‘I didn’t want to trouble you with this, Edur,’ I explained. ‘It’s my family’s problem, not yours. If I didn’t have the boys to think of, I’d have taken Kemen with me. But I can’t desert the boys at their first Hunt! I’d planned that you’d take Itzal – he did best of all the boys at Initiation Camp. He deserves to go with the best hunter in all the long memory of the Auk People. No, I can’t ask as important a hunter as you to . . . Itzal should go with you!’
Edur stopped scowling as I spoke, and when I’d finished he clapped me on the shoulder. ‘If you want the best hunter for Itzal, Amets, he’d certainly better go with you! I’ll probably lose my way – I expect the kill will be over before I even get a scent of a deer! Just because I had a bit of luck when I was younger, I wouldn’t want you to expect too much. I’d be sure to disappoint you! I’ll take this stranger for you. At least then I’ll know if he’s going to be any use to us!’
That evening, as we sat round the hearth making our plans for the Hunt, my heart was light. Itzal’s face lit up when he heard he was going with me. I told Ortzi he would go with Sendoa. I could see Ortzi was disappointed – he and Itzal had been watching one another like two stags after the same hinds all through Initiation Camp. I feared that if they didn’t become friends they’d be the worst of enemies. Of course that changed when . . . but that comes later.
A hand-full of us climbed up to the ridge at dusk. The wind was shifting towards the Morning Sun Sky. It told us of fleeing clouds and many stars. We listened to the wind. That wind had eddied round the high corries of Cat Mountain and Deer Mountain and far beyond. It whispered in our ears, telling us where the hinds would find shelter. We let that wind sing in our ears, telling us everything that we needed to know.
Below the lip of the corrie the waterfall gleamed like a white flame in the growing dark. Before the boys knew what was happening we’d leaped on them from behind as they sat warming their faces at the fire. We grabbed them by their arms and legs and ran towards the corrie. We flung them into the Pool. They were still spluttering as we leaped in after them. We washed ourselves under the waterfall. The boys knew better than to make a sound, but when we stood on the bank again we could hear their teeth chattering so hard we couldn’t help laughing!
We scooped fresh colours – red and yellow and black – from the bark trays. We painted our clean bodies by firelight. Our skins became the colours of the land. We were the land. We put on our deerskins and sang the Hunt. We danced the Hunt until the boys had taken every step of it into their blood. The spirits of the Hunt watched what we did. The spirits of the Deer heard us when we asked them to give themselves. The spirits of the Hunt welcomed the Auk People, and held them to their hearts.
When the dance was over we sat silent as stones around the glowing embers. The clouds fled. Deer Moon shone from a clear sky. Deer Mountain and Cat Mountain lay bright as water, their heads against the stars. One by one men got up, took their weapons, and disappeared into the shadows, their dogs soundlessly following. Edur and Kemen were the first to leave. They had to cross the watershed right over to Long Loch and climb back up the far side of Deer Mountain to reach their place in the ring by dawn.
Each man left in his turn. Each one had his dog. Some had a boy following in their tracks. Each boy was desperate to prove himself. None of the men even glanced at them. But none of us has forgotten what our own first Hunt was like.
Sendoa, his dog at his heels, left with Ortzi. I heard Itzal’s quick breathing at my side. I watched Deer Moon swing herself free just as Cat Mountain stretched up to spear her. I sniffed the breeze as it eddied round the clearing. Its breath smelt of the deep heart of the night.
I touched Itzal’s arm. He was on his feet in a heartbeat. We slung our spears over our shoulders. My dog’s nose brushed my heel. We climbed swiftly up to the ridge. Itzal sent a stone rolling. I felt his shame; I said nothing. I stopped on the ridge for a heartbeat. I sniffed the air. I ran along the ridge. The dog and Itzal followed me. I slid down the other side over smooth grass. Itzal had learned his lesson. Now he was quiet as a mountain cat. I turned my face towards the Morning Sun Sky.
Dawn found us in our place above the Black Corrie of Cat Mountain. We’d squeezed into the top of a crack that ran from the skyline, a man’s length above our heads, right down to the corrie floor. The Moon had set. The Sun’s first light fell past us on to the hills under the Evening Sun Sky. The rocks shone fiery pink only a man’s length above us, but the light couldn’t reach our cleft. Itzal held his breath to stop himself shivering with cold and hunger and excitement. He was still wet through from crossing the Grey River. I pulled my wolfskin hat down over my forehead so it hid my face. Itzal copied me at once. I didn’t glance at him. We had a long way to go yet.
The corrie held the darkness like a hollow pool.
I peered into it. Rocks and grass slowly came free of the clinging dark. And Animals. The hinds were there, just as the wind had told us. The dark still covered them: I couldn’t count. But even as I watched, the dark grew thin. It seeped out of the corrie like water from a basket.
I looked across the corrie. I saw Sendoa raise his hand, out of sight of the deer below. I sent a cautious signal back. Every man must be in his place by now, spread far across the hills.
Currents of wind flowed around the peaks like a braid coming apart. The corrie had a breeze of its own that eddied over the crags. The breeze carried the smell of the hinds up to us. I nudged Itzal as I sniffed the strong deer-smell, and he sniffed it too. If that boy had learned anything at all, the breeze would be telling him that the hinds wouldn’t be aware of us until we started to climb down.
The dark lifted. Pipits started to chirrup in the rocks below us. I searched the floor of the corrie. I was looking for anything different. I saw a pale rock on a hillock. I knew that hillock: I knew it had no rock. I stared and stared at that pale rock. Suddenly, under my eyes, it turned into the lead hind.
She was looking around from her vantage point between the scree slope and the other hinds. As soon as I’d seen her, the spirits opened my eyes and showed me the rest of the herd. I spread my hands and counted ten hands-full, including the calves. Some had their heads down, grazing in the growing light. I counted more than a hand-full of wise old ones, the same colour as the bleached autumn grass, their heads low. The old mothers are always the ones to watch! The young ones in their sleek summer coats – some good red hides there, waiting to give themselves! – those are the sort a man can trick more easily. I tell you, Deer and People are just the same, if you want to know where to seek wisdom in a woman!
I looked across to the hills under the Evening Sun Sky. An arrow of light struck the summit of Sharp Peak.
Now!
Rocks slithered and crashed. Men slid down the scree. Dogs barked.
The old mother bounded towards the lip of the corrie. Families bunched together, mothers calling their calves. The herd fragmented. The old mother was at the corrie’s edge. Many hands-full of hinds came back into one herd. Some wise ones broke away. Their calves ran after them, through a gap in the net of men and out to open ground. All the others bounded after the lead hind. They vanished over the edge of the corrie.
We leaped from boulder to boulder down the scree. We ran across the corrie floor. Itzal passed me like a gust of wind. We stood at the lip of the corrie, looking down.
Men and dogs were spread across the hill. From above we could see the whole circle, like the noose on a snare pulling tight.
The lead hind hesitated. She ran for the open space on her left. She reached the top of the gully.
Deer hate gullies. They hate to feel crags all round them, and no way out.
The lead hind stopped. She headed the other way, across a fall of loose rock. The hinds bunched together, trying to turn and follow. Their hooves slid on the boulders. One calf tried to take the easier way, towards the gully. Its mother leaped after it. Some of the other hinds stopped, hesitating.
Just below the
lead hind, men and dogs rose from the heather. Hodei and Oroitz leaped uphill over the rocks, yelling and waving their spears. Their dogs rushed to and fro across the space between the men.
The lead hind scrambled back on to the heather. We stood in front of her. We blocked the way to the corrie. We shouted, brandishing our spears. We closed in.
She turned towards the gully. There was light at the far end. A way out.
Hinds and calves streamed into the gully. Two old ones broke away, their calves following. They’d seen that gully before! They charged downhill between Oroitz and Zeru. Dogs snapped at their heels. Trampled by hooves, a young dog rolled down the boulders, yelping. The old hinds vanished into the trees below, their calves at their heels.
Hodei and Oroitz ran into the gully at the heels of the herd. I scrambled up to higher ground. Itzal shot past me. He waited for me on the crag.
The hinds thundered down the gully. We watched from above. The lead hind headed for that patch of light. A way out. The light vanished. A wall came up in front of her. She stopped. The thundering herd crashed into her, forcing her on. She could leap a fence of withies, only there were men on it. Men with spears. Dogs barking. No way out.
Her herd blocked the way behind her. They couldn’t turn. She found the other gully. A grassy downhill slope. No way out. But no men this way. No dogs. No choice. She led her herd into the trap. No way out.
Spears rained down. Her calf fell. She smelt blood. High crags all round. Rocks falling. Calves screaming. The smell of blood. Slippery crags. No way out.
A boulder crashed. Her back cracked, and broke. Her legs buckled.
Her nose in the slippery bloodstained grass. The pain and the blood and the slow death. The smell of the blood on the grass, and the giving in.
We took many Animals that day – we counted three sets of two hands-full, and four more, including the calves. As soon as the trap was closed we leaped down and cut the throats of all the wounded Animals and let them bleed. After the Hunt the Wise among us broke open the old mother’s skull and divided the warm brains between them. Every man and boy drank of her blood. There were more hearts and livers than all of us could eat. Our dogs gorged themselves on fresh lungs. We lit a fire and ate at the top of the gully. That old mother was kind and wise; she looked after her People until the end. No man should wish for more. We stretched up our arms and gave thanks to the spirits of the Deer. Once again they had given themselves that the Auk People might live. The blood of the Deer was now our blood, and our hearts were theirs.
We gutted the deer inside the trap. Flies buzzed over us, and settled in pools of blood. We piled the innards into rush baskets, swung them on to our backs and took them down to Hunting Camp. We stretched the carcasses on poles, ready to carry all the way down to Gathering Camp. Before our Hunters’ Feast we washed ourselves under the waterfall. The mud we stirred mixed with blood and ochre from our bodies, turning the water brown. Before we’d all climbed out, the waterfall had swept away every trace of the Hunt. We looked down at the clear stones at the bottom of the pool; now we were as clean as they were. The spirits had forgiven what we owed the Deer, and our hearts were light.
After the Hunters’ Feast I was meant to stay with the boys at Hunting Camp. Now they’d taken part in the Hunt they needed to study the high hunting lands with newly-opened eyes. Their last test lay before them. My heart was with them, but I also wanted to go back to Gathering Camp. I needed to tell my family about Kemen so he could come straight to our hearth. I told Sendoa what I was thinking. Sendoa offered to tell the family in my place, but I shook my head. ‘No, it has to be me. Your mother has her own winter Camp. If Kemen’s going to join us at River Mouth Camp, it has to be me that tells my wife’s father – and Nekané and Alaia.’
The others heard us talking and asked what I was worried about.
Edur was in a good mood. He’d already told me that Kemen hadn’t held him back at all. ‘Of course, he doesn’t know the land,’ he’d said. ‘Even a useless hunter like me was able to tell him quite a lot. But I don’t think the Lynx People can have been such bad hunters either.’ You can guess how much those words pleased me! Edur said now, ‘Yes, you should go, Amets. You might have to argue with your woman – you never know – and Sendoa can’t do that for you.’
Everyone laughed. Jokes flew to and fro about what Sendoa should or should not do to persuade my woman.
At last Edur wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes. ‘I think you’d better go and look after your own, Amets! I can see how badly you want to get back into bed with Alaia. Why don’t I stay here with these boys, and you go and deal with your family?’
‘Do you mean that, Edur?’
‘Would I say it if I didn’t mean it?’
‘But Edur,’ someone called, ‘don’t you have a little matter of your own to deal with? A small matter of taking your woman?’
‘What! He’s taking another one!’
‘Edur’s taken as many women already as most men have trapped deer!’
‘But Osané’s parents want him! You don’t believe me – it’s true! They want him to join their family!’
‘That makes a change!’
‘Usually he doesn’t even ask first! Did you ask this one, Edur?’
‘Yes, tell us, did you ask Osané? Or did you just . . .’
At last the laughter died down, and I said quietly to Edur, ‘If you’re happy to do this for me . . .’
‘I told you – I wouldn’t have spoken if I wasn’t! Don’t worry about my girl. She’s not going anywhere. It can wait.’
We told Aitor and Hodei what we wanted to do. They said the spirits wouldn’t mind, as long as Edur and I exchanged everything we had until Initiation Camp was over. This would show the spirits that we’d agreed to become one another for a little while. So I put on Edur’s deerskins and his heavy bearskin cloak, and he took my clothes – my tunic was stretched as tight as it would go across his chest! And my cloak barely reached his knees – you can guess how many jokes I had to put up with about that! But Edur did better with my bow and arrows – most of his arrows needed mending, and his bow wanted a new string. I was glad I’d be able to do those things for him before I gave them back. His spear was heavier than mine. At least it wasn’t broken! The haft of my spear had snapped: one of the hinds had twisted so much she’d broken it in two. Edur and I exchanged our knives, and our flints and needles – even our tinder. So there I was, looking like the greatest hunter of the Auk People – all I lacked was his tattoos, and his ugly face! Isn’t that right, Edur?
We carried as much meat as we could. We’d hung the rest from trees where no Animals could reach it. It was already drying in the wind. When our Hunting Feast was over, we walked by Moonlight through the long shadows of the forest paths. Gathering Camp was sleeping when we arrived. We laid our meat by the Go-Betweens’ hearths, and stretched ourselves out to sleep at the foot of the mound, men and dogs together, until the dawn.
We were woken by the squeals of children. They crowded round while we began to divide the meat. We brushed them off like so many flies, but like flies they kept coming back. The women came out and woke the fires in their hearths, fetched firewood and water, and carried on as if they hadn’t seen us at all. But none of them went out with their baskets. They hovered, pretending not to wait. Some were mothers, hoping to overhear some hint about their sons. Itzal’s mother, Arantxa, was the worst. She knew very well that no man could say anything until the boys came back to tell their own stories. I felt ashamed for Itzal. He’d done well: he didn’t deserve a mother who made a child of him before other men.
We laid out the carcasses in the Dividing Place in front of the Go-Betweens’ mound, from the largest to the smallest. We’d taken so many hinds it was easy to divide them: even with one for every hunter to take to his own hearth we had enough left over. We agreed – as always – that Edur had earned the biggest, for more hinds had given themselves to his spear than to anyone else’s. I was proud w
hen the men decided the next should be for me! When every hunter had his share we gave three calves to Zigor, who’d stayed behind as Go-Between. We gave extra calves to the Wise. There was still a little meat left over. Because our hearts were kind we gave to the hearths that had the fewest – or worst! – hunters, or the most children.
Everyone had enough meat to eat all they could for the next few days and still have some to dry for the journey home. Soon the trees around Gathering Camp would be filled with new skulls: the spirits of the Deer would stay and watch over our Gathering Place while we were scattered in our winter Camps.
As I worked the hide off my hind, I felt the rich meat under my fingers. My heart filled with pride. I’ll never know why the others gave the second hind to me – how did I deceive them? Perhaps my friends mistook me for someone else; perhaps they were so busy making their own great kills they didn’t realise how little I’d done! I handed the hide to Alaia. It was heavy with delicious fat. She thought I’d deserved this great prize! It’s easy to deceive a woman about something she knows nothing about!
Nekané was sitting by the fire, spooning mashed up reed-root into Esti’s mouth, when I carried my share to our hearth. I threw the meat at her feet. ‘I’m ashamed to bring you so little,’ I told her. ‘But I’m not much of a hunter, as you know. The others were kind enough to let me take these bits and pieces. I hope our family isn’t going to starve because I’m not much use to you.’
Nekané nodded. If she was surprised to see me back so soon she didn’t say so. She let Esti have the spoon, and started poking at the meat. ‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘I suppose we can make some sort of feast out of this, if we can make it go far enough. You might as well hang it from the oak; it won’t weigh that thin branch down too much. I can’t say we’ve missed you. But here’s your daughter letting on she’s pleased to see you again!’
The Gathering Night Page 15