Sana the shaman goes alone into the wilderness, seeking spirits. So who, then are the strangers he finds there? 

Today’s story is the first of two parts of “Initial Survey of Quaisholm Cave Paintings, Origin Unknown, presumed Upper Mesolithic” by SakaraFox and Rob MacWolf, who are testing how this podcast handles collaborative fiction, and you can find more of their stories on their respective SoFurry pages.

Read for you by Khaki, your faithful fireside companion.

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You’re listening to The Voice of

Dog. I’m Khaki, your faithful fireside companion,

and Today’s story is the first of two parts of

“Initial Survey of Quaisholm Cave Paintings,

Origin Unknown, presumed Upper Mesolithic”

by SakaraFox and Rob MacWolf,

who are testing how this podcast handles collaborative fiction,

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

Please enjoy “Story Title” by Authorname, Part 1 of 2 The sunset lit the hills behind him.

The breeze lifted the trees over him.

And the path stretched out before him.

Others of his tribe, maybe,

would have said there was no one else there.

Sana knew better.

Not quite twelve days ago,

one of the young Lentavohi,

Unohta, that heedless little weasel

who seemed no more able to understand explanations when someone SPOKE them to him

than when Sana tried to give them in signs,

had spent an entire afternoon lying in a blackberry patch,

eating his fill, and then had left without setting aside anything for the spirits.

The next morning,

everyone who went out gathering

had found all the berries fully tasteless and dry.

Sana had hoped it would pass,

but then, as his teacher had once told him, ‘hoping’

was just another way to say

‘doing nothing.’ So when the days went by

and proved his teacher right,

he’d set out to do something.

It wasn’t long before the throng of the camp

faded into the distance,

the frantic rhythm of the drums and the proud voices telling tall tales

became fainter and fainter.

Eventually, it was all drowned out

beneath chipper birdsong

and the subtle drone of the wind as it rustled the fir trees.

Sana drew a long breath,

breathed out the tightness from his chest with it.

He could almost have felt alone out here,

the smell of forest the only background to his own scent

—and scent, as any Lentavohi would tell you,

was the Soul—the peace rarely broken by the coarse croaking

of a crow or magpie.

But that was simply untrue.

Out here, in the forest,

there were all manner of unseen souls,

their eyes fixed upon the lone shaman who walked among them.

Spirits of all kinds.

Those who dwelt in the moss-covered oaks

and who could Whisper in the Wind to eachother, or to those lucky, or unlucky, enough to be able to Hear them.

The hare that hid in the bracken

and knew the secrets of which plants could heal which sickness,

if you could catch him alive

and knew how to ask.

And the unseen powers

of life and death and the spaces in between.

But right now there was something even more.

Something which was completely imperceptible to the untrained eye.

Like a rock underneath soft bracken

that you couldn't see,

but you couldn't help but feel once you sat on it.

There was a powerful spirit here.

One that wasn't usually present.

As the otter glanced about himself,

through the gaps in the fir trunks, and beneath the boulders painted with his tribe’s pawprints,

he felt a strong gust

rush over his sleek otter fur.

Sana shivered and pulled the reindeer skin cloak tighter around his body,

his legs left exposed to the gusts

by his short, scrappy skirt.

Perhaps it was a sign.

The timing was certainly convenient,

and he had learned never to take a coincidence for granted.

As his teacher had said,

one’s senses could only be honed so sharply,

but they are useless

without a sharp mind to wield them.

The otter grit his teeth,

looking around himself again

and spying nothing.

He so badly wanted to raise his bulbous otter muzzle to the sky and bark:

Show yourself! Of course,

nothing was ever that easy when you lack the tongue to scream with,

but the otter shaman had his ways.

And if they failed,

there were always rocks to throw.

Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that,

as Sana raised his cupped paws to his muzzle,

staring up at the moon as it hung in the fiery evening sky.

Blowing, the otter pursed his lips and began to whistle,

the sound weaving between his fingers and,

like magic, filling the air with the lonely call of an owl.

It was the best he could do,

and the spirits would surely know that.

The shrill echoes of the whistle

rang around the trees for a moment,

then faded. No reply.

Just the sunset, the wind-stirred forest,

the path. As before.

But rather than be reassured,

the lack of response

increased, rather than assuaged,

the sense of presence hanging over the forest.

Of course you feel like you’re being looked at even harder,

Sana would have muttered to himself, if he could.

You just shouted at them.

He hesitated. When he’d been young

—well, he was still young, especially for a shaman,

but when he’d been younger

—and learning, he’d been ashamed of that one finger fear still laid on his heart when he approached the spirits.

It was reasonable, to be sure,

it was understandable to fear the spirit world and the spirits that dwelt there.

Spirits were unknowable and invisible and worked in ways none could understand.

But it was his calling,

his work, to know them,

to see them, to understand them.

But his teacher, gone among the spirits himself now,

had taught him no:

fear is a tool, like any other you can learn to use.

It shows you where the border lies between the ordinary world,

and the world of the spirits.

It teaches you Awe,

and the Joy of Awe.

And it teaches you

that when there is but one thing to be done,

there is no point in complaining how hard that is.

The only thing is to do it.

The fear had never really turned into awe, Sana would have admitted if he could speak,

so it was just as well that he couldn’t.

But it did mean he could be sure he wasn’t alone out here

in the lowering night.

Well enough. He hadn’t meant to be.

He went a decent furlong past the point

where he could no longer hear the camp,

where he had felt the fear of the spirits brush the back of his neck.

And there he sat down,

and made himself comfortable.

Up in the sky, Sana carefully observed the few stars that had begun to shine through the fading canvas

of dark amber. Every passing moment

they seemed to grow in intensity,

joined by hundreds more of their kin

as night settled upon the forest.

The otter shirked the deerskin cloak from over his shoulder

and from over the strap of the rolled up pack.

He placed it in his lap

and began to rummage through its contents.

First, firewood: a bundle of brittle birch branches,

tied together by a sinew string.

Useless on its own.

Sana dropped it at his side and delved back into the small pack.

Next, a pair of leather pouches in either paw.

He squeezed each one respectively.

One was soft, its contents deformed like wet clay in his grasp.

The other rustled, crunched,

and threatened to spear his thumb with a nasty splinter.

Tallow and kindling respectively.

Whatever spirits were out there,

they’d have to wait while Sana set to work building his fire.

Perhaps they watched him

tip some of the dry grass from the tinder pouch onto the stony dirt,

then take the tallow pouch and pour

a thin layer of the succulent-smelling fat upon the kindling.

Perhaps not. It would have taken a Shaman to say for sure,

and this one was busy with a stomach that grumbled as his tallow-smeared paw

passed beneath his nose.

He couldn’t help but look down at his pack and the supplies within.

He had to focus, build the fire,

then use it to warm his night meal.

Picking up the pace,

the otter then reached for his belt and retrieved a piece of flint

and rough piece of golden stone that twinkled in the starlight.

He positioned the strange golden stone over the kindling,

grasping the flint in his other paw.

Slowly he lowered

and raised his arm,

taking a few practice swings to ensure he made the perfect strike,

like any good hunter.

Then, he raised the flint

high above his head.

If he could speak,

he would have offered a quick incantation to summon forth the sparks.

He ought not to need it.

The spirits ought to be always with him.

Invocations were for hunters and riders,

those who had to ask.

It still would have made Sana feel better to be able to ask.

In the end it was not necessary.

Sana brought down the flint,

let its pointed head scrape against the golden stone.

Tiny seething sparks

spat into the fat-soaked kindling,

which caught alight almost instantly.

Sighing with relief,

he dropped both the flint and the golden stone,

stooping low and blowing gently upon the newborn fire,

with his arms wrapped around it.

He would give it his strength

and let it grow, so that it may protect him in return.

As the smoldering orange light burst into flames,

Sana scuttled backwards,

reaching around to grab the birch firewood and quickly assembling it in a pile around the burning heart.

To his relief the flames grew strong,

devouring the birch with happy crackles and hisses.

A sense of pride grew with it,

in his gut. To strike a fire so skillfully

took practice, and a lot of failure:

sliced fingers, cracked knuckles, and singed fur.

Perhaps, too, it took an affinity for the spirit world

—fire was a thing not entirely of this world, after all.

It lived, breathed,

ate, grew old, just like any animal,

but without a body,

only soul. And like any soul,

it had its own scent.

It was only as the flames began to rise toward the night sky that Sana realised just how dark it had gotten.

Beyond the glowing aura of his campfire lay only darkness,

the fir trees silhouetted in the moonlight.

The birds had stopped singing,

replaced by the hum and chirp of insects hiding in old logs.

Night made solitude and distance from the camp somehow even more peaceful,

and the tension in his fur dissipated somewhat.

For a moment he was content to simply behold.

Reaching for a strip of venison from his pack,

skewering it on the end of his bone knife,

holding it out towards the fire to cook,

that could wait as he gazed up into the sky again.

The sight of the starscape,

so much vast and endless beauty that it looked

as if he could fall into it,

never ceased to make his eyes widen,

his lips tighten,

and his heart leap in his chest.

That was probably what his teacher had meant for him to grow his fear into,

Sana thought. Shelter the fear,

breathe gently on it,

let it take the fuel

and it would blaze up to something like what he felt for the stars.

Maybe. Or maybe he couldn’t,

and like speech, this was just another thing he’d have to learn to make do without-

“Hail,” a tired grey voice interrupted his reverie.

“Share your fire with a traveller?”

Sana felt his whole body tense,

then he forced himself to calm and looked up.

An old wolverine,

skinny and sinewy,

broad hat and rough cloak.

Bow slung across his back,

quiver hung from his belt next to the long knife.

He stood just at the limits of the circle of firelight,

watching Sana at just the right angle that the fire glinted off the backs of his eyes.

Sana’s mind raced.

The signs he would use with the Lentavohi, well,

a stranger might not recognize them.

He would need to be sure the gestures he was about to use to say

‘Yes please, Sit down, but I Cannot Talk,’

couldn’t be misinterpreted to mean something like

‘I Hope the Marrow of Your Bones Will Be Delicious.’

“I will swear,” the wolverine said, apparently mistaking his pause for caution,

“that no hand of mine will strike you,

that no weapon of mine will injure you,

that no theft of mine shall touch any thing of yours.”

Sana gestured to the other side of the fire,

then chopped his hand back and forth once, sharply,

across his open mouth.

A shame he didn’t have any gestures for

‘I Wasn’t Suspicious, I was just Trying to Think how to Say the Thing I Just Said.’

The wolverine, at least, didn’t seem offended.

He nodded perceptively

and settled onto a rock a little to Sana’s right.

“So, you cannot speak, but you can yet understand my words, yes?”

Sana nodded. “Very well.

I hadn’t thought, when I proposed meeting here,

that anyone else might be here already.”

The wolverine pulled something from his pack.

“Please, take. As thanks for your hospitality.”

Fresh meat, Sana’s nose said.

Grouse or ptarmigan,

killed only today,

a much more succulent meal than the dried venison he'd brought.

There’s still a very powerful spirit somewhere nearby, Sana’s intuition said, so don’t get distracted by a friendly stranger.

Well, a little distraction couldn’t hurt, right?

said Sana’s hunger.

And it would have been rude to reject such a kind offer,

especially as he could not politely decline with his words.

Insistence was the only way he could get stuff across to some people.

So, bowing his head slightly,

the otter took the meat

from this newfound stranger.

Bringing it to his muzzle,

Sana took a whiff.

Bird, without a doubt,

plump and surely juicy.

He was careful not to look too eager

as he sharpened a pine stick to mount it over the fire.

Perhaps it would help sharpen his senses,

though the hunters would say it makes you sluggish.

Glancing back up at the stranger,

Sana placed two fingers on his forehead,

then pointed a fist at the wolverine.

A gesture commonly reserved to say goodbye to the newly deceased,

but Sana had come to use it to give thanks.

Hopefully the wolverine would understand.

The shaman felt a weight lift from his shoulders

as the wolverine offered a polite smile,

waited in patient silence

while it sizzled,

and finally let his gaze fall to the ground as they both tucked into their food.

If Sana could speak,

he would have indulged in pleasantries and small talk, like his fellow Lentavohi:

What’s your name?

Where do you come from?

And what’s this meeting you speak of?

Perhaps it was better not knowing, the little voice in the back of his head reminded him of the various cultists that had appeared in the forest over the last few summers.

Though, if stories were to be believed,

a cultist wouldn’t have waited to make such an easy kill.

Sana’s mind couldn’t help but recall the terrible fate of one chief.

It was only last winter, they had been found in a cave,

their body battered by a skilled butcher.

Tortured. Slowly, deliberately,

and for some information nobody knew.

Spirits rest his soul, thought Sana

as he placed his two fingers on his forehead again.

“Your empathy is strong, for a shaman,”

commented the wolverine,

who was glancing up from his meal with sharp, knowing eyes.

“Isn’t it a hindrance at times?”

“And why,” said a new voice,

warmer and younger but even deeper than the wolverine’s,

“would empathy ever be a hindrance?”

A wolf, tall, chest bare,

dark leggings and breechcloth,

blade wrapped in deerskin and tied with a rabbit gut thong

but from the glint off the haft it was clearly obsidian,

fur the color of ripe blackberries

so that he had to get very close indeed before Sana could make out the difference between him

and the night behind him.

He made to sit by the fire opposite Sana.

The wolverine stopped him with a short growl.

“Isn’t my fire.” He nodded sideways at Sana.

“It’s his.” The wolf blinked.

His saffron colored eyes

seemed to soak up the firelight to the point they almost glowed like the clouds around the setting sun.

“My apologies, then,”

he said to Sana.

“I did not realize we were your guests.”

He glanced, slyly, at the wolverine.

“Did you summon this one?

It was none of my doing.”

“I summoned no one,”

the wolverine sniffed.

“He was here by pure chance.”

“As if that means anything,”

the wolf scoffed.

“For what it is worth, friend, I am entirely on your side.

Where is a shaman, where is any man,

without his empathy?”

Well, Sana bit his lip,

he didn’t think he had a side,

but nonetheless… he inclined his head toward the black wolf,

touched two fingers to his forehead,

and extended a fist.

“I do not understand…”

The wolf pursed dark furred lips.

“He means ‘Thank You,’”

interjected the wolverine.

“Oh!” said the wolf,

“I thought it was a gesture of farewell,

for the deceased.”

This was the first of two parts 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.

Tune in next time to find out

who these mysterious strangers are,

and what they want with Sana.

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

thevoice.dog, or find the show wherever you get your podcasts.

Thank you for listening

to The Voice of Dog.