The Shaman

by Terry Allen

Image by Patrick Mueller on Unsplash

He was getting too old for this.

Blood soaked into hard-packed snow beneath three dead bodies. Otzi sat with his back against a thick fur tree. He breathed in ragged gasps, his hand trembling on the hilt of his sword. They appeared out of nowhere, camouflaged in furs that blended seamlessly with the endless fields of white blanketing the mountain pass. He was thankful the runes tattooed into his back warned him of the danger.

With a deep breath, Otzi steadied himself and rose to his feet. He picked up the leather medicine bag he had thrown to the side. No doubt that was what they were after, thinking he carried something valuable. Safer routes through the mountains existed but the pass between Norska and Tyrol was the quickest and his errand could not wait. Two nights prior a messenger arrived, sent by Chief Helmut, with news of a child who had taken ill. Tyrol’s shaman, Old Konrad, passed on last year without leaving a successor and Otzi was the only shaman for several leagues.

Otzi heard snow crunch behind him. He felt the runes on his back burn and with one swift motion, he turned, dropped to one knee, and thrust his sword into a brigand’s midsection. The man looked down at him, astonished. His eyes rolled back into his skull and he fell to the ground with a thud. Otzi plunged the sword into the snow and rested his head against the pommel.

He was getting too old for this.

Leaving the bodies for scavengers, he resumed his trek toward Tyrol. Chief Helmut met Otzi at the village gate and led him to the girl. Within a small circular hut, she lay on a bed of elk skin furs near a blazing hearth. She was pale and her breathing labored. Otzi touched her forehead and snatched it back with a curse.

The girl’s parents huddled together on the opposite side of the hut, staring at him with both fear and expectation. Strangers were rare so deep in the mountains and a foreign shaman even more so.

“Her time is near,” he said. “Leave her with me.”

The pair looked toward their chieftain and he nodded solemnly. When they departed, he turned to Otzi.

“Can you save her?” Helmut asked.

“I will try. You may stay if you wish, but quietly. If my concentration is broken..” Otzi’s voice trailed off.

“I see,” said the chieftain and settled down in a dark corner.

Otzi removed the herbs from his medicine bag and set to work. He placed a handful of herbs into a stone bowl along with an ember from the fire and passed the now-burning incense over the child. Tendrils of smoke reached down toward the girl’s restless form. He let his mind travel along them and enveloped her with his senses. Her elements were unbalanced. Too much fire and air. Too little earth and water. The light of her soul diminished with each passing moment. There was no time to brew the herbs necessary to bring her fever down. He would have to do this the hard way.

Taking the long hunting knife from his belt, he ran the blade across his palm. He let his blood drip down onto the girl’s forehead and began to chant. He rocked back and forth, calling on the names of the sky father and the earth mother and their children upon the earth. Otzi was a shaman, a bridge between the worlds of the gods and men. Chieftains and priests they might ignore, but to Otzi they would listen. For he had traveled among them and knew their secrets and their weaknesses.

Soon the girl’s breathing evened out and color came back to her cheeks. Otzi felt her forehead again and nodded with satisfaction. He stood and turned the chieftain.

“It’s done,” Otzi said, surprised at the weakness of his own voice. His vision blurred and his legs buckled beneath him. Darkness overtook him. He did not feel the impact of the hard-packed earth as he fell to the floor.

Otzi awoke some hours later in Helmut’s lodge. His hand had been bandaged and another encircled his head. The chieftain sat at his bedside, smoking a long wooden pipe.

“The girl?” Otzi asked.

“That was quite a feat,” Helmut said. “Little Rena was sitting up and drinking bone broth last I saw her.”

“Good,” he replied.

“You know,” said Helmut. “You’re getting too old for this.”

“I’ve been telling myself that all day,” Otzi laughed.

“It’s time you chose a successor. It would be a shame for Norska to end up like Tyrol.”

“Maybe so,” said Otzi, closing his eyes. Helmut spoke the truth. Otzi was nearing fifty winters. Who knew how much time he had left? Those brigands could have ended him today and all of his knowledge wiped from the face of the earth. Yes, he thought, it is time.

The next morning, as he prepared for the journey home, he was met by Rena and her parents. The little girl ran up to him and hugged him tight, burying her face in his chest.

“Thank you for saving me,” she said.

Otzi smiled down at her and ruffled her hair. A thought occurred to him. The girl had been close to death. She touched the distant shores of the underworld. He disentangled himself, bending down to one knee.

“Rena,” he said, “how would you like to learn how to save others?”

“Yes!” she exclaimed, wide-eyed.

Otzi looked to her mother and father. They clasped each other’s hands and nodded back at him.

“Then when I return, I will teach you how to walk with the gods.” Otzi watched as Rena ran excitedly back to her parents. Yes, he was too old to be off adventuring but teaching the next generation would be an adventure all in itself. He was not too old for that.

(C) 2024 Terry Allen