PASTURES OF HEAVEN

by Martha Reed

The old man tattooed Shela's thumb this morning.

I watched him push the stain under her skin, three blue circles over her knuckle. He worked diligently all day, returning the quill to the stain again and again, turning her long hand against the firelight, using the shape of her bones, her scars, for inspiration. Sometimes her skin would split and the stain would mix her blood into a color like the rim of the sky before full dark. I blotted it dry and saved the wool for later, to wash and spin and weave into a belt that would inspire me to dreams.

Shela would not eat, and I made bachi tea three times while the horses whinnied restlessly outside. The old man had finished to her elbow.

Enough, she said, wrapping her arm in folds of white silk. We will finish this tomorrow.

The tent flap opened to the sky, admitting the lesser of Shela's two husbands. His anger is so strong he does not look away, looking instead directly at her face, risking the wrath of demons.

So, he scowls. You've decided.

Yes. She rose slowly, her headdress brushing the low felt ceiling. Tomorrow you must hunt for the tree.

I will not permit you to do this, he declares.

You cannot stop me, she replies.

***

The ice has melted from the deep mountain lakes, and the wildflowers dance with the restless spirits released by the longer days. Our horses jog along the narrow valley floor, shaking their stiff manes against vicious blackflies and fighting their bits to snatch mouthfuls of sweet grass.

Shela encourages her horse with her heels and the gelding responds, scrambling up the broken shale slope over the ridge of the small plateau. Suddenly aware of the danger, he snorts, sidestepping and shying at the crew of exhausted diggers. Their foreman approaches, eyes cast down with respect, rolling the thick clay from his fingers.

Shaman, his voice is strong with pride. I've never built better than this.

Shela dismounts to inspect his work. The clay has been hollowed out to hold a stout wooden chamber, log walls notched and solid, floor paved with flat stones, hand-carried from the river, full two days' journey.

It is not large enough, she judges.

The foreman blanched. But Shaman, he sputters, it will hold four horses.

It is not enough. Shela turns her back. I'm taking six.

***

Dreena is happiest when sent to gather, and she returns from forage with a basket full of herbs and flower tips. Starved by their long winter diet, the women eagerly dig through the greens as their children huddle together, leery of Dreena's facial scars.

An old woman lunges forward, snatching a clump of small white bulbs. Rubbing them clean with her thumb, she greedily fills her mouth. Wild onions, already! She smiles through blackened teeth.

Careful, grandmother, a younger woman teases. Those onions will warm your blood!

My blood is warm enough, the old woman scoffs, if there were man in camp enough to prove it!

Expecting a laugh, the crone glances around, confused by their silence. The children have been gathered up, clutched by their mothers.

Your blood is still warm, grandmother? The Shaman asks. Then you are lucky, after such a winter.

My blood is still warm and yours is too, if only you'd let it be, the old woman scowls. You're young enough to bear another daughter. Wait until you're old like me to talk of death.

The Shaman studies a mushroom. If death won't come to me, then I will ride out to meet it.

Baugh, the old woman spits. You always were in a hurry. I can remember you as a child. You were even born early.

I want to go see what lies beyond the grass.

Fine! But do your duty before you go! What good is our knowledge if we have no ability for its use?

My son has listened. He will be Shaman after me.

And will the magic work through him? Can he summon the spirits? Will they even listen? They won't heed him, he doesn't bleed!

Old woman, shut your mouth! I have already decided this!

Your daughter drowns and you condemn us all! With no true Shaman, we are all dead!

Then let us die, Shela answers, bitterly.

***

August 2, 2007

Today we opened the tomb to discover a solid block of ice. Centuries before civilization, coping stones layered on top of the burial mound had absorbed solar heat, melting the surrounding permafrost and filling the chamber below with water, which then refroze. The discovery of ice brought us high hopes. Perhaps this time we would find a complete skeleton, or even more rare, a mummified body.

We found no evidence of looters or previous disturbance. The excavation team removed a protective layer of logs, and together we peered into the chamber below, only to have the lights glare back into our eyes. We would have to be patient, and wait for the ice to melt.

For eight days we listened to the steady drip of water, bailing the tomb by hand with plastic buckets. On the ninth day the first of the horses appeared, all hoof and matted red hair, gory death masks of sunken eyes and grinning equine teeth. Judging from their wounds, death had come swiftly, hastened by a blow between the eyes from a spiked war hammer. Also in evidence were elaborate burial furnishings: felt saddle pads, bronze bits, carved leather harnesses.

On the eleventh day we opened the burial chamber. Melting ice had shifted under its weight, calving free from the central block and falling to shatter on the stone floor. We discarded the ice and continued on.

After nearly four millennia, Special Assistant Anna Sokolova was the first to touch the coffin. Hewn from a single beech tree, the coffin was over eight feet in length and carved with a curious assortment of totem animals: eagles, gazelles, hunting dogs, and bears.

Dr. Zavanovik! Anya glanced up, her dark eyes bright with excitement. Surely this must be a king! Who else would merit such prestige?

A prehistoric hero, certainly, I agreed, leaning heavily on my cane. An early conqueror, perhaps. Be careful, but open it up!

She inserted a pry bar into a ridged channel that separated the lid from the base. Overhead, placed on tripods along the rim of the pit, digital camcorders recorded this historic archeological event. Amyar natives, incongruous in latex gloves, grasped the lid and lifted it carefully before lowering it to the floor. Anna Sokolova separated the edges of a decayed fur blanket and gently pulled it open to reveal the body hidden within.

Sergei Ivanovich? She hesitated, before looking up sharply. I don't understand this. It's a boy.

***

The pit stood ready.

By the light of the full moon, six horses, tethered and nervous, snort with uncertainty. Ranked by skill along the periphery, warriors stand like silent shadows. A drumbeat breaks the silence, steady and insistent, and a second drummer joins in as the women begin to chant, singing a song so old the words no longer have meaning. Terrified and confused, small children begin to weep, finding no comfort from their wailing mothers.

A sudden gust of wind, and the bonfire blazed into the night. The Shaman stands before us, her naked body painted red, the sacred color.

Uhm-arah, she sings. Spirits of the dead, I call upon you. Speak to me!

Thunder booms, and lightening crackles and sparks across the floor of the distant plain.

Uhm-arah, the Shaman cries again, raising her trembling hands. Spirits of the dead! Speak to me! I demand it!

Mother? A voice is heard, whispering softly across the darkness. Mother?

One of the warriors drops his shield. It is not possible, he gasps, fumbling to recover it. Not even she can do this.

Mother? The whispering voice repeats. Cold, I am so cold.

Choking and sobbing, the Shaman falls to the ground, her fingers scrabbling in the hard earth. Elsissa, she begs. I am here! Speak to me!

Cold, so cold, the voice moans. Why did Kaiten not help me from the ice?

That is a lie! The boy ran to the bonfire. That is not my sister's voice! That is a demon speaking!

Kaiten? The soft voice persists. Why did you do it? I would have shared my gifts with you.

I was in camp that day! he yells. You all saw me! And I warned her not to go, but she wouldn't listen!

Lightening crackles overhead. The frightened horses whinny. The Shaman lifts herself from the dirt.

Kaiten, you told me you never saw your sister that day.

I didn't see her! I mean, I saw her before she left but I didn't go with her. She was alone when she left camp that day.

And that is the lie. The crone pushes her way to the front of the crowd. Because, Kaiten, I saw you leave for the lake together. I may be old, but I am not blind. Tell me. Why did you push your sister through the ice?

Feeble old woman! You disremember! Elsissa went to the lake by herself! I was nowhere near!

The Shaman walks over and cups the boy's chin in her strong hand, forcing him to look into her eyes. The drumming stops. Even the horses fall silent.

Kaiten refuses to meet his mother's gaze.

The pit is ready, she directs. Put him in it.

***

Old woman, tell me now. What made you think my son was guilty?

The crone crumbles a handful of dried leaves into the fire. Shaman, I enjoy a freedom now that only comes with age. When I was young, I drew the admiration of many, but now that I am old I walk unnoticed. I am an invisible woman. No one sees me now.

And how did that help you?

I saw Kaiten's face the day they brought Elsissa back from the ice, when he thought no one was looking. It made me wonder.

But you said nothing to me at the time.

A look is not proof, Shaman. We are all guilty of evil thoughts. His was envy.

So, once again, you have had your way. My children are dead, and I am left to stagger among the living.

If and when you choose to die is up to you. But I could not let you perish without providing us with another shaman-daughter, first.

Someday, old woman, our line will die out, and all your efforts will mean nothing.

Perhaps, the crone shrugged. But it did not happen today, and for that I am content to sit by the fire. I have done my duty, and now you must go do yours. Your husbands are waiting for you in your tent.

Slowly, the Shaman rose and stood, silent, thoughtful. Old one, tell me this before I go. Was it really my daughter's voice that spoke to me from across the grave that night?

The old woman greedily breathed in smoke. Your shaman-gift for trickery came from someone, Shaman, she cackled. Tell me this, granddaughter, if not from me, then whom?