The Shaman Read online

  The Shaman

  Star Stone Book 1

  Christopher Stasheff

  1995

  Prologue

  “Ohaern was only a man, then,” said old Lucoyo. “But that was then”

  Lucoyo was a lean old man with long, pointed ears, still spry, still quick in limbs as well as wits. His eyes still glowed as he told the tale to the five small children, their ears only slightly pointed. Beyond them, near the roaring fire, an old woman and a young one chatted, looking up occasionally with fond smiles. Long hair hid their ears, but there was something of the old man’s quickness, of the mischievous glint in his eye, reflected in the younger woman. She was shorter than the older.

  “You said last time that he was a big man, Grandfather,” said the oldest child.

  “So he was, so he was! The biggest man in his village, both in height and in muscle. He was warrior as well as hunter—but he was not an Ulin.”

  Here and there in the long house other members of the family looked up, then began to move toward the old man and the children, their eyes alight with interest. They had all heard the tale before, of course, but when the winter wind was howling about the eaves, old tales and a fireside held a kind of comfort that went beyond heat and companionship.

  “The Ulin were gods,” said the eldest girl. She must have known where to push, for the old man reddened and cried, “Not a bit of it—though everyone thought so at the time, even Ohaern! Even I! Dariad told him otherwise—told him the Ulin were only bigger and stronger than we, and were all born with magic. But Ohaern said to me, ‘I cannot see much difference, Lucoyo. Supermen or gods, what matter? They can still kill you as soon as look at you.’ The sage told him otherwise, though, and then Ohaern believed.”

  “How he meet shage, G’amfa’?” the smallest child lisped. Even he knew how to deliver a cue.

  “Ah!” The old man let his face sag into a properly tragic expression. “In a time of sadness, a time of trouble, that is how Ohaern met him!”

  The children settled back, eyes shining.

  “They have him going now,” the younger woman whispered to the older.

  “Yes, but it never took much, dear, did it? Let us listen awhile, and see how the tale swells this time.” But the old woman’s eyes danced as she settled back to listen to her husband tell the tale of their meeting yet again.

  Chapter 1

  The blood roared in Ohaern’s ears, and the room seemed to darken. His grip tightened around Ryl’s little hand as if it were the only thing real in this world-suddenly-turned-horrible, by her very own words. He tried not to hear them, but they echoed in his ears.

  “Do not wait—” Ryl broke off with a gasp of pain as another contraction seized her. When it slackened, she went on as if she had never broken off—but Ohaern winced at the agony in her eyes.

  “If I am dying, do not ... wait ... for my spirit to leave me ... Cut my body ... slit with the knife ... and cut the child free ...” She broke off with a cry as another contraction seized her. Ohaern held tightly to her, trying not to squeeze the pale hand too hard, her agony reflected in his own misery. When it passed, she moaned, “If I must die, at least let her ... live.”

  It seemed that the baby had been battering to be born for hours now, assailing the gates that would not open for her. Ohaern felt a stab of anger and scolded himself—surely the child did not know what it was doing to its mother! It only wanted life, as all people did. Ohaern swallowed against the rock in his throat and caught both her hands in his. “No, dear one. While we live, the gods must still be guiding. Time enough to take the child after your breath has stilled—for surely it shall not! Surely the child is safest in your body! We must believe that the gods could not be so cruel as to take you so soon, so young.” But he knew they had taken others, even younger. He showed no sign of that misgiving, only said, “Remember, if we take the child now, you might not live—and neither might she! But if you can keep the breath within your body until she is born and her own breath begun, both of you might see the springtime come.”

  Ryl started to speak again, but he pressed a finger over her lips. “For now, be still. Work when your body must, and rest while you can—for the child’s sake. For mine.”

  Her body tensed and she cried out, clinging so tightly to his hand that he was amazed to find so much strength in such frail fingers. When her body relaxed again, she lay panting, wild-eyed, gazing up at him with death in her eyes. He stared, shaken, but was saved by the hand on his shoulder. He looked up, almost as wild as Ryl, but the gray-haired matron gazed down at him with compassion and beckoned, then turned away. Ohaern stared, then looked back at the little hand that lay limply in his now, at the closed eyes in the perspiring face. “Rest, beloved. Mardone summons me away—but I shall come back to you as soon as I may.”

  “Go then,” she whispered, but did not even open her eyes. She seemed so exhausted, so spent, that Ohaern had to shake off a paralyzing fear before he could rise and go after Mardone to the doorway, following the shaman through the hides that kept out the wind.

  Outside, the snow lay windswept and clean; the sky was clear, as if the stars were suspended in ice. Ohaern did not even notice the cold, though, for he saw the doom in Mardone’s eyes. “She must live!” he cried, then remembered himself, swallowed his fear and whispered, “She must!”

  “If she does, it shall be the work of the gods,” Mardone told him grimly. “Be sure that I shall do all I can to seek their aid, Ohaern—but I fear the worst.”

  Ohaern almost seized the older woman, but again caught himself in time. “It must not be!”

  “Then pray,” Mardone said simply. “That is the best you can do for her now. Pray to Lomallin—and leave her to us. There is little you can do inside, Ohaern, and she will sense your fear.”

  Ohaern gave a choking cry and sank to his knees.

  “Pray,” Mardone advised again. Then she was gone, back within the lodge.

  Ohaern knelt in the snow, rigid, his mind as frozen and empty as the sky. Then one of the stars within that void began to burn more brightly. He looked up through the naked branches, let his gaze drift to the void between the cold, cold sparks, and spoke inside his mind: Lomallin! God of people, lover of humankind! Be with us now, I pray you! Do all you can, that Ryl may live! O Lomallin, send wisdom to Mardone, send skill to her hands, send Ryl a birth!

  There was more, much more, unuttered but issuing from his agony and fear. How long Ohaern knelt there in the snow, he did not know—but finally, he looked up ...

  ... and saw the figure coming out of the woods a hundred cubits away, cowled robe light against the darkness of the firs, staff rising and falling in a clenched hand.

  Hope sprang in Ohaern’s heart, a hope that he was almost afraid to feel, but he let it rise and himself with it, stumbling, stepping, running to the robed figure, crying, “Welcome, stranger!”

  The cowled head rose, and merry eyes twinkled within its shadow. “Good night to you, hunter!”

  Ohaern skidded to a halt, suddenly awkward and at a loss for words. “It ... it is late to be abroad.”

  “Very late,” the stranger agreed. He had a short ruff of beard that hid his jaw, and a long straight nose. His eyes were large, and his eyebrows as bushy as his beard.

  Still fighting for words, Ohaern asked, “From where do you come?”

  “From Lomallin,” the stranger answered. “Five nights ago, in a dream, Lomallin knew, and I knew, that a woman would be in peril of her life, from hard birthing, here.”

  Ohaern cried out, as if he had been run through, and sank at the stranger’s feet.

  “Get up, get up, hunter!” The sage reached down and lifted him, as if his huge bulk was of no more weight than a bird’s. “You are her husb
and, then?”

  “I am—and if you can save her, stranger, I shall be your bondsman for life!”

  “Not my bondsman, but Lomallin’s,” the stranger corrected sternly, “though he does not want slaves, only loyal followers. But do not count the lives until they have been saved, hunter. What is your name?”

  “Ohaern!” The warrior stared.

  “I am Manalo. Who is the woman who labors so long and hard?”

  “Ryl, my wife, my darling, the star in my night!”

  “Take me where she lies, then,” the stranger urged.

  “Done!” Ohaern turned and went into the birthing lodge.

  Ryl cried out as they entered—raw and ripping, a cry that tore at Ohaern’s heart. Her back was arched, every muscle tense, so tense that Ohaern feared they might pull loose from the bone.

  Manalo stopped, watching—not staring, just watching, and Ohaern snatched a frantic glance at him, wondering how the man could be so calm as he watched another’s agony. But then, it was not his pain, or his wife! Ohaern had to stifle an impulse of angry resentment—but before he could begin to speak, the scream ended and Ryl’s poor, tired body collapsed in exhaustion. Ohaern started forward, but Mardone saw and held up a palm to stop him. Ohaern froze, darting an agonized glance at his wife—and the sage stepped forward, throwing back his hood and holding up a palm in answer to Mardone’s. “I am Manalo.”

  “I am Mardone,” the shaman said in answer; then, “What do you here? Know you not this is a woman’s place and time?”

  “I, too, am a shaman,” Manalo answered.

  “One sent by Lomallin!” The cry ripped loose from Ohaern, and Ryl looked up, startled, and in sudden hope.

  “I heard Lomallin’s call some days ago,” Manalo acknowledged, “and came because he had left the knowledge in me that a woman of the Biri people would be in pain.”

  “What can you do that we cannot?” Mardone demanded.

  “Perhaps nothing,” Manalo admitted, “but then, perhaps a great deal. May I touch the woman?”

  Mardone glanced at Ryl, who gave a frantic nod. Mardone looked up at the woman’s husband.

  “Surely!” Ohaern said.

  Manalo nodded, handed Ohaern his staff, and went to kneel by Ryl.

  Ohaern was amazed at the feeling of calm that seemed to flow into him from the sage’s staff. Suddenly, he could bear to watch Ryl’s pain as she screamed again, watch it with less fear, for he knew somehow that she would live.

  Manalo laid his hands on her distended abdomen, gazing off into space as his fingers seemed to walk over the taut flesh by themselves. His voice was distant as he said, “The child is tangled in the cord; it pulls her back when she seeks to descend.”

  Mardone’s eyes widened. “How could you know that?”

  “I see with Lomallin’s eyes,” the sage answered, his voice gaining life even as he spoke. He came from the trance and turned to Mardone. “The child is so wound about that the whole length of the cord is taken up, and it pulls against the womb as the woman’s body squeezes.”

  “The poor lamb!” Mardone cried. “But how can you save them?”

  “With this.” The sage took from his cloak a long slender rod with a small blade on the end. “We must cut the cord before the child is born—but I must reach up inside to do it, and it must be I, for I must look as I did even now.”

  Mardone stared at him, her pride in her own reputation warring with her concern for Ryl. Finally, she nodded, and Ohaern breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Have I the father’s permission?” the sage asked.

  “You have!”

  “It is well.” Manalo nodded. “But you must go outside the lodge, Ohaern. You may not witness.”

  Ohaern hesitated.

  “Do not be anxious for compulsion,” Manalo told him. “If she dies, you may tear me limb from limb then—and there is only the one door.”

  “I would not!”

  “Then go.”

  Ohaern bowed his head and went.

  Even as he passed through the door, Ryl screamed again. Ohaern forced his feet to keep on walking, his eyes to keep looking forward.

  Then he was out in the clean, dark chill again, filling his chest with the night air. He shivered, but not from the cold, then looked up at the stars and breathed a prayer of thanks to Lomallin.

  Ryl’s scream rent the night again, then again and a third time—but after that the shrieks merged into groans that came again and again, punctuated by Mardone’s voice calling encouragement. The hide door rustled, and Manalo stood beside him. “The babe is engaged as it should be,” he said. “It will not be much longer, perhaps an hour.”

  Ohaern did not ask what the sage meant by “engaged,” he only said fervently, “I thank you with all my heart, Manalo!”

  “And you are very welcome,” the older man said, with a smile. “Thank Lomallin, too—it is good for the heart. But pray also that the babe will be born with no further obstacles, Ohaern—she is not safe yet.”

  “I shall,” Ohaern assured him fervently.

  “That is good. I must see to your wife again—though if all goes as it should, there is nothing that Mardone cannot see to as well as I, and perhaps better. Be steadfast.” Then the sage was gone again, back into the birthing lodge.

  Ohaern breathed a silent prayer of thanks for his presence, then threw his whole being into another prayer, and another, while the moans sounded again and again behind him, then finally grew into screams once more—one final scream that made Ohaern whirl about, poised and ready to plunge back into the lodge. Before he could, though, Manalo emerged, smiling, and beckoned. Ohaern bolted in after him like an arrow from the bow.

  There, in the light from the fire, Ryl lay, face pale and damp, eyes closed—but her breast rose with breathing, and Ohaern felt something loosen a little within him. Then he saw Mardone, holding a small and squalling bundle, murmuring to it, then smiling up at him.

  Ohaern wasn’t aware that he had moved—he only knew that he was standing next to Mardone, that she was moving aside a fold of fur and he was staring down into a little, wizened, red face with eyes squeezed shut and a mouth opened in protest. It seemed to him that he stared at the miracle forever, then finally looked at Mardone, wide-eyed and incredulous.

  “A son, not the daughter you expected,” she said, “but whole and hale—and Ryl is worn out, poor thing. She has lost much blood, but not enough to be in danger. She must rest, rest long, but she will be very well within the week.”

  “I cannot thank you enough!”

  “Of course you can—by being good to her and helping her in anything she asks. Kiss her now, for I must give the babe back into her arms for a few minutes—what it seeks, I can no longer give.”

  Ohaern turned away and sank down on his knees, then reached out with a trembling, gentle touch. Ryl opened her eyes, gave him a very weary, very exultant smile, and his kiss lingered long on her lips. But he had no sooner lifted his head then Mardone was nudging him aside and laying the baby on Ryl’s breast. Ohaern stared, fascinated, as the child began to nurse, and a wave of tenderness engulfed him, then bore him up on a surge of desire.

  No. Time enough for that when she was well—in weeks, in a month. For now, he turned to the sage, who stood watching and smiling in the firelight. Ohaern bowed. “How can I thank you, Manalo? Ask anything of me, and I shall give it!”

  “Some food, and a bed,” Manalo told him, “for I am wearied.”

  “The best of beds, and the best of food! Come!” Ohaern led the sage out into the night, where the sky was burgeoning with the light that spread before the sunrise, making the branches stark and skeletal against the washed sky. Across the clearing they went, past the great central lodge and into the one that was Ohaern’s. He swept the hides aside with a forearm and bowed Manalo in. “Enter my house!”

  The sage gave him a weary smile of thanks and went in. Ohaern hurried after him, kneeling by the fire pit to add kindling and blow the coals aflame,
then leaping up to open the smoke hole. The flames leaped up, revealing a neat, clean home that fairly breathed of Ryl—the dried flowers, the fragrant herbs, the neatly mended curtains around the wall-bed.

  Manalo eyed it and shook his head. “I cannot take your bed, Ohaern. Make me a pallet on the floor, if you please.”

  “Surely, Manalo! A pallet, just as you say—but I shall rest there, not you! No, do not protest—you have saved my wife! After so long a journey, and such a night of watching, you must have a proper feather bed and blanket!”

  Manalo opened his mouth to protest, but Ohaern said quickly, “I shall not sleep in any case. I am too excited, and too much relieved.”

  “Very well, if you will have it so.” Manalo gave in with a smile. “I shall rest, then.”

  “But first, you must dine!” Ohaern snatched flat bread and cheese, and began to cut thick slices with his belt knife. “It will be poor fare, only bread and cheese and beer. It would be much, much better if Ryl were here—but since she is not, and since I think you would rather have plain food quickly than—”

  “Bread and cheese will be a blessing.” Manalo hung his cloak on a peg, then sat down on the bedside and kicked off his boots with a sigh.

  “Plain fare, but quick!” Ohaern presented the meal on a wooden platter, with every bit as much deference as if he served a god himself, or a southern king. Manalo took the platter, and Ohaern pressed a tankard of ale into his hand. “Dine and sleep, O Sage! Then wake and dine, and rest again! You must stay with me several days at least, that I may show you my gratitude!”

  “I am nothing loath to stay awhile, to not go upon the road again,” Manalo admitted, “for my life is given to wandering from village to village. I would be glad to stay with you some days.”

  “Wandering?” Ohaern asked, puzzled. “So worthy a man as you? Why would you not stay and become a chieftain?”

  “Because I am devoted to Lomallin’s cause,” Manalo explained, “that of serving humankind, of uplifting them and bringing light to their souls.”

  “You are a teacher!” Ohaern cried.