Sannah

By Miriam Newman

Barely more than a girl, Sannah is taken by a man who is both warrior and shaman in a winter raid on her Stone Age camp.
But Memmet believes the spirits have given her to him and he will keep her at any cost.
Two strong people must find the reason they have been brought together, because lives depend upon it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Miriam Newman
• Release date: Oct 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393027171

Book preview

Chapter 1

Wind slicing through the Camp of the Yellow Rocks was like the teeth of a wolf. Ravening down from the mountains, it snarled through sandstone sentinels, grabbing the edge of hides covering their wood-framed shelters and shaking them like a carcass.

Sannah watched half-frozen guards stumble in one by one near the time of the sunset they couldn’t see. Wind-driven snow accompanied their entrance. Mixing with snow drifting through smoke holes, it turned the pounded-earth floor into gritty sludge that showed their footprints.

This night is going to be a beast, one of the men said. She just nodded, uneasily.

Have you seen Jodiah? she asked. Or Marel?

The man lurched on numb feet towards the center of the building where a fire burned. Still bringing people in. He smiled at her, though his face appeared half-frozen too. Don’t worry, girl, they’ve been through this many times before. They’ll know to stay safe. You should find a place to bed down.

Her foster parents were headman and mate, so it was their responsibility, not hers. Though Sannah had wanted to go with them, Marel had told her urgently to stay inside. She knew they considered her still too young, but she was old enough to be mated now, she thought rebelliously. Surely she should help. But Jodiah and Marel had protected her from the moment her parents died years before and still saw her as a child...their last one.

She could tell by the reaction of men that she was no longer a child. Though still small of stature, she was as sweetly curved as any woman, with curly dark gold hair and ice-blue eyes that were beginning to draw men to her. It was all the more reason she did not want to bed down with any of them, but the building was filling rapidly as all hearths funneled in. They would spend the night as one, sharing food and body heat to survive the storm. As the guard said, they had been through it many times before.

Her girlfriends were packed in, eating dried fish so no one would have to go out in the storm to retrieve their cached meat. Huddled together beneath furs and deer hides, they spoke to each other above the booming sound of the wind. Torches on the walls shook, casting ominous shadows. She would be one of the last to seek a place.

Sannah, here, she finally heard, with a mixed sense of relief. Janeus, a young hunter she knew fairly well, was beckoning to a space between himself and Hedon, another hunter. Janeus she trusted, but Hedon would jerk and tremble at the mere touch of her leg against his and it made her uncomfortable.

Thank you, she said, with a smile. It was a newly-practiced smile, designed to convey that although she would be available at some point, this was not the time. She was not yet ready for that. But Janeus had always been respectful—more of a friend.

Are there furs? she asked, wanting to use one for a pillow, but he shook his head.

All taken, but you can use my shoulder. He winked at her. You smell better than the fish.

She guffawed, softly. The shelter was pungent, yet it was the scent of safety and comfort in the face of the storm, so she pillowed the side of her face against the young man’s shoulder. On the other side, Hedon just gave her a sour look, saying nothing.

Sleep easy, Janeus reassured her. This should blow over by morning.

True, she said. I just wish I could find Jodiah and Marel.

They have work to do, Janeus pointed out. They’ll do it better knowing you are safe inside.

She just grunted, not mollified, but realizing her efforts were at an end. She would find them in the morning.

Since there was little else to do, she lay down between the two warm bodies, drowsing and thinking of the spring to come. It was when her foster father would join her with someone, though his mind was still not made up. Neither was hers and he would allow her some say in the matter, so Sannah speculated like any young girl on who would claim her, where they would have a ceremony, whether she could have a new robe. She had an extremely fine sewing hand, able to make stitches so small they were nearly invisible, and her foster mother did beautiful beadwork. Marel’s arrangements of hand-carved wooden beads, dyed from native plants, were much sought after. Placed on deerskin bleached until it was nearly white, they would be striking and Sannah knew she would undoubtedly be glad to help prepare one. She let her mind dwell on the possibilities, preferring those thoughts to other, less pleasant ones.

They had to live through winter first and not everyone did. There were predators, including humans, and frostbite and fever. The winter snows had not been deep that year, if only because wind scoured them off the rocks. But wind and cold were deadly enemies, too, sometimes worse than snow.

Because they had horses and bearskins, the men of Memmet’s clan survived. Like the people of the camp, they were half frozen by the time they finally found shelter beneath a large rocky outcrop. A cave would have been better, but it was as close as they could come, so they circled the horses tails to the wind on the outside while they kindled a fire within.

We can’t use the shelters in here, Memmet shouted to the others above the ripping sound of the wind. They’ll blow down. Leave them packed on the horses for extra cover. Give them some grain to get them through.

He hoped that would suffice. They had hay netted on a travois and had pulled that in to keep it dry, but it would only blow away if they tried to feed it. The leather bags they hung over the horses’ heads to give them grain would not. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do until morning. For themselves, they had only dried meat and not much of it. They would melt snow by the fire to drink, rather than eat snow that would chill them, but that was all they had until morning.

Sleep was not really possible. Memmet crouched in front of the fire, staring into it as he listened to the crackle of flames, the riptide of wind and counsel from his eldest warrior, Turat. The older man was a survivor of countless hunts, storms and raids.

The horses will not last much longer, he cautioned Memmet. We can give them the last grain tomorrow, but after that there will be no fodder here but tree bark and whatever they can find beneath the snow.

It won’t be enough, Memmet concurred. If this breaks by morning, we can make one last pass, but after that we will have to turn back.

They did not have sufficient resources or people to make this trip again. Failure now would bring about the slow death of his clan, yet neither could he sacrifice the lives of their remaining warriors, most of whom were with him.

We will wait for the dawn, he decided. Either we will scout one more day, if it is clear, or rest one more day, if it is not. Either way, after that we will start back.

Turat just nodded, also staring into the fire, drawing his bearskin robe further around him. The cold ate his bones, as it had done so many times before.

Is it possible you might reach the spirits this night? he ventured.

Memmet was silent, considering it. He had neither the proper dress nor the drum nor any of the accouterments of his shamanic office with him. But he did have one thing. Carefully, he drew a leather pouch from beneath his tunic. Measuring out a pinch of what was inside, he smiled to himself. It still held the odor of summer, when he had hand-picked mushrooms in the woods above their camp. These particular mushrooms were capable of reaching the spirit world even in the absence of other things and this was a desperate circumstance. It was possible that other world might be inclined to save his tribe in this one. The chance must be taken.

Withdrawing a precious pinch, he cast a small amount into the fire as the other men watched, intense and silent. Flames flared very briefly as he ingested a tiny bit. It did not take long to work. As his eyes rolled back, the waiting men eased him down where the fire would keep him warmest during his journey. If he returned to them by morning, they might know then what to do. If he did not return, then their decision was already made.

He awakened a little groggy but capable of speech. By dawn, as he promised, the storm broke and after a quick meal of gruel and some precious grain for the horses, they dispersed. They all knew how urgent it was to return to the coast where they might find grass and sea weed for their mounts.

The spirits spoke of this? Turat inquired. He was the only one who would dare question Memmet and even he approached it sideways. Ability to the communicate with the spirit world was a precious and powerful gift not given to many, poorly understood and duly feared by those who did not have it. But Memmet had done it many times before and now he nodded.

They did. A camp should be close.

Not much of a camp, here, Turat half-objected. These people don’t have much.

Maybe not, but there’s only one thing we need. They won’t expect a raid in winter. Grabbing a handful of mane, Memmet swung up on his horse. Let’s go.

The spirits had spoken true, although what they found was merely a collection of poor-looking huts so covered with snow that they were nearly indistinguishable from the rocks surrounding them. They looked deserted, but probably were not. Turat was the first to wiggle on his belly up to the rise above the camp, other men behind him as they formed a line of watchers.

They have all gone in from the storm, he said. I see no guards.

Their windows are covered. Memmet gestured to drifts blotting out the small, hide-covered windows. They cannot see the sun and have overslept.

Swathing themselves in bearskins to help protect them from weapons, the spear-carrying men dispersed in a net that would ultimately encircle the entire camp, topping the rise undiscovered. A couple of dogs curled in the snow howled a warning, but they were arrowed immediately as the horses bore down on the buildings, snorting and sliding. Whether or not what they needed was within those huts, Memmet didn’t know. But the spirits had guided him there. Whatever lay in that camp was his destiny.

Chapter 2

There was no warning. By the time they heard the screams of the dogs, riders were upon them.

Sannah was roused by Janeus springing upright beside her, pushing her down. Stay! he said, reaching for his spear, but even as he hefted it the first raider burst through their hide-covered door.

It looked like a bear. These men wore heavy fur leggings and tunics and boots like their men, but additionally they were half-swathed in hooded bearskin cloaks. They came through the door so quickly that they evaded the first spears and clubs, wading into the pool of sleeping people with spears and clubs of their own. Left without shelter as the hunters on either side of her leaped to her defense, Sannah could do nothing but curl in a ball, hoping to evade death.

She did not see much of what happened around her, but she heard and smelled it—screams, thuds, the coppery smell of spilled blood. Someone grabbed her by the hair and she waited for death, but they thrust her back down on the floor again, standing over her. All she could see was a pair of heavy leggings on either side of her until it was finished. Peering through her fingers, she saw feral-looking men wading among her people, turning over bodies, examining them. The camp’s men seemed to be dead. Women and children were looked at briefly and then either thrown back to the floor or taken. She could not imagine why she had survived until a pair of hands flipped her over, ripping her robe open so that she was exposed, and then she understood. She was small and might have been taken for a child, but now they knew better. She was a woman and had value, if only for one thing.

Take her, the man who had exposed her said in a tongue not unlike hers. It was close enough to understand. The older women all were left on the floor. Those younger, and a few strong-looking children, were being dragged to their feet and soon she was, as well.

The warrior tied her robe closed again. This one is mine, he said to the other men, one of whom yanked her arms in front of her, binding her wrists with cords made of strongly braided hemp. The one who had claimed her took a hide from an unmoving body, wrapping it around her and belting it with a thong from around his waist. He pulled the attached hood over her head, looking at her feet as if to determine that she was wearing shoes. She was, so he walked away, leaving her to the mercies of the men holding her arms.

They were too strong for her and there was no one left to defend her. She was hauled outside, where a line of horses waited. She had seen them before running on the plain but never been close to one and cringed in fear of their size as one of the men dragged her up to one. But the horse stood patiently, only turning its head to look at her, spurts of steam wafting from its nostrils.

Heart pounding, mouth dry in fear, she stood immobile as the strange men came out of the shelters with whatever captives they had selected. Women were left on the ground while the children, with their hands bound, were taken up on top of the