will roll the bones,” I agree, admitting defeat. The spirits will decide and I fear I know what their decision will be.
At dusk, I leave the hut to hunt for our dinner. I take Kirsten with me.
The insectsin the grass call to each other with shrill cries as I follow the stream around the edge of the meadow. We walk in silence except for the sound of Kirsten’s pant legs brushing against the tall grass.
When she speaks, her voice carries the power that I can see in her eyes. “Why don’t you ever leave this valley, Sam?” she asks.
I have not left the Preserve since the decision of the World Courtgranted me the land. “There is nothing for me outside,” I say. “I live here now.”
“Do you wish you could go back to your old world?” she asks.
“The World Court would not allow it. They fear the consequences of sending me back,” I say. I have wondered what would have happened if I had returned to my tribe. How would I have disturbed the flow of time in my world?
“But do you want to go back?”she asks again.
I consider her question, remembering the day I arrived in the Preserve. I was a confused youth, brought into a world I did not understand by rich men who were playing with a new toy. I learned to live without the comfort and strength of my tribe. I learned to negotiate with the spirits with no shaman to aid me. I learned my own power.
“I changed by coming to this world,” I say.I shrug and repeat, “I live here now. This valley is enough for me. I am old.”
She hesitates, then says, “My father is afraid he is getting old, Sam. That’s why he must hunt again.”
“He is old,” I say. “I am old.” I do not understand these people. Though Marshall and I are blood brothers, I do not understand him.
She shrugs. “It is different for him. He must go hunting again.” She is tense,but I cannot tell the source of her fear.
As we walk close by the stream, a mist rises from the water. The mist solidifies and the great she-bear paces by Kirsten’s side. The spirit nuzzles Kirsten’s hair and snuffles on her neck, but the woman walks on, unaware of the beast that looms over her. I stop, watching the spirit and the woman. Though Kirsten has the eyes of a shaman, she does not see.Her power is unfocused.
In the Old Tongue, the she-bear growls that she grants us permission to hunt the cave bear. I read trickery and deception in her eyes; she is a capricious spirit: sometimes generous, sometimes vindictive, but always dangerous.
Kirsten frowns back at me, not knowing why I have stopped.
“Do you promise success in the hunt?” I ask the spirit in the Old Tongue.
“What?”Kirsten asks. “Who are you talking to?”
The spirit dissolves into mist without answering my question, and Kirsten repeats, “Who are you talking to?”
“I saw a spirit following you,” I say. “You did not see her?”
She shakes her head, looking as doubtful as her father had when I had first told him that I must ask the spirits for permission to hunt. “Your father does not see the spirits,” I tellKirsten. “He does not believe in them. But you have the eyes of a shaman. You do not know your own power.”
“A magic worker?” she says. “No, not me.” She looks around her, surveying the grass and the stream. “I don’t see any spirit.”
“She is gone,” I say.
“I didn’t see anything,” she insists, and follows me as I walk beside the stream. After a moment she asks, “What kind of spirit was it?”
I motion her to silence, because I have spotted a herd of wild swine in the distance. They raise their heads as we stalk them, but they are confident that we are too far away to do them harm. In the Old Tongue I call to them, asking one of them to die. An aged boar shakes his head and steps toward us. Muttering an apology to the spirits for the use of the rifle, I lift the weapon and kill him witha single shot. The rest of the herd scatters.
Kirsten follows me to the kill. “What did you
At dusk, I leave the hut to hunt for our dinner. I take Kirsten with me.
The insectsin the grass call to each other with shrill cries as I follow the stream around the edge of the meadow. We walk in silence except for the sound of Kirsten’s pant legs brushing against the tall grass.
When she speaks, her voice carries the power that I can see in her eyes. “Why don’t you ever leave this valley, Sam?” she asks.
I have not left the Preserve since the decision of the World Courtgranted me the land. “There is nothing for me outside,” I say. “I live here now.”
“Do you wish you could go back to your old world?” she asks.
“The World Court would not allow it. They fear the consequences of sending me back,” I say. I have wondered what would have happened if I had returned to my tribe. How would I have disturbed the flow of time in my world?
“But do you want to go back?”she asks again.
I consider her question, remembering the day I arrived in the Preserve. I was a confused youth, brought into a world I did not understand by rich men who were playing with a new toy. I learned to live without the comfort and strength of my tribe. I learned to negotiate with the spirits with no shaman to aid me. I learned my own power.
“I changed by coming to this world,” I say.I shrug and repeat, “I live here now. This valley is enough for me. I am old.”
She hesitates, then says, “My father is afraid he is getting old, Sam. That’s why he must hunt again.”
“He is old,” I say. “I am old.” I do not understand these people. Though Marshall and I are blood brothers, I do not understand him.
She shrugs. “It is different for him. He must go hunting again.” She is tense,but I cannot tell the source of her fear.
As we walk close by the stream, a mist rises from the water. The mist solidifies and the great she-bear paces by Kirsten’s side. The spirit nuzzles Kirsten’s hair and snuffles on her neck, but the woman walks on, unaware of the beast that looms over her. I stop, watching the spirit and the woman. Though Kirsten has the eyes of a shaman, she does not see.Her power is unfocused.
In the Old Tongue, the she-bear growls that she grants us permission to hunt the cave bear. I read trickery and deception in her eyes; she is a capricious spirit: sometimes generous, sometimes vindictive, but always dangerous.
Kirsten frowns back at me, not knowing why I have stopped.
“Do you promise success in the hunt?” I ask the spirit in the Old Tongue.
“What?”Kirsten asks. “Who are you talking to?”
The spirit dissolves into mist without answering my question, and Kirsten repeats, “Who are you talking to?”
“I saw a spirit following you,” I say. “You did not see her?”
She shakes her head, looking as doubtful as her father had when I had first told him that I must ask the spirits for permission to hunt. “Your father does not see the spirits,” I tellKirsten. “He does not believe in them. But you have the eyes of a shaman. You do not know your own power.”
“A magic worker?” she says. “No, not me.” She looks around her, surveying the grass and the stream. “I don’t see any spirit.”
“She is gone,” I say.
“I didn’t see anything,” she insists, and follows me as I walk beside the stream. After a moment she asks, “What kind of spirit was it?”
I motion her to silence, because I have spotted a herd of wild swine in the distance. They raise their heads as we stalk them, but they are confident that we are too far away to do them harm. In the Old Tongue I call to them, asking one of them to die. An aged boar shakes his head and steps toward us. Muttering an apology to the spirits for the use of the rifle, I lift the weapon and kill him witha single shot. The rest of the herd scatters.
Kirsten follows me to the kill. “What did you
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