Hawk and Moss stared at him. Hawk said,—Loon, you’re the only person in this whole pack who isn’t scared shitless of Heather.
Moss and Hawk laughed at Loon’s surprise. They were sure they could take Heather without objections, despite her obvious usefulness. Apparently it came with too much scorn, too much weirdness. Loon was relieved to hear they thought so, because he wanted his Heather.
Moss pointed out that packs did this all the time, that it didn’t have to be a formal split or an angry thing, but just a matter of building a subsidiary abri upriver a ways, to reduce the crowding at the main site. If Schist and Ibex ever needed any more muscle, the younger crowd could come on down and help.
Hawk was nodding at this. Loon saw again that Moss proposed and Hawk disposed.
—But what about if they want Loon? Hawk said.
Loon would be shaman of both packs, like Quartz with the three Lion packs, or any number of the shamans at the corroboree. This Moss said while looking at Loon to see if it were true.
Loon nodded.—I want to do that, he said,—because I want to keep painting in the cave.
They were coming into camp, so Moss said,—Let’s talk about it again later. There’s no reason to hurry with this. Although we need to do it before we start gathering food for winter, maybe.
—Later, Hawk said.
Thorn lay sprawled over Heather’s furs, leaning back against the big log wedged into the hillside. A lot of the time he slept.
Once Loon and Elga helped him stand and shuffle out onto the hillside to shit, but it hurt him to do it, and when they were getting him back to camp he said,—That’s the last time I’ll ever take a shit. I’ll miss that.
He was mostly silent after that. When he spoke it was to himself, muttering away in a rumble no one could follow. Loon gave him water from a wooden cup, using an elderberry stick made into a drinking straw. Sometimes his cracked lips clamped down so hard on the straw that Loon could not pry it out of his mouth. Heather didn’t want him drinking too much at a time, so he had to put the right dose of water in the cup, because there was no way to keep Thorn from draining it once he got going. But this thirst struck Loon as a good sign. When Thorn was asleep, Loon sometimes looked at his desiccated face, and saw his eyes were sinking back into his skull as the fat pads behind the eyes got eaten away by whatever had him. His nose was bending down like an eagle’s beak, and his fingers and toes curled in as he rested. Drying out. Being eaten from the inside, by himself as well as the other thing. Living off himself for the final stretch.—Wait, I see something, he whispered once to Loon.—The river is tearing away things about me.
—An island, Loon said quickly.
—Yes. With a little snake’s smile. He watched Loon’s face for a while, then said,—Did something chase you, when you were out on your wander? You would never tell me. But I’ve been meaning to say, I think Quartz puts on his lion head and goes out at night, to put a scare in the other shamans’ apprentices. He was Pika’s apprentice too, the oldest one, and it made him mean. So, if some kind of thing came after you, it could have been him.
—Ah, Loon said.
Later Thorn shook off one of Heather’s attempts to help him.—I’ve been the healer many times, he said.—I know when it won’t work. You can’t fool me.
Once he saw Heather’s face above him, and complained to her,—I don’t like having it happen now. I’m only two twenties old.
—What do you mean only? Heather said.
—Ha! Thorn’s laugh was painful to him now.—Easy for you to say. What are you, four twenties? Five?
She shook her head.—Lots of twenties. But they’re all gone now.
—Ha, Thorn said again, and lapsed back into his silence.
Much of the time he slept. Heather dosed him with teas she had made for sleeping. Days passed, and Thorn never ate. Loon became more and more amazed by how long it went on. It was like a bear’s hibernation. There was an endurance in it that Loon could scarcely watch.
I am the third wind
I come to you
When you have nothing left
When you can’t go on
But you go on anyway
That moment of extremity
Is what brings the third wind
When Thorn woke and looked around to see what was happening, Loon would feel himself go calm. The old man’s gaze on him made him feel alert and distant, it drove him into his proper place. I helped him with that.
Thorn sometimes asked him to recite one or another of the stories he had tried to teach him. Loon did the best he could, without worrying about any details he might forget. That lack of concern made it a lot easier than it had been when he was a child. Just get to the point, say what was important, say what happened in the way he remembered Thorn saying it. He told the story of the bison man and the wife he took from the salmon clan; Thorn had the bison for his animal, and wore Pika’s tattered old bison head during the ceremonies, and now as Loon told the old story he wondered how much it had to do with Pika, and with Heather, and with Thorn.
—No, no, Thorn interrupted at one point in Loon’s telling.—Don’t forget to tell about the woman running away with a bison, before the man turns into one himself. If they don’t know that, they won’t be able to figure out why he does it.
After that Thorn stopped him once or twice to tell the story himself for a while, in a hoarse voice, short-breathed.
Sometimes he asked Loon to start and then seemed to fall asleep, but frowned if Loon stopped.
Once when Loon had stopped in the middle like this, Thorn clutched his hand hard.
—You’re what I had to carry it along. Do you understand? You’re what I had to work with.
—I know.
—So you have to remember.
One morning at dawn Thorn woke after a hard night, in which he had never once settled comfortably. He looked around at the camp, the hills, then at Loon.
—I’m getting weaker. I can feel it.
That day he rested more easily. He drank as much water as Loon would give him. That afternoon he looked at Loon and said,
—You have to remember the story of the ten-year winter. Also the story of Corban getting blown all the way across the great salt sea and then walking back home over the ice to the north. Also Pippi’s story of the man who walked east to find the end of the world. Those are the ones I liked best. Then also, how summer was pulled out of the other world into this world. And the swan wife, that’s one you can really tell. And the bison man.
He studied Loon’s face.
—I’ll be sorry not to see what happens next, he said.—I wish I could stick around a few more years.
—Yes, Loon said.
—You have to remember. Take care of the kids. They’re the ones who matter. You have to teach them everything I’ve taught you, and everything you’ve learned on your own. It will only go well if we keep passing it all along. There are no secrets, there is no mystery. We make all that up. In fact it’s all right there in front of us. You have to have enough food to get through the winter and spring. That’s what it all comes down to. You have to live in a way that will gather enough food each fall to get through winter. And you, you have to live your life, youth. You can help Heather. Be sure to do that. The old witch will need it. She’s getting on herself. She won’t like it, but she’ll need help. You’ll have to see that without her asking.
—I’ll try.
—Good. Listen to me now. Bad things don’t just grow on one path, they’re everywhere. So don’t blame yourself when those things happen. Don’t let yesterday take up much of today. You’ve always been good at that. Just keep telling the stories around the fire. That’s what needs to be carried on.
Then he couldn’t get comfortable; he writhed on the bed, sweated and gasped. Heather made him drink more tea, and chew a paste under his tongue. After that he was less conscious, though his body still arched and twisted in its hunt for a better position.
A couple of days l
ater he came to and lay there calmly.
—Weaker still, he said.—I can feel it.
—Do you want some water?
—Not now.
The morning passed; no clouds, little wind. Birdsong filling the forest, the chatter of a squirrel telling someone off.
—I wanted everything, Thorn said.—I wanted everything.
—I know you did.
—I worry what’s to become of you all. What’s going to happen when Heather dies? There’s none of you old enough to know everything you need to know. You’ll be limping along like it’s the dream time again. It’s fragile what we know. It’s gone every time we forget. Then someone has to learn it all over again. I don’t know how you’ll do it. I mean, I wanted to know everything. I remembered every single word I ever heard, every single moment of my life, right up to a few years ago. I talked to every person in this whole part of the world, and remembered everything they said. What’s going to become of all that?
He stared for a long time at Loon.
Finally he said,—It’s going to be lost, that’s what.
—We’ll do what we can, Loon said.—No one can be you.
They sat there. Thorn’s breath was shallow and fast, and he started to sweat and squirm again. Heather showed up and Loon was glad to see her.
A long time went by, two days or three: Loon lost track. It was all the same moment, over and over. Thorn’s breath got shallow, he panted and gasped. Heather wetted his lips with a wet cloth, pulled it away before he bit it. One time this seemed to rouse him, and he struggled harder, he writhed under their hands. He croaked out some words they couldn’t understand, his tongue big and dry in his mouth, his throat parched. With a twist of the head he cried out indistinctly,—Oh Heather, I don’t know if I can do this!
—What did he say? Heather asked Loon.
—I don’t know, Loon lied.
He moved around to the other side of the bed from Heather to keep her from seeing his face. He held Thorn’s right hand, and Heather picked up and held his left hand. His body lay more comfortably there between them. From time to time Heather continued to drip water from the wet cloth into his mouth, just a drop or two at a time. Thorn did not respond to this in any way. He was no longer there with them.
Only once more did he regain awareness. Heather was away doing something. He opened his eyes a little, but could not focus them. He clutched Loon’s hands, and Loon said,—I’m here. Heather will be right back. She’s here too.
Thorn nodded. He closed his eyes.—Wait, he whispered.—I see something. Then he squeezed Loon’s hand, and went back to sleep.
Heather returned and took up her seat. They sat there holding Thorn’s hands. For a long time they sat there while Thorn breathed. His breathing slowed, it got harsh in his throat. His eyes were closed, and sunken very far into his head. His mouth was a lipless hole, jaw and cheeks stubbled white with beard hairs, nose a beaky blade. The old black snake, more reptilian than ever. Asleep and more than asleep. As they held his hands it seemed to Loon that Thorn’s spirit was near them, but not in the body they held. Maybe looking down on them, as the body kept breathing its last breaths.
—Go get some more water, Heather told Loon.
—But…
—Go.
Loon took up a bucket and rushed down to the river, at first hurrying to return, then glad to get away.
He stood in the shallows filling the bucket, looking around at the yellow air of an ordinary sunset, thinking, Someday I will not be here for this. That was the truth, he could feel it.
He didn’t want to go back up. He lingered by the sunset river. But then he thought he heard something, and he turned and hurried back up to Heather’s nest.
When he got near he could hear from the center of camp the harsh rattling in-breath of Thorn, like the crackle a raven sometimes makes. Then there was silence and he ran hard to Heather’s spot. Heather was sitting there, still holding Thorn’s hand. She looked up at Loon briefly, a little reproachful for the length of his time away, but Loon got back in position on Thorn’s other side and took up his right hand again, and Thorn pulled another great gasp of air into him, crackling in his throat again. Several moments had passed since his last breath, and Loon jumped when Thorn seized his hand as part of this effort to breathe. Thorn was still alive, somehow, although shrunken into himself completely, and looking just as he would when he was a corpse only. But then with another startling effort he breathed again. The death rattle; then another; and in between he lay there motionlessly, and Heather and Loon sat across him holding his hands and watching him, not looking at each other except once, when Loon said,—I wonder what he is thinking in there.
Heather shook her head.—He’s not there.
—But he’s still breathing.
—Yes, his body keeps trying.
It was true. Again and again he stopped, lay there; seemed dead; then jerked, sucked air into himself in a paroxysm of effort, gasping, crackling, rattling. The part of him still alive was making a huge effort. Then another stillness.
—Couldn’t you give him something? Loon asked.—Help him out somehow?
She shook her head.—Let him go his own way.
Loon felt the stab of that, then went numb again. They sat there and waited. When Thorn breathed, they clenched his hands. They were both hunched over with the effort of listening to him.
As it went on, slowing down each time, the rattle becoming briefer, less violent, Loon began to feel calmer. Thorn was almost done now. His suffering was over. These last breaths seemed no longer sheer stubbornness and refusal to die, but a kind of farewell. So it seemed to Loon. Little Thorn jokes. Playing dead; then a little insuck, an attempt at the rattle. Ha, fooled you again. Then the long moment of nothingness.
—It’s like he’s fooling us, Loon complained.
—I know.
It went on. It kept happening.
After one of these little attempts at breath, Heather said to Thorn,—It’s all right. We’re here.
Then they waited. There came another little rasp. Then Thorn lay there still. They waited and waited for his next breath. There did not seem to be any hurry at that moment; they could wait him out. No rush to declare it over, and be proved wrong yet again. No rush to be right about it. They could sit with him in this in-between zone, on the pass between their valley and his.
Loon would never be able to say how long they waited like that. Thorn’s eyes were half open, glazed and unseeing. Now he was clearly the dead body of a dead animal. As always, death was unmistakable. So much went away.
Heather stirred at last. She reached out and closed Thorn’s eyelids, then put her ear to his chest and listened. She lay against him like that for a long time.
Finally she sat up and looked at Loon.—He’s gone.
They held his hands for a while longer. There was no hurry now.
SHAMAN
Everyone in the pack took something of Thorn’s to remember him by, but all the things that had come to him from Pika were given to Loon, meaning his flute and pipe, and fire kit, and painting kit, and the bison-headed cloak.
Loon played the flute when they put Thorn’s body on the raven platform on top of Loop Hill. It seemed to him that the flute made the music, he only had to breathe through it and listen with the rest to whatever came out. That was quite a discovery. While he played he saw everyone’s faces, and he was surprised to see how distraught the other members of the pack were. He had not realized what Thorn had meant to them; he had been too close to see. He himself felt nothing.
When they were done laying his body out on the platform, Loon stopped playing the flute and said,
We who loved you in the time you lived,
Who cared for you as you cared for us
Now lay you here and give your body to the sky
So your bones can rest peacefully in Mother Earth
And your spirit live on freed of this world,
Live on in the dream above the sky
>
And we will always remember you.
That night by the fire, Loon stood before all the rest of them wearing Thorn’s bison head, and told them the story of the swan wife. Young man marries swan woman, goes to live with the swans, it doesn’t work out, he ends up a seagull. One of Thorn’s favorites, and all of them had heard him tell it many times. And then Loon and Elga and Thorn had lived it.
In the same way as the flute’s tunes, the words just spilled out of him. Suddenly he knew to stop knowing it. It would come breath by breath, in an even in and out, and he only had to breathe out the part of the story that fit that breath. He added a couple of skipbacks to pick up dropped points that occurred to him, he foretold a few parts; that was just part of the game. Although this time he was telling the story as simply as he could.
All that day Heather stood at the edges of the group, facing away from the rest of them, not saying a word. When he was done with the story Loon helped her back to her bed, and she seemed light to him, and ancient.
She sat on her bed. Loon looked down at her and saw her desolation, which from his curious new distance, his bird’s eye view of everything, which was maybe the shaman’s view, surprised him a little. She and Thorn had always fought so.—I’m sorry, he said.
She did not look at him.—I don’t know who I’ll talk with now, she said.
He could not fall asleep that night, and under the waning moon he realized that he wanted to go in the cave by himself, to paint something new. In the autumn it would have been Thorn’s turn to go in, and Loon knew Thorn had had big plans, though as usual he had not said much about them. But Loon didn’t want to wait that long. He wanted to go in now.