The Days of the Deer

by Liliana Bodoc

  Leogrós gave the order to prepare to abandon the fortress towards the end of the morning after the battle. The Sideresians hastened to carry out all the necessary tasks: to recover and take to the beach anything that might be useful, destroy what they could not take with them, and supply the ships with enough drinking water. Drimus personally kissed the forehead of the wounded, whispering to each of them that there was no other way, that they should die praising the Master. By the time everything was ready, it was mid-afternoon.

  So the Sideresians headed down to their ships. The Creatures who saw them leave spoke of how they constantly looked back behind them.

  Kume’s dark body was contorted in agony. His naked form still showed traces of its former beauty. The men from the Fertile Lands could not bear to look at the way he had died; still less the warriors from the Ends of the Earth. When a warrior killed another warrior, it honoured them both. What Kume had suffered was not death. It brought with it shame that no one wanted to take with him to eternity.

  Kupuka went to investigate the area where the fire had started. He found traces that helped him work out something close to the truth of what had happened. When he returned, he spoke briefly to Dulkancellin. The Husihuilke listened to him, then spoke to all the men.

  ‘This warrior died in battle, and no one will say otherwise. This man called Kume, son of Dulkancellin, died fighting. And nobody will ever say anything different.’

  Turning towards the coast, Dulkancellin urged Spirit of the Wind on. The animal galloped off, leapt over the remains of the wall, and headed for the Yentru.

  The others quickly followed. Although many of them got close to him, Dulkancellin was the first to reach the shore. Here too he saw fires, as if these were Kume’s last signal guiding his father to the exact spot where the Sideresians were putting to sea.

  They had set fire to the ships they could not use, and it was this that led Dulkancellin to the point on the coast where they were embarking. Spirit of the Wind rushed across the sands like the shadow of a bird to catch them before they could escape. Dulkancellin no longer felt any fever or wounds: no longer a man but fury in person. By the time he reached the sea, the black ships were too far away for any archer. Dulkancellin shouted incomprehensible curses as he rode into the water, desperate for there to be no distance between them and his revenge.

  One man responded to his challenge. Leogrós started back towards the shore in a small boat. His face wore the same expression as it had throughout the battle.

  Everything that happened next was closely observed by Drimus. The hunchback thrust his head and eyes forward. The rest – his panting laugh, his hunched body and his skip of joy – were hidden behind one of the ship’s masts.

  The Husihuilke warrior waited, Spirit of the Wind’s front legs pawing at the waves. The leader of the Sideresian army was drawing closer. The man who must have given the order for Kume’s torture was right there, with the wind blowing his cloak around his body. When he reached a certain distance from the shore, Leogrós opened the cloak. He was carrying a weapon in his hands. Dulkancellin drew back his bow. The arrow and the fire crossed. The fire took the warrior’s life with it; the arrow dropped into the sea. Dulkancellin felt an intense pain in the chest, and knew then he was already in the land of death. The figure of Leogrós wavered and went dark before his eyes. Was that Shampalwe husking corn? Yes, it was Shampalwe dancing with her hair gathered up under a crown of shells, the day their love began. Still, before death closed the door, the greatest warrior of the Ends of the Earth had time to stare at the sea and imagine it was the Lalafke. Time to stare at the sky and confuse it with his forest in winter. And at the last moment of his life, he imitated his brother Cucub, and began to dream.

  Those who in later years sang of these events said that his arrow had crossed the Yentru Sea and buried itself in Misáianes’ laugh. But the men who saw it said the arrow had simply fallen into the sea. They also spoke of how little Cucub sobbed, still clinging to a brother who was no longer there. Of Thungür’s silence, and Kupuka’s prayer.

  28

  THE BROTHERHOOD OF THE OPEN AIR

  Cucub stuck his fingers in the pot, then put them, sticky with honey, into his mouth.

  ‘Well ...?’ asked Kuy-Kuyen. ‘Is it back?’

  The Zitzahay frowned. No, the old taste of cane-sugar honey was not there. Of course, the honey in the pot had tasted good. It was good, but different.

  ‘We have to accept it,’ said Cucub. ‘Nothing will ever be the same as before. I can remember Dulkancellin’s words: ‘“The Time we knew and loved has gone for ever.”’

  Hearing her father’s name made Kuy-Kuyen sad, but although Cucub saw this, he continued on the same theme.

  ‘This market is a good example. It might look the same. But those of us who grew up among these stalls know it has changed.’

  Little by little, Beleram was returning to normal. People gathered in groups and began to make their way back to the villages, talking once again of crops and harvests. And the market, even if it had different produce, opened as usual.

  The House of the Stars was also emptying of people. The first order Bor gave to the servants was to restore to the empty chambers the splendour that had been neglected in the time of war. He busied himself not only with the rooms but the courtyards and the observatories. As if he were trying to get rid of all traces, thought Kupuka as he saw him scurrying around tapestries and statues.

  The Earth Wizard had other priorities, which seemed to him far more important. The war had greatly diminished the number of young men, and to him this was something that needed restoring. Kupuka did not let any family leave without pressing them with recommendations.

  ‘Go back to your village. Plant your corn, get used to the animals with manes. And above all, remember that we need births.’

  We need births! Wherever he could, and at every moment, Kupuka stressed the message. Not content with that, he would introduce young warriors to recent widows:

  ‘Look how beautiful she is! Ask what her name is. Take her with you into the jungle! And remember, the shade of the copal tree is good for conceiving boy children.’

  The Lords of the Sun did not take women from other races. Hoh-Quiú reiterated the prohibition, and was implacable in punishing any transgression. Bor seemed to agree with the prince in this matter.

  ‘What will those children be?’ he lamented. ‘Zitzahay or Husihuilkes?’

  ‘They will be men,’ retorted Zabralkán.

  The Zitzahay people gradually left the House of the Stars. The others stayed on for the space of several moons.

  The cacao festivities were approaching. Before this, it was the last day of a Council that had started out by asking: Who are these strangers arriving on our shores? and was finishing with the question: How are we to prepare for their return?

  ‘I will tell them what they should do,’ said Kupuka, taking Kuy-Kuyen by a tress of her hair, and Cucub by the hand. ‘And whilst we are busy with times to come, you concern yourselves with your wedding day. Now that Thungür has agreed, you, little one, must put on all your best arm-bands and your sandals. And you, Cucub, make sure there is enough to eat and drink, because no one else will do it for you.’

  Then, understanding what they were thinking, he added:

  ‘Don’t think that by getting married you will be betraying the dead or abandoning the living.’ Kupuka took Kuy-Kuyen’s face in his hands. ‘This smile of yours comes from the sun. Keep smiling, Kuy-Kuyen. Smile against the darkness that is still all around us.’

  That day, shortly after the three friends had left the great courtyard, Molitzmós appeared. During his recovery, he often continued to suddenly wake up and then equally suddenly fall back into a stupor. He walked slowly around the pond. He still occasionally shook from head to foot, and felt a great desire to sleep. Sometimes, in his lucid moments, he had feared that the plant he had taken was stronger than he had thought, and that it would carry him off into a sleep fr
om which there was no return. Fortunately, the mixture of flowers and roots was exact. He had swallowed the concoction shortly before the start of the battle, to produce the lethargy that had so puzzled Kupuka. And if it had sedated him more than expected, it made the pain of stabbing himself with his own knife more bearable.

  The drink and the wound. Molitzmós had done both things in order to avoid having to fight the Sideresians. And now, had it been possible, he would have done the same, to postpone the moment when he had to meet and salute Hoh-Quiú. Yet he knew that this humiliating duty could not be delayed. To find the strength to bear it, he reflected that possibly everything that had happened could be turned in his favour. Now that the Sideresians had left, he was in a good position. Molitzmós of the Sun had become Misáianes’ vanguard. He was sure he would soon hear from the Master of the Ancient Lands. While he waited, Molitzmós would continue with what was most important: deepening an irreparable wound. That was where he should persist.

  And the best place for him to do that was in the person of Bor. The Supreme Astronomer’s spirit was fertile ground for sowing the evil that Misáianes had called for. The daily visits Bor had paid Molitzmós during his recovery, looking for someone who would support his claims, showed Molitzmós he was not mistaken. The Supreme Astronomers were at odds with each other, and there could be no better beginning.

  Separating Magic from the Creatures was the start of the new mandate in which Molitzmós and his House would be great again.

  Zabralkán and Bor stared at each other. Bor had called for this urgent meeting. ‘Just the two of us,’ he had insisted.

  The last day of the Council was to be held a few days later. Zabralkán knew that what Bor was going to tell him was closely related to that, and was bound to be important. Bor had been noble in his support of the Fertile Lands, but always with a final reservation, like a person trying to help resolve someone else’s problem.

  ‘Very well, the Creatures have done everything they could. And we must recognize their bravery and celebrate their victory.’ Bor had thought out carefully what he was going to say, and made it sound convincing. Later, as the Astronomer got close to the heart of his argument, he gradually lost his composure. ‘But we know that victory will be short-lived. The Creatures will not withstand another attack by Misáianes, which will be reinforced in many ways.’

  Zabralkán nodded, and Bor was encouraged to go on.

  ‘We are the Magic .. . the Magic of this side of the sea. The Enclosed Brotherhood and the Brotherhood of the Open Air were born of the same light back in the Ancient Lands. When we both succeed in rising above the Creatures we will meet in the skies, and be in harmony once more.’

  Zabralkán no longer agreed with what he was hearing.

  ‘Between us, we encompass the whole of Wisdom,’ Bor continued. ‘We can and must find agreement in our territory of stars. We are not medlars or iguanas; we are not even men. We should not ally ourselves with them, but with our peers. The alliance of the two Brotherhoods is the only force before which all the others, Misáianes included, will bow down.’

  Zabralkán sat with eyes closed.

  ‘Do we really love the Creatures?’ Bor almost shrieked, to make him listen. ‘If we do, I see only two possibilities: to return to the place we should never have left and enlighten and protect them from there. Or to vanish with them from the face of the earth.’

  Zabralkán slowly opened his eyes. Rose even more slowly from his seat. Hesitated for a long while over whether or not to say something. And in the end, walked out without a word.

  The horn was blown at regular intervals to herald the start of the Council. Neither the chamber nor those who had to take the decisions were the same. Four of the representatives were no longer there. Dulkancellin, Elek, and the Pastor had died in battle. Still enveloped in her memory, Nakín by now was little more than a slender piece of bark inscribed with signs from the past. But others had arrived to replace them.

  They sat in concentric rings around the White Stone. Zabralkán, Bor, Kupuka and Hoh-Quiú formed the innermost circle. The others were filled by representatives from all the peoples of the Fertile Lands. Zabralkán raised his hand and the murmuring ceased.

  ‘Let us begin,’ said the Supreme Astronomer.

  The old man paused, but no one spoke. Nobody could think of doing so before he had addressed them all.

  ‘Which of us is unaware that our victory, however glorious, is not a definitive one? If it had been, we could have celebrated and then each one of us departed for his own land. Yet here we still are, almost as troubled as we were. A not unwise voice has said that Misáianes will return, reinforced in many ways, and that the Creatures will not be able to resist another attack.’

  Bor began to think things were going well for him. It was possible that Zabralkán’s silence a few days earlier meant he had taken a decision which the stars had then confirmed. It was possible that Zabralkán had at last understood.

  ‘How long will it take Misáianes to return?’ asked Zabralkán, this time expecting an answer.

  ‘Not long,’ said Kupuka.

  ‘We will be waiting for him with a large army,’ said Hoh-Quiú.

  ‘It will not be enough,’ the Earth Wizard said.

  All of them only had to remember the evils Misáianes had sent in advance of his ships, many of which were still afflicting them, to understand how true this was.

  ‘You have spoken well, brother Kupuka,’ said Zabralkán. ‘An army will not be enough. Is everyone agreed?’

  Everyone there could see plainly how much the victory had cost them. That was enough for them. That and the memory of the heroism of some and the feats others had performed. None of them hesitated.

  ‘Agreed,’ said Hoh-Quiú, the first of all.

  ‘Agreed,’ said the voices of the Offspring.

  ‘Agreed,’ said the Husihuilkes.

  ‘Agreed,’ said the Zitzahay.

  ‘Agreed,’ said the lesser Astronomers.

  ‘How are we to strengthen ourselves while we wait for the day of their arrival?’

  Zabralkán asked each in turn what they thought needed to be done, big or small; each of them replied with sensible suggestions according to their customs and natures.

  ‘All we have heard from our brothers is good and necessary,’ Zabralkán thanked them. ‘And if we imagine each of these actions brought together, they can build a great stone wall around us which will undoubtedly protect us. To raise it will be the hard work to which we must now dedicate ourselves. Yet before we assume our duties and separate, let us be sure we remember the most vital thing. Because every time we remember it, we will be surer of it.’

  Zabralkán raised both arms in the direction of Bor, who so far had remained silent. Everyone was wondering what this gesture meant, when the aged Astronomer asked his brother to tell them all where he considered that their true strength against Misáianes lay.

  Bor turned pale. Surely Zabralkán did not think the representatives would understand the reasons for the re-encounter with the Enclosed Brotherhood? Molitzmós might, endowed as he was with powers that went beyond his condition as a simple creature. But how could the warriors of the south and their wizard do so? How were the Zitzahay craftsmen, or the young fishermen of the Offspring to understand?

  ‘It would be better to hear it from the mouth of Zabralkán,’ said Bor.

  What was taking place, unnoticed by most of them, was a trial of strength between the Supreme Astronomers. A battle between the two in which Zabralkán was asking Bor to assume his position and defend it; to state out loud for all to hear the place he claimed for Magic: close to the stars, and far from the Creatures. Faced with this silent demand, Bor appeared to yield and instead to choose a place next to them.

  ‘I say that what Zabralkán has to tell us is what I believe, but in clearer words,’ Bor continued, as if he had changed his mind.

  Zabralkán realized this was not the time to challenge Bor. Perhaps there was still
a way back for his brother.

  ‘You do me honour,’ said the old Astronomer. ‘But I say that Kupuka is the best one here present to tell us what is most vital for us. You, brother Bor, said “It would be better to hear it from the mouth of Zabralkán.” I say it would be better to hear it from the mouth of Kupuka.’

  Until now, the Earth Wizard had been as silent as Bor. But Zabralkán’s ploy had less to do with this than with showing Bor how far he had to go to rejoin the rest of them.

  Barefoot and smelling of the jungle, Kupuka began by laughing. Sitting alongside the splendour of two Astronomers and a prince, the Wizard seemed more than ever like a muddy animal.

  ‘Zabralkán, who is ancient compared with everyone, is not old compared to me. Yet he has been cleverer. He has robbed me of my calm and put me to the test. “Tell us what is most vital for us . . .”’ Kupuka’s tone of voice robbed the complaint of any sting. ‘But Zabralkán is a true brother, and has made it easy for me. Now all I have to do is to repeat what he himself said as clearly as possible. Zabralkán said: “It would be better to hear it from Kupuka.” There is the most vital point.’

  Those who understood the direction the Wizard was taking began to smile.

  ‘“We will do better to hear it from the mouth of Kupuka.” This is telling us that an Astronomer from the Remote Realm is no more than a Wizard from the Ends of the Earth. And I will add: a Wizard from the Ends of the Earth is no more than a walnut tree; a human birth is no more or less than a blossoming flower, an Astronomer studying the stars is no more and no less than a fish spawning. The hunter is no more or less than the prey he hunts in order to live; a man no less and no more than the corn he needs to feed him. That is what Zabralkán was telling us; and that is what is most vital. Creation is a perfect weave. Everything in it has its proper size and place. Everything is linked together in an immense tapestry that not even my beloved weavers of the south could reproduce. Shame on us if we forget we are a loom. And that wherever that endless thread snaps is where Misáianes can start to pull until the whole work is undone.’