Baver found himself getting to his feet. From Hans, two words hissed: Han förgiftas! “He is poisoned!”
Baver stared.
“No,” said Nils. With one hand he pinched lightly the latch of the dead bird’s jaws, opening them more widely, and with the other took something from the beak or mouth. Squatting again, he lay Svartvinge on the floor, then without rising, examined the object the body had given up to him. Baver and Hans both came to see.
“What is it?” Hans asked.
To Baver it looked like a smooth pebble, rounded and slightly flattened.
The Northman sighed audibly. “A message.”
“A message?” Hans and Baver said it together, then glanced at each other before they turned back to Nils, who stood up now.
The Northman nodded, and went to the fireplace in the center of the ger. Someone had replenished the fire, perhaps Aehikh, who was gone, or Hans. There was a pile of firewood near it; Nils picked some of it up. “Bring fire,” he said, and turned to the door. Aehikh came in just then and stood aside, letting Nils go out, and peering
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after him. There was a small iron shovel by the hearth, its handle wrapped with leather. Hans shoved it into the fire, picked up a small, glowing mound of coals, and followed Nils, careful not to spill any.
“What is it?” asked the Buriat.
Baver pointed at the bird on the floor. “Svartvinge is dead,” he said, and left after Hans into the early morning chill, Achikh behind him, saying nothing. Three meters in front of the door, Hans put the hot coals on the trampled ground where Nils pointed. Nils laid the wood on it, piece by piece, building it high.
It flamed up quickly. Hans had already gone back for more wood. Shortly they had a strong fire crackling, and for a minute watched it burn, hot enough to stand back from. Then, without a word, Nils went back in and brought out Svartvinge and the iron poker. The blond hair on his forearms crisping and curling, he laid the bird gently on the fire, then backed away and squatted at arm’s length to watch. The breeze was light and variable. The smoke eddied a bit, and the smell of burning feathers assaulted Baver’s nose.
It seemed to him that someone should say something, but he had no idea what. As if he’d heard Baver’s thought, Achikh began a ritual chant, something about Tengri—God, not Teb-Tengri—calling to paradise the spirit of the deceased. Baver saw Hans s lips moving too, though he heard nothing from them. He wondered if the youth might be composing a verse, and that later, when he was satisfied with it, they might hear it.
Some tribesmen and women had come near, attracted by the odd activity. Several, when they realized what was going on, sheared off. When Achikh began his chant, two or three had joined in; clearly it was traditional. Those who didn’t join in were perhaps put off by the species of the deceased. Among the watchers was the woman assigned to cook for them. She watched only briefly, then went into the ger to begin preparing breakfast for the four.
The body burned up quickly; even so large a raven,
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more than seventy centimeters long, weighed only a few kilos. Nils squatted without speaking, his only movements to poke the fire up. The others stayed too, unwilling to leave until Nils left. When finally the fire had burned down to coals, Nils stood, looked around at the others and nodded soberly. Then they went in to breakfast.
As they ate, Baver recalled his mother’s bird, a beech warbler. It would sing when they uncovered its cage in the morning—a lot nicer sound than Svartvinge ever made. But Svartvinge had character. He remembered the winter evenings in the forest hut, when Nils and Svartvinge would sit in silent contemplation of each other.
And Svartvinge had left a message. He wondered what it was.
After a quiet breakfast, the four walked to the flood-platin of the Tola, and the open grove of old, thick-boled poplars in whose shade councils met. There was a loose flow of Buriat men walking there now, mostly in clusters. Here and there people would greet each other, perhaps stop to talk. Already within the grove’s edge, numerous people squatted waiting, talking primarily about what they expected to hear discussed.