The Gift

Modan Slayer of Bears leaned back and looked at the stars. He loved this season: a full belly, warm weather, an agreeable mate and happy friends around the campfire. The day’s hunt had gone well, they had surprised two deer, and there was no sign of the big cat who had left tracks by the stream last week. Life was good.

He leaned back against the log and put aside the spear point he had been working. He looked up at the stars again, and wondered, not for the first time, if they were really the spirits of his ancestors as his elders claim. “I should go find Kaima and go to sleep,” thought Modan, “Well, maybe not right to sleep,” he smiled. Then he noticed that one of the stars was moving. Not like the vanishing flying spirits they saw occasionally, but fast and steady.

It was getting brighter, red orange fire trailed after it. It was falling. Modan had heard legends of stars falling from the sky, raining destruction across the land. He sat up. Others in the camp had noticed, they were talking and pointing. There was a noise, like distant thunder and the hiss of a waterfall. The camp dogs barked and howled. Then the star did something completely unexpected: it stopped and hung in midair. It made a strange whistling noise as it dropped straight down into the valley, coming to rest near the edge of the river below the camp.

Elder Fretan Killer of Warriors came to him. “Modan, you are our best tracker and scout, will you go and see the fallen star and tell us what you think must be done.” Modan bowed his head, and grabbing his spear and knife headed off into the night.

The star had settled to a steady blueish glow, which made it easy to find his way in the dark. Modan slipped into the scrub and brush that grew along the edge of the river. His feet found the spots that allowed him to approach the star silently, stepping around and through the brush without so much as the crunch of a twig. He could not explain how he did it; he had always been able to do so. A gift of the gods his sire had claimed. Modan was never sure of that.

Modan closed to within a spear’s throw of the star and laying prone moved his lithe body to the edge of the cover where the river bent to his left. The star sat in the clearing. It was round, and smooth as a river stone. Smoother. Its surface gleamed in the starlight. Small bright spots cast pools of blueish light underneath it, where three legs supported it. Along the edge, a green light moved around and around as if it was a dog chasing its own tail.

Suddenly, part of the star broke open. A piece descended from the bottom and touched the ground. As Modan watched, something walked out. It was shaped like a man, but its head was bulbous. Its skin was shiny white. Small points of light, like a crown of stars shone from its forehead, illuminating whichever way it turned. As Modan watched, the creature lifted an object, and swept it across the area. It stopped when it pointed at Modan. The creature lowered the object and beckoned to Modan.

Modan was shocked. How had the creature seen him? Before he could slip away, the creature suddenly lit up with a light from its hand. The night turned into day around Modan. The creature could see him. Modan thought to run and tell the tribe, but that was not his way. He had earned his name by not running from the great yellow bear, and he would not run from such a small creature. Modan stood and holding his spear in a defensive position advanced on the creature.

The creature made the light vanish and again beckoned to Modan to come closer. As Modan approached, the creature spread out its arms like a man come to parley. Modan considered that perhaps this was a man in strange clothing, like the shamans of the plains who wore the skulls of the great beasts that roamed there. Modan stopped just beyond a spear’s length and held up his hand in a gesture meaning “wary greeting.”

The creature returned the hand-talk sign for “Greeting, I wish only to speak.”

Modan nodded, and said, “Greetings stranger from inside the star.”

The creature touched its arm, some lights danced there, then in a strange sounding voice it said, “Greetings brave hunter. I am called Metheus. I have traveled far to bring you a great gift. If you are worthy.”

“I am Modan Slayer of Bears. I am honored, but I have all that I need.”

“Do you not want for food in the winter? Warmth from the snows? Dominance over the other tribes?”

Modan looked unsure. What could this stranger be offering, and what did it want in return? Metheus held something in his hand. It looked like it was made of river stone, but it was round and red like the sweet fruit that grew on the trees below the mountains. “Take this, Modan Slayer of Bears. It is both a test and a gift.”

Modan looked at the object. Curiosity overcame his reason and he stepped forward and looked at the stranger. Below the crown of lights Modan could see a pale face behind the clear surface of the outer skull, like his own face reflected by moonlit water. Keen eyes seemed to be staring at Modan. There was a hunger in the expression. Modan reached out cautiously and carefully took the object. It was warm and smooth. It began to pulse, little lights danced within in it. Modan thought they were very beautiful. Then suddenly the world vanished.

Modan seemed to be traveling through the air. Strange images and ideas flooded his mind. New ideas of things like making plants grow, new kinds of weapons to kill not only food but those who would oppose him; strange things made from melting the shiny stones Modan had seen while hunting in the hills of the north. Camps that didn’t need to move and grew across the land like the floodwaters of spring, consuming the land as they went.

Then Modan saw things he couldn’t understand: beasts made by men to roll across the land, massive canoes that carried many tribes across the great waters, and birds that carried men inside their bodies. And fighting. So much fighting. Other tribes falling before the beasts of man. And there was Modan as an elder, his hair white, wearing strange clothes, being honored by his vanquished enemies. They were enslaved to Modan’s people, miserable in their defeat, laboring in the fiery places. It was a future, a possible future, this stranger offered Modan. One far removed from his camp and the life he knew.

Modan dropped the object and sank to his knees. Metheus scooped it up and looked down on the gasping Modan. “What say you Modan? Do you want that future you saw?”

Modan looked up at the pale glowing face and thought about what he saw. There had been comfort in the camps, but also fear, and pain, and blood of his tribe and of other tribes. Tribes who had never harmed Modan or his people. He thought about his happy camp up the hill, and Kaima waiting for him there. “No!” he said.

Metheus said, “Very well, I will find another who is truly worthy, but I give you one last chance to accept it.”

Modan thought about another with this knowledge, and saw his tribe slaughtered by the rolling things, enslaved to making things in fiery caves. Anger welled up inside him, and he grabbed his blade from the sheath at his waist. Sharper than any blade his tribe had known, the stone blade was mounted in a sturdy handle made of elk horn carved to fit his hand perfectly. This blade had never let him down before. Indeed it was the same blade he used when he won his name. Modan thrust it at Metheus with all this strength.

The blade parted the metallic fabric of Metheus’ clothing, and Modan felt the blade pierce the man’s leg before glancing off the bone there. He screamed in agony, and staggered backwards, falling on his back. He grabbed at the knife, but Modan was faster, and pulling it free lifted it for another strike. The man was reaching for something at his side, saying something in a language Modan didn’t understand.

Modan plunged the knife toward where the man’s heart should be. This time, the blade did not penetrate. It hit something hard, like stone. There was a bright flash of lightning that burned Modan’s face. The man’s cries were suddenly muffled; the crown of lights vanished. Modan cried out. More in surprise than pain and rolled clear of the man.

Modan’s brave knife was broken, so he rolled back for his spear. Grabbing it, Modan sprang to his feet, brandishing the point toward his victim, but the man was scrambling up into the star; the open piece rising up as he went. Modan considered going after him but decided that would be a bad idea. Suddenly, the strange whistling noise began again, and remembering the fire of the star’s descent he realized this was very bad place to be standing.

He turned, and ran for the river, plunging into the cold water just as the star lifted off the ground, scorching the grasses and lighting the bushes on fire. Modan plunged as far under the water as he could, and stayed until his lungs hurt for air.

Coming up, he saw the star flying upward on a pillar of blue and orange fire. He climbed out of the river just as dawn was breaking in the sky and headed back toward his camp.

As he came, everyone was anxious for news, but there was Kaima, who beat them back with her tongue, which was no less sharp than Modan’s lost knife. She took him into their tent, gave him the bitter healing tea and dressed his burns with a pleasant-smelling salve. Then she put him to bed, bidding him to rest.

Modan awoke in midafternoon and was led to the fire circle where the elders waited to hear his tale. He considered telling them everything but decided to leave out parts of the vision from the red stone. No one should know those things, and Modan swore he would never tell anyone. It would be his burden and his gift to his people.

When he was done Fretan Killer of Warriors stood and declared in his most solemn voice, “From this day forward you, Modan, shall be called Modan Starkiller.” Then the elder bowed as much as his aged body would allow. Kly Stone Maker came forward and presented Modan with a new knife blade mounted in his old handle. Tears formed in the corners of Kaima’s eyes, she was so proud. The elder straightened and commanded the feast to begin.

The party went on late into the evening. The elders had gone to their beds. Modan sat with his friends around him, chatting quietly and happily. His full belly was matched by his full heart. This was good. So much better than the future of the stone. Kaima fell asleep with her head on his lap. He should wake her and go off to their tent, but instead he settled himself against the log and, smiling, looked up at the stars fixed in their places.