Chapter 42

John raised his eyebrows. “Fresno, my opinion, for what it is worth, is that you need not concern yourself with that possibility.”

Fresno stared at John and exclaimed, “You know something!”

John stared blandly back. “I do not claim to know anything, Fresno.”

“Yes, but I know you by now. If you suggest that something will happen or will not happen, you usually speak from knowledge. I do not know how you do it, John, but your pronouncements are as good as a promise. You are more accurate than any shaman I have ever heard of.”

“That is nice of you, Fresno, but I have to go collect my sack of salt and get back to my tribe with it. Give my regards to Cleema and Jenka; they are nice girls. Farewell for now, my friend.”

Fresno gave up and bid John a safe journey on his return home. Once John had his salt loaded, he embarked on his return journey. To his annoyance, the sack on his back prevented his crossbow hanging there, so he had to carry it in his hands, but forced himself of carry it ready loaded as he was not so free as usual. He trudged along the track, slowed down by his freight load, and reckoned he would be lucky to be home before twilight had started.

He was about halfway there, head lowered by the weight on his back, when a predator decided he looked like a target of opportunity. The animal struck him on the back, but instead of striking the man’s back, it struck the salt sack, pushing John forward and the sack of salt hit his head with a thump. He stumbled forward, but regained his footing while the surprised beast regrouped for a further attack as its first attack had so little effect. Without thinking, John swung round, automatically bringing the crossbow in front of him. Seeing the stripie gathering itself to strike again, he let a bolt loose and followed it up by grabbing his knife.

The quarrel stabbed into the animal’s body and sent the beast into a frenzy as it tried to get to the cause of the pain in its side; the quarrel sticking deeply inside, almost fully buried. John stepped back and swiftly dropped his sack to allow him a better chance at combat, for he expected to see more of the animals shortly. His head also was hurting.

The severely injured stripie slowed its frantic scrabbling as the bolt slowly killed it, while John rewound his crossbow, cocked it and loaded another quarrel. Seeing the predator declining rapidly, he took the opportunity to lean in and slash its throat with his large knife blade, and step aside from the fountain of blood. He followed this up with a swift search of his surroundings, looking for the rest of the pack. Turning his head made him feel dizzy, so he concluded he need to find a safe position.

Curiously, there was no sign of additional predators, but as the stripie died in front of him, he searched for the nearest strong tree and rapidly climbed to the first adequate branches to act as a fighting base. His head throbbed as soon as he moved fast, so he slowed as much as he could while ascending further. At the first strong limb high enough up for some protection, he dragged himself on to it and paused to rest. There were enough sharp side branches to act as a defensive structure around him in most directions. He waited, settling himself into a spot where he would not fall if he became unconscious. It was a good call, for soon afterwards all went black for a short time, then his awareness returned and he scanned his surroundings for danger. All was quiet, it appeared.

By now the stripie had died and was still, so John was expecting the rest of its pod to appear. They didn’t, and after a while John decided that either they were nowhere near, or this was a loner who had yet to form a quartet; or the others had died and it was the remaining member of the group.

Pensive in the tree, as his head continued to throb at intervals, he came to the conclusion that the stronger presence of humanity in this general vicinity had reduced the predator population considerably.

It did not occur to him that this fact was due considerably to his own efforts, simply that it could be a good while before new blood percolated into this area of countryside. If such was the case, the chances of prey meat animals surviving to maturity in the forest should improve, making hunting more sustainable.

Having given the other stripies an adequate chance to appear, and with his headache calming down, John at last climbed down from his now uncomfortable perch. When he was afoot and feeling stable, he set about skinning the pelt from the dead predator and retrieving his bolt from the body. Every couple of minutes he stopped to check for danger. Turning the corpse to continue the skinning, he was aware once more of how heavy a stripie was. Once the fur was clear of the carcase, he felt its weight in his grip. That decided him about his next step. He could carry the pelt along with his salt sack, but nothing else; the load was considerable even for him, for he was not at his best. He considered how he could carry everything and still be able to react to danger.

He managed it by first donning his salt sack then hoisting the pelt and draping it over his shoulders, fur inwards, with enough of the mass pulled round each side of his head to balance the load and not have it slide off.

That allowed him to carry his cocked crossbow, but he was loaded down much more than before. He was panting with all the effort of recent minutes, so spent a little while leaning against the tree that had been his refuge, and gradually he felt he could continue, for he needed to distance himself from the meat of the carcase. The smell would attract scavengers, and that would not help him. He needed to get home as soon as possible, and then get some rest, if his wives would let him sleep.

The rest of the trip passed off without trouble. The few individuals he met were either traders on their way somewhere, hunters on the prowl, but at one spot on the trail he came upon a man sitting down for a rest. John took the chance for a rest; leaned against a tree to avoid the strain of putting his load down and retrieving it again, then asked where the man was heading.

“I am looking to meet the famed Shaman John. I too am a Shaman.”

John ignored that and pretended that his name was Hunter, on his way home with a cargo demanded by the tribe. He also said he had a headache, so that he might not be good company if they were both going the same way.

The Shaman admitted he was going in the same direction, then asked about the pelt over John’s shoulders. John remarked with a knowing grin, “Oh, that is another thing I am carrying home to the tribe. That lot have a fancy for Stripie furs, the show-offs that they are.” He tried to make it seem he was merely a lowly carrier, and it worked. The Shaman carried on with his tale instead of asking how he got hold of the fur.

“This Shaman John is building a reputation for wonders, not just within his tribe but around a wider area, which is why the tale is spreading. I have come to discover the truth behind the stories, for there is always some underlying factual basis for rumours. It can be instructive to find out what the truth is. Do you know of this Shaman?”

John nodded, then wrinkled his brow as his head objected, and grunted at his pain; after a pause, he spoke.

“Sorry, my headÖ” then he went on, “Certainly. He is noted as the man who destroyed an evil Shaman in another tribe, for example.”

“What was the ëevil’ Shaman up to, do you know?”

“It seems the rogue thought he should upgrade himself to Chief, so he caught the Chief unawares, and killed his Chief in a sneak attack. Even worse, he killed some of the Chief’s children, to stop them succeeding, and raped the older girls prior to killing them. Shaman John intervened and killed the evil Shaman before he could continue to destroy the family. Later, he persuaded the tribe’s Wise Woman to become Chief.”

“Wow! He does not just advise and interpret signs; he acts forcibly as well!” The Shaman was shocked.

“So it seems. He also introduced that tribe and another one to the concept that men and woman should be treated equally; that women were not property, but people in their own right.”

The visiting Shaman exclaimed in horror, “This Shaman is dangerous; upsetting the correct order of society.”

John looked him in the eye and asked, as if to a teacher, “Please tell me, sir, what is the correct order of society and why it should be so?”

The Shaman was quick to respond. “Why, men are the superior beings. It is established by tradition over a great deal of time. The gods have approved this stable order, so it is assuredly correct.”

“If I may ask, sir, is not tradition simply what has been allowed to continue without objection?”

“To begin with, that was so, but the gods have approved it by sanctioning it.”

“Amazing! Please tell me: In what miraculous way did the gods sanction it? I must admit I have never heard of any such interference in mankind’s way of life. Please enlighten me, Shaman.”

He received a glare in response. “You are looking at it from the wrong end, my man. The gods sanctioned it by NOT interfering with that long tradition.” The Shaman smiled encouragingly at his devastating logic.

John undermined him at once.

“I see. So, if the gods do not interfere with a society’s adoption of equality for men and women, that will therefore be the gods sanctioning it?”

“How do you suppose that to be the case?” the Shaman pointedly asked, like speaking to a pupil.

“This new tradition is spreading rapidly, I have heard. At least three tribes have now adopted it, and each say that their tribe is the better for it, even the men. The gods are clearly in favour, according to your logic. Thank you for that enlightenment.”

The man became flustered.

“You don’t know what you are talking about, man. Shaman wisdom is not for such as you, only for the upper sections of society.”

John spread his hands as best he could; they being occupied. “I make no claims at all, sir. I have merely asked questions. I can tell you what has been decided and implemented by the upper sections of society in these tribes. I am sure you will approve of what they have devised as a good working basis for their tribes. If it works well, what can be wrong with it?”

“You assume too much, Hunter. Small tribes sometimes go their own deviant way, failing to follow the true path of overall society. This is one of these occasions.”

John nodded. “I am sure you are right, Shaman. It simply puzzles me then, why the leaders of two opposing armies seem to regard this Shaman as a man worthy of respect.”

The Shaman frowned and asked, “Respect? In what way?”

John explained, “The one army has asked him to provide information about the invader army to the south. In turn, the south army have asked for information that might be of interest to them. He has already done this for both, I am told, and it has been acknowledged as useful. Indeed, the Northern army have presented him with a fancy chair to sit on for formal meetings, and the southern army have promised him presents for his wives. They seem to think he is a wise Shaman or whatever.

If you are visiting, it might be politic to give him the benefit of the doubt about his earlier actions. If he can kill one Shaman, he perhaps can kill another.”

The man’s face went white. “A Shaman should not be treated with less than deference!”

“Yes. That is what I understand he thinks too, so you should treat him that way, surely?”

The Shaman was about to blurt out an automatic put-down, then swiftly amended his words. “I will indeed treat him as he should treat me. That is a sign of wisdom, granted you by the gods. Thank you for reminding me of it. I was a little hasty earlier.”

John smiled wryly.

“The let us be on our way, ShamanÖ. Sorry, I didn’t get your name?”

“I am the Shaman Mogon, formerly of the High Tree tribe, but now on a journey of discovery.”

“Greetings, Shaman Mogon. I am of John’s tribe. Our Chief is Chief Numa. She sent me to collect my present load.”

“Well, Hunter, I am now suitably restored, so if you think you are fit enough, we can proceed. Is your tribe situated near here?”

“Not far. Visitors are always made welcome, if they have no bad intentions.”

They proceeded, with John insisting that the Shaman go first. “I may be a bit slower than you, for I need to stop for a pee, so go ahead, my friend.”

Thus it was that when the track took them towards the cave, it was Shaman Mogon who was met by the female guard. He was surprised to be challenged by a woman.

“I am Shaman Mogon. I am here to meet with Shaman John, if he is around. Your colleague, Hunter, is just behind me.”

The warrior blinked at the term Hunter, then twigged at who was being referred to.

“That is fine. We will wait until he arrives, then I will escort you to the cave.”

The reference to a cave surprised the Shaman. Most tribes lived in forest clearings or rocky areas that are easily defensible. Caves, in his estimation, were places where you could be trapped without access to food and water unless you prepared well. He waited for John to catch up.

A few moments later, John pushed forward and stood beside the Shaman. The guard raised her spear in salute.

“Welcome back, Hunter. Have you brought the salt?”

“That, and a stripie pelt as well. Can someone come to give me a hand? I am somewhat tired.”

“Of course.” She turned and yelled at the cave, “Hallo, the cave. Assistance needed for our hunter’s load of salt, and a stripie pelt!”

This was met by a group of four women who ran down the slope to meet the newcomers. The Shaman was effectively ignored while the women tenderly relieved John of his two loads, then each kissed him affectionately.

The guard was unfazed by this display, and ordered the Shaman, “Come with me. Chief Numa will want to see you, and learn of your purpose.”

The Shaman watched as the other women took care of the salt, the pelt and John, escorting him gently up the slope towards the cave. He spoke to the guard, “These women are showing a lot of concern for your carrier.”

She replied curtly, “They are his wives, so it is not surprising.”

He blinked before declaring, “A lowly carrier has four wives?”

She scowled at him. “He is not a carrier; that is a task set him by his Chief wife. He always does what his wives want. That is what makes him a good husband.”

“His wife sends him to fetch and carry?”

“His wife asked him to rectify an omission by the tribe. As he was already due to visit the fisher village, it was a simple extra for him. Now, ahead of us is Chief Numa; don’t keep her waiting.”

Numa stood at the cave entrance, her arms folded as she watched the man’s arrival. Noticing that she was the most prominent person in front of him, he was quick to introduce himself.

“Chief Numa, I am Shaman Mogon, on a journey to locate and speak with the famous Shaman John, who I am told is based in this tribe. Is it possible to speak with him, if you will allow that?”

“I think that will indeed be possible. Who is your fellow traveller?”

The Shaman was startled by this question.

“Pardon? You don’t know him? He said he was of your tribe, carrying salt for the tribe. His name is Hunter, he claimed. Is that not true?”

Numa burst out laughing.

“It was perfectly true, but his full name is John Hunter, and he is my husband. He was indeed carrying salt for us, but his formal title is High Chief John, and he is in overall control of two tribes, as well as acting as Shaman when necessary. From that, you can see that you have already been speaking with him on the way here. Did you find his conversation interesting?”

The Shaman whitened as he realised that the apparent lowly cargo carrier was the man he had been seeking. The questions John had put were not idle enquiries after all, but incisive questioning of the Shaman’s position on social matters.

As he pondered these matters, John and his escort caught up with him, and his women released the tired John, who came up to Chief Numa and gave her a passionate but deferential kiss. “I am home, my love. I brought you a stripie pelt for your experts to prepare, as well as a sack of sea salt.”

“Thank you, John. You do not look well, my love. Report to Sheila and Vickie for medical attention, please. I will hear all about your adventure later.”

John trudged off with his entourage, and the girls handed off the salt and the stripie pelt to others to work on, before taking him to strip his clothing off, and get into his sleeping area. He was told there would be no sex until he was feeling well again, and with that knowledge, he dropped off into a deep sleep to help him recover.

Numa regarded the visiting Shaman with interest. The man seemed at the one time in control of himself, yet also severely unsettled.

She asked him, “What are you thinking, Shaman Mogon? My instincts tell me that you are not at your best. What has upset you?”

He hung his head for a moment, then replied, “Your husband. He does not act like any Shaman I have ever met. At one moment he can appear to be a common member of your tribe, then a few minutes later quiz me on many of my basic tenets of life, then turns out to be not a Shaman but a High Chief! Please tell me, what is he?”

“You are one of the few people with the perception to see him truly. He is a traveller from another world, a world more advanced than this one. He has been thrust into our world with no means of returning whence he came, so he is doing his best for the people of this world. He started this tribe when he made me his wife, and it has grown in power and strength ever since. His clash with the Shaman of the Farfarers changed him again, making him more integrated with our tribes and determined to improve all our futures. He is completely dependable.

I could talk a lot more about my John and his activities, but you should know that he is serious about women being treated equally to men. Most of our tribe’s warriors are women, and he promises me they could all defeat a male warrior in a fair fight if it came to combat. They are being trained in the use of a number of weapons. In another development, we have rescued many people who had been abducted from their homes, and some of them have joined our tribe. The women and girls in particular are keen to learn fighting so that next time anyone is attacked, they will be able to fight back with some hope of success.

You can see from this that our tribe is stronger from empowering women without downgrading the men. The men have new assistants in their occupations, and the women have filled any gaps in the tribe’s occupational requirements. John has also multi-tasked. He is officially the High Chief, one level above us tribal Chiefs, but he is also the Shaman of each tribe where that status is required for a task. This includes giving sage advice to individuals who have problems in their lives.”

Shaman Mogon nodded his understanding, but asked, “What does he do as High Chief? What decisions does he make? Can he interfere in the way you run your tribe?”

“I have no idea what another High Chief might do, but my John sees his position as largely symbolic. He makes no attempt to interfere with how the tribe runs day by day, but if he makes plans for some strategic move, he only has to ask and he gains all the warriors he needs for his plan. He never makes demands, either as High Chief or as Shaman; always asks to be allowed to proceed, but he is seldom refused.”

Mogon noe enquired, “Chief, I have heard tales about him; some of them by name, others by general location; he seems to move around. There was talk of taking over a tribe, about rescuing people from groups of wanderers, of killing a shipload of pirates, and being a mighty hunter on top of everything else. Is it true that he has a small bow that kills with small arrows?”

“You didn’t notice the crossbow he was carrying when he met you?”

“I wasn’t paying attention at the time; I was looking at the man, not his weapons. A Shaman never concerns himself with weapons; his weapons are his mind and his voice.”

“Well, he carries that crossbow everywhere he goes. That stripie pelt he was carrying? You noticed it?”

“Yes,. He said he was carrying it home as the tribe liked these pelts.”

“He most likely killed the stripie and skinned the pelt himself. I suspect his headache is associated with that fight. I would have thought there was more than one stripie; I must ask about that.”

“Then the hunting prowess is also true. My goodness!”

“Shaman Mogon, what did you propose to do, after you had found the Shaman John? Had you thought this through?”

“UhhÖ not really much further. I wanted to find this miracle-worker and enlist his help in resisting the invader army, wherever they come from. When they arrived at my tribe, the Chief was told that he and his advisers would be allowed to continue in charge, at least nominally, as long as they went along with whatever the invaders wanted to happen. Our Chief decided that for the good of the tribe, it was best if he remained in charge, as that way he could do his best to protect his people, but I objected, pointing out that if once you give up control, you are forever a lesser person, and that we should resist. He told me, “With that decision, Mogon, you have lost your post as Shaman. In addition, you did not warn us that such a disastrous event was to happen, so as a Shaman your talents seem to have left you. You are no longer valuable to this tribe. Go, and never return.”

Chief Numa leaned forward to pat him on the shoulder in commiseration. “There, there. What a tale to have to tell. Stay with us until John recovers, then we shall see between us what we can do for you. The first thing I need to know is, where is your former tribe located?”

“It is a long way from here; many miles beyond the front line of the army, in a narrow valley. I have walked so much, from tribe to tribe, not in a straight line, that I cannot directly point to where it is situated. I never expected to return there. All I can do is point you generally in the right direction, and roughly how far beyond the last tribe free of the invaders.”

“Would you be willing to tell High Chief John all you can about the activities of the invader army? This, as soon as he is able to take it all in. He is already all in, to my mind. Do you know what happened to him?”

“No, Chief. He was already complaining about a headache when I met him, or rather when he met me; I was sitting down for a break when he came along the track. He seemed a bit tired, for he leaned against a tree while he spoke with me.”

“When did you last eat, Shaman Mogon?”

“Early this morning. I had a dish of porridge, and it kept me going most of the day.”

“In that case, a bowl of meat stew would do you some good. Tell the cooks at the fire that I authorised a meal for you. You can find a sleeping place in the cave, later. The others will say where you can bed down.”

“Thank you, Chief Numa. You are most hospitable.”

In the morning, before the dawn was able to show itself, John snapped awake. His headache was gone, and he felt fine, except for a slight muzziness in his head. Belatedly, he realised that the nanomites in his body had done their best to fix him while he slept. Yesterday was still mostly a blur in his memory, but he recalled a fight with a stripie.

A single stripie? That was unusual. Was that really what happened? As his mind cleared more, he concluded that it had been a genuine memory. He remembered carrying his load of sea salt; why was he feeling so pleased at getting sea salt? Oh, yes: iodine content. Iodine was an important element for good health; shortage of it could lead to goitre. Now why did that come to mind? Had his medical nanos done something to his brain while repairing the impact damage from yesterday? He knew very little about brain chemistry and physiology, so let that thought pass.

Then there was that man he met, claiming to be a Shaman. John remembered having an argument with him about the way society should go in the future. Did the man listen to him seriously? Where did the man go? Was he still here?

As signs of dawn started to appear, John got up, thankful that he had been left to sleep on his own overnight. He noticed that he had been stripped for bed, but had no memory of that event. He walked slowly to the cave entrance, picked up his crossbow, wound it and loaded a bolt then hung it over his back. Now he felt dressed enough to go and wash in the stream. He also picked up one of the bars of soap laid out for use.

As he got there, he was welcomed by one of the warriors, who was on guard. It was Deelia. She ignored his nakedness.

“Morning, John. Are you feeling better? You were not well when you arrived home.”

“Much better, thanks, Deelia. You already doing a stint on guard duty?”

“Yes. I am fairly competent now to be here on my own, and took the last shift overnight. Things have been pretty quiet out here.”

“Excellent. I’ll go get my wash, if you will be on guard.”

“Anything you want; you were my hero, John.”

“No hero, just trying to be a good man, and I managed.”

He stepped into the water, gasping at the cold until his body got used to the temperature, then started washing his body. It was quite invigorating, he found; but he had been forced to wash in cold water in the field with the army. The girls from his time would be more used to warm water for washing, so he knew they would make the wash as quick as possible and get out again. The locals on the other hand thought nothing of it, as they always washed in whatever temperature the water happened to be. That assumes they washed at all! He suspected that some of the locals only had a full wash in the warmer summer days, restricting their washing to hands and face for the rest of the year. He recalled a bit of history, where in medieval times it was normal in Europe to do a full wash once a year, if that, because of peculiar medical opinion about ëbad airs’. This had the unfortunate side effect of doctors going from gruesome surgery to assisting women in childbirth, without washing their hands or changing their soiled apron. Deaths during childbirth in such institutions were horrendous. Where another hospital doctor installed a regimen of cleanliness in his hospital, his death rate was drastically improved, but he was shunned by the other doctors for going against their regular practice.

The odd thing was, good hygiene and regular washing was the standard in ancient times across the world, from MesoAmerica to India. Development did not always result in improvements in society.

John got on with his body cleansing while he thought of these matters, and was soon plodding back up the grassy slope to the cave. By the time he got there, he was dry again, and walked to his family area to get his clothing for today.

Other folk were stirring, and a few of his wives were getting up to start preparations for the first meal of the day. This was usually a dish of meal porridge made from whatever cereal grains had been gathered in open areas of the forest. Sheila had started introducing some of the grains that had been packaged and stored in the secret store room, pretending that she had found a supply in the wild; and the consistent quality had already been noticed. He hoped she realised the importance of keeping back enough to plant for a future crop.

Dressed, he waited for Numa to wake on her own. The other women noted this and stayed silent.

When she turned to make herself more comfortable with her baby bump, she became aware of his presence.

“Morning, darling. How are you feeling today?”

“Much improved, my love. How are you and the baby doing?”

“Not bad. Your child is not being a bother yet; too small. Oh, that Shaman stayed overnight. You might want to discuss the invader army with him; might be useful information for you.”

John searched around until he found the man, lying comfortably on his back, snoring away. He kicked the man’s foot, lightly, but enough to get his wakeful attention.

“Hey, Shaman! We need to have a talk, soon.”

“UhhhhÖ Oh, yesÖ Shaman John. As soon as I am on my feet; not just Shaman; High Chief, I am told.”

“Among other things, yes. Mostly, I am just John.”

“Can I call you John, as Shaman to Shaman?”

“I don’t see why not. For the future, we shall see how we get on together.”

“Ah, yes. I was quite abrupt with you yesterday. Sorry.”

“You were trying to absorb unsettling ideas; it was not surprising.”

“It is one thing to have new ideas talked about; it is another thing entirely to see them in action. Your Chief Numa seems a fearsome tribal Chief; as tough as any male Chief.”

“She has had to be. She once saw her father killed, a few feet from her, and couldn’t do anything about it. Now, she could attack the perpetrators and have a good chance of beating them.”

“A woman, on her own?”

“Provided she had access to her weapons, yes, I believe so. She has been on a raid or two, and I have personally seen her slit the throat of a slaver.”