Exile's Children

by Angus Wells

  He closed Racharran’s dully staring eyes and took up his hatchet.

  “Dohnse! Now!”

  He rose, shaky on his hurt leg: worse for what he had witnessed. And thought to pick up Racharran’s body and carry it to the new land. But beasts and Breakers came over the Meeting Ground like a flood, like a blizzard, and Morrhyn shouted at him to come. And so he only made Racharran a promise and turned away.

  And went through the gate.

  It was warm there—as it should be in the Moon of the Turning Year—and he smelled the sweet scent of the grass and felt the wind on his face, and saw all the People gathered in a great wondering mass. And looked back at the arch of white light that rose over the prairie and saw Morrhyn step through.

  The gate closed behind the Prophet.

  He came with beasts and Breakers howling on his heels, and the gate closed.

  It was like the snuffing of an ember. There was an arch of brightness that rose over the grass, white as moon-washed snow against the sky’s blue, and through it could be seen Ket-Ta-Witko’s night, lit by the Moon of the Turning Year, and the invaders charging, hungry to gain entry.

  And then there was nothing. Morrhyn stepped through and the gate ceased to exist.

  Past where it had stood, the grass ran out wide and wind-ruffled. A river turned and twisted lazy blue under the sun. In the distance mountains bulked shadow across the horizon. Birds sang and insects buzzed.

  Dohnse stood, favoring his wounded leg, and saw Chakthi deep in conversation with Hadduth. Rannach sat with his arms around Arrhyna. Lhyn stared at the gate, her face stricken, tears coursing unheeded down her cheeks.

  Dohnse turned to Morrhyn and said, “There’s a thing I must tell you. About Racharran’s murder.”

  43 New Land: New Judgments

  “He lies! The Maker damn his soul—he lies!” Chakthi turned like a cornered wolverine, spinning and spitting at the faces surrounding him. Night was fallen over the new land, and the fires of a new Council painted his lupine features red and shadowed, as if indignation and guilt played there in equal measure.

  The light of a moon akin to that of the Moon of the Turning Year hung westward in the sky, not far off its setting. It joined the fires’ light to decorate the faces of the watchers judgmental. They sat—Rannach and Morrhyn, Yazte and Kahteney, Colun, Kanseah; Hadduth: all those vested with the authority of Ket-Ta-Witko—alert and listening. Past them, the People; hushed and waiting.

  Chakthi stabbed a finger in Dohnse’s direction and said again, “He lies!”

  Morrhyn raised his face to the moon. It shone so bright, so new and fresh—a welcome to this new land. He sighed, wishing such doubts had been left behind.

  And wondered if the barking he heard was doubt’s black dog mocking him or only one from the vast encampment shouting its joy to be safe. He looked to Dohnse and gestured for the Tachyn warrior to speak.

  Dohnse said, “I do not lie. I saw what I saw—Chakthi took out his knife and put it between Racharran’s ribs.”

  “Liar!”

  Chakthi spat at Dohnse.

  Dohnse said, “I do not lie; you lie. I’ll fight you to prove the truth.”

  “No!” Morrhyn raised his hand. “We came to this new land to escape bloodshed. Now shall we begin our life here by spilling blood?”

  They looked to him: he was the Prophet now, undoubted. His word was law. He looked to where Lhyn sat and saw the trails of tears down her cheeks. He felt a terrible sadness, and wondered what he should say, knowing it would be accepted.

  Kahteney voiced it: “How do you judge, Morrhyn?”

  He sighed: the weight was not gone, even here. He looked at Rannach and saw anger stretching the younger man’s features tight. He thought it all began again—the enmity and the killing—and that perhaps it was such emotion that had opened the ways between the worlds for the Breakers to come through and slake their thirst for conquest and destruction. The breaking of the Ahsa-tye-Patiko had, he knew, brought them to Ket-Ta-Witko. Now was it to begin again, as if the People left behind them guilt’s spoor to be followed by the destroyers of worlds?

  He voiced a silent prayer to the Maker and said, “I shall sleep on it. The Maker willing, I’ll dream of the answer.”

  Dohnse stared at Chakthi and then at Morrhyn and said, “Racharran promised me a place amongst the Commacht. I’d have that, be it your will.”

  Morrhyn shrugged and looked at Rannach. “You’re akaman of the Commacht now—how say you?”

  Rannach said, “I’d honor my father’s promise. Nor”—he stared at Chakthi—“do I doubt what Dohnse says.”

  Chakthi glowered, his eyes lit red and savage as any wolverine’s. Morrhyn watched him and heard the dog bark louder. Over and over, he thought, like dirt thrown up from the hooves of a running horse. Can we not put this aside?

  But Racharran had been his friend and Lhyn sat silently weeping, and he knew he must decide. He prayed the Maker give him answer and said, “Let the akaman of the Commacht choose whether or not he accept Dohnse amongst us.”

  Rannach said, “He’s welcome.”

  Dohnse smiled his gratitude and Morrhyn said, “For the rest, I’ll give my answer in the morning. Now do we give thanks to the Maker for this new land?”

  The dream was very clear, showing him precisely what he must say. But even so, behind it—like shadows thrown by bright fire—there was an element of doubt, as if what was just and right hung balanced by darker emotions, retribution and revenge to be later delivered.

  But he knew what he must say, and went out from his lodge to the waiting People.

  They gathered in nervous silence—all save the worst hurt and the youngest—their joy in the new land tainted with doubt and suspicion. It was, in a way, the first Matakwa in this new and unnamed place, and it seemed to Morrhyn not so different from that last in lost Ket-Ta-Witko.

  He walked into the circle and said, “I have dreamed,” and turned his face to Chakthi. “Do you speak of what happened?”

  Chakthi glanced sidelong at Hadduth and rose. His wounds were cleansed and sewn, the stitched cuts lending him a ferocious aspect. He said, “I fought to the last beside Racharran and we came together to the gate. We both were wounded, and my brother held me up—he was a brave man and a great warrior.”

  There came a murmur of approval at that, loudest from those Tachyn still loyal to their akaman. Chakthi paused, favoring his hurt leg, rubbing as if absently at the wound.

  Morrhyn said, “Go on.” His voice was impassive, expressing nothing.

  Chakthi nodded and said, “The Breakers and their beasts came close on our heels. I felt my brother Racharran falter …” His voice trailed off and he closed his eyes a moment, as if pained by the memory. “I tried to hold him, but I lacked the strength. I saw an arrow in him—a Breaker’s shaft—and he said to me, ‘I am slain, brother. Go on.’ I did my best to bring him to the gate, but the life went out of him fast and I could not—I could only leave him, and ask the Maker accept his soul.” Slowly he turned around, his eyes roving the circle as if defying any there to contradict him, falling finally on Dohnse. “And does any here say different, they lie.”

  A murmuring then, soon swallowed by silence. The morning sun shone warm on green grass that whispered a faint song under the wind’s gentle caress. Crickets chattered and high overhead a hawk hung black against the cloudless sky.

  Faces turned expectant to Morrhyn. Rannach whispered, “Do you deliver judgment?”

  Morrhyn whispered back, “That is not my place. I am not akaman of the Commacht, but only wakanisha.”

  Rannach said, “You’re the Prophet,” in a puzzled voice.

  Morrhyn motioned him to silence and said, “This tale has another shape and we should hear that. Dohnse, do you speak?”

  He stared fixedly at Chakthi, but the Tachyn akaman ignored his blue gaze, seating himself and whispering with Hadduth. Dohnse rose.

  He clutched a pole, resting his weight on the stick for f
ear he collapse. For all his leg was sewn and bound, it still throbbed as if a fire burned where the claws had scored him. He cleared his throat and said, “I was with them—Racharran and Chakthi—and we were the last. A beast came after us and I slew it, and when I rose I saw Chakthi take out a knife and drive it between Racharran’s ribs. Then he kicked Racharran and went on through the gate.”

  Chakthi shouted, “Liar! Who else saw this?”

  Dohnse shrugged and said, “None, I think.”

  Chakthi smiled and said, “Where was Morrhyn, then? He waited by the gate, no? But he saw nothing.”

  Dohnse said, “Morrhyn was turned away. He spoke through the gate and did not see what you did. But I saw it.”

  Chakthi curled his lip and spat.

  Morrhyn said carefully, his eyes again firm on Chakthi, “So this tale has tow tellings; and very different. Which do we believe?”

  Chakthi said, “I am akaman of the Tachyn and this man only a warrior.”

  Morrhyn said, “Does that make his word any less?”

  “Than mine?” Chakthi nodded. “Yes.”

  “Akaman or warrior,” Morrhyn said, “still the Maker judges. And on his scales, all are equal.” Still he locked his eyes on Chakthi. “Have you aught else to say?”

  Hadduth whispered into the akaman’s ear and Chakthi shook his head.

  Yazte said, “Morrhyn, you are the Prophet. You brought us here, and you say you’ve dreamed. Then do you tell us your dream? What is the truth here?”

  Morrhyn sighed and looked at the hawk. The bird still rode the wind, lofty and arrogant in its freedom. He thought perhaps he had none any longer, but only duty, which was a hard burden. It would be easy to speak of the dream and deliver judgment: the Maker had shown him what had happened; and what should happen did he take the role of decider. He could make it easy for the People—shout out the truth and order sentence. But then he would be forever the Prophet, and they always look to him for answers when those solutions were better found in their own minds, their own spirits. The Maker offered hope—their presence in this new land was proof enough of that—but also he looked to men to do right of their own volition, not be only guided like herded horses.

  So he said, “The truth? The truth is what Dohnse tells us, that Chakthi slew Racharran.”

  Noise then: a great shouting. Knives appeared, bright in the sun. Colun was on his feet, a hand extended in angry accusation, his voice roaring for sentence of death. Morrhyn saw Lhyn staring at the Tachyn, her eyes spilling out tears and her lips writhing back from her teeth. Yazte rose ponderous, hand on his belt knife. Rannach remained seated—which allowed Morrhyn some measure of hope—but his face was dark with rage and disgust.

  Morrhyn climbed upright and raised his arms: silence fell—he was the Prophet.

  “We are come to a new land,” he said, “which is a gift of the Maker, when else we might have died. But it seems we bring with us all the troubles of Ket-Ta-Witko. Do you all think about that? Think about how much this Council is like the last Matakwa, when that which drove us from our homeland began.”

  Yazte said, “Tell us what to do.”

  Morrhyn shook his head. “No. That is not for me to decide.”

  Yazte opened his mouth to speak again, but Kahteney took his arm and spoke to him, and the Lakanti chieftain shrugged and scowled, and fell quiet.

  Rannach asked, “Then who? Who decides if not you?”

  Morrhyn looked at the young man and said, “You.”

  It hung on this, precarious as an egg balanced on a knife’s blade, delicate and deadly as that hawk riding the unseen currents of the sky. The dream—the Maker—had shown him that: Rannach must decide; or … He had rather not think of that “or,” and so he held his tongue and stared at Rannach, waiting.

  “I am not fit,” Rannach said.

  Morrhyn said, “You are akaman of the Commacht now. It was your father Chakthi murdered.” It was hard, that, with Lhyn’s eyes wide upon him, all tear-tracked. “Yours, then, the decision.”

  Yazte said, “That’s fair.”

  And Colun, “Yes! Let Rannach decide.”

  Chakthi said, “Is this Matakwa as the Prophet claims, then all must have a voice, and the decision be reached by all.”

  “This is our way and has always been our way.” Hadduth rose to his feet and spoke loud. “At that last Matakwa—when Vachyr was slain—Racharran had no say because it was his son accused! Now accusation of murder is made against Chakthi, and Racharran’s son asked to decide the verdict. How can that be fair? Racharran himself would not agree to it.”

  Voices murmured, “No!” Others murmured, “Yes!” And some said, “Execute him!”

  More called for Morrhyn to decide: because he was the Prophet.

  He raised his arms again. It was somewhat embarrassing to own such repute that that simple gesture delivered silence. He said, “I will not.”

  Kahteney rose. “Perhaps there’s another way. The Prophet says that Rannach must decide; Chakthi and Hadduth say no. So—shall this Matakwa elect the judges? Or the judge?”

  Morrhyn said again, “I’ll not be the judge. This is for the People to decide.”

  Kahteney said, “Then I give my vote to Rannach.”

  Yazte said, “He’s mine also.”

  Colun said, “And mine.”

  Hadduth said, “The Grannach have no voice in the Council of the People.”

  Kanseah said, “The Naiche shall abide by Rannach’s judgment.”

  There was no one yet to speak for the Aparhaso, so Morrhyn said, “Shall it be so? Shall Rannach judge?”

  And there came an answer that matched the bellowing of the Breakers’ beasts in its volume: “Yes!”

  “So be it.” Morrhyn beckoned Rannach to stand. “The judgment is yours to make.”

  Chakthi shouted, “No! This is not the way. This is not how the Ahsa-tye-Patiko has it.”

  Hadduth joined him in his protest, and no few of the Tachyn; but all the rest—which was the great mass of the People—shouted them down and they were forced to angry silence.

  Rannach stood. He looked around the circle: at Morrhyn and his mother, at his wife, at Yazte and Kahteney and Colun, at Dohnse and all the rest waiting for his word, and finally at Chakthi.

  “I believe Dohnse speaks the truth,” he said. “And Morrhyn. I believe that Chakthi slew my father.”

  Shouts came: calling for Chakthi’s death. Morrhyn waited, hanging like that hawk on the currents of Rannach’s words. All hinged on this: the dreamed future, which might go the one way or the other, dependent on men, on one man—Rannach.

  Rannach said, “This year past, I slew Vachyr. I believed that what I did was right. But had I let him live—had I brought him back alive to judgment—then perhaps the Breakers would not have come to Ket-Ta-Witko. Perhaps there would have been no war between the Commacht and the Tachyn. Perhaps we should all live still in that old land the Maker gave us. But I did not think then; now I do.”

  He paused, staring round. His eyes were fierce, defying any to argue him. Morrhyn waited, patient as the hawk; nor any less hungry.

  “Blood was shed then,” Rannach continued, “when blood should not have been shed. Morrhyn taught me that it broke the Ahsa-tye-Patiko and delivered the Maker’s wrath against all the People. It delivered the Breakers upon us.”

  The hawk folded its wings and stooped: salvation or damnation?

  Morrhyn waited with the rest. The dream spread out down its intricate paths, like a spider’s web—mazed and fragile and strong until broken.

  And Rannach said, “I’d not chance again the Maker’s wrath. We are brought to a new land, which is good.” He gestured at the rolling grass, the blue-running rivers, the distant mountains. “I’d not again chance breaking the Ahsa-tye-Patiko. I’d not spoil the grass of this new land with blood. Listen! My wife grows large with a child—shall he be born to war? Or shall we live peaceful? We are exiled from Ket-Ta-Witko by what I did, and Vachyr, and Chakthi. But
I’d not see that strife again. I’d see a peaceful land where my son might grow up without war.

  “So—I claim no blood right against Chakthi. He slew my father, but I’ll not claim his life.”

  Yazte said, “No payment? He murdered your father—my brother!—and you’d let him go free? That I cannot accept.”

  Shy Kanseah, even, said, “I believe the Prophet; I believe Dohnse. Can you let your father go unavenged?”

  Rannach looked at Morrhyn, who gave back no clear answer save an enigmatic smile, and said: “I would not soil the grass of this new land with blood. Does Chakthi confess his sins and swear repentance and fealty to all the People, then I say he and his Tachyn live with us; and let our coming here wash away past sins.”

  He turned his eyes challenging on Chakthi. Morrhyn fought a smile—it went well so far: one path the dream had shown him. But there were yet more to be taken, to other destinies.

  And Chakthi took one as he stared at Rannach and shook his head and said, “Swear fealty to you? No! I confess no sins; neither accept your right to judge me.”

  The hawk rose up and Morrhyn was not sure whether its claws hung open or closed.

  “Then I give judgment,” Rannach said.

  Chakthi said, “You cannot.”

  Yazte said, “He can—we sit in Chiefs’ Council and we have all agreed. Rannach’s is the final word.”

  “One day, old man,” Chakthi said, “I swear I shall kill you.”

  Yazte laughed and said, “Dream on, murderer.”

  Chakthi surged up, but Hadduth grasped his arm and pulled him down even as the Lakanti and the Tachyn again drew weapons.

  Kahteney said, “What is this judgment?”

  And Rannach said, “That we of the People who are true to the Ahsa-tye-Patiko cannot live with such as he, or any who follow him. I say that we send them away, where they not soil us with lies and envy and hatred. I say that they go”—he flung out an arm to where the line of distant mountains stretched all shadowy and cloud-hung across the eastern horizon—“there! Beyond those hills; and find themselves a place and never come back to where the People live.”