Call Of The Owl
Lengthening shadows trailed the slow-moving line of
caravans and wagons as they climbed the steep rise to the
outer edges of the taiga. By then the blood red of the late fall
tundra had bleached into lifelessness. Up on the plateau the
ground had hardened. Birch trees stood starkly bare and
white against the dense conifers that created shelter from
fast-sweeping winds and the deepening cold. Winter was
about to invade the desolate arctic vastness with killer force.
The soft ground was covered with an icy crust that gave
way under the weight of the passing wagons and caravans.
To camp for the night, the Lovara chose a marshy clearing
encircled on three sides by dense forest and bordered
on the north by a swift river. Night was falling like a heavy
curtain across the fading glow of the early afternoon sun as
the caravans positioned themselves in the shape of a semicircle
open to the river.
A subtle but distinct physical separation from the rest
of the tribe had gradually evolved between Azra and the
rest of the kumpania, like the distance that will develop between
a dying horse and its herd. Azra’s caravan was securely
positioned in the lineup, but with empty space on
both sides. The Lovara walked close to one another. They
spoke in whispers, careful to stay out of earshot of Azra’s
only child. “Her time has come,” they said. “Azra is dying.”
Observing their suddenly secretive behavior, Dosha
guessed their thoughts and words. Eyes flashing belligerence,
she walked up to them and stated out loud: “My mother
is not about to die.”
56
Dosha
Dzumila threw them damning glances, “Hush,” she
said, stepping close to Dosha, “Azra could hear.”
The rom and romni scattered to prepare for the night. The
children fed and watered the goats and geese before walking
to the edge of the forest to gather firewood. The rom fed
and watered their horses, never losing sight of Dosha, who
insisted on looking after her own two horses.
Suddenly the stallion snorted, spun around, and stood
tense as a bow. Several voices shouted, “Watch out!”
Like a dark, spread-out sail, a silent shape came billowing
from the gloomy height of a fir at the edge of the tree
line. The stallion’s head snapped up. With dilated nostrils,
ears pointed forward, the white of its eyes showing in fear,
