Where the other boats, like Kemtuk’s, were simple and functional, masted for a single leather sail, this giant stirred feelings of wonder and awe in him. It was piloted by a great wheel and driven by a complexity of rigging that must have demanded great navigational skill. Every square foot of the superstructure was exquisitely carved, as if by master craftsmen. Exotic birds and butterflies preened and fluttered their wings. Shoals of fish darted through a labyrinth of coral and seaweed. Other panels depicted what appeared to be mythological creatures of the land, sea and air, at play amid forests, against a vista of mountains and sky, yet all captured with an artistry that seemed out of keeping with the simple fisher folk and their other boats.
He knew from Kemtuk that they called it the “Temple Ship,” a good name for a cathedral dedicated to Akoli, the Creator, which also appeared to be their word for the sperm whale.
At the bottom of the staircase they were led into a great chamber with a low ceiling. The room was so dark it needed the additional illumination of oil lamps, which reflected now in the eyes of many faces. The whole village appeared to be here, and now the arrival of the four strangers among them threw the Olhyiu into an excited murmuring. There was a strong odor of sweaty bodies.
The Olhyiu were sitting cross-legged on the bare planks of the floor. The crowding was so dense that those in the nearest row could have reached out and touched them. Alan noticed that the older men and women, presumably the elders of the tribe, were gathered closer to the front. The walls, between murals, were festooned with carved oars, ornamental maces and clubs. As his eyes grew more accustomed to the gloom, he saw that the murals depicted the history of the Olhyiu. Whale hunts he recognized from boats similar to those around the frozen lake. He could see that in better times their lives had depended on the whale: for the oil that burned in their lamps, for meat, even for the brackets that supported the oil lamps, which were constructed from its bones. But he also picked up something more: the sense that the whale was revered as well as hunted. One of the murals showed a community on its knees, praying by the carcass of a sperm whale in what appeared to be a vigil of atonement.
The council waited until the excitement settled. Now the four friends were made to turn around and face a long table, on the other side of which a committee of three men and a woman were settling into place. Alan recognized their leader as the thickset ginger-haired giant with the dense brown side-whiskers. This had to be Siam, chief of the tribe, and Turkeya’s father.
With shock, Alan saw that Siam was carrying the Spear of Lug, which he placed on the table in front of him.
The shaman, Kemtuk, was seated to Siam’s left. Farther to the left was the weasel-faced man with the cruel eyes. To Siam’s right was a tall and elegant woman with snowy white hair framing an ivory-colored face. Her regal head, above a slender neck, was tattooed in whorls and lines of slate and silver, drawing Alan’s attention to her lustrous jade-green eyes. She had to be Siam’s wife, co-leader of the Olhyiu. Behind the table, and running almost the length of the wall, was an enormous lance. The blade of pitted black steel was four feet long and the heavy weathered shaft twice that. Attached to the neck with twisted leather thongs were two huge floats made out of inflated seal skins.
A whaling harpoon!
It made Alan see the chief in a different light: the huge man balancing barefoot in the prow of a seagoing canoe, pitching and tossed by the elements, the massive blade hefted in both his hands. The fierce courage.
There was a sudden powerful pulse in the triangle on his brow. It caused Alan to look at the thin man, Snakoil Kawkaw, who was staring at him with undisguised hatred in his coal-black eyes.
Siam brought the proceedings to order. Raising his voice above the shuffling and coughing, he addressed Alan in a deep growl. “I am assured that you understand these words I speak to you. Then understand this, huloima. It is unprecedented for strangers to be allowed entry into the Temple Ship. For this honor you may thank the sage of this tribe, Kemtuk Lapeep.”
The big man paused, as if awaiting Alan’s reaction.
Alan paused, realizing that the word huloima meant more than just strangers—it was something more akin to “aliens.” He needed to allay their suspicions. He said, “I would like to ask a favor. My companions do not speak your language. Will you let me explain to them what is happening?”
“So be it.”
Alan noticed that the shaman nodded, as if to acknowledge Siam’s response to be reasonable.
The chief continued. “The Tilikum Olhyiu are gravely alarmed. For strangers to arrive among us in such times—are these not days of the gravest peril? We demand that you give an account of yourself and your arrival among us.”
While Alan translated this for the benefit of his friends, his alien language provoked a rising hubbub from the Olhyiu. Kemtuk called out to the people to be silent and to allow the strangers to speak among themselves. He put a wide-eyed urgency into his gaze as it fell upon Alan, whose heart shrank at the look, though he couldn’t bring himself to explain it to his friends. He realized now that this was a court that would decide if they lived or died. He took a deep breath, to allow his thoughts to calm down, and then he summarized the events that had brought them here. He described how the four friends had come together, whether by fate or accident, in a small town in another world. He described the mountain, Slievenamon, and its calling, and the common dreams that had brought them here, to a destiny they themselves did not understand.
There was a renewed outbreak of murmuring, with several cries of derision.
The chief silenced his people again with a blow of his huge open hand on the table. “Huloima, you speak of ominous and disquieting things. I am a simple fisherman. Who, I ask myself, would wish to come here to these starveling lands? Strangers, you say, with no given purpose? Such an arrival might herald mischief. We have no food to spare. Our children run wild in the woods, scratching for pine nuts to fill the emptiness in their bellies. I demand that you stop this lying and confess the truth. What is the real reason you have come here among us?”
Alan had to control his rising sense of unease, remembering the words of caution from the shaman. “You’re right. We are strangers here. We didn’t ask to come to this world. We appear to have been chosen by others—other forces—whether we like it or not.”
When he gave his friends a summary of this, Mark was the one who most vehemently shook his head. “For God’s sake! Tell them some yarn they’re likely to believe.”
Siam spoke again, his growl deepening. “You speak of a destiny that remains a mystery to you, and yet there is much that implies a hidden purpose to your coming here among us. How then did you survive in the wilderness? What was the nature of those strange coverings of spiderwebs you wore when first you arrived among us?”
Hoisting the Spear of Lug off the table, Siam held it aloft, so all could behold it. Alan could see the Ogham inscriptions in the spiral of the blue-black spearhead glowing brightly, as if they had taken on a power of their own.
“All can see this is no ordinary weapon. What sinister magic governs the blade you have brought among us?”
Alan explained how his grandfather had forged the spear, and told of their arrival into the world and how they had found themselves within the cave receiving the attentions of the strange old woman. Siam stiffened, as if apprehensive.
It was Kemtuk, speaking quietly, who continued the interrogation. “What was the nature of this old woman, who took it upon herself to save the lives of strangers?”
“I don’t know who or what she was. But when she spoke her name it sounded like ‘Granny Dew.’ Yet I can’t pretend to understand the things she did. In our world we have a word for what she did—we call it ‘magic.’ Magic is a thing that can be seen and felt and yet cannot be explained.”
From behind him Alan heard more raucous shouts. When he turned to look at them, he saw people shaking their fists. As the uproar deepened, he turned once more to address the four leaders
behind the table.
“Everything I have told you is the truth. My friends and I owe our lives to this old woman, though I don’t know who or what she represents to you.”
It seemed to be the moment that Snakoil Kawkaw had been waiting for. Rising to his feet, he had to bow his head to accommodate his height in the low-ceilinged chamber, he extended a claw-like hand toward Alan’s face. “Now we know the extent of this treachery. Not only does he bring danger of reprisal against us from the Storm Wolves, but he profanes the faith of the people.” With a lightning move, Kawkaw drew a long-bladed dagger from his side and he made a sudden lunge toward Alan, but was restrained by the powerful arm of the chief.
It took all of the authority of Kemtuk to impose calm upon the murmuring and gesticulating crowd.
The shaman held up his right hand and there was a quiet gravity in his words. “The Olhyiu know better than to listen to the words of a thieving crow. Do we not hear in the very innocence of this Mage Lord’s words that here before us is the heralded one of the prophecy? Yes, I call him Mage Lord, for such all my senses proclaim him to be. All know of the blasphemy of the High Architect, Ussha De Danaan. Yet though many now revile her, the knowledgeable few have suspected wisdom and purpose in her abandoning Ossierel to rape and plunder. Did she not cast the prophecy in her dying breath, an omen so profound as to make the earth tremble! So the true believers among us, those who know and revere the De Danaan lineage, have refused to believe her capable of cowardice. And that faith has kept a single hope alive. The heralded one, a child who would come out of the snow, will save us. This youth, Alan Duval, and his friends, have surely come from an alien world to redeem Monisle from persecution.”
The shouts quickly settled to a murmuring as the Olhyiu people discussed among themselves what Kemtuk had told them.
Taking to his feet once more, Siam pounded the table, this time with what looked like a sledgehammer fist. His eyes stared directly into Alan’s. “What do you have to say to this?”
Alan shrugged. “I don’t understand this soul eye, as the shaman calls it.”
“Hah!” Siam raised his voice to a roar, addressing the entire gathering of his people. “Then we are left to decide for ourselves. Only one of our senior councillors is right, the other wrong. Which is it to be—the shaman, Kemtuk Lapeep, or the hunter and tracker, Snakoil Kawkaw? We must take care in arriving at a common view, for many lives hang in the balance.”
“Would it not be reasonable,” spoke the elegant woman to Siam’s right, “to ask this visitor for evidence of the strange and worrisome events he describes?”
In the whisperings from behind him, Alan now caught her name: Kehloke. He read the meaning as “swan-like.”
“What proof can lies and treachery offer!” scoffed Kawkaw.
Kemtuk countered, “Did he not learn to use the soul eye to speak our language in the few hours he spent in my company?”
“What spy would not acquire some use of our language before coming among his enemies? Is it not evidence of the most perfidious planning? Have a care, Kemtuk Lapeep, that you do not find yourself tainted. For we have seen how readily you profane the old ways in bringing these huloima within the hallowed walls—these same huloima you have so assiduously attended in your boat!”
A roar erupted in the crowds behind Alan. One of the Olhyiu broke through the guards and Alan felt a burly arm grab him around his neck. Kemtuk, with a look of fury, dashed forward to free him, before bringing them back to order. “Are we so broken on the yoke of the Storm Wolves that we cannot see the truth? All this time our people have been hungry and humiliated in this desert of snow and ice. Have we not prayed for redemption?”
“Redemption!” roared Kawkaw. “These are no redeemers. Did not the prophecy give us the name of this so-called redeemer? That name was Mira, the one of the light. None among these strangers bears that name.”
The shaman spoke quietly, but firmly. “Does this boy, Alan Duval, not bear the soul eye of the Trídédana upon his brow? Have you not all felt a force of change during his stay among us? Are you so consumed with fear you do not recognize the time of your deliverance?”
But Kemtuk’s wisdom was no defense against the anger and terror that was growing in the people now milling around Alan.
With a clatter, the great harpoon fell from the wall. The multitude was stunned into silence. Siam sprang to his feet, his head and shoulders bowed to stand under the low ceiling. With sweeps of his brawny arms, he compelled his advisers on his left and right to sit down. Then, in the palpitating silence that followed he addressed himself to Alan alone.
“You come out of the wilderness, cowled in spiderwebs. Your speech is strange to our ears. Your skin is for the most part hairless, like the flesh-spoilers of Isscan and Carfon, people who are no friends of the Olhyiu. Your bearing is humble but your words belie it. Snakoil Kawkaw is right, for the name of the redeemer is foretold to be Mira, the one from whose countenance the sun will shine. So, at pain of your lives, I demand of you for the last time—where have you come from? Why are you among us? Do you not realize the dangers that oppress the Olhyiu from all sides? Yet if only the words of the shaman be true! Prove it, then! Prove that what you say is true or we will be obliged to kill you before the accursed Storm Wolves descend upon us.”
Alan’s heart quailed. “I know nothing about anyone called Mira, any more than I know of these Storm Wolves, or the suffering they have caused your people. But using this triangle—what Kemtuk calls the soul eye—I can sense the thoughts hidden in the minds of others. While you have been debating what to do with me, I have been sensing the mind of this man, Snakoil Kawkaw. What I have observed there is selfishness and greed, and a willingness to betray his people for profit.”
“Serpent-tongued hogsturd!” Kawkaw broke free of the grasp of the chief and hurled himself toward Alan.
But he never reached him. A sudden flare of anger from Alan’s own mind flashed from his brow, a flare of light, like a bolt of lightning that lit up the entire room. Kawkaw was arrested in shock, his claws no more than inches from Alan’s eyes.
There was a new pandemonium of voices, not least among Alan’s friends, as the doors to the chamber burst open and Turkeya entered, carrying a wooden container in his arms, and nodding in the direction of Kemtuk Lapeep. Turkeya hurried to his father’s side and he emptied the container over the table top in front of Siam. “Father, while you have been debating here, I have been searching the boat of Snakoil Kawkaw. I did so at the insistence of the shaman, who has long had his suspicions of Kawkaw. The hunter’s treachery was well hidden, but I discovered this under the floor of his sleeping quarters. You’ll find all the evidence you need here. Here are the folded notes he has been exchanging with our enemies, the Storm Wolves. He sends them messages by night attached to crow’s feet. But his treachery runs deeper than that. There is a price he intends to demand for his cooperation with our enemies. Something he covets even more than gold and silver. That price is your wife, and my mother, Kehloke.”
“Hold him!” Siam growled, his voice little above a whisper. Meanwhile his eyes narrowed to glittering slits as he pored over the evidence. “If this is true, I will deal with Kawkaw myself.”
Kemtuk whispered into Siam’s ear, “Is it not true that Kawkaw wanted Kehloke for his own? Was he not jealous that she chose you?”
With a sudden roar, Siam leaped to his feet, his eyes ablaze with rage. “Lay him in the circle so all can see.” Several burly men tore away Kawkaw’s clothes and splayed the man’s limbs while the chief hefted the Spear of Lug.
“No!” Kawkaw snarled.
“You would have had us murdered and taken Kehloke as your slave. Now I shall cut your heart out.”
Kemtuk spoke to the traitor as the wild-eyed chief stripped to the waist. “At least confess your crimes and give us the information that might yet save some lives.”
“Fools!” shrieked Kawkaw. “How I relished making plans for you!”
�
�We shall see how pain cleanses such filth from your mind!”
Kawkaw laughed through contorted lips. “It may be my turn to be tormented today—but it will be your turn tomorrow. And the Storm Wolves are your masters in that art.”
Siam struck the man in the mouth with the haft of the spear, silencing his mocking tongue. Then, in fury, he lifted the Ogham-warded blade to shoulder high, as if to plunge it into Kawkaw’s heart.
“Wait!” Alan raised his hand to restrain the chief, and then squatted by the trembling Kawkaw. “How much time do we have?” he pressed him.
Kawkaw bared his bloody teeth, his eyes glaring a hateful defiance. “I cannot be certain,” he said, spitting blood through gritted teeth. “I only sent a message before this council meeting. I saw no reason to press for urgency. You have days, perhaps a week.”
“He’s lying.” Alan gazed away from Kawkaw, towards the chief. “We have no more than a day.”
The shaman put a comforting hand on the chief’s shoulder. “It was not for wisdom but for your courage that Kehloke chose you. Now your people have need of that strength. Heed my counsel. Keep the traitor alive while he is useful to us. He might still prove a source of further information in the difficult hours to come. In the meantime, lead us away from this place of hunger. Make haste, proud Siam. Though our path may be one of danger, it is not our lives that matter. There are those among us whose safety overrides our own. We will assist their escape to Carfon, these chosen ones from another world.”
A Sense of Grief
Mo woke from sleep, listening to the noises all around her. The river nearby never stopped crackling and sighing. Yesterday, she, Mark and Kate had stood on its snow-covered bank and marvelled at the central melt, where the water was too fast and too deep to freeze even this close to the huge glacier-wrapped mountains. But there were other noises too, the sounds of objects being hauled and dragged over the ice-bound lake, the whispers of voices, the cries and whimpers of children that told her that the whole village was in a fever of movement. And now, with daybreak, she saw that all the other bunks were empty. She guessed that Alan was out there, helping the shaman with getting ready to flee. But where were Kate and Mark?
The Snowmelt River (The Three Powers) Page 18