Wind Whisper My Name

PROLOGUE

A long, long time ago, in that dim past before we knew how to write and record history, there were men and women who lived in caves or crude wooden huts. Many of the men were strong, courageous hunters providing meat and shelter for their mates and families. They gradually, by trial and error, had learned how to fashion tools and weapons from stone, animal bones and flint. A few had discovered how to smelt ore found in the soil.

They discovered how to use herbs as medicines, and the grasses and animal skins for clothing. They hollowed out logs for boats, and gouged out smaller pieces of wood for bowls and ladles. Today we know them as the Stone Age Men.

As they gathered around their fires, did they tell stories as a way of making sense of their world? Being human, there must have been tales of their experiences and feelings similar to ours today. Did they speak of love, hate, jealousy, competition, and greed, as well as pride and man’s eternal lust for power?

Perhaps there were stories of the big hunt, the winter of the never ending snowstorm, or the long wet spring with flooded valleys.

Did they, like us, find joy in watching the sunsets, or feel wonder at the night sky? Was there a belief in a god or gods that brought life, or death? Did they think their gods and goddesses could control the seasons, their food supplies, their fertility or safety?

Over five thousand years ago, a small village flourished. It was nestled in an alpine valley close to what is now known as the Austrian Alps. A group of these late Stone Age men, women, and children lived in crude wood and stone huts by a large, clear lake.

This clan had special rituals that changed with the seasons. Primitive laws, taboos, and rites of passage governed their lives. They constructed stone altars where prayer and sacrifices were made to the god of the sun and mountain, and to the goddess of the earth who gave birth to all living things.

One morning in early fall, alone, or perhaps with others, a young hunter began a journey to the north. He traveled toward the high peaks he could see in the distance. These peaks were continually shrouded in mist and covered with ice and snow.

Who was he? Why did he not return? What happened on that cold snowy mountain? Was there an accident, or an enemy lurking close by seeking revenge?

The following story, about the missing young hunter, may have been one that was told around the fires. After thousands of years, the frozen body of a young man was found beneath the snow. He was dressed in winter clothes, and part of a tattered, woven grass cape. In his pouch was a stone amulet. Could this have been the hunter from that long-ago clan?

CHAPTER 1

The young man’s eyelids twitched and slowly opened. He lay rigid as a stone and listened to the muted twittering in the nearby trees. It was not quite dawn. What had awakened him? His dark, almost black eyes scanned the room.

The wood and stone hut Deek lived in was a large one at the far end of the village. It had two small sleeping rooms. In each was a pallet made of straw. A stone hearth covered one wall of the cooking room. The hut was set inside a wooden corral that held their horses, and he could hear one nicker close by.

In the hut all was as still as a deep cave. But no, he thought he could hear a soft shuffling sound. It was coming from the next room where his father slept. As he became fully awake, he thought of the ongoing fights with Vassil, his father. Nothing he did could please him. It was as if his father hated the sight of him. When he was about ten summers old, he tried to find out why, but Vassil only whacked him and said, Get out of my sight. Yesterday the old one had been at his worst.

Can’t you ever get the dried grass in on time? he bellowed. You haven’t fed the horses yet. What is keeping you? You are like a slimy snail, always creeping along instead of working.

Later, Vassill had been angry over a sick horse. It was Vassil’s favorite mare. He claimed it had to be Deek’s fault. Vassil would not admit that the horse was old, or perhaps had eaten some weed that made him sick. His father then found fault with him about the water for the horses, the wood that needed to be cut for winter, and the meat supply that was getting low. Much older now, stooped and gray, his father’s voice was still a roar. From habit, Deek backed away from a confrontation. He still remembered the beatings from his childhood.

The anger that had been building between them for a long time now erupted on a daily basis. As the quarrels over petty things increased, so did Deek’s headaches.

Fierce pounding headaches had plagued Deek for years. Buried in his mind was a vague memory-one that lurked just beneath the surface. The hoot of an owl, then a flash of a scene, would signal the beginning of the agony. He would first see a burst of light, followed by a sharp pain that soon became a pounding ongoing nightmare. The complete picture always eluded him in a blur of fog and the sound of horses galloping away, as the pain went on and on.

Now, Deek could hear the muffled sound of dragging footsteps. Someone was moving about. The old one must be up, he thought. Then came an odd rustling noise like dry leaves or straw. His curiosity aroused, Deek decided to find out what was going on.

Silently, catlike, Deek uncurled from his mat. He slipped outside, his footsteps barely stirring the wet grass. He decided to look through the crack in the wooden wall into the old man’s room. He would find out what the crafty, old bear was up to.

Putting his face close to the slit, Deek peered inside. His eyes soon became adjusted to the dim light, and he began to make out a form. The old man had his side to Deek, and was sitting on his pallet. Deek could tell that his father was holding something, but he could not see past Vassil’s long matted hair and his bunched-up fur coverings. Holding his breath, Deek watched. The only thing he could see clearly was his father’s old gray head and bony shoulders. What was he doing?

The old man was rocking back and forth. As Deek listened, he heard a faint sound like a sob. Son of a whore, Deek thought, the old man was crying. He looked closer. The old one had something cupped in his hands, something small. Back and forth his body rocked as he kept murmuring and sobbing. The soft wails were making little bumps rise on Deek’s arms. He shivered. These were wrenching sounds of anguish as from a tormented soul.

Deek wondered what it was the old man held. It must be something special that he had to keep so well hidden. Whatever Vassil had, he must have brought it with him when they had fled long ago from their old village. Perhaps it was some treasure that he had found before they had begun their years of wandering. Deek watched for a few minutes more, then turned and spat on the ground. He went back inside to his mat.

Lying there, he thought of the years since his childhood; especially to one night still hazy in his memory, when he and his father had hurriedly left their hut and village. Something ugly and horrible must have happened there, something so terrible that it could not be faced.

Since then, he and Vassil had wandered for years traveling from settlement to settlement until they had come to this remote village by the lake.

By the gods, Deek vowed, clenching his fists in anger. He would find out what his father was hiding. He would search until he found it. Then, perhaps the mystery of that awful night, dim and hazy in his memory, would become clear to him. A flicker of hate flared, then dimmed to a smolder, in his dark eyes.

CHAPTER 2

Not far from Deek’s hut, on the shores of a deep, clear lake, a group of crudely built wooden huts sat nestled together. The village was silent in the early dawn. Smoke gently rose from a few hearth fires, curling its way into the still dark sky. Gradually, mauve, then a pale rose tinted the clouds; their edges already etched with silver and gold as the sun slowly crept over the ridges.

In one hut, a young man stirred. Votu stretched and yawned, gently rubbing sleep from his eyes. Then, eagerly he began to plan the new day. Close by him, alert brown eyes watched. A large, shaggy, dark gray and black dog, with ears perked at attention, awaited his next move.

Votu sat up and quickly drew on his boots. He laced the narrow leather thongs. The tawny eyes of his dog, Fenna, glowed as she waited for his command.

Taller than most of the men in the clan, Votu’s head almost touched the hut’s roof. He had lived seventeen summers, and was well formed with broad shoulders and strong muscular arms. His strength was needed every day when he worked with stone and wood, or hunted animals. He stretched his arms and flexed his hands. Why did his joints ache so much in the morning? he wondered. As cold weather approached he was more aware of the pain in his knees and spine. A dull pain was always there in his upper back. It was an old injury, one of many. He shook his head of tousled brown hair and stretched again.

Come, Fenna, he called.

The dog sprang to life. Her paws padded quickly to the door of the hut, anxious to be first outside. Fenna stopped and waited a moment to see which way Votu would go.

Votu’s footsteps were silent as he walked along the path to the stream. A frantic stirring in the brush told him he was not the only creature awake. Votu chuckled as he spied the dark fur of a large squirrel leap from branch to branch. Fenna bounded ahead, and after drinking was soon leaping playfully in the tumbling crystal water.

Votu splashed his arms and face with the frigid water. He shivered. Yee! By the gods, that’s cold. It would bring a corpse to life, he muttered. He shook his head to scatter the drops. Breathing deeply of the clean, crisp air he stood for a moment watching Fenna’s playful antics.

After a quick glance at the eastern sky, he headed back towards his hut. Come, Fenna, he called. I go to fish.

The dog turned and trotted after him.

On the shore of the lake, his log boat was waiting. It was upside down on the rocky edge. Votu couldn’t see much of the lake, because of the thick early morning fog swirling over the choppy water.

Standing motionless on the shore, he absorbed the silence of the early dawn. The air was clean and smelled of earth, pine, and late blooming wildflowers. Soft chirping sounds heralded the new day. Through the swirling mist, he could dimly see a large, long-necked bird skimming over the lake. A brisk breeze ruffled the water making it lap eagerly against the shore.

Turning his face to the east, Votu stood and silently paid homage to the god of the sun. He believed the powerful god made the sun return again each day. He was grateful to this god that gave light and brought warmth and life to his village. His clan all worshiped the god of the sun as well as the god of the mountains. They also paid homage to the great earth goddess that gave life to all the things on earth. Their lives depended on the things these gods sent them: the sun with its light and warmth, the life-giving rain, and the moon that helped them mark the days. Votu stood quietly, letting his thoughts wander.

As he waited, silent, he became conscious of the rhythm of his beating heart. He listened in the silence, gradually growing aware of a feeling of unease within him. Something unclear, just on the edge of his mind was trying to be put into words. It was a faint flickering of a half-formed thought. Often of late, he felt an empty feeling-a need. What could it mean? He thought of his work. Was it that? No. He made good use of bone, wood and stone. He knew his craft well. Could it be his scouting? He grunted. Perhaps that was it. Since his fall two winters ago, he was slower climbing the sheer cliffs and descended rather clumsily. Still, he always kept up with the others. When they went to trade they had to journey many days. He knew these mountains well, and his village depended on him.

Of course, there was the stiffness in his joints, but most of the clan past sixteen summers had the same. Votu could track game and bring back his share of meat on every hunt. There is something, but I don’t know what, he thought. I will think more about it. Somehow, soon, I will know.

Two moons ago, Votu’s father, Boan, had asked him to become a member of the clan’s elders. These were the men who made the clan’s laws and taboos for the village. It was hola, or good, to be one of the leaders. But Votu had not nodded his head to accept. He had always been a man of action, more drawn to hunting, fishing, and the craft of making spears, knives, and axes. He had discovered a place, not very far from his village, where there was the red-brown earth that could be melted. He had coated some fine axe blades with it. They were much sharper than the old stone blades, and could be hammered again and again to a firm, sharp edge.

Votu sighed. How could he say no to his father? Why did he wait? perhaps, he thought, I will find an omen. Something will happen that will show me if I should do what the clan and my father expect. A stronger breeze began to blow across the water and Votu’s spirit lifted with it. He thought, I will ask the god of the earth to send me a sign. When it is time, I will know. The moment passed. He stretched his arms and shook his head to clear his thoughts.

Last night, after their evening meal, Votu had jokingly promised his father some fish for breakfast today. He grinned as he thought of his father’s surprise. Votu had been having good luck lately with his fishing, especially very early in the morning. Many of those he had caught had already been smoked, or dried and stored for the months of cold and snow soon to come.

He turned to look at the dog eagerly wagging her tail. No, Fenna. Stay. Fenna whined, but sat down to wait.

Votu turned the boat over and laid the wooden paddles inside. He pushed it away from the shore and stepped in. His strong arms were soon poling him into the deeper water.

Votu watched the dog until she vanished in the swirling fog.

The smaller fish that he sought were usually found close to the shore. He dipped his round net in and up again and again, as his boat glided over the water. It was only after many passes that Votu began to net some of the small silvery fish. Finally, just as the fog was beginning to lift, he brought in what he thought was enough. With a satisfied feeling, he turned back toward the shore. He soon had the boat skimming smoothly over the water through the still patchy fog.

Suddenly, the rocky, tree-lined shore loomed ahead. He lifted his pole, and his boat slowed as it glided silently over the water. What was that? Could it have been a splash? It had come from close by, just ahead. He listened. Again he heard a sound as if stones were being thrown into the water. He guided his boat closer to the shore and saw a pebbled beach.

There, in the morning mist, he saw Sabeen playing with her dog. She was a young girl Votu had often seen at the village meetings. She was fifteen summers old, and each time he saw her something swelled and grew hot inside him. He had seen her many times as she walked in the village, and many times from a distance as she worked picking berries. She was strong of limb, smooth of skin, and walked with a graceful sway. She had filled his dreams at night for several moons.

He caught his breath as he saw her race along the shore. Her arm lifted in a graceful arc as she