by Bjorn Kurten
Tiger turned to Baywillow. “This is a death-trap,” Tiger moaned. “Shelk will just wait until we die from lack of food and water, or until we give up. He has all the stores from our houses and he has the spring. He can afford to wait. We cannot.”
An odd smile appeared on Veyde’s face. “I am not so sure Shelk can wait,” she said. “I know what the Great Swan told me. We are her cygnets, and she will save us. I know that you are trying to think for us and help us, Tiger, but you are not to worry.”
“Worry!” cried Tiger in a rage. “Save us! Who? The Swan? The birds? Nothing can save us! Not if we stay here! The only thing to do is to go down! Then at least we can attack.”
“Shh,” whispered Baywillow. “I think it is already too late for that. They must have found the houses empty and come looking for us. I believe they heard you, Tiger.”
In the distance, someone said, “They must be close by. I heard a shout.”
“Keep still, everybody. We’ll hear them if they move.” There was no mistaking the authority in that voice. It could only be Shelk.
There was absolute silence, which seemed to last for an eternity. Then one of the children whimpered.
“They’re up there, on that hill.”
“More fools they,” said Sheik. “Sentries up. Make a ring around that hill. If anyone moves, give the war-yell.” Tiger heard people moving about: Shelk’s fighters taking their station.
Then Shelk raised his voice, speaking the language of the Whites to perfection.
“Come down, everyone. Give up your leader, the Black man you call Tiger, and I swear by the birds and by the Sun God that nobody will be hurt. I am the Guardian of the birds and the son of the Sun God, and you must obey me. Only then will your lives be saved, and those of your children too.”
Veyde made an impulsive move for her spear, but Angelica gripped her arm and shouted, “Go away from our island. Do not show yourselves here any more. Go in peace.”
Shelk laughed. Somebody kindled a fire. Angelica bent down and hurled a spear. An agonized cry came from the darkness, and the fire was hastily stamped out.
“For that, you shall be punished, Mister Tiger,” said Shelk. Then he spoke in his own language: “All right, we’ll starve them out. Here, you, are you badly hurt? Only a scratch? Good. Now we’re all hungry, and these people owe us some refreshments. Go to the camp, Weasel, and see what they have. Get the best.”
The trapped men and women on the hill listened in silence. The children slept. Gradually the sounds from below died away, and Tiger realized that Shelk’s men were sleeping too. But he knew there were sentries around the hill, ready to cry out at any movement.
Time passed, the aurora died away, and slowly the first light of dawn appeared. Tiger could see Veyde’s face, drawn and grey.
“Tiger, I feel it will be my time soon.”
Tiger could say nothing. He put his arm around her, and Veyde rested her fair-haired head on his shoulder. Baywillow lay beside them, but did not sleep. His gaze never left the wood. Marestail kept watch on the other side. Old Silverbirch rested, with his back against a boulder. Angelica slept, her hand closed around the shaft of a spear.
When the first sun rays stung his eyes, Tiger realized that he too had slept. In his dream he had been back at Trout Lake, hunting a fox with Marten. With a shudder he remembered where he was. Around him all was silent. He looked down at the landscape he had learned to know and love. This was the highest point on the island, and the view was magnificent. Everywhere there was the flash of water, glimpsed between the trees and the rounded hills. To the south the sea was a smooth mirror in which the outer rocks lay like grey specks. The sun rose, great and red, in a mist thick enough for Tiger to look straight at the mighty disk of light. To his amazement, he saw black specks, like beetles, on the face of the sun.
There was a whizzing sound, and Tiger started as a javelin passed close by his head, hit a boulder, and fell back into the wood. He had ventured too far, and quickly withdrew. A voice came from below:
“Don’t bother with that. We’ll get them all in due time.”
“I just—just thought I’d get the Black one. Then the others would come down.” This voice was slurred, as if sleepy.
“Well, you should have aimed better.”
“Master, I don’t know what it is, but I can’t see well.”
“Go to the shore and wash your eyes. Hey, Cook! We’ll need something to eat and drink. It’s morning!”
“I don’t feel well myself,” said someone else. “I think those berries were overripe. I’ll have to take a crap.”
Tiger returned to his mournful meditations. If he’d only done something in time, they wouldn’t be in this hole. He should have known that the enemy would never give up. What Shelk’s ultimate objective might be he did not know. Something about a Sun God. More damn sorcery.
Veyde stretched. “What is going on?” she asked.
“Nothing much. They are just waiting. They know that we are going to starve eventually.”
“Well, we are not starving now. I am going to have some food. See? I brought the berries Mister Silverbirch gathered.”
“You seem to have left some behind, though,” said Tiger. “I heard Shelk’s men complain that they were overripe.”
Veyde looked at him, opened her mouth, and then shut it again. It was Baywillow who spoke, in Tiger’s language: “Finicky devils, aren’t they?” Was there a hint of a snicker in his voice?
Veyde rummaged among the bags stacked in the middle of the plateau. The children woke up and were admonished not to go near the edge. And soon Veyde’s people were eating with relish.
“Master, I can’t see! I’m going blind! blind!” someone screamed below.
“What is happening?” asked Tiger. To his surprise he saw that Veyde’s cheeks were aflame. There were tears in her eyes. “What are they saying, Tiger?”
“Somebody is complaining that he cannot see.”
Tiger started moving toward the edge of the cliff. Veyde took his arm. “No, Tiger! Wait!”
Again someone screamed, “Master, I’m dying!” his words lost in the sound of furious retching. Soon another man screamed, and another. Shelk’s men cursed and prayed, and retched.
“I told you they would not have time to wait,” said Veyde. “They will all die. They will die as Coltsfoot died. I have killed them. They were going to kill you, maybe all of us. They killed your father and brother. Now they are getting what they deserve.”
“She’s right, Tiger,” said Baywillow. “I didn’t know if it would work, but it has.”
The frightful noises continued. Tiger was stunned. Yes, he had wanted Shelk and his gang wiped out. But he had dreamed of a fight, where he himself put a javelin through Shelk’s body. Finally he managed to ask, “How did you do it, Veyde?”
“The death-caps. They grow on the island too. I thought it out as soon as we came back here. I picked a lot of them and shredded them into small bits, which I mixed with one bag of the cloudberries. I hid the bag, so nobody would find it and get killed, but yesterday I put it in our larder with the other supplies. I was sure Shelk’s men would eat the berries sooner or later, but I was not sure they would work on the Devils. I am glad they did. Because of this, we live, and are out of danger. We are free of the Devils, Tiger.”
Tiger went to the edge of the cliff and looked down. What he saw made him sick with horror and pity. Shelk’s men, invincible fighters the night before, were now crawling on the ground, retching and screaming in anguish. A couple of them, still on their feet, stumbled blindly into trees and rocks, falling and trying to get up again.
“Let us go down,” said Tiger. “This is too terrible. Is there nothing we can do?”
“They are already dead,” said Baywillow. “But let’s go.”
They found Shelk lying on his back, his face grey, his eyes closed. Tiger spoke Shelk’s name several times, and finally Shelk opened his eyes, staring blankly into space.
&nb
sp; “Shelk, I have revenge upon you,” said Tiger.
The dying man seemed to regain a little of his strength and sneered, “You think you can kill me. You are wrong. I’ll come back. I won’t forget, and you’ll never forget, either. I’ll come back! You can expect me at any time. There will be no peace for you.”
“I did not do this to you,” said Tiger. “Of all my people, I was the only one who did not know. I wanted to meet you in a fight. Still, I have revenge upon you. You killed my father and my brother, and I am the eldest son. The revenge is mine.”
Tiger lifted his spear, but Baywillow checked his movement and spoke: “No, Tiger, you’re wrong.” He turned to Shelk: “You killed my father and my brother, and I am the eldest son. The revenge is mine.”
With his hand-axe, he broke Shelk’s head.
PART TWO
SHELK
THE SACRIFICE
Úre aéghwylc sceal ende gebídan worolde lifes.
—Beowulf
The man called Shelk walked slowly up the path which only three men were allowed to tread. His head was bent, his hands behind him. His mood was in keeping with the day, for a great wind soughed in the pines and spatters of rain fell from time to time. He was keeping a tryst; one which he had kept, without fulfillment, for as many days as he had fingers on both hands.
He was well dressed, in clothes of caribou skin and a close-fitting cap of wolverine fur; his boots were waterproof sealskin. His dark beard, already turning grey at the roots, hung down over his chest. His eyes were fixed on the ground in front of him. Shaded by a heavy brow, they formed the most impressive feature of his brown, weatherbeaten face with its broad, high-bridged nose.
He reached the little hut on the crest of the hill and stopped outside for a moment to look around. The hill commanded a great view of the lands to the north, where endless vistas of forest faded into the distance, obscured by sheets of rain. In front of him was Caribou Lake, where the waters of the Great River collected before their tempestuous run through the Gorge. The Gorge itself was hidden by the trees, but the sound of the cataract in the distance hung in the air. Autumn was here. He stepped into the empty hut and kindled a fire.
When the fire began to blaze, he dropped a few rocks into it. He took a big wooden vessel and poured it half-full of water from a container that had once been a horse’s stomach. He put honey and a bunch of dried meadowsweet, of which a stock hung from the roof, into the water. When the rocks were heated through he dropped them into the water to make a hot brew, which he stirred vigorously with a stick before taking the first draught.
“Ah,” he said involuntarily, putting down the pot. He wiped his beard and looked out: he had heard something moving. For a moment he brightened, but the gloom returned to his face as he saw who was approaching.
It was a Black man, not as tall as Shelk, but broad-shouldered and lean, with a narrow face and a hawklike nose. He was moving rapidly, and the expression on his face drew Shelk out of the hut. The newcomer stuck his spear into the ground and rested on it for a moment, regaining his breath. Shelk saw his eyes fill with tears.
“What is it, Fox?” he asked. “I have been expecting bad news for days.”
Fox sank to his knees. “My sons are your sons, Left Hand,” he whispered.
“Yes,” said Shelk, “you have been as a brother to me always—to us. And now…” He paused. “I think I knew it days ago when the Sun God rose so red and terrible and the beetles crawled on his face. I looked at him boldly. He was shrouded in mist and the deviltry was eating him. What have I done? Where are we at fault, Fox?”
“I don’t understand it, Left Hand. All I know is that Right Hand is no more. He is dead, killed by black sorcery, by a Black man whose magic is greater than ours.”
Shelk laid his hand on Fox’s shoulder. “Come in. You need a hot drink. Then you can tell me.”
Inside the hut, Fox took a grateful draught of the meadowsweet tea.
“A Black man. Do you mean the leader of the island people? The man Goshawk told us about?” asked Shelk.
“I don’t trust that fat man!” cried Fox. “When the messenger brought him here after the victory of Right Hand at Blue Lake, I wanted him killed. But you wouldn’t have it.”
Shelk nodded. His gaze wandered idly, without emotion, over the few furnishings of the hut. “Goshawk took the vow,” he remarked.
“He speaks without reverence,” said Fox.
“Dear Fox, it’s just his manner of speaking. I believe he’s sincere. But now, Fox, tell me. I know the plan. Viper was to be put in command of Blue Lake. Goshawk told us of a White village out in the islands, led by a Black man…”
“A Black man called Tiger,” said Fox. “Goshawk told us that he was young but carried a tiger tooth on his chest, and so must be a great hunter and leader, perhaps from that clan at Trout Lake. What Goshawk didn’t tell us is that he’s a great shaman too, and that his magic would strike Right Hand and all his men!”
“All his men, too?” echoed Shelk faintly, rocking to and fro.
“He should have told us, Left Hand. I think he’s a traitor.”
“Come, come,” said Shelk. “As I remember his tale, he saw Tiger only once, and described him as a civil and personable young man. How could he guess that such a man was a great sorcerer? And when this dreadful thing happened, Goshawk was here.”
That was indeed true. The last two moons had been a trying time for Goshawk. His wine-cellar empty, he had retreated to his winter house the day after Tiger’s visit (the entrance having been widened to allow him to wriggle through), and had promptly gone to sleep. He stubbornly slept off the remarkable after-effects of his long bout, getting up occasionally to drink water and eat a little. He slept through the uproar of the attack on the summer camp, and two more days went by before he felt able to face the world again. Finally he crawled out, blinked soberly at the overcast sky, and started to walk down to the lake, of which he intended to drink a fair portion, as well as taking a refreshing swim.
He never got that far. When he emerged on the beach, he was startled to see two strange Black men converging upon him. In spite of his voluble protests, he was held in an iron grip and immediately brought to the terrible Shelk. That stern warrior was found back at the summer camp in conversation with his lieutenant, Viper, a young but balding Black man of enormous stature, with a full beard. Even though he over-topped the tall Shelk, the authority of the older man was evident. Both were fully armed. At the appearance of Goshawk and his captors, Viper looked amazed, but Shelk merely glanced at Goshawk in a nonchalant way.
To be apprehended in this fashion was not quite new to the divine Goshawk, whose earlier career had been chequered. Sober, he was a different man from the expansive, condescending lord of Blue Lake who had hailed Tiger as a guest a few days before. He had figured out what had happened, and now intended to marshal all his shrewdness to save his skin. The fact that one of his captors was prodding his back with a spear was no doubt unpleasant, and the austere bearing of Shelk did not bode well, but after all, he had been in trouble before and had always managed to scrape through. So he bowed civilly to the conqueror and expressed his regret that he had not been present to welcome him upon his arrival.
“Welcome!” barked Shelk. “Are you responsible for these people here? They tried to fight us.”
“No doubt they were very startled, sir,” said Goshawk. “Of course, if I had been here nothing like this would have happened. We are pleased and honored to see you.”
The shadow of a grin passed across Shelk’s face. He was now aware that he was dealing with an unmitigated rascal, and the idea amused him. Most of the people he met he regarded as utter simpletons. This one might turn out to be a simpleton too, but at any rate one of a different breed. The man’s brazenness took his fancy.
Shelk felt bored, as he always did after making an elaborate plan and reaping success without even having to test it. Fighting Whites was too easy. It had been different planning and ex
ecuting the strike against those mammoth-hunters last summer. The brilliant result had been a reward in itself. Now there were no enemies left worthy of his steel. But the very outlandishness of Goshawk’s appearance intrigued Shelk. Let him go on.
“Where have you been hiding?” asked Shelk.
Goshawk, grateful for the opportunity to speak, embarked upon a long tale about having been ill and spending days in his winter house fighting death. He went on to remonstrate about the practice of pricking sick men’s backs with spears, at which Shelk made a move with his hand and the pricking ceased. Shelk listened gravely, with an occasional nod, and kept his imperturbable look all through, a look which had given Goshawk qualms at first, but now encouraged him.
Then Goshawk was seized by an inspiration. He rapidly passed on to his favorite topic, which was the singularity of the children of the Gods. It was a lucky move. Shelk was now listening to him with evident interest. Sweating with earnestness, Goshawk told him about his experience. “The children of the Gods are inviolable, sir,” he finished.
Shelk remained silent and thoughtful for a while. The idea was new to him. “You say the Troll imps die and the children of the Gods survive,” he said finally. “Show me!”
“If it please you, sir, so I will,” said Goshawk, and proceeded to facts. They were fortunately at hand. Shelk had, of course, noticed the large number of brown children, and had made inquiries about their origin; but all the Whites could tell him was that their God had vanished, and they seemed to think this was the reason for their defeat.
For the first time in Goshawk’s life, the facts of the world were in his favor. Shelk still thought of him as a rascal, but an interesting and potentially useful one. His original idea of having Goshawk executed was forgotten. Instead he asked for details of Tiger’s visit and the islanders, topics on which the Whites feigned ignorance and stupidity. Goshawk was quite ready to talk. His recollections were somewhat dim, however; he described Tiger as a charming young man, polite and intelligent. It was Tiger’s good luck that Goshawk had not noticed his limp; nor had the Whites volunteered this information.