“I’m so happy for you,” she said, taking both of Lydia’s hands in her own and giving them a squeeze.
“Thanks Emmy,” Lydia said. Emmy released her hands and they both wiped tears from their eyes.
“Anyway,” Lydia continued with a sniff, “I’ve been so obsessive about this, it’s like I have been blind to everything else. Once I got
things a bit straighter in my head I started to feel normal again, and I realised what a terrible friend I’ve been to you. I’m so sorry Emmy.”
“Lydia!” Emea said firmly. “If you say sorry one more time…”
Lydia laughed. “Thanks Emmy.” Growing suddenly sombre, Lydia looked intently into her eyes. “How have you been doing without Gaspi?” she asked.
Emea thought about it for a moment. “Good and bad,” she answered. “I missed him dreadfully to start with, and I still do, but I just kept myself busy. The time has passed much more quickly than I thought - it’s only another month now till he’s back you know.”
“What’ve you been up to?” Lydia asked. “I’ve seen you hanging out with Everand and his friends.”
“That’s it really,” Emea said. “They’re a good group to spend time with. Rand is a much nicer person than I realised, and good company too.” Lydia looked at her uncertainly but didn’t say anything. “Come on, spit it out,” Emea said, anticipating what Lydia was going to say.
“Do you think Gaspi will be okay with you spending so much time with…Rand?” Lydia asked.
“Well there’s not been anyone else to spend time with!” Emea said defensively. She didn’t mean to sound so spiteful, but something about the way Lydia was questioning her made her feel like she’d done something wrong.
“Okay Emmy, sorry!” Lydia said, holding up her hands. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Gaspi made friends with Rand last year,” Emea said, still feeling defensive. “Why would he have a problem with it? They both fought in the battle for goodness sake!”
“I know, I know,” Lydia said. “I’m sorry!”
Emmy could tell Lydia was still holding back, probably because they’d only just made up. She took a steadying breath.
“No, I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know why I’m being so defensive. Do you really think Gaspi will mind?” Lydia looked at her uncertainly. “I won’t shout,” Emea said. “Promise.”
“Well it’s just that everyone knows he used to have a thing for you,” Lydia started, “and I think he probably still does.”
That was a bit too close to some of the doubts Emmy had been having herself. “Do you really think so?” she asked, but she was thinking about the way Everand often tried to touch her, and how uncomfortable that had made her feel.
“I’m not certain,” Lydia answered fairly. “And I’m not saying you should just stop spending time with him. But maybe just bear it in mind.”
“Okay,” Emea responded. Perhaps Lydia had a point.
“Anyway, now you’ve got me back, and I won’t be abandoning you again!” Lydia added.
“You’d better not!”
Rimulth stood with the Dag-Mar on the cliff top, looking out over many miles of plain and forest. The tribespeople of Eagle’s Roost lived an isolated existence in the impassable heights of the mountains, far above the numerous towns and villages dotted throughout the plains. What the scurrying thousands below didn’t know was that the mountains, although forbidding, were a surprisingly fertile place. The tribes didn’t live on the windswept heights; they lived in deep, secluded valleys nestled between the peaks. Their livestock and crops were well-watered by swift-flowing rivers, and by the frequent rains that fell generously on their land. If a plainsdweller was led into one of those valleys, they would be surprised by the lush grasses, the fatness of the goats, and the vegetative goodness that sprang abundantly from the ground.
Not that a plainsdweller would ever be allowed to see their sheltered valleys, which were a well-guarded secret. When traders visited the mountains, they were met at bleak, wind-scoured outposts that encouraged a quick transaction. The traders sold their goods in a hurry, and made haste back down the trails to their comfortable homes. This suited the tribes-folk, who had little need for outsiders and preferred to keep their blessings to themselves.
Rimulth stood next to the Dag-Mar, wondering why he’d been invited to accompany him that day. He’d certainly not been invited previously. After the shaman’s dramatic announcement at the men’s circle, where he had identified Rimulth as his heir, the Dag-Mar had barely spoken to him. In fact he’d had so little contact with the shaman in the month since the battle that he’d almost started to wonder if that conversation had been a figment of his imagination. And then, from out of the blue, the Dag-Mar had walked up to him that morning and told him to follow. He’d sprung up as if bitten by a snake, and followed the shaman out of the camp and into the peaks.
They had come to a stop here at the cliff edge, looking out over the impressive view, and the Dag-Mar had been silent ever since. Rimulth shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, each passing minute increasing his awkwardness. Was he supposed to speak first? When he couldn’t bear it any long, he opened his mouth to say something, but at that moment the shaman began to speak.
“The time has come for you to be tested,” the Dag-Mar said without pre-amble. That simple statement set every nerve in Rimulth’s body jangling. He felt sure that he wasn’t ready, but how do you disagree with the Dag-Mar?
“I haven’t done any preparation,” he said honestly.
The Dag-Mar looked at him with something akin to understanding. “I know you don’t believe you have the gift, but after today you will see things differently,” the old shaman said.
Rimulth didn’t feel he was being given a choice. He had two options. He could either face this like a warrior, or give in to fear.
“If you say I have the gift, I will take the test,” he said bravely.
The Dag-Mar smiled, his face wreathed in a mass of wrinkles. Rimulth couldn’t help noticing the way those wrinkles distorted the blue lines of his heavily tattooed skin, turning his face into an incomprehensible tangle of lines and patterns. Those patterns framed two glimmering, black eyes, which were beaming with approval.
“You will do well,” the Dag-Mar said.
“What do I have to do?” Rimulth asked. If he was going to face this head on, he may as well know as much as possible about what he would be facing.
“Preparation won’t help you,” the Dag-Mar responded. “The test is designed to reveal your magical ability.”
Rimulth had far too much pride to ask further questions, and let the matter drop. It would be what it would be.
The shaman led them back towards the village, speaking only to tell him that he was to be tested as soon as they arrived. His stomach was turning summersaults as they walked.
On arrival at the village, the Dag-Mar called the men’s circle together. They gathered at his call, taking their seats around the fire pit and waiting patiently for him to speak. As was his habit when thinking, the ageing shaman was drawing on the ground with a stick, staring intently at the pattern he’d created. No-one said a word, waiting respectfully for him to speak. Finally the Dag-Mar stopped drawing. He nodded, as if reaching a conclusion, and erased the pattern with a sweep of his hand.
“It is a great honour to be the Dag-Mar,” he began. “I’m older than most of you, so few of you will remember the shaman who held the post before me. He was not of this tribe, and neither was he of my blood. He was an old man who knew in his spirit that his time was drawing to an end. In the same way, he knew I was the one to become Dag-Mar after his death. The title of Dag-Mar is not won, or earned. It is given to whomever is chosen, and that choice is made by a higher force than any living shaman. It is time for me to train the inheritor of this title, and that my friends, as you already know, is Rimulth.” The men glanced at Rimulth appraisingly, and he flushed at the attention.
“How has this choice been made?” Chief Hesketh asked, running heavy fingers through his thick, grey beard.
“I have been told by the Great Spirit,” the Dag-Mar responded, and the chief nodded reverently. “There is no doubt. Rimulth is the one I shall pass my mantle onto, and now it is time for him to step into his inheritance.” The Dag-Mar reached into the layers of skins he wore and pulled out a long pipe. It was made of white thornwood and was marked with painstakingly burned patterns. He reached into his leathers again, and brought out a small pouch and some shrivelled, dark red berries. Rimulth drew in a sharp breath, knowing what he held. They were vornberries - a sacred fruit that, when smoked, created powerful visions. Only shamans were permitted to use it. There were other berries and plants with milder effects that the tribes-folk occasionally ate or smoked, but the vornberry was said to be sacred, transporting the shaman to the spirit world.
The Dag-Mar picked out three of the berries and put the rest back inside his leathers. He broke them into fragments in his fingers before mixing them with the tabac and poking the mixture into the bowl of the pipe with his index finger. Pulling a long, dry reed from his pocket, he held it out to Rimulth, who leant across and took both it and the pipe in trembling fingers.
“Light the reed, hold it to the bowl, and draw in the smoke,” he said. “Hold in each breath and try not to cough it out.”
He knew there was no going back. Vornberry smoke had been a legend to him as he’d grown up. As part of a childhood game, he and the other children used to make believe they’d smoked it, going on imaginary journeys that were as fantastical as they could make them. But now he was about to draw the substance into his lungs, and who knew what would happen after that? He looked into the Dag-Mar’s eyes and saw understanding there. The shaman nodded gravely, and Rimulth lifted the pipe to his lips.
His hand shook as he lit the reed and brought it back to the pipe. He held it over the bowl for a moment. Once he’d drawn the smoke into his lungs, there’d be no going back. Despite his fear, he knew that there was no point doing this half-heartedly. Firming up his resolve, he placed his lips over the stem of the pipe, pressed the burning reed down against the tabac, and drew in a long breath. It seared as it went down, and despite his best efforts, he couldn’t keep it down. The smoke was expelled from his lungs in a riotous cloud as he spluttered and coughed.
“Keep going. Smoke it all,” the Dag-Mar said firmly, and he drew in another breath. It hurt to hold the searing smoke in, but he managed to keep from coughing this time. When he released his breath, he was swamped by a wave of dizziness.
“Don’t stop!” The Dag-Mar’s voice seemed to come from a distance, but it was enough to cause him to raise the pipe to his lips once again. He took two more long draws before it fell from his hand. Waves of dizziness were crashing down on him, his head spinning as nausea rose from his stomach. He leaned to the side and threw up until he felt his guts were going to come out.
He was distantly aware of men scrambling back from him, but he didn’t care. He slumped back, sweat breaking out all over his body as he lay on the ground, the cool grass against his cheek the single sensation that grounded him in a dizzying swirl of disorientation. A voice was speaking nearby.
“Just give him a minute and he’ll be alright,” the voice said, though Rimulth didn’t think that could possibly be true. He’d never felt worse! But then the nausea began to ebb, and the dizziness to lessen. The next thing he felt was someone’s hand in his, drawing him to his feet.
“Take him to the sweat hut,” the voice said, and several arms snaked around him, guiding and supporting him over the rough ground. A door opened and he was led inside and placed gently on the floor. “Leave him be,” said the voice. “He’ll come out when the test is complete.”
The door shut, leaving him in alone in the darkness.
Alone?
His mind snagged on the word. It echoed through his brain. What did it mean? Was there another state? He drifted aimlessly then for an indefinite period of time. He felt like a mote of dust floating through infinite space, and though he was aware that it hadn’t always been this way, he wasn’t able to remember what had come before.
The floating stopped, and he could tell that he was some
where.
His feet appeared to be resting on something solid, and though he couldn’t see anything, there was a stillness in the air that spoke of being contained. Rimulth felt suddenly anxious. Where was he? The air was damp like a cave. He looked around, squinting into the dark for any sight that might help him orientate himself, and saw faintest smear of brightness in the distance. He paced cautiously towards what looked like a diffuse leakage of light, so faint it was barely visible. As he drew near he was just about able to see by its dim radiance, which lit a small portion of damp, rocky ground. As he’d thought, he was underground.