Orphan Tribe, Orphan Planet

by Jonathan Vick

  When he tried to stand his head pounded and his body ached and he felt like the sounds of the cavern were spinning around him. He needed to wait until he had enough strength to fight again. He needed a smarter strategy than attack. He needed a goal bigger than vengeance. That had been his mistake the first time he attacked. He needed help; allies. He needed to expose Meisx for who he really was. Otherwise, in the minds of the Racroft, Thurl would be just another murderer – the son of Sohjos, driven mad by his adventures underground at the attack by the narvai-ub.

  “Thurl,” Iassa snapped. She’d been talking, trying to calm him, to soothe him, but he hadn’t heard her. Now she was angry.

  “Lavis has told me a lot about your village. He told me that the Racroft have lived in isolation for eons; for so many generations, most can’t even imagine other tribes like the Meson and the other Seven Known Tribes. The Elders talk about them, but everyone assumes they are stories. It’s clear now that the Elders didn’t keep me hidden for my safety. They kept me secret for the safety of the Racroft. Our tribes need to meet; learn from one another. But if it isn’t handled properly, the fear of the unknown will lead to war. If the Racroft attack the Meson, the Meson will defend ourselves, and avenge those who’ve been attacked, and the Racroft will be wiped out. Do you want Meisx to be Leader when the Seven Tribes come to visit? Trust me. You have much bigger problems than pride and family honor if Meisx is the Leader of the Racroft people.”

  Thurl was silent for a long time.

  “I shouldn’t have let you follow me here,” Thurl said. “I didn’t think about the dangers to you. I didn’t expect it might be dangerous to the Racroft. I just wanted to be with you.”

  “Our tribes are on the precipice of a new era, Thurl,” Iassa said. “The Meson have known about the seven known tribes for ages, long before I was born. I don’t know what happens when a new tribe is found, but I can imagine. For a tribe that believes it is alone in the universe, it must be traumatic and disorienting and terrifying. Your leaders have to be strong, and respected and ready for the changes. Are the Racroft ready?”

  “No,” Thurl answered. “But only because they are being led by the wrong leaders.”

  Thurl sat back and leaned against the cavern wall. Iassa was right. There was far more at stake than the life of Lavis; much more than vengeance; more than the honor of his family. The fate of the entire Racroft could be in danger. And a leader who rose to power through murder and conquer was not a leader. He was a tyrant. Meisx was a tyrant. If Thurl killed him, he would be no different. Mere revenge was a mis-guided, petty, unsagacious solution that would likely do more harm to the tribe than help his own family.

  Finally, Iassa said: “In the Meson tribe, our leaders prove their worth and leadership with their actions. They have to survive the nine trials of the Meson, which teach strength, intelligence, compassion, stability, foresight, history, frugality, resourcefulness and empathy. Among those who complete the challenges, they decide among themselves who is best fit to lead. When the decision making leads to bloodshed, we know we have a poor leader. Any Meson who spills the blood of his brothers in the pursuit of power is removed from our society, and the nine trials start again.”

  Thurl needed to confront Meisx, but he needed to do it wisely. He couldn’t do it alone. He needed Iassa to help him; to guide him; to give him strength and assurance and wisdom and purpose. He needed to remember the long-term consequences of his actions, whatever those actions were. Suddenly, he realized Iassa – and their relationship between the Racroft and the Meson - was the longest-term consequence he needed to protect.

  “Lavis,” he said, after a long moment of silence. “I need you to get word to my brothers and sisters. I’m going to need their help.”

  CHAPTER forty

  Thurl healed quickly and grew stronger each day. By the time Lavis returned, he was ready to implement his plan. They made no attempt to disguise themselves, through scent or bulk or rumor. Together, with Iassa, he returned to the Racroft village.

  Thurl waited until the rumors had spread throughout the village that Thurl had returned with the stranger. Lavis had been whispering in all the right ears; letting everyone know that Thurl was alive. The scent of Iassa was still in the village, but she was not easily found.

  Thurl visited as many places as he could find reason to approach. He wanted to be sure Meisx knew he was alive and well. and living with the stranger. Finally, when he felt the time was right, Iassa and Thurl went to visit the Elders. They stayed with them for several days, under their guidance and protection, until Thurl appeared on the Waterfall Dais

  In the Grand Hall in the cavern of the Racroft, a crowd had gathered. They clicked and grunted with anticipation, focusing their echo-location at the Waterfall Dais.

  On the Waterfall Dais, Thurl stood alone, unclothed, in the spray coming from the waterfall. His follicles bristled with the droplets as he clicked and grunted over the rooftops of the village huts. His brothers and sisters stood below him, in the large clear space before the dais. It was the same place they had gathered for their father’s funeral. Soon, as the news spread throughout the village, the Grand Hall was packed with Racroft; several hundred thousand of them, clicking and grunting, standing shoulder to shoulder, waiting to see what the youngest son of Sohjos was going to do.

  Thurl clicked, softly, waiting for the Grand Hall to fill; waiting for the anticipation to reach peak levels. If they were going to rush him, swarm the dais, drag him into the crowd, suffocate him and lacerate him and tear his flesh off his body and parade his carcass through the streets, Thurl wanted it to be a mutual decision of all the Racroft. He wanted there to be no doubt about who he was, and what he represented.

  Slowly, the humming, buzzing whispers of the crowd died down to a near silence. Thurl stepped forward.

  “My name is Thurl,” He said over the heads of the crowd.

  His voice was strong and clear. He spoke loudly enough for his words to echo through the Grand Hall, but not so loudly that he was shouting; calm and even and clear.

  He continued: “I am the youngest son of Sohjos, Leader of the Hunt. I have hunted the narvai-ub. I have rescued the Leader of the Hunt. I have survived underground, and defeated serpentine beasts, and battled a swarm of barrasc, and tamed the chantimer, and rode the avalanche. And I have come home. But, I have not come home alone. We, the Racroft, are not alone.”

  Thurl kneeled on the Waterfall Dais and struck two stones together until a pile of dried roots sparked and crackled. A moment later, there was column of fire at Thurl’s feet.

  The crowd gasped, almost simultaneously, and the chatter became nearly deafening. Thurl waited; either for them to become quiet, or to begin throwing stones and warming rocks at him in fear.

  “All our lives,” Thurl continued when the Grand Hall was silent again, “Our Elders have told us stories of other tribes; people who lived on the land, under the snow, beneath the crust. They have entertained us with stories of another world, a long time ago, when there were millions of Racroft, living in all terrains, that splintered into smaller factions, and grew apart, and ran away to form new villages and live separate lives. Today, we are confronted with the idea that, maybe, they aren’t stories. Maybe they are the history of Racroft.”

  There were murmurs and giggles in the crowd; ridicule; perhaps, scorn; laced with fear. Before it could get out of control, Thurl continued. He reached behind him, to the wall where Iassa stood, and put his arm around her and led her to stand alongside him.

  “This is Iassa,” he boomed, changing the tenor of the conversations below; changing the motion of the crowd. “She is from a tribe called the Meson. They live in caves and tunnels below the crust. They hunt narvai-ub for food. And they know of other tribes who live beneath the snow and crust; six other villages as large or larger than our own; with better weapons; advancements in hunting and healing and choosing leaders we have never achieved.”

  Gasps and shouts and shocked conversation
s were occurring in the Grand Hall. The sound of the grunts and clicks was nearly deafening as every Racroft searched for the echoes of the Meson girl. She was similar, but different enough; she was not Racroft. She smelled different. Her features were smaller. Her eyes moved. She lacked the whiskers and follicles that covered the Racroft bodies. Thurl was telling the truth. She was different, but not threatening. At least, Thurl had tamed her.

  Thurl waited a long time for the Grand Hall to become silent again. Soon, the silence was as deafening as the clicks and grunts had been.

  “The Valley of Corpses was destroyed in the avalanche,” Thurl finally said, and there were more gasps and shouts. “I know many of you felt the fall of the snow, as the ground trembled even here beneath its weight. The valley is unsuitable for hunting; too dangerous. Already, the michau and quet and omino have fled.”

  They were scoffing him below. Somewhere, a group was planning to visit the Valley of Corpses; to prove Thurl wrong.

  “Life for the Racroft is changing,” Thurl continued. “If we are going to survive, we will need to find new hunting grounds. We will need to explore our world beyond the borders we have always known. And we may find other people from other tribes already living on those lands; or beneath them. We must be prepared. We must be prepared to defend ourselves if they attack; and prepared to embrace them, as I have embraced Iassa, if they do not.”

  Thurl expected jeers and anger. He expected stones thrown and violence against him. But, something was happening in the Grand Hall below that had taken focus off Thurl and Iassa.

  Someone was shouting over the din of the crowd.

  “Lies! Lies!” The shouts proclaimed. “Listen to how easily, how smoothly he lies!”

  Meisx was storming through the mouth of the cavern, pushing the crowds aside.

  “He’s delirious, like his father was before he died!” Meisx shouted. He pressed his way into the center of the Grand Hall. “Who knows what traumas he faced below the crust? Who knows what effects the narvai-ub had on his mind, or what rabid creatures may have bitten him, or what diseases may be eating away at his sanity even now? Suddenly, he appears with a fraud, a fake, some poor emaciated, sickly creature he found dying beneath the world – and just because he tells you it’s like you; some different tribe of Racroft – you believe him?! If I return late from a hunt one day, with a bloated, crippled michau, and tell you all it is an exiled Elder come to transform our water to deilla stalk wine, will you just as easily believe me? Ignore him, Racroft brothers and sisters! Or take pity on his poor, unbridled mind and take him to the Healers to be treated for dementia.”

  There was discussion among the crowds. Many of the Racroft agreed with Meisx. Some began to turn away, to return to their huts and their homes and their work.

  “Send your warriors to the Valley of Corpses,” Thurl said to Meisx and his crowd. “They will find what I say to be true. What will we eat, where will we hunt, what will we use for pelt and fur and bone and tusk if the game has been buried beneath an avalanche, and the rest have scattered through the mountains?”

  “I am the Leader of the Hunt,” Meisx challenged. “I will find us prey in the Valley of Corpses.”

  “The only prey in the Valley of Corpses will be you and your hunt team,” Thurl challenged. “You will be devoured by vortex storms and hurricanes and unstable boulders still crashing down the mountain sides.”

  The crowds were ignoring him now, talking amongst themselves.

  Thurl continued:

  “And when did you become Leader of the Hunt?” He asked. “My Father was Leader of the Hunt for over a generation. He earned the title by killing a fegion that had stalked into the village, and by saving his hunt team when they were surrounded by a pack of hungry hinx, and by displaying courage and honor and judgement. He was named Leader by Luap Semaj, who proclaimed it with his dying breath. Who did Sohjos proclaim Leader?”

  Meisx was getting closer to the Waterfall Dais, working his way through the crowd toward Thurl. The crowd was suddenly, ominously silent, listening to both sides of the debate, not certain whom to believe.

  “It wasn’t you,” Meisx said.

  “How would you know, Meisx?” Asked Thurl. “Were you there when Sohjos died?”

  “I was,” said Meisx.

  “And were you close enough to hear his final breath?”

  “I was,” said Meisx.

  “And what did he say?”

  “He said my name,” Meisx growled, loudly to the crowd.

  “Did he say it with pride,” asked Thurl more softly. “Or did he gasp it with accusation?”

  “What are you trying to say, Thurl?” Meisx asked quietly.

  “He survived the narvai-ub attack,” Thurl said, loudly enough for his voice to carry through the Hall. “And the lair, and the hazards underground, and the chantimer attack and the avalanche … but our Healers couldn’t help him. Somehow, he couldn’t survive being in the same hut with you.”

  “Are you insinuating that I killed Sohjos?” Meisx shouted, sarcastically; incredulously.

  “Since returning from the hunt,” said Thurl, “What has happened to the rest of my Father’s hunt team? What has happened to those who supported Sohjos and knew what really happened in the narvai-ub attack, and could challenge you for Leader of the Hunt? Ciashi, Gabal, Darawa, Yadreet, Sreht – all dead from accidents or misfortune or mysterious circumstances. Then, when he was healing, Sohjos suddenly died in your presence.”

  Only the Racroft standing closest to Meisx had heard the accusation and the evidence of murder, but the news was travelling quickly through the crowd. Whispers and mumbles filled the Grand Hall.

  Meisx climbed onto the Waterfall Dais and faced Thurl. He puffed up his chest, and clenched his fists. Every follicle and whisker on his body stood out and vibrated with anticipation of an attack. The clicks and grunts in the Grand Hall were cacophonous as the crowds below searched for echoes of the coming battle.

  “I won’t fight you, Meisx,” said Thurl.

  “You’re afraid to fight me,” Meisx replied.

  “Yes,” Thurl admitted. “You’re bigger than me; stronger. You’ve already beaten me once. I have no doubt you could do it again. But, winning a fight doesn’t prove leadership. It proves brutality and mercilessness.”

  “The Leader of the Hunt must be brutal and merciless,” Meisx spat. “What kind of hunter doesn’t want to kill?”

  “What kind of leader does? Killing prey is not joyful. It is an unfortunate necessity of life. Do you think the narvai-ub kill for sport? Or the fegion? Or the hinx? Nor do the Racroft. Our heritage, our design, our intent is to use every part of the prey we kill. We waste nothing. We kill only what we need to survive. Sohjos taught that, as did Luap Semaj before him, and every Leader of the Hunt within memory of the Elders.”

  “You’re weak and confused, Thurl.” Meisx shouted above the noise. “You’ve suffered too much. You’ve lost your grip on reality. Our world is brutal and merciless. If our Leader isn’t, then we’re all doomed.”

  “My Father wasn’t,” Thurl said.

  “And he died in his bed, like a coward,” replied Meisx.

  Thurl wanted to let his rage scream across the dais. He wanted to attack Meisx and avenge his father and honor the hunt team and prove himself.

  The gathered crowd had split into two factions: those who supported Sohjos and Thurl and condemned Meisx, and those who encouraged the spectacle and entertainment of a blood sport. There were shouts and cheers and clicks and grunts throughout the Grand Hall as the tension rose and a fight became inevitable.

  Then, as if answering an unasked question, drums began to sound.

  Every Racroft ear turned toward the drumbeats. They were the same drums that sounded when Sohjos had died; the same for Ciashi and Gabal and Sreht; the same for every Racroft that had ended their journey and lost their battle with death.

  The crowds began moving, shifting their attention from the Waterfall Dais to the sounds of
the drums; asking one another for information or news. Had anyone been ill, or near death, or unwell? Who was not in the Grand Hall?

  The word was travelling among the crowd: Aivira had been found dead at the mouth of the cavern. Another mysterious death in the village; another member of Sohjos’ hunt team. Some children found him, buried in the snow. An Elder confirmed he had a small spear in his throat; like the kind the stranger used, but thicker and less skillfully made.

  The accusations should have fallen immediately on Iassa. The crowds should have feared her; demanded restitution; demanded execution; or may have carried out the sentence themselves. Instead, the attention, the accusation, the blame, quickly began to fall on Meisx.

  As the accusations began to take hold in the minds of the Racroft below, anger filled Meisx’s his mind. His muscles tensed and his heart raced. He bared his teeth and clenched his claws.

  Before Thurl could react, Meisx plowed into him. Thurl tumbled backwards on to the stone slab. He scrambled to get his feet under him as Iassa spun around and grabbed her bow. Faster than most Racroft could detect, she drew back a small spear and aimed it at Meisx, but Thurl shouted to stop her. At his plea, she lowered her weapon and moved to the back of the dais, against the wall, furthest from the falling water. Lavis waited for her there, and protected her from any Racroft that might have harmed her.

  Meisx was larger than Thurl; much larger and far stronger. Meisx was in his prime, nearly as old as Sohjos had been when he’d been named Leader, and stronger than nearly any Racroft in the village. Thurl wasn’t completely healed from his last beating. As the youngest of Sohjos’s sons he was only barely old enough to be on the hunt team. He lacked the fighting skill and experience and training Meisx enjoyed. But, he was going to face Meisx alone, head-on. It was not Iassa’s battle to win or lose.

  Thurl got to his feet. Again, Meisx lunged at him, smashing his body into Thurl with gut wrenching force. Thurl fell against the back wall of the Waterfall Dais. He reached over Meisx’s shoulders and grabbed at his waist, grasping the thick hide of his opponent and rolling toward the waterfall. Both of them were tossed off balance. They struck the ground with an audible thud. Heavier Meisx hit first and harder. He lost his grip on Thurl, who managed to roll to the far edge of the dais near the waterfall.