Forbidden Land: A Novel of the First Americans (First Americans Saga, Band 3) - Softcover

Buch 3 von 10: First Americans Saga

Sarabande, William

 
9780553282061: Forbidden Land: A Novel of the First Americans (First Americans Saga, Band 3)
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0553282069 ISBN 13: 9780553282061
Verlag: Bantam, 1989

Inhaltsangabe

The spellbinding epic adventure of a time when mankind took its first steps and the icy wilds claimed the earth. Breathtaking, vivid, unforgettable—here is the third volume of the panoramic new series The First Americans which began with Beyond The Sea Of Ice and continued with Corridor Of Storms.  

In this untamed prehistoric time, the great hunter Torka has led a group of survivors across a frozen sea. Now he is their proud headman, a leader who defies the old ways.  For this, the will of the tribe turns against him—and he must act quickly to save his children from those who would see them killed.  Together with his family and a small band of faithful followers, Torka and his wife Lonit strike out a dangerous journey to an unknown land feared by all men . . . the forbidden land. With supreme courage they will struggle against its savagery, its strange creatures and ancient mystical beliefs to build a future worthy of a noble people . . . worthy of Americans.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Joan Hamilton Cline is the real name of William Sarabande, author of the internationally bestselling First Americans series. She was born in Hollywood, California, and started writing when she was seventeen. First published in 1979, Joan has been writing as William Sarabande for eleven years. She lives with her husband in Fawnskin, California.

Von der hinteren Coverseite

The spellbinding epic adventure of a time when mankind took its first steps and the icy wilds claimed the earth. Breathtaking, vivid, unforgettable--here is the third volume of the panoramic new series The First Americans which began with "Beyond The Sea Of Ice and continued with "Corridor Of Storms. In this untamed prehistoric time, the great hunter Torka has led a group of survivors across a frozen sea. Now he is their proud headman, a leader who defies the old ways. For this, the will of the tribe turns against him--and he must act quickly to save his children from those who would see them killed. Together with his family and a small band of faithful followers, Torka and his wife Lonit strike out a dangerous journey to an unknown land feared by all men. . .the forbidden land. With supreme courage they will struggle against its savagery, its strange creatures and ancient mystical beliefs to build a future worthy of a noble people. . .worthy of Americans.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

1

"Now!" The old woman's voice was as sharp as the ancient, taloned hands that pressed hard against the young woman's belly. "Bear down! Now!"

In the shadowed darkness of the hut of blood, Lonit obeyed. The child was coming, coming on a tide of blood and pain. She would not be here to greet it. She was too tired. Even though the midwives were holding her upright, she felt herself slipping away, drifting into delirium.

The two women who held her by her upper arms shook her. Jarred her. She was annoyed with them. The pain was passing. The tide of blood had brought no child after all. Why did they not allow her to lie down? Her blood ran down her legs and was seeping into the thick layer of grasses and lichens covering the floor. How she hated the sweet smell of blood and the rank, moldering scent of winter dark that filled the little hut. Just thinking of them sickened her, and she wished that the midwives would clear the soiled floor covering away and bring in fresh, which, unstained, would smell of the summer sun. Summer! How she longed for summer!

The gray lichens and golden grasses pricked the soles of her feet. She was too weak to stand, but perhaps it would not be so good to lie down. The floor covering had been spread to absorb blood and birth debris, not to provide comfort. That would come later, after the child was born. If it was ever born!

Woman of the West, bear down, I say!"

Who spoke? Old, talon-fingered Zhoonali? Wallah? Iana? Kimm or Xhan? Lonit could not tell. Around her, the overcrowded confines of the circular hut were a blur of sweating, watching women, as naked and painted with ash and rancid oil as she.

Above her, the interior framework of mammoth and camel ribs arched upward toward the hide-covered vault of the unvented roof. A jumble of thong-joined caribou antlers supported the ceiling. How she wished that one of the midwives would fold back a portion of the hides, allowing the smoke to vent and fresh, cold air to enter. It was so close, so dark--and so smoky that she could barely breathe.

Her eyes rolled back in her head. The ceiling appeared to float, high . . . so high. The racks of antlers seemed to move through mist, as though the spirits of the caribou were taking them up again and forming an invisible migration into the night. Lonit wondered if her spirit would follow. It would not be such a bad thing to die . . . to join her ancestors . . . to be away from pain, away from the probing eyes and hands of the midwives. She would follow the spirit caribou herds as her people had done since time beyond beginning--only this time she would go alone and not come back.

"No!"

Her own shout of defiance startled her. The ghost caribou fled into the night, and the antlered ceiling hung steady and unmoving. She was suddenly aware of the rich, acrid stink of burning bison tallow and knew that the moss wicks in the stone lamps were guttering--again.

How many times had they been replaced since she had been proudly escorted to the hut of blood by her man. How long had it been since she had entered the hut stripped off her specially made waiting garments, and ceremonially fed them to the fire of new life coming?

The embers of that fire were cold now, as were the ashes that had been drawn from the smoldering fire pit to paint her body and the bodies of the midwives with symbols that honored the life-giving powers of Father Above and Mother Below.

Her mouth was dry. Someone gave her water from bladder skin.

"Just enough to moisten the throat. There. No more." Wallah smiled, but there were only sadness and empathy in the wide, loving eyes of the aging matron.

Lonit was so exhausted she could barely swallow. She closed her eyes. Since her labor had begun, the sun had twice risen and fallen over the edge of the world. Now it was night again--a long, cold Arctic night filled with the sound of the wind and the slow, atonal chanting of her people. She listened to them. It must be very late, for only a few sang, and no children. Only the old ones. And the wolves.

Wolves! She opened her eyes. She could hear them clearly, close to her band's winter encampment. They were hunting in packs now, running across the winter tundra beneath the starving moon, seeking to take the blood and flesh of their prey into themselves, even as she fought to expel life from her body--without losing her own life in the fray.

But she was losing. Two days and two nights were much too long to be at the birthing of a child. Her pains had begun close together, no more than the breadth of time between heartbeats, it seemed. Right from the start, they were savage pains, the sort that wore a woman down if allowed to continue.

There was worry in the midwives' eyes, but Lonit was too exhausted to worry with them and too weak to wonder if they would consider the howling of wolves to be a good omen or bad. She did not care; no omen could be worse than the pain that was rising in her again. She drew in a breath and held it, gritting her teeth and closing her eyes.

She tried to think of wolves, of being a wolf--not a naked woman trapped within a fouled hut but a wild thing, running free beneath the blue light of the starving moon . . . running lean with the cold, clean breath of the wind at her back . . . running hungry for life across the wild, savage miles of the open tundra, in the shadows of great, tumbled ranges and the glacial massifs of the Mountains That Walk.

"Bear down, Woman of the West!" Zhoonali commanded. "You are first woman of our headman, but like the rest of us you are only a woman. Cry out if you must, but bear down! Now!"

Lonit was young and strong, and it was not within her nature to cry. She willed herself to run with wolves across the open miles of her imagination. Her blood surged, and her heart pounded fast and hard. She was no longer a woman. She was a wolf! She was a strong and sleek wild animal, just like the wolf that had once leaped upon her and nearly claimed her life. Her arm bore the white lightning mark of a jagged scar inflicted by the tearing fangs of that wolf. Her man wore the skin of the beast, and its paws and fangs were around his neck. But now, as she ran, she was pursued by a terrifying white lion with a great black mane, a lion that roared within her.

"Torka!" From out of her very soul, Lonit howled his name in unspeakable anguish as another contraction transformed the supple muscles of her abdomen into a single oiled, ash-blackened strap that tightened, boring in and down upon her unborn child, crushing it--no!--forcing it from her body at last!

The baby was coming! She could feel the head burrowing deep, ripping her tender flesh, tearing her apart like a wolf trying to free itself of a trap--and failing. Never had she suffered such agony. Not at the birth of her firstborn child, Summer Moon, nor at the birth of her second daughter, Demmi.

Her eyes widened with terror. Little ones! Will this woman ever look upon you and hold you close again?

Beyond the winter hunting camp of her band, the wolves broke and scattered, disappearing into the far hills and the farthest reaches of her fevered mind. Her little girls ran with them, and her man followed. Only the pain remained. She tried to call out after the ones she loved--the wild wolves, her children, her man. But even as she attempted to form their names, light exploded within the little hut. Briefly she thought of the sun. She wondered if the intensified pain were its child; for with pain, always there was light, bright . . . glaring . . . blinding.

"Lonit! Come back to us!"

She did not want to come back, but Xhan and Kimm, the two midwives who supported her weight, shook her again, hard.

"The child...

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Verlag
Bantam
Erscheinungsdatum
1989
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0553282069
ISBN 13 
9780553282061
Einband
Taschenbuch
Auflage
1
Anzahl der Seiten
448
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
gpsr@libri.de
gpsr@libri.de

Friedensallee 273
Hamburg
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Deutschland