Spirit Hunter (2 page)

It is the way of our clan. It has always been so for the shaman. How could I look after the souls of our people if I were wildly in love with a girl?
he told me, and smiled.
Or, old as I am now, how could I watch over our kin if I were kept busy being nagged and cosseted by a wife of many years?

Fool of a girl!
I tell myself.
Which of the boys would have you, anyway? They would be afraid of the spirits’ anger. They would be afraid that the deer would all die before we could shoot them, or that the women would all fall barren and bear no more children. And even if that were not so, which of them should you choose?
I close my eyes and see the faces of all the boys in this tribe: my hare-brained cousin Shemi, and Yan who looks past me seeing only Tela. I can scarcely blame him because Tela is so fair and mild, with her thick shiny plaits and kind smile. Who else is there? Sly Unnap and his brother who is only five summers old.

No. I am shaman: I will never have a boy to love. It is my fate, and the truth of it sticks in my throat like a dry piece of meat.

S
itting beneath a pistachio tree outside the inn, Swiftarrow opened his eyes, rubbing his aching legs. Darkness had fallen across the grimy courtyard, which was seething with men. Thousands upon thousands of them all crammed into this sprawling trader-inn. Smoke rose from the soldiers’ campfires, veiling the stars. General Li’s legion was a raggle-taggle mob: a muddle of untrained conscripts barely old enough to shave and battle-weary Horse Tribe half-breeds who rode with more grace than they could walk.

Half-breeds like me, yet I am not like them.
Swiftarrow was only too aware that he sat in the saddle like a sack of rice – the Shaolin had taught him many skills, at home in the temple, but horse-riding was not one of them.
The Empress was wrong about that: I may have the blood of the Tribes, but I cannot ride.
Shame washed over him and he let out a long breath, pushing away the thought of it. On his own two feet he was lithe as a cat, so what did it matter? Swiftarrow sighed. How long had he been away, released from the world of men? He leaned back against the tree. A few hours at the very least.

He drew in a long breath, letting his eyes fall shut once more. He felt the heat of his
chi
, his life-force; it coursed through his veins, burning like fire. Good. He needed strength if he wished to speak with General Li. Swiftarrow could hear him from the far side of the courtyard, braying like an ass at the young T ’ang recruits. At least the half-blood cavalry-men could pretend they did not understand enough to listen. Swiftarrow watched them hunching around their campfires, tossing bones over their shoulders, swigging mare’s milk liquor.

Springing up, Swiftarrow stretched out his arms. He was ready. He knew how not to be seen. Breathing deeply, thinking of nothing, he picked his way through the straggle of soldiers and campfires, past the broken fountain. He paused by the largest group of men, listening. It always paid to listen.

“What did we do to deserve this trek across the desert, anyhow?” muttered one of the T ’ang soldiers to the halfbreed lounging at his side.

“It’s a fool’s errand,” replied the half-breed. “Old Pork-belly may dream of hunting down the Tribes all he wishes, but they’re cunning. They’re quick. They know the ground here and we do not. He’ll not find this nest of rebels unless he trips over it.”

His T ’ang companion laughed, and they began talking instead about one of the camp whores. Swiftarrow walked away, trying to ignore his wrath. His sister was a concubine, living to serve men like this – richer ones, but just as foul.
Keep to the Path of Peace
, he told himself: he could not raise his hand against a man in anger.

General Li lounged by the largest campfire, flanked by a pair of young T ’ang conscripts.
Hiding their boredom to buy favour,
Swiftarrow thought.
Not so foolish as they look.

“And so, of course, the Empress laughed,” the general confided. “Lord Fang is very much a favourite of hers. One day, perhaps you boys shall meet him.”

“We should be most honoured,” said the oldest. Judging by the soldier’s speech, it was clear he came from one of the great clan families. No doubt he had already met Lord Fang, Swiftarrow thought, most likely many more times than the general himself, but had wit enough to keep this quiet. Hidden in the shadows, Swiftarrow smiled. Everyone knew the general’s father had been a merchant who made a pile of gold bigger than Mount Hua selling the feathers of exotic birds from the southern provinces. Li set great store by aristo­cratic blood.
What would he say if he knew of mine?
Swiftarrow wondered, smiling again, but bitterly.

The general laughed, passing the flask of wine. “Fear not, my boys. We’ll hunt down those barbarians. They shan’t be hard to find – we’ll catch their stink from a day’s ride off. We’ll teach the Horse Tribes to defy the Empress, and you shall all return to Chang’an with much honour.”

Fool,
Swiftarrow thought.
The Tribes are scattered across the steppe like grass seeds on the wind. Does he think to find them all clustered together, waiting to be killed?
What was it General Li had done to arouse the Empress’s displeasure, anyhow? Swiftarrow did not for a moment believe this fool’s errand was the Emperor’s idea: everyone knew the shaking sickness kept His Imperial Majesty in bed, one side of his face frozen and slack. So what had Li done? Spoken out of turn to an Imperial nephew? Outraged the modesty of a palace-favoured courtesan? That seemed unlikely: it was well known the Empress had no great fondness for her husband’s courtesans, even though she herself had been his father’s concubine. But General Li must certainly have transgressed in some way to earn such a heaven-forsaken mission across the desert. Ambushing the Horse Tribes? It was a hopeless task. Everyone knew the Tribes could outride a river in flood, and that they could melt away into nothing, hidden in forests and the wild mountains.

Swiftarrow stepped forwards, out of the shadows. Neither the general nor his audience managed to hide their shock. Swiftarrow dropped to his knees, bowing low to the ground.

“What do you want, half-breed?” said General Li.

Swiftarrow sat up, head still bowed in a show of respect. “O General, I must beg that you allow me to continue my search in Samarkand.”

“Continue your search?” The general sneered, and his young soldiers laughed, obediently. “I wish you good fortune, boy. You have not yet met with great success, seeking out new flesh for your slithering Shaolin master.”

For my Shaolin mistress,
Swiftarrow thought, but it was not worth taking the trouble to correct him.

General Li drank deeply from his cup, swilled the wine about his mouth and spat the dregs onto the ground at Swift­arrow’s knees. “I know not why Her Imperial Majesty prizes you Shaolin so high, sneaking around like rats. Chang’an seethes with holy men and women as it is. Why has the Empress sent you to find more?”

If only you knew I am really here to make sure
you
find the Tribes.
Swiftarrow shrugged. “O General, you know I was given this task under the orders of our Divine Empress. We Shaolin are honoured to have her gracious admiration. I have been ordered to scour the furthest reaches of the empire for new blood, and I must do my duty.”

“Your foolish quest is no concern of mine,” snapped General Li. “Go as you will, boy, but return in seven days’ time, or you shall be crossing the desert alone.”

It would be my dearest pleasure to be rid of your company,
Swiftarrow thought, but he said nothing, of course, and got to his feet, fading from their sight.

I
t’s been a long, hot morning but now the milking is done. I leave the milk-pails by the hearth and stand still for a moment in the cool gloom of our tent. Shaman Tulan is gone, his blankets and rugs lying heaped on the ground. I smile as relief washes over me:
so my old friend is back in the world of men. For now, at least.
I can tell him about my dream after all. Will he be at the lakeshore again? He spends a lot of time by the water now.
It’s the gateway to the World Below,
I think, and the relief drains away, replaced by cold dread. There will come a day when Tulan is not here, when he will never come back. There will come a day when I am the only shaman.

I must get away before Mama asks me to help her make the yogurt. If I’m asked to watch someone’s squalling baby or fetch water, the day will shrink before me in a muddle of chatter and tea-drinking and skinning hares for the pot. I will have to go without being seen – the skill I love dearest. Why – because it has nothing to do with my fate as shaman, or because it is so much fun? I don’t know, but here I go, anyhow.

I run headlong through the camp, right past my cousin Shemi as he walks lazily to his mother’s tent, trailing his feet, and he does not see me. I run past Otem and his small sister walking hand-in-hand to the lakeshore to fill buckets of water. Not one of them sees me. I am a shadow, a breath of wind. I am free. The chat and hum of camp fades as I reach the lakeshore trees. It is cooler here. I can go anywhere; I can do anything.

“Asena!”

I freeze.
Curses.
It is Mama, coming out of Aunt Zaka’s tent. I sigh. Mama is the only one who can ever spot me once I’ve chosen not to be seen.

I go to her, shrugging. “What?”

Mama rests one long-fingered hand against the side of my face. Her touch is cool, but her spirit-horse is skittery, dancing around her shoulders like a freshly kindled flame, glowing with silver light. Much as she might try to hide it, Mama is always touched by fear when Baba goes away trading. “Where are you going in such a rush, my cub?” she says, speaking in Anglish. “What about the yogurt? Am I to make it alone again?”

Looking back at camp, I watch as Yan and Tela emerge from his mother’s tent, hand-in-hand, each carrying an empty pail. They have been milking together. It is enough to make you spew. Sometimes it is so hard to swallow my jealousy. It’s not that I want Yan – Tela is welcome to him.
I just wish—
Oh, it is useless to think of it.

“Well?” Mama says.

I reply in the tongue of the Tribes. I don’t like speaking Anglish: I am set out as different already. I cannot love; I cannot hunt. I am shaman. I do not like being reminded of my foreign blood. “Tulan has woken. I must find him.”

Mama sighs. I hate it when my mother looks at me like this, as if she sees another in my place. “Sometimes you put me in mind of my brother, with all this sneaking around, not being spotted by anyone save me,” she says. “And I don’t like it—”

“Your brother, the greatest thief in Constantinople?” I cut in. “Don’t fear, Mama. I’m not sneaking to steal, only because I can’t move without being given another task, and I must speak to Tulan—”

This time Mama cuts me off. “I know it,” she says, glancing at Yan and Tela, who have stopped and set down their buckets near the great fire. Tela is standing on the tips of her toes, shiny black plaits hanging down her back, whispering into Yan’s ear. Yan smiles. I glimpse a flash of sadness in Mama’s eyes. “You carry more burdens than most girls your age. Asena, I know the rules are hard to bear, but never forget that being shaman is a gift as well. And one thing I have learned is that nothing good comes from dishonesty.” She smiles. “Perhaps you should try asking for help every now and then. Shemi and little Aza can make the yogurt with me this morning. Now, go to Tulan in peace.”

Mama is forever reminding me how much I love her.

Here he is, Shaman Tulan, sitting beneath a mulberry tree just a few paces from the lake’s edge. He stares into the fire, wrinkled, dry old hands hanging loose in his lap. A pile of bones sits on the dusty earth before him, next to a bowl full of charred twigs and ash – I catch the smell of burnt juniper and the warmth of thyme.

Tulan does not move, even when I come closer and crouch right beside him: he is away again. His spirit-horse has gone wandering.
Did it drift up the mulberry tree to the World Above or sink down through glittering lake-waters to the World Below?

I sit down at my teacher’s side and wait. The bones are curved and yellowish: sheep shoulder blades. So Shaman Tulan wants to learn what is to come. By the time I see the flicker of his spirit-horse again, my legs ache with sitting still so long. But I have learned to be patient. The old man turns to smile at me, prodding the flames with a bent stick.

“So, Asena. I’ve been waiting.” Tulan’s eagle-guide appears, perching on his shoulder, eyes fierce, watching me. Tulan’s gaze burns my skin. “You are troubled. What have you been dreaming of, Asena?”

“Death,” I tell him, frowning. “Death and a battle. My wolf showed me.” I shiver, even in the fire’s heat. “It wasn’t only men fighting with honour: there were women and brats, too. Was it a foretelling? Will it really happen?”

My old teacher tosses a mulberry twig into the fire. It crackles, catches light, glowing. He turns, meeting my eyes once more. “Not a foretelling but a warning,” he replies. “Come, I’ve told you this before: wise men and women steer their own path – we are not just borne along wild and unsteady at the whim of the spirits, like a wall-dweller trying to ride a high-spirited stallion, as some folks would have you believe. But your dream was a warning from the spirits, all the same, and we should heed it. We must go travelling, you and I.”

Tulan’s eagle-spirit spreads its wings and flies up, up away. A true eagle of flesh and feathers would have pushed Tulan to the ground with the force of its talons, but he barely seems to notice his guide is gone.

Heart hammering, I take up the sheep bones and drop them one by one into the flames. There’s a quick sizzling as clinging scraps of tendon and flesh blacken, charring. Smoke rakes the back of my throat. I close my eyes. To travel with my master, I must turn away from the world of men; I must forget it all – fire, warmth, talk, good meat and hot kumis, the touch of my mother, anger, joy, the smell of horses, Baba laughing. Everything. It is so hard to do.