‘Why?’ asked Sil-Jeve.
‘Because there could be anything in it. Caves are good places to live. There could even be a group of slashers in it. I think we should move on.’
‘Come on, Wath-Moll, we’re cold and wet. We could be warm and dry in that cave. Think of it, a nice cracking fire, toasted meat, and a roof over our heads.’ There was a murmur of agreement. ‘What do you think, Eln-Tika?’ Sil-Jeve continued. ‘Is there any danger?’
‘There’s something in the cave,’ Eln-Tika said slowly. ‘Strangely enough, it feels like a chanit.’
‘A chanit? Just one?’ Wath-Moll asked.
‘That’s what it feels like.’
Ci-Nam asked the obvious question.
‘Is he dangerous?’
‘I don’t think so - however he is resting. He may have just eaten.’
‘I wonder why he’s on his own?’ Sil-Jeve mused.
‘How would we know?’ Wath-Moll said irritably. ‘Come on, let’s go to the cave - but take it carefully. There may be danger.’
They climbed cautiously up the slope to the cave, holding their blenjis on their leads. At the entrance, under the overhanging cliff, they stopped. They tied the blenjis to a couple of trees growing out of the cliff. Ci-Nam and Larri-Vo quickly made four torches from flathead lard and dried twigs. With half the octet holding torches and the other four with their bows at the ready, they slowly moved into the cave. There was a hoarse cry and a large rock whizzed past Ci-Nam’s head.
‘We’re friends!’ Wath-Moll shouted.
‘Go away!’ came a call.
‘We need shelter,’ Wath-Moll replied.
Another rock crashed against the wall of the cave.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Wath-Moll shouted. ‘There are eight of us and there’s only one of you.’
There was a pause then the voice said quite quietly, ‘You’re an octet?’
‘Yes. We’re hunters. We only came here to get out of the rain.’
‘Then why didn’t you say so?’ There was another pause, a sound of movement, then a torch glowed into brightness. They could see a chanit in the dimness surrounding the light.
‘I was just resting,’ the figure said. ‘My fire has gone out but I can relight it.’ The words were said carefully as if the owner was not used to speaking.
The octet walked towards the fire which was just coming to life. They looked curiously at the lone chanit who, for his part, was looking curiously at them.
‘You’re an odd-looking crowd for an octet,’ he said by was of a start.
‘How so?’ Sil-Jeve asked.
‘Your clothes. They seem rather elaborate for a group of hunters. The cared-for hands. You don’t look right.’
Wath-Moll held out his hands. ‘How about these?’ he asked.
The stranger regarded the weather-beaten palms, the sinewy arms, Wath-Moll’s practical dress. ‘Ah. You’re a hunter, no mistake. I’m glad to meet you.’
Wath-Moll said straightforwardly, ‘My name is Wath-Moll. What is yours?’
‘Disl-Meynak-Toy.’
Eln-Tika only half-listened as Wath-Moll introduced the others to this strange and now obviously elderly chanit. His name was odd, more complex than theirs. He must be from some unknown group of chanits. It made her realise how far they were from home. She sought comfort in the companionship of her friends and this harmless chanit. She moved closer to the fire which was now burning brighter; Disl-Meynak-Toy seemed to have ample supplies of firewood. The conversation had become a mutual cross-questioning. It appeared that Disl - she couldn’t think of him in terms of his complicated full name - had once been a member of an octet. Like theirs, it had been attacked by slashers and only two had escaped. Disl’s companion had died some years before and now he was alone. He knew of towns but he had chosen to continue this lonely life. Eln-Tika admired him. He had survived, for a start, and he had found some kind of peace. She could sense his inner calm. The stone-throwing and shouting had been out of character, brought about by an unexpected event. This cave was something like a silent-house to him.
She wondered if she could do what he had done. There would be no thoughts to feel, nothing but silence in her head. And there was the actual physical loneliness: no-one to talk to, to share ideas with. You needed to be very self-sufficient for this life; she doubted if she could cope. But it had its attractions. It was with a certain wistfulness that she listened to Disl talking of his life. He lived permanently in this cave and he had held it against all-comers with such ferocity that he was now left alone.
Eln-Tika knew the question that Wath-Moll was to ask as sure as she knew the response. It was not intuition. It was simply that she knew Wath-Moll so well and now she knew how Disl thought.
‘Why don’t you join us?’ Wath-Moll asked. ‘We’re a good crowd. And we’re on an adventure. It’s hard and it’s dangerous, but that’s nothing to you. We offer companionship, shared experiences, the unexpected, great story-telling. Eln-Tika’s a telepath and a seeker of truth, by the way. You would be stimulated.’
‘A telepath? Then she knows what I am about to say.’
‘Yes, I do,’ Eln-Tika said quietly.
Disl grinned at her. ‘I thought so.’ He turned to Wath-Moll and became serious. ‘Thank you my friend, but I must decline. I shall die here because it is my home. I am no longer a hunter, who is always homeless, wandering the world with his seven friends, hunting flatheads and avoiding slashers. No, I shall stay here. But I’m glad you came. I need reminding that there is a huge world out there, full of life - and death - where my kind continue to live as I did once.’
Wath-Moll placed his hand on the hermit’s arm in a gesture of acceptance. ‘We will leave tomorrow, my friend. Wish us well as we wish you well.’
The following morning, Disl watched from the entrance to his cave as the eight hunters set off, once again, on their travels. He had regrets, but he knew he had made the right decision.
*
The octet were riding through an area of tall ferns. Progress was rather difficult and they were riding in single file, the leader, Wath-Moll, creating the trail. They were making more noise than normal as they hacked their way through.
‘Danger! North!’ called Eln-Tika. ‘A speed-dragon.’
Wath-Moll stopped, waiting for the others to reach him. It was time for a pep-talk.
‘Now, contrary to all you have heard - except from me - speed-dragons aren’t especially dangerous. They do not normally attack chanits because we're too difficult for them. We can outrun them.’
‘Can we outrun them here?’ Sil-Jeve asked. ‘We're only just managing to get through.’
‘No,’ Wath-Moll admitted. ‘Here we can’t. The speed-dragon can crash through the ferns while we can’t. Here we're at a disadvantage. We'll move east looking for a clearing. We want to be able to see it.’
‘Might it not ignore us?’ Dalu-Mai asked.
‘Yes. In fact it probably will.’
‘It's closer. It knows there's something here,’ Eln-Tika warned.
Wath-Moll rattled out the instructions. ‘We do not want to attack it, but we may have to. Wait for my signal. If we do attack, aim at the eyes and mouth. Forget the body. Use black arrows, of course. Now let's move on.’
They rode making as little noise as possible, each anxiously looking north. Eln-Tika kept relaying the speed-dragon's position. They rode until they came to an area where the ferns were lower and more widely spaced.
‘It's over there!’ Ci-Nam shouted excitedly.
They saw the huge head and neck of the speed-dragon projecting above the ferns - a menacing sight.
Wath-Moll said, ‘Form a line across and draw bows. We can’t run so we'll wait. If it charges, fire as many arrows as you can, then scatter. Once they're on a charge they find it difficult to turn, so it will run through us, slow, stop, turn, and charge again. After three or four charges, they give up.’
The hunters drew their bows and waited. The speed
-dragon stared at them but did not move. There was no wind and the ferns were still. A few birds were calling, but otherwise there was silence. Nobody moved.
‘It's walking towards us,’ Larri-Vo said.
‘It's probably curious. It may never have seen a chanit before,’ Sil-Jeve suggested.
‘It's charging!’
The speed-dragon was running towards them, crashing through the ferns, flattening them with its huge strides. They could hear the thump as each heavy foot hit the ground.
‘Fire!’
Eight arrows sped towards the speed-dragon, aimed towards the opened mouth with its two rows of terrible teeth. Five arrows missed altogether, one hit the skull and bounced off, one hit the teeth and bounced off, and one went straight into the mouth, disappearing from view. The speed-dragon let out a roar of rage as it crashed through the scattering hunters. Wath-Moll turned in his saddle and fired at an eye. The arrow struck the skull and bounced straight upwards. Arrows were flying from all directions and Wath-Moll saw another go into the mouth. The speed-dragon, already groggy from the poison of the first arrow, began to sink.
‘Stop!’ Wath-Moll shouted.
They watched in awe as the huge animal slowly buckled. It hit the ground with a shudder that shook the earth. The hunters were stunned at what they had done. They had killed the most formidable beast they knew, killed it with just two arrows.
‘I told you speed-dragons weren’t dangerous,’ Wath-Moll said cheerfully.
When they were sure the animal was dead they rode up to it and gazed silently at the massive body. The huge jaws were open, the two rows of long, sharp teeth frightening. The pale brown scales of the body shone dully in the sun. Even lying on its side the speed-dragon was terrifying. They still could hardly believe they had killed it.
Later the following day the terrain changed again. They had been slowly descending, glad to return to warmer nights, and now they rode into a wide, open valley between two ranges of level hills. They were back into open scrub, but it was greener than they were used to. Once again there were flatheads. They could see small herds grazing in the distance.
They rode to the floor of the valley where they found a sluggish river flowing to the east.
‘All rivers lead to the sea,’ Sil-Jeve said. ‘If we follow this one we should come to the sea.’
They rode along the dried flood-plain of the river for four more days. Living was made easy by the herds of flatheads that came to the river to drink. It was a time of near tranquillity. One afternoon, the octet sat by the river out of the heat of the sun. The water rippled slowly by, glinting dully in the shade. They could see fish moving lazily just below the surface.
‘We could catch a few of those and smoke them,’ Wath-Moll suggested.
‘Or we could sit here and do nothing,’ Sil-Jeve replied.
They sat by the river and did nothing. A huge sky-dragon appeared over the trees and dropped down to the water. It flew purposefully past, its lower jaw cleaving through the water. They watched intently, to see if it caught a fish, but it rose up on heavily flapping wings and disappeared round the bend.
The hunting was so easy and the enemies so few that they half-expected to meet another octet taking advantage of this wonderful area, but they did not. Hunters were scarce, perhaps because so many had been absorbed by the towns.
The area was so good that they thought of staying, but they decided to move on; if they failed to find the sea, or if it proved a disappointment, they could always come back. They rode down the valley and the river steadily grew wider. On the fourth day, when the sun was at its highest, Wath-Moll, who was in front, halted. The others joined him and gazed in the direction he was looking.
The land stopped. In the distance, in the direction the river was flowing, and below them, it seemed a huge bite had been taken out of the land. In the space left by the bite was the palest of blue, like the sky.
‘What's happened?’ Wath-Moll asked.
Sil-Jeve replied, ‘I think it's the sea.’
Wath-Moll stared at him, stared at the edge of the land, then laughed. ‘We're there!’ he cried.
The others gazed in astonishment, then laughed too. They rode down the valley as fast as they could, laughing as they went. Herds of drinking flatheads looked up, saw them coming, and raced off in fright. The hunters rode through the ferns, over the dry sand banks, under the shade trees. They splashed through the tributaries and skirted the swamps.
They were nearly there now. They could smell the sea, a strange salty smell, and other smells they could not place. And then they were there: a strip of sand and blue rippled water stretching as far as the eye could see. They stopped on the beach and stared in awe at the level horizon. No-one spoke because thoughts were enough.
It was the prosaic voice of Wath-Moll that broke the silence.
‘We must find a campsite,’ he said.
‘Why not here?’ Dalu-Mai asked. ‘There's water enough.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Eln-Tika said. ‘I don’t think we can drink it.’
Without a word, Wath-Moll dismounted, cupped a hand into the water, and drank. Immediately he spat it out.
‘Ptchah! It's terrible.’
‘I told you so,’ Eln-Tika said calmly.
Wath-Moll was grinning as he remounted.
They made camp on a level area above the river overlooking the south shore of the bay. Far to the north they could see the tops of a range of high mountains. The tops seemed to be glistening white in the sun. Nearby a small stream tumbled down the slope, giving them a constant supply of fresh water. The lush vegetation provided ample food for the blenjis. And there were, of course, the herds of flatheads, which they could see further up the valley.
Eln-Tika said, ‘Perhaps we should stay here for some time, Wath-Moll. It's a good place.’
‘And lay eggs?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
A peace fell on the listening octet. Wath-Moll looked slowly round the arranged tents, at the cooking area, the grazing blenjis, the trees and the ferns, the river below with its drinking flatheads, the wide bay with its narrow edge of sand. He was very content.
‘You're right,’ he said at last. ‘Here we'll stay.’
Chapter 14
Eln-Tika had taken to riding alone in the countryside. She could sense no danger in these rolling hills. To the east she could detect a herd of flatheads while further to the south a small group of blenjis were quietly grazing in a shallow valley. She rode slowly through the scattered ferns revelling in the peace. The loud screech of a blue and yellow parrot exploded the silence and her blenji jumped slightly with the noise. She patted its neck then saw, as she bent forward, a patch of bright blue through the vegetation. It was an unusual colour; she rode towards it to investigate. As she drew closer she could see that the blue was shimmering and as the shadow of her blenji touched the colour, it burst into hundreds of tiny fluttering pieces. They were butterflies, hundreds of bright blue butterflies. And revealed, now that they were in the air, was the carcass of a young flathead.
Eln-Tika drew her blenji back and the butterflies returned to the carcass, again obscuring it from view. She could see they were drinking the juices of the meat and that made her wonder. Here was death and decay feeding life and beauty. The endless cycle of death and resurrection, in which she dimly believed, was here before her. She had the clear feeling that she was a small part of a perpetual intermeshing process that drove the whole world. She looked around at the great blue and white arch of the sky, the green ferns waving in the breeze, at her blenji, its muscles moving under its scaly skin as it shifted position, and again at the butterflies shimmering in the sun. And then she thought of herself and her friends living their lives in this huge and wonderful world. She felt she was standing at the doors of a great revelation whose details were not yet clear. She must talk to Dalu-Mai and Fen-Palui when she got back. They would understand; maybe they even had the answer.
But philosophical talk w
as secondary to the business of procreation. Now that the octet had settled, that was the main thought. Pairing, a rare event with hunters, was beginning to happen.
With an octet comprising four males and four females this was straightforward. Mating created some emotional ties, but not many. Wath-Moll mated with Eln-Tika because he had known her the longest, and this made him more comfortable with her, but he knew he could almost as easily have mated with Dalu-Mai, or Dro-Shord, or Fen-Palui, it would not really have mattered. The others formed pairs easily enough, and then they waited for the egg-laying to begin. Twenty days later, the first eggs were laid in the prepared nest, and two days after that there were twelve eggs laid from all four females.
The nest was a circle of stones plastered with mud lined with fern leaves. For the next month it would be central to the octet's activities. They would keep the eggs at the right temperature by sitting on them at night and shading them during the day. They would keep constant guard, for the potential predators were legion. Small animals like point-toothed dancers could creep unseen into the nest, break the shell of an egg with their sharp teeth, and suck out the contents before a chanit knew what was happening. Then there were the sky-dragons. They mostly ate fish, but they were not beyond taking a chanit egg if the opportunity arose. They would swoop down from the sky and snatch an egg before an unwary chanit could react. The sky-dragon would in all probability by shot down as it flew away, but by then it was too late. The members of the octet took turns in preventing the dancers and the sky-dragons getting anywhere near the nest.
For forty days the octet guarded the eggs. During this time the excitement steadily rose. Egg-laying was a rare event for an octet. The constant travelling made it difficult to lay eggs, an activity which required the group to be in one place for many months. It was only possible when the octet found a place where they felt safe, and where the hunting was easy. Such places were hard to find.
Early one morning, Fen-Palui, who was tending the eggs, saw that one had a small hole in it. As she watched, the hole grew bigger and then she could see movement within. She called the others and they gathered round to watch. Then a hole appeared in other eggs and within an incredibly short time the heads of the youngsters were appearing. In only two was there no activity. Very soon ten tiny chanits with wobbly legs and blind eyes were staggering round the nest. Now the work really started.
The First Riders Page 10