by Bjorn Kurten
“Do you know where they might have gone?” pressed Tiger. “I want to find Shelk.”
“You want nothing to do with him,” said Goshawk, shocked. “And besides, nobody knows where he is. Always flitting about, you know. Now here, now there, sometimes in two or three places at once. That’s what I’ve heard.” And Goshawk turned his attention to the wine-skin.
Tiger tried to find out how he had come by this meager information, but Goshawk seemed reluctant to reveal anything of his past. Still, Tiger persisted.
“But where do you come from, sir? You speak like the people from the southwest at the Summer Meet.”
For a moment Goshawk was silent, casting an anxious glance at Tiger.
“As a matter of fact, that’s right,” he confided. “However, it’s been a long time since I saw the great Salt Sea. I have come a long way,” he continued, relapsing into his grand manner, “and I was hailed as a divine being by the Trolls in every village. Troll bitches all over the world are now blessed with children of the Gods, thanks to my generous efforts. Just think of it, I shall have hundreds of grandchildren. The line of Goshawk will surely rule the world. But of course,” he added graciously, “that of Tiger will prosper, too. In future generations, our blood will blend. By means of our divine sperm we will raise these backward Trolls to new heights, and the world will be a better place. I’ve thought it all out.”
He took another swig, just as a smiling girl appeared with two chunks of grilled elk. Goshawk started to grab one, then remembered he was the host, and politely asked Tiger to take his choice. While they ate, Goshawk continued his discourse, now on his favorite topic.
“I know most men despise and even fear the Trolls. That’s where they are wrong. The Trolls really know how to revere a man. I see a great future for the children of the Gods, the union of man and Troll. There is a divine purpose behind it, and you and I are its vessels. I know this because I have seen the token.”
“What do you mean?” asked Tiger.
Goshawk lowered his voice. “There is something about the children of the Gods. I’ve found this out by thinking. As I told you, I’m a thinker!” He tapped his forehead. “For seven or eight winters I have lived in this village. I’ve seen many children born and many children die. And do you know what? The lives of the children of the Gods are charmed! Charmed,” he repeated. “In all these winters, not a single one has died. See for yourself. Look around. There are fewer White brats than children of the Gods. That’s because the Troll imps die like flies, but nothing harms the children of the Gods. Surely you must agree that this is a token. They are divine. A great new race of men is growing up before our very eyes.
“But you’re not drinking,” he said. “Do have some wine. There will be a good berry-brew in half a moon. Tell me, though, am I not right?”
“There is certainly something in what you say,” conceded Tiger, though his inherited dislike of sorcery made him guarded.
“Good man!” said Goshawk. “And now, cast your mind back. You grew up among Blacks, just as I did. Did you ever see anything like this? I bet not. I bet my finest bitch you’ve seen brothers and sisters die, and playmates too.”
“That’s quite true,” said Tiger sadly.
“You see! Now, I don’t say these children of the Gods are immortal, but I do say they are of sterner stuff than Man or Troll. Clever little beggars, too. Do you know that many of them already speak our language? That, I’ve found, is simply beyond the Trolls. So you see our responsibility. They must be kept on the Right Way. They must learn from their mothers to revere their divine fathers, and from us, the ways and language of Men. I mean to share with them all the wisdom in my mind and heart. Remember this, my friend!
“But now, I feel it’s time for a little nap. Won’t do them any good if I exert myself. I’m responsible for this flock, you know. I keep watch over them day and night. Nothing escapes me, I tell you! However, do feel free to choose a bitch for the night. I shan’t mind. I might try one of yours, later on, if you like the idea. Even reckoning, eh?” Goshawk was suddenly seized by a fit of hiccoughs, followed by other, more unpleasant eruptions. When he was able to speak again, he rose unsteadily. “Yes, yes, thank you, I feel fine. See you later. Make yourself at home.”
He crept back into his tent. With a shudder of distaste as he glanced at the soiled spot where the divine Goshawk had been sitting, Tiger also rose, and walked over to his friends. “Any news?” he asked.
There was indeed news. Silverbirch had found a young woman named Sorrel, who had been a member of the White clan attacked by the Devils last summer. She had striking, greenish-grey eyes and a vivacious manner. She held a baby, one of God’s children, to her breast. According to her, the tragedy had taken place in high summer, well before the berry season. The camp was attacked at sunrise and taken completely by surprise. Most of the men and many of the women were killed, but some managed to escape, and she was among them. Yes, she had seen some of the attackers. They all wore a headdress with a single great eagle feather. Yes, she had noticed the leader. He was a tall Black man with a long beard, but he had the brow of a White.
“Shelk,” whispered Tiger to Baywillow. “So it’s true?”
Miss Sorrel went on: “We waited a day or two after the Devils left before we dared return to the camp. There was nobody alive, and the dead had been left for the ravens and hyenas. We buried them, but many people were missing. I believe the Devils rounded them up and took them along, for nobody ever came back.”
“Did anybody try to track them?” asked Tiger.
“Two of our men went after the party,” she said, “but they never came back either.”
“Which way were they going?”
“To the west, toward the hill country from which the Great River flows. We call it the Land of the Osprey. I have never been there, but they say the Great River comes out of a gap in the earth, raging like thunder, and there is a rainbow all day long.”
There was a flash in Tiger’s eyes. He had heard about the great rapids. Veyde glanced at him, and he could see recognition in her eyes too.
“None of the survivors cared to stay at the camp,” said Sorrel. “They wanted to go north and start a new settlement far away. But my man was one of those killed. I had relatives at Blue Lake, and decided to come here. I haven’t seen the others since.”
Tiger was silent. He already knew the Whites’ superstitious awe of the Blacks. How could he get any help from them? And yet something had to be done. His was not a vengeful nature. A happy boyhood and the friendly camaraderie among the Chief’s men had made him an outgoing, pleasant young man. Until now, the image of his father run through by the javelin had been a nightmare. Sorrel’s tale made it real to him, and he realized that he must do something. He wanted redress, retribution. But the most important thing was to rid the land of this menace. He wanted to live without terror. What could he do, though, alone, with only a handful of Whites who would not dare to raise their hands against a Black man?
Veyde interrupted his thoughts with a shout of laughter. He looked up in surprise.
“What is all this about?” he asked.
“Oh, they were telling me that they built a new winter house for Goshawk the Divine last winter,” Veyde explained between peals of laughter. “It was a beautiful house, very strong, but they made the entrance too small. He is so fat that he got stuck. They had to dig him out, and it took a long time because they had made the tunnel solid with stone facings. Goshawk was very impatient.” This Tiger could imagine.
“This is by no means a laughing matter,” said Silverbirch sternly. “Your behavior is most unseemly, Miss Veyde.” He shook his head, but the corners of his lips were twitching.
“Tiger, Mister Silverbirch says I am wanton and most unseemly,” said Veyde gleefully, flinging her arms around his neck.
“I like you that way,” Tiger assured her. “But what should we do now? I would really like to go on.”
“Of course,” said V
eyde soberly. “Do you want to start right away?”
“If you feel like it—yes,” said Tiger, who was now well versed in White etiquette.
So they set out, and as they trudged along, keeping to the eskers to avoid the boggy country, a thin veil of clouds spread over the western sky.
TROUT LAKE
Facilis descensus Averni.
—Virgil, Aeneid
The summer days slipped by as Tiger and Veyde journeyed to Trout Lake. For two days there was a steady drizzle, then came days with showers and sunshine in rapid succession. Their first stop was Miss Sundew’s Cloudberries, the scene of the tragic mammoth hunt a year earlier. Tiger performed belated rites at the graves of his father and friends. On the boulder covering the Chief’s grave, he drew a picture of a proud ferret, his father’s totem, and labored hard to engrave it into the rock. Veyde, following the custom of her tribe, gathered rosebay, now in bloom all over the glades of the esker, and scattered it over the mounds. Then they pressed on.
Tiger led the way, retracing the route along which he had tracked the mammoths. As they passed one familiar landmark after another, his anxiety grew. Veyde tried to divert him with stories, but it was only when she began to talk about the Land of the Osprey that she was successful. Tiger listened with grim interest as she told him the tale of Mister Cornel, her distant ancestor, who grew up by the Great River in the days, long ago, when it flowed in another bed.
“Now,” she said, “the river runs through a narrow gorge, a whole day in length, and its raging water is white. No one can enter it and live. It will break every bone in a man’s body and carry him out through the Gap a mangled corpse. Such is the terrible strength of the Gorge rapids, far greater than that of the breakers against the shores of our island in a southern gale. Yet from the end of the Gorge it is only a short journey, overland, to its beginning; for the Gorge bends back upon itself. And once through the Gap, the river becomes serene, a broad sheet of water flowing quietly east to the lake which you call Big Lake and we call Diver Lake.”
“I have heard about the Gorge,” said Tiger. “Some of the Biglakers have been there. They say you can hear the roar of the rapids one day away. As you come to the Gap, there is a rainbow like a bridge across it—a bridge no man can walk. But the sun never reaches the Gorge itself, so steep and high are its banks.”
“In those days long ago, the Gorge was dry,” said Veyde, “and trees grew on its floor. Each spring and autumn the caribou passed through in immense herds. Mister Cornel and his people lived by a lake just above the Gorge. From that lake, the river flowed to the east. It was a good place to hunt the caribou. You could lie in ambush in the Gorge and take the stragglers—not the leaders, for that would have scared the herd away.
“Now it happened that Mister Cornel’s brother, Mister Rowan, who was very dear to him, got sick and died in the autumn when the skies were grey and dark and the rain fell. It was hard to find game in such weather. Everybody was hoping that the caribou would come. Each day Cornel patrolled the Gorge, looking for game. Often he thought of his dead brother and wished for a sign from him. The rowan is the tree of the osprey, and he knew that his brother was now an osprey, soaring on long wings in the skies of Dead Men.
“One day, as he walked the Gorge, he felt a shock in the ground under his feet. It was as if the land itself had shuddered under that never-ceasing rain. He had a peculiar feeling that something was watching him, and turning around, he saw a terrible black shape, with glowing eyes and great gleaming teeth. A black tiger!
“Cornel the hunter became the hunted, just like the caribou. The walls of the Gorge were sheer cliffs, and the trees were too stunted and weak to support his weight. Running was his only escape. And he ran!
“The tiger must have been hungry and searching for food too. It pursured Cornel, and was soon close on his heels.
“Suddenly the clouds parted, and a single shaft of sunlight fell on the wall of the Gorge. At the same time Cornel saw a great osprey swoop up the Gorge. Afterwards he said he could not understand why it was there, unless it came as a portent, for ospreys stay by the water.
“The clouds closed again, but in that one moment of light Cornel had seen a narrow fissure in the wall. Halfway up, a little rowan tree grew, as if by a miracle. Cornel ran to the spot and managed to clamber up where he could hold on to the rowan. The tiger tried to reach him, but its claws slipped on the wall.
“For the moment, Cornel was safe. He looked at the tiger, snarling and growling below, and in his heart he thanked his brother for coming to his aid.
“But now Cornel heard a terrible roar such as he had never heard in his life. Even the voice of the tiger was lost in that incredible din. A great wall of water, the height of three men, came storming down the Gorge, carrying logs and trees in its wake. In a flash it swallowed the tiger, too, and halfway up the cliff Cornel hung on to the rowan tree for dear life. He was trapped, for there was no way up, and to go down into the raging cataract would be death just as certain as in the tiger’s teeth. The only thing he could do was hold on and shout for help.
“Finally help came, for Cornel’s friends knew he had gone to the Gorge, and went looking for him. They helped him up the cliff, but Cornel knew it was his brother who really saved his life—by means of the ray of sunlight from the sky, the osprey, and the rowan tree. In a way the tiger had helped save his life, too.
“The river, which had flowed to the east, had suddenly broken south into the Gorge. It happened when the earth shook. The level of the lake sank a couple of feet, and the old river bed dried out. But south of the Gorge the forest was devastated by the Great River; and that is how it came into being.”
“It sounds like a fitting place for Shelk,” said Tiger.
They were now in country he knew well, heading straight for Trout Lake. As they went on, new thoughts troubled him. Would there be anybody in his village? He wondered if they would recognize him. When he left, he was a beardless youngster. Now he was growing a beard. And what would they say of him, coming home with a Troll woman? Surely, they would be grateful to Veyde. Had she not saved his life?
At the thought of Veyde, he smiled at her and said, “It is not long now. We just have to cross that ridge ahead. From up there we can see the lake, and we should be able to hear the voices of children. They would be out playing on a day like this.”
Veyde hesitated. “What do you think they will say about me? I am afraid. Maybe I should stop here and let you go first.”
The temptation was strong, but Tiger forced it back. “No, I want you to come with me. I want to tell everybody what you have done for me. There is nothing to be afraid of.”
So they climbed the ridge. The pines thinned out, and there, just as Tiger remembered it, the water of Trout Lake sparkled in the sun. There was the shore where he had played with Marten and Godwit. Reeds fringed the lake, and there was the patch of sandy beach they had often covered with pictures. Quacking indignantly, a few startled ducks took off. Why had they been so close to the houses? Tiger’s uneasiness rose. There was no sign of life. He started to run, and saw a jet-black raven fly up from the houses.
“Maybe they are out for berries?” said Veyde.
But the houses were in disrepair. There were holes in some of the roofs, and one house had collapsed, probably under the weight of the winter snow.
“They must have left last summer,” said Tiger. “The village has been deserted for a long time—”
Suddenly Tiger stopped. One of the posts, leaning crazily askew, was crowned by something round and white—a skull. The empty eye-sockets were turned toward them. Tiger walked to the post, took the skull, and sank to his knees. He stroked the forehead, the cheekbones, the crown.
“So you tried to fight them,” he muttered. “They attacked and you fought back, alone. There was no one to help you. Oh, why was I not here? You put up a show, at least. You fought back. I did nothing but sleep under a tree.”
Tiger pressed his cheek ag
ainst the bony temple.
“These are your teeth. Have you not smiled at me a thousand times? Now they have taken your head and put it on a stake for the ravens. They have left your body to the hyenas.”
Then he turned to Veyde. “Veyde, now I have two reasons for revenge. This is my brother Marten, only a winter younger than I. He would have been a man this summer. The Devils must have come here after they attacked us at the bog. He fought them, trying to defend the women and children. They killed him, and they must have taken away the others—just as they did Sorrel’s people.”
“But how did they know about this place?” Veyde asked.
The question brought the truth home to Tiger. “The Summer Meet. That’s where they spied out the land. They talked to one of our men, asking where he lived, how many we were. There was a whole gang of them, and Shelk, in all his glory.”
“What is the meaning of it all?” cried Veyde. “Why are they doing these things? Why do they not leave people in peace? What is all this killing, and taking prisoners?”
“I do not understand it either,” Tiger said. “But whatever it is, it must be stopped, or no one will be safe any more. We must fight them, kill them, wipe them out!”
“But we are so few and they are so many,” said Veyde. “What can we do to them? They are Blacks. They have the arms and the skill. We are just Whites. Except you, of course. And Goshawk,” she added.
Tiger laughed. “Goshawk! What a thought! But there are strong men and women in his camp, and in ours. You Whites are different. With us, and with Shelk, only the men fight and hunt. With you, women do as well.”
“How about your friends—the Biglakers?”
“I doubt that they are there any more,” said Tiger. “They lived much closer to Shelk. I suspect that they have been wiped out too.”