by Jeff Kamen
They take him down a narrow passage to the cave at the back where the leaders of bygone years lie in murky séance. Elders of what lies beyond, unquiet in their caskets. As they enter, she feels another’s feet walk by. The presences stirring in a ripple of overlaid conversations. The chamber glows dimly. Candles burn within dark niches chipped into the walls.
Hearing her name spoken she looks round to discover that the only place to lay him out adequately is Vadraskar’s tomb. ‘Can we use it?’ Staš asks her.
A few people look confused. ‘Why’s he asking you?’ Tomas whispers.
‘She’s my ... my mother’s mother,’ she says awkwardly, before turning to Staš with a nod to proceed. She stares numbly as the long slate top is draped in sheets and the body laid to rest upon it, trying not to think of what lies just a few feet beneath him. Unutterable. Bones clattering together in the draughty wastes. So desperate to reform, unite again in strong dark flesh ...
Anya arrives soon afterwards, running to her, holding her tightly. ‘Oh my darling, I just heard,’ she sobs, and she appreciates why Anya is shedding tears, but wishes that for once her old friend would acknowledge Sandor, what he means to her, even now. Others enter the room to console the siblings as they sit together, the pair just staring at the body, refusing food or drink or anything else they are offered. ‘It aint right,’ Lajos keeps muttering. ‘It aint right.’
The morning that follows is fresh from hell. After the first round of visitors have met with the siblings, the hunters help to clear the room. Then, as soon as fresh clothing has been brought up from Sandor’s shelter, it can be put off no longer: it’s time to clean the body. Radjík looks to Jaala and Anya for help. ‘Of course I will,’ Anya says softly, while Jaala says nothing, just nods. The three of them get straight to work. They wipe the thick oil and grime from him, dabbing gently around his face, clearing the filth from his ears and nostrils, the corners of his eyes, Anya working carefully as a surgeon. Jaala wipes his face again until it’s clean, then combs the oil from his hair and arranges it around his features as he’d worn it in life. When they’ve wiped down the rest of his body, they dress him in the hunting gear that’s been brought in, then compose his hands more naturally across his chest. They place his favourite bow at his side, a sack and quiver. Once more he looks like a man.
After this, the siblings are given some time to grieve alone. Perhaps an hour later another batch of visitors arrive to pay their respects. Jaala sits quietly with Anya as these new guests stream in to offer their sympathies to the dead man’s family, to offer whatever support might be needed in the coming days. A few of the hunters have returned to keep the siblings company, and together they sit with trays of teas and sweetbreads, while aromatic leaves burn in a corner to cleanse the air. Always together, she thinks, death and spices. She doesn’t know what to say to Anya about her plans: they feel smashed in her, brutalised, and when she feels the tears come at last she lets them fall and watches blankly as sprigs of flowers are placed upon Sandor’s chest, the guests circulating in respectful silence.
It seems the entire day will pass like this, years even, but around midday there arises a distant barking. Although the hunters say nothing, startled looks are exchanged and the siblings grow visibly uneasy. ‘Shit,’ Lajos mutters, ignoring Sonja as she calms him. ‘What they doin here?’
‘I don’t want em comin in,’ Radjík says urgently. ‘Go talk to em.’
‘You go. I aint in the mood.’
‘I can’t. Not them. You do it.’
‘Said I’m not in the mood.’
‘Laj. Just go, yeah? Quick.’
‘I said I aint goin. No way.’
‘I’m sure Staš’ll deal with it,’ Anya murmurs to Jaala.
‘I hate them,’ Jaala replies, staring ahead.
Anya turns to her in surprise. ‘Hate them? That’s a bit strong. Why do you say that?’
‘I just do. I don’t trust them.’
‘Well, I suppose you wouldn’t be the only one.’
‘What does Staš think of them?’
Anya glances round, as if to check they will not be overhead. ‘He says they have their uses.’
‘How do you mean? What uses?’
‘Let’s just say he has an agreement with them.’
‘About what?’
‘My love, this isn’t the time.’
‘I want to know. An agreement about what?’
‘The agreement was that the hunter clan would look after the woodlands. The game, all the herds. The Maga could stay down at their camp and take what they needed, provided they kept out unwanted strangers.’
‘… Strangers? What strangers?’
‘Just strangers.’
‘What strangers? I’ve never seen any.’
Anya gives her a look. ‘Really?’
‘You mean ... him? Who Grethà knew?’
‘I’m saying not all people are welcome here, and not just their kind. Staš says some people aren’t even …’
Her voice trails off. She shrugs.
‘Some people aren’t what? I’m not following you.’
‘Well. Who knows. It’s a big world out there, and not all of it good. Anyway, the point is that the arrangement was to keep everyone happy.’ Anya pauses, watching the siblings as they continue to argue, the hunters doing what they can to intervene. ‘Between you and me,’ she whispers, ‘he can’t stand the Maga. They don’t contribute to the tribe, yet they live on Naagli land. But what can he do?’
‘What do you mean?’
Anya raises a freckled brow. ‘Well, would you want to start a fight with them?’
The barking grows louder and more ferocious and it is not long before they hear a disturbance in the marquee. A man offers to help the siblings but his wife pulls him aside. As a hoarse voice calls for Sandor, Jaala sees a wild look in Radjík’s eye and offers to check on what’s happening.
‘Tell em to go,’ Radjík begs. ‘Tell em to leave us alone.’
‘Yeah,’ says Lajos, ‘we don’t want em here.’
‘They might come in anyway,’ Jaala replies, ignoring Anya’s mutterings to let it go. ‘You ought to be prepared for that.’
‘But I don’t wannem in here.’
‘Jaala’s right,’ says Karl, squeezing Radjík’s arm. ‘They might force it.’
Jaala observes the girl’s face, sees the fear there. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ she says, and with Anya looking on dubiously, shaking her head, she leaves the room.
~O~
The marquee is like a place under siege as she emerges from the passage, with groups of elders looking on anxiously in the gloom and crowds of visitors milling about like cattle and all eyes on the solid row of men in the entrance, an armed wall struggling to compose itself as a group of Maga attempt to break through from outside.
The barking is part of a constant din of noise by now. As a chorus of raucous jeers go up, she feels her face betraying her, and presses ahead with a clenched jaw as she makes her way to the front. Here she finds around twenty of the Maga tribe confronting the Naagli vanguard, mostly men, feral-looking in their pelts and beards. They stand with knives and chains, some with leashes tethered to their wrists, the big white wolflike dogs the leashes are attached to permitted to snap and bark at the men facing them, a jostling row of figures bent on returning the Maga’s vile insults with insults of their own. Uphill, on the path, groups of onlookers seem torn between relishing the spectacle and hurriedly retreating.
She squeezes through a cordon of hairy arms and emerges close to the two leaders at the heart of the conflict. Staš is standing with his arms folded impregnably while Sandor’s mother shouts into his face as she leans on her stick. She finds herself staring at the woman, a gaunt figure and severe, with matted tubes of grey-white hair twisting from her head like ropes. A woman with the same eyes and nose of the man now lying dead behind the partition.
‘You’re not helping things, Vera,’ Staš repeats, ‘just calm it dow
n. Calm it down.’ He is smiling at her, but the smile is faltering.
The woman pokes a finger into his chest, then leers over him, demanding to know by what right he is keeping her son from her, by what right he is being shut up in a cave.
‘He’s being looked after,’ he replies. He motions her away from him, then lets his thick arms hang at his sides. ‘He’s with his children.’
‘His children? His children?’
She turns with a snort to the other Maga, who hoot and laugh bitterly.
‘Listen. I sent a man down to you as soon as I knew about it. It’s not my fault you weren’t there.’
‘Let me in!’
As she pushes forward, Staš blocks her path, saying, ‘Stop this. Stop it now. No one’s preventing you from seeing him, but you can’t take him away from us. He lived with our people, he hunted for us.’
‘You shit!’ the woman roars, reddening, ‘you little shit!’
‘I’m warning you, Vera — watch yourself. We don’t want any trouble here.’
‘This is my son we’re talking about! Not some pissy plot of land you claim to own. I want him back! I want what’s mine! Give him back to me!’
As she prods his chest again he cuffs her hand away. A swift and easy motion, and yet it triggers something dangerous in that brittle atmosphere, and as her men surge forward in support, their dogs leaping up and snarling, a similar number of Naagli step up alongside Staš, stonyfaced as they clutch their axes and heavy spears. Vera continues to yell furiously at the headman, and although he still tries to placate her, it seems to Jaala he is close to breaking point. And he is not alone. She spots some of the Maga unwinding chains. A long blade is unsheathed by one of the men and the grins all around are hardening. Then a line breaks. A big man in furs runs forward and she sees him aim at one of the Naagli with his club. She catches in a glimpse the swing of greasy hair and the stained teeth exposed and he is bringing his weapon round fast but she is the faster. She doesn’t think barely has time to leap across and swivel before kicking him in the chest.
She strikes him like a mule. Leg up and rigid. He flies away backwards and lands with an arm behind his back. His ragged scream tears around the cliffs. The rough din of voices dies away and soon there is only barking. She looks down, struggling to compose herself as his comrades gather to help him. The opposing frontlines tighten a moment, bristling, then draw back from one another. As they part, she sees the fallen man cradling his arm in agony. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry. He just came at us.’
The Maga glare at her coldly; even a few of the Naagli mutter as they look her way.
‘Her,’ says a voice, and she finds herself being measured by a pair of icy green eyes. A look that frightens her as much in a moment as the son did in all his life.
‘Her. That’s the reason he’s dead. Her. That witch.’
She holds the woman’s gaze, trying to appear calm, even contemptuous. ‘That’s ridiculous,’ she says, terrified of losing her temper. ‘What a stupid thing to say.’
‘Her. She’s the reason.’
‘Why do you think it’s anything to do with me … or any of us?’
‘Her. The witch.’
‘He drowned in the Versteckts’ oil, don’t you know that? You can see it for yourself. Go look at the lake.’
The woman’s face breaks into a savage grin. ‘You hear that? The Versteckts did it. Versteckts. She’s got you eating out of her hand, hasn’t she? Just like she did my son.’ She turns to Staš, the grin altering. ‘My son. She’s got you all exactly where she wants you.’
Jaala’s face clouds. ‘Screw you, Vera,’ she says, and immediately regrets it as Vera turns on her, saying, ‘Oh, what a pretty tongue. What a pretty tongue.’ She draws herself up and lifts her stick and points it at those in front of her. ‘You’d better watch out, you dim-eyed little hill people. This is just the start of it.’
‘That’s enough,’ says Staš.
‘You think you can talk to me like —’
‘I said enough. We’re all upset. Let’s not take it out on each other.’
‘I’ve lost my son. My son, don’t you understand?’
‘You’re not the only one who lost him, we all did. We’re all afraid of what’s happening.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ says one of the Maga, and there are fresh jeers.
‘I speak for the Naagli,’ Staš replies. ‘And we’re the landowners at Ansthalt. Something you’d do well to remember.’
He studies them a moment, ignoring their comments, then turns back to Vera, and in a reasoning tone, says, ‘Sandor’s staying here. You’re welcome to see him, of course you are. But I don’t want any trouble. You’re to leave him where he is.’
Vera drives her stick into the ground. ‘I want him at his birthplace! Where he belongs.’
‘No. We’ll do things the usual way.’
‘The usual way? You mean your way, little man.’
‘You don’t have any right over Naagli —’
‘Hear that? He means their feeble words, their childish chattering, their futile offerings.’
‘Listen, Vera. Sandor was with us. Get that? He lived with us and died with us and we’ll deal with him as we see fit. I’m not arguing with you.’
She sweeps a mocking hand. ‘Oh, he’s not arguing, he’s just taking my son from me and getting rid of him like so much meat. You know, these dogs treat their dead with more consideration.’
‘I’ll say it one last time. He was with us, and we will deal with him as we see fit. Besides, his children want him up here.’
At this Vera seems to smile, a long raw finger drawing back her hanging hair. ‘And just where are these children?’
Jaala exchanges a glance with Staš, then turns to her. ‘They asked me to come on their behalf. I don’t think you inspire much confidence in them.’
The woman opens her mouth as if to yell, then breaks into loud coarse laughter which is soon echoed by the other Maga, accompanied with whistles, hoots of derision. ‘And what else do these children say? Hey? Do they even speak?’ Her eyes swing to the people watching from inside the marquee, and as she takes a faltering step forward, the Naagli men close their ranks. ‘Where are they?’ she cries, waving her stick aloft. ‘Where’s the bitchling? Hey? What about the boy? Is it a man yet?’
As more laughter breaks out, Staš blocks her path again, shaking his head. ‘I suggest you leave,’ he says. ‘Go on. Go. You can come back tonight. We don’t need this. We’ve got things to do.’
‘I’ll see my son now,’ she replies, grimacing, then hesitates. More sombrely she adds, ‘I want to see him alone.’
Staš goes to reply, then glances at Jaala again.
She nods stiffly. ‘I’ll talk to them.’
Out in the dirt the injured man is being helped upright, his damaged arm hanging grotesquely. She turns from him, then goes back inside the marquee, feeling as she walks towards the passage the cool gaze of the elders upon her, their eyes following her like flowerheads tracking the sun.
More than one of them she recalls attending her moment of birth; she recalls their weathered faces looking on. So hopeful, like some cult of blood awaiting Vadraskar’s return. Wanting the glory of her, the glory of what might have been, as if it could come without a price. A cult she’d disbanded with a few harsh words. And look, she thinks, look now at her legacy.
She enters the dull lamplight shaking.
Chapter 30 — Oxtranox
Lütt-Ebbins groped about in the darkness, reloading his weapon. He’d done it enough times now that he could do it unsighted, and this was just as well, for the station lights had been out for some time, and were it not for the continual wail of alarms he might have suspected that the enemy had cut the mains.
A dim crackling suggested gunfire was coming their way, but one of his men peering over the container continued to watch the entrance without concern. ‘Seems clear now,’ the man yelled. ‘Can’t see anyone.’
&
nbsp; ‘We should spread out, take the whole lobby area,’ Lütt-Ebbins yelled back, then a squelch of tyres from behind them cut through the noise, and as a jeep slung into view from the depths of the cargo bay, a stocky vehicle pulling a loaded trailer, he saw the driver give a code signal, prompting him and his group to greet the crew on their return.
On leaving the jeep, the crew reported on their mission at the back of the bay. They were led by a man in a cap called Welzl, who on finding Lütt-Ebbins tugged him aside and shouted in his ear, ‘We need to talk.’
‘What’s wrong?’
Welzl pointed towards the offices, indicating an inability to hear. With a nod, Lütt-Ebbins went to his deputy and told him to get started, that he’d return shortly to join the manoeuvres. Then he and Welzl ran across to the doors where their armed comrades ushered them inside.
The passage they entered was grey with smoke, and before heading off to a sideroom, Lütt-Ebbins turned to study it, finding inside him anxious stirrings of a kind he’d not felt in a little while. ‘It’s getting thicker,’ he said to Welzl, and upon giving orders to some recruits to pump it out quickly, the pair of them entered the room and closed the door.
Already he could sense trouble and Welzl’s face confirmed it. ‘What’s the problem?’ he said.
‘We were at the back there, hauling out supplies. Gernot noticed the floor was hot in places. Almost too hot to touch.’
‘What?’
‘This smoke, Lütt. Who’s running the op?’
‘I ... well, I’m running it. Matthëus is the point man.’
‘Matthëus? Not sure I know him.’
Lütt-Ebbins described him briefly, then added, ‘He was going to try the basement. He had a plan to use the bins, divert the fumes into air filters. It’s supposed to be a ruse, a distraction.’
Welzl pulled the cap down so that his eyes were framed by the peak. ‘The basement’s right under us.’