Richard Turner
Hellfire
1
An unnatural silence gripped the wide valley floor. It was yet another sign that something terrible had befallen the land.
Gray Wolf raised his hand and warily pulled down the tree branch blocking his sight. He silently looked out from the thick pine forest; his dark-brown eyes studied the snow-covered ground. He saw nothing dangerous, but his instincts told him to be cautious. He brought a long, sharpened, stone-tipped spear up to his chest and clenched it tight in his callused hands. His scraggly black hair hung down onto the dirt-encrusted fur clothing he wore to keep his body warm. In his twenty-sixth summer, Gray Wolf was the second-oldest person in his ever-diminishing clan.
Gray Wolf glanced up and saw the sun hanging high above his head. He shook his head. Spring had come late this year. The snow had only just begun to melt under his feet, and the nights were still bitterly cold.
It had been three full moons since the night sky was brilliantly lit up with hundreds of shooting stars that streaked and danced across the top of the world. The clan’s shaman, a toothless and crippled old man, joyfully said that it was a good omen. He told everyone around the fire that night that the spirits of their ancestors had flown across the night to bless them with a good hunt this year.
He was wrong.
Almost right away, the large animals the clan had been tracking from the north began to die. At first, they found only one or two dead animals lying in the open. To Gray Wolf, it was as the Gods had always wanted; those that died were the sick, old, or very young. However, as the days slipped by, things began to change for the worse when the tribe came upon whole herds of animals lying dead, scattered about the frozen countryside. What troubled Gray Wolf was the fact that scavengers like the wolf, coyote or fox had all but vanished. Normally, they would have been tearing at the carcasses of the dead, but there were none to be seen.
They seemed to be avoiding the dead.
Even the crows were keeping clear of the dead, and this was a bad omen as far as Gray Wolf was concerned. Why had the Gods told the scavengers to avoid the bodies of the other animals? Was it not their place in life to feed upon the remains of their larger cousins? pondered Gray Wolf.
With his spear held tight, he crept cautiously out of the cover of the woods. His moccasin-covered feet barely made a sound on the ground as he made his way towards a rocky rise overlooking a large, partially frozen lake. Gray Wolf moved swiftly and silently. When he was near the top of the hill, he dropped down behind a tall boulder, using it for cover. He quickly glanced over his shoulder at his son, Setting Sun, and whispered at him to keep low. They didn’t want to be seen, especially if there were any animals resting near the lake.
Setting Sun was a tall boy for his age of nine summers. The fact that so many of the clan’s other hunters had left in search of food had forced Gray Wolf to bring his only son along with him today.
Gray Wolf lifted his head slightly and smelled the cool breeze coming off the lake. The smell of death hung heavy in the air.
He knew something awful had happened. On all fours, Gray Wolf crawled from behind cover until he could see out over the long lake. What he saw broke his heart: lying all around the lake were whole herds of mammoths, caribou, and deer.
The shaman was wrong. Evil spirits must have come with the shooting stars to kill off their food.
“Father, why is everything dead?” asked Setting Sun.
“I do not know. Our shaman had predicted plenty, but we must have done something to anger the Gods,” replied Gray Wolf.
“Father, what are we going to do? We cannot go back without something to feed the women and children.”
Gray Wolf smiled. His son was barely old enough to come on the hunt, yet he was worried about the rest of the clan. He would do well as a man.
Gray Wolf knew there was no reason to remain hidden. He stood and looked down at the body of a large deer. His stomach grumbled loudly. He hadn’t eaten in days. None of them had. If he didn’t bring something back for his people to eat, his clan was going to starve to death long before they made it to the hills where they rested for the summer. With his spear held out in front of him, Gray Wolf walked down towards the dead animal. With each step, he expected the Gatherer of the Dead to suddenly appear out of the lake and take his spirit into the underworld for trespassing where he did not belong. The fear of never seeing his ancestors in the afterlife kept him alert and tense.
“Father, look!” shouted Setting Sun.
Gray Wolf turned his head and saw several bodies lying face down in the snow. They were clustered around the eviscerated remains of a caribou. His heart began to race as he walked slowly towards the bodies. When he was a few paces away, he called out to them.
No one replied.
Gray Wolf cautiously stepped closer. He saw that they were dressed as he was, in heavy furs, but he didn’t recognize any of their faces. They weren’t from his clan, or any other tribe that lived and hunted in the lands near his. With his spear, he gently prodded the body of a man. Gray Wolf saw that the man appeared to have died while eating some meat, the man’s last meal frozen in his blood-covered hands. He said a quick prayer to the Sun God to watch over the dead and stepped back. He never turned his back on the dead. Gray Wolf still feared that the Gatherer of the Dead was lurking nearby. One by one, Gray Wolf checked the other corpses. They all seemed to have died the same way.
A chill ran down his spine. Perhaps the Gods had killed them because they had disturbed the bodies of the dead, thought Gray Wolf.
He shook his head in frustration. He couldn’t understand why the Gods had cursed the land.
A sound from above suddenly caught his ear. Like a tiger, Gray Wolf crouched down and looked up into the sky. Right away, a smile crept across his face when he saw a flock of birds coming in to land on the still-frozen lake.
Perhaps their luck was about to change.
Gray Wolf slowly set his spear down beside his feet. Together with his son, he dug out his sling and slipped a small stone inside. They waited patiently until the geese landed nearby. With his heart racing, Gray Wolf quickly stood up, swung his sling over his head, and with a practiced eye, aimed for the biggest bird he could see.
His aim was true.
Before the other birds could react, Setting Sun brought down another bird.
Three hours later, they returned to their clan’s camp nestled deep inside the thick woods. In each hand were three birds. Met by Young Spirit, his wife, Gray Wolf helped her pass around the plentiful food to the other members of the tribe. There had been thirty-two people in the White Bear clan when they began their annual migration south following the herds. Now there were only nineteen. Some had died of old age, others of malnutrition, while still others had left to find better hunting grounds.
That night the food was hungrily devoured. Gray Wolf noticed that people laughed and joked with one another, the first time in many days. Even his usually dour wife was smiling.
He woke early the next morning and crept out of his shelter to the sound of their shaman coughing and hacking. Gray Wolf doubted if the man would last through the summer.
In the gray light of dawn, he could see his breath. Gray Wolf walked over to the fire pit in the center of their camp. He squatted down and placed his hand over the top of the charred wood; there was some heat coming from the still burning embers. Gray Wolf put a couple of pieces of wood on the fire, got down on all fours, and blew on the embers, giving them life. Within a minute, the bonfire was burning hot. The fresh pine boughs snapped and cracked in the heat of the fire.