and startled at the intrusion, and bellowed and challenged him.”

“I had a choice to make then – rescue my friend, or go for help. Which do you think I did? If you had been in my place, what would you have done?”

Armis pondered for a moment. He was much like his father in height, although much more slim and limber. That was typical, most of the boys only added significant muscle as they stopped growing. At seventeen years, Armis still probably had little growth left in him. He was one of only two children who had survived the Great Winter, mostly from his mother’s force of will. Somehow she had kept the boy healthy as she was slowly starving in that snowy wasteland.

Shaman shook his head, to clear his thoughts of the dead.

“I would have gone down into the pit, and rescued Murg.”

Roggo frowned. “What about the buffalo? How would you defend yourself against them?”

Armis shrugged. “I would have brought my spear with me, and killed them if they came too close.”

“One man against two full grown buffalo?”

Armis shook his head. “They are afraid of men. I would make lots of noise, and I think they would stay away.” He paused, and glanced at his father.

Roggo remained silent for a moment and then nodded. “Very good. In truth, one of the buffalo was wounded and angry, and I was forced to kill it. The other one left us alone, and I was able to drag Murg to safety.”

Shaman coughed quietly, thinking the lesson to be complete, but Roggo ignored him.

“The next summer, a ravenous long-toothed cat attacked me while we were on a hunting trip. It gave me these.” he raised his thick, muscular hands to his face, where four faint white lines drifted across his cheek and down his jaw. They were barely visible behind his thick black beard.

“And these.” He stood up, and pulled down his pants, showing another set of white claw marks across his thigh. Pulling his pants back up, he lifted his shirt and turned around.

Shaman knew without having to look that there were two large round scars, side by side on his shoulder, where the cat had gone for his neck, and missed by just a few inches. He still remembered Murg, cradling the larger man in his massively muscled arms, staggering back to the main camp. For three days he had stumbled his way across the grasslands, ripping their clothes into bandages until they were naked but for the blood and the three scarlet-stained wraps.

For the next seven days Roggo had fought for life, sick and weak from loss of blood and the cat’s poisons. Shaman had been almost certain that the man was doomed, but the spirits listened to his songs and sacrifices, and were merciful. The wounds stopped oozing and began to scab, the fever faded, and within a few days he was able to leave Shaman’s care.

Shaman started falling sideways, and then jerked himself upright. Drifted off again. Roggo was still talking.

“–remember how he killed the beast, but when I woke from my pains in Shaman’s camp, Murg presented me with the cat’s hide, freshly scraped and ready for stretching. And that is the lesson of loyalty. I barely did anything for Murg – I only rescued him from a pit with two buffalo. But he killed a wild long-tooth and carried me across the plains for three days to save my life. We are bound together in life by the spirits.”

Armis nodded solemnly.

Roggo glanced over his shoulder. “Shaman. What do you need?”

Shaman leaned forward. “It is past time that we sent warriors to search for the other tribes.”

Roggo frowned. “We are not ready for that. I don’t have enough hunters to keep the Clan supplied with food while half of them are off searching for old stories.”

Shaman shook his head. “We do not have much more time. Four more of the children become adults today. They cannot wait for mates forever. Armis cannot wait forever.”

Armis’s eyes were focused attentively on Shaman. Inwardly, Shaman smiled. You see, this does affect you.

Roggo stood, growling. “Where would we search? We have seen almost no one since the Great Winter. Where would we even start?”

Shaman had learned to expect this response from Roggo. “Two years ago, Krat and Dow met with hunters from another tribe. They told us they were from a village to the north, on the Silver river. We should start there.”

“Yes, I remember” Roggo said, impatiently, pacing back and forth across the ledge.

Shaman persisted. “Two years ago, we did not have the hunters to spare. But now with Barak and Tohm reaching adulthood, we can afford this journey. Send hunters out to search for this other village.”

Roggo turned. “Armis. What do you think of this?”

Armis shrugged. “I have no interest in either Mika or Shara as a mate. And other than my cousin Oola, the rest of the girls are many years away from their Starfall celebration.” He looked up at Roggo. “I would like to do this, Father. It seems like a trip well worth taking.”

Roggo nodded. “Very well. The old man is right, you can’t wait forever.” He turned to Shaman. “After the wolves have gone. We will need everyone to guard until they leave.”

Shaman bowed his head. “That is wise.”

“Wise or not, I am tired of finding the mangled bones of the children lying in the grasses. I do not want to lose anyone this year.” He started walking down the path – the steep path. Inwardly, Shaman’s joints moaned, but he stayed silent. This was just Roggo’s way of punishing him for making a hard decision.

Stepping carefully to avoid the embarrassment of a fall, Shaman limped down the hillside behind the chief and his son.

“It is a pity you have no interest in Shara.” Roggo commented as they descended. “She looks like she would make many healthy babies.”

Armis just shrugged in response and continued shuffling along the path. He seemed distracted by something.

Perhaps he is thinking of the journey. Shaman smiled inwardly. This quest would give the boy purpose and focus, the most valuable of gifts.

Down below, there was a loud crash of wood, a shriek of pain, and then multiple desperate calls for aid. Roggo and Armis sped up, rushing to the bottom. Grimacing, Shaman followed them, his hips and knees wracked with stabbing pains as he stumbled and slid on the pebbles, rocks and dirt.

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