by Zoe Saadia
A gust of wind made Seketa shiver, cold upon her sweaty neck. She began lifting her basket.
“What changed? What is different now? How is it all connected to the raiding party this man did not join?”
“The War Chief,” she said simply. “He will not be here to throw his weight behind the man when the Town Council would discuss his inadequate behavior. Many of the prominent men, warriors, mostly his friends, are not here to back him up. It would be easy to provoke him into saying stupid things, doing stupid deeds.”
Yeentso's sudden laughter made Seketa jump. “Oh, sister, you have a devious mind. Remind me not to cross your path or leave you angry for longer than a dawn or so.”
The heavy basket cutting into her palms, Seketa began easing away, anxious to put as much distance between her and the place she was not supposed to be at.
Some people were horrible, just horrible, she thought, making her way toward the second longhouse belonging to her clan. Two Rivers was a strange man, annoying in his disrespectful attitude toward the old ways. Still, he did not deserve to be made to wish he had never been born, not by a filthy manipulation, because of something that he did on an impulse. Whether the projected hunting was a good or a bad idea, he was there, helping the Wolf Clan boy, making sure he succeeded without getting killed, of that she was sure.
Oh, benevolent spirits, oh, the Right-Handed Twin, please let him succeed, she whispered, shutting her eyes. Please, let nothing bad happen to him.
Chapter 11
Two Rivers felt the need to take a deep breath, his stomach heavy, twisting uneasily. The torn carcass below their feet seemed to dominate the clearing, glaring at them with its missing lower parts and the ravaged stomach. Whoever had enjoyed this meal through the night must have been a real monster.
He glanced at the youth beside him.
“Our friend seemed to find our offering worthy of his time,” he said, mostly because he felt that something needed to be said. Something light, non-committal.
The boy nodded, his lips pressed, eyes glued to the half-eaten carcass, face lacking in color. Taking in the tense shoulders and the lifelessly hanging hands, Two Rivers frowned, fighting the wave of compassion. He wasn’t sure he would switch places with this youth, if offered. It was one thing to think about the upcoming feat, to dominate the fear and get ready to face the monster, but quite another to watch the actual deeds of the giant beast. How could a normal forest creature eat so much in one night, tearing so viciously at the flesh of a mature deer? But maybe he was an uki, after all, a wandering giant, not belonging to the forest at all but to the wicked creations of the Evil Twin.
“He is quite a large creature,” he said, compelled to keep talking. “But his size doesn’t matter. One good shot will take the monster down like a silly squirrel.”
“Yes,” muttered the boy, not moving and not taking his eyes off the clearing.
Two Rivers sighed. “You don’t have to do this, if you don’t want to. No one will know if we found that bear or not.”
The unanimated figure came to life at once. “You will know, and I will know.” The youth turned sharply, eyes haunted but flashing, the colorless lips steady, not quivering. “I will go down now, and I will wait for him to come back. He will come, won’t he?”
“Yes, he will. Somewhere around early afternoon, I assume. He would be hungry again, and he would want to finish his meal.”
“But I should be down there now, shouldn't I? In case he comes earlier.”
“Yes, now it’s time to hide behind your fence.”
This time, Two Rivers suppressed his sigh, not wishing to unbalance the youth’s resolve. The boy was destined to go through it all while waiting down there. From the bottomless fear, through the urge to crawl away, to the resolution to die bravely, he would feel all of it and more, wavering between elation and desperation, wishing for the ordeal to be over, one way or another.
He remembered his own trial too well, although close to ten summers had passed since it had been his time to crouch behind the pitifully small, low fence.
“Don’t lie behind the fence the whole day. Stretch your limbs from time to time. You can sit or even walk a little. Don’t get your muscles cramped by doing absolutely nothing. You will need your body alert, your instincts sharp. If you get sleepy you are done for.” He reached for the youth’s bow. “Let me check this thing again.”
“It’s all right. I checked it three times through the night. And the arrows, too. They are all in good shape.” The youth looked up resolutely, his eyebrows meeting each other across the handsome well-defined face. “You did so many good things for me. I’m grateful. I will never forget.” His frown deepened. “I should go.”
Curiously touched, Two Rivers did not try to suppress his smile. “I’ll be waiting for you here, and may the benevolent spirits and the Right-Handed Twin himself watch over you, enjoying your bravery.”
He watched the youth’s back disappearing down the invisible trail, appreciating the lightness of his step. Oh, the cub was a brave little thing, and proud, all right. It would be a terrible waste if he was destined to die on the clearing this afternoon.
Shielding his eyes against the rising sun, he watched the opposite hill and the sharp cliff protruding out of the brilliant green. A much better vantage point, he reflected. And much closer, too. Not a bad distance for an arrow to make its way toward the clearing.
He glanced at the torn carcass, squinting to see the fence better. They had built it on the previous day, after shooting a deer and dragging it all the way to this place, careless of the blood and the splattered meat, anxious to make their trail as attractive as possible.
Placing their bait in the middle of the clearing, they then checked the wind, and praying it would not change in the course of the next day, they began working on the fence, placing it at about twenty paces away from the carcass.
Twenty paces was a good range for a lethal shot. Any farther and the arrow might miss, deflected by the wind, not to stick deeply enough to reach the beast’s vital organs. A good strategy that the boy appreciated with no argument, agreeing that his hiding place should be located in a closer proximity, taking away his chance of escaping in the case of a bad shot.
Not mentioning it at all, they worked on the twisted pine branches in silence, constructing the meager shelter. Five paces long and half a human’s height, it offered some cover, but no protection.
“Remember that brown bears cannot see well,” repeated Two Rivers several times. “Don’t make sharp movements, and the beast might not notice you even if you stood at your full height. Rise slowly, aim carefully, then shoot. After that, be ready to run really fast, preferably shooting as you go.”
He remembered the boy nodding thoughtfully, braiding the twigs, fastening them to each other, immersed in what he had been doing. If he was sick with fear, he did not show it, although Two Rivers’ experienced eyes could discern the signs, seeing the tension in the stiff shoulders, the slightly trembling palms, the overly concentrated gaze.
He shook the memory off, watching the clearing, still vacant, washed by the strengthening sunlight, with no noticeable activity of humans or animals alike. The boy should have reached the place by now, but there was no sight of him, and Two Rivers was ready to bet the best of his birds’ traps against the claim that the boy was descending the path exaggeratedly slow, prolonging his walk as much as he could.
Again, his eyes drifted to the opposite hill. To reach it and make himself comfortable upon the protruding cliff would take time. He would have to make a considerable detour, to circumvent the clearing and the adjusting trails. The smell of a human might spoil it all, might cause the bear they had made such tremendous efforts to lure, turn suspicious, might make it more aggressive or frighten it away.
He measured the sun, then shrugged and got to his feet. The trip would give him something to do, and it would also put him within a shooting range, just in case. Of course, one was never to interrupt this
sort of a challenge. The boy had to face his fate and best it, or perish while trying. He had to do it all by himself. And yet…
He shrugged. This hunt was his, Two Rivers’, idea, and the boy was really too young for such a trial. He could shoot quite well, of that he was sure now, letting the boy hunt the deer on the day before. Still, there was a glaring difference between hunting and being hunted, and in the case of a surprised, possibly wounded and blinded with rage, giant, the hunter could turn into the hunted in a matter of a heartbeat. And then it would be the real test for the youth who had seen no battles and no real hunting trips. If he panicked, he would be done for, and even if not, his chances were painfully slim.
Making his way along the trees lining the side of the opposite hill, careful to make no sounds, Two Rivers grinned, enjoying the walk and the calm morning chirps. There would be no harm in being able to help should the matters take a turn for the worse. The boy deserved that for all the bravery he had shown so far. And also…
He frowned, unwilling to remember the dream. Last night it had been bad again, with the old vision returning, more vivid than ever, so real he could remember its smells and its sounds, the roaring of the invisible waterfalls, the rustling of the trees, the voices of the people, and the peculiar accent of their speech. He had dreamed about that place before, but with fewer details, with no sounds and no smells.
There must have been the growling of the falls somewhere out of sight, for he had always known that the dream was happening a short walk from a very large river and its lethal rapids, but he never remembered actually hearing it, while this time it had been distinctive, ominously near, promising danger. He would be required to jump into these falls, he knew. It was some sort of a test, to prove something, to make himself heard.
But what kind of a test could that be? he had wondered, as he lay on his back in the grayish, predawn mist, soaked with sweat, although, in this time of the night, it was actually chilly enough to make one use his blanket. No one could jump into this sort of rapids and come out alive. Not in this place. So it must have been a way to kill a person, a prisoner – had he been captured? - instead of the customary gauntlet along the carpet of glowing embers. Those foreigners must have had different ways. And they were foreigners all right, he could tell by the sound of their words, understandable, but barely, just a strange blabbering really.
He pushed the memory away, his sense of well-being disappearing. The accursed dream had always been there, returning every now and then, disturbing in the way it repeated itself, presented in more and more detail, gaining power with the passing of time. As though the time to do that was nearing. He had been successful in his efforts to dismiss it, but never for good, never entirely.
But oh, Mighty Spirits! This night it hit him with such vividness, such realness, leaving him breathless, shamefully afraid. He had been there, on that foreign shore. He had been there! Surrounded by locals, some hostile, some doubtful, some just curious. It happened in the previous times too, but back then, no familiar person was among the crowd. While now…
He shivered, suddenly cold in the warm morning breeze. This time it was different, because this time the boy was there, too. Somewhere there, invisible but present, and he had known what to do. Lying by the embers of their small, long extinguished fire, surrounded by the cold, predawn mist, wavering between the sleep and the reality, he remembered how his heart began beating calmer because of that knowledge. The boy knew what to do. And he was not afraid. He knew this place and those people, having some ridiculously easy solution that made the test of the falls possible.
He shook his head, pushing the dream away, measuring the sun. It was already high. He needed to hurry.
Climbing the opposite hill, eager to reach the cliff now, he wiped his brow. From this vantage point, the part of the clearing was clearly visible, the carcass of the deer they had shot muffled, covered with clouds of buzzing flies.
He could see the boy crouching behind the fence, clutching to his bow and the quiver of arrows, not daring to move. Stupid! At this stage, the hunter should be relaxed, should sit and even walk a little, be alert and ready, careful but not overly so, not in this part of the waiting. Crouching for half a day would do the youth no good, he knew. His muscles would be cramped, and his senses sleepy.
He took out his own bow and made himself comfortable upon the wide tier, enjoying the breeze.
Involuntarily, he rechecked its direction. The wind hadn’t changed and he nodded, satisfied. The bear would not smell the boy, while his own arrows, if proved necessary, would be assisted by the wind and not hindered by it. A closer proximity would work better, but he still could make a good shot even from such a distance. And a good shot it would have to be. If the youth did not manage, he, Two Rivers, would have no more than a few heartbeats to take the bear down before it was too late for the boy.
The heat grew as the sun reached its zenith and began rolling down toward the opposite hill. Drifting in dreamless reality, Two Rivers glanced toward the distant river. But for a good swim, he thought, wiping his brow, aware of the sweat rolling down his back. Contemplating whether to take his shirt off, he wished for the breeze to return. What a heat!
He wiped his brow once again, then froze, startled. The air stood motionless, still, accumulating the heat. Nothing swayed the top of the trees below his feet. There was no breeze anymore!
He caught his breath, peering at the fence, seeing the figure of the boy curled behind it, a small, insignificant spot, foreign to the realm of the wild, both of them not belonging there.
He calculated fast. With no wind, the bear might smell the boy, yet it was not a likely possibility, not with the strong odor of the rotting meat dominating the air. The wind was of some help, but it was not critical. The boy would be all right if he kept to his senses. A significant if.
He heard the flopping of wings as a flock of birds took off, rising above the tree tops to his left. Eyes narrow, he watched the green foliage swaying with no rhythmic monotony. Something was progressing down the hill, shoving its way, pushing the bushes and the saplings away. Something determined and forceful, sure of itself and mighty enough to create all this clamor.
He clutched his bow tightly, tearing an arrow from its quiver. He didn’t need to see the actual progress of the beast. There could be no doubt about who it was. The bear was coming to relieve his hunger, and it was coming from the wrong direction.
***
Tekeni’s nostrils caught the unpleasant smell before he heard the snapping of the breaking bushes.
Heart coming to a halt, he turned slowly, like in a dream. The world around him seemed to freeze as he watched the trees some fifty paces away from him. They didn’t move, a part of the turned-to-stone world, but something was coming from that direction, threading carelessly, breaking branches on its way. Something fierce, forceful, monstrously huge!
He peered at the greenish foliage, unable to get enough air, but acutely aware of his surroundings, of the birds which seemed to stop chirping, and of the small creatures scampering away, disappearing into their comfortably small hideaways. The air was motionless, grayish in color, lacking its usual vitality.
One heartbeat, then another, then ten more. He counted them, unable to move. His limbs seemed to freeze, paralyzed, too heavy to lift, and his head was clear of thoughts, any thoughts. He felt neither fear, nor anxiety, nor any other feeling, for that matter. His mind went blank. Clear, vacant, impossible to gather enough concentration to think. But what was there to think about? The bear was coming from the opposite hill, with him, Tekeni, hiding on the wrong side of the fence.
The nasty smell grew, as did the sound of the breaking bushes, now joined by a heavy breathing. Only a real monster would breathe so loudly, to be heard from such distance. But of course! Only a real monster could devour half a deer in one night.
Sweat trickled down his forehead, accumulating in his eyebrows, threatening to penetrate his eyes. But for a gust of a fresh breeze! Oh
all the small and great ukis, even the elements were against him, making the wind blow steadily for three days, then taking it away at the height of his trial. Were the Great Spirits angry with him for attempting the impossible?
He drew the bow closer to his chest. There was no point in crouching behind the fence anymore, being on the wrong side of it; still, he sat there, the effort of changing position too great, requiring more strength than he could muster at the moment.
The smell grew, and then he saw it, the brownish spot in the lake of green, not in front of him but to his left, a mass of wet, muddy fur sparkling with drops of water. Raising its massive head, the creature sniffed the air, presenting to Tekeni the wideness of its side.
He knew he should do something, maybe get up and shoot before it charged toward him. The moment the bear would see him, he knew, he would be covering the distance in two, three powerful leaps, leaving its victim with not enough time to gasp, let alone stretch his bow, aim, and shoot.
Painfully slow, moving like in a dream, he got to his feet, feeling them trembling, holding him, but barely, the fence behind his back reassuring, promising support.
His hands shook badly, too, as they groped after the first arrow, his fingers cumbersome, having almost no feeling in them.
The creature paid him no attention, not noticing anything alarming, probably, but it was sniffing the air, looking in his direction.
He raised his bow, feeling it moving painfully slow, spending hundreds of heartbeats on every movement as it seemed. To straighten his hands – another eternity. To adjust the arrow – more of the countless time.