The Shaman (3 page)

“But
not so bloodthirsty,” the old woman reminded him.

“Not
bloodthirsty, no,” Manalo admitted, “though they enjoyed a good fight now and
then. Indeed, the few who are still alive are the ones who enjoyed fighting
most, or least.”

“Is
that not true of their men, too?” an older man asked.

Manalo
nodded. “Lomallin can fight well, but takes no joy in it. Ulahane delights in
battle and hates to lose—and revels in his victims’ pain.”

The
people shuddered, some glancing over their shoulders as if to make sure the
sinister god was not there. “Did not the Ulin women need protection from such
as he?” another grandmother asked.

Manalo
shrugged. “Some yes, some no. Certainly any Ulin woman could defend herself
long enough to summon help, and if none else, there were enough other women to
side with her to overpower even such a one as Ulahane.”

The
crowd murmured with foreboding and wonder at the might of the Ulin women.

“So
no Ulin woman ever coupled with any man she did not desire,” Manalo summarized,
“though that is not so much to say, for there were few the Ulin women did not
desire.”

The
crowd murmured again, the women with disapproval, the men with appreciation. “If
they coupled so often,” a younger woman challenged, “why are there so few Ulin
left?”

“Magic,”
said Manalo. “The Ulin women could control whether or not they conceived.”

The
women murmured with amazement and envy—this was something they had not heard
before. Mardone frowned. “I have never heard that said of the Ulin before.”

“There
is much that is not known of them,” Manalo agreed, “but that Lomallin knows,
and may reveal to those who truly seek to bond their hearts to his purposes.”

“And
you are such a one?”

“I
am, which is why I go where Lomallin directs.”

“But
if it was magic,” a young man demanded, “could not the men control whether or
not there would be children born of a union, too?”

“They
could, so there were few children born indeed—only when both parents wished it,
and few Ulin had much instinct for parenting. In those who did, it was easily
satisfied— especially since they quickly learned that children bound them to
their houses or, at least, to the children themselves. They found they could no
longer go gadding about whenever they wished, or engage in amorous play
whenever the urge came, or spend endless hours with their grown companions,
whiling away an afternoon with wine and talk. In a word, they had to think of
someone else before they thought of themselves, and few Ulin found that
agreeable.”

“They
were very selfish, then!” a mother said indignantly, for her children were
glancing at her and at their father uneasily.

“Very
selfish, so marriage was rare, though liaisons were frequent.”

“But
short-lived!” the grandmother snapped.

“A
few weeks for the most part, though many lasted only a night, and some lasted
years—so there were a few little Ulin born to replace those who died.”

“Was
there so much fighting and killing as that?” one boy asked, eyes huge.

“Oh,
there was enough of it, you may be sure,” Manalo said bitterly. “They killed
each other in rage or cold revenge; they killed each other to see who was the
stronger, or who the better fighter. They killed each other in games that grew
too rough—but it was not all killing of one another. There were some who died
hunting the giant beasts of those dawn days of the world—and some grew weary of
life, so bored and so overcome with a sense of purposelessness that they slew
themselves.”

“Why,
they were no better than we!” another grandmother cried indignantly. “At least,
if what you say is true—but I have never heard this before, Teacher!”

“Then
be taught by me, for so says Lomallin, and he was there from the first, to see
it.”

“Then
how dare they call themselves gods?” she demanded.

“They
did not—it was humankind who called them that.” Manalo pointed a finger in
accusation. “Be not deceived—the Ulin are not gods! Only the Creator is God!
The Ulin are an older kind, a bigger kind, a mightier kind, aye—the Ulin can
work wonders, and bring disasters. But they are only beings, like yourselves
but greater—immensely greater, but still creations, not the Creator! They are
not gods!”

Most
of the people stared, amazed—they had certainly never heard
this
before!
Some even frowned, looking at the teacher askance—but they did not voice their
doubts.

For
himself, Ohaern saw no distinction. What was the difference between greater men
and lesser gods, after all?

As
if he had read Ohaern’s thoughts, Manalo said simply, “Gods do not die. They
cannot be killed. Ulin can.”

“But
it is Ulin who kill them,” one woman objected, “not mere men.”

“More
than men, but less than gods?” Ohaern asked.

Manalo
nodded. “Even so. The Ulin were many at first, but as the centuries rolled,
there were fewer and fewer—and even those who delight in life, when they are
young, may find it growing to be tedious and wearying and a heavy burden after
a thousand years.”

“Could
people
want
to die?” a little girl gasped.

“After
a thousand years, with no children to cheer them?” Manalo smiled down at her
fondly. “Yes.”

The
little girl looked somewhat reassured.

“But
it was the war that killed the most of them, was it not?” asked Ohaern.

“More
than anything else, though one out of every three Ulin was dead before it
began. New creatures began to appear upon the earth—elves and dwarves and
dwergs and humans, who looked very much like the Ulin, though much lesser in
every way. The Ulin realized that the Creator had brought forth a smaller,
shorter-lived, but more prolific race, like the Ulin in appearance, though born
without magical powers. They could learn magic, but it did not come naturally
to them.”

Mardone
nodded slowly on one side of the room, and Chaluk on the other.

“But
why did the Creator bother making the elves, when the world housed beings so
much better?” a young man demanded. “And why, having made the elves, did he
make dwarves and dwergs and
us?”

“So
asked the Ulin,” Manalo answered, but waved a forefinger slowly. “Do not think
that
bigger
and
longer-lived
and
more powerful
means ‘better.’
The Ulin were far more proud than they should have been, to neglect their
Creator so, and very selfish indeed not to want children. In fact, you could
say truly that very few of the Ulin could love anything more than themselves.
Is this ‘better’?”

“No!”
a dozen women chorused, and most of the men nodded agreement—but the young man
who had asked the question looked unsure, and so did many of the other youths
and maidens.

Manalo
explained, “The Ulin were the elder race, and they had magic that could waive
barriers, and make even two separate species produce offspring—without any love
at all.”

The
people muttered with apprehension and disapproval, and one man asked, “That is
how Ulahane bred up his monsters, is it not? Goblins and trolls and lamias and
sphinxes—”

“And
many others too numerous to mention.” There was disgust in Manalo’s face and
tone. “Aye, the poor things, who never wished to be born—and their poor
parents, who were forced into couplings they did not desire! But Ulahane
delights in pain and grief, and persists in making more of them, even though
the monsters cannot produce offspring of their own. Never go into the woods alone,
young women—and young men, too! You never know when Ulahane’s minions will be
lurking about to seize new living toys for his cruel delights.”

There
was an outbreak of angry talk, and people shivered with apprehension. One young
man cried out, “Is that all we were made for? To amuse the gods?”

“The
Ulin,” Manalo corrected, “and though some thought that, most also thought the
new breeds were made to challenge them or replace them when they had all slain
one another. They thought the humans could not control their urge to have
children—”

“Can
we?” an older woman asked in an acid tone, and a few laughed, but quickly
silenced themselves.

“I
spoke not of the urge to couple,” Manalo said, “but of the urge to have
children. Indeed, the Ulin saw quickly that humankind could not control when
they would or would not conceive—”

“They
were right in that,” the woman said with a sardonic tone.

“They
are, but the human need for children goes beyond mating and conceiving.” Manalo’s
glance lingered on the small ones nearest him. “The Ulin had no idea that human
beings might be capable of loving something else more than themselves, you
see—the notion was foreign to them, alien.”

“Inconceivable,”
the woman said dryly, and everyone gave an astonished laugh, though it was sharp
and short-lived.

As
it died, Manalo nodded. “It was indeed, for even the few Ulin who had wanted
children, and birthed them and reared them, had quenched that desire long
since. To have children by human mothers, though, was another matter, since the
women either could not or did not object, and could very easily be deserted.”

“It
did not take a god to discover that!”

“Are
you sure?” Manalo fixed her with a glittering gaze. “Did the men of your kind
invent the notion of leaving a woman with child to fend for herself? Or did
they learn it by the example of the ones they called gods?”

The
woman frowned. “I begin to think you are right—that the Ulin are no gods, but
only more able to be vicious than human men!”

“Or
Ulin women?” Manalo” smiled sadly. “I fear they, too, used humans as
toys—though never very many, for they found that such babies tied them down
just as badly as Ulin infants.”

“Why,
then, did any bother with human males at all?” a different woman asked,
puzzled.

“Because
Ulin men no longer wished to have to see to the rearing of children,” Manalo
explained. “Oh, they were ready enough to sire them, so long as they did not
have to care for them, or for their mothers. Often enough, though, they found
human men who were honored to take such a woman to wife, for there was no small
standing in having a half-Ulin son or daughter, and it was of advantage to his
own children.”

No
one said anything to that, but men and women glanced at one another uneasily.
Finally, a grandmother said, “Were not the goddesses jealous?”

“Most
jealous indeed, and they sought revenge on the Ulin men.”

“Surely
there was danger in that!” the grandmother gasped.

“Danger
indeed, so more often they took their revenge on the women who had lain with
the Ulin men, or took human mates themselves in spite. Most frequently, though,
they sought to revenge themselves on the children of such unions.”

“Thus
were made the Ulharls,” a grandfather said, his voice low.

“Thus
the Ulharls came,” Manalo confirmed, “and that is why so many of them fled to
the protection of their fathers, even though it meant serving them in every
slightest wish. And they are doughty servants indeed, for they are half again
as tall as any human man or woman, half again as strong, and many are born with
powers of magic. All can learn magic easily, and most of them wish to.”

Everyone
shivered at the thought of the vindictive super-humans. “Why are the Ulharls so
cruel?” one woman asked.

“Because
they hate you for being free, when they are not,” Manalo answered. “Those who
were taken by their Ulin fathers—which some Ulin did only to anger their
fellows or former lovers—and grew up among the Ulin, despised and mocked and
ever the object of the women’s spite—these grew up bitter indeed, and are ever
seeking weaker targets for their anger and hatred.”

“But
there are good Ulharls!” a youth cried.

“Oh,
some Ulharls grew happily enough,” Manalo said, “for they are honored if they
grew up among humans—or are happy and spoiled if they have Ulin mothers and
grow up with them. But they are few, very few.”

“The
Ulharls can have children by human wives, can they not?” one young woman
challenged.

“They
can have children, yes,” Ohaern answered, “though I have never yet heard of an
Ulharl who bothered to wed—or dared to, without his father’s consent.”

“Would
not such a one be human?”

“Not
the child of an Ulharl—such a one would be too huge to be mistaken for a man or
woman. But a grandchild or greatgrandchild might be mistaken for a human, yes.
A very big human, a very strong one—but a human nonetheless.”

Ohaern
felt a chill as several glances sought him out.

“Do
you all know who your great-grandparents were?” Manalo challenged. “A son of a
son of a son of a son has little resemblance to his ancestor, after all. Any
among you could be of the Ulharl.”

A
rash of coughing and clearing of throats ran through the great lodge, and
everyone turned away from Ohaern. In fact, everybody tried not to look at any
of his neighbors—and hoped they weren’t looking at him. Ohaern smiled, amused,
and grateful to the sage.

“It
is their safeguard, ironically,” Manalo told them, “the Ulin’s guarantee that
their race will never truly perish, so long as human beings walk the earth. You
who are their victims, and the butt of their hatred, shall ensure that something
of them survives.”

“You
do not mean that the gods are dying!” Chaluk cried, shocked.

“Oh,
yes,” said Manalo softly. “They have died from slaying each other in rage, they
have died by their own hands when life became too dull—but the greatest number
of them died in their war. There are only a handful left now, perhaps fifty—of
whom many disdain the world of men, and some even disdain the other Ulin.”