The strangers who are come to Sana’s campfire are no ordinary travellers. What do they want with him? And who are they really?

Today’s story is the second and final part of “Initial Survey of Quaisholm Cave Paintings, Origin Unknown, presumed Upper Mesolithic” by SakaraFox and Rob MacWolf, who think this collaborative story experiment is going well so far, and you can find more of their stories on their respective SoFurry pages.

Last time, Sana, mute Shaman of the Lentavohi, journeyed out into the wilderness to redress the disrespect a young tribesman committed against the spirits, and there met two mysterious strangers.

Read for you by Khaki, your faithful fireside companion.

thevoice.dog | Apple podcasts | Spotify | Google Podcasts

If you have a story you think would be a good fit, you can check out the requirements, fill out the submission template and get in touch with Khaki on Twitter or Telegram!

You’re listening to The Voice of Dog. I’m Khaki, your faithful fireside companion,

and Today’s story

is the second and final part of

“Initial Survey of Quaisholm Cave Paintings,

Origin Unknown, presumed Upper Mesolithic”

by SakaraFox and Rob MacWolf,

who think this collaborative story experiment is going well so far,

and you can find more of their stories on their respective SoFurry pages.

Last time, Sana, mute Shaman of the Lentavohi,

journeyed out into the wilderness to redress the disrespect a young tribesman committed against the spirits,

and there met two mysterious strangers.

Please enjoy “Initial Survey of Quaisholm Cave Paintings,

Origin Unknown, presumed Upper Mesolithic”

by SakaraFox and Rob MacWolf,

Part 2 of 2 The wolf and the wolverine talked,

like two tribesmen who had known eachother long but not closely,

which it must be admitted

was likely exactly what they were.

Sana looked back and forth between them,

an eyebrow raised as he listened carefully,

vigilant to any sign that they may be hiding their true intentions.

Though they seemed too mundane to be hiding anything,

perhaps they were just good at creating an illusion.

For there was still that strange feeling

that played along his senses

like music through a flute.

The clear presence

of strong spirits among them

made the fur on his neck tingle and stand on end.

Sana cupped his paws over his face

and groaned, ground the heels of his palms against his forehead as the thoughts there returned

to Unohta. That weasel had caused enough trouble,

and now these strangers had appeared to stall him from fixing it.

Nothing was ever easy in this life.

With a sigh, Sana let his paws fall to his side

as he stared into the fire.

He didn’t even know which spirits were offended.

Spirits could be so arrogant,

why couldn’t they just air their grievances like any other hunter?

Sana longed for an answer to be handed to him,

all neatly poured into a bowl, the way his teachers’ stories had said things used to be,

when shamen were more powerful and spirits recognized and respected them on sight.

Come to think of it, how did these strangers know he was a shaman?

The otter glanced down at himself,

briefly, in a way he hoped wasn't obvious.

He couldn’t pick out any dead giveaways of his position within his tribe.

The clothing he wore wasn’t special,

just treated skins

wrapped about his person in the most comfortable manner.

The usual jewellery of bones and amber

were back at camp,

too cumbersome to wear out this time of night.

“Shall we,” the wolverine’s posture straightened,

“get on with what we have to say?

I travelled far to reach this place,

and I will have far to travel when we are done.”

“We’re not all here yet,”

the wolf poked the fire with a twig,

“and we are observed.”

“I think he is,” the wolverine’s eyes bored into Sana until he could almost feel them,

“unlikely to tell any secrets.”

Slowly, Sana raised a finger,

clearing his throat to grab the attention of his two

strange, unexpected guests.

If he could speak, he would have asked for names, but had to make do with what he knew.

Placing his fist on his ribs,

he firmly bumped his chest a few times and pointed at the wolverine,

cocking his head to the side

and keeping his eyebrow raised with an inquisitive gaze.

Worst case was that it came off as an attempt to show dominance,

spirits forbid. “You wish to know his name?”

The wolf’s voice was mildly amused,

which seemed unfair.

It was a reasonable question, given they’d apparently understood it!

But it seemed to be difficult.

The wolverine scratched

pensively at his chin before answering.

“I… have no name, among the peoples of these lands.

That is why-” “One reason why,”

the wolf interrupted.

“One reason why,” the wolverine sighed,

“we chose to meet here.

You may call me Hunter, if you wish.”

“It is a matter of what we do, then?”

said the wolf, “Then you may call me Mourner.”

“If it is a matter of what we do, then he ought to call you Kilt-Lifter,”

Hunter growled. Sana tensed for a fight,

but the wolf laughed

raucously. “And I suppose that makes our third guest,

if he ever arrives…

Speaker, perhaps?” Mourner grinned.

“Are you asking me?”

Hunter said. “He’s your son, not mine!”

“Aye, and precious few indeed are those who can claim to not be your son!”

“Is this,” cut in another voice, cold and serious,

“the counsel I was called for?”

A sudden wind rushed through the trees,

and raced the fire up enough to show someone in a hooded cloak

that covered him front and back

so that only the face revealed him to be a crow, standing behind Hunter and Mourner.

The wolf grinned,

“Hardly. But come, meet our host, he-”

“He cannot speak, his name is Sana, son of Kirkamät, shaman of the Lentavohi,”

Speaker intoned as if for some kind of ritual,

as if all he did was chant and preach and recite,

and never simply talked.

“He has come seeking to right the balance, and he shall find much more than he expected.”

The crow did not sit,

he stood on Sana’s left,

across from Hunter.

“How is it,” Hunter peered through the fire at his—apparently—son,

and Sana’s stomach was falling out of him now that he suspected what it meant for a wolverine’s son

to be a crow,

why they knew him without introduction,

and why he felt more than ever

the presence of powerful spirits,

“that you know him?”

“I listen, as well as speak.”

Speaker’s beak clacked sharply when he said.

“That doesn’t help!”

Mourner commented, very cheerfully.

Speaker shrugged.

“If you will not take my word for it…”

His head turned, sharply, toward the otter.

“I have not yet given you the gift you are due, as host.

If you will?” And he leaned over the otter,

till his face was inches from the shaman’s.

Sana’s eyes widened as he pulled back,

only a little. His hands wanted to shout

‘are you trying to kiss me?’

but the crow was already too close.

And if these people were what he suspected they were…

then a kiss might mean something much more than itself,

this might be courtesy among these beings, this might be

very unwise to refuse.

And when was the last time he’d been offered something like that, anyway?

He realized his mouth was open

because he felt something enter it,

but not what he expected:

a warm breath. Speaker was exhaling,

steadily, forcefully, and it filled his nose and mouth and pressed into his lungs like the smell of a distant thunderstorm,

and he could feel it moving in there,

like an alive thing.

He would have wanted to cough,

but his chest wouldn’t cough.

He would have wanted to collapse to his knees in exhaustion

but he’d never felt more filled with wakefulness.

Speaker pulled away,

face impassive, apparently satisfied.

“What did you-” Sana said.

Then stopped. Slowly,

he tested with one of the paws he’d just clapped to his face in shock.

Probed his muzzle

with an experimental finger.

There was no tongue within.

As ever. He looked at the crow in awe.

“How?” he said, nonetheless.

“How does the sun rise?”

Speaker lowered his hood

and finally took a seat.

“How does the river flow to the sea?

How does the horse learn to run?

We are what we do, Shaman.”

Sana continued to prod and poke at his lips,

running his thumb along his teeth as he listened to the crow,

Speaker. Again, he’d hoped for a real answer, but he should have known better.

After all, it was as clear as night and day now

that these were no ordinary guests.

“You know...” The shaman began,

trailing off for a second to smack his lips,

the sensation of speech still so new that it twisted a tongue he did not have.

“I always imagined speech made these affairs much easier,”

Sana mused, almost to himself,

idly directing his words towards the crow.

Silence hung in the air between them for a few moments,

Sana carefully looking over the crow

who had returned his voice.

Only the crackle of the fire

and the whistle of night birds filling the air,

until the otter spoke up once again.

“Keep your peace then,”

he mumbled as he turned to look back into the flames,

watching them dance against the silhouettes of the fir trees.

“So, you two who resemble Raakuol

and Metsävaha, and you I do not recognise,

why keep your true names from me?”

Sucking in his breath,

the otter shaman

turned his head to look over each of his guests.

If they were spirits,

as was certain at this point,

then he only recognised two of their forms,

and yet they acted nothing like they were said to.

The power of speech

should have been of the Oak,

not the Crow. “It is as I said.

We have no names among your people,”

answered Hunter, slower and more deliberate in his manner of speaking this time. As if being

recognized for what he was were an onerous task he was now obliged to resume.

“You are other then,

like how the Hedker have their Sun spirit?”

The otter cocked his head to the side, narrowing his gaze on the wolverine,

not entirely sure what to make of such a revelation.

“We may be,” the crow interjected,

“but maybe we are not unlike you, who move from place to place on the game trails, as we see fit.”

Those last words

lingered in Sana’s ears,

biting his lip with one fang

as he chewed over their ominous meaning.

Whether the Speaker meant them to be intimidating,

or if they just spoke so matter of factly,

Sana realised he had to consider his own words carefully.

“You were after something then,

but I doubt it was a herd of tall elk,”

the shaman forced a nervous chuckle,

glancing at each of his guests.

“Perhaps we were merely seeking a welcome fire to gather around,”

proposed Mourner,

returning the otter’s half-hearted chuckle.

“After all, on the journey I have taken to get me here, I have heard only praise for your people’s hospitality.”

The comment perked Sana’s attention,

and his ears too, if they were more like those of the wolf.

It never occurred to him

that spirits could travel like regular hunters,

listening to gossip and rumour. Äituri forbid they passed judgement based on such hearsay and half-truths. ...

...if Äituri wanted to forbid these three from something,

could she? The otter scratched his chin, still chewing over the words he was offered.

He guessed he should have been grateful foremost,

for a compliment from a spirit surely meant a lot.

Especially when he’d come to mend wrongs committed by his people,

and even if it seemed such a minor thing to Sana.

“A tribe that looks out for each other is strong,”

began the otter, speaking slowly as he mulled over the best way to explain it.

“We were all raised being told that,

it is not hospitality, it is simply

living for us.” “There are those who would disagree.”

Mourner said, with no trace of humor in his voice for the first time.

Sana sighed, slightly concerned by the change in tone of the wolf’s voice.

It was true as far as he could tell,

no Lentavohi thought of sharing supplies as anything special.

A hungry hunter gets desperate,

and one desperate hunter can spoil the hunt for everyone.

“It seems not all of your people are so idyllic,” Mourner

continued in a tone that grew more serious,

“otherwise you wouldn’t be out here.

A man belongs at his fireside, with two or three to warm his sleep, once the sun has set.

If he is elsewhere,

he has a reason.” The comment made the otter recoil slightly.

Of course, Unohta and his selfish antics, the reason he had come out into the dark forest alone,

and it wasn’t the first time.

So then, was it the weasel they wanted?

“Unohta...” “Is like the fire raging before us,”

Mourner asserted,

cutting off the shaman as he hesitated to find an excuse for the weasel’s behaviour.

The wolf went on,

“he is young and yearns for all that life offers,

burning brightly.” The fire seemed to glow brighter for a moment,

the flames jumping

as Mourner finished,

then settling back down again.

Resting his head on one paw,

Sana considered the prospect,

and what the Mourner might have wanted him to do about it.

“He must learn to control that fire, before it consumes him,”

suggested Sana thoughtfully,

not entirely certain about his answer.

“Is that what you really believe?”

Speaker’s cold voice sent a chill up the otter’s spine,

causing him to glance at the shadowy crow with a deep frown.

There was no room for uncertainty

when your guests knew more about you than even you do.

“You have a fire in you, too.

One that drives you to overcome your…”

Mourner bit his lip,

“challenges. But you learned from the old ways,

seeking knowledge from the dead and the immortals.”

“The weasel is stubborn,”

sighed Sana as he pinched the bridge of his nose,

“he accepts no teacher.”

The otter was telling the truth,

he could not recall any hunter

who seemed to move the young

Unohta to action. “You don’t believe that,”

Hunter insisted with a deep grumble,

adding weight to Speaker’s previous statement.

“You, with your tenacious approach to your struggles,

wouldn’t give up on someone so easily.”

Sana felt scathed by Hunter,

nervously rubbing his shoulder as he glanced at each of his guests

and, once again, carefully considered how to move forward.

It felt like an interrogation,

not a communion as he had hoped.

Part of the otter almost wished for the vague coincidences again,

at least they didn’t burn into his fur with intense gazes.

“Some of your tribe whisper through the wind,

like the oaks, like you.

Do they not?” Speaker slowly cocked his head to one side,

seeming to take pity on the shaman and his cluelessness.

That’s when it clicked in Sana’s head.

No hunter had tamed Unohta,

no tribe member had adopted him,

it was... “The horses,”

mumbled the otter,

his eyes widening at the seemingly obvious realisation.

Sana glanced around at his guests again,

noticing that they had all leaned in to listen.

“He adores the horses,”

the shaman continued,

“seems to spend all his time around them,

like he would his own family.

That’s how I know he’s not lost.

lost.” Sana clasped his paws together,

and rested his head on his knuckles.

“That’s how I know he’s a true Lentavohi at heart.”

“Do you think, then, that…”

Speaker paused a moment,

head cocked to one side,

as if running fingers through his memory, “Rasori and Äituri will be able to reach him?

When you by yourself cannot?”

“I am hopeful, and I will try!”

the otter bowed.

“And I am humbled that spirits as powerful as yourselves would

journey so far merely to aid me.”

“That is not what we came for,”

Hunter said. “But,” Mourner grinned,

“you yourself would know, Shaman,

when in your journey you come upon a task by chance,

there is a reason why it is you before whom it is set.”

“Even if you never learn it,”

Speaker looked pointedly at Mourner.

“But now the night wears on.

What we would say to one another, we must say before dawn comes.

Have you a place to sleep, Shaman?”

“I can make myself comfortable under a tree,”

Sana said, “It would not be the first time.”

“I have not yet,” Mourner stood,

and stepped behind Hunter to Sana’s side of the fire,

“offered our host any guest gift.

But I have been told my arms are a safe enough place to rest.”

His eyes met the Shaman’s

and strangely, still glowed all the colors of sunset

despite his now facing away from the fire.

He didn’t ask whether Sana wanted to spend the night in his arms.

But then, did he need to?

Memory would elude the otter,

of the rest of that night,

like a small fish sliding through the hole of a net.

He could remember

blissful weariness filling his body,

strong arms wrapped around and supporting him,

and his head cushioned on the black furred chest of the wolf-spirit,

though he couldn’t have said,

for more than one reason,

which of those had happened first.

He would try, years later,

to paint something of what he remembered on the wall of a limestone grotto,

which after many later ages had passed

some later peoples would find

and deem sacred enough to preserve,

though they never knew anything of its artist or his tribe,

before they themselves were likewise left behind and forgotten by time and eternity.

But even if they had understood,

pigment and brush and fingertip

couldn’t capture the way Sana saw Mourner’s body become the darkness of the night itself,

though no less warm or soft or supportive beneath him,

saw Speaker’s cloak

rising through the rustling trees until it was sheets of soft rain covering half the night sky,

saw Hunter at the far end of a long straight road,

the size of a mountain,

and the outlines of his body

made of patterns of stars,

as the three of them talked of things Sana could not begin to comprehend: 'car

-bon' and extinctions

and the burning of bones and forests,

and hoarded treasure,

and who was responsible, or would be responsible, for the deaths

of entire peoples,

and whether anything could be done to stop it.

Perhaps this was something he’d woken to glimpse.

Perhaps this was something he heard

while sleeping and wove into a dream.

Perhaps the whole night had been a dream,

for was not that the sort of thing that happened to a shaman?

When he woke, he was alone by an extinguished fire.

There were no footprints,

no pheasant bones or feathers, indeed no sign, to look at,

that any but himself had been there last night.

But the smell of wolf’s fur,

the color of ripe blackberries,

still clung to him.

And scent was the soul, after all.

That was enough proof for Sana.

And after he tried,

hesitantly, experimentally, to speak,

and managed only a long-familiar grunt,

he resigned himself that it wasn’t as if he’d be telling this story

to anyone but himself.

If any of his tribe noticed

that the berries were flavorful again,

or remarked that after three nights of delirious nightmares

Unohta was a changed weasel,

deeply mindful of the respect due to spirits

and even more devoted to the horses,

then what point was there in asking the silent shaman for an explanation?

Even if he could tell you what was going on,

he wouldn’t. And what did it matter?

The sunset still lit the trees in evening,

the breeze still moved the clouds,

the path still stretched before all of them,

as ever, and the spirits

remained out there.

Somewhere. Where only a shaman

need concern himself with them.

This was the second and final part of

“Initial Survey of Quaisholm Cave Paintings,

Origin Unknown, presumed

Upper Mesolithic”

by SakaraFox and Rob MacWolf,

read for you by Khaki,

your faithful fireside companion.

As always, you can find more stories on the web at thevoice.dog,

or find the show wherever you get your podcasts.

Thank you for listening

to The Voice of Dog.