“Wait,” Vaintè said. “You wear it always?”
“Always. I am out of the city as much as I am in. This is a new city and there are dangers.”
“Then wear it still, Stallan, if you have need of it. Has Vanalpè told you about the beach?” Stallan signaled yes in grim silence. “Do you know what the creature could be?”
“Yes—and no.”
Vaintè ignored Hèksei’s gesture of disbelief and contempt. “Explain yourself,” she said.
“There are swamps and jungles in this new world, great forests and hills. To the west there is a large lake and beyond that the ocean again. To the north endless forests. And animals. Some very much like the ones we know in Entoban*. Some are very different. The difference is greater to the north. There I have found more and more ustuzou. I have killed some. They can be dangerous. Many of the fargi I took with me were injured, some died.”
“Dangerous!” This time Hèksei laughed out loud. “A mouse under the floor dangerous? We must send for an elinou to take care of your danger.”
Stallan turned slowly to face Hèksei. “You always laugh when I speak of this matter about which you know nothing. The time has come to stop that laughing.” There was a coldness in her voice that allowed no answer. They stood in silence as she went out the entrance, to return a moment later with a large, wrapped bundle.
“There are ustuzou in this land, fur-bearing creatures that are larger than the mice beneath the floor that you laugh at. Because that is the only kind of ustuzou we knew of before coming to this new shore we still think that all ustuzou must be tiny vermin. The time has now come to abandon ourselves of this idea. Things are different here. There is this nameless beast, for instance.”
She snapped the bundle open and spread it across the floor. It was the skin of an animal, a fur-animal, and it reached from wall to wall. There was only shocked silence as Stallan took up one of its limbs and pointed to the foot on its end, to the claws there, each one as long as her hand.
“I answered yes and no to your question, Eistaa, and this is why. There are five claws here. Many of the larger and most dangerous fur-creatures have five toes. I believe that the killers on the beach were ustuzou of some kind, of a species never encountered before.”
“I think you are right,” Vaintè said, kicking a corner of the thick fur aside and trying not to shudder at its soft and loathsome touch. “Do you think you can find these beasts?”
“I will track them. North. The only way they could have gone.
“Find them. Quickly. Report to me. Then we will destroy them. You will leave at dawn?”
“With your permission—I will leave now.”
Vaintè permitted herself an expression of slight incredulity, enough to be enquiring yet not derisive or insulting. “It will be dark soon. Can you travel at night?” she asked. “How can a thing like that be possible?”
“I can only do it near the city where the coastline is most regular. There are large cloaks and I have a boat that is nocturnal. It will follow the shoreline so that by dawn we will be well on our way.”
“You are indeed a hunter. But I do not wish you to venture out alone, to face these dangers by yourself. You will need aid. Hèksei here has told me that she helps others. She will go with you, help you.”
“It will be a strenuous voyage, Eistaa,” Stallan said, her voice flat and expressionless.
“I am sure she will profit from the experience,” Vaintè said, turning away, ignoring Hèksei’s unhappiness and frantic signals for attention. “May your voyage be a successful one.”
Naudinza istak ar owot at kwalaro, at etcharro—ach i marinanni terpar.
The hunter’s path is always the hardest and longest. But it ends in the stars.
CHAPTER FIVE
Lightning flickered, low on the horizon, briefly lighting the banks of dark clouds. Long moments passed before it was followed by the distant, deep rumble of thunder. The storm was retreating, moving out to sea, taking the streaming rain and the torrential wind with it. But the high seas still broke heavily on the beach, running far up the sands and into the salt grass beyond, almost as far as the beached boat. Just beyond the boat was a small copse where a temporary shelter of skins had been lashed to oars between the trees. Smoke drifted from beneath it and hung low under the branches. Old Ogatyr leaned out from the shelter and blinked at the first rays of afternoon sunlight that pierced the receding clouds. Then he sniffed the air.
“The storm is over,” he announced. “We can go on.”
“Not in those seas,” Amahast said, poking at the fire until it flared up. The chunks of venison smoked in the heat and dripped sizzling meat juices into the flame. “The boat would be swamped and you know it. Perhaps in the morning.”
“We are late, very late—”
“There is nothing we can do about it, old one. Ermanpadar sends his storms without worrying too much whether it suits us or not.”
He turned from the fire to the remaining deer. The hunt had been a good one with herds of deer roaming the grassy scrublands of the coast. When this last beast was butchered and smoked the boat would be full. He spread the deer’s front legs and hacked at its skin with the sharp flake of stone—but it was no longer sharp. Amahast threw it aside and called out to Ogatyr.
“This is what you can do, old one, you can make me a new blade.”
Grunting with the effort, Ogatyr pushed himself to his feet. The continual dampness made his bones ache. He walked stiffly to the boat and rooted about inside it, then returned with a stone in each hand.
“Now, boy, you will learn something,” he said, squatting down slowly onto his haunches. He held out the stones towards Kerrick. “Look. What do you see?”
“Two stones.”
“Of course. But what of these stones? What can you tell me about them?” He turned them over and over in his hands so the boy could examine them closely. Kerrick poked at them and shrugged.
“I see only stones.”
“That is because you are young and you have never been taught. You will never learn this from the women, for this is a man’s skill only. To be a hunter you must have a spear. A spear must have a point. Therefore you must learn to know one stone from another, to see the spearpoint or the blade where it hides inside the stone, learn to open the stone and find that which is hidden inside. Now your lesson begins.” He gave the rounded, water-worn rock to Kerrick. “This is the hammerstone. See how smooth it is? Feel its weight. It is a stone that will break other stones. It will open this one which is named a bladestone.”
Kerrick turned the pebble over and over in his hands, staring at it with fierce concentration, noting its rough surface and shining angles. Ogatyr sat patiently until he was done, then took it back.
“There is no spearhead trapped in here,” he said. “It is the wrong size, the wrong shape. But there are blades here, one here, see it? Feel it? I now release it.”
Ogatyr carefully placed the bladestone on the ground and struck it with the hammerstone. A sharp chip cracked off the side.
“There is the blade,” he said. “Sharp, but not sharp enough. Now watch closely and see what I do.”
He took a bit of deer antler from his bag, then placed the chip of stone on his thigh and pressed the edge carefully with the tip of the antler. Each time he did this a tiny chip was flaked off. When he had worked the length of it, the blade was sharp and true. He handed it to Amahast who had patiently watched the entire operation. Amahast bounced it in his palm and nodded with appreciation. With practiced skill he slashed an opening in the deer’s hide and cut it from neck to groin.
“No one in our sammad can make the stone yield up its blades as this one can,” Amahast said. “Let him teach you, my son, for a hunter without a blade is no hunter at all.”
Kerrick seized the stones eagerly and cracked them together. Nothing happened. He tried again, with as little success. Only when Ogatyr took hold of his hands and put them in the right position did he succeed i
n breaking free a ragged chip. But he was quite proud of this first effort and labored to shape it with the bit of deer horn until his fingers were sore.
Big Hastila had been gloomily watching his efforts. Now he crawled out from under the shelter, yawning and stretching, sniffing the air as Ogatyr had done, then plodded up the embankment behind them. The storm was gone, the wind growing gusty as it died down, the sun just beginning to break through. Only the white-topped waves stretching to the horizon still bore witness to the past day’s fury. On the landward side the embankment fell away again down to a grassy marsh. He saw dark forms picking their way through it; he slowly crouched and moved back to the shelter.
“More deer out there. The hunting is good in this place.”
“The boat is full,” Amahast said, slicing away a bit of smoking meat. “Any more and she will sink.”
“My bones ache from lying here all day,” Hastila grumbled, seizing up his spear. “The other thing the boy must learn is how to reach the game in order to kill it with a sharp new point. Come, Kerrick, take up your spear and follow me. If we cannot kill the deer we can at least stalk them. I will show you how to move upwind and crawl close to even the wariest prey.”
Kerrick had his spear in his hand, but looked to his father before he followed the big hunter. Amahast nodded as he chewed the tough meat. “Hastila can show you much. Go with him and learn.”
Kerrick laughed happily as he ran after Hastila, then slowed to walk at his side.
“You are too noisy,” Hastila said. “All the creatures of the forest have good ears and can hear you coming long before they see you . . .”
Hastila stopped and held up his hand in a gesture of silence. Then he cupped his hand to his ear and pointed to a hollow in the dunes ahead. Kerrick listened carefully but could hear only the distant rumble of the surf. It slackened for a moment and the other sound was clear, a tiny crackling from the other side of the dune. Hastila raised his spear and moved forward silently. Kerrick could feel his heart beat loudly as he followed the big hunter, moving as quietly as he could; the crackling was louder now.
As they came to the base of the dune they smelled the sweet and sickening smell of rotting flesh. The remains of the butchered deer carcasses had been dumped here, well away from their camp. The crackling sound was much louder now, as well as the buzzing of countless flies. Hastila signaled Kerrick to wait while he moved up the slope and peered carefully over. He drew back and turned to Kerrick, his face twisted with disgust, and waved the boy up to join him. When they were both below the crest he raised his spear into thwing position and Kerrick did the same. What was there? What creature were they stalking? Filled with a mixture of fear and curiosity Kerrick crouched—then jumped forward just behind the hunter.
Hastila shouted loudly and three creatures looked up from their grisly work, stood motionless for an instant at his sudden appearance. The hunter’s arm snapped down, his spear flew straight, struck the nearest one between the forelegs. It fell and thrashed, screeching loudly. The others fled, hissing with fear, long legs pumping, necks and tails outstretched.
Kerrick had not moved, still stood with his spear held high, rigid with fear. Murgu. The one that was dying, clawing at the spear with sharp-clawed toes, was too much like the marag he had speared in the sea. Mouth open. Sharp teeth. Something from a nightmare.
Hastila had not looked at the boy, did not notice his open fear. He was too obsessed with his own hatred. Murgu. How he loathed them. This carrion eater, blood and bits of decay still on its head and neck, snapped feebly at him as he came up. He kicked it aside, stood on its neck while he pulled his spear free. It was scaled and green-spotted, pale gray as a corpse, as long as a man although its head was no bigger than his hand. He plunged the spear home again and it trembled and died. He waved the clouds of flies from his face as he climbed back out of the pit. Kerrick had lowered his spear and fought to control his trembling. Hastila saw this and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Do not be afraid of them. For all their size they are cowards, carrion eaters, filth. Hate them—but do not fear them. Remember always what they are. When Ermanpadar made the Tanu from the mud of the river, he made the deer and the other animals as well for the Tanu to hunt. He put them down in the grass beside the mountains where there is clean snow and fresh water. But then he looked and saw all the emptiness to the south. But by then he was tired and far distant from the river so he did not return to it but instead dug deep into the green slime of the swamp. With this he made the murgu and they are green to this day and fit only for killing so they can decay back into the swamp from which they were born.”
While he spoke Hastila plunged his spear into the sand and twisted it to remove all the stains of the marag’s blood. When this was done he was quieter; most of Kerrick’s fear had ebbed away. The marag was dead, the others gone. Soon they would leave this shore and return to the sammad.
“Now I will show you how to stalk your prey,” Hastila said. “Those murgu were eating or they would have heard you—you sounded like a mastodon going up the slope.”
“I was quiet!” Kerrick said defensively. “I know how to walk. I stalked a squirrel once, right up so close that I was only a spear length away—”
“The squirrel is the stupidest animal, the longtooth is the smartest. The deer is not smart, but he can hear the best of all. Now I will stand here in the sand and you will go up the bank and into the deep grass. Then stalk me. In silence—for I have the ears of the deer.”
Kerrick ran happily up the slope and through the wet grass—then dropped and crawled away from the camp. He went on this way, as silently as he could, then turned towards the ocean again to work his way up behind the hunter. It was hot, wet work—and to little avail, for when he finally reached the top of the ridge again Hastila was already there waiting for him.
“You must look carefully each time before you put your foot down,” the hunter said. “Then roll it forward and do not stamp. Part the grass and do not force your way through it. Now we try again.”
There was little beach here and Hastila went down to the water’s edge and splashed his spear into the sea to wash away any remaining trace of the marag’s blood. Kerrick once more pushed his way up the slope, stopping for breath on the top. “This time you won’t hear me,” he called out, shaking his spear in defiance at the big man.
Hastila waved back and leaned forward on his spear.
Something dark surged out of the surf behind him. Kerrick called out a horrified warning and Hastila spun about, spear ready. There was a snapping sound, like the breaking of a stout branch. The hunter dropped his spear and clutched at his midriff and fell face first into the water. Wet arms pulled him under and he vanished among the foam-flecked waves.
Kerrick screamed as he ran back to the encampment, met the others running towards him. He choked out what he had seen as he led them back along the beach, to the spot where the terrifying event had taken place.
The sands were empty, the ocean as well. Amahast bent and picked the hunter’s long spear out of the surf, then looked out to sea again.
“You could not see what it looked like?”
“Just the thing’s legs, the arms,” he said through his chattering teeth. “They reached up out of the sea.”
“Their color?”
“I couldn’t see. Wet, green perhaps. Could they have been green, father?”
“They could have been anything,” Amahast said grimly. “There are murgu of all kinds here. We will stay together now, one will be awake always while the others sleep. As soon as we can we return to the sammad. There is only death in these southern waters.”
Alaktenkèalaktèkan
olkeset esetakolesnta* tsuntesnalak
tsuntensilak satasat.
What happens now, and text to now, is of no importance as long as tomorrow’s-tomorrow is the same as yesterday’s-yesterday.
CHAPTER SIX
The storm had passed and the rain had stop
ped; the ground was steaming now in the heat of the fierce sunlight. Vaintè stood in the shade of the dead tree and looked on as the workers carefully planted the seedlings in neat rows. Vanalpè herself had marked the rows in the ground that the others were to follow. She came up to Vaintè now, moving slowly with her mouth gaping wide in the heat, to stand at her side in the shade.
“Are the seedlings dangerous to handle?” Vaintè asked. Vanalpè, still breathing heavily, signaled a negative.
“Only when the thorns begin to grow, and that is only after eighty days. Some of the animals will still graze them then, but not after the thorns begin to exude the toxins. The taste is bitter to the ruminants, deadly to anything smaller.”
“Is this one of your new modifications?” Vaintè asked, moving out into the sun.
“Yes. It was developed in Inegban* so we could bring the seed with us. We are so familiar with the thorn hedges around the city fields, always far higher than our heads, that we might forget that they have not been there since the egg of time. They were planted once, were small before they grew large and spread. Now the young branches grow over the old to make an impenetrable barrier. But a new hedge in a new city asks for a new answer.” She was speaking easier now with her mouth no longer gaping. Cool enough to move until part of her body was in the sun. “This new hedge I have developed is fast growing, short lived—and toxic. But before it dies we will have seeded the usual thorn hedge to grow and eventually take its place.”
“And the trees?” Vaintè asked, looking in the direction of the leafless dead trees that stood gauntly about the new field.
“They are already being destroyed—see where the limbs have fallen from that large one. They are riddled with wood-consuming beetles, most voracious. When the supply of wood is gone the beetles will enter a larval stage. Then we can gather the coarctate pupae which preserve themselves in hardened cuticula. They can be stored until needed again.”
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