The Call of the Iele

  They moved slowly, searching through the snow for the aurochs’ tracks. Like a pack of wolves, they spread out across the steep slope. Seven men armed with spears climbed uphill, while three with clubs stayed down in the valley.The cautious Father urged them gently toward the prey. Hunger and cold drove them to the hunt. The Father would’ve liked to hold them back a little longer, but the scent of fresh blood was too strong. The moon hadn’t yet risen, and the wind had stilled.

  A clearing opened up before them. The massive silhouette of the aurochs stood clearly against the white snow. A boulder of flesh, calmly chewing on frozen grass.Like a ghost, without a hint of fear, the Father crawled closer on his belly. Two steps, five steps... seven steps.He raised his hand high, fingers spread wide, and the beaters in the valley began to howl sharply.Startled, the aurochs rose from its bed of pine branches and charged at the Father. Just before it could gore him, the Father rolled to the side. With his left hand, he grabbed the beast’s mane, climbed onto its shoulders, and thrust a flint-tipped spear deep into its neck. Four, five galloping steps—and the Father leapt into a snowdrift, moments before the massive beast collapsed, nearly crushing him.

  The silence of night was broken only by the beast’s hot, ragged breaths. Silently, the white moon began to rise over the mountains.With a swift gesture, he yanked the broken spear from the aurochs’ throat. A hot jet of black blood spurted down his right hand.Satisfied, he stroked his braided beard, painting the ice crystals hanging from it red.

  The hunters recognized the sign. They unfastened willow bark ropes from their belts and began tying together makeshift sleds to carry the prize.Then they descended toward the village.Through the trees, the fires and scent of smoke called them home.The Father walked behind them, silent and lost in thought. He adjusted the fur hat over his ears and whistled for them to hurry. He could feel the wolves were close.

  Back in the village, the men left the aurochs for the women to skin and entered their huts to warm themselves.Only the Father stopped at the hearth in the village center and sat on a stump. He didn’t want to go inside.He watched the flames rise toward the pale moon, lost in thought, when the screams began.

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  His child was being born. The fifth child. A terrible dread crept into his mind.He, the strongest of all men, felt his blood freeze in his veins.

  He watched the old women come out of his home carrying straw, which they threw into the fire.He had seen this four times before. And his flesh trembled.

  The glassy moon shone brighter than the great fire roasting a haunch of the fallen aurochs.

  It was late into the night when they brought him the heart, roasted in embers. And just as he was about to sink his teeth into the tender meat, he heard the soft cry of the newborn.A frozen tear ran down the Father’s cheek.

  From the kitchen-hut, a monk dressed in black hemp robes approached him:

  — She must be taken to the Iele, Father…

  — Take your mother to them! I’ll split your head if you say that again!

  — It’s a girl, Father. You have no choice. You are the Father, and your daughters are Iele… you can do with me as you please.

  — I’ve made this journey four times. I won’t return the fifth… said the Father through clenched teeth.

  — Your lineage belongs to you. Either give them all to death, or offer the child to the goddess… You are our Father.

  — To hell with it…!

  But his roar blended with the howling of wolves on the ridge.He shoved the monk in fury, throwing him into a frozen snowdrift, and entered the hut.

  Wrapped in rabbit pelts, cooing softly, the baby girl reached her arms out to him.The Father, knees trembling, stepped closer to the cradle.Tears mingled with the icicles in his tangled beard.He took the child in his arms and set off uphill through the dense hawthorn.

  The sun was beginning to rise, and the pine-scented mist was slowly lifting.The Father knew the path to the rocks—he had walked it four times before. But now it was harder than ever.His legs felt like stone, and the infant at his chest like a boulder.

  He reached the cliff-top with the sunrise.The clear blue sky seemed to wrap him in the embrace of the bitter cold.On the flint peak, he stopped, staring at the child he held to his chest.The fair-haired baby played with the beads in his beard, smiling sweetly.He kissed her deeply and, clutching her to his chest, threw himself from the edge of the cliff into the frozen mist.