From a distance, the small band of
hunters seemed insignificant. To Cloud
Mover’s tired eyes, they formed a thin arc, moving imperceptibly toward the
herd. Their fur clad and hooded bodies,
with the antlers still attached, had deceived the caribou in the past. The great effort in skinning the animals and
leaving the face and antlers intact had been left to the women of the
band. They would skin the game, cook
it, and prepare the hides. Then they
would sit in the background, with the others, as the hunters feasted on their
kills, waiting for leftovers to be thrown their way. Life was brutal on the taiga.
He had been the patriarch. Like
all Reindeer Hunters, the families had been under his absolute lordship. Now, the time drew near when he would be too
old to follow the band. Like all old
people, he would be abandoned to his fate.
For him, the ancient charade was a haunting reminder that he once wore
the antlers on his head but now must stand watch as the younger men played the
game.
Each time that they donned their hoods
and grabbed their spears, a ritual would begin, in which the wives, sisters,
little brothers, and old ones, like himself, would stand in a circle around the
hunters, dancing and singing as they waved their barbed spears. As he looked down from the cliff, the
ancient charade performed by his people filled him with nostalgia. And yet he was satisfied with the way things
were. He had his time as a leader and
hunter in the band. Now it was their
turn. Soon a younger hunter would take
his place, and, after being left behind as the band moved on, he would join his
ancestors, whose spirits also followed the herds.
He could see Running Calf and
Fire-In-The-Bush, his sons, among the arc of men. On the periphery, still strong enough to keep up, he could also
see his younger brother Three Stags slowly beginning the circle they would try
to make around the unsuspecting reindeers.
Several summers ago his older brother Black Wolf had died, leaving him
as leader. It would not be long before
Three Stags, his younger brother, would also be too feeble to join in. The old ones were passing away to make room
for the young.
The tactic of the Reindeer Hunters was an old trick used by bison
and deer hunters throughout the Siberian taiga. A segment of the herd, as it spread out over the ground, would be
singled out. As soon as the
masquerading hunters had singled out enough games and completed their circle,
they would begin slaughtering the reindeer trapped inside. This time, however, the watchman could see
the dreaded outline of a wolf pack in the horizon. Hidden on the other side of the great herd and with the wind
blowing at their back, they were unaware of the hunters. They would, within the next few minutes,
attack the weakest members on the far periphery, causing a stampede upon the
unsuspecting men. Many good hunters had
been gored and trampled in this way, turning a would-be success into a
frightening rout.
Realizing the difficult situation they
were in, Cloud Mover stood up and waved cautiously to Three Stags. They would not see the wolves on the other
side. Only he, high on his cliff, could
see this threat. They would, as a
consequence of his signal, lose this important opportunity to attack the
herd. It would be much more difficult
to sneak up on them the next time, if they were scattered by wolves, which was
going to happen regardless of what he signaled or not. Confident that he was doing the right thing,
however, he waved at Three Stags again and this time signaled with his hands,
“Wolves are attacking the herd!” But at
such a distance sign language, which in this case was the forefinger and small
finger raised straight up, was useless.
Carefully, to avoid spooking the herd, he threw pebbles at their feet,
until finally one of his sons looked up.
“What is father trying to do?” Running
Calf whispered in disbelief.
“He is warning us of course!”
Fire-In-The-Bush frowned. “The question is why?”
“Let us disband quickly!” Five Eagles
was the first to back away.
Suddenly, to Cloud Mover's dismay, the band
bolted for the meadow nearby instead of moving from the scene slowly and
cautiously, as they should. At that
very moment the watchman witnessed a terrible scene, in which the wolves
attacked the western edge of the herd, as he feared, only to drive them upon
the hunters, as they ran east.
“Your crazy old father has spooked the
herd!” Five Eagles cried, as he fell near the onrush of hooves.
Fortunately for Five Eagles, a second
wave of wolves were coming the other way, driving the caribou back. It was a great mystery to the others as to
why they didn’t attack him. He had
been left by himself, as they scrambled up the hill. Eight of the hungry beasts seemed to charge right at him,
presenting an even more terrifying scene to his stunned mind, as he seemed to
be surrounded by wolves. But then Cloud
Mover, their onetime leader, raised his weak eyes up to the sky and prayed as
he had never before prayed in his life.
“Oh please, don’t let Five Eagles
die! Let them eat me; I am old, and he
is young. Please Wind Spirits, don’t
let him die!”
At the point as the first group of
wolves brought down a great stag, the remaining members of this large pack
began to circle Five Eagles as he jabbed at them with his spear.
“Throw your spear!” Running Calf
cried, hurling the barbed shaft in the direction of the wolves.
“You missed them,” Fire-In-The-Bush
groaned. “You never could throw straight!” “Keep poking at them” he said,
unleashing his spear “don’t try to run!” But because of a sudden stiff breeze
Fire-In-The-Bush missed too.
“Go away, Yellow Fang!” Five Eagles
was shouting, looking askance up the hill. “Three Stags, it’s your turn. Don’t fail me now. I will come back from the Land of the Dead and haunt you all your
life!”
Although Three Stags’ spear came down
directly into the hungry wolves, it missed them entirely. Momentarily scattered, they quickly
regrouped as Five Eagles tried to run.
But then, the feisty little hunter began poking and jabbing every
which-way until the group again stopped.
“Wind Spirits!” the watchman whispered
again. “Turn the yellow fangs away.
Push them with your unseen hands.
Kick them with your unseen feet.
Don’t let Five Eagles die!”
“What is our father doing now?”
Running Calf turned to Fire-In-The-Bush.
“Praying.” the other shook his head.
“Lately that is all he does. As if the
Four Winds ever listen!” “Sometimes,”
he searched for the words, “… I think we are alone!”
“Five Eagles isn’t alone.” Three Stags
said grimly. “Those yellow fangs will
wait as long as it takes. I’ve never
seen that many at one time.”
******
Suddenly, right after Five Eagles had
slipped on a pile of Caribou droppings and was lying helplessly on the ground,
something incomprehensible happened.
The darkening mantle of clouds, which hung over the taiga, burst forth
with rain. Even though the droplets by
themselves would not sway a hungry yellow fang, the sudden shafts of lightning
striking the nearby ground sent the entire pack as well as the hunters running
for cover.
While they retreated, however, the
watchman held fast, looking with rapt attention at the deluge pouring from the
sky.
“Now you’ve done it!” Running Calf
shouted at Fire-In-The-Bush. “You’re unbelief angered the gods!”
“It was your father’s fault!” Five
Eagles cried. “This evil is all his doing!”
******
As the hunters ran back to camp, Cloud
Mover—the onetime Reindeer Hunter leader straggled far behind. In spite of the redemptive power of the
storm, which had saved them from the wolves, the younger men paid him only a
begrudging respect. None of them even
looked back or waited for him to catch up.
Because of their failure to kill reindeer, they would be trapped in
their mammoth hide huts and forced to wait until the weather cleared and they
were able to once again to track the herds.
Cloud Mover’s wives, children, and grandchildren were happy just to have
him back safe and sound. When they were able to reflect on what happened, most
of the hunters were thankful for the storm, but not all of them were convinced
of the patriarch’s alleged miracle.
Though thankful that it had rained, and lightning had chased the wolves
away, the men were divided on whether it was caused by Cloud Mover’s prayer or
due to mere luck. Among his advocates,
who saw it as a miracle was Fire-In-The-Bush and among his detractors was Five
Eagles, whose life had been directly saved by the lightning but believed that
Cloud Mover had brought the hunters bad luck.
For reasons no one understood, there was bad blood between the old
man and young man. After seeing Cloud
Mover pray and watch the lightning scatter the wolves, however,
Fire-In-The-Bush believed Cloud Mover had great magic. Though there were no shamans in their
culture, men, such as Cloud Mover, could be touched by the Wind Spirit and
perform magic to help family and friends.
******
As they sat around the fire recounting today’s abortive hunt,
Fire-In-The-Bush rose dramatically and pointed to Cloud Mover. “You have the Wind Spirit’s ear. He listened to you. You are old Cloud Mover, but you have great
power. Hawk Nose, who had the gift, is
dead. I think you should take his
place.”
“I don’t agree.” Five Eagles jumped up
angrily. “Cloud Mover brought us bad luck.
Wind Spirit wouldn’t listen to that old fool.”
Running Calf flew into a rage at for
Five Eagle’s insult against his father, but knowing Five Eagles prowess with a
knife, both his father and friend Fire-In-The-Bush restrained him.
“No, Running Calf,” Fire-In-The-Bush
whispered in his ear, “don’t challenge that fool!”
“Your friend is right. He’s not worth it,” murmured Cloud Mover.
“If Wind Spirit did, in fact, touch me, it’s my gift and none of his business. Five Eagles has bad blood for me. I think he’s touched by the Dark Spirit.”
“You think so?” Running Calf looked at
his father.
“Yes, my son.” He frowned. “Now please
sit down. I know my mind.” Turning to the others now, he exclaimed
solemnly, “The Wind Spirits saved the hunters!”
“So,” Three Stags raised an eyebrow,
“Cloud Mover speaks for the Wind Spirits.”
“No, I speak for myself,” he spoke
with great authority. “I listen to the Wind Spirits. I have their ear!”
******
That night the Reindeer Hunters went to bed hungry in their
mammoth hide tents. The women were able
to feed themselves and their children from a meager store of jerky in their
tents, but it only dulled their hunger.
The unexpected storm had changed everything. The following morning found the hunters searching for the herds
that had been dispersed by the storm.
After dismantling their tents and packing up their belongings, the
bands, numbering many hundreds in Eastern Siberia, continued to follow the
herds of reindeer, ox, mammoth, and bison.
After following the migrating herds,
the land began to change. The forests
disappeared, replaced by a bleak and increasingly frigid landscape, and yet the
hunters were drawn further and further along, dependent upon the beasts. Several of the old ones, who couldn’t keep
up were now left behind. Because of his
special status among the Reindeer Hunters now, Cloud Mover wouldn’t suffer the
same fate as Hawk Nose and other old men and women. Once more, after hastily rising and putting on his camouflage
hood and grabbing his walking cane and knife, he had joined the men of his
band, who, in turn, joined the other bands heading east, moving ahead of the
baggage train of women, children, and elders able to carry their own weight.
Cloud Mover had never seen a sky so
cloudless and a land so barren. Had it
not been for the dark dots ahead indicating game and the outline of distant
hills, he would have been fearful. It
was, complained many of his people, not too late to turn back from this
unfriendly land. But to a seasoned
hunter and trapper as himself, it was both practically and logically too
late. The herds were in motion. Without them, his people would starve. To stay behind meant death. So they must move on.
Their course—due east—was set. Several weeks ago the Wind Spirits saved the
hunters from disaster. Only just
yesterday, as they reached the reindeer herd, one of them—in the form whirling
dust, had risen on Cloud Mover’s path.
Unlike before, in the taiga, where there were trees, streams, rain, and
snow and where the wind blew were it wished, the tundra on which they moved,
was often still and lifeless, with sparse grass, scrub pines, and little
moisture. A cold wind came from the
north. It was nothing like the land they
had left. Over generations, the nomads
who began their journey in the Russian Steppes, found themselves thousands of
miles from their homeland. Since Cloud
Mover’s people worshiped the four winds, the appearance of the north wind,
which had been blowing all day, was portentous.
During a brief encampment beside scrub pines, haunting reminders
of the large fur and hardwood trees growing on the taiga, Cloud Mover prayed to
the Wind Spirits for guidance. Many of
his people wanted to return west.
Surely, they reasoned, they could find more herds. But this was madness. Cloud Mover was certain that the spirit he
recently saw, whom he identified as Great Spirit, was leading them. He also took it as a sign when strange
lights, as those burning from a great fire, had danced low in the sky. He sensed a medicine more powerful than even
the winds or his bands totem, the cave bear.
Now the lights were gone, and there were no clouds in the sky. They had not seen a bear for several
months. They were moving in a land of
endless day because of the appearance of so many herds. The Great Spirit was guiding them, but
where? He wondered now
Cloud Mover felt chosen, a feeling hard for him to grasp let alone
explain. It wasn’t magic this time; it
was something else. When asked by other
hunters how he was so certain, he found it difficult to explain. Why did the
Great Spirit only talk to him? He kept
asking himself. Most of the weary
hunters and their families saw the migration as a practical matter, which had nothing
to do with religion…. But Cloud Mover knew better. A word for their trek east he couldn’t define in his language
grew in his mind…destiny.
Today he felt his seventy winters all at once it seemed. He was far behind the hunters. Behind him was the baggage train—the bands
straggling for over kilometer, dangerously vulnerable to predators. Not knowing that their footsteps were the
first aimed in the direction of a new world, Cloud Mover forced his weary legs with
little inspiration now. Staggered at
times by their folly, he was acutely reminded of the striking difference
between this wasteland and his past home in what would one day be known as
Eastern Siberia. Blank curiosity, more
than illumination, prickled him now.
They had begun descending into a great flat valley: the westernmost edge
of the Bering Strait. A great wall of
ice had been their western boundary for several days, but now it had vanished
finally behind a low lying crest of clouds, which were the only reminder of the
tundra they left behind.
Ahead of Running Calf, who would lead the hunt today, were
straggling reindeers—the calves and weakest of the herd, which would be the
first members of the herd killed.
Running Calf wasn’t the actual leader of his or any other band. With Cloud Mover’s change of status, that
hadn’t been decided. Running Calf was
merely in charge of the hunt today. He
felt no honor it, only a sense of duty.
Shielding his eyes from the merciless sun, he searched the trail behind
for Cloud Mover, his father. He was
slowing down increasingly, becoming a drag on the hunters, so typical of old
men. Because of his apparent magic,
however, he wouldn’t be abandoned.
Cloud Mover would keep walking until he dropped dead. On this fateful day, all of the foot worn
and hungry people seemed to be a sorry and misbegotten lot. Because his race hadn’t yet developed the
epicanthic folds that would protect his eyes from the arctic glare, the sun
smarted his eyes. Shutting them
reflexively, he turned away. Not
knowing that he was the first human to cross the strait, he drew his hood down
and adjusted the antlers on his head, rose his barbed spear, and lead his
people toward the new world.