‘We still have enough to eat tonight and there are other traps for tomorrow. Come, it is time to return home.’
He gently picked up the smallest child, a little girl, and strode off; the boy, a year or so older, scampered after him. There was another stake and rope here, but this time it was attached to a small circular flat-bottomed boat. The man deposited the girl inside then held it steady so the boy could clamber in. He then returned to the trap, emptied out the fish, swiftly dispatched them, impaled them on a sturdy-looking skewer and returned to his boat, leaving the trap in the river. He climbed in, freed the rope from its mooring and pushed off from the bank using a broad-bladed paddle. He began to propel the boat forward using broad sweeps of his muscular forearms. The round boat started to glide forward, the paddles’ blade breaking the glassy, peat-black surface of the water.
If a great seabird had the mind to fly northward, starting at the infinite broad sweep of the great Mothravian Delta and ending at the southern part of the Land of the Seven Rivers where Baron Esric Calvannen was fighting nobly for the cause of the Grand Duke of Tanaren he would have traversed a vast, broken land of water and marsh scattered with occasional eyots of land, known simply as the Endless Marshes. This is where the Seven Rivers, getting ever more sluggish, stumbled into each other like drunks in a crowded room. They ceased to have either direction or definition in this land, diverting themselves into ponds or lakes or rolling incoherently between patches of land dotted with trees. Sometimes, they would come to their senses again and resemble a river once more, their purpose regained, heading determinedly towards the sea, but this impetus never lasted long. Sooner or later the momentum would dissipate, the river would split into dozens of streams, which in turn would sputter into deep lakes, or broaden into shallow treacherous marsh choked with weed and lily pads. Men of more civilised lands rarely, if ever, ventured here, a land of mosquitoes and quagmires and other beasts the nature of which would only be discussed by hushed tavern gossips well into their drink.
Yet people did exist there. In tiny numbers, certainly, but the Marsh Men were there practising their own culture and traditions, only venturing up the Seven Rivers to trading posts where some of the more exotic plants and animals could be bartered for iron or leather or even livestock. All the marsh villages kept a small herd of goats on the little scrap of dry land they were built on – goats, after all, could eat anything – and their milk supplemented a diet that consisted mainly of fish, birds and their eggs, and the edible marsh plants, when they could be found. To live in the marsh was to experience warm-to-hot summers punctuated by frequent thunderstorms, and winters that varied from mild to freezing, when whole lakes would ice over and snow would cover this broad flat land in a blanket of silence. Silence defined this country in any season, though; often little could be heard above the sounds of gentle winds sighing through the reed beds, or the slow metronomic wing beats of skeins of geese flying overhead, or the gentle ‘plunk’ of predatory fish breaking the water’s surface in pursuit of low-flying insects. It was a timeless land, savage yet beautiful.
At length, they returned to their village. Here, the black river broadened into a small lake and at its centre was a green island bordered by reeds. Surrounding the island were half a dozen one-room thatched shacks built on stilts, straddling the land and water. On the edge of the lake, where the bank was fringed with trees, were a few dozen more, also mainly built over the water. Standing slightly apart from these and completely over the lake itself was a much larger structure. It had no walls and was thatched with rushes; and from each of the roof’s support posts hung a grisly display of skulls – gleaming white and fleshless and grinning impassively over the brooding stillness. This was the great house that could hold upwards of fifty people, where the elders and other inhabitants of the village would meet to discuss matters of import.
The man stopped his little boat at the island, hauled it ashore and helped the children get out. They followed him up the bank and on to a narrow wooden walkway leading to one of the houses. The side of the house facing the island had no wall; a rush screen partly covering the roof could be lowered in bad weather and a wicker screen, normally used as a fence for the goat pen, could be leaned against it in freezing weather and insulated with squares of turf cut from the bank. Now, however, neither was needed. The island itself was low and flat, with its grass cropped close by the small herd of goats that wandered round untethered by day, though they would be penned in at night. Thin columns of smoke drifted up from some of the houses and the smell of cooking fish was all-pervading.
He stepped into his shack. A large hammock was strung in the corner next to a couple of rush-covered cots. A pot was suspended from a roof beam above a raised fire pit which sat under a central chimney that was nothing more than a small hole in the thatch above. A couple of wooden spears and a simple bow leaned against another wall and from the ceiling hung some thin lines of gut from which were threaded various bone implements, hooks, needles, arrowheads and the like. Some wooden bowls and small bone knives lay by the fireplace. Apart from all that, the shack was bare. Well, not completely, a woman was there. She was short and slim with long jet-black hair and skin that was paler than the man’s, though it, too, was weathered. She wore nothing except a woven skirt dyed in blue and slippers made out of some soft leather. Like the man she was bare-chested. On seeing her, the children yelped excitedly.
‘Mama, we saw a heron; it started eating all the fish until Papa chased it away!’
‘We still have enough.’ he said, handing her the skewer.
‘You will need to go out again tomorrow,’ she said, taking it from him. ‘Winter is coming; we need to prepare. And Dumnekavax has called a council for this evening. Hunters have returned with news; I don’t know what exactly but it didn’t sound good. It was even suggested that he may call on the spirit world to guide him.’
‘Truly?’ the man replied. ‘I wonder if I will be called upon? If the elder needs me, I will ask my brother to check the fish traps tomorrow.’
She frowned and admonished him. ‘Cyganexatavan, my husband, why would you be called upon? You are no longer a callow boy eager to prove himself. You have children now. Do not rush foolishly into danger when there are younger, eager warriors with no responsibilities who would happily do so in your stead.’
He nodded. ‘Of course, you are right, Vaneshanda; my blood no longer has the heat of youth anyway. I will be content to listen and defend our home if necessary.’
She looked at him as if she didn’t quite believe him. ‘Honour that promise. Come, help me with this fish; then you can eat it with the stew before you have to go.’
‘As you wish. The children enjoyed themselves with me today. The boy was eager and quick to learn. It will not be long before his naming ceremony.’
‘By the spirits, you do not know!’ She looked distraught. ‘Poor Shettevellanda’s youngest boy, he was found dead today!’
Cyganexatavan looked up. ‘He has died? When did this happen?’
‘Shortly after you left, he was found still in his cot; his spirit must have left quietly in the night. She has three other boys but is obviously grieving. All of the women have taken turns to sit with her, including myself, but it is still a sad time for her.’
‘I will go see Fasneterax, her husband. If I am able to check my fish traps tomorrow, then I shall do his also; he should remain with her for a while.’
‘I believe he has had many offers of this kind already,’ she said. ‘But it is right that you speak with him.’
‘Perhaps this is a part of the bad news of which you speak. Anyway let us eat and by the morrow we should all know a lot more.’
When Cyganexatavan took to the water again the sun was sitting close to the western horizon, its dying rays casting a violent-orange flare across the lake. Over at the great house the rush torches had been lit, the summoning horn being sounded not five minutes earlier. Shadowy figures could be seen moving around on its floor and m
ore and more people could be seen arriving. Round boats, scuttling like giant water beetles, dotted the lake’s surface as they all converged at the same destination. There was a long, narrow jetty outside the house where the boats were secured. Once they were tied up, their passengers could either haul themselves up on to the floor of the house directly or use one of the several short ladders provided for the same purpose. Obviously, the younger element in the gathering made a point of never using the ladders.
Cyganexatavan was one of the last to arrive. The fish stew had been delicious and he had made sure he had as much of it as his stomach could handle. After securing his boat he climbed up to the great house, making sure that he took the ladder. It was a male-only affair; people were circulating, talking to each other, before the Elder formally called the council together. As Cyganexatavan got his bearings, a man, similar in size and appearance to himself but with a withered leg, hailed him, ‘Cygan, my little brother, I wasn’t sure you made it back in time.’ He came towards him, hobbling and supporting himself on a sturdy walking stick. They embraced each other.
‘I had the children with me; I wanted them to see the fishing grounds for the first time, so I couldn’t stay out this evening.’ As he spoke, the wind seemed to pick up and the torches sputtered. Cygan’s brother spoke again ‘The weather is changing; it will rain tonight for sure.’
‘The spirits are good to us, Uxevallak; a little rain keeps the midges away.’
‘But when it stops, they come back tenfold,’ replied his brother who was seemingly the less sanguine of the two. ‘Listen, have you seen Fasneterax yet?’
‘No, but I have been told what has happened. I was hoping to see him tonight, to ask if he needed assistance with anything.’
‘He won’t be coming,’ his brother replied in hushed tones ‘The Elder went and spoke to him earlier and told him all the news the rest of us will be hearing tonight; apparently the Elder might be wanting volunteers for something, for a few people heard Fasneterax declare “Whatever it is that needs to be done, you must include me.” I myself am unsure if sending a grieving man on some errand is a wise decision – it can cloud their judgement – but it sounds as if there will be no stopping him.’
‘Intriguing – it seems as if the Elder has already determined on a course of action. I wonder what has made him...’
He was interrupted by a sharp hissing sound. At the back of the room was a large brazier, one of the few metallic objects in the village. As Cygan was speaking, a man dropped a mixture of leaves and powders into it, causing it to flare up into a riot of pinks and purples. It hissed loudly and a pungent white smoke filled the room before being caught by the stiffening breeze. This was the signal for the meeting to commence. Everyone present proceeded to sit cross-legged on the floor, bar the man at the brazier, who now turned to face them.
This man was easily the oldest person there. Thin, wiry, with a shock of white hair that fell over his shoulders and halfway down his back, he had no beard or moustache unlike a lot of the men who favoured both (Cygan was another exception) and his nose was prominent and hawk-like. Standing in front of the brazier, he was cast in shadow, though his eyes still glittered like coals, and behind both him and the brazier, on a shelf against the walls, were a row of skulls that glowed red in the fire, an audience of the dead joining the audience of the living. At length, when everyone was settled, the man spoke in a voice deeper and more vigorous than might have been expected in a man of his years.
‘I have called you all here for two reasons. The first is to relay to you for those that may not know news of the passing of Fasneterax’s youngest boy. A child who like so many others did not reach his naming ceremony. Ukka, the spirit of the underworld, has taken him. Her great spirit has joined with his lesser one, making both of them stronger. Together they now travel the Great River that joins the Earth to the Heavens. By day he will be with Cygannan of the skies only to return to Ukka’s side at dusk as, of course, we must all do one day. Tomorrow, before we hold the funeral feast here, we shall walk the path to Lake Meshallax where we will let Ukka claim him. Let your grief for the child be short, for he has gone to a place of radiance and enlightenment beyond our humble imaginings, where he will be taught the way of the spirit world; once he has joined with Ukka he will be in every tree, every bird, every fish and beast that walks, swims or flies upon this world. He will be with every Elder that has preceded me, every warrior, every huntsman. Where our words and thoughts and dreams pass as smoke in the wind, he will have an eternity of peace, free of pain and torment. Our mortality is brief, a mere water droplet along the course of the Great River itself. He is now ahead of us in the great journey along that river and on the morrow we will commend his spirit to Ukka and ensure his passing to her side is a smooth one. Praise Ukka.’
‘Praise Ukka,’ they all said as one, heads bowed. Many of them had lost children in similar circumstances so there was no artifice in their utterance. A distant rumble of thunder could be heard and a fresh wind whipped around them, pulling at their hair and their clothes. Dumnekavax, the Elder, looked at them, his expression grave.
‘The second matter is one that you will not hear from my lips. Rather it is Vengefarak here who will tell his tale. He returned today from a visit to the Jagged Hill tribe, some three days’ journey away. They are a tribe who live close to the sea where the water starts to taste of salt. Once he has told his tale, we must all decide what to do.’
Vengefarak, a dour man of middle years, powerfully built and scarred on his chest as all the men were, stood and faced his audience.
‘It is as the Elder has said. The purpose of my visit was to arrange a dowry for the wedding of my daughter as she has had her fourteenth summer this year. They are not so numerous as ourselves and the son of their Elder had recently come of age. For those who have never been there, I will just say that they live some two to three hours from the sea on a small rocky hill in the midst of a broad flat lake. The water is always choppy for they have little protection from the wind blowing in from the sea. They fish the lake using wide nets and constantly have to protect their catches from the large seabirds. They also need to boil their water as the lake can get quite salty, though like us they collect rainwater in large butts to see them through the dry times. The lake never freezes, though the winters there can be extremely bitter; the trees bordering the lake are low and twisted by the wind. The people there are fairer than us and this would be the first marriage between our peoples. Both Elders sanctioned it some time ago and, as I have said, I had to travel there to finalise the details.’
He stopped, wiping his mouth on his arm; he was evidently unused to speaking in front of a large audience. No one interrupted him. After swallowing deeply, he continued.
‘My journey down there by round boat was uneventful. I saw no one on the way, even though I passed quite close by some other villages. The land changes as you approach the sea; there are fewer trees and broader stretches of water, the days can be hotter and the nights colder. It is a strange land. Nevertheless, I made good progress and on the dawn of the third day of travel I espied their jetty on the hill and made for it. I was expecting the Elder to formally welcome me as we would do here, with pipes and music and a small exchange of gifts; instead, when I got there, there were armed men waiting for me. They bundled me out of the boat and propelled me to the great house at the centre of the hill. At this point I feared for my life but looking at the faces of the other men I saw something unexpected. Fear.
Nearly the whole tribe were in the great house, including the Elder who greeted me warmly and apologised for the reception I had been given. Naturally, I asked him why they were behaving like a frog that has seen a grass snake. He looked at me and said that earlier that day two men were out on the lake fishing when one of the boats capsized and the man who was steering it was pitched into the water. The other went to aid him when he saw him being pulled underwater. The man stopped and hesitated before continuing. What this man saw was
his companion being pulled underwater by the Malaac.’
A shocked silence filled the great house as Vengefarak stopped for a second. Then everyone started talking at once.
‘The night devils, just three days away?’
‘Pah, they are a myth! The man’s eyes were addled by the sun.’
‘They go for the children; they eat the children first.’
‘We must form a war band – no one’s safe!’
The babble continued for a good minute until Dumnekavax threw more leaves on to the brazier causing it to hiss and smoke violently again. Everyone stopped talking. Another rumble of thunder was heard, slightly closer this time.
‘I heard someone say the Malaac were a myth,’ said the Elder. ‘If only that were so. The Malaac are Ukka’s abandoned children, the night devils, an amalgam of amphibian, reptile and man. They normally live in the Forbidden Zone, in the Lake of the Eye, where no man will live as the dangers there are so great and a quick death almost certain. That they have moved such a distance northwards and westwards from there is disturbing. That they have attacked a grown man by the light of day is remarkable.’
Vengefarak continued: ‘This fisherman saw his companion surrounded by three or four Malaac; they were pulling him under to drown him. He had his spear with him and tried to get them off the man. He stabbed two of them but they were relentless. The man disappeared under the waves and was not seen again.
‘I volunteered to stay and help them see out the night. The Malaac only venture on to land at night as their eyes are sensitive to too much light. The village was already fortified by a stockade, so it was just a matter of reinforcing it, seeing it was in good repair and then waiting. I had my bow and spear and was asked to defend the women and children at the great house. All the women there are like our own, well practised with sling and dart, so they, too, were not defenceless.
The Forgotten War Page 15