The Shaman Read online

  “I am. And I go where Lomallin sends me—to this village, then that, staying until the Ulin tells me to go to another.”

  “As he has told you to come to us! Praise Lomallin!” Ohaern knew the term “Ulin,” of course—it was the kind-name of the beings humankind worshiped as gods. It was seldom that anyone used it, though, and he wondered why Manalo had.

  “Praise Lomallin indeed, for the woman lives.” Manalo handed back platter and mug with a sigh. “Now I shall rest— then tomorrow, I shall teach.”

  Well, it was not the next day, for Manalo slept through half of it, then hovered over Ryl until he was sure she was well and would be so without him. After that it was time to dine again, and time to sleep, so it was the day after before he began to teach.

  But once he had begun, there was no stopping him. He taught the arrow makers how to twist the feathers to make the arrows fly more truly; he taught the women new plants to gather and showed them some seeds that they could bury in the earth, promising that when they came to this village site again the next year, the seeds would have grown into plants, assuring them food. He showed Ohaern a strange sort of glittering rock, then showed him how to build a fire that made part of it melt into grooves dug in the earth. When that part had cooled, it was a metal stronger than copper, and Manalo showed Ohaern how to heat it again, then take a hammer-stone and beat it into any sort of shape he wanted—an arrowhead, a spearhead, or even a knife, and, wonder of wonders, a great long knife called a sword. For, “You shall need such things,” the teacher assured him, “if the creatures of Ulahane should come against you.”

  Ohaern shuddered—even he, the mighty hunter and warrior—for he, too, had heard of the twisted, misbegotten shapes that the evil god, the human-hater, had made to plague the younger races. He bent to the work with a will, learning how to make weapons far better than any he had ever seen, for he had a wife to protect, and now a child.

  Ryl continued to thrive, and the child grew even in those few days, while Manalo taught the women new medicine and new ways of healing. But the truly esoteric lore he saved for Mardone and Chaluk, the shamans.

  He taught the hunters new signs to seek out when they tracked game, new ways to trap the wolves and wildcats that stole the quarry, and a new way to ask the bear for its meat. He taught the children new games and a set of signs they could draw in the earth with sticks, to talk to one another when the other was not there. He taught everyone everything; there seemed to be nothing he did not know.

  Then, one day, he said to Ohaern, “Lomallin summons me away. This will be my last night among you.”

  Ohaern cried out in protest, but the sage was stubborn—go he must, but this last night he would teach something new to all the village. So they all gathered around the great fire in the big lodge, and Manalo sat in the chieftain’s chair and told them a tale they already knew—but told it in a way that made them feel they had never heard it before, and surely he told them parts of it they had never heard. They sat spellbound half that night, the youngest child and the oldest grandmother and everyone in between, hanging upon his words as Manalo told, all over again, and all anew, the tale of the Ulin.

  Chapter 2

  Before He created humankind,” said Manalo, “the Creator made the elder kind, the Ulin, from the four elements of Earth, Air, Fire, and Water—not in equal parts, but in those most suited to magical beings, who would be best equipped to enjoy the world that the Creator had set before them. He gave each Ulin-man a mind of his own, each Ulin-woman a mind of her own, and did not compel them to thank or worship their Creator in any way—and being so well-suited to pleasure, they set themselves to worship that instead.”

  “Therein was a mistake,” said one of the men.

  But Manalo shook his head. “The Creator does not make mistakes, though it may seem so to humankind—and of course, to the Ulin, it seemed that humankind was the mistake”

  “Would they not then challenge the Creator?” another asked.

  “No more than you—for you, too, are each born with minds of your own, and it would do you well to remember that. Oh, to us they seem to be giants, each born with the power to work magic, each a hundred times stronger than any of us, with far greater minds and senses—but intelligence by itself does not confer wisdom, and greater perception does not bring insight.”

  “But the Ulin are immortal,” a woman objected.

  Manalo nodded. “Left to themselves, they will not die—nor can any mere mortal slay them. But they can slay one another, yes, which is why there are so few of them left—for none of them saw any reason why he should not take all the pleasure he could, even at another’s expense.”

  An old woman shook her head, muttering, “Surely they had pleasures enough at their beck and call, without slaying one another!”

  “They did indeed. They drew their sustenance from the elements themselves, so they did not need to work; though they enjoyed eating the fruits of the earth, they did so only for pleasure, not from need. They only hunted for the joy of it and gathered what they wished to dine upon—but they enjoyed fighting, too.”

  “And their greatest fighter was Marcoblin!” a boy cried with excitement.

  Manalo nodded. “Marcoblin was the best with sword and spear, and stronger than any but Agrapax the wondersmith— and Agrapax had no interest in fighting, of course.”

  “But Marcoblin could compel him!” the boy insisted.

  Manalo shook his head. “None could compel Agrapax, for it was he who made the weapons, and no warrior dared risk his displeasure. Those who did, saw their swords break in then-hands in the midst of battle, and died. But Marcoblin could slay others, and many were the Ulin who thought twice about defying him if he told them to do something.”

  “Only thought twice?” the boy frowned. “Did he not rule them all?”

  “You do not ‘rule’ an Ulin,” Manalo said slowly, “no matter how great a fighter you are, for all Ulin work magic, and few indeed were equally skilled with both weapons and spells. Marcoblin certainly was not, and himself had need to beware of those mightier with magic.”

  “Then he was not truly their king?” a man asked.

  “Not truly, but he was as much of a king as the Ulin ever had. Still and all, he could not truly command any who did not willingly follow him, especially since there were many Ulin who did not wish to fight at all, and withstood him by magic alone, or by banding together against him.”

  “But he formed his own band,” the man insisted.

  “He formed his own band,” the sage acknowledged, “and foremost among them was Ulahane—not quite so skilled with weapons as Marcoblin, but that was no wonder, for there had been many who had not been quite so skilled as he. The difference was that Ulahane still lived.”

  A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the throng. “But Ulahane was still mighty,” the man insisted.

  “Still mighty, but by virtue of his anger and the intensity of his vindictiveness,” Manalo said.

  “And Marcoblin’s band fought another band?”

  “They did,” Manalo confirmed, “and many died on both sides—but none won, for where Marcoblin’s band assaulted with weapons, Harnon’s band excelled with magic. In the end, both bands stepped back, leaving many dead, but none a clear winner. There were no more fights between bands after that.”

  “Lomallin was Harnon’s lieutenant, was he not?”

  “No, but he was one of the magic-workers who repelled Marcoblin’s band.”

  “Was that when the enmity between Ulahane and Lomallin began?” asked a woman.

  “No, it had been there for some time already, but that is not saying much, for there had been enmity between Ulahane and nearly every other Ulin almost since the beginning.”

  “Then after that, the only Ulin who fought one another were those who enjoyed it?” another boy asked.

  “That is true, but there were many who enjoyed fighting. Indeed, it seemed that the greatest pleasure of most Ulin men was combat
.”

  “And coupling,” an old woman said dryly, “but not marriage.”

  Manalo shrugged. “No Ulin woman needed to marry, for she had no need of a huntsman to bring her food, nor of a protector, for the Ulin women were as mighty as the men.”

  “But not so bloodthirsty,” the old woman reminded him.

  “Not bloodthirsty, no,” Manalo admitted, “though they enjoyed a good fight now and then. Indeed, the few who are still alive are the ones who enjoyed fighting most, or least.”

  “Is that not true of their men, too?” an older man asked.

  Manalo nodded. “Lomallin can fight well, but takes no joy in it. Ulahane delights in battle and hates to lose—and revels in his victims’ pain.”

  The people shuddered, some glancing over their shoulders as if to make sure the sinister god was not there. “Did not the Ulin women need protection from such as he?” another grandmother asked.

  Manalo shrugged. “Some yes, some no. Certainly any Ulin woman could defend herself long enough to summon help, and if none else, there were enough other women to side with her to overpower even such a one as Ulahane.”

  The crowd murmured with foreboding and wonder at the might of the Ulin women.

  “So no Ulin woman ever coupled with any man she did not desire,” Manalo summarized, “though that is not so much to say, for there were few the Ulin women did not desire.”

  The crowd murmured again, the women with disapproval, the men with appreciation. “If they coupled so often,” a younger woman challenged, “why are there so few Ulin left?”

  “Magic,” said Manalo. “The Ulin women could control whether or not they conceived.”

  The women murmured with amazement and envy—this was something they had not heard before. Mardone frowned. “I have never heard that said of the Ulin before.”

  “There is much that is not known of them,” Manalo agreed, “but that Lomallin knows, and may reveal to those who truly seek to bond their hearts to his purposes.”

  “And you are such a one?”

  “I am, which is why I go where Lomallin directs.”

  “But if it was magic,” a young man demanded, “could not the men control whether or not there would be children born of a union, too?”

  “They could, so there were few children born indeed—only when both parents wished it, and few Ulin had much instinct for parenting. In those who did, it was easily satisfied— especially since they quickly learned that children bound them to their houses or, at least, to the children themselves. They found they could no longer go gadding about whenever they wished, or engage in amorous play whenever the urge came, or spend endless hours with their grown companions, whiling away an afternoon with wine and talk. In a word, they had to think of someone else before they thought of themselves, and few Ulin found that agreeable.”

  “They were very selfish, then!” a mother said indignantly, for her children were glancing at her and at their father uneasily.

  “Very selfish, so marriage was rare, though liaisons were frequent.”

  “But short-lived!” the grandmother snapped.

  “A few weeks for the most part, though many lasted only a night, and some lasted years—so there were a few little Ulin born to replace those who died.”

  “Was there so much fighting and killing as that?” one boy asked, eyes huge.

  “Oh, there was enough of it, you may be sure,” Manalo said bitterly. “They killed each other in rage or cold revenge; they killed each other to see who was the stronger, or who the better fighter. They killed each other in games that grew too rough—but it was not all killing of one another. There were some who died hunting the giant beasts of those dawn days of the world—and some grew weary of life, so bored and so overcome with a sense of purposelessness that they slew themselves.”

  “Why, they were no better than we!” another grandmother cried indignantly. “At least, if what you say is true—but I have never heard this before, Teacher!”

  “Then be taught by me, for so says Lomallin, and he was there from the first, to see it.”

  “Then how dare they call themselves gods?” she demanded.

  “They did not—it was humankind who called them that.” Manalo pointed a finger in accusation. “Be not deceived—the Ulin are not gods! Only the Creator is God! The Ulin are an older kind, a bigger kind, a mightier kind, aye—the Ulin can work wonders, and bring disasters. But they are only beings, like yourselves but greater—immensely greater, but still creations, not the Creator! They are not gods!”

  Most of the people stared, amazed—they had certainly never heard this before! Some even frowned, looking at the teacher askance—but they did not voice their doubts.

  For himself, Ohaern saw no distinction. What was the difference between greater men and lesser gods, after all?

  As if he had read Ohaern’s thoughts, Manalo said simply, “Gods do not die. They cannot be killed. Ulin can.”

  “But it is Ulin who kill them,” one woman objected, “not mere men.”

  “More than men, but less than gods?” Ohaern asked.

  Manalo nodded. “Even so. The Ulin were many at first, but as the centuries rolled, there were fewer and fewer—and even those who delight in life, when they are young, may find it growing to be tedious and wearying and a heavy burden after a thousand years.”

  “Could people want to die?” a little girl gasped.

  “After a thousand years, with no children to cheer them?” Manalo smiled down at her fondly. “Yes.”

  The little girl looked somewhat reassured.

  “But it was the war that killed the most of them, was it not?” asked Ohaern.

  “More than anything else, though one out of every three Ulin was dead before it began. New creatures began to appear upon the earth—elves and dwarves and dwergs and humans, who looked very much like the Ulin, though much lesser in every way. The Ulin realized that the Creator had brought forth a smaller, shorter-lived, but more prolific race, like the Ulin in appearance, though born without magical powers. They could learn magic, but it did not come naturally to them.”

  Mardone nodded slowly on one side of the room, and Chaluk on the other.

  “But why did the Creator bother making the elves, when the world housed beings so much better?” a young man demanded. “And why, having made the elves, did he make dwarves and dwergs and us?”

  “So asked the Ulin,” Manalo answered, but waved a forefinger slowly. “Do not think that bigger and longer-lived and more powerful means ‘better.’ The Ulin were far more proud than they should have been, to neglect their Creator so, and very selfish indeed not to want children. In fact, you could say truly that very few of the Ulin could love anything more than themselves. Is this ‘better’?”

  “No!” a dozen women chorused, and most of the men nodded agreement—but the young man who had asked the question looked unsure, and so did many of the other youths and maidens.

  Manalo explained, “The Ulin were the elder race, and they had magic that could waive barriers, and make even two separate species produce offspring—without any love at all.”

  The people muttered with apprehension and disapproval, and one man asked, “That is how Ulahane bred up his monsters, is it not? Goblins and trolls and lamias and sphinxes—”

  “And many others too numerous to mention.” There was disgust in Manalo’s face and tone. “Aye, the poor things, who never wished to be born—and their poor parents, who were forced into couplings they did not desire! But Ulahane delights in pain and grief, and persists in making more of them, even though the monsters cannot produce offspring of their own. Never go into the woods alone, young women—and young men, too! You never know when Ulahane’s minions will be lurking about to seize new living toys for his cruel delights.”

  There was an outbreak of angry talk, and people shivered with apprehension. One young man cried out, “Is that all we were made for? To amuse the gods?”

  “The Ulin,” Manalo corrected
, “and though some thought that, most also thought the new breeds were made to challenge them or replace them when they had all slain one another. They thought the humans could not control their urge to have children—”

  “Can we?” an older woman asked in an acid tone, and a few laughed, but quickly silenced themselves.

  “I spoke not of the urge to couple,” Manalo said, “but of the urge to have children. Indeed, the Ulin saw quickly that humankind could not control when they would or would not conceive—”

  “They were right in that,” the woman said with a sardonic tone.

  “They are, but the human need for children goes beyond mating and conceiving.” Manalo’s glance lingered on the small ones nearest him. “The Ulin had no idea that human beings might be capable of loving something else more than themselves, you see—the notion was foreign to them, alien.”

  “Inconceivable,” the woman said dryly, and everyone gave an astonished laugh, though it was sharp and short-lived.

  As it died, Manalo nodded. “It was indeed, for even the few Ulin who had wanted children, and birthed them and reared them, had quenched that desire long since. To have children by human mothers, though, was another matter, since the women either could not or did not object, and could very easily be deserted.”

  “It did not take a god to discover that!”

  “Are you sure?” Manalo fixed her with a glittering gaze. “Did the men of your kind invent the notion of leaving a woman with child to fend for herself? Or did they learn it by the example of the ones they called gods?”

  The woman frowned. “I begin to think you are right—that the Ulin are no gods, but only more able to be vicious than human men!”

  “Or Ulin women?” Manalo” smiled sadly. “I fear they, too, used humans as toys—though never very many, for they found that such babies tied them down just as badly as Ulin infants.”

  “Why, then, did any bother with human males at all?” a different woman asked, puzzled.

  “Because Ulin men no longer wished to have to see to the rearing of children,” Manalo explained. “Oh, they were ready enough to sire them, so long as they did not have to care for them, or for their mothers. Often enough, though, they found human men who were honored to take such a woman to wife, for there was no small standing in having a half-Ulin son or daughter, and it was of advantage to his own children.”