The Shaman by Christopher Stasheff Read Free Book Online Page A

“Will she live? Can she?”
    Chaluk
gazed steadily into his eyes, then slowly turned away to look at the young
woman. “That is a matter for greater shamans than me,” he said, as if the words
were dragged out of him, “but they are not here.” Then he spun on his heel,
pushing through the hides that covered the doorway, out into the night air.
Ohaern swept the skins aside with a forearm and followed.
    Out
in the chill of the early spring night, Chaluk turned back to Ohaern. “Can you
not bring Fortor? All the Biri clans are under his care. But his dwelling is
four leagues away.”
    Ohaern
thought furiously. “It would take all the night, and most of tomorrow . . .”
    “And
you might return to find her spirit sped.” Chaluk nodded, lips tight. “And the
chief shaman of the nation is farther still.” He turned his head slowly from
side to side, holding Ohaern with his gaze. “No, Ohaern—we are not the greatest
of shamans, Mardone and I, but we are all that the clan has. Ryl’s illness has
surpassed my knowledge, and Mardone’s, and our skill. She is in the gods’ hands
now.”
    “What
then can I do?” Ohaern cried in agony.
    “Pray,”
Chaluk told him. “Stay here, outside the lodge, and pray. If Lomallin hears you
and can bring all his forces to combat Ulahane, and if Mardone and I can give
Ryl strength enough, the fever may slacken and she may live. Stay, Ohaern, and
pray with all your spirit to Lomallin.”
    Ohaern
held the shaman’s gaze for a long minute, then bowed his head. Chaluk turned
away, stooping through and brushing aside the hides, leaving Ohaern to the
cold, crisp air of a night of very early spring, and to the company of his own
soul.
    Ohaern
took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the chill freshness, and felt a stab
of guilt at the relief it gave him—but there was peace out here, peace in
gazing at the hills, and the bare oaks and elms climbing their sides to the
pines above. He turned slowly, surveying all the land about in a circle, then
finally felt his lips quiver with the urge to smile. Chaluk was right—he must let
his soul rest, that he might have strength to give Ryl, if the unseen Guide
came near her in the night. He filled his spirit with the peace of the deeps of
the night, the sweep of the hills, the well-beaten trail leading up over them
...
    And
remembered how, in the depths of winter, he had seen Manalo come forth from the
trees. Ah, if only he would come down that trail now! If only he were within
the forest, if only he would step out from the pines once more ...
    Ohaern
waited, hoping against hope, his whole soul surging upward in a silent,
unvoiced prayer to Lomallin, that the sage might come, might yet save Ryl ...
    He
waited, he waited, the tension drawing his soul out thinner and thinner ...
    But
the pines stayed obstinately dark, and the sage came not.
    Ohaern
relaxed in defeat; his heart twisted within him. Of course he could not summon
Manalo, nor compel Lomallin.
    But
he could petition. And he did, all that cold, dark night. His soul yearned
upward as Ryl lay bathed in sweat; he prayed to Lomallin while the land was
coming alive around him and Ryl was dying; prayed for a miracle, prayed for
Manalo ...
    But
the sage came not, and at last the sky lightened with the coming of dawn ...
    And
the coming of Chaluk, from out of the lodge, to lay a heavy hand on Ohaern’s
shoulder and say, “We have done all we could, Ohaern, but it is not enough.
Come then, to say good-bye.”
    Ohaern
still knelt, rigid as iron. Then, slowly, he rose and went back into the hut.
    Chaluk
followed.
    They
came forth again as the sun broke above the horizon, to welcome Ryl’s soul to
the sky. They came forth in silence, Chaluk in fear and alarm, Ohaern with a
face filled with thunder and a heart filled with rage.
    “Ohaern,”
the shaman pleaded, “we could do no more.”
    Ohaern
chopped his hand sideways in an impatient gesture. “It is not you who deserves
my anger, Chaluk.