Eagle Drums, page 2
“It rained a few days ago. The lower trail might be wet. Maybe take the upper trail at the point,” his father said. Again the boy raised his eyebrows in agreement while he slipped on his waterproof socks, making sure to tighten the straps of his caribou-skin boots so that they would not slip around when he walked.
I’m not a child anymore, he thought. I know what I’m doing.
His father glanced at his wife and sighed, then went back to wrapping the rope into a neat coil.
As soon as his pack was ready, the boy touched foreheads with his parents, ignoring the worry lines on their faces, and ducked down into the entrance tunnel.
The day was cool and breezy. Above him stretched a sky of the purest blue. The morning fog had quickly been burned away by the rising sun, and the intense red of the bearberry leaves on the ground competed with the bright yellow of the willow leaves. More than once as he walked, he startled fat lemmings gathering food. Their tiny, round rodent bodies erupted out of the grass and dashed ahead of him, whiskers twitching in annoyance, cheek pouches full, as they worked in a frenzy to get ready for winter.
After many hours of steady uneventful walking, the boy had almost reached the mountains proper. The slopes were jagged and stark against the sky, rising to block his view to the east. He could smell the sharp fragrance of ice and snow that rolled down from them, mixing with the warmer, earthy smell of the tundra. The calls of the seabirds had long since disappeared, replaced by the chattering of ground squirrels. Soon enough, the marshy tundra would be replaced completely by the dry brittle stones of the mountain slopes. He would reach the place of obsidian a little past midday. He had chosen the best route and was traveling fast.
Glad that the first half of his trip was almost complete, he decided to stop and eat. He found a small boulder to sit on, slipped his bow and arrows off his shoulders, and carefully unwrapped the paste that his mother had prepared for him. It was his favorite traveling food—berries and dried caribou meat suspended in whipped caribou fat. His mother had even added the leaves of a red flower that grew near their camp, a special tangy treat that made his mouth fill with saliva.
After eating and drinking a good measure of creek water from his water pouch, he closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the nuna, listening to the world around him speak. To his left, a marmot whistled a warning. A heavy bumblebee vibrated above his head. The soft, sparkling sounds of tiny rocks tumbling down a nearby cliff drifted to him. As always, the sounds centered him. They quieted the echo of his parents’ worries.
Suddenly, a golden eagle yipped, announcing itself. Its cry made the boy shiver with surprise as his eyes flew open wide. Golden eagles usually stayed farther inland, near more favorable hunting grounds. Excited, the boy searched the sky for the silhouette of the great bird, wondering if it would be close enough to catch. But the sky was empty. The boy kept scanning above him, sure that the eagle would soon appear.
Another series of cries rippled over the tundra; these were much closer and came not from above the boy but from down low, in front of him. The boy turned toward the sound. The golden eagle hurtled toward him with alarming speed, a mere five feet above the ground, so close that the boy could see the slight adjustments it made midflight for the buffeting winds. The bird was huge, at least three times the boy’s height from wing tip to wing tip. He had never seen a bird of this size. Its body gleamed gold in the sun, copper accents flashing at each feather tip. As it got closer, talons as long as the boy’s forearm gleamed black in the sunlight and swung out in front of the great beast. Slowly the boy realized what the bird was doing. It was coming in for a kill, swift and dangerous—its eyes were focused on him.
3
SAVIK
The boy threw his body to the side. Too late, he realized that his bow and arrows were out of reach. He rolled again, pulling his obsidian knife from his belt. Dread flooded his mind like cold water, but with determination and resolve—and more than a little fear—he leapt up into a crouch, knife held low in front of him. He braced himself for impact, breathing harshly through his clenched teeth.
But nothing hit him. Instead, the air swirled around Piŋa, catching his hair and throwing bits of the dirt into his eyes.
He heard the sound of claws digging into stone, making his teeth itch. He turned his head toward where the noise was coming from. He saw the eagle had settled onto the boulder where he’d been sitting just moments before. The great bird scrutinized the boy, shifting its head side to side, holding its razor-sharp beak agape, wings pulled away from its body in readiness, muscles tense, body poised to launch.
The boy remained motionless, mind racing as he took stock of the situation, afraid to trigger the bird’s attack instinct by moving. The world slowed down as Piŋa’s heartbeat sped up.
A hundred thoughts poured through his mind.
The bird seemed winded from its flight, but it was large enough and quick enough to take him down without trouble. His light caribou-skin parka would offer no protection against talons made to rip and shred. There was nowhere to hide on the open tundra nearby, besides a few small and flimsy willow brushes. The knife he held would barely scratch the bird. He cursed himself for not carrying his father’s heavy throwing spears.
His breath quickened. If the eagle attacked now, it would be a fight to the death. His instincts screamed to run, to put an object between them, or to surprise the bird and attack first. But he held his body as still as he could and slowed his breathing. His attention became razor sharp as he focused on every single movement the bird made.
The great bird cocked its head from one side to the other slowly, eyeing the boy with a predatory intensity. The pauses became longer between head swings, as though it was thinking about what it saw. After a few tense moments, the bird relaxed, lifted its head, and dropped its shoulders, tucking the great wings along its body. The beak closed with an audible slap.
The boy stayed crouched, waiting. Maybe the bird would judge him too much a fight, prey not worth the energy to take down. Maybe it would leave.
Maybe.
Finally, the eagle seemed to reach a decision. It stretched and flapped its wings once—which almost made the boy turn and run. Then the great bird began to shudder and shake its head.
Confused, the boy just stared. Soon the head shaking turned almost violent. Small feathers drifted to the ground as the bird tossed its head from side to side, and the topmost part of it began to peel away. The feathers receded as if being sloughed off, and with one final shake, the bird’s face came down like a hood around its shoulders.
In front of Piŋa there now stood a man, clothed in a parka made of golden feathers tipped in shining copper. The man was at least two heads taller than the boy, with wide, heavily muscled shoulders. He had a clean-shaven, square-jawed face. Heavy brows framed dark-hooded eyes that dug into the boy.
For what seemed like hours, the two creatures—man and boy—stood facing each other. The boy was still crouched with the knife in front of him. The man, again shifting his head birdlike, examined him. Soon the muscles in Piŋa’s legs began to cramp, but he ignored the pain and kept his eyes trained on the man’s face, trying to read whether the man meant him harm. He had never had to read a stranger’s face before.
I would have better luck reading a rock.
The boy knew what this creature was. Underneath his fear, stories crept up from Piŋa’s memory. He heard his mother’s voice speaking of animals while she sewed. “Animals are like us, Piŋa,” she’d say, and she’d take a stitch. “They have all the same parts as us.” Another stitch. “They choose to be animals, but when they need to be human, they take off their parkas. And then they are human for a while.” Another stitch. “Respect them as you would any strong spirit, and never challenge them; you will always lose. Never disrespect any animal; they have long memories.”
A being like this would never reveal themselves unless they had a purpose. Those who straddled the spiritual worlds did not interact with normal, everyday people like him.
All of this flashed through the boy’s mind. Respect, his mother had said. Piŋa knew this being, if he chose to, could kill him quickly. Piŋa knew also that if he did not act soon, his body would be too stiff from staying still and crouched for so long to move effectively, no matter what his plans. Taking a chance that he knew might lead to his death, the boy made a decision. Slowly, he lowered the knife and set it on the ground in front of him. Then he offered up his empty hands to the man. His body tensed at the sudden vulnerability, and he forced his hands to unfurl. The sweat on his open palms began to dry in the cool autumn air immediately.
The piercing brown eyes watched his every movement, but the man gave no indication what he was thinking.
And what if I knew what he was thinking? How would that help me?
Piŋa took a deep, shaky breath, and for the first time in his life, he spoke before being addressed. “Elder,” he said, making sure his tone was soft and as nonthreatening as he could muster. “I beg forgiveness for my show of weapons. I was surprised by your appearance.” His voice cracked, but he straightened his shoulders, his eyes cast slightly downward so as not to make too much eye contact.
He glanced up to see the pupils in the man’s eyes dilate with a predatory gleam. He quickly glanced away again.
Careful.
Swallowing the tightness in his throat, he spoke again. “Is there something you wish of me?”
The man began to laugh. It was deep and booming, filled with what sounded like genuine amusement. The laughter did little to relax Piŋa. The man tilted his head back; his teeth shone unnaturally white. Then he spoke. “Your brothers were not as smart as you, youngest one.” His voice was confident and filled the space with its deep sound. “The oldest, the tall one with a mouth on him, he attacked me as soon as I landed.” He shook his head. “Foolish.” Amusement tinted the man’s voice, but there was an undercurrent of disdain. “The rounder one, the one that froze and did not speak. He refused my request in the end. Also foolish.”
The mention of his brothers made Piŋa’s throat tighten, and he slowly lowered his hands to his sides. The grief he held for his brothers rose in his chest and gripped his heart, making this already surreal situation darker. He clenched his jaw at the flippant way the man described them.
Even more on edge, he waited for the man’s next move.
“You may call me Savik, little boy.”
And, indeed, the man reminded the boy of a knife, deadly and sharp.
“It is a name that will do, easy for your human mouth to pronounce,” said Savik. And then, so swiftly that the boy did not see the movement, the eagle man was standing in front of him. His face was so near that the boy could smell his breath—and it smelled of blood.
“And as to what I wish of you, you will come with me now.” He paused. “Or you can die like your brothers. Choose now.”
Again, the way this man spoke about the end of his brothers’ lives stung, clouding the level of fear he should have had. In that moment, the boy could think only of his parents. He knew that they would mourn him, as they mourned his brothers, if he did not return. The thought of their deep sadness made him speak up again. “What of my parents? How long will I be gone? Who will care for them and hunt the land?”
“Your parents will survive, as they did when they lost their other sons. Come with me now, boy, or die. There are others who can take your place. Choose.”
The boy knew his parents would want him to live, for he would probably be the last child they could have. He knew he would try his best to return to them, but to do that, he needed to stay alive. He also knew that he could not go unarmed. He gestured to the boulder behind Savik. “I will go with you, on the condition that I be allowed to take my bow.”
Again the man laughed. “You may take your bow,” he said. Savik reached over and took the bow in his right hand. “But I won’t have you annoying me with arrows at my back.” With one long black fingernail, he severed the bowstring. “Bring your gear, boy. We will be walking a long distance. Do not try to flee; I will find you easily.” With that, he tossed the bow to Piŋa, turned, and with long, determined strides began walking toward the mountains.
The boy quickly gathered up his gear and followed the man, making sure not to leave anything behind for his parents to find. He hoped they would guess that he had met a different fate and that he would try to return.
4
NOISE
Savik and the boy traveled in silence. They pushed forward at a merciless pace. At first Piŋa fought the urge to break the quietude with talking, a feeling he was unused to. But by the fourth night, that need was overshadowed by the strangeness of his journey. The lack of talking allowed him to focus on what was happening around him and gave him some time to observe the being that took him.
Savik would only stop when it was obvious that the boy could not go on any longer. The boy was amazed at Savik’s stamina; the man seemed never to need rest. Every once in a while, he would catch Savik popping his muscles and joints loudly with satisfied groans or scratching vigorously at his thick dark hair, as if his human form might be uncomfortable. At night Piŋa would roll himself in his thin caribou sleeping bag, but Savik would do his odd stretches and then fall asleep in a sitting position with no extra covering. He found himself wondering as he observed the man if Atau and Malġu had been smarter than he was and had brought Father’s heavy spears. They were so much stronger than Piŋa, in more ways than one. They had been gone for so many seasons, and yet the pain of their loss was fresh in his mind. With effort he pushed the thoughts of his brothers away and tried his best to focus on his situation.
Pay attention.
With sudden dread, the boy remembered how winded Savik had been at the boulder. He realized then that they must be a great distance from Savik’s home. Hoping to be able to guess how far they were from his own home, he would tie a knot in the cut sinew dangling from his bow for every full day they walked when they stopped to sleep. With every knot they traveled farther from his parents, the possibility of never seeing them again grew and grew like a stone in his gut.
* * *
After fourteen days of eerily silent traveling, during one of their brief rests, the boy mustered up enough courage to speak. “Elder Savik,” he asked, “why did you take me?”
“We took you so that you can learn how to atuq, uamit, and niqinaqi,” Savik replied.
Puzzled, the boy ventured to ask another question. “What do you mean, ah-tuuq, oo-ah-mitt, and nee- kee-naak-ki, Elder?” They were words he had never heard before, and he had to pronounce them carefully, rolling them around his mouth like tiny foreign pebbles.
But Savik did not answer. The man simply snorted in disgust and gestured for the boy to get up so they could continue traveling.
They traveled up into the mountains for over a turning of the moon, climbing ever higher. Loose shale, giant boulders, and sharp-edged stones replaced the deep tundra soil. When they could, the boy and Savik followed sheep trails in the high mountains, narrow pathways that wound up to the tops of the mountains in a haphazard zigzag of nooks and crannies and small dark caves.
Each night after the boy was settled, Savik would leave and return with game. Mostly it was a piece of sheep or caribou, sometimes fish or rabbit. The chunks of meat looked ripped apart, the edges rimmed with jagged marks. Piŋa chose not to think too much about how those marks were made.
Soon it was cold enough that the boy began to shiver whenever they stopped. When Savik noticed this, he brought back the skin of a small young brown bear, still damp and bruised with blood.
The boy mimicked his mother as best as he could remember, running his hands over the hide as he used his knife to scrape the raw side clean. He winced as he examined his work. He imagined his mother chiding him for doing such a bad job. Most of the time she would laugh and take over for him. In the end, the bearskin had a few small holes and some too-thin areas that might tear later, but it would do. Its warmth made his mother feel a tiny bit closer.
They had just arrived at a new camp for the night when Savik gruffly ordered the boy to stay and pointed to the hindquarters of a fat ram, enough food for a few days. Then he left.
* * *
The first night there Piŋa slept deeply, only waking once the hesitant sun touched his face. He got up and repacked his knife and water pouch and the tightly rolled bearskin. He sat and waited for Savik to come back and begin the journey again, his pack slung across his lap. When the sun dipped low on the horizon and the cold crept back into his parka, he made himself a small fire and cooked some more of the meat, piling stones around the fire so that they magnified the warmth. Still he waited. That night as he slept, he dreamed of dark claws raking across stone.
Once he realized he was going to be there alone for a while, he took the time to look over his gear and to gather what roots and plants he could, as the diet of nothing but meat was making his stomach cramp. He found some small withered ippiq roots, which were a bit dry but still edible, and some bright red kimmigñaq berries, which were sweetened a bit by the fall-time frost. He dug into his pack and found his beaver-tooth knapping tool and resharpened a couple of spots on his obsidian knife. He removed the cut string from his bow and prepped the new string he had brought so that he could easily slip it into place in a hurry. He didn’t know if he would be needing his weapons soon. If he was going to be left alone for long periods of time in the future, then he might as well be prepared to fend for himself—or defend himself if he was going to be attacked again. The sounds of claws scraping against stone echoed from his dreams.
If I didn’t have a chance then, then what chance do I have now?
But he couldn’t just dismiss that path. Better some than none, his father would say.
