of that nonsense about women and playing around, he would see that his boys grew up straight and somber as befitted future generations of shamans and magic-users.
Enor-oba and Whituk and the others would be dubious, of course, thinking it all a joke, but Mika would convince them eventually. Soon, he would be a respected and valuable member of the clan, the chiefs right-hand man. Maybe… in time, he might even become chief himself. And he would name his firstborn Veltran. Everything would work out fine.
It was curiously silent as Mika entered camp. Women were moving about their chores silently, eyes to the ground. There were few children about, and those few who were visible were playing quietly, no running around or loud games. No one seemed to notice him. It was as though he was invisible. People seemed to fade away as he approached, turning in the opposite direction as if they did not see him, or entering their huts, almost as though they were avoiding him for some reason.
He made his way to the center of the camp and there, just as he expected, were the remains of the still smoldering pyre. The heavy scent of burned flesh still hung over the camp and Mika bowed his head and whispered, 'Be at peace, spirit of my father. I will honor your memory always.'
TamTur whined low in his throat, mincing sideways nervously with the smoky scent of death in his nostrils.
'Everything is all right, old friend,' said Mika, dropping a hand to the head of the great beast. 'Come, I must find Enor and tell him of my plans, relieve him of his concern. I am sure that he will be anxious to have me don my father's cloak and responsibilities as soon as possible.'
As he drew near to the largest dwelling, the building that housed the chief and his family, the camp grew quieter still and a woman appeared briefly in the doorway of a hut, snatched the arm of a child who was seated outside, and dragged it hurriedly inside.
A hush seemed to fall, almost as if the camp were holding its breath. Mika looked around him, puzzled at the silence. There was no one to be seen. Not one child played in front of one campfire, not one woman bustled about doing her daily chores. Not one wolf cub scratched at the midden heap for a bone. All windows were drawn and door flaps sealed as though the inhabitants were readying themselves for a storm or for war.
Mika was confused. Had something happened while he was gone?
Mika approached Enor's lodge, a large wooden affair with tall painted posts beside the door, cleverly carved to depict generations of wolves, piled one atop the other's shoulders.
As he drew near, the door creaked open and Whituk stepped out, an unpleasant smile on his narrow lips. His stringy grey locks were draped with a mantle of brightly colored feathers and shells and crowned with the whitened skull of a great wolf whose empty eye sockets gleamed with the yellow of topaz.
A heavy robe of black wolf pelts hung from his shoulders, the neck and armholes edged with white wolf tails. The familiar pouch of herbs hung from a belt at his waist. In his scrawny fist he clutched the shaman's staff of office.
Mika stopped in mid-step, stunned as though he had been dealt a blow to the head. His mind whirled as he tried to think of some reason why Whituk would wear his father's robes and carry the staff of office which should, by right, be his.
Rage began to build within him the longer he looked upon the vision of the lesser shaman, whom he had never liked, wearing the familiar robes.
Whituk, never a stupid man, undoubtedly realized his danger and, clutching the staff tightly, stepped back and thrust open the door calling out: 'Mika-oba has returned, honorable chief. Perhaps you might step outside and speak to him.'
Mika breathed deeply, sucking his anger down, and resolved to speak calmly and gently. This was surely a misunderstanding that could easily be set right. Enor was a just and intelligent man and a wise chief. He would settle everything.
Enor emerged from the hut, followed by Enor-oba and several of the lesser chiefs, all of whom stared at him with cold disapproval, although Mika also discerned a smirk of pleasure curling at the edges of Enor-oba's thin lips. Celia peeked from the corner of the door, her small face shadowed with worry, before Enor-oba stepped in front of her, blocking her from Mika's sight.
'So, Mika, you are back,' said Enor, a deep frown creasing his forehead. 'Whituk here thought you had gone for good.'
'No, I am here as you can see. I was in the forest, saying my farewells to my father.'
Whituk snorted. 'In the forest. A dutiful son would have been at the funeral pyre where he belonged, saying the prayers that would speed his father's spirit to the land of our ancestors. A good son would have…'
'Would have what, Whituk?' demanded Mika, a steely note entering his voice as he moved within a pace of the shaman and stared into his beady eyes.
'We each must grieve in our own fashion and say our good-byes as we see fit. No other man may say what is right at such a time,' said Mika.
'What matters is that I have returned and am here now to take the place that is mine by birthright. To wear the mantle that now seems to be on your head. To don the robe that sits on your shoulders. To carry the pouch that hangs at your waist. To hold the staff that is in your hands. I have returned and now ask you with all due respect to give me that which is mine.'
Whituk shifted nervously. His eyes flitted sideways, unable to hold Mika's gaze, and his knuckles whitened as he clutched the staff more tightly. He began to edge away, attempting to slip behind the body of the chief. Mika's hand shot out with the speed of a ferret going for the kill, grabbed the shaman, and dragged him forward, lifting him up to the level of his eyes so that the man's toes barely touched the ground.
'Do riot play with me, Whituk. I have asked you nicely to give me that which is mine by birthright. I do not wish to be unpleasant. Do you understand me?' He surprised himself with his vehemence. He gave the shaman a gentle shake that tipped the wolf skull down over Whituk's eyes and rattled him as though he were a sack of bones.
'They're mine!' hissed the shaman. 'I'm head shaman now. Tell him, Enor!'
Enor stared at the shaman with open distaste, then sighed deeply and signaled for Mika to let the man down.
'Come inside, Mika. We must talk,' he said heavily. Turning, he entered the building without even looking to see if Mika would comply.
Mika's heart sank at the somber tone in the chiefs words, and he lowered Whituk to the ground with only token roughness, which was still enough to send the man reeling dizzily into the embers of a nearby fire.
Mika found the chief seated before the fire in the lodge.
'As you know, it is the duty of the firstborn son to sing the death songs, lead the prayers, light the pyre, and send the spirit on its way to the hunting grounds of our ancestors. With your brother's death, that responsibility became yours.'
Mika opened his mouth to speak, to explain the deep grief that had come over him, making it impossible for him to share his feelings with anyone or take part in the ritual. Enor held up a hand, silencing him.
'With your father's passing, once the pyre is lit and his spirit safely sung on its way, according to our custom, as you know, the mantle, the robe, the staff, and the pouch became yours, as well as the title of head shaman, healer, and magic-user.'
Mika's shoulder's straightened and a weight lifted from his heart. Enor had spoken the words he himself would have said. The words detailing the custom that would ensure his rightful place in the clan.
'But you were not here and we could not find you, even though we delayed the building of the pyre and allowed your father's body to remain in his dwelling place from one sunrise to the next, risking the danger of his spirit slipping away and becoming earthbound forever. We could not find you, even though we searched the farthest corners of the forest and called your name until our voices rasped in our throats. u did not answer, though you must have heard us.'
Enor stared at Mika with a keen piercing look from his dark eyes, as though begging him to deny the fact, his great beaked nose giving him the look of a questing eagle. But Mika hung his head and tried to swallow the lump in his throat, for he had indeed seen the torches and heard their voices and had not responded.
Enor sat quietly, waiting for Mika to reply, stroking the long wolf tails that cascaded over his shoulder among his thick black braids. Mika had always thought of Enor as an old man, but in truth, he was no more than in the
