Bonesetter Read online

  BONESETTER

  By

  Laurence Dahners

  Copyright 1999 Laurence E Dahners

  Kindle Edition

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  Prologue

  “Bonesetter.”

  A humble childhood had the boy who would one day be known as such.

  He was born one cold and bitter winter night to a woman called Donte, who gathered and cooked for the Aldans tribe. His father Garen was a flintworker. Garen named his son Pell, a term in their language for a flake of flint.

  During Pell’s seventh winter, before Garen had taught his son more than the rudiments of flintworking, Garen developed pains in stomach, then fevers, then agony. He died a few days later. When Garen knew that his death approached, he called to Pell. Mildly delirious from the fever, Garen gritted his teeth against the pain. He said, “I have seen the death spirit Pell—and know it comes for me.” Garen gasped a moment, but then continued, “I hope that you will become a great hunter. But… I have watched you playing with the other boys and ... I fear that you will not have the hunting skill. I didn’t and sons often take after their farthers. Thank the spirits, you don’t have the ‘clubbed foot’ like I did though. If you are like me, your ‘skill’ will be in the making of tools and in being able to see better ways to do things. The others of the tribe may not recognize such abilities as worthy skills. But Pell, whether the others recognize your value or not, where they are strong and quick, you must make and use tools…” He slipped away for a moment, then whispered, “I’m sorry—sorry I didn’t teach you how to work flint.” The boy sobbed as Garen’s consciousness lapsed.

  Pell’s father did not wake coherent again, only a few times—babbling.

  His father had been dead for many years before Pell understood what his final words had meant. His father was wrong in the long run, about peoples’ recognition of Pell’s abilities. Pell himself did not recognize the truth of the words, “your ‘skill’ will be in the making of tools and in the vision of better ways,” until after many others had already recognized the enormous power that Pell’s “great skill” truly held.

  Chapter One

  The first dislocated joint that Pell reduced, he reduced on himself.

  It was a bitterly cold day, nearing the end of winter. Sharp winds and densely overcast skies made it even more unpleasant. He and his friend Boro, both scrawny, undernourished boys of thirteen summers, were returning from yet another unsuccessful hunt. Hunger pangs gnawed their guts and weariness steeped their bones as they plodded homeward. As usual by this late in the cold months, the sparse winter game near the cave had been hunted out. Most big game had migrated anyway, and many of the animals that did stay nearby were hibernating.

  The stores of grain and roots put up in the cave during the previous summer were mostly eaten or spoilt. Meat killed at the beginning of winter and placed under rock cairns to freeze had almost all been eaten or else had been dug up by industrious scavengers. What was left was being rationed severely by Roley. The Aldans had used up the layers of fat they had built up by gorging themselves during the plentiful kills of summer. They desperately needed to move away from the cave area to a hunting ground that had not been exhausted, at least until the plentiful game of the warmer months returned. Unfortunately, the weather was still too cold for the tribe to try to live without a cave for shelter. They lived in grass huts in the summers but even trying to build the huts could be life threatening in this weather. There was talk of trying to do it anyway, but their summer hunting grounds were two days walk away. Traveling to those grounds, carrying their possessions, in this frigid weather, in their current poorly nourished state, would be fatal to some of the weaker members of the Aldans. Then they would have to build their huts—which wouldn’t be warm enough…

  On the fateful day of his injury, Pell and Boro had gone out for an entire day’s hunt up on the sere plateau above the cave to the north—the tribe’s better hunters had taken the more desirable southerly directions into the forests and meadows downstream, nearer to the great river. Down south the trees broke the cold winds. Pell and Boro had walked half a day northward on the blustery plateau and then looped back. Pell had seen but a single gaunt snow hare on this hunt. His and Boro's stones had both missed; in fact neither even came close. But that was to be expected; the two friends were clumsy adolescents who were wide of the mark more often than naught.

  As daylight faded, they walked carefully back down the steep path above the cave, but Pell’s right foot slipped on a small patch of ice that persisted in a shaded part of the worn path. Later his toppling would replay in his mind over and over and over—as if in slow motion. His right hand flailing back to break his fall, his cold, numb fingers catching on one of the boulders at the edge of the path. His right buttock and elbow striking the rocky path simultaneously, sending shock waves through him. His head cracking down onto stone with a “whock” that resonated through his skull. A few seconds passed in the sure knowledge that something would soon be agonizing.

  Then the pain arrived. His elbow wracked in torment. His head and buttock simply ached. The full magnitude of the disaster hadn't struck home until the moment that he reached up to rub his head… his fingers weren't working correctly! He shook the furs back from his arm to look at his hand. With dismay, he saw his pointer finger was deformed! It was disjointed at the second knuckle from the tip so that the distal part bent back and away from his palm. Because of the angle, the pad at the tip wouldn't touch items he reached for with it, just then his head. As he stared at the deformed finger, the pain from it finally arrived at his brain, despite the numbing effect of the cold. However, the pain held a distant second place to the gibbering terror shouting through his system at the thought of being a “cripple” or ginja.

  Memories ripped through Pell.

  -Durr with his broken arm—broken in a fall during one of the hunts that were Durr's great skill.

  -The hushed clan staring at Durr as he returned with the other hunters, clutching his swollen, deformed arm—grossly twisted and angled midway between the wrist and elbow—the grimace of pain and terror on his face.

  -The wracked agony of Durr’s cries as Pont, the Aldans’ healer, tried over and over to straighten his grotesque arm.

  -The elation on Durr's face when the clan voted to let him stay the summer because, that summer at least, the hunting was good.

  -The growing despair as the weeks passed and the arm remained crooked and useless. Each day Pont had tried anew to straighten the arm but, despite the agony it brought Durr, the limb remained deformed and useless.

  -The arrival of Fall with Durr still unable to cast a spear or throw a stone.

  His pitiful attempts to do so with his left hand.

  -The horrific day that Roley declared Durr "ginja" or "useless,” and sent him away.

  -The stoop of his shoulders as he slowly trudged away to certain death.

  Durr had only had the one great skill—hunting. He hadn’t had any “small skills” that he could perform with one arm. He had no “great knowledge” to teach the others because there were many other hunters. And, so Roley said, he must be exiled and go forth to remove his burden from the clan.

  Pell had been the one who discovered Durr’s ragged remains at the bottom of the Cliff two days after Durr had been exiled. Pell had heard hyenas coughing and grunting at the base of the Cliff. There were only a few and Pell had been able to frighten them away with a few stones, hoping to garner some of the hyenas’ meal for himself and the clan. As Pell had come closer he had recognized Durr's spear and some of his furs. His corpse reeked of rot. Pell wept for hours on that day. The tears kept coming back as he pictured the once proud Durr jumping from the Cli
ff, rather than starving or falling prey to one of the great cats.

  A great tremor ran across Pell's shoulders as he stared at his finger. With a cry he grasped the finger in his left hand and pulled as hard he could in an effort to straighten it. Agony shot through his hand and arm and a grating, grinding sensation emanated from the finger itself.

  He stared at the finger. It remained as deformed as before. He thought to himself "it's just a finger," recalling others in the clan who had prospered despite a bad finger.

  But, Pell knew with a certainty that he hadn't been among the good spear casters or stone throwers even when his hand had been normal! What were his chances with a bad finger? Though he thought of hunting as his “great skill” he knew in his heart that he wasn’t really much of a hunter. Though he’d hoped and prayed for one of the older men to take him under their wing, no one had even tried to teach him a “lesser” skill since his father had died.

  Now the finger was turning a dusky blue color! He felt a roiling in his stomach—Kana's finger had turned blue, then black, after being crushed under a boulder she and Tando had been trying to move—soon after that, the rest of her hand had begun to swell and turn red. This was followed by swelling of the whole arm—high fevers followed, with Kana going out of her head. Her hand had burst open, draining fluids with horrible odors shortly before she died. Tando's finger had been caught under the same rock but at a sharp corner and was cut completely off. It had taken a while but the wound had healed and Tando remained a respected hunter. It had only been the small finger on his lesser left hand after all.

  Connecting these two facts in his mind, Pell quickly decided if the finger was turning blue, he would be better off without it. He heard a gagging sound and looked up to see Boro staring at Pell’s finger with enormous round eyes. Boro’s hand was over his mouth. Boro turned and retched. Pell felt his own gorge rising—he choked it back—he was too hungry to spare anything that might be in his stomach! He scrabbled out his flint knife and laid it against the finger, directly over the most deformed part. Then, in his mind he saw a scene from the previous summer. He had been assigned to gather trophies from the body of a man the Aldans had killed while fighting with the Kinto tribe over a particularly rich hunting area. Pell had been surprised at just how difficult it had been to saw through the man’s fingers. Nonetheless Pell steeled his nerve to saw off his own finger. He repositioned the blade several times but finally dropped the knife to his side in disgust at his inability to even begin cutting into his own finger.

  Maybe if he walked back to the cave Pont would be able to put his finger back in place—he was, after all, their "healer", though it usually it seemed that there was little enough that Pont could do. Or would do. Maybe Pont could cut the finger off for Pell? Pell struggled slowly to his feet and limped on down the path to the cave.

  Boro had run ahead so that when Pell arrived, Pell’s mother Donte was already outside the cave. Hair in disarray, she wrung her hands, tears streaming down her face. “Oh, Pell…” she began.

  Determined to be brave, Pell marched past her into the cave to find the healer. With disgust he saw the bandy legged Pont sitting in his "healer’s corner" with a glazed expression on his face. He'd been chewing his own herbs again! Roley had once demanded that the healer stop taking his own medicines but Pont insisted, claiming that a good healer must take his medicines himself in order to understand and guide their powers. It seemed, however, that Pell mostly chewed the hemp leaves that made you glow inside. Some of the adults joked that Pont “had the powers of the hemp completely mastered.” Though they only said such things well outside of Pont’s hearing. Even the massive Roley quailed before the healer’s potential anger, allowing him to do as he pleased. One never knew when one might need the healer’s powers for your own benefit.

  Pont peered owlishly at Pell's finger. The healer rocked back and forth and it seemed that he could hardly focus his close-set eyes. He pulled on Pell’s finger perfunctorily. The tug stung like the bite of an angry child but did nothing to restore the form of the finger. Pont squinted at it a moment longer then dropped to his knees and began to rummage through his baskets.

  "What are you looking for?" Pell heard himself asking in a querulous voice.

  "Dried hemp and other herbs to help ease the pain, boy!" was the slurred answer as Pont held out a handful.

  Pell didn’t see any “other herbs” besides hemp in the handful he was given. He stuffed it in his mouth and began to chew. "The finger’s so cold I can hardly feel it anyway. What now?" Pell mumbled around a mouthful.

  “Give it time to work! Come back when your head sways.” Pell saw with dismay Pont putting more hemp in his own mouth!

  Pell wandered about the camp chewing his own mouthful until his head began to swim and then returned to Pont.

  “You’re gonna have to wait a bit!” Pell said crossly, “even the Healer has to piss once in a while.” He heaved himself to his feet and made his way unsteadily out of the cave.

  Pell stood uncertainly, swaying a little until Pont returned. “Let me see it,” Pont said reaching out.

  Pell tendered his finger and Pont grasped it, pulling mightily. Despite the cold and the effects of the hemp it hurt savagely and Pell crouched, howling in agony. When Pont released the finger Pell turned to look at it hopefully. His finger looked the same! He looked accusingly at Pont but the healer had already turned and begun rummaging through his herbs. “What now?” Pell asked with some trepidation.

  "A poultice to stop the swelling.”

  "No! That's what you did for Kana! She died! Cut my finger off, like Tando's!"

  "I can't cut your finger off, you ginja fool!" Pont ducked his head a little in embarrassment at his slip of tongue.

  Pell stared at him aghast—ginja (useless) was a common swear word or insult, but not one that you would use on someone who might actually become ginja! Pell felt the hemp making his world slow down. Rather than making everything feel better as it had on the other occasions that Pell had given him hemp, a black rage built from deep inside him and rapidly swelled—he felt his face flash hot. "I'll take it off myself then" he shouted, his voice breaking into a squeak at the end. He gripped his finger with his left hand and bent it even farther backward, as if to break a green stick by wrenching it back and forth—as he bent it back he pulled mightily in order to rip the offending digit from his hand. His hands flew apart with a violent jerk—for a second he thought he had succeeded in pulling off the finger. He peered at his left palm but to his disappointment there was no dismembered fingertip resting in his left hand.

  Then he stared in shock at his injured right pointer finger. It remained swollen, but it had been restored to a normal shape! He tried to move it and it wiggled! As he watched, its dusky color flushed pink—then brighter red than his other fingers. He worked it some more in growing amazement.

  A foul odor bit his nose and then he noticed the healer standing in front of him with one of his poultices of half rotted leaves. Pont stared at the relocated finger, eyes wide with surprise but his expression quickly turned to calculation. "See, boy, I told you those herbs would work!"

  Wide eyed Pell stepped back. Then he shouted, "Your cursed hemp didn't fix my finger! I fixed my finger!" Pell could hardly believe he was screaming at any adult, much less the tribe’s healer, but he was drunk with the effects of the hemp.

  Pont cuffed Pell brutally to the ground.

  His shout brought other members of the tribe crowding around. They had all looked aside uncomfortably when Pell entered the cave earlier with his injured finger evident. Now they stared in excitement and amazement at his finger. Pont boomed, “My mixture of the special herbs put his finger back! Does he offer his gratitude? No!"

  Pell opened his mouth to protest again but Tando, the respected hunter who’d lost his own small finger grasped Pell by the shoulder, “Don't argue with your healer, boy. Just be glad your finger is better. It may still turn out badly, look how swollen it is."
>
  Pell stumbled back, holding his finger in his other hand and slurring. “It wasn’t the hemp! I fixed it! I don’t want your ginja poultice either!” The finger was warming up and the feeling was coming back with a vengeance despite the hemp he’d ingested. The finger was throbbing and tingling but Pell somehow felt that that was good. He stumbled over to the pile of leaves and furs where he and his mother slept. There he collapsed and slept.

  When Pell awoke the next morning, only the urgency of his bladder dimmed the pain in his finger. It throbbed with each beat of his heart as if he were striking it with a knapping stone. After he had stumbled out of the cave to relieve himself, he quickly began to wish for more hemp. However he was sure that he would be unable to face the healer with a request for the mind addling leaves. He sat a while cradling his injured digit. Eventually he resolved to beg the healer’s forgiveness when he awakened.

  Pont awakened in a surly mood however. He beat Lessa for some offense even before going out to relieve himself. When he returned he immediately began rummaging in his baskets and chewing on a mixture of his herbs.

  Pell considered this a good omen, as Pont chewing on herbs usually became Pont in a good mood. After some time passed, Pell sidled over and, in a timid voice, asked if he could have some more of the hemp.

  “Ha, what is this? Is this the young ginja who proclaimed my medicines useless last night? Get out of here! You’ll get no more of the blessed hemp!”

  Pont had spoken in the booming voice he cultivated for important ceremonies, so everyone in the cave heard. There was scattered laughter, which brought a flush to Pell’s face, but as he looked around he saw horror on the faces of many in the tribe. Pell realized with dismay that the healer may have sealed his fate as an outcast. He had been worried before because he was a poor throw, and therefore a third-rate hunter. His father had predicted his inferior hunting skills. Pell’s mother had consoled him with stories about how Roley himself had been clumsy until after his adolescent growth spurt. However, a gnawing fear that he would never prove to be an adequate hunter was always yammering in the back of Pell’s skull. Pell’s long dead father couldn’t teach him the secrets of flint knapping, a skill Garen had been so good at that the tribe had kept him despite his small, twisted foot which, in addition to his natural lack of hunting skill, had left him useful only as a beater during large hunts. Pell had tried working some flint in hopes that his father’s gift had somehow passed to him naturally and would blossom without training. Unfortunately, the points Pell had made so far had been no better than the untrained efforts of any of the other tribe members and worse than many. To get good points the Aldans were forced to trade with other tribes at the summer gatherings.