When he finally caught sight of his camp, Aeden thought he would cry out of happiness. He threw the lifeless cat to the ground halfway between the fire pit and the river, and went to the water to clean himself off.
After cleaning the blood off his wounds, he was glad to find they didn’t seem deep enough to cause any permanent damage. He would have to take care against infection and it would take time for him to heal completely, but he thought he would survive. He had to survive.
That seen to, he turned toward his kill. And sighed. It was going to take a lot of work. With no other alternative, he got to it.
First was the skinning. Tying part of the rope he made to the back legs, he hoisted the carcass up onto a tree branch so it was hanging with the head down. He made a long slit down the body of the cat with his knife, using the spear hole as a starting point. Then he peeled the skin off the flesh, scraping the ligaments from the skin to allow it to separate as he removed it.
Aeden soon had a whole hide in a bundle off to the side. This he put into his water bowl, full of water and ashes from the fire to make a murky solution. He agitated the skin and placed rocks on top of it to hold it underneath the liquid to soak.
He opened up the belly of the flayed beast and took out the entrails. The intestines he wrapped in large leaves and set them to the side for later use. The others he threw into the river and watched as they washed downstream. The ground beneath the hanging body was soaked with blood. Aeden was glad it wasn’t too near his camp. It would start to smell in a few hours.
Next was the meat. Aeden sliced off thick slabs of muscle from the cat. Hunting must have been good for the predator. There was plenty of flesh to cut off. As he cut them, Aeden skewered the pieces on sticks he had cut and sharpened. These he laid in large leaves.
The entire process took several hours, and he only stopped to start a fire in a hastily-dug pit. The sun went down and it started to get cooler as he finished. Aeden’s stomach growled, and he realized he had not eaten for most of the day.
Carrying the meat to camp wasn’t too difficult. The rest of the carcass and the hide he left where they were. He would deal with that the next day. As for the intestines, he wrapped them up tightly in several large leaves, tied a bit of rope to them, and hung them from a tree, out of reach of scavengers.
Before going back to camp, he removed one of the cat’s shoulder blades and added it to his load.
Rather than starting a fire from scratch, Aeden took a burning stick from the fire he had made in his skinning area and used it to make one in his camp fire pit. Soon, the meat was cooking over it, grease popping as it dripped into the flames. Aeden took some of the leaves he had gathered, made proper poultices of feverbane and scarlet bush stalks on two large elephant plant leaves, and tied them in place on his arm and shoulder. While the meat cooked, he scraped the shoulder blade clean of tissue and then rubbed it across a rough, flat rock to sharpen the curved side.
He ate as much of the meat as he could, and then wrapped the remainder in some of the large leaves and tied them up to a tree branch also. After being sedentary for so long, his muscles and wounds had stiffened, so traveling to the river to drink was an ordeal. He did it, though, and drank his fill before going back to camp to sleep. As soon as he laid his head down in his shelter, spear by his side and knife in his hand, he fell into unconsciousness.
When Aeden awoke, he could hardly move. His entire body was sore from combat the day before, and his wounds were laced with fire. He felt his own forehead, as if he would know if he had a fever from infection, but could tell nothing from it.
Some animals had been in his camp the night before, no doubt smelling the meat and wanting some of it. It was still tied up, but there were footprints everywhere—most from rodents, but one that could have been a fox and one some type of dog—and the few items lying around had been moved. When he checked the carcass, it was the same thing. Some animals had even rifled through the skins, but didn’t try to eat them. They must not have been starving, then. The carcass and the hanging intestines were still right where he had left them, though there were marks on the cat’s body of something chewing what tissue was left there.
Aeden moved slowly so that he did not tear open his wounds and pulled the skins from the bath he had been soaking them in. The water in which the cat’s pelt had been soaking was gray and smelled of rancid meat, musty fur, and a hint of smoke. He emptied it into the river and refilled the bucket to rinse the skins off.
Spreading the hide on a nearby rock, Aeden started to scrape, using the cat’s sharpened shoulder blade. The bits of flesh still on the skin came off fairly easily after having soaked overnight. When he was done, he added the ash from last night’s fire to the bucket, swirled it around with a stick, and put the skin back into the liquid. He replaced the rocks on the skin to hold it under the solution.
Aeden’s meals for the day were the leftover meat from his previous day’s kill, cooked again over the fire until it was almost burnt. Better to eat charred meat than to get sick, his instructors had told him. He drank plenty of water during the day, ate some of the vegetables and roots he had foraged and stored, and changed the poultice on his gashes. They were sore and oozed blood—how he wished he had needle and thread to sew them up properly—but they did not seem to be getting infected.
Toward the afternoon, he felt up to gathering more herbs and checking the closest snares. He found two more rabbits that had fallen prey to his traps, so he brought those back to camp, dressed them, and saved the pelts. He had scraped clean the large skin from the cat and staked it to stretch it out so it could dry.
Another day had passed, the fifth since he had been left out in the wilderness. He only had a day and a half left. If he could avoid calamity until then, he would survive.
The next day when he awoke, the wound in his shoulder had puffed up, and red streaks led from the cuts toward the center of his chest. When he tried to stand up, his head spun and his knees buckled beneath him. He knew what that meant.
Aeden had two choices. He could abandon his trial and head back to the village, or he could try to wrestle the fever and the infection himself, using the limited herb lore he had been taught.
If he went back to the village, he could make it there in less than a day, even weakened to the point of crawling halfway. Failure in the trial of survival did not carry a death sentence like some of the other trials did, but if he failed it, he would never be a warrior of the clan. He could learn a trade or do menial work, but he would always be looked upon as lowly. He would shame his father and his family. Dying would be better.
Aeden took the cat skin he had been working on, now dried and stiff. He finally took down the intestines he had hung days before. Slicing them open, he scooped out the reeking gelatinous mass within and started to rub it over the hide, working it in so that the oily material soaked into the leather. He had to take breaks in between rubbings, feeling like he would pass out from the exertion and the stench of the jelly, but in a few hours, he had done enough that the skin was pliable and soft, though the smell of it still made him gag.
Twice during the time he worked on the hide, he felt fire rising up in him, so strong it seemed it would burn the flesh off his bones. He staggered to the river, to a swirling pool made by several large rocks blocking the main flow, and lowered himself into it up to his neck. Even then, it felt as if the water would boil from the heat he was generating. Once, his body also grew as cold as ice, his teeth chattering and his hands shaking as he worked on the hide. He moved closer to his fire—burning in the daylight to provide heat for him—but the chill would not leave him until the next episode of fire. So the day passed.
He dosed himself with the ground leaves of scarlet bush, chewing on willow bark in between to dull the pain and fight the fever. And, of course, he cleaned the infected wound often, lancing it with the tip of his knife, draining it of the gray-brown pus that accumulated.
By the time night had fallen, he had drunk water until he felt he
would burst, nibbled on a few roots—the only thing he could get into his stomach without bringing it back up—and went to sleep by the fire, his new skin wrapped tightly around him. He barely slept, waking up too cold or too hot, not sure where he was, or even who he was at times.
His last day dawned, finally time to go back to the village. The fever was still with him, but seemed to be in a lull. He was light-headed still but could think a bit more clearly than he had the day before. As he shuffled around to forage more medicinal herbs—if only he could find one of the rare areas where ginger root grew—he cut all the snares he had set. There was no use in catching prey for other predators to eat.
Leaning on his spear, his knife strapped to his leg and what remained of his rope tied into one long coil wrapped across his shoulders, Aeden took one last look at his camp and headed off.
He had his pelt wrapped around him as he left, but removed it and replaced it as his journey went on. Every hour or so, he would stop, chew more of the roots he had brought with him, and try to gain enough strength to continue.
It was mid-afternoon when he first realized he was lost. He knew the area around the village, should have been able to find it in the dark without trouble, yet nothing looked familiar to him. In fact, when he raised his hand to wipe the sweat from his eyes, his own arm looked foreign. He stopped at a small pool from the last rain and drank, splashing water on his face to cool himself.
Before he got more than a few swallows down, ice ran up his back, and he had to pull his hide tight to fight it. He clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from clacking against each other and hugged himself as best he could with his injuries. All he could do was wait for it to pass.
It did, finally. In a flash of lucidity, he recognized the rise of a nearby hill, three rocks perched on its top like sentinels. He could use those as a landmark to steer himself toward his home. It was only a few more miles, and if he hurried, he could get there before dark.
He had to. He would not survive another night.
Aeden propped his spear on the ground, levered himself up, and began shambling toward where he knew the village lay. It was a race, truly. He had to make it back. It would be less than half a day beyond the week he was to stay out, but still long enough to succeed. With a grim determination, he set his jaw, aching from clenching it during his last attack of chills, and moved forward at the fastest pace he could set.
The sun was going down as he noticed several familiar things on the landscape around him. Through the fog in his brain, he groped for what it meant. Yes, home. It meant he would be home soon. Just a short distance.
Howls echoed against the rolling hills pressing in on him. Aeden’s stomach felt as if it was full of stones, and a chill that had nothing to do with the fever gripped him. He could not be caught out in the open wilderness like this, not in the condition he was in. He willed his feet to move faster.
One of his feet somehow missed the ground and he found himself sprawled out in the long grass, his spear at an awkward angle beneath him. He lay there, panting, for a time. He was exhausted and weak, the fever almost overtaking him. He told his arms to move, his legs, any part of his body that would help him get up. They all ignored him.
Would it be so bad to lie there for a time? He could go to sleep and then he wouldn’t feel the pain anymore. Yes, just a little nap. It would be fine.
The howls grew louder, startling him. He blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to focus in the dimming light. His head ached. Every muscle in his body screamed at him, his wounds even more loudly. Above it all, one thought burst through. If you do not get up the hill and to the village, you will die. You will shame your father and your clan.
Aeden took two deep, shuddering breaths and heaved himself into motion.
One arm, then the other, then the first leg and the second, he prepared his body to crawl. Inch by inch, he dragged his tired limbs across the vegetation. Inch by inch, he went up the hill, the howls of the beasts chasing him. They had caught his scent. It wouldn’t be long.
Aeden was surprised to find himself on the top of the hill. With a superhuman effort, he planted the butt of his spear on the ground and then climbed up it, pulling himself to his feet. He felt the wound in his shoulder tear open again, but ignored it. He could see smoke from the village, the outline of some of the buildings in the dusk. He would make it. It was less than a mile distant.
Howls and yips assaulted him and he turned his head so quickly, it threatened to make him fall down as the world spun crazily. Several dark shapes broke through the brush, at least half a dozen, and they were coming right for him.
Highland hounds, or as everyone called them, leapers. They were scavengers and opportunists, quick and agile, hopping about in their random fashion when attacking. One or two would normally not be a problem—they were cowardly when confronted with strength—but even if he were well, a handful of them would be dangerous. In his condition, even one could kill him. He had to escape, get back to the village.
Aeden tried to take a step toward his home, but his foot found a depression, and he pitched forward. Everything spun until it was a blur, and the ground came up to strike him over and over again. His head, his shoulders, arms, legs, it was like someone was running around his body and beating him. When he stopped moving, he tried to lift his head and the dizziness caused him to throw up everything he had eaten that day. Fortunately, it wasn’t much.
He was surprised to find the spear still in his hand, as well as his knife still in the makeshift sheath and tied to his leg. As he looked toward his home, so close but still too far away and glanced up at the beasts coming down the hill at him, he found tears in his eyes. So close. He had been so close.
Wiping the moisture from his face with the back of his hand and, realizing that his injured arm was dripping blood from the reopened wound, he planted his spear on the ground and heaved himself upright. He was of the Croagh Aet Brech and he would die as a warrior should, standing on his feet with a weapon in his hands, not as a crying boy.
Aeden turned to the creatures coming at him. He counted them more accurately this time. Eight. Drawing his knife and holding the spear midway up the shaft with his other hand, he prepared to die, but to die with valor.
8
Aeden planted his feet as solidly as he could, but he still swayed slightly. The leading creature would reach him in seconds, and as he prepared to die, he thought of his mother and father. He hoped they would be proud of him, fighting to his very last breath. It was all he could hope for.
The first of the leapers came within ten feet of him and jumped. As it almost reached him, it let out a wild screech, unlike the earlier howls. It seemed to be one of pain. Aeden was able to dodge the hurtling beast. Mostly. As he twisted to avoid it, slashing out with his knife, it caught him on his good shoulder and spun him around, almost knocking him to the ground. Only by using the spear against the ground to keep his balance was he able to stay upright.
His attacker didn’t get back up to attack him. Aeden stared at it, his slowed mind wondering what was going on.
Then he saw it. The animal had an arrow protruding from its head. Aeden realized that the other attackers had not reached him either, though they were within a few feet of the lead creature. He scanned the hill in front of him.
Three of the beasts had been struck by arrows and were either dead or dying. The others had peeled off to the sides and were running away. Behind him, Aeden heard the yells of people. Warriors. Clansmen.
“We canna help you make it to the village, lad,” a familiar voice said. “You have to do that on your own. We are just chasing the beasties away from our homes, that’s all. We are not helping you.”
Aeden turned slowly and saw five men just feet away from him, but he had eyes for only one. His father stood foremost, a bow in his hand and a quiver of arrows belted to his waist.
“Go now, lad,” he said. “Finish your trial so we can patch up your wounds. Go.” He pointed his bow to the homes, light
s shining in the rapidly approaching darkness.
Aeden went.
Using his spear as a crutch, Aeden hobbled toward his home, trying to look strong and able, but knowing he made a pitiful sight. As he stumbled nearer the buildings, he saw his mother wringing her hands and waiting for him, her eyes wide and liquid. She motioned him forward, dancing on the balls of her feet.
Aeden went deep inside of himself, trying to burst through the fog in his mind, trying to squeeze out one last bit of energy. He finally set his foot in the area between two of the buildings—a home and the village meeting hall—and then he was falling. The blackness overtook him, and he didn’t know anything after that.
Aeden’s eyelids fluttered open and he looked around. His stomach lurched violently. He brought his hand up to cradle his head, and the sharp pain stabbing through his shoulder reminded him he was injured.
“Careful, Aeden,” his mother’s voice chided, “your fever is mostly gone, but you are not healed yet.”
“Mother?”
Her face came into view above him. She was beautiful, even more so at that moment. He thought about how all boys thought their mothers were beautiful, but he knew it was the truth because he had heard everyone, from his father to other men and women, even some of the boys, say it. Her wash of red hair fell down, almost brushing his forehead as she leaned over him, shading her face and giving her an angelic quality.
“Yes,” she said. “You had to make a dramatic entrance, did you now?” She chuckled at him and he smiled.
“I don’t like to do things the easy way. You know how stubborn I am.”
“Aye, just like your father. Codaghan, god of war, help all who have to deal with the two of you.”
“What’s that you’re saying,” his father’s voice said from the doorway of the room. “Are you blaming me for something else again?”
“No, dear,” Miera said, rolling her eyes so that only Aeden could see them. “We were just talking about stubborn animals.”
Wanderer's Song Page 5