16 Stones, page 1
16 Stones
Among the Ekulan
3rd Book of the Stones Series
Paul Telegdi
Dedicated to my wife, Melanie Telegdi, a partner in all my undertakings.
first written: January 2001
Copyright © 2014, Paul Telegdi
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever
Published by Paul Telegdi at Smashwords in 2016
To enjoy other books by Paul Telegdi please visit www.seeWordFactory.com
Dreamcast I, II, III, IV and V (paranormal)
The Call at 3:18 am (paranormal)
14-, 15-, 16-, 17- and 18 Stones (prehistoric)
Seize the Day (Roman)
Strike the Red Hammer (Norman)
The Locksmith’s Dilemma (medieval)
Where Arrows Fly (medieval)
Dark Fires (medieval)
Learning Berserk (Viking)
Unlearning Berserk (Viking)
Chance Encounter (a life in progress)
On the Razor’s Edge (prison novel)
Remembering PT-927 (WWII)
The Lady Bug (WWII)
At the Point of the Quarrel (next)
Foreword
I pushed myself hard to follow Chaiko as he guides the Standing-Rock Clan to face new challenges. Being an immigrant myself, I was always fascinated by the role of language in framing a culture, and in 16 Stones I explored the nuances of one culture meeting another culture.
I often get the comment from readers that at 14, 15 and 16, Chaiko is really too young to practice the wisdom I ascribe to him. I have two answers to that.
First, throughout the time Chaiko was sidelined by his injury, he lost his status and his voice, but trained himself to be a keen observer. He became a deep thinker through that process of compensating for his handicap; the injury forced him to become wise, and his motivation to be useful caused him to be innovative.
Second, people of the time were on a different timeline. They matured early and didn’t live as long as we do today, so of necessity they had to make their mark early. Hence Chaiko.
Again I would like to warn anyone who considers reading this book to start with 14 Stones, to get the most out of the series. This is not a stand-alone book: prior knowledge is necessary.
To all friends of Chaiko, I wish you good reading. I know you will like the story for I have enjoyed writing it.
Chapter 1
The crown of a blood red sun peeked over the horizon and flooded the land with a crimson hue. Within heartbeats, the burst changed to a warm orange that raced over the landscape. First only the hilltops caught the golden glow, but soon more features of the land emerged, revealed by an inquisitive light. Reluctantly the darkness receded into the shadows to hide and await its turn to rule the night again.
The world awoke to its restless predawn stirrings. Noisily the birds rose into the air and ground dwellers turned into the freshening light in welcome. They were suddenly free of the dread that stalked the night, free of the oppression that hid in the dark. A groundhog stood on its hind legs on a fresh mound of its burrow, eyes flickering all around, nose twitching nervously as it sniffed the air. High above an eagle circled in its morning flight. Other groundhogs in the hillside colony watched apprehensively as the shadow of death passed over them. The bird was yet far above, and they could risk a quick look at other parts of their world, each hiding some threat. Was there something rustling in the grass or hiding in the confusion of twigs and branches underneath a bush? The eagle banked sharply to one side. From the sentry a shrill warning sounded and in a blur of motion the groundhogs vanished, not waiting to see if danger came any closer. It was always safer in the burrow. The eagle banked and side slipped in the airflow, circling an inexperienced young hare that nibbled on dew-covered leaves, fully distracted by the pleasure of a mouthful. The eagle folded its wings, plummeted downwards, talons extended. Yes, death was always near, and always ready.
The sun rose higher above the rim of the earth like a bird taking flight, unfolding its radiant wings. It looked over hills into the valleys beyond, and filled every recess and depression with color and detail. The tender young leaves of mid-spring shivered in the light breeze awakened by the leading edge of light passing by.
As the sun climbed higher, it illuminated the cliff face and the warmth of its light reached into the cave to play among the sleeping bodies of the Standing-Rock Clan. One man was already awake, standing at the entrance of the cave, his furs tightly clutched about him to ward off the chill of the morning air. He turned his head into the full flood of light and delighted in the soft glow on his face.
The shaman of the Standing-Rock Clan greeted the sun in morning ritual. It had become a daily event. It was commonly held that spirits were most active during the night and hid from daylight, and Chaiko was looking to see if he could catch them before they disappeared into the shadows. But this morning, as other mornings before, the spirits eluded him. Chaiko no longer expected to see them, but stubbornly kept at it, because a shaman was expected to know all things spiritual.
“Welcome Father Sun to the path you follow each day. Fill the world with light, paint colors into the mist and show me the Rainbow Gate.” The gate to all knowledge, or so it was claimed by the old legends. Chaiko was filled with great longing to find this knowledge. His mind told him it was a vain dream, but he persisted in the hope.
Again Chaiko squinted into the sun, now fully above the horizon, settling into its brilliant daytime glow. As his vision melted in the glare, he felt peculiarly suspended in time, and his past began to flood into the present. Had it been only six years since the River of Rocks flowed, severing his leg, cutting off his childhood? It seemed like a lifetime since and he had little in common with the carefree youth that he had been then. Reborn of pain and rejection, the cripple had been nearly consumed by despair and bitterness but an inner core had survived, wanting to be of use, to serve. He had fought to find direction for himself.
But as always, events had found their own course. Two years ago, the Great Fire had driven him into the wilderness. Bereft and alone in a strange land where he should have died, Chaiko had somehow found self-reliance and some inner accommodation that no longer questioned who he was. It was enough that he was alive, and he did all that he did because he could. Then he had met Dawn, and she taught him the rest, giving him a vision of himself. He learned to see himself through her eyes; her expectations provided an anchor for him. Thus was the new man born in protecting her, finding a future for them both.
Who would have thought it back then—but the incredible fact was that at sixteen he had become the shaman of his clan. He was wiser than much older men, and driven to serve more than a whole man would, still thirsting for knowledge and truth. There were still times of lingering self-doubt, but he would recite his titles: am I not Master of Fire who can walk through it and not be consumed? Am I not Master of Falcon that it flies where I command it? The Master of the Bone Flute that can hold the bloodthirsty horde at bay? An accomplished Master of Magic? “Careful,” he warned himself sardonically, “soon even you will believe in all that nonsense people claim about you.”
The shadow of a bird passed across the face of the sun, drawing Chaiko’s eyes to follow. The bubble of his self-absorption burst and he settled once more into the present. He again checked the weather signs. A few high clouds in the west promised a sunny day bringing welcome warmth to mid-spring stirrings of the earth. Already a burst of green freshened the landscape. A moon ago a thick layer of snow had covered the same view, and the world was still frozen in the quiet of winter. It had been mild and would have passed without note, were it not for the tragic loss of Malek. On a winter hunt, while crossing the frozen river, he and Stow went through the ice. The others could not get near to help them on account of the water that suddenly opened up. Vainly did the two men struggle; time and time again, the ice at the edge broke under their weight and cast them back into the frigid waters. Gradually, the freezing cold slowed their struggles and the end was near. Helpless, the others watched, but there was nothing that they could do to help. With the last of his strength, Malek gathered up Stow and threw him onto solid ice, then spent, he slipped below the surface, not to be seen again. With him gone, the clan lost an artist and its most unselfish member. Tragically, Nebu lost her mate, and Ruba and Ork their father. He had been a quiet man, often overlooked, and his loss was felt more by the hole his death left in the fabric of their lives. Yes, there was a big tear in Tanya’s tapestry, thought Chaiko sadly, with severed threads and connections. Who was going to paint and commemorate the events of their lives? Who was going to be father to his sons?
Chaiko had lost a kindred spirit in the man, for the painter had a discerning awareness that sensed beyond the physical. He was the only other person Chaiko could discuss such issues with. Now, he thought kindly of Malek, striving to keep his memory alive. He then thought of Samar, his mentor, dead and buried in the hills to the east. What would he say to all this? Chaiko wondered. That life goes on? That life changes and adapts?
Behind him the cave stirred slowly to life. People awoke, stretched and rose into the golden light of the sun invading the cave. Their eyes were drawn to the cave opening and recoiled momentarily from the shimmer of the outside world. It promised to be a pleasant day; one could already tell from the soft cast of blue. Framed by the entrance, backlit by the morning glow, the figure of the shaman sat at his customary place. Welcoming the day, sending the spirits to retire to their hiding place, or surely, formulating a magic incantation, as a shaman was expected to do.
Emma, her bones creaking, straightened slowly and moved her limbs cautiously to work out the stiffness afflicting her. Lana bounced from her bedding beside Crow and laughed at the coming day. Her eyes sparkled with merriment as she grabbed the water bag to hurry over to her parents’ hearth to get theirs as well, then hurried on to join the rest of the women on their way to the spring. Tanya rose to one elbow with some difficulty. She was into her seventh moon of pregnancy and the mornings were difficult for her. Each day she felt herself heavier and she despaired of ever looking normal again. She knew that many women never recovered their figures after a pregnancy. Must be a boy, she thought, as she felt a sharp kick of life within her. Lana had never been so active. Baer reached over a steadying hand to support her up to her knees as she awkwardly rose to her feet. Careful not to overbalance herself, she straightened her back not wanting to fall again as she had the other day. She, who had always prided herself on her grace of movement, was trapped in the clumsiness of her condition, wanting to scream sometimes in frustration. People smiled at her, calling out warm greetings, so she swallowed her ire and tried to smile back at them. But inside she bristled with irritation. She checked off the count of her time on her fingers, becoming dismayed that there were more than two moons to go on like this. She bit her lips painfully. If she could only last into the afternoon without exploding in anger at somebody ... the later part of the day was easier on her.
Ile appeared beside her and offered her a bunch of fresh shoots to munch on. Dawn approached likewise with some greens. They knew that Tanya craved anything fresh, even if the taste was still watery or bitter. The headwoman stuffed it all into her mouth, chewing greedily at the pulp.
“Eat, it will do you good,” Ile said encouragingly, knowing that Tanya was concerned with her increased girth but couldn’t curb her appetite.
“You look radiant. Being with child becomes you,” Dawn lied smoothly and saw Tanya’s eyes flash dangerously at her.
Ruba came with a handful of greens sent by Nebu. All of the women, seeing Tanya’s struggles, had been scouring the awakening countryside for delicacies. Tanya pounced on Ruba’s offering which such vehemence that the others were quite taken aback. She chewed hungrily, devouring the whole handful. She tried to look gratefully at Ruba, but it was Dawn who thanked him and his mother. The women looked after him sympathetically, even though they suspected that to some extent, Ruba was affecting hurt to arouse their pity. After all, he had lost his father, saddening them all.
Tay came over and with her customary lack of boundaries so characteristic of a child, placed her hand on Tanya’s stomach so that she could feel the baby inside. Tanya frowned and bit her lip again. Ile quickly led the child away, promising to show her something interesting.
“I swear, I can’t stand much more of this,” Tanya hissed to Dawn. She put her hand to her back and tried to ease the discomfort of her posture. Her stomach stuck way to the front, almost grotesquely.
“Sshh...” Dawn stroked Tanya’s hair to calm her. “It will not be much longer.” But they both knew that the last weeks were the slowest.
Tanya, near exploding, said in a strained voice, “Go. Do not ignore your mate.”
Nodding, Dawn left to see what Chaiko would want on such a fine morning. She approached quietly, always on the lookout in case he was too deeply immersed in his thoughts. But he sensed her approach and half turned toward her. “Look how the morning doves congregate in the birch forest to the east, repairing their nests. And look how bright yellow the willow branches and twigs are glowing. I counted seven bees that buzzed by me, doubtless looking for early pollen from the poplars.”
Still thinking of Tanya, Dawn nodded absently, but she quickly noted what he said about the bees and promised to keep her eyes open for hives. Early honey was dark and not as sweet as the later harvest, but after winter, any honey was welcomed by tastes starved for variety. Tanya would like some, she thought solicitously, and Yael too, no doubt.
Cosh came over and sat down beside them without speaking. He lifted his face eastward, enjoying the warmth of the sun. Lately, at Ile’s advice, he avoided Baer’s fire. “Best stay out from underfoot,” she had warned; “besides, it would be kinder not to witness some unpleasantness that might be embarrassing later to everybody.” So Cosh came to wait for Baer with Chaiko for their daily council to begin. Tusk and then Ushi joined them. The trader had grown to feel at home among the Standing-Rock Clan and was even starting to think of them as his people. Strange how things worked out, he mused; his mate and children were far, far away, yet he felt more accepted here. No one had asked him to sit at council, though no one had told him to stay away either. It was somehow accepted that with his natural curiosity and his inability to resist being drawn into things, he could do no other. Like wood that fell into the water, he would pop to the surface. Besides, he was knowledgeable and thoughtful, and his advice useful. He had his nose in every corner of the clan and interestingly knew more than anyone else about them all, in spite of being a newcomer.
With the rest of the women, Ela came back from the spring, carrying a heavy water bag. She paused by her fire and playfully nudged Gill with her foot. “Get up mate,” she commanded, “the day is half done already.” He groaned in pretend complaint, but when she did it again he grabbed her foot, drew her down on top of him then snuck a hand under her arms to tickle her mercilessly. A loud shriek cut through the morning leisure and people looked in spite of themselves at the struggling heap of arms and legs. Still Gill tickled and Ela shrieked, half in delight and half in irritation. Heads were shaken disapprovingly, but none more so than Rea’s. He lived at their fire, alternately consumed by envy and resentment. He could not understand how Gill had gotten so much more out of life with a young mate for his pleasure. Surely he was more capable than Gill? Should he not be rewarded accordingly?
Gill was aware of his friend’s feelings but took no offence at them. Knowing that resentment was the emotion that Rea was reliably capable of, he let the veiled insults just bounce off him. Ela was also not insulted. Rea’s preoccupation with her and her mate was in a way just as rewarding as if he were expressing admiration for them. She felt the center of his world as well, and even though it was negative attention, for her, being the focus was enough. So the three formed a peculiar balance about the hearth, very much apart from the rest, though they took no precaution to protect their privacy.
Their visibility had sometimes unexpected consequences. Calla had grown to harbor unexplained resentment toward Ela. She abhorred Ela’s carefree, uninhibited style of life, always acting as if everything revolved around her. Perhaps when Calla was young, she had herself been that way, but the years had taught her otherwise. Now, she resented Ela for so indulging herself: did the girl not know how unseemly it all looked? The others noted her dislike, and indulged her view as much as they indulged Ela’s.
The winter had marked Kor dramatically. A moon or so ago, the cold wind blowing out of an unusual quarter had forced itself into the cave and had chilled him badly. He found himself congested, hardly able to breathe. Then a fever followed that robbed him of strength. Calla nursed him through it solicitously, worrying and fearing what would happen to her if he were to die. He recovered slowly, and though he eventually shook off the illness he never regained his vitality. He had become an old man, with a vacant, washed-out look on his face, sitting quietly out of the way where Calla had placed him, lost in memories. Calla would have to yell at him to bring him back into the present. His hands had lost the feeling for the stones he liked so much and though he would sit for a long time with a stone in hand the work would not progress. The focus of intent and the craftsmanship were gone. At nights Calla would cry as she hugged him tightly to infuse some warmth into his frail body. It was sad to see him fade, sitting quietly in the sunshine, his back slumped and his chest collapsed, just a shadow of the pride he had been. Of all people it was Ruba, having never concerned himself with the old man, who brought colored stones and odd objects to delight Kor, who occasionally cracked a toothless smile or gave a cackle of amusement. It was generally agreed that Kor had had a good life. It was Calla whom people pitied instead. But she was made of stern stuff, and though she cried in the night, by daylight she was resolute to live life as if it still had some promise to it. She took her miseries out on Ela all the more.
