JAWBONE
I watch my parents until they disappear around the curve in the shoreline, then I turn back and stare upward at the sheer vertical wall. It’s terrifying. My gaze lingers on the first children’s camp high above me. From down here it’s a shallow half-moon-shaped darkness. As I reach for the first handhold and pull myself up, dream memories whisper through my soul, as if I’ve looked down from up there and seen Father Sun setting over the distant ocean.
“Just c-climb,” I whisper through gritted teeth.
I haul my weight up another body-length, find the footholds, and try to calm my nerves. As I climb higher, the winds gets stronger and the stone is increasingly slick beneath my fingers. But Father thought it was safe. It must be safe for me.
The Ice Giants rumble constantly, sending odd reverberations through my body. Here and there ghost-pale stalactites of ice hang from ledges. The higher I climb the more frightened I become. I expect to peer into the next crack and see a malignant blackness seeping out, coming after me. There is spirit power here, stronger than any I’ve ever known. In spite of my thundering heart, I can’t help but look around. Is my spirit helper here yet?
By another fifty handholds, I’m starting to get tired. It shocks me. Am I truly such a weakling?
When I sweep my hand across the cliff over my head searching for the next handhold, all I feel is smooth stone. Tilting my head far back, I try to see above me, but the rock curves outward here, blocking my view. “Has to be there.”
Stretching out as far as my arm will reach, I shove up until I’m perched on tiptoes in the footholds.
“There!”
I sink my fingers into the hole and groan as I climb another step.
I climb for what seems forever, but as Father Sun descends toward the western horizon, I know I’m in trouble. The sunlit reflections off the cliff blind me.
Have to pat the ice for any depression, feel for it.
Don’t stop. Climb!
Dig my fingers in and pull myself up another step. As I pant, the white clouds of breath that freeze in front of my face turn glittering and deadly. I can’t hang in one place for too long or they freeze on my eyelashes, welding them together, and I have to let go of one handhold to bat the ice off.
Above me, the children’s camp now resembles a golden sunlit maw. It’s only about twenty hand-lengths away, but all around me the Ice Giants rumble and laugh, and I’m certain they’re waiting for their chance to throw me to my death.
“Keep . . . goin’. Almost there.”
My lashes click when I blink. Where’s the next handhold? That faint shadow? The reflections sink far back into the depths of the blue ice where they leap and dance as though alive. It’s mesmerizing.
“Stop lookin’ and climb.”
Pat the ice. Sink fingers into the only hole deep enough to support my weight, take a good grip, pull upward, and then scramble to find the foothold that must be there below me.
“B-Brace your toes.”
My legs are shaking, but the camp is just above me!
Hanging like a shivering spider on the wall, I realize that Father Sun has sunk so low on the western horizon that soon, I’ll no longer be blinded by the cliff reflections, but I don’t want to be here when twilight begins to settle over the shore and the temperature plunges.
“Hurry. Hurry.”
My knees wobble as I shove up, grab for the lip of the crack, and pull myself over the edge into the first children’s camp. My relief is so great I’m lightheaded. For a time, I just sprawl on my belly and gasp air into my lungs. The crack is seventy hand-lengths long but just twenty deep. Folded bison hides rest in the back beside a driftwood pile and a tripod with a boiling bag. A short distance farther, I see the cluster of boiling stones, bags of food, and a single wooden cup. Elder Hoodwink always makes certain the children’s camps are fully stocked.
Gods, I’m so happy tears blur my eyes.
When I’ve finally caught my breath, I roll to my back and realize I can see all the way up to the top of the cliff.
What is that?
Rubbing my eyes, I stare harder.
A man waving.
It’s Father! He’s too far away for me to see his face, but I know he’s smiling. He’s proud of me. I smile back, and wave, then let my arm thunk to the floor. Hardly able to move, my eyes half snow-blind, I’d like nothing better than to lie here for a full hand of time to rest, but I know I’ll die if I do. I must get up and make a fire before my body starts to cool off and my fingers get so cold they stop working.
“Get w-wood.”
Dragging myself up, I stagger over to the rear of the cave and gather an armload of twigs and larger sticks, then reach for the tripod and boiling bag and place them on top of the sticks, before I grip the edge of the bison hide. As I stumble toward the hearthstones, dragging the hide, a soft shishing trails behind me.
“Shouldn’t have tried to carry so much. Have to . . . be more careful.”
I drop the bison hide, then dump the wood beside the hearth and set the tripod and bag down before I collapse to my knees.
My fingers are stiffening. I search my belt pouch for my fire-sticks—one is a sharpened hardwood stick and the other is a punky stick with half-drilled holes down the length. Doesn’t take long to arrange the wood into a tent, and mound twigs in the center, then I lower the sharpened stick into one of the punky holes and start spinning it between my palms. When the wood in the hole starts to glow, I empty it onto the twigs and blow gently until flames lick up.
It’s a huge relief, but now I have to chop ice and fill the boiling bag, so I’ll have warm tea to drink when the temperature plummets with nightfall. It’s already much colder than just moments ago, and the zyme has started to glow. As the waves push the blanket of zyme up and down, green flashes mix with my firelight and flicker over the walls and ceiling of the ice cave.
“See? You—you’re all right,” I tell myself, despite the fact that I’m shivering so hard it’s tough to make my mouth say words.
Pulling out the legs of the tripod, I arrange them so that the hide bag hangs in the center, and search around the hearth for boiling stones.
“Where . . . ? Oh, gods.” Rising, I stagger back to the rear of the cave and pick up two from the pile of boiling stones. When I return, I slump before the tiny fire and tuck the stones into the fire to heat.
“Tired . . . really tired,” I whisper as I drag up the bison hide and wrap it around my shoulders.
Far out across the luminous vista, I watch towering pillars of zyme soar up on wave crests and plunge into troughs. One of the pillars has twisted arms that swing as it walks toward shore.
Some of our oldest stories say that when the Jemen realized the zyme had given birth to the Ice Giants, many of them walked into the ocean as punishment and became zyme. We see them out there, towering human-shaped pillars that rock upon the waves. Since I was a young boy, I’ve tried to see eyes or noses in the pillars, but never have. Nonetheless, they do have strange, hissing voices. Someday I plan to study their language with our greatest holy people so I can learn how to speak with zyme-Jemen. They must have amazing stories to tell.
When I yawn, my whole body aches. Do all children feel this exhausted when they reach the first camp?
“Probably not. I’m just pathetic,” I whisper miserably to myself. “Isn’t as bad as one of my spells, though.”
My muscles suddenly feel like they’re shrivelin’ into my bones, trying to find a place to hide, and I wish I hadn’t thought about my spells. The bison hide behind my eyes sways . . .
Don’t look.
Concentrating, I focus on the quake moving through the cliff. Ice Giant children play hide-and-seek as night falls. Their laughter and squeals resonate from deep inside the cliff to the north, then chitter past me and run southward.
It’s a curious feeling, sitting here alone. In Sky Ice Village, there are always people around to protect me and teach me the things I will need to know once I become a man. I feel hollow without them. I especially miss my sisters. Little Fawn may only have seen eleven summers, but she is the bravest person I know. When I’m scared, I just have to look at her, and my fears go away. We were both born into the White Foam clan of the Rust People, so we cannot marry . . . but she’s my best friend and I love her. I have to marry a Rust woman, hopefully Hawktail. There are just five Sealion girls left, and they are all promised to other young men. Mother says she may take me to the autumn equinox celebration held by the Rust People in a few moons and try to broker a marriage with Hawktail’s grandparents. When a man marries, he has to move to his wife’s village. I don’t want to, but it is the way of our peoples.
Gradually, I add more wood to the fire, building it up. Takes another finger of time before I stop shivering. And yet another finger of time before the thick bison hide has absorbed enough warmth to finally drive the cold from my bones.
“See? You’re all right.” I exhale the words. “You didn’t have a spell while you were climbin’, did you?”
Leaning, I peer over the edge of the cliff to gauge how far I climbed today. It’s a long way down.
It occurs to me that I haven’t chopped ice for the tea bag . . .
Pulling my ax from my belt, I hack three chunks from the floor and stuff them into the bag, then I return my gaze to Mother Ocean.
The color of the zyme is odd tonight, more jade green than emerald, and a black wall of clouds hovers in the distance.
“That isn’t another storm, is it?”
If it rains or snows tomorrow, my caribou-hide clothing will get wet and be immensely heavier. Wet leather boots also slip more on ice than dry boots do, and they freeze to ice when the temperature drops.
“It’s not goin’ to rain. Stop scarin’ yourself, you coward.”
Yawning, I turn when an enormous iceberg rounds the curve in the shoreline. Like a knife, it cuts a swath through the zyme.
The boiling stones won’t be very hot yet, but I need to start melting the chunks of ice.
Using two sticks of driftwood, I pull one heated stone from the fire and drop it into the hide bag. Ice cracks and sizzles as the warm stone melts it to water. When the sizzling stops, I pull out another stone and drop it into the bag. This time, an explosion of steam gushes into the air.
I haven’t had anything to drink since noon. I’m very thirsty. Dipping my wooden cup inside, I draw out a cup of water, but I don’t gulp. I sip slowly, letting its warmth seep through me. Father says warriors do not gulp water, especially not if they’ve been running or climbing all day.
I take one small sip at a time.
When I’ve drained the cup, I curl onto my side and blink dreamily at the flames. I’m too tired to eat. I’ll eat in the morning. I know I’m going to need my strength tomorrow, but I’m exhausted.
Closing my eyes, I watch firelight flicker on the backs of my lids as my soul drifts.
Sometimes, I think of my old family and our silver lodge on the shore far north of here in the Steppe Lands. I had a big dog named Barker who slept beneath the hides with me to keep me warm. But oftener, I remember Quiller pulling me out of the boat where I hid with Little Fawn, Loon, and Chickadee. Then I think of RabbitEar teaching me to make bone tools and to hunt mammoths. Since they adopted me, I’ve tried very hard to learn the ways of Sealion People. I listen carefully when Sealion elders tell their strange Beginning Time stories, which are so different from the stories of my old people. I’m not sad. That old life is dim and distant, and such memories growing fainter by the day, but I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if that pride of giant lions had not attacked our village and killed my family. I’d still be Jawbone of the White Foam clan of Great Horned Owl Village. Right now, I’d be sleeping before another fire with another family.
Images flit about as my breathing grows deeper and my eyes fall closed.
In the blackness, ships of light leap from the earth and sail upward, hundreds of them streaking for the darkness where the campfires of the dead blaze. I’m awake enough to realize I’m dreaming the story about the Jemen leaving the earth in their ships made of meteorites. But there’s something different tonight. I’ve never seen those eyes before. Big shining eyes up there. I squeeze my eyes tightly closed.
I’m in the children’s camp. I’m all right.
The eyes bob along the sacred Road of Light. There’s a sound coming from the eyes.
What’s that?
Like . . . claws. Claws scratching at ice.
The hair on my neck and arms stands straight up. I slit one eye open.
The darkness wavers in the firelight. I want to touch it, but my body won’t move. The sound is clearer now. Not claws. Talons. Huge talons ripping at ice. Terror turns me inside out.
Scrambling up in my bison hide, I call, “Hello? Is someone there?”
The fire has burned down. I swiftly pull another piece of driftwood from the woodpile and place it in the center of the flames. How long was I asleep? Sparks crackle and pop into the air where they wink toward the pale green ceiling.
“You were dreamin’,” I whisper angrily at myself. “Try to go back to . . .”
Suddenly, big wings thump the night air beyond my camp, and I gasp when a bizarre winged creature lands on the lip of the crack and peers at me with gleaming eyes. It has a snowshoe hare clutched in its talons. Though I see no bird droppings, it must perch here often to hunt the shore and eat.
I’m afraid to speak, but I mouth the words, What are you?
The creature ignores me, bends down and tears off a chunk of hare, which it bolts down, and then lazily gazes out across the zyme to the far horizon where the black clouds resemble domed lodges. Above its long, toothy snout it has an almost human face.
Finally, I gather the courage to whisper, “I’ve never seen a bird like you.”
The creature inspects me with one liquid silver eye. Its skull is three times the size of my head, and it has wide cheekbones like shelves upon its jaws. Scales cover its short wings, tiny round scales that come to miniscule points thinner than the tips of pine needles. I wonder if they’re sharp? Even the slightest movement makes the wings glitter as though aflame. We are always discovering curious new creatures in this country far south of the Steppe Lands, but usually they’re dead, washed ashore after being smothered by the zyme. Less than one moon ago, we found a giant fish that we’d never seen before. It was especially strange because not even our elders could imagine how it had gotten there. It must have tumbled around beneath the zyme until it made landfall. Around the fire later that night, the elders told stories of giant fish that had traversed great blue oceans in the long-ago days before the Jemen were born.
The creature utters a low shriek, as though conversing with the dead hare, and I wonder . . .
There are old, old stories about Flame Birds. The elders say that just after the enemies of the Jemen cast crushed meteorites upon the zyme, it began to spread over the ocean like wildfire. The world got colder and colder until the Ice Giants were born. Then the Jemen split in two and fiery birds soared across the skies engulfing the entire world in flame. Is that what this is? A Flame Bird straight out of our legends?
“Are you a thousand summers old?” I softly ask.
The Flame Bird bends forward and uses sharp teeth to break off a chunk of ice soaked with hare blood, which it chokes down whole. Then it tilts its head sideways to eye what remains of the hare carcass in its talons. Must have needed a drink, and now it’s going to eat again.
I’ve heard the Blessed Teacher Lynx speak of deep caverns where grotesque mummified corpses lie in heaps. He says they are monsters, unholy creations that could not have existed in a real world, so they must have been created by the Jemen. Or perhaps re-created, as Sealion People were.
The Flame Bird gobbles down two more chunks of snowshoe hare.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to disturb your dinner. You must be hungry. Want me to go back to sleep so you can eat in peace?”
The creature just blinks out at the glowing ocean. In the zyme light, its big silver eyes now appear faintly green. As though unconcerned by my presence, it grips the last chunk of hare in its teeth, playfully tosses it into the air, then snatches it and gobbles it down.
I’m awestruck by the way the creature’s silver talons gleam. It’s the first living creature I’ve seen since Mother and Father left me, and I wonder if they saw it earlier sailing over the cliff top.
Twin white streamers drift before the creature’s nostrils as it tilts its head to stare at me, silently asking a question.
“I don’t . . . understand,” I begin and stop, for it has suddenly occurred to me that I dare not mistake this creature for something ordinary.
I pull myself up straighter. “My name is Jawbone,” I say in a reverent voice. “Of the Blue Dolphin clan from Sky Ice Village. Are you my spirit helper?”
The creature flares its nostrils as though scenting me, maybe trying to decide if it likes my smell.
“I’d be honored if you would be my spirit helper. I think you’re amazin’. I give you my oath that I will try very hard to learn whatever you wish to teach me.”
The creature tips its glittering scaled head back to gaze upward at the point of light slowly traveling through the campfires of the dead. The Sky Jemen appears and disappears through the thin layer of clouds. The creature watches the ship of light very closely.
Trying not to disturb the bird’s concentration, I whisper, “Were you alive when the Jemen walked the world like giants?”
As though my question made it sad, the Flame Bird lets out a deep sigh, hangs its huge head, and slowly blinks at the shore far below.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .”
Spreading its taloned wings, the Flame Bird drops over the edge of the cliff and plummets downward. Moments later, I spot it in the distance gliding just above the luminous zyme with its wings flashing like faceted emeralds.
A sense of wonder expands my heart until I fear it might burst.
The Flame Bird flips in midair, dives into the zyme and comes up with something in its talons, then it swoops upward and vanishes over the top of the cliff.
Holding my breath, I watch for a long time. “Please, come back?”
I feel strangely empty, as though the creature took part of me with it when it left. Pulling the bison-hide around me, I stretch out on my back and stare at the rocky roof over my head.
Waiting.
She’s coming back. I know she is.