When last we looked in on Stenn & Company, they had only just survived a Red Snow and The Reddening, that inevitable result - at least, for some - of The Undoer’s will directed against their Clan. We rejoin the scene several hours after Chief Hrowaka has revealed that he is in fact not Stenn’s father. It is early evening. The temperature in the frost-den is warm, while outside it is not intolerable.
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The outside temperature is a balmy 37°, not that there are any instruments to measure it. The clan has gathered around the central bonfire, coming from various frost-dens. The Fireless have been gathered, eight of them: the dead lie (except for one), limbs folded, just beyond the firelight. The Clan is reduced from eighty-eight to seventy-nine. Four of those will stand guard over the Fireless this night, so that they make repose in defiance of the Whispering Wind.
Chief Hrowaka emerges from his frostden, leaning slightly on Jenkla as they make their way to the fire. Behind them comes Stenn Bearclaws and Drogan Elkfist, bearing the body of Norda. They proceed slowly so that Ghindar the Shaman may wave his holy rock over the deceased. This he does, repeatedly, and then he moves to seat himself next to fellow clansmen on a log while Stenn and Drogan lower Norda next to the Eight. She makes nine Fireless.
When everyone has joined together around the large fire, Chief Hrowaka accepts a dog’s skull from Ghindar and takes a long sip. As he does so, the fire grows brighter, flames higher, for a ten-count, then returns to its former intensity; the chief begins, remaining seated, and his voice is stronger than usual, resonant.
“In the time before the Grandfather Sun was old, when the Ice-Giants still slept in the far lands, the world was filled with a great, warm breath. The First Fire, born from the belly of the Sky-Stone that fell, burned without end. Its flames kissed the trees, and green life burst forth in every valley. The aurochs were fat, their numbers beyond counting, and their wool thick against the cold. The salmon jumped in every river, their silver scales flashing like chipped flint in the sun.
“The Great Hunter, whose name is forgotten even by the oldest caves, walked the land then. He needed little. The meat came to him, the tools sharpened themselves, and the skins never rotted. He built his shelter of great stones, and they stood firm, never shifting, never letting in the biting wind. The world was a perfect, full belly.
“But then, a whisper began. It was not the howl of the wolf, nor the rustle of the leaves. It was the Whispering Wind, thin and cold, and it came from no direction, yet from everywhere.
“First, the Whispering Wind found the First Fire. It did not try to blow it out, no. It merely sang its cold, quiet song around the edges of the flames. And with each verse, a tiny spark, no bigger than an eye-blink, would drift away, carried up to the vast, dark ceiling of the sky. The Fire did not notice at first, so great was its roaring heart.
“Then, the Whispering Wind found the aurochs. It did not chase them or bite them. It merely breathed on their strong hides. And with each breath, a tiny strand of their thick, warm wool would detach, floating away like a dandelion seed, lost to the great plains. The herd did not notice at first, so many were their numbers.
“The Great Hunter, though, began to feel it. His stones, once so firm, would shift. A tiny grain of sand would fall from between them, then another, then a thousand more. His sharpest flint axe would dull, not from striking bone, but simply from being. His kills, once so vibrant, would not stay fresh as long; the good meat would “turn” quicker, and the bones would crumble to dust faster than before.
“He tried to gather the lost sparks from the Fire, but they were too many, too small, and too swift. He tried to catch the drifting wool from the aurochs, but the wind carried it to every corner of the world. He tried to hold the sand between his fingers, but it sifted out, no matter how tight he squeezed.
“‘What is this magic?’ he cried to the sky. ‘What takes the spark, the wool, the stone-dust, and the good meat, and never gives it back?’
“And the Whispering Wind, everywhere and nowhere, replied with its cold, soft sigh: ‘I am the Spreading Thin. I am the Letting Go. I take what is together and make it apart. I take what is warm and make it cold. I take what is firm and make it dust. I am the Great Ash-Drift, and I am the Bone-Cracker’s Hunger. I must touch all things, and all things must lend me a piece of themselves, to carry to the farthest, coldest corners of the world.’
“And so it is. The First Fire still burns, but not as brightly, for it has lent so many sparks to the Whispering Wind. The aurochs still roam, but their herds are smaller, their wool thinner. The stones still stand, but they crumble slowly, grain by grain. And even the Grandfather Sun, in the highest sky, gives his warmth away, little by little, to the cold darkness beyond.
“This is why we must always tend the fire, for its warmth is precious and ever-fleeing. This is why we must hunt wisely, for the good meat does not last. This is why we must build our shelters strong, for the stones themselves long to return to dust. For the Whispering Wind is always there, gathering its pieces, spreading thin the warmth and the firmness of the world, until one day, the last spark will be taken, the last bone will crumble, and the Great Ash-Drift will cover all.”
After the chief lapsed into silence, Stenn rose. “The Great Ash-Drift will cover all - but not yet! And not within our children’s children’s lifetimes. We speak defiance to Herd Thinner. We resist Spreading Thin. We fight Spark-Stealer! I, Stenn Bearclaws, am given a Vision Journey by our chief. I will find and slay whatever Cold-Lover has made pact with The Great Devourer, that our people may be safe from the Red Snow for another generation!”
Read onward...
