Hembleciya

[Phantom Lamb]

The setting sun felt warm that and gave him comfort. A gentle breeze stroked the tall grass. The horses fed lazily nearby, seemingly the only other witnesses to this nearly perfect evening. It was the last night of spring, and the next day would be a new life for Hutonton. Nature was giving his youth a fond farewell.
Tomorrow would be his fourteenth summer – the milestone of manhood for his people. No longer must he play the shepherd or the weaver. These were things for children and women, things he outgrew years ago. He had trained hard and grown strong. Tomorrow, he would become a man. Tomorrow, he could be a brave.
He lingered lazily in the evening, delaying his duties with the horses as he was wont to do. There were so many feelings inside him, and as much as he wanted the new dawn, he could not easily bring himself to let go. But as afternoon became evening, and evening became night, he knew he could not stay. In one mind, he both welcomed and mourned the end to his childhood as he gathered the horses to bring to camp.
Hembleciya awaited.

[Phantom Lamb]

No feast had been made for Hutonton’s day. A man made his own feast, and so they would not celebrate until tomorrow, when he returned from his first hunt. He was not yet a man – there was no reason for joy yet. There was still a river to cross.

The elders had gathered in the log cabin. A blazing fire roared from the center of the room, and its smoke rose through the blackened chimney. Hues of red and gold danced on the faces of the six elders in the cabin, revealing different facets of their aging faces with each flicker of flame. The light exaggerated their wrinkles. Hutonton knew their time had passed – these great braves he knew from his stories were now only wisdom and skin.

He was fond of these men, but his tribe needed his strength now. Tonight, he would endure their words, their dancing, and their smoke, to become the man his tribe needed.

He painted his face as he had been taught to do. He danced the dance of Laughing Crow and Crying Hare, symbols of the youth he was leaving. He smoked from the pipe passed among the elders – the same pipe his father and brothers had shared for years. And he ate the fungus paste prepared by the shaman as all men before him had done in his tribe. These were traditions, and he was glad to do them. He was a part of this history, and a part of the future.

Hours later, when the moon was at its full height, he was given his bow and axe. The fungus paste made his eyes unfocused, and the night swirled around him in black and purple. He did not know what he would hunt – that would be revealed to him in a vision. But he set out into the darkness with courage in his heart.

He marched bravely into Hembleciya.

[Phantom Lamb]

He quickened his pace into the dark forest. The moon had not yet reached its peak. It was black, but somehow he could still see. There were impossible colors still in the night - blues and violets he would never see on any other night. This was the gift of Hembleciya.

The trees sped past him on either side, and it seemed he made no sound at all. They stood tall and unwavering all around him, seemingly great black pillars stretching from the earth. At their height, the green canopy of leaves seemed a ceiling. He felt he was in a great hall as he had heard in the stories - a chamber that stretched beyond his reach to the sky, beyond any end on any side. He felt safe, that he was the chief in this impenetrable hall. Nothing could find him here, and all between these pillars was his own.

Yet, in the distance, something did penetrate the woods - a single light to the west. It did not flicker like a flame, yet it moved with some erratic rhythm. It was brighter than any star, but he did not sense a sorcery about it. Compelled, he changed his course and jogged quietly toward the distant light.

His pursuit of the dancing light was not a straight line. He could not be certain, but it seemed to move. Whatever its source, it must be alive. And it seemed to want to avoid him.

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He came across a great river. The light sparkled invitingly from the other side. The river was deep and strong - he must swim to cross it.

Hutonton tightened the string on his supplies so they would not be torn away from the current. He stalked the river's edge to judge the best crossing. He could make out the ripples of a sand bar just before him. He would swim there, and then to the other side.

He dove into the river. It was cold for the summer. His senses pricked at him with warning, but he pressed forward stroke by stroke.

The swim was tiring. The current was stronger than he thought, and it took him far longer to swim to the middle than he thought it would take. He was nearing exhaustion when he reached the ripples. But no sandbar was to be found. He would need to swim the full river. His muscled ached and whined, but there was no choice now - the way back was just as long.

From the ripples, a great fish broke its head from the water's surface. It seemed just as long as Hutonton was tall. He had never seen a fish so large in these rivers. The fish deftly swam around him, tauntingly. Hutonton grew annoyed, but he could not stop or he would be swept downstream.

Another six lengths of a man and his leg cramped. Hutonton tried and tried to continue his swim, but he could not make his leg kick. The current took him. He flailed helplessly in the water.

He drifted downstream, sputtering for air. Something big knocked into his back. He spun in the current, suddenly face down in the river. Instinctively, he reached out and grasped. It was a large rock, and he clawed it desperately. He found a crack and held on. The current pulled his body, but he managed to pull himself closer to the boulder. He clung to it precariously, with barely enough strength to keep his head out of water.

The fish had followed. Lazily, it swam left-to-right, almost snake-like. It stopped before him and bobbed in the current. This was a fish, but not a fish - it was a spirit guide. And it wanted Hutonton. He could reach out to it, he somehow knew, and it would take him to safety. But he must give himself to the totem.

Hutonton's grasp slipped, and he was suddenly underwater again! He held on to the rock with one hand now. Desperately he fought the current, and he sputtered for air where none could be found.

Through the water, he could see the light now, still dancing and calling to him. Then something large shut out the light. The fish was blocking it out, now staring at him in the raging waters.

A strength came over him that he did not know he possessed. His arm, still clutching to the rock, tightened with the power of a bear. He pulled himself closer, closer to the boulder until he could grip it with both hands. He pulled his knees forward now, tucking them against his body until his feet reached the rock.

Finding his foothold, he stretched his body into the current ahead. He aimed his body directly into the current; he was now an arrow in the wind, and it could not change his course.

He glared defiantly at the fish spirit. "No!," he screamed through wave after wave. The water sped past him, but it was now the river who was helpless against him.

The fish disappeared into the depths of the river.

************************************************** ********

[Phantom Lamb]

Hutonton emerged from the river, cold, wet, and weak. He used strength he did not know he had just to make it to the shore. His limbs were exhausted, and his stomach ached from the hard swim.
He laid flat on his back and breathed heavily. His breath fogged into the night like smoke. He saw shapes and figures in his breath: dancing men, bonfires, and animals of all kinds. They were there for only a moment before dissolving into the blackness. Nothing lasts forever, and this is for the best, he thought absently.
Hutonton laid there quietly and motionless until he felt strong again. He stood, and his legs wobbled, but he pressed himself up anyway. The light flickered again in the distance. He had to reach it.
He removed his furs and clothing. He flapped them in the air to dry them. With each wave that passed through them, he imagined the beast they once belonged to wearing the skin again, also being flapped by his hand. The thought made him smile.
His clothes were not fully dry. Nor was he fully strong. But Hembleciya does not last forever. He would not return to his people until he had found his vision. So he decided to press himself forward on his quest yet again.
************************************************** ****************
Black. Purple. Blue. His breath. Tree-after-tree. Branches reaching for him. The trees trying to claim Hutonton just as the fish did.
No. He focused on the light ahead as he ran.
Thirty minutes passed from his swim. He was entering a part of the forest he knew as Low Crop. Here, the trees were shorter, and mostly pine. It was harder to see the light ahead through the needles, but he caught a glimpse every now-and-then; enough to guide his trek.
Suddenly, he heard a low sound rumbling nearby. Thunder, he thought. His clothes were still wet, so it did not matter. Still, he offered a silent prayer to the sky, asking the rain to be merciful tonight. He kept running.
The thunder came again. And again. Closer. And closer. But there was no streak in the sky. This wasn’t lightning, he realized suddenly…
A small grey beast burst from the trees, crashing into Hutonton’s path. It growled the same low rumbling he had heard, then snapped its jaws at him. The beast’s mouth flashed with red and white, teeth desperate to pierce his flesh. The thing was sheer fury and terror – the most savage, feral anger of the woods come to claim him.
Instinctively, he ducked and curled into a ball. The beast flew over his head, but its hind claw raked Hutonton’s face. There was blood now, but this helped the man to remember what to do. His mind returned to him, no longer focused on his dazed run, but ready to fight.
He reached back and drew a tomahawk. Turning quickly, he threw it from a crouched position at the beast. The axe struck true in its right upper leg, where the meat was near the tail. But the beast did not protest; it continued ahead, darting back into the blackness between the pines.
So, thought Hutonton, this is your game. Strike as the mountain cat, alone and swift. He stayed crouched and drew another tomahawk. He scanned the woods carefully, skillfully, searching for any sign to show him where the beast would strike next.
It did not take long. From his right, the beast attacked again. It hit Hutonton before he could turn, knocking him down. The beast was heavier than he thought it was. In fact, the beast was larger than he remembered. Was he being attacked by a pack?
He saw the rear of the animal just before it disappeared again – wounded still where its axe hit it. It was the same beast. The visions were playing with his mind.
The growl of thunder came again. Louder. Deeper. He turned to face it, tracing the sound in the darkness. He could make out the beast just beyond the closest trees, a black silhouette teasing him nearby. It was clever, trying to taunt him into throwing his weapon again from afar. But the trees were thick and he knew his shot had little chance. So, he waited and watched.
He could feel its ferocity – not hatred, but the sheer desire it had to kill him. In the woods, it seemed to glow with this desire, glow with black upon black. This beast was not angry, not evil, put pure hunger.
The black shadow seemed to grow with each step. It was coming closer… no! It was getting larger. Each step, its growl deepened, its shoulders arched higher, its paws dug deeper. Hunger will only grow, he thought, only ending when it is fed.
Hutonton was afraid. He held his breath and steadied his hand. He had no chance alone against something so big. He was just one brave, not yet a man.
It stopped and faced him. The beast now stood a man-and-a-half in height. The beast crouched, ready to pounce on its prey. It waited for the right moment… or perhaps for something else.
“No,” thought Hutonton boldly. “I am not yours. I am strong – not a slave to hunger. I have the will of my people. You will not have me…”
“No!,” shouted Hutonton.
The beast growled in anger and leapt at his throat. It was so large it blocked out his vision – he could see nothing else but the beast, no trees, not even the blackness of the night. Grey, red, and white; fury and hunger. In a moment, the fight would end.
“No!,” he shouted again, not in fear but in defiance. He dropped his axe and prepared for the end.
The beast disappeared, leaving no trace of its savagery but the claw marks on Hutonton’s cheek.