They were empty now, just a tracing of old flesh in them. Here the beak had been; he wondered what had become of it. Or what if it had never had a beak? What if it had never been an owl at all? A strange thrill ran through him and he nearly dropped it.
Trembling, he placed it carefully among his other treasures. That this one had power he never doubted. Always it filled him with foreboding.
He gazed at his talismans, let the wonder of them fill him until the hair stood up on the back of his neck and prickled along his arms. There was a message here for him: Carp had told him that just by setting out the contents of his pouch, a shaman could learn many things. Again Kerlew's eyes roamed over his trinkets. The Knife, the Blood Stone, the bird's skull. The feathered claw, the rabbit's tail, the Blood Stone. His mind teetered on the edge of knowing all, understanding all. There was a pattern here. Knife wanted something done, something Bloody. And the bird's claw ...
As rapidly as the ideas had built, they fell apart. He was cold, staring at the arrangement of articles in front of the dying fire. The fire. Tillu would be very angry if he let the fire go out again. He would have to wait to eat if the fire went out. Hastily he scooped the items back into his pouch and returned it to the hollowed place beneath his pallet.
He brought an armload of wood from the pile by the door and tumbled it onto the embers and coals. It hissed, and steam and smoke rose from it chokingly and swirled up toward the smoke hole in the peak of the tent. Smoke. He wondered if Carp was still angry with him. Suddenly he had an idea. Taking the knife from his pouch, he went outside, to look for a good, thin willow wand to cut and peel. Maybe Carp wasn't angry at him anymore. Maybe this time Carp would speak to him.
KERLEW: THE POUCH
CHAPTER NINE
It had started out as a journey to no place, a long walk, the pace set fast enough to make himself breathe through his mouth and make the sweat trickle down the back of his neck. Now he stood on the hill overlooking the little tent and looked down, wondering if he had been hurrying here, or hurrying away from the talvsit.
The question irritated him, and he glared down at the tent as if it were at fault. She should turn it, he thought to himself. Turn it so the entrance didn't face the prevailing wind, and she should stack her firewood in the lee of it so the snow wouldn't drift against it. And she should soften the seams with grease, and lace them tighter. She probably didn't think about things like that. There were so many things that could be done to give them an easier life. Simple, easy things. He didn't understand why it almost angered him to look down at the tent and see the things that needed to be done.
The things that wouldn't be done.
He started down the hill, his boots breaking through the snow crust at each step.
They probably weren't even at the tent, and if they were, what was his excuse for visiting? 'To tell them,' he muttered to himself. 'To let her know I'm to join with Elsa.'
Glad news, he told himself, news a man should share with all. Did not all the talvsit buzz with it already? Did not every face smile at him and nod, full of the knowledge of his joining? Every soul he met asked him of it. When would the feast be, where would they build their hut, was he not glad to be getting such a strong and healthy woman?
Was he not happy to leave his lonely days behind? Soon he would never need hunt alone again, or sleep alone, or sit by himself of an evening. Soon Elsa would always be with him, sharing all the moments of his life. He took a deep breath, sucking in air as if he were drowning.
'Kerlew!' he called as the boy poked his head out of the tent. The boy turned his face toward the man, and the smile that dawned there was all a visitor could wish. 'Come in!' he called, his voice going shrill with excitement. 'Come in and visit me!'
He threw the tent door wide to the man's approach and stood barely out of the way to let Heckram enter. His fingers ran excitedly along Heckram's sleeve, daring to touch and then leaping away, like a shy puppy's sniffing. Heckram grinned down at him and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezed it firmly. The boy stood still under his grip, grinning back.
'This is how men greet one another,' he said suddenly, the words awkwardly turned, but the meaning clear. His thin hand reached up to pat Heckram's shoulder shyly.
'Welcome to my tent!' he said grandly and waved an inviting hand at the small fire.
'I thank you for the shelter,' Heckram replied formally, sensing the significance to the boy. He remembered that formless ache of boyhood, the needing to be seen as a man by other men after being 'Ristin's son' for too long. Doubtless Kerlew was tired of being
'the healer's boy.' He pulled his cap and mittens off, advanced to the small fire, and sat.
Kerlew circled the fire and sat down facing him. The boy's grin faded slightly. They sat in a silence that threatened to become awkward. He knew nothing of dealing with people on his own, Heckram realized. No notion of how to talk to someone; his mother handled all that for them. Kerlew's smile was becoming desperate.
Heckram spoke, saying anything to help him. 'I thought I could come visiting today, to see how you and your mother were doing.'
'I do well. I keep the fire burning. Sometimes I make a spoon.' Kerlew paused, groping for more thoughts.
'And Tillu? How is she?' Heckram asked helpfully.
'She is fine. Fine. But Tillu isn't here.' Kerlew stopped abruptly, his face setting in a strange expression.
'Oh?' Heckram prodded gently, wondering what the problem was.
Kerlew looked into the fire, then aside into the shadowed corners of the tent. 'Gone hunting,' he mumbled, 'to get meat for us.'
'Oh,' Heckram repeated.
'I keep the fire going. If I went, too, the fire might go out. Or something bad might happen here.' The boy sounded on the verge of tears.
Understanding suddenly dawned within Heckram. He shifted on his heels, hesitated only a fraction of a moment. 'I wonder who will bring back the better kill,' he said slowly, his voice casual. 'Will it be Tillu, or' - he grinned wickedly, and the boy's eyes went wide as he finished - 'us?'
Kerlew had to take two breaths before he could ask, 'We hunt, you and I?'
Heckram nodded, all hesitation swept aside by the boy's eagerness. He was grateful that habit had put his bow on his back this morning. The boy's eyes clung to it.
'Get your bow, and dress warmly,' he told Kerlew, and wondered at the sudden fading of the light from the boy's face.
'Not a good day to hunt,' Kerlew said suddenly, addressing Heckram's boots. 'We wouldn't get anything. And I have other work to do. The fire. And a spoon.' The boy seemed to be pushing the words out one at a time, as if they were jammed in his throat.
Heckram remembered suddenly the awkward way the boy had gripped his mother's knife, how she had brought out hide scrapers for the boy to carve with. His own chest tightened. Poor they might be, but no boy Kerlew's age should suffer that humiliation.
No wonder the boy groped so desperately for manhood. Could not his mother see? He tried to think of the right way to say it, without making it worse.
'You could learn with mine,' he offered quietly, 'until we can make you a bow of your own.'
Kerlew stood very still and small. He stared into the fire when he spoke, if ever you need my life, I'll give it to
