The Moon Child

by Mark Lucek

  At least the pain had served to sharpen his mind, and the chill in the air helped him keep the panic at bay. His breath came in shallow gasps as he fought down the rising tide of panic. Wounded and alone, he had to think of his own survival now. If only the girl would cease her chatter!

  A creature of the deep forest, he’d never been one for the company of girls like her, glorying in the hunt when he could be alone with the breath of the forest around him and the easy company of the men.

  It was not that he’d found the women unappealing; he’d even cast eyes at some of the girls as he ate his fill round the campfire. A few swaying hips had caught his attention, that Alia in particular. But he’d always found them strange creatures. If only they’d be as predictable as the elk.

  If only it’d been Alia who was with him now, instead of this chattering, simpering girl who didn’t know how to keep silent. Even with his wound she slowed him. Alia would be silent, Alia would be quick.

  There was a sharp stab of pain as he brought his foot down clumsily on a root. No. He had to concentrate. This was the forest, death could come quickly. Best forget the tender fold of Alia’s arms, the swell of her breast and the dimples that formed whenever she smiled, but not at him, never at him.

  Angrily, he motioned Iwa to silence and hunkered down into a stiff crouch. She was so caught up with her plans that she almost bumped into him. But he stayed perfectly still, senses strained to pick out the faintest movement. He was one with the forest, the way that he’d been taught almost from birth, the dagger held straight before him, ready for the killing blow.

  But the forest had become different, an alien place. He should have been enjoying this, the stillness of bark and briar, and the scent of the leaves fresh on the breeze. If only the girl wouldn’t keep so close, her breath hot on his neck as he tried to concentrate.

  There was something out there in the bracken, a tiny scrabble of movement. Even Iwa couldn’t hear it, but he could. He didn’t have the skill of Godek or the older men, but his senses were sharp and he could often pick out a trail before many of the more seasoned hunters.

  Without a word, he put the knife back in its sheath and began to walk. Iwa followed as an old fox broke through the undergrowth and darted for the safety of its burrow. She should have gone after it, but they were both too tired, their nerves frayed and even this ancient fox could probably see better in the dark.

  By now Jarel had begun to feel the effects of his wound, his steps falling clumsily as his breath shallowed and his pace dulled. The pain returning as he had walked too far. There was no way he could have raided the camp with the other hunters. Maybe the hunters used him as a lookout.

  She’d no idea how long they’d walked. At least now the trees had begun to thin and the undergrowth was less dense. Up ahead there was a moss-covered mound. Here the ground was broken and dipped to form a hollow, over which Jarel had pegged a large piece of hide. Inside, a few furs lay strewn on the bare earth. At least the hunters must have stuck together – there was no way that he could have escaped from the woyaks alone loaded down with all that.

  Jarel peeled back the deer skins and motioned for Iwa to crawl inside. ‘You try and do better if you think you can,’ he said, catching the look on her face. ‘I’ve had to sleep in far worse than this before.’ He was proud of the tiny strip of tanned skins which he’d managed to fasten over the hollow to form a crude shelter. Not much to look at, but it was more than enough to keep early spring at bay.

  ‘What about the others?’ Iwa slipped into the shelter, her nose curling at the stench. ‘What’s happened to the rest of the hunters?’ she said as she began to crawl inside, the moss springy under her palms. The smell was worse now but at least it was familiar, the scent of leaves and earth and moisture. Anything was better than the sweaty warmth of the ship, filled with the sickly odour of tar and pitch.

  ‘Most of them are hereabouts,’ he said wearily. Now that the walking was done, some of the stiffness had returned to his leg. Why did she waste her breath with so much chatter? She was like the leaves, except that they often made more sense and told him useful things. ‘We don’t camp together; it’s safer that way.’ It was hard for him to keep the emotion from his voice. Now, more than ever, he longed for the company of the others, even the ones who teased him. ‘Nobody knows all the hideouts. The woyaks might capture one or two but they won’t find us all.’

  But that way there can be no clan fire, she almost said, as Jarel crawled under the furs beside her. We need a clan fire to gather round if we are to remain one at all, but Jarel had already turned away, his body tired and ready for sleep. Iwa wrapped the furs around her: they were hardly warm, and their sides were blackened as if they’d been pulled out of a fire. Maybe it was better that the hunters kept to their small groups, but she’d never known there not to be a clan fire. What are we, without a fire to burn before the bones of our god? Is this how a clan dies? She drew the skins tightly about her. Suddenly everything seemed dark. Already the sacred bones of Karnobog had tumbled into the fire to become nothing more than a charred memory. The god of the Bison Grass was no more: how long could the clan survive without him?

  Chapter Five

  A hint of birdsong drifted through the trees. Iwa paused, her hand resting against the bark of some ancient willow. What was keeping Jarel? He’d woken early, leaving her to gather the firewood while he went hunting, but that had been ages ago. Maybe his leg troubles him. Slowly Iwa picked up a handful of brushwood and made her way back through the forest. All was quiet now, except for the rustle of a tiny animal caught in the undergrowth and the chatter of the breeze through the branches. It was almost as if the woyaks had never attacked and, as she pushed into the clearing, she almost expected to find Katchka and the others safe as they’d always been.

  Despite everything a great calm descended upon her. This was the forest and the forest was eternal. She knew the trees, the hum of birdsong and the scent of the bracken. It was hard to think that the woyaks had ever come, or that the hunt master was dead.

  But there was no sign of the camp, no barking dogs or crying children. There was only the stillness of the forest and the whisper of the wind. How different the place looked in daylight, with the aspens heavy with frost and the chorus of birdsong playing lightly on her ears. Above her a spider hung on a single thread. Carefully she broke the web and watched the creature dangle from her hand. As a child she’d spent hours playing with them and sometimes, as she watched their tiny yellow bodies spin in mid-air, she’d feel as if she’d somehow slipped into their minds.

  She couldn’t help but giggle as it swung in space, its legs curled as if feigning death. Yet somehow the game seemed tarnished. Maybe she could just stay here and forget all about the woyaks and Katchka’s stupid mushrooms. Would the krol miss me? Somehow she doubted he’d even give her a second thought. What am I to him, what am I to any of them?

  Only Katchka would notice. Iwa could almost picture her now, the old woman hobbling around the bows of the ship, fist clutching at the hilt of her knife. Few of the clan had ever dared to cross Katchka. Her revenge always came, sooner or later. She could keep a grudge for years that one, carefully nurtured under her smile like an angry black seed.

  But the krol had changed all that. What can she do to me now, what can any of us do? As if a handful of mushrooms could ever defeat the woyaks. She sat down and felt the grass sodden against her clothes. Who knows, by now the women are probably halfway to the Arab lands.

  Yet, as the spider turned, Iwa felt a leaden weight descend upon her. Katchka shouldn’t have thrown me out into the forest. This is all her fault. If it hadn’t been for Jarel I’d probably be dead already, as if that stupid old woman cares about that. All she’s ever wanted is to give out orders with her knives and her threats. She knew that the mushrooms wouldn’t be any use, no matter how many I picked, but sent me off all the same.

  A kernel of anger burned in the pit of her stomach. Since when have the clan care
d about me, any of them? Yet for all that, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she needed to go back. Even a handful of mushrooms would be better than none. Nobody could say I didn’t try, not even Katchka. There was a gust of wind and the spider was torn away.

  ‘So this is how you waste your days.’ She jumped at the voice and shook the remnants of the web from her fingers. She hadn’t heard Jarel coming up behind her. ‘A fine life you lead, sleeping till noon whilst others toil for your food.’ With that he threw down a couple of carp. ‘No wonder Katchka has you pegged for a lazybones. Or do you think you are one of the royal ladies who dance all day long before the throne of Byzantium? Would you like me to fetch you a silken gown?’

  Now that he had washed, she could begin to make out the traces of the boy she’d known, that round face with the last hints of puppy fat clinging stubbornly beneath his chin, but now with a hunted look about him: the way he picked through the forest, those hasty glances cast behind, and he kept his tread uneven as though being stalked. He must have been awake when the woyaks attacked, because he still had the eagle feathers in his hair, a fashion he’d picked up from the Crow’s Foot clan. He’d even had them dyed bright yellow, much to Godek’s horror. I’d never have recognised him otherwise.

  ‘You should have woken me.’

  ‘Instead, it was you who kept me awake, tossing and turning like a child caught in a nightmare. I had to look round to check that one of the night spirits, some Nocnica, hadn’t crawled on your back and was feeding you bad dreams. Truly it must have sucked out your soul, the way you struggled.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you wake me?’

  ‘Too kind-hearted, though it’s a wonder your wailing didn’t bring down the woyaks upon us. They must have heard you clear to the camp.’

  ‘Then you were a fool not to chuck me out.’ Iwa kicked the ground with her feet, but Jarel had finished teasing her.

  ‘I’ll get the fire ready,’ he said, ‘and you’d best make yourself useful with the fish. You’d better be quick about it too – we don’t want to risk an open fire for too long, unless you really want to bring the woyaks down upon us.’

  She placed the fish on a flat rock and looked about her, the skin slipping smoothly beneath her fingers. If she thought that Jarel was going to give her the knife, then she was very much mistaken. ‘You’d best be getting along with this.’ He held out a piece of flint about the size of his palm.

  ‘Not if you want the fish cut right.’ Most of the clan had metal tools but, occasionally, they still napped flint. Even the best blade could break and metal was hard to come by. There was something about the stone, the way it fitted neatly into her hand, the outer surface chipped away to reveal the ebony beneath, smooth as polished bone.

  The flint was surprisingly sharp too, ripping easily through the underbelly of the carp as she scooped out the entrails and laid them on the ground. But the clan hardly ever used such tools when there was iron to be had and she wasn’t used to a stone blade, finding it almost impossible to cut straight. She had to keep a harder grip on the fish, the blade almost cutting her fingers as she struggled.

  She laid the fish on a clean patch of moss. Her hands were stiff and raw, the fingers aching as she flexed them on the ground. What was keeping Jarel? She’d been working so hard on the carp that she’d hardly noticed that he’d gone. Maybe he was checking traps. He’d have little chance of hunting, not with that wound of his, but that wouldn’t hinder him laying traps or catching fish with nets, if he’d managed to get one. He’d got these fish somehow. Even so, he should have been back by now.

  What if Grunmir had got hold of him? Cautiously she got up, her eyes scanning the trees as if she expected armies of woyaks to rush out at any moment. Then there was Jezi Baba. She never travelled by day, but you could never trust the night hag. I wouldn’t put it past her to change her ways.

  Walking back to the shelter she began to gather a little of the brushwood ready for the fire. Outwardly there was little to give her unease away, nothing but the occasional glance. How far had they gone into the forest? She didn’t recognise this place, but they couldn’t have been that far from the old path that led to the deer trails, and that was still way too close to the camp for her liking.

  In the distance there was a rustle of leaves, and a shadow broke across the ground. Iwa continued being careful not to give any outward sign of tension, but her ears were trained, ready to pick up the faintest trace of anything coming through the trees. Maybe there were more hunters hereabouts. She didn’t think Jarel had come from the river, so someone must have given him the fish. But then why didn’t they show themselves? Surely they were too far from the camp to bother with the woyaks. Or were they as scared as she was? This was a broken herd, running frightened and leaderless.

  ‘Then he appeared, his arms filled with sticks and kindling. ‘I thought you’d do better with the fish,’ he said, as he dumped the wood on the ground. He’d managed to catch a hare, its body dangling limply from his belt. It’d been roughly killed from the looks of it, the neck not cleanly broken but crudely twisted as if he’d struggled with the thing.

  ‘I didn’t realise you’d be away for so long,’ Iwa replied, keeping her back to him. ‘You try using a stone knife to slit a salmon and see how well you do.’

  ‘At least I’d manage a straight cut,’ Jarel said, shaking his head, ‘and I know a salmon from a carp.’

  ‘They’re cleanly gutted and that’s all that matters,’ she replied sharply. She’d need to keep her wits about her, now more than ever. But everything seemed hazy, as if she were in a dream. She still hadn’t had time to come to terms with all that had happened. Right now she should have been with the young girls, hearing their chatter as they made ready for the berry-picking and wondered about the catch their favourite amongst the hunters would make. ‘As if anybody’s going to care out here,’ she said, her voice lifeless and distant.

  ‘It’s just as well that they don’t.’ He smiled as he knelt stiffly over the twigs and set about making the fire. ‘Unless you count the fish, of course – we don’t want to show disrespect to Matka Ziemia by treating her bounty so poorly.’

  ‘Just so long as you don’t expect me to do anything fancy like take their heads off or cut away their fins.’

  ‘Careful,’ Jarel replied grimly, ‘unless you want to spend half a day cutting another blade. You might as well have this.’ He handed her a water skin. She began to drink greedily, suddenly aware of how thirsty she was, but Jarel was quick to take back the skin. ‘You might want to save some of that to wash out the fish.’

  Sulkily she began to clean them out, spreading their innards and wiping away the last traces of guts and bone. They couldn’t be far from the river, but Jarel didn’t have the energy to go back for more water and she knew he’d never let her go by herself, even if she knew the way. Placing a handful of dried moss amongst the twigs, he begun to set about the kindling, the flints trembling in sore fingers, which sent what few sparks he could manage far from the moss.

  ‘I should have laid out some to dry,’ she said. ‘There is a patch of good moss by the river, I can have it back by the time you’ve finished with the fire.’ Hunched over the flicker of a flame he could do nothing but grunt, his body quivering with the effort.

  ‘There could be woyaks about,’ he managed, his voice sullen as he sat back. A thin ribbon of smoke curled damply about the kindling. Jarel should have blown on the flames quickly but he moved stiffly, bowing his head to the twigs as the last vestiges of smoke gave out.

  ‘They wouldn’t have come this far into the forest,’ Iwa said, more in hope than anything else. ‘And we’d be bound to hear them long before they saw us. I can hide.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said, as he blew on the kindling again and saw the faint trace of some hidden ember catch. ‘They stick close to the river mostly, but a few have come into the trees, along the old fur-trappers’ path.’

  So he’d been talking with the others. ‘Did many
get away?’ she couldn’t help but ask. But the boy just shrugged as he sat back down.

  ‘A few, nobody knows for sure. We’re picking up strays, many of them in a bad way. But there’s enough to keep an eye on the camp.’

  Iwa sharpened a few twigs into stakes, on which she speared the fish, pulling out their spines with practised ease and opening their sides like wings. Then she crucified them and placed them over the fire.

  ‘There,’ she said as she sank back on her knees to admire her handiwork, ‘and if you want to do any better you’ll have to go and ask Krol Gawel for a knife.’

  There was a pause as Jarel wondered who she was talking about. ‘Or maybe you could sneak up and steal one away,’ he said, deciding not to bother to ask. ‘You were always good at that sort of thing,’ he muttered into the flames. ‘Though no, best not to trust you. Send you out for a knife and you’d probably come back with half a broken pot, or worse.’

  He smiled. It wasn’t much of a joke but it was enough. Then he sat back and stared blankly at the flames, his lips trembling as he saw the flame take hold.

  ‘Half a broken pot would be more useful than anything you could sneak from the camp.’ She cuffed him playfully on the shoulder and saw his face dissolve into giggles.

  ‘Half a broken pot if we’re lucky,’ he smirked, as the first juices dripped from the fish and splattered into the fire, ‘or maybe a few glass beads, now that would be useful. You women are always thinking of things to wear.’

  Suddenly she got up and began to dance round the flames, her voice caught up with the song in praise of Zorza Utrennyaya and the morning dew. Jarel sank back next to the fire, his face drawn into a thin smile.

  At first the song came awkwardly to her lips, the words halting and the cadence uncertain as the weight of all that had happened bore down on her. But then she caught the tempo, the words moving freely as she began to trace the steps, her hips moving slowly. Not that she could dance, not like Alia who was always so swift, so sensual, but it felt good to be able to feel the earth under her as she moved her feet in a slow circle around the flames and felt the mud press gently between her toes.