wax, then rolled a softened lump of it into a thin coil and pressed it in a ring to the waxed end of the horn. He squinted across at Mahti, gauging the size of his mouth, and pinched the wax in until the opening was about two thumbs wide.
Satisfied at last, he gave Mahti a toothless grin. “Ready to learn this one’s name?”
Mahti’s heart beat faster as he stood and stretched the stiffness from his legs. His last oo’lu, Moon Plow, had served him seven years. In that time he’d become a man and a healer. Honoring the Moon Plow mark, he’d planted many fine children in women’s bellies at Mother Shek’met’s festivals. His sons and daughters were scattered through three valleys and some of the oldest were already showing witch’s talent.
When Moon Plow cracked, this cycle of his life ended. He was twenty-three summers old, and his next future was about to be revealed.
Drawing his own knife, he cut his right palm and held it over the mouth of the oo’lu as Teolin held it. A few drops of his blood fell inside it as he sang the claiming spell. The black tracery of witch marks across his face, arms, and chest tickled like spider feet. When he thrust his hand into the fire, he didn’t feel the heat of it. Straightening, he moved to the far side of the fire and faced the old man. “I’m ready.”
Teolin held the oo’lu upright and chanted the blessing, then tossed it across to Mahti.
He caught it awkwardly in his fire hand, gripping it well below the center. Even hollow, it was a heavy thing. It nearly overbalanced, and if it had fallen, he’d have had to burn it and start all over again. But he managed to hang on to it, gritting his teeth until the witch marks faded completely from sight on his arms. He took the horn in his left hand and inspected it. The shiny black print of his fire hand was branded into the wood.
Teolin took it back and carefully examined how the marks of Mahti’s splayed fingers intersected the carved designs. He was a long time at it, humming and sucking his gums.
“What’s wrong?” asked Mahti. “Is it a bad luck cycle?”
“This is the Sojourn mark you’ve made. You better spit for it.”
Teolin scratched a circle in the ashes at the edge of the fire with his knife. Mahti took a mouthful of water from the gourd and spat forcefully into the circle, then turned away quickly as Teolin hunkered down to interpret the marks.
The old man sighed. “You’ll travel among strangers until this oo’lu cracks. Whether that’s good luck or bad, only the Mother knows, and she doesn’t feel like telling me tonight. But it’s a strong mark you made. You’ll travel a long way.”
Mahti bowed respectfully. If Teolin said it would be so, then it would be. Best just to accept it. “When do I go? Will I see Lhamila’s child born?”
Teolin sucked his gums again, staring down at the spit marks. “Go home by a straight path tomorrow and lay your blessings on her belly. A sign will come. But now, let’s hear this fine horn I’ve made for you!”
Mahti settled his mouth firmly inside the wax mouthpiece. It was still warm and smelled of summer. Closing his eyes, he filled his cheeks with air and blew gently out through loosened lips.
Sojourn’s deep voice came to life with his breath. He hardly had to adjust his playing style at all before the rich, steady drone warmed the wood beneath his hands. Gazing up at the white moon, he sent a silent thanks to the Mother. Whatever his new fate was, he knew already that he would do great magic with Sojourn, surpassing all he’d done with Moon Plow.
By the time he finished the claiming song he was lightheaded. “It’s good!” he gasped. “Are you ready?”
The old man nodded and hobbled back into the hut.
They’d agreed on the payment their first day together. Mahti lit the bear fat lamp and set it by the piled furs of the sleeping platform.
Teolin shrugged off his cloak and undid the ties of his shapeless robe. The elk and bear teeth decorating it clicked softly as he let it fall. He stretched out on his pallet, and Mahti knelt and ran his eyes over the old man’s body, feeling compassion tinged with sadness rise in his heart. No one knew how old Teolin was, not even the old witch himself. Time had eaten most of the flesh from his frame. His penis, said to have planted more than five hundred festival seeds, now lay like a shrunken thumb against his hairless sac.
The old man smiled gently. “Do what you can. Neither the Mother nor I ask more than that.”
Mahti leaned down, kissed the old man’s lined brow, and drew the fusty bearskin up to Teolin’s chin to keep him warm. Settling beside the platform, he rested the end of the horn close to the old man’s side, closed his eyes, and began the spell song.
With lips and tongue and breath, he altered the drone to a sonorous, rhythmic pulse. The sound filled Mahti’s head and chest, making his bones shiver. He gathered the energies and sent them out through Sojourn to Teolin. He could feel the song enter the old man, lifting the strong soul free of the frail, pain-wracked body, letting it drift up through the smoke hole like milkweed fluff. Bathing in the light of a full moon was very healing for a soul. It returned to the body cleansed and gave a clear mind and good health.
Satisfied, Mahti changed the song, tightening his lips to weave in the night croak of a heron, the booming boast of grandfather frog, and the high, reedy chorus of all the little peepers who knew the rain’s secrets. With these, he washed the hot sand from the old man’s joints and cleansed the little biting spirits from his intestines. Searching deeper, he smelled a shadow in Teolin’s chest and followed it to a dark mass in the upper lobe of his liver. The death there was still asleep, curled tight like a child in the womb. This, Mahti could not cleanse away. Some were fated to carry their own deaths. Teolin would understand. For now, at least, there was no pain.
Mahti let his mind wander on through the old man’s body, soothing the old fractures in his right heel and left arm, pressing the pus away from the root of a broken molar, dissolving the grit in the old man’s bladder and kidneys. For all its wizened appearance, Teolin’s penis was still strong. Mahti played the sound of a forest fire into his sac. The old man had a few more festivals in him; let the Mother be served by another generation bearing his fine old blood.
The rest was all old scars, long since healed or accepted. Allowing himself a whim, he played the white owl’s call through Teolin’s long bones, then droned the soul back down into the old man’s flesh.
When he was finished, he was surprised to see pink dawn light shining in through the smoke hole. He was covered in sweat and shaking, but elated. Smoothing his hand down the polished length of the oo’lu, he whispered, “We will do great things, you and I.”
Teolin stirred and opened his eyes.
“The owl song tells me you are one hundred and eight years old,” Mahti informed him.
The old man chuckled. “Thank you. I’d lost track.” He reached out and touched the handprint on the oo’lu. “I caught a vision for you while I slept. I saw the moon, but it was not the Mother’s round moon. It was a crescent, sharp as a snake’s tooth. I’ve seen that vision only once before, not too long ago. It was for a witch from Eagle Valley village.”
“Did she learn what it meant?”
“I don’t know. She went away with some oreskiri. I’ve never heard anything of her return. Her name is Lhel. If you meet her in your travels, give her my greeting. Perhaps
