The Bone House be-2

by Stephen Lawhead

  Instantly, four others joined his survey of the valley below. The rest of the clansmen dropped what they were doing and fell absolutely silent. An atmosphere of intense anxiety descended over the camp. Again, not a word or sign passed among them, but all were wary, the tension swirling around them like the sinewy coils of a serpent. Kit stood too and quietly crept to the rim of the ledge to see if he could discover what had alerted the others. A minute or two eked by, and then he heard a sound he had heard every day since coming to the winter quarters: heavy feet on the rocky trail leading to the ledge.

  Someone was coming.

  Kit waited, every sense prickling, bracing himself for a fight. Who was it? Were they under attack? He cast a hasty glance around for the nearest weapon.

  Then, as one, the clan relaxed. Although Dardok still stood watching the path below, the palpable sense of imminent danger simply melted away. Something had changed. But what?

  Before Kit could determine what had happened to alter the mood, he saw movement on the path leading up to the ledge, and a moment later their visitors arrived: a group of fifteen-seven females, five males, and the rest young ones of various ages and sizes. From the enthusiastic welcome that commenced, Kit reckoned the group was well known to the River City folk. In fact, seeing how naturally the newcomers were accepted and how easily they insinuated themselves into the life of the group, Kit began to think that perhaps they were not merely visitors but part of the same extended valley clan.

  Then the newcomers saw Kit, and he was subjected to the inevitable examination with much murmuring, touching, and rubbing of his skin and scruffy beard. They appeared fascinated by the colour and texture of his pale skin and fine curly hair; and were amused by his thin frame, short arms, narrow shoulders, and curious upright posture.

  The round of buffeting had no sooner concluded than a second group of visitors arrived-four sturdy males bearing a fifth on a litter made of birch poles and skins. This fifth male was the oldest Kit had seen so far, with wispy grey hair and a long white beard and a face so ancient and wrinkled that, wrapped chin to ankles in hides and furs, he looked positively mummified. The bearers carefully lowered the bier to the ground, and several of the nearer clan members helped him to his feet. As soon as he was upright, he waved off his aides and shuffled forward with unsteady steps to meet Kit.

  At his approach, Kit became aware of a tingling sensation at the base of his skull. Time seemed to slow-the ordinary flow dwindled down to a mere trickle and pooled around them. Moreover, Kit was aware of a very strange and powerful emotion-one he had only ever felt once before in his life. As a youngster, Kit had been introduced to what was reputed to be the oldest tree in England-a massive, gnarled, tangle-rooted thing called the Marton Oak, which had survived almost 1,300 years of earthly life. Kit remembered standing there beneath the twilight canopy of its enormous spreading boughs among roots that were as big as he was, and feeling an almost supernatural force that gave him to know that he was in the presence of a living entity of such peace and gentleness and strength of spirit that it inhabited a whole other plane of existence, and beside which he was as small and notional as a clod of dirt.

  In the presence of the old one, Kit felt that way again, dwarfed by a spirit not only far older and wiser but also far larger and more powerful than any he had ever encountered. And like that ancient oak, the old man was unutterably regal: a king of his kind. Once more Kit was that young boy standing in the shadow of a vastly superior entity and knowing to his very pith and core how very insignificant he was.

  Yet he felt no fear. A boundless and placid acceptance seemed to emanate from the aged being before him, and Kit understood that despite the yawning abyss between them he had nothing to fear.

  The Ancient One examined Kit slowly head to toe, and Kit saw that while one of the old one’s eyes was bright and piercing keen, the other was clouded and almost opaque. Upon concluding his examination, the aged chieftain raised his head and fixed Kit with an ardent, determined look, and Kit was aware that this was an attempt at communication; he could feel it as a physical force of considerable intensity. Kit, beguiled by the power and directness of the approach, simply opened himself to it.

  The result was staggering.

  What kind of creature are you?

  The question struck him like a closed fist, and Kit instinctively took a quick backwards step to recover his equilibrium. It took a second before Kit realised that the question had not been spoken aloud. Moreover, it had not, in fact, used words at all.

  “I am a man,” Kit blurted, even though he knew this would not be understood.

  But he was wrong in this assumption.

  Ma-an, echoed the disembodied voice in his head.

  Clear as a bell and distinct from his own thought, with its own timbre and texture and cadence, the unspoken voice of the Ancient One took shape, and the unprecedented interview commenced.

  Ma-an… Kit’s word for himself was then combined with the idea of being, or existing… is… then Kit got a sense of growing things, action, breathing, change… living… life inextricably entwined with something tangible, yet amorphous, an animating fire, present yet hidden within… living soul.

  The question, as it entered Kit’s mind, was: Are you, Man, a living soul?

  “Oh, yes! Yes, indeed. I am-I have a soul,” Kit assured him, speaking aloud. He suspected it was probably unnecessary, but it was just easier to vocalise his thoughts.

  Goodness… the feeling of fullness and rightness… satisfaction, flowed from the Ancient One, along with an awareness of a soul’s unique value and place in the world. Kit’s instant interpretation of these interconnected conceptual traces came out as: That is good. Creatures with souls are rare.

  “Rare, yes.”

  The chief gave a grunt of satisfaction. The next thought that formed in Kit’s consciousness was the recognition of a long and varied experience allied with surprise at a sudden and startling uniqueness. The sense Kit made of it was: We have seen many things, but never one like you.

  “I have not seen any like you,” Kit replied.

  Next Kit received what he interpreted as a sort of formal introduction. Into his mind poured a complicated and much mingled concept, an association of metaphors: pure animal strength and courage allied with majestic dominance-a lion, perhaps?-and this was combined with a sense of longevity-like a yew tree or a mountain-and lastly, the concept of serenity as applied to a calm, deep, freshwater lake of immense size and limitless depths. All this, then, was somehow combined and united in an affirmation of individual personhood-the being standing right in front of him, in fact: the Ancient One.

  Then, with a delicacy of gesture that Kit found endearing, the old chieftain placed a thick hand over his heart and said aloud, “En-Ul.”

  There was no question but that this was the Ancient One’s name, and Kit repeated it at once, saying, “I am pleased to meet you, En-Ul.” He lowered his head in a little bow-an automatic response, but one Kit felt appropriate to the situation-and received a grunt of satisfaction in reply. The next question flowed into Kit’s mind already formed: Where is your home?

  “My home is far from here,” was how Kit chose to answer. To say more would have been unnecessary, and probably impossible anyway.

  The next two questions followed so quickly in succession they formed a single inquiry: Why are you alone? Are you cast out from your clan?

  “No, no-I am not an outcast,” Kit hastened to assure him. “I am alone because I am… lost. I was travelling and became lost.” He did not know if the concept of travelling would translate. “My clan-my people do not know I am here.”

  A feeling of sympathetic sorrow flowed in inundating waves to Kit-empathetic commiseration, mingled with a sense of the wrongness of such a state as Kit described: That is bad. You… possessive… fellow beings – your people, Kit decided… strong imperative.. . must… outpouring of grief and anxiety… mourn… an empty place… absence…

  Your people mus
t mourn your absence.

  “Some of them do, I suppose,” admitted Kit lamely.

  The Ancient One gave another grunt of satisfaction, and then, peering deep into Kit’s eyes, expressed a largess of generosity and inclusive fellowship Kit could only describe as a feeling of welcome to a long lost and much loved son; it felt as if he was being adopted into the clan. It felt as if he was coming home.

  The intensity of the emotion so directly conveyed took his breath away. Kit could not speak for the sudden stirring of his own long-suppressed feelings. Tears welled in his eyes, and he began to weep. They were tears of grief for his own inadequacy, his frailty, his shrunken and limited intelligence, his woeful dependency.

  He wept hot, miserable tears, and with the weeping came a kind of solace, a comfort like that of a friendly hand reached out to steady a tottering child. As if in response to his misery, he sensed an empathy and understanding. There was nothing superior in it, or condemning. Into his soul flowed, simply, acceptance.

  When Kit found his voice again, all he could say was, “Thank you.”

  CHAPTER 34

  In Which the Future Is a Dream

  R iver City Clan remained encamped on the stone ledge as winter deepened across the valley. A few days after the arrival of the new clan members, Kit noticed that at daybreak each morning all the younger males left the warmth and shelter of the rock ledge and disappeared into the wood. They returned an hour or so before sunset, but try as he might, he received no answer to his admittedly clumsy attempts to find out what they were doing.

  Very obviously, they were not hunting-Dardok and two of the women continued their hunting and scavenging forays on suitable days, as they had since coming to the winter shelter. Whatever they were up to, it was not about providing food for the tribe. Finally, when Kit had become absolutely eaten up with curiosity, he went to En-Ul, who since his arrival had hived himself up in robes and furs at the far side of the ledge, where he spent his days overlooking the fog-bound river far below.

  “I am sorry to bother you, En-Ul,” Kit said, announcing his presence with a polite cough. He was learning, when speaking to clansmen, to try to make simple declarations while holding the images or concepts at issue forcefully in his mind.

  The old one stirred and turned a bright eye on Kit. Be welcome here, Ghidt, came into Kit’s consciousness.

  The response surprised Kit; not because it was unusual in itself, but because he had not given his name to the Clan elder, or heard anyone else speak it aloud in his presence. He must have picked it up from one of the others by way of the mental radio they all shared.

  “I have come with a question,” Kit said, settling in beside the old chieftain. “The young men,” he continued, picturing the ones he meant as they had appeared that morning when he saw them leave the camp. “Where do they go? What do they do all day?”

  Kit received back an image of the young males along with a sense of doing… of work… of dedicated labour- they make with purpose, was how he interpreted the concept; along with this came the notion of bestowal… of presentation… of offering allied to the personal designation- En – Ul.

  Linking all this together, Kit tried out this interpretation: “They are making a gift for you?”

  This received the standard grunt Kit associated with satisfaction-a yes. The old one held Kit’s gaze in his own, and with a slow, deliberate action, placed the flat of his palm on Kit’s forehead. The touch was rough and heavy, but warm. Instantly, into Kit’s mind came the image of a sort of house or shelter of extraordinary design-the most unusual dwelling Kit had ever seen: a house made all of bone.

  “They are making a house of bones?” Kit said, half in surprise, half in question. “For you?”

  Again, the grunt of satisfaction as En-Ul removed his hand.

  They sat for a moment in silence, then Kit received the sensation he had come to associate with the interrogative-a question-and with it the concept of sight, or seeing. “Do I want to see it?” he said aloud. “Yes,” he said quickly. “I would see it.”

  “E – li, ” the old one said, his voice low as a rumble of thunder, and into Kit’s mind came the image of sunlight flooding the horizon, allied with the concept of something unseen, yet present, along with expectation bordering on certainty… the future?

  This kept him occupied for some little while. “Tomorrow?” Kit guessed, holding in his mind the image of a rising sun-the new day that would be.

  “Unh,” grunted En-Ul. The day that is soon becoming.

  “I will go with the young ones tomorrow,” he confirmed, picturing himself leaving with the group as they went out the next morning.

  “Unh,” grumbled the old chief again.

  The next morning, when the young males rose and made ready to depart-arraying themselves with skins worn like capes and wrapping their feet against the snow and cold-Kit did likewise, joining them in their preparations. There were four of them this morning, and they acknowledged his presence with sniffs and nods, and the leader-a large male Kit had begun calling Thag for no particular reason other than he bore an uncanny resemblance to a cartoon character Kit knew-patted him about the head and shoulders in a gesture Kit had come to understand as a sign of friendly greeting; adults often used the same behaviour with the children. As soon as Kit was ready, they picked up their stout, stone-bladed spears and set off.

  The track they followed down into the valley was well trod now, the shin-deep snow crushed down by the passing of many feet over the last few days, and it squeaked as they walked. Once again Kit marvelled at the easy grace of the big creatures as they strode along. The trail led down to a bluff only a few dozen yards above the river; the ice at the edges caught the light of the rising sun and gleamed. A few more days of such cold and Kit would not be surprised to see it frozen over entirely.

  They paused to rest a few moments and to listen and scent the air. At first Kit wondered about this, but it came to him that this behaviour was a simple defensive action: they were making certain they were not being stalked by one of the large predators that roamed the valley-a lion, say, or wolves. But this day they were not to be challenged, so they moved on.

  In a little while the narrow track began to rise, and soon they were walking next to the sheer limestone curtain. Kit enjoyed the exertion. It felt good to stir the blood, feel the cold air in his lungs, and move around after lolling around camp. Silent as shadows, save for the squeak of their feet on the crisp snow, they moved, up and up, following the contours of the undulating wall.

  The trail grew narrow and steep, and soon they had climbed out of the valley altogether and onto the thick-wooded plain above. Thag paused at the rim of the gorge to scent the cold air and listen. The forest stretched before them, draped in heavy blankets of snow, softening all sound to a muted hush. From somewhere in the dark wood’s depths Kit heard the keening cry of a hunting hawk and the soft plip-plop of snow dropping from branches.

  Assured that there was no danger, the group continued, following the deeply entrenched trail into the wood. Here and there Kit spied animal tracks crossing the trail: the small traces of mice and rabbits and the larger tracks of ferret, marmot, and some of the smaller antelope-like animals. Once he saw what must have been the tracks of one of the larger predators they were trying to avoid-either lion or wolf, he could not tell, but his companions would know, and they did not seem to pay them any mind.

  If not for the ribbon of beaten-down snow, Kit would have quickly lost his way; the wood was dark and wreathed in hoarfrost and frozen mist. Abruptly, they arrived at a crease in the land-a little canyon formed by a tributary that carried spring melt and summer rain into the larger valley. Here the canyon formed a cliff with a sheer drop of fifty or sixty feet. The group did not linger at the edge but continued along the rim for a way until they came to a defile leading down to the bottom of the dry streambed. They followed the defile as it curved around and back to the cliff.

  And there, directly below the sheer drop,
lay a fantastic heap of bones. Devoid of flesh, and partially covered with snow, they made a stark white-on-white mound at the bottom of the streambed. All at once, Kit understood what he was looking at: a crude but brutally efficient method of hunting that consisted of driving the fleeing prey over a cliff, where they would either be killed by the fall or injured and finished off by the hunters. Judging by the massive tangle of carcasses, the River City Clan had been using this kill zone for some considerable time.

  There were bones of all kinds: some big as dinosaur bones-though Kit was fairly certain there were none of those around… mammoths, then?… or mastodons maybe, were those the same?-all jumbled together with those of elk, deer, and antelope; and some that looked like they might have come from giant oxen or buffalo-definitely bovine in nature-and even some from horses.

  Without any discussion-there never was any, in fact-the clansmen began dragging the larger bones from the heap, disentangling them and reforming them into a smaller, more ordered heap. Why some bones were chosen and others discarded, Kit could not readily tell, but he joined in all the same. The work party soon sorted out a number of sizeable piles; then, using the ropes made of braided hemp they had brought with them, they bound the bones into bundles. These unwieldy collections were then heaved onto their shoulders and muscled up out of the defile.

  When all the bones had been trundled up out of the graveyard, each clansman hefted a bundle or two onto his back and trudged off into the wood once more. Kit could only manage to lift the smaller bundle he himself had made, but picked that up and followed his companions walking single file into the dark, snow-clotted forest and to a clearing that was suspiciously circular in nature-an almost perfect circle, which Kit concluded had been made somehow by the clan. He could not determine how they could have achieved this, lacking anything but simple stone axes. Yet here it was: an almost perfect circle sixty feet or so in diameter, surrounded by tall pines and larches, but offering a clear and unobstructed view of the sky overhead.