Shaman - Hardcover

Robinson, Kim Stanley

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0316098078 ISBN 13: 9780316098076

Publisher: Orbit, 2013

Synopsis

Kim Stanley Robinson, the New York Times bestselling author of science fiction masterworks such as the Mars trilogy and 2312, has, on many occasions, imagined our future. Now, in Shaman, he brings our past to life as never before.

There is Thorn, a shaman himself. He lives to pass down his wisdom and his stories -- to teach those who would follow in his footsteps.

There is Heather, the healer who, in many ways, holds the clan together.

There is Elga, an outsider and the bringer of change.
And then there is Loon, the next shaman, who is determined to find his own path. But in a world so treacherous, that journey is never simple -- and where it may lead is never certain.

Shaman is a powerful, thrilling and heartbreaking story of one young man's journey into adulthood -- and an awe-inspiring vision of how we lived thirty thousand years ago.

About this title

About the Author

Kim Stanley Robinson is a New York Times bestseller and winner of the Hugo, Nebula, and Locus awards. He is the author of more than twenty books, including the bestselling Mars trilogy and the critically acclaimed Forty Signs of Rain, The Years of Rice and Salt, and 2312. In 2008, he was named a "Hero of the Environment" by Time magazine, and he works with the Sierra Nevada Research Institute. He lives in Davis, California.

Reviews

*Starred Review* Shaman follows Loon from his experience on a late-winter shaman’s journey of skill and endurance to his true adulthood. The wander that begins the story is the beginning of his passage into manhood, and a shaman’s trial. Loon doesn’t want to be a shaman, at least not in the way his tribe’s shaman is, with magic and old stories. He does like the painting. In this prehistoric world, life is genuinely focused on survival, and on the flow of seasons—and so there is often a sense of fear, but there’s plenty of time for humor as well. The novel does generally succeed in its ambitious scope. It is more uneven when it comes to the viewpoint character—Loon is, after all, a 14-year-old boy. It is occasionally tiresome to be subjected to the inner workings of a fictional teenage boy, but aside from that, this novel bears the markings of Robinson’s consummate skill with a sort of anthropological fiction. Robinson’s prose is transparent, capable of sustaining massive plots, and a certain amount of troublesome characterization can be forgiven in the face of spectacular world building. --Regina Schroeder

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Shaman

By Kim Stanley Robinson

Orbit

Copyright © 2013 Kim Stanley Robinson
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-316-09807-6

CHAPTER 1

LOON'S WANDER

We had a bad shaman.

This is what Thorn would say whenever he was doing something bad himself. Objectto whatever it was and he would pull up his long gray braids to show the mangledred nubbins surrounding his earholes. His shaman had stuck bone needles throughthe flesh of his boys' ears and then ripped them out sideways, to help themremember things. Thorn when he wanted the same result would flick Loon hard onthe ear and then point at the side of his own head, with a tilted look thatsaid, You think you have it bad?

Now he had Loon gripped by the arm and was hauling him along the ridge trail toPika's Rock, on the overlook between Upper and Lower Valleys. Late afternoon,low clouds rolling overhead, brushing the higher ridges and the moor, making agray roof to the world. Under it a little line of men on a ridge trail,following Thorn on shaman's business. It was time for Loon's wander.

—Why tonight? Loon protested.—A storm is coming, you can see it.

—We had a bad shaman.

And so here they were. The men all gave Loon a hug, grinning ruefully at him andshaking their heads. He was going to have a miserable night, their looks said.Thorn waited for them to finish, then croaked the start of the good-bye song:

This is how we always startIt's time to be reborn a manGive yourself to Mother EarthShe will help you if you ask

—If you ask nicely enough, he added, slapping Loon on the shoulder. Then alot of laughing, the men's eyes sardonic or encouraging as they divested him ofhis clothes and his belt and his shoes, everything passed over to Thorn, whoglared at him as if on the verge of striking him. Indeed when Loon was entirelynaked and without possessions Thorn did strike him, but it was just a quickbackhand to the chest.—Go. Be off. See you at full moon.

If the sky were clear, there would have been the first sliver of a new moonhanging in the west. Thirteen days to wander, therefore, starting with nothing,just as a shaman's first wander always started. This time with a storm coming.And in the fourth month, with snow still on the ground.

Loon kept his face blank and stared at the western horizon. To beg for a month'sdelay would be undignified, and anyway useless. So Loon looked past Thorn with astony gaze and began to consider his route down to the Lower Valley creekbed,where knots of trees lined the creek. Being barefoot made a difference, becausethe usual descent from Pika's Rock was very rocky, possibly so rocky he neededto take another way. First decision of many he had to get right.—FriendRaven there behind the sky, he chanted aloud,—lead me now without anytricks!

—Good luck getting Raven to help, Thorn said. But Loon was from the ravenclan and Thorn wasn't, so Loon ignored that and stared down the slope, trying tosee a way. Thorn slapped him again and led the other men back down the ridge.Loon stood alone, the wind cutting into him. Time to start his wander.

But it wasn't clear which way to get down. For a time it seemed like he mightfreeze there, might never start his life's journey.

So I came up in him and gave him a little lift from within.

I am the third wind.

He took off down the rocks. He looked back once to show his teeth to Thorn, butthey were out of sight down the ridge. Off he plunged, flinging the thought ofThorn from him. Under his feet the broken gritstone was flecked with pock snow,which collected in dimples and against nobbles in a pattern that helped him seewhere to step. Go as agile as a cat, down rock to rock, hands ready to grab andhelp down little jumps. His toes chilled and he abandoned them to their coldfate, focused on keeping his hands warm. He would need his hands down in thetrees. It began to snow, just a first little pricksnow. The slope had big snowpatches that were easier on his feet than the rocks.

He tightened his ribs and pushed his heat out into his limbs and skin, gruntinguntil he blazed a little, and the pricksnow melted when it touched him.Sometimes the only heat to be had is in hurry.

He clambered down and across the boulder-choked ravine seaming the floor ofLower Valley, across the little stream. On the other side he was able to run upthe thin forest floor, which was all too squishy, as the ground was wet withrain and snowmelt. Here he avoided the patches of snow. First day of the fourthmonth: it was going to be trouble to make a fire. The night would be ever somuch more comfortable if he could make a fire.

The upper end of Lower Valley was a steep womb canyon. A small cluster of spruceand alder surrounded the spring there, which started the valley's creek. Therehe would find shelter from the wind, and branches for clothing, and under thetrees there wouldn't be much snow left. He hurried up to this grove, careful notto stub his senseless toes.

In the little copse around the spring he tore at live spruce branches and brokeseveral off, cursing their wetness, but even damp their needles would hold someof his heat against him. He wove two spruce branches together and stuck his headthrough a middle gap in the weave, making it into a rough cloak.

Then he broke off a dead bit of brush pine root to serve as the base of hisfirestarter. Near the spring he found a good rock to use as a chopper, and withit cut a straight dead alder branch for his firestick. His fingers were justpliable enough to hold the rock. Otherwise he didn't feel particularly cold,except in his feet, which were pretending not to be there. The black mats ofspruce needles under the trees were mostly free of snow. He crouched under oneof the biggest trees and forced his toes into the mat of needles and wiggledthem as hard as he could. When they began to burn a little he pulled them outand went looking for duff. Even the best fire kit needs some duff to burn.

He reached into the center of dead spruce logs, feeling for duff or punk. Hefound some punk that was only a little damp, then broke off handfuls of deadtwigs tucked under the protection of larger branches. The twigs were damp ontheir outsides, but dry inside; they would burn. There were some larger deadbranches he could break off too. The grove had enough dead wood to supply a fireonce it got going. It was a question of duff or punk. Neither spruce nor alderrotted to a good punk, so he would have to be lucky, or maybe find some ant-eaten wood. He got on his knees and started grubbing around under the biggestdowned trees, avoiding the snow, turning over bigger branches and shoving aroundin the dirt trying to find something. He got dirty to the elbows, but then againthat would help keep him warm.

Which might matter, as he could not find any dry punk, or any duff at all. Hesqueezed water out of one very rotten mass of wood, but the brown goo thatremained in his hand resembled dead moss or mullein, and was still damp. Thefirestick's rough tip would never light such shit.

—Please, he said to the grove. He begged its forgiveness for cursing as hehad approached it.—Give me some punk, please goddess.

Nothing. It became too cold for him to keep kneeling on the wet ground diggingin downed logs. To make some heat in him he got up and danced. With this efforthe could warm his hands, and it was important they not go numb like his feethad. Oh, a fire would make the night so much more comfortable! Surely somethingcould be found here that would burn under the heat of his firestick's tip!

Nothing. His belt contained in its fold many little gooseskin bags in whichthere were spark flints, dry moss, firestick, and base. Dressed and carrying allhis things, he could have survived this night and the fortnight to follow instyle. Which was why he had been sent out naked: the point of the wander was toprove you could start with nothing but yourself, and not just survive butprosper. He needed to come back into camp on the night of the full moon in goodstyle.

But first he had to get through this night. He began to work hard in his dance,throwing his arms around, spinning his hands in big circles. He sang a hot songand wiggled all over. After doing this for a while, everything but his feetbegan to burn. But he was also getting tired. He tried to find a balance betweenthe cold and his efforts, walking in a tight circle while also inspecting theforest floor for likely punk and duff shelters. Nothing!

In every grove some wood will burn.

This was one of the sayings that Heather often repeated, though seldom whentalking about fire. Loon said it aloud, emphatically, beseechingly:—Inevery grove some wood will burn! But on this night he wasn't convinced. It onlymade him mad.

Dig!

He went at the underside of a log which had broken over another one in its fall,a long time ago. They were two crossing mounds of dirt, almost; not animpossible source. But at this moment, wet through and through. And cold.

When he saw how it was, he beat his fist on the soft wet logs. Then he had tostart walking in circles again.

Later, more digging into another log gained him only a knot that was still hard,with two spurs extending away from it at an angle much like the angle needed tomake a spear thrower. He replaced his first firestarter base with this flatknot, which was better. His alder firestick still looked good. All was ready, ifonly he had something dry enough to catch fire.

And if only it would stop raining so hard. For a while it pelted down, coldenough to be a little sleety, and all on a gusty wind. In the hard gusts it waslike getting hit with cold sand. He simply had to take shelter, and so hecrawled under a spruce with big branches right against the ground, where hecould snuggle in tight around the trunk and feel only a few drips on him, a fewtickles of wind. The spruce needles were scratchy and the ground was cold, buthe flexed his shoulder up and down, and sang a hot song and swore vengeanceagainst Thorn. Talk about bad shamans!

But all boys have to become men one way or another. Their wanders had to betrials of skill and endurance. Hunters' wanders were just as bad. And otherpacks' shamans insisted on even harder trials, it was said.

Loon banished Thorn again. He tested all the branches at the bottom of thespruce. If a dead one could be broken, a dead one well dried but still a littleresiny, possibly he could pulverize a spot in it with a rock point and make amash of splinters fine enough to catch fire under the spin of the firestick.Worth a try, and the effort itself would help keep him warm.

But it turned out there didn't seem to be a branch around the bottom of thistree that he could break.

When the rain let off, he squirmed back out and crawled around under the otherspruces looking for such a branch. His hands were so cold he could scarcelygrasp the branches to test them.

After a while he had broken off a few likely-looking branches. If he could get afire started in one of them, the others would be good wood to feed to it.

He found an adequate hearth rock, and a better smasher rock. He took the bestone of his dead dry spruce branches and placed it on the hearth, then hit itwith the smasher. It resisted, and it was clear it would take a while to get itright, but it seemed promising. Smash smash smash. He had to be more carefulthan usual not to catch a finger, his hands were so clumsy. Once two yearsbefore he had smashed a fingertip, and it was still fat and a little numb at theend, its flat claw lined with grooves. He called that finger Fatty. So he hithis smasher on the side of the broken branch very carefully, once or twicehitting the hearth instead. A spark or two from those accidents made him longfor his flint firestrikers. A few scattered sparks were not going to be enoughto do it on a night like this. The wet wind whooshed its laughter at him, loudin the trees.

Eventually a spot on the side of his target branch was squashed into a splay ofsplinters, perfectly dry. He sat cross-legged with his body arched over thebranch, and it seemed like the mash of splinters might burn. Breathing hard,warm except for his feet, he crawled under the best of the spruces in his groveand arranged his new kit around him. Smashed branch on the hearth rock, heldthere between his feet; firestick placed almost upright in the mash of splinterson the branch, held at its tilt between his palms. All set: spin the firestickback and forth.

Back and forth, back and forth between his hands, gently pushing the point ofthe stick down into the branch. Back and forth, back and forth. His palms randown the stick with the force of his pushing down, and when they reached thelower end of the stick he had to grasp it with one hand, put the other againstthe top, and move up and catch it and begin over again, with as little a pauseas he could manage. Meanwhile it kept raining outside the shelter of the spruce,and under it, even right against the trunk, drips were dripping. Really it beganto look impossible, given the conditions. But he didn't want to admit that. Itwould get an awful lot colder the moment he admitted that.

After a long time, maybe a fist or more, he had to give up, at least on thisbranch. The mash of splinters was a bit too massy, and after a while, a littledamp. He could get the spot just under the firestick so hot that it slightlyburned his fingertip to touch it, and the splinters around that spot had evenblackened a little, but they would not burst into flame.

Loon sat there. This was going to be a hard thing to tell Thorn about, assuminghe survived to tell the tale. The old sorcerer would flick him on the ears forsure. You had to be able to start a fire, anytime, anywhere; the worseconditions were, the more important it got. Thorn, like most of the shamans atthe corroboree, was exceptionally good with fire, and had spent a lot of timewith Loon and the other kids, teaching them the tricks. He had put a firestickto their forearms and spun it, to teach them how hot the spinning got.Eventually Loon had learned how to make fire no matter how the old mancomplicated the task. But there had always been some dry duff, one way oranother.

Now he crawled out from under the spruce and stood up, sobbing with frustration,and danced until the cold was held off him by a thin envelope of sweat. When therain let up a little, he steamed. Already he was hungry, but there was nothingfor it. Time to chew on a pebble and think about other things. Chew a pebble anddance in the rain. Cold or not, this was his wander. When daylight came at lasthe would find better shelter, find some dry duff, find an abri or some smalleroverhang. Begin outfitting himself for his return at full moon. He would walkinto camp fully clothed, belly full, spear in hand! Clothed in lion skins!Beartooth necklace draped around his neck! He saw it all inside his eyes. Heshouted the story of it at the night.

After a while he sat again under the best spruce, his head on his knees, armswrapped around his legs. Then he got back out and shuffled around in the grove,looking for a better tuck, finding one after another and testing them. If theywere good, he added them to a growing little round of camps, each with its ownstrengths and weaknesses. He chanted for long stretches, cursed Thorn from timeto time. May your pizzle fall off, may a lion eat you ... Then also from time totime he would shout things out loud.—It's cold! Thorn would sometimes howlhis thoughts that way, using old words from the shamans' language, words thatsounded like the things themselves: Esh var kalt! Esh var k-k-k-kaaaal-TEE!

He stubbed a big toe and only felt it in the bone; the flesh was numb. Morecurses. May the ravens shit on you, may your babies die ... Lie on the groundunder one big spruce, only his kneecaps and toes and the palms of hands and hisforehead touching the earth. Push himself up and down with his arms, stayingrigid. If only he could fuck the earth to get warm, but it was too cold, hecouldn't get his poor pizzle to antler, it was as numb as his toes, and wouldhurt like crazy when it next warmed up, prickle and burn till he cried. Maybe ifhe thought of that girl from the Lion pack, a raven like him, thereforeforbidden to him, supposedly, but they had made eyes anyway, and it would warmhim to think of plunging her. Or Sage, from his own pack.

That line of thought trapped some time: seeing it all inside his eyelids, seeingher spread her legs to him. Be there inside her kolby, forget this cold rain.Her kolby, her baginaren, her vixen. Start a little fire behind his bellybutton, get his prong to spurt. But it was too cold. He could only mash the poorflesh around and make it burn a little, warm it in the hope it would not getfrostbit. That would be so bad.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Shaman by Kim Stanley Robinson. Copyright © 2013 Kim Stanley Robinson. Excerpted by permission of Orbit.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Edition details

• Publisher: Orbit
• Publication date: 2013
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0316098078
• ISBN 13: 9780316098076
• Binding: Hardcover
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 464