Fiction: Half Shaman, 20

The Last Thylacine, Thyal’s Totem

AZ, Ship to Shaman

I’m at the end of my tether. “What is the fucking thing you want to know?” I snap.

Simmon half-rises. The warriors rise with him. Their blades now wink and shine.

Mongoose backs right up close to me. “Hold onto me somewhere,” he mutters. I grasp his belt where it snugs his lower back.

“What’s the thing you most want to know?” I say again. I hear myself being strident.

Crow answers me. “Something big happened on Earth, maybe to Earth in the years before our people left. The Ark-Ship’s journey was meant to last seventy thousand years. It was made a generation-ship. The Earth-born are right about that.”

Simmon calms. Perhaps in response to hearing that he is believed to be right about something. He settles. “Start me off?” he says.

Crow again. “The Ark-Ship arrived in its orbit around Lotor a very short time after leaving Earth. The settlers’ stories agree that an emergency in the Ark-Ship began almost immediately, a struggle within the Ark-Ship’s communication system. The only supposition that makes any sense, some say, is a struggle between the ship’s computer and an entity that had secreted itself onboard.

 “Ten percent of prospective settlers were bundled into ten shuttles and sent down to Lotor’s surface. Individuals were picked randomly, torn from their families, and arrived very confused. They had to begin to save themselves from Lotor right away. You can imagine why the stories from that time lack detail,” Crow says to the rest of us.

She takes a breath and tells the rest. “The Ark-Ship carried thousands of living, breathing, aware people but there has never been any news other than toward the end of Soowei’s life, when the ship promised her that it would return to fetch its people off-loaded onto Lotor. Then it left the Procyon System to go regenerate somewhere without disturbance.” 

Simmon laughs, albeit shakily. “Let me let me let me try some math now,” he says. “Have I have I have I still got my math in me?”

No one interrupts. Half of what Crow just told is new to me. I look around. Loads of people look distracted, suggesting that we are all trying to piece the new information into the story we have all known since childhood. We will need Crow to tell us what is known of Soowei’s last days.

“The Ship of Fools gets waved,” Simmon says. “We’ll say that’s Earth Year Twenty. There’s quite a number that have gone before us, because the EMBers are not stupid, they don’t get involved except in a proven technology.”

He wears such a crafty expression that I set Soowei’s story aside and concentrate on Simmon’s. I catch Earth Year Twenty. The rest makes no sense.

He continues. “But when we arrive on Lotor, it is as if we are the first. Except that the ship we wake up in is a rusted piece of junk that obviously has not moved for a hundred years. We EMBers do our dashing around and get data-waved back to Earth. I learn the hard way that a data-waved brain returns to its original state. Meaning, no information from here went back to Earth that way. I was still a fool and signed up for a second experiment.”

“Where were you in Earth Year Minus Fifty?” I say, ignoring everything else. We don’t have the time.

“Ha ha ha,” Simmon says. “It’s the fucking Little Shaman. Well-studied in math. What else did they teach her? Fucking shamans. I was a fool to trust them.”

“You owe me for all the worrying I’m doing,” I say. A preposterous piece of reasoning, I see from the raised eyebrows around me. I have to control myself not to laugh at Mongoose’s crestfallen expression. He does try to save me from having to worry. I squeeze his hand. “Well?” I demand of Simmon.

“I wasn’t born yet,” he says.

“You would’ve studied about those times at school,” I say.

He laughs again, a rickety rackety chuckle. “You’re asking me about the data-waving monster himself.”

He appears to try to explain data-waving by waving his arms around. I’m nearly sick imagining how, with every move, with every rattling sound, he’s not just coming apart but spreading his illness around.

“A few changes on Earth after his arrival, I can tell you,” he says. “Bad for me is that Lotor bled the info right out of my brain as well as every other Earth-born brain wandering into her clutches.”

“I’ll tell you how it works, Jeb. Just you.” He leans forward. “A thousand thousand Earth Years ago Lotor lost her engineer. I like to imagine that he escaped the bitch. Leaving her in orbit around Procyon B, he took her bio-engine capability and waltzed around the galaxy for a good while before settling. Somewhere out of sight but never out of Lotor’s mind.”

He stops. Sways forward. I suspect him to be gathering the last of his mad strength to lunge forward. I pull at Mongoose to move us backward. Puma tenses.

Simmon giggles. “You have two hundred Earth Years missing from your precious lore, Crow. Earth Year One, the idiots at Procyon Products do a deal with the government of the day. They data-wave a shipload of Life Lottery winners to Lotor. And Lotor, when she smells the bio-silver on them, takes them all within. From that point she knows her engineer is on Earth.”

Uncle Puma says nothing. Red-tail is silent. Can I trust them to see what’s coming?

“When Lotor gets round to me, I promise her the fucking Ark-Ship so she can fetch her engineer. But I promise her before I know that the ship is away regenerating. So I’m in a fix. Then I discover that Lotor intends me to drive the ship. I am not a shaman or engineer. So I am in a worse fix. None of the shamans I bring to Lotor are who she wants. The Ship returns from its regeneration jaunt and I discover the hereditary crewing system. Things get worse and worse for me and Lotor starts searching for the hereditary captain herself. Before too long the settlers have only the one remaining shaman.”

He looks up, glares into me.

Well-water, we call the color of his eyes.

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

A blue glow pierces me. Simmon falls away or I fall back. A guillotine cleaves me front from rear, side from side. I expect pain. There’s no pain. I expect to see blood, a lot of it. There’s no blood.

Then there is pain. My arm burns. It’s on fire. My arm, my red-hot arm falls off. No, it only flops about because my nerves scream, twist, twangle. The amulet burns.

I choke. “The ship, it signals!” I manage not to shout.

Mongoose helps me to fall down gently. He shoves the edge of his hand between my teeth. “For the pain,” he says, kneeling beside me. Pain cringes and curdles and claws invisible pieces out of me. Mongoose doesn’t have to look for Thyal, he’s already with us, crooning. “There now, my pretty. There, there.”

With them sheltering me, I concentrate on not gnashing down on Mongoose’s hand. The Ship sends me fifteen elements. AZ. I gasp as more elements claw through me. Dash dash dash dash dash, dot dash dot dot, dot dash, dash dash.

“Eider.” I splutter through spit, past Mongoose’s hand.

Eider, I recognize her smell, folds my fingers around her pencil. I make the marks. I don’t feel where. Dash dash dash dash dash, dot dash dot dot, dot dash, dash dash. Representing the Great Meridian, I have time to remember. The ship knows we journey along it?

A hot needle-tip punches a dot on the inside of my eyelid.

I scream. “My eyes!” Three dots. Red-hot cools to bright blue. A tattoo? I want to rub my eyes, rub the pain away.

Thyal catches both my hands in his one. “There, now. There, now.” Mongoose’s tears splatter on my face. I want to laugh. My strong brave Mongoose cries when I hurt. The blue line pulses and lengthens. Someone near me groans.

I hear a mug of tea slopped. Feel a wet cloth being laid over my eyes. Blessed coolth. I sigh. “That’s good, very good.” I don’t know if they hear. Three sets of veins angle up from a main artery. My mouth shapes words. “It’s a leaf.” Dark spots form on a lower edge, like drops of dew. Or beads. The ship floods me with fear. “Bad beads. Keep away,” I mumble. “The ship says.”

It shows me good places in the city, with good people. There is a couple with two children who are working a food garden. Five girls care for a vine-covered patio. Eleven men, all shapes and ages and sizes live in a set of higgledy-piggledy block-like rooms, ladders connecting them with every roof a garden. The ship tells me to fetch all these people. 

A rose-tinted tower sits in the armpit of the main thoroughfare and the vein nearest the Field of Dreams. The food is there, in the walls. Squiggles, that are the mountains that are our destination, blossom at the end of the bisecting straight-as-an-arrow thoroughfare.

With round Greek script punched out pointillist style into my eyes, my poor eyes, the ship orders three signals to be sung. It sets the days. I must not miss them. Gravitational forces rule it.

The blue fades from me. I am so tired that I fall through rock and earth straight into a den. An animal with a long, tawny, striped back jumps in after me. Thyal, I think fuzzily. His heavy soft paws heal my eyes. I rest.

Fiction: Half Shaman, 19

Totem Image for Grey wolf, Canis lupus, single mammal on snow, by Emi

The Village Square

Vulture and Eider set the stretcher down on a room-sized carpet of blankets and bedrolls and help free me from the stretcher cover. The ground appears to be a hard clay surface, I discover by poking between the blankets. 

Mongoose and Wren sweep meat-eating sand to the edges of the clay. 

Eider settles herself near the solar-powered cauldron. It sits on four batteries that also serve as little legs and that, for traveling, unscrew from the base of the pan. Whoever carries the cauldron also has the responsibility for the battery pack, in a rack above the cauldron on their back, to make sure it is recharged during the day. 

“Bring me your mugs. Bring me your water,” Eider sings. Plenty of takers see the cauldron half-filled from mugs of water, with the emptied mugs surrounding the cauldron waiting to be refilled. “Mongoose, you’ll share with Jeb?”

Mongoose grins up from his work; rolls his eyes. 

Vulture, rolling her eyes, says, “Yes all right. Understood it is. You see his drinking mug and water-skin, Jeb?” 

I fetch both. It’s good to be on my feet, even if I’m walking on blankets and skirting people trying to sleep. Standing near Vulture, I stretch and bend. 

I hear people murmuring and talking; and the soughing wind. The wind carries in it only the inert and lightest of the sand grains. Jackal sings. He and the Death Squad herding Simmon have still a hundred or more meters to come.

Simmon stops often, I see. Red-tail prods him forward gently, using a padded stick.

“What is this place?” I ask.

Vulture settles by Eider. “A Moeran landing pad. Used afterward as a village square with a little town built around it. Their Squares have outlasted their people by hundreds of years.”

Puma joins us. “The Moerans were certainly gone by the time our settlers arrived. Several of their Squares were incorporated in our towns. So what’s happening with the Earth-born?”

I notice how no one now refers to Simmon by his name or by the totem he was assigned. Shortest career in history as a Grey Wolf that will be. Yet I can’t fault Thyal for his choice. Everyone has good in them and Simmon’s good harbors in the Grey Wolf totem. 

“Red-tail has taken charge, she said to tell you,” Vulture says.

“It’s not a question of war,” Puma says. “Girl questions! Don’t do that again, Jeb!” 

He complains, is derogatory, and threatens me in one breath.

Mongoose lays down his whisk so that the tainted end lies in the sand. He takes a position between Puma and me, his shoulder protectively in front of mine. Vulture grins. 

Eider sprinkles dried herbs onto the boiling water. “She knows the Void, Red-tail said. She asks if you do?” Eider’s tone, usually warm when she speaks to or about Puma, is frosty. “The girl had to use something to get action. It mightn’t be war but it certainly is pestilence.”

Vulture interrupts Puma’s attempt to answer. “With the Earth-born loose in the troop, you could’ve lost half of us and I doubt we’ll fill the shuttle as it is. Can’t afford to lose anyone.”

 “Girls rule,” Mongoose says.

Even Puma laughs. Eider shakes her head. “You look after that Mongoose, Jeb. He’s the joker none of us can miss.”

Jackal’s howled warning pulls us back to the present. 

“A campfire,” Simmon says. “Or what passes for one?” He rubs his hands and holds them as if to a fire. Though particles of skin sparkle and float on the breeze, Jackal and Axel allow him to approach. Am I the only one who knows the significance of those skin sparkles?

“Stop there,” Red-tail says. Simmon sinks down onto a bedroll someone isn’t going to want to use ever again. The squad stands beside and behind, while Crow alone sits down between Puma and Simmon.

Puma refills his mug and passing it across, has Jackal set it in front of Simmon. “Nothing like a cup of tea,” Simmon says. With the attention on Simmon, Mongoose sits down by me.

“A while ago we were talking about totems?” Simmon says.

 I narrow my mind’s eye. Simmon is well enough still that he can plot his way to his desired outcome? Maybe I can shift his thinking. I sing, if a bit shakily: 

“The Grey Wolf frees himself from time-worn traditions 

and stultifying townships. As the pathfinder, he strides 

through the land and leads us to new knowledges 

and new ways to be.” 

“I wanted to say that I don’t need a totem? But thanks anyway. Kindly meant, I’m sure,” Simmon says. “I’m of the scientific times on Earth.”

Kindly meant! I refuse to feel mortified. Reminding him is the important part. Simmon would have had enough input from Thyal to know exactly how he can apply the Grey Wolf totem to his situation.   

 “When you approached me to join the troop, you and I calculated that you arrived on Lotor maybe a hundred and fifty Earth years after our settler ancestors did?” Uncle Puma says. “Those scientific times?”

“On Earth I’d be at the end of my middle years,” Simmon says. He ignores both Uncle Puma and the blunted prodders left and right. He shuffles forward on his sit-bones. 

“Stay where you are,” Uncle Puma says. 

“I need to get that young shaman and be on my way. I told you that.” 

Uncle Puma lifts his voice a little to let everybody hear. “The Earth-born offered us safe passage through the city in exchange for Jeb?” 

Nobody comments, all are spellbound. Simmon has found where I’m sitting among the crowd, probably because I sang his totem, and holds me with his stare boring into me. 

I thought his eyes wouldn’t be seeing all that much anymore. I shudder. “Don’t let him touch you, anybody. All the bits coming off him are Lotor taking him.”

“Mongoose,” I whisper. “I’m getting up. I might need to run.” 

Mongoose pulls my face close to his. “Don’t you look at him, he’s a snake.” He gets up with me and steps in front of me. “Why have we still got this dead Earth-born thing?” he asks Uncle Puma. “No running, Jeb,” he says. “Round and round the square. Tripping. Lotor’s reach is long.”

“Letting yourself be caught in the Earth-born’s stare gives him the strength for what he intends,” Crow says, adding to Mongoose’s meaning. 

“Tell me Jeb is going to live longer than me,” Mongoose says. 

“Together you will go to the end of your time,” she says. Crow is the keeper of laws, lore and prophecies.

“Fucking prophecies,” Mongoose says. “Could be right now.” 

Simmon rises too, smoothly, and in one fell pace crosses half the distance between us despite the prodders. Despite that Red-tail’s now naked blade threatens him enough that blood trickles down his side. Simmon flaps his hand toward Mongoose. “I don’t need you, Sulky.”

“You don’t get anybody, Earth-born,” Uncle Puma says. 

I resent that Uncle Puma stays seated. 

Simmon stops. With a lazy arm he sweeps the prodders aside. “I don’t see why you’d want to keep Jeb when she’s as Earth-born as I am?”

Uncle Puma laughs. “You think Jeb’s mother, because she was an Earth-born geneticist, bred a one-hundred-percenter? Sit down when I’m talking to you.”

For a wonder, Simmon subsides back onto the bedroll. “Why wouldn’t she?” he says. “Couple of test tubes and a pipette get you a long way.” 

“Jeb’s mother loved Jeb’s father,” Uncle Puma says. “Jeb’s mother choose a totem and she bred herself a one hundred percent settler daughter.”

Simmon bites on the bait. “Not possible.” 

“I thought that too when I came to their house to be implanted with the amulet. Jeb will recall my upset, I think.”

Simmon does not look at me for confirmation. He will not be distracted. “How?” he says. 

“Suddenly you trust my science?” Uncle Puma says. 

Simmon tries to puzzle it out but he probably is too far gone for Uncle Puma’s word games. 

“I’ll make it easy for you,” Uncle Puma says getting his fingers ready for counting on.

“Take the nucleus out of a female egg with Jeb’s mother obviously taking one of her own eggs.

“Take two female spermatozoa from the male, Jeb’s father.

“Zip them together, however that’s done.

“Implant Jeb’s settler father’s chromosomal material into the female egg.

“Implant the package into a uterus. Jeb’s mother’s own uterus again. Hey presto, a one-hundred-percent settler baby girl, as required, with all her genes her father’s.”

“She isn’t big enough,” Simmon says.  “She should’ve been taller than you.” 

“I don’t know,” Uncle Puma says. “Jeb’s mother was a smart lady. Maybe she prevented that somehow.”

“Why not her sons?” Simmon said. 

“I don’t know. Jeb, do you?”

I shake my head. I’m still it working out. The explanation I’d missed through being too young at the time, to understand. 

Just when I’m looking at him to check his progress, Simmon seems to sag inside his clothing. That will be a slab of flesh that’s loosened itself. It’ll start leaking out in a minute. I see it in my mind’s eye. It’ll resemble the meat-eating sand. 

“Uncle, please!” I beg him, swallowing down stinging acid. My stomach can’t cope; it’s pushing up my fears for me to vomit them out. Uncle Puma saw parts of what I witnessed of my mother’s death. 

Finally he nods.

“However,” Crow says. “The Earth-born can’t die until he tells us what he knows.” 

Food: Making Up Recipes

Low Fodmap Chocolate brownies

Needing to be a low-FODMAP eater for life, I’m constantly on the look out for easy recipes for sweet treats. While good cook books and online recipes are now no longer as scarce as hen’s teeth, I’m still always searching for EASY recipes.

Nothing turns me off from cooking or baking quicker than a recipe with dozens of ingredients–also called an ingredient stampede.

Not only that, I’m after a recipe for choc brownies or non-chocolate ‘brownies’. It’s that consistency of batter, I’ve decided, is the easiest to bake. Fill the cup-cake tray with the patty-papers, fill with the batter, and put in oven. Easy.

And I’m not eating the silicone off the baking paper, or from the silicone baking trays. I’m a Luddite in that respect. No silicone baking for me.

So recently I’ve been experimenting with the Rule of the Egg. I came across this rule many years ago in the hand-written cookbook of a friend of the family, Mary Morgan. I don’t think she would’ve minded me mentioning her name in regards to traditional Australian cooking and baking, she was a star. (1925 — 2011)

I have several recipes in my own hand-written book of recipes named after her. You know the sort, Mary’s Sponge; Mary’s Marmalade; and Mary’s Pav. But to get back to the Rule of the Egg.

In the case of today’s experiment I put in two eggs and four tablespoons of peanut butter. So that’s a doubling of the nut butter/butter/margarine/oil.

Then for each egg used, add one tablespoon of each flour you’re using, and one tablespoon of sugar.

I didn’t bother with salt as the peanut butter had salt in it. But normally it’s a pinch.

I mixed the ingredients in as I went, starting with the eggs and peanut butter. There’s a rule about order of adding that I’m somewhat hazy about. I figure though that since I’m not using a flour with gluten in it, there need be no worry about developing the gluten with too much working of the batter.

And finally I moistened the batter to a good consistency with rice milk. I’m sure any milk-like fluid can be used for this step.

Half-fill the cup-cake-cases. I got eight cup-cakes out of this batch.

Preheat oven to 180 C / 350 F. Bake for 15-20 minutes. Cool on a rack.

Fiction: Half Shaman, 18

Harpy Eagle, Jeb’s Totem, image by San Diego Zoo

Girl Questions

Thyal woke me from the waking-dream I was in but, though I don’t look at Simmon, I can feel him still beseeching me with soulful staring.

I’m walking looking at where to put my feet, with my hood pulled right down over my head. I glance up to keep track of what’s going on.

The meat-eating sand does not even nibble at Simmon, and from that I know that Lotor truly knows him. Way back when, he could’ve chosen a totem and married a settler girl.

My settler father loved my Earth-born mother. I remember that he called her his loon-lover. That’s almost the same as Mongoose and me. Does it count if it is the other way around?

The direction that my thoughts are wandering in gives me an idea. “Could I ask you some girl questions, Vulture?” I say though Lithe and Puma walk between us.

Vulture splits her sides laughing, but that’s all right. The men try for straight faces, apart from Simmon who frowns. Does he suspect me?

“Signal Eider?” Lithe says.

“That’d be good,” Vulture says.

Vulture carries the stretcher by balancing it in its middle.

*****

Thyal too follows the rest of the men. Reluctantly, it seems to me.

Eider, arriving, notices that too. She calls after him. “Limber told me girl questions, Thyal.” She laughs. “There go a couple of noses out of joint, Shaman Jeb.”

Now I’m nervous. Though girl questions were a ploy, I do start with one. “I was going to try to be a girl among the other girls again.”

“Sounds like you’ve always had trouble with that, Shaman Jeb,” Eider says.

“What Eider means is that you can often foresee by looking back,” Vulture says.

“That’s right,” Eider says. “The way I knew I was always going to be some troop’s tattooist because looking back I discovered that as a child I scribbled designs and totem portraits on every surface available to me.”

“Though probably you only had that insight when someone pointed that out to you,” Vulture says.

“Not wrong. I am therefore respectfully pointing out to you, Shaman Jeb, that you may never achieve being a girl among the girls of your own age group. For one thing, I think you’re so good at being a girl among the boys of your age group that that could be the problem in this troop. Has that been so all along? For other girls, I mean?”

I thought back on Wren’s claims. “I don’t know.” I ask another stupid question that I already know the answer for. “What’s it mean, being a loon? It doesn’t seem to have anything to do with the totem?”

I’m nervous. Puma should’ve made the move I am contemplating. How will he take my interference in his leadership?

“What do they teach them in Shaman Schools?” Vulture asks the world.

“Not about love,” Eider says. “It’s way of saying how a person falls in love, Shaman Jeb, not the long and slow way.”

“Like you’re struck by lightning,” Vulture agrees. “No rhyme to it.”

“Mongoose saying he’s my loon seems kind of weird to me, given what I look like.” I hate what I’m doing to these women. In reality I bask in Mongoose’s love.

“He told you. Good for him,” Eider says.

I wish Mongoose were here with me right now. “Girl talk was an excuse,” I confess. “Puma seems to be refusing to accept the danger. I couldn’t speak with Simmon here.”

Eider raises her eyebrows. “I’m listening.”

“Better be good after two false starts,” Vulture says from in front of me.

I tell them about the Earth-born disease. About my mother and my father. How quickly my father, a settler, died. He was gone in a few hours. What the early symptoms in an afflicted Earth-born look like.

“Which Simmon had in the prison already, and Puma learned about when we all met on the second platform. Why is he holding back? Because of things he still wants to learn? With whose lives will he pay?”

It feels to me that I’m challenging Vulture and Eider. Needs must. “If Simmon gets too frustrated, he’ll lash out. I’ve seen bits falling off him. No one near him is safe. There should be someone sweeping the detritus from the path behind him.”

“Let’s hurry. Catch up with the front,” Vulture says.

“You should be carrying him,” I say. “We should tie him to the stretcher if we must keep him. Bandage my feet, I’d rather walk.”

“Village Square is coming up,” Vulture says. “The halfway point. We’ll have a rest break. I’ll talk with Red-Tail.”

She raises her arm and waves. They bundle me back onto the stretcher. Jog. Red-tail and Crow join us, and Eider spells out the emergency.

“We’ll end it at the Village Square,” Red-tail says. “Carry the weight, ladies.”

She vaults up onto the stretcher with me. She stands astride on the sticks to survey the troop rear and forward. “Crow, call Mongoose from the back.”

Red-tail whistles the wild Black Cockatoo calls of her Totem toward the head of the column. Jackal howls a reply. A cold shiver runs up my back. I’ve set something into motion.

Mongoose clears his throat, letting us all know he’s there, jogging behind Crow.

“Like he was waiting for the call,” Crow says.

Mongoose laughs. “What if Simmon had been a woman?” 

I blush.

“I’m only saying I enjoy your style,” he says.

Even Red-tail is exasperated. “A loon still with the love talk.”

Mongoose grins.

Red-tail vaults over Vulture’s head.

“I guess Shaman Jeb has the oldest crappiest cloak?” she says. “Tear off a good length, Jeb. We’re making a sloppy broom. I see lover-boy is carrying the sticks for the screens? You and your Jeb shred this cloth to the hem,” she tells Mongoose.

“Roll it round a stick. Tie it. When we’ve done the hardest thing we’re going to do, I’ll need two more like it.”

“The hardest thing? I don’t like the sound of that,” Vulture says.

“Crow, I need Ant and Wren here,” Red-tail says.

When they arrive, she continues. “The loon and Wren will be gatekeepers at the Square. Dust off everybody and sweep the bits into the sand. Don’t allow any sand onto the pavement.”

She holds up her hand to silence Vulture about the hardest thing again. “The hardest thing will be getting Shaman Jeb past the Earth-born without him noticing, with the path still as narrow as. Safer for everyone with him at the rear where my crew can prod him along gently, enabling the rest of you to organize some kind of temporary camp at the Square.”

“Touching Simmon for a second won’t hurt us if we’re covered all over,” I say though I’m petrified at the thought.

Mongoose, Eider and Vulture make noises of disbelief about getting me past Simmon without Simmon noticing.

“Step one,” Red-tail says. “Eider, Vulture and Shaman Jeb wrap up like Egyptian mummies. Use the screen-cloths. Rip and tear as required. Every bit of you must be covered.”

While we’re busy with that, she tells us the rest of her plan. It sounds do-able. Red-tail’s final instructions place Ant with her group, he being the person most able to efface himself. He’ll be sweeping scraps from among their feet. The rest of us are ahead getting Puma into the picture. Here she laughs. “If he complains, tell him Red-tail knows the Void. Ask him, does he?”

I’ll happily let Vulture do that telling and asking. We approach the back of the group fore-and-afting Simmon. I can’t see, being wrapped like a mummy as well as spread-eagled facedown—because my right hand and foot are the stronger—between two layers of blanket.

Eider is carrying at the front. I hear her murmuring. Then I feel a couple of hurried bumps to my stomach and legs. Maybe it is Limber pulling Thyal back with him and them duck-walking under the stretcher still in its horizontal shoulder-high state.

Uh oh, here we go. My carriers drop the left side of the stretcher from their left shoulders. I strain to support my weight from my right hand holding on to the right-side stick and from my right foot wedged crookedly between stick and cloth. I’m so busy concentrating that I hardly notice the little side steps Vulture and Eider do into the meat-eating sand to get past Simmon and his keepers.

Back on the straight and narrow with the stretcher horizontal again, there’s a bit more jostling while a couple more people, Jackal and Ax probably, get past us to the rear. I visualize them dancing the side-skip, the dip under the stretcher, and the next side-skip.

After I’ve counted two hundred paces, I ask my carriers to turn me face-up, so I can start undoing the wrappings, to breathe a bit better.

Fiction: Half Shaman, 17

The Meridian

Mongoose Totem

When we set off this morning the red star was at its apogee and the sky was wine-red. The sky now is cobalt blue with the yellow sun overhead.

A woman called Vulture carries the front of the stretcher and Puma carries the rear; they are the eighth pair today. Thyal, the old shaman, and Simmon, the Earth-born and learner Grey Wolf, walk behind us.

“You’ve said nothing about the north-south Meridian yet, Grey Wolf,” Puma says.

I understand now why my uncle is taking a turn at carrying. He intends to question the learner Grey Wolf as if off-handedly, whilst carrying, and keeping his attention on the troop for any trouble that might be brewing. Probably he hopes that Grey Wolf has forgotten Lithe and Limber also available for the troop.  

“Never in all my journeying had I a reading for it and now I walk along its path?” Simmon says. “I’m wondering what else you haven’t told me.”

Chief Puma laughs. “We’ve traveled it for years, pushing further north every visit.”

“Have you been to the Yellow City, Grey Wolf?” Vulture says.

I understand that the Yellow City is a topic introduced to distract the Earth-born. That Vulture is part of the group managing him.

“The mythical Yellow City?” he says.

“Mythical? Did you hear anyone wondering where we’re going?” Vulture says. 

Simmon tries to placate her at the same time as he tries to increase his knowledge. “Are there any other fixed points along this Meridian?”

Does anyone else hear the hunger in his voice, I wonder.

“We’ve seen as far as the mountains,” Puma says.

Simmon snorts. I understand his frustration. Puma nearly always answers Simmon without giving any concrete information. If that’s what Simmon is here for, he’s getting a wafty picture.

Vulture laughs. “Mountains are hard to shift around, even by Lotor.”

Ahead of us all, a thing skims across the desert, right to left. I don’t have a hope seeing what it was, it went so fast. I start to exclaim but no one else even remarks.

No one else saw it. There was no sound.

I grab hard onto the stretcher. I’m blind and deaf when a vision takes me. My mouth suddenly dry, I stare into the direction I last saw the thing, for the after-image. Do not wonder how.

Its opposite-color shape, when it builds to its most detailed, reminds me of pictures of the ship-to-surface shuttles the settlers arrived on. A conviction grows in me that we are meant to travel to the Ark-Ship using that very vehicle.

Another image blooms in my moist pink mind, and overwrites the fleeing wrong-color vehicle. A shuttle’s titanium carapace lies in the path of one of the lava-like flows that are the planet’s waste extrusions. The lugubrious voice of the Shaman School’s geologist echoes in my mind. “Such wastes harden by contact with the air.”

There’s no difference between the two shuttles except that the second one, according to the vision, is a carapace. A shell. I’m nearly gibbering with fear and no one notices? Mongoose, I need you.

How will we escape without an engine? Without controls?

I must have asked. The shuttle rises from an explosion of rainbow-colored stars. Maybe it is the Universe that knows all the answers.

Sound resumes. Breathy conversations and jokes sound up and down the column while all their hard-walking feet shirr along the clay path. The stretcher creaks in the rhythm of the carriers.

When I open my eyes I see the desert and the sky. The people walking in front. Vulture’s dark hair, plaited in a queue that falls down her back. My hands. I release my hold on the stretcher.

I can’t stop the tremble in my voice. “The shuttle is over-rimed with stone.”

The least number of words with which to tell people about the shuttle, and about me having that vision right then.

“What did she say?” Simmon says.

“Don’t you worry, young Shaman,” Vulture says. “We carry our stone-working tools wherever we go.” She skips a little step, shaking me on the stretcher on her shoulders. The tools in her pack clink together. She understands me fine.

“I don’t believe how you indulge her!” the would-be Grey Wolf says. “Why am I still with this damned group? Walking with you to your end?” He makes it a frustrated question but I wonder right away whether that’s what he is doing.

Is he trying to steer us toward a hidden Field of Dreams, or a maw over the next slope?

When nobody says anything, he tries again. “I came along to help you. Point you in the right direction.”

There’s a silence again that’s finally broken by Thyal changing the subject. “It’s a solid rim we walk on, young Shaman. Once a division between two countries: Forest and Field.”

“Wasn’t that in the time that Lotor romanced the flying horses?” Vulture says lightly. “I have always wondered where in the Universe those poor creatures came from.”

“Don’t be taken in by these romantics, Jeb,” Simmon says. “Lotor’s captive Moerans bred the flying horses.”

Winged horses with impossible skin patterning, some with black spots on bands of white and rainbow lozenges, some with white spots on bands of black cut with a harlequin’s red-and-green diamonds prance through my mind. They fly from one domed peak to another in a jumble of stone domes and rounded heights.

“They live in the Bone Mountains now,” I say, mindful that if Lotor sent me this flash, it might be that Simmon, Earth-born, is helping the planet locate me.

“It is said that the Moerans never achieved the wings,” Puma says. “The Moerans came from a planet orbiting the red star, Shaman Jeb, and had to flee when their world became uninhabitable. Is that not so, Grey Wolf?”

“I am floored by your unexpected knowledge,” Grey Wolf says. He grinds his teeth.

Vulture chuckles. “That has always been an Earth-born resentment. That we of Old-Earth know as much as they. And why not in this case? Telescopes were invented hundreds of years before the Ark-Ship left Earth, early enough for any astronomer to see the star’s transformation.” 

What is Vulture trying to elicit with her story about telescopes? Then I realize. Vulture is using the before the Ark-Ship left Earth phrase to find out something. What? Keep your ears flapping, girl.

Vulture adds my seeing into her story. “When Lotor set one of her diminishments into motion, the pegasee resisted and retreated, living now only in a few mountain fastnesses.”

“And scattered their genes to avenge their tribulations,” Simmon says. “Genes such as formed the feet of the fauns we met, Jeb. It’s a terrible thing to do to your descendants. Why the sympathy for the flying horses?”

Vulture hardens her voice. “The horse genes are remnants from a time when Lotor’s landscapes held many incompletely formed creatures. How well did you say you know Lotor?”

I want to know that too, how well Simmon knows Lotor. At the Shaman School, the teachers said that where Earth’s Nature evolved toward diversity, Lotor’s Nature went the opposite way. Lotor developed all her inventions toward similarity before forcing them to meld again with her. After a time she would start over elsewhere on her crust.

Lithe and Limber arrive for their turn at bearing the stretcher. The changeover is made with some muttering. Instructions? News? Questions to ask? Lithe puts his load onto the back end of the stretcher and changes with Puma, who takes up Lithe’s pack. Limber and Vulture do the same.

Instead of dropping back, or speeding up to join the front, Puma and Vulture keep their positions. Puma walks behind Lithe. Vulture walks in front of Limber behind the old Shaman, who walks behind the Wolf.

I understand from all that, that Uncle Puma intends pushing Simmon for any useful knowledge.

“The Earth-born idea that the settlers are against them has always bothered me,” Puma says.

“I’d rather be sitting down with a skin of wine making the rounds,” Simmon says. “You people are so stubborn about that. I call that prejudice on your part.”

“Prejudice?” I say, surprised.

Puma laughs. “Every single one of you Earth-born are Lotor’s children. Earth worked out a new way, we don’t know how or what, to send people to another planet. You arrived as patterns and Lotor reconstituted you.”

Long silence.

Simmon turns and walks backward looking at us all. “I still call it prejudice. The Ark-Ship may have sustained you through your journey, on recycled matter from Earth, but since your arrival two hundred years ago, you’ve been growing crops in the Lotor ground. Eating Lotor. How are we different?”

He looks at me, at the meat-eating sand alongside, at me again.

I see him calculating distances. He stops. Not realizing his strategy, Thyal steps around him. “Jeb, your mother was Earth-born, a scientist,” Simmon says.  

Now there are only Vulture and Limber between him and me.

“I just don’t believe that you prefer to stay with these primitives,” he says. He eyes Vulture.

I see him deciding how he’ll set her out of his way. She will die if he touches her.

I swing down from the stretcher and gripping onto their clothes, I step by both Lithe and Puma.

Four between us.

Simmon hesitates.

He’s not able to force his leading foot to the ground. His expression of craft becomes consternation. He only now realizes the nature of his discomfort? I’m so so sorry for him for what is to come. 

The rear half of the line stops higgledy-piggledy.

Limber drops the front of the stretcher, pulls Vulture back and steps by her.

“Jeb,” Simmon says. “I beg you. You’re my last hope. Save me from Lotor. Let me come home with you.”

I feel sick. Icy and hot in short order. I sway.

But if I give in to the nausea roiling at the bottom of my gullet, the meat-eating sand will jump up my vomitus and I too will be lost.

“You want that we all die too?” Thyal says, sharply for him.

I see he is talking to me. I’m shocked out of my fugue. If I fall, who will drive the shuttle, is what he means.

Writing: With What Rules …

Whales by Rita de Heer, embroidered with Colourstreams Silks
on silk scrap background

After I was involved in a discussion on what constituted clangers, and disagreed, I decided to write a story in the mode that was held to be okay. See what it felt like more than anything. See if any sense could result …

Aile cast her eyes across the inn room. Hoping to catch the thief at his work, she aimed them for his face. Twould be good if at least one forced a couple of his teeth to spring for the relative safety of the steak sandwich he’d stolen.

Gusting with laughter, the rest of the patrons sent their hands a-clattering on the tabletops. The applause was that strong, that long, that numbers of armless hands rolled from the table entirely disenchanted.

They had to be rescued, sorted, relieved from dustballs picked up from under the furniture, and restored to their rightful owners. The work of fae. Lordy lordy, do expect a few misses. They’re not paid near enough.

The thief laughed unbridled and so lost his gains … a sandwich that was still only crammed into his gob, not swallowed, not masticated, not yet bitten off or even partitioned. Fearing his pretty teeth might lose their battle with Aile’s eyes, he sent her a thought by way of his ear-jacked aerial. Would she hear his by talk? The way his eyes talked of love with his eye lashes batting shyly and his head cocked just so?

He got his eyes at the smithy, cheap rubbish his mother said. How will you ever get a girl’s unbridled interest? I need you off my hands. His eyes took offense and went back to where they came from.

His second set he worked for all the night hours of six days at the dove house. The girls, as always, were utterly enamoured with his technique. But their hearts were not what he wanted, he told them. Go on. Out with the rubbish, said the madam, throwing her eyes after him for she enjoyed a strongly-built back.

He tried his best to make her eyes work for him. But his lashes would’t have her lashes, and those eyes ended up being glanced back into the dove house, through an open window, for old time’s sake.

His third set must be made to last, he knew. Everybody in the town had lost their patience, lots of broken bits, patents, patterns, cowpats and patty cakes to fall over if he wasn’t careful. Being eyeless as well, don’t you know? He applied to the cloisters with his desperation in tow, having had to dig deep within to find it.

With him wounded in mind as well as body, the monks laid him in a cell to be assessed by the head himself. Calm yourself, oh sightless sinecure, they said. The head has worked here many a year without its body incorporated. It’s a choice you too can make though we will find it difficult to perform our miracles from a blind. Still, we are a charitable institution and will always work with a given.

Meanwhile, back at the hostelry, Aile reeled in her eyes by hand. Their thin-stranded wires coiled by her feet. She fished their control unit from a nearby soup. So much for their reputed flight. Of steel and ebony her eyes were made in a cave where the dwarves weren’t all that fussy about their justified desserts. They cared more about how they were paid.

That ‘how’ became Aile’s target. She grabbed an ill-conceived idea, with wings barely longer than a falconet’s and sent it to the breakfast table to sort her thief’s unregarded losses. Fleeting back to her in numbered send-packets, she swept them into her snood and slipped out the door. The monastery stood downhill, a slide not too hair-raising.

Her beloved thief heard her coming, glorious, victorious. I’m on my way-ay-ay!!!

Would he welcome her with a hair-flick tossed randomly into the crowded cloister for every mad monk to scrabble up from the floor or would his cowlick long enough to torque around her finger do her justly?

I don’t know, he cried. I suffer from malaise, inept-time-management and lassitude. I wish she would just carry me off. The sunset beckons for it captured that clause. Different to when the red coat lived in the Arctic and it still had ice and he still had his elves and missus. He gave out presents when you needed it and I’ve run out of mine. First I lose my eyes, then my nous, then my presence. What will I do?

Yoo-hoo, my love. Let’s be about it, thief of my heart. Aile waltzed into the cell and sweeping the thief from the bed—she plucked a round-eyed gaze from the attendant—she set her lover on his feet. Come with me my torquing clown my glaze-eyed gorget glass-eyed geegaw. The world is oysterishly beautiful.

The monkish eyes fit the thief remarkably well. He stared owlishly into the future she described so eloquently. Oysterishly? I think not, my aileron. My work is here, with my ineptitudes taken care of by management. I understand that they will whip me if I so much as drop a bundle. Apparently, I’m better at cards than every-other sharp in residence.

My new home’s clangers will control my torpors, lassitude, laze and make them episodic. Permutated with episode, epistle and episo they will finally give me an epilogue. Look for me in the cemetery, my love, on the day when you too come a-burying.

.

Just Thinking 1: Why Write

In the Fields embroidered by Rita de Heer

It’s useless to be thinking about the future when you are starting out, on anything. You start your working life putting up signs, you have no clue that one day you might be working on high rises installing in glass walls with the help of a robot.

People starting out as writers are the same. I started with writing poetry. I had no idea then that one day I’d take on an sf trilogy.

Nearly everybody here in the Discord’s Writing Cartel has a world/universe that they are either writing into or using as scene setting for any number of creative projects. Yesterday I watched a short film on Youtube, there are people developing games, writing novels, short stories, you name it, it’s being written.

Every one of these worlds/galaxies/universes are huge. Many of us have spent every spare moment of our boring work lives thinking up detail. There will always be areas in any of these worlds that will stay private to their creator, and other areas that will see heavy traffic of stories.

We’re all doing it for the love of it. World building is one of the most satisfying mind games we all engage in, relaxing and psychologically uplifting. Next comes the harder thing. Convincing other people to put their own worlds aside for an hour, and engage with us in ours. So we write stories, develop adventure games, produce visuals, film about our worlds.

The Discord Writing Cartel community is all about sticking our toes in the waters of our worlds, writing though the shallows, and finally committing ourselves to writing fully fledged stories to share first with each other, then with the world.

Only then, with that last word, can you start thinking about how much money you might make.
Though, of course, these are just my own thoughts. Take them well salted.

Fiction: Half Shaman, 16

Walking …

There’s jogging and there’s jogging, I think. The second kind is when a pair of people jog with a stretcher on their shoulders. The person on the stretcher jounces mercilessly and indeed must jounce to help the joggers keep their pace. Which is what I discover when I try for a change to sit with my back straight.

Wren and Meerkat, my bearers for that stretch, slow to a walk. As we’re approximately in the middle of the line everyone behind us also slows. What’s worse, the line breaks. The fast front continues jogging. The rear slows to a walk.

Limber drops back from the front to discover the wherefores. “You two tired already?” he asks my bearers.

“Only been at it a couple of hundred paces,” Meerkat says. He sounds offended.

“It’s the way she’s sitting, straight as a maul-handle,” Wren says. She indicates up with her thumb, steadfastly refusing to name me. “Without give in her, she bounces, comes down hard. The sticks bend deeper. They want to spring off from our shoulders.”

“Show me,” Limber says.

We advance the few paces needed to illustrate Wren’s explanation. “She wants to ride, she’s got to move to the rhythm of the ponies,” Wren says.

“Wren has a point, Shaman Jeb,” Limber says. “It’s important we don’t split the group. Easier for Lotor to take out a small group than a larger one.”

“I apologize, Wren. Meerkat. Limber.” I try to catch their eyes to show that I mean it. I force myself to relax into the cross-legged jouncing posture and my bearers resume their labor.

Limber springs ahead to warn the fast front about the gap and the need to allow the rest of us to catch up.

I wonder whether the rules Puma has set for this stage are really necessary. Keep the line unbroken. The pace is a slow jog. Follow in the footsteps of the person in front.

As in, keep exactly to the single-file trail. “Who leads?” I ask. I’m guessing Meerkat will answer.

“Every thousand paces, the leader of that stage falls back,” Meerkat says.

“Funny how she hasn’t noticed them checking their way to the rear?” Wren says. “What Limber just did, didn’t he?”

Oh. I continue the conversation silently. This is my first time traveling by stretcher. I sneer at myself. That’s just an excuse. There’s a lot to see. Another excuse. But none of my conversational gambits will solve the reason for Wren’s dislike if I don’t open my mouth. “This is my first time traveling the desert. Lame excuse, I know.”

“Limber was at the end of the front,” Meerkat says. “I never heard about anyone being born on a platform. Everyone else will have had a first time in the desert too.”

“All you boys are smitten with her, and for what?” Wren says.

“Oh!” I can’t stop myself bursting out. “I suddenly see why you persist in speaking about me. It allows you to do exactly what you just did.”

I’m not totally sure what I am accusing Wren of, just that it suddenly made sense for a moment. The effect of my outburst is total silence in our little group. I have time to notice that the wind from the south is picking up. Its searing soughing hits the cavalcade side-on. Everyone’s clothes flap northward.

I see Limber skipping back down the line from the front. The person he needs to pass sways to one side, Limber sways to the other. Both manage to keep their feet on the single file path.

Very clever I’m sure, I think grumpily. Why couldn’t I have noticed that before?

Limber reaches us.

“Wren is done here,” Meerkat says. “But I will need a hundred thousand paces to work off my rage.”

Limber looks to me. I shrug helplessly. I feel as hopeless as ever about my chances to fit into the society of my age group. I used to pretend high and mightiness and that their resultant dislike was because of my totem. “I’m sorry.” For being what I am.

“I am so fucking angry,” Meerkat says conversationally. “I’ll probably strangle someone if I get loose. Get Ant.”

“I am so fucking angry I could burst,” Wren says. “That ugly bitch up on the sticks takes both my boyfriends and I’ve got to carry her like she is an Earth-born princess?”

Limber signals to the rear.

I pull my hood over my eyes and close them for good measure. I try not to take any notice of the changeover. I hear Wren and Meerkat take the loads given them. I hear Meerkat sent to the front. I hear Limber order Wren to the rear. Was Mongoose one of Wren’s recent boyfriends?

“There now, my pretty,” I hear from a way to the front.

The old shaman strokes my soul and my eyes almost overflow. I imagine the Totem Reality. It has slopes of lush grasses, stony outcrops and a blue sky. Sunlight beams down.

I spread my wings and hunt down a rabbit. Just when I’m about to crush its life, I notice it has Wren’s face. Out of shock I release her and she escapes down a hole. I press my hood against my eyes to soak up my tears. 

Fiction: Half Shaman, 15

New Chief, Old Shaman

Uncle flaps a hand. The red-tailed woman and one of the men, both of the guard squad, step through the seated crowd. With soft encouragements that I don’t hear, and without touching him, they direct Simmon to the edge of the platform.

Where he sits down. The guards stand either side of him. Not at their ease.

Uncle must have signaled that there is something more about the prisoner than the mere inconvenience of his presence? I feel a bit better.

“So here we are.” Uncle’s tone says that he will not accept any nay-saying. “What’s not to protect?”

People meet Uncle’s glare or they don’t. It’s a good way of discovering his, and so my supporters. The way people accept Uncle’s leadership surprises me.

Ant jumps into the opportunity both feet first. “So I was thinking back along the road a bit that Puma should be Chief?”

Uncle narrows his gaze.

“A boy talking,” Simmon calls from his place. A lot of people bristle.

“Sez you,” Ant says. “You’ve been with us for how long? Got a loud voice when you don’t even know if we’ll keep you.”

“What is it with you doing all the talking suddenly,” Jackdaw says. “Usually it’s your mate.”

Ant takes a deep breath. “I figured my role in the Great Project could be to liaise between the young Shaman and the group?”

“Why bother with that when you’re set on picking me as Chief?” Uncle says.

“Often Shaman Jeb won’t be able to talk with everyone separately, when separate is needed. She doesn’t know people the way Thyal knows everyone from birth practically. And by the time we have forty in the troop, say, even Thyal will have a problem getting to everyone’s individual concerns. I can help with that.”

Everyone is sitting there slightly agape, it seems.

Ant continues. “And we should always have a singing group on standby. It doesn’t have to be the same people all the time. I can help organize there. Jeb isn’t accustomed to the kind of life we lead, always on the move, I’m already helping with that. I’m pretty sure more things will come up.”

Then Ant repeats what he said to Mongoose and me, adding in a few encouraging words. “Much less confusion with a separate Chief. What the Ark-Ship says, not knowing the conditions on the ground, might be a lot different to what an experienced Chief will recommend. Better to have a discussion, with a Chief’s final vote than Jeb being advised by all and sundry and worrying alone.”

“Ha!” Simmon says. “There’s that worrying again, Jeb. Everybody is onto you.”

Despite that Simmon should be a person of no consequence to me, I think back. Was I worried while I was in the white cell? Only when people were doing things to me, or when I wasn’t in control of my life. Was I worried escaping through the black cell? Didn’t have time. Was I worried walking away from the old man in the chapel? I was walking away. So … maybe I worry when I’m not in control?

“I see that you don’t merely choose a chief,” Uncle comments, “but that you also expect him to be open to discussion. Is that your idea or Shaman Jeb’s?”

Ant and I both stay silent.

“It’s the love-struck loon’s idea?” Uncle says.

Lithe grins. Mongoose grins.

“It’s the idea of all of us pack animals,” Meerkat says. “We’ve been brewing it. And we’ve decided we need just one person giving us our instructions, not fifty all wanting their own stuff carried in as many quirky ways. And, most of all, we need someone who realizes that if we carry all day every day, we won’t be much good carrying nights as well.”

Now everybody young enough to be a pack animal, grins. “Meerkat for chief!” says a girl.

Limber is the next to agree. Which he does quite sneakily? “So when shall we start the next stage, Chief?” he says.

Uncle thinks. “Tonight is too soon.” He smiles a fleeting glance toward Ant with approval and gratitude mixed in it. A chief-in-waiting can’t take the position no matter what the need as he sees it. He has to be chosen.

“Got a couple of pack animals needing a night off,” Uncle says. “The next stage is twenty-five kilometers. We’ll be crossing several regions of the carnivorous sand.”

I’m sure I grow pale. I feel the skin of my face constricting.

“This platform is higher,” Uncle in his Puma-guise says. “So we’ll pare some longer staves from the stem. Make a stretcher so we can all help carry our young shaman. Pair up according to shoulder height. Nobody carries more than a thousand paces at the time.”

“Is a chief really necessary?” Simmon says from afar.

I hear how he makes his voice sound bored. If he thinks he’ll influence people that way, he doesn’t know us at all. And why is he even trying to keep people aware of his presence? I grin. Answered that myself just then.

Lithe leans toward him. “Earthborn, how long do you think I will tolerate you in the troop without a totem? Puma is the right man for the job. Always before, he was Puma-in-waiting as I was Lithe-in-waiting, as Limber was Limber-in-waiting.”

Limber smiles and expands on his brother’s comment. “We waited for trouble and jumped in according to need. But we two,” he salutes his brother. “We are also of the Black Swan Totem. Which comes with its own and entirely different role.”

 “We welcome Puma’s leadership,” Lithe says. “Him taking the lead will enable us to spend more time on our Black Swan work without worrying things will fall apart in the organization of the troop.”

He glances at me.

Why?

 “That’s right,” Limber says. “But don’t think to play up, anybody.” He glances round maybe at the known troublemakers. “We’ll still be Puma’s lieutenants. As the Ant said, much less confusion.”

Everyone laughs.

I guess because of the confusion of a pair of identical twins telling how it is as if they are one person. I want to know more about the Black Swan totem and why Lithe looked at me just then.

“So. Simmon,” Uncle Puma says in the slightly ponderous way he has always had, but which now suits his role. “To stay with us, my lieutenants feel you ought to adopt a totem for real.” He stared at Simmon, maybe daring him to tell us he already had a totem, the Sea Eagle. To prove it, he’d have to shuck his shirt for us to see his Sea Eagle tattoo.

Simmon stares back and stays put. Therefore no Sea Eagle tattoo, or totem. More likely in my opinion Simmon hopes to keep us ignorant of the skin disease.

“Thyal and you won’t be carrying,” Uncle says. “You’re the wrong size. Thyal is old. In return for you backpacking Thyal’s swag, he’ll teach you your totem. Twenty-five kilometers gives you plenty of time to pick it up.”

Thyal laughs old-man-style. “Huh huh huh. He’s a Grey Wolf if I ever saw one. Got some of the character already. Can grow into the rest, the way we all do.”

Simmon perks up.

Though I worry about Simmon’s infection passing to Thyal, I laugh into my hand. Everybody wants to be a Wolf some time in their lives. Usually when they are kids.

 “I guess the Earth-born contains information that hasn’t yet been extracted,” Mongoose says. “Learning the totem will be enough of a distraction, maybe, that they can pick his brains while he doesn’t realize.” He ends doubtful. “Maybe. He could be smarter than people realize.”

****

The dome of the sky overhead is studded with stars.

I don’t sleep. Not enough exercise, I expect. The Ark-Ship passes regularly along the arc of its orbit. The stars along the edge of the platform become red pinpricks. They are wild little eyes above hungry little mouths waiting to eat me alive …

“Come to me, young Shaman.”

A voice like a soft paw pummels aside the little things with eyes and mouths and nattering teeth. “We will practice a vigil together. Many are the nights that a vigil is all that I achieve.”

The paw speaks to me? I see a flash of sandy brown fur. A long back striped with black.

“Old Thyal, seated to your north.”

I see him now. A shadowed triangle shape breaks the pin-pricked rim. Everywhere else lays the troop, restless or still according to the quality of their sleep. All their heads near the dangerous rim, feet toward the middle. Left and right of me sleep Ant and Mongoose.

“Take the inner road, young Shaman. The Earth-origin gadget will not bother you again.”

I can’t sleep anyway. Trust him about the gadget? Why am I so scared about everything? Been dallying on the low road, I answer myself. Despite that I already worked out what happens when I do.

But, is it because I don’t know how to love and live at the same time? How will I learn that? I slip from between Ant and Mongoose, both near but courteously far enough not to be touching. Although Mongoose manages to keep a big toe so near to my shin, he might as well be. Lithe called him a love-struck loon?

I tiptoe through the central depression, expecting at any moment to feel pain shirring up my feet.

Nothing.

I breathe out in relief and take a great gulp of air before sitting myself cross-legged in front of the old Shaman. The shine of his eyes catches the starlight until they are themselves twinkling stars.

“There now,” he says. “There now. You get no peace from your vigils, I think.”

He waits, it seems.

“I’ve always used them for deep thinking, to try to solve problems,” I say. “The Head Shaman …”

He takes my left hand with his right hand. His left arm is missing to above his biceps. “I remember the Head Shaman,” he says. “He’d bonded with the Tarsier Totem when I knew him.”

I’m shocked. This old shaman knew my mentor and calls him mischievous?

“There now, my pretty.” He rubs the back of my hand with his thumb.

I don’t pull away. He’s old, half-blind, and pretty is just a word.

“Your eyes are very beautiful,” he says. “Your loon fell in a heartbeat, did he not? Unfold and flower, my pretty. Look on him with love and he will never leave you.”

I feel my heart jump. I hear its glad thudding high in my chest. I wish I wish I wish. Thump. But how will I be independent as well?

“Come back, my pretty.” The old shaman turns my hand in his and rubs my palm. “Now,” he says. “The planet progresses along her path. Do you see the Ark-Ship?”

I locate the ship. “A point of light in the northeast quadrant.”

“I trust you. My old eyesight doesn’t reach that far. Two hundred and fifty kilometers above us …” He shakes his head at the wonder of it. “Do you know what our Ark-Ship looks like?”

“No.”

“Neither do I,” he says. “It must stay a point of light in our minds for now. But reaching it is the Great Project of our hearts. Track its journey for me, down through Lotor’s sky sphere.”

I kneel up. “With your hand?” I lift his hand and pointing finger, and trace the Ship’s path along its arc until it disappears behind the planet. “It’s gone now. Behind the planet.”

 I sit back down.

“Let’s think now about the Ark-Ship’s interior,” Thyal says. “How things might be arranged inside it. I hope there will be a Totem Reality where we may harness ourselves into our Totem animal’s skins, to live their lives for a time, so to learn their wild ways for the sake of understanding our totems the better.”

He looks at me. “What will you imagine?” His voice fades while he still instructs. “Don’t tell me … think it … dream it … practice your shamanic arts.”

Can I still be the Harpy Eagle? I need her strength. Can I integrate the two people I am becoming? I spread my wings. Time stops while I soar up the thermals. A green grass and grey stone mountain-scape unfolds beneath me. Goats and smaller prey animals live and breed on the slopes. I hunt and give thanks for my existence.

“Come back, young one.”

I wake to the old shaman stroking my hand.

“Go back to your loon now,” he says. “We’ll practice our arts again another night.” 

I am mesmerized. I don’t feel the glassy platform under my feet, maybe I’m still soaring. I subside between Mongoose and Ant.

“Took you long enough,” Mongoose mumbles.

I don’t laugh because I don’t want even a breath of my lightness-of-being to escape me.