White Hart

by Sarah Dalton

She rubs her hands and lets out a little laugh of relief. “Oh this feels so good. You have no idea how much it has been chafin—”

  “Shh.” I place my finger to my lips. “We don’t know how close we are to the camp. They could hear you.”

  She nods firmly. There is determination in the set of her jaw, and I look at her and see a girl who doesn’t like to let people down. Maybe I have misjudged her. Maybe she is on our side now. Maybe there weren’t any sides to begin with.

  I put my dagger back in my belt and make my way back to Cas. He gives me a little tap on the arm, like an owner praising their puppy for not making a mess.

  I’m thankful that Cas was taught how to hunt in Cyne, because he moves almost silently through the thicket of trees. I place my feet with care, avoiding twigs or anything that can snap. My hand hovers over the dagger, dreading the moment I’ll have to use it. A film of sweat gathers between my shoulder blades.

  I hear them first. A laugh. Then a few muffled words from more than one voice. There’s the crackle and snap of a fire, plus the shuffling of animal hooves. My heartbeat quickens. Anta!

  A dog barks. I hear my pulse thudding in my ears. We creep through the woods, following the sound of the campsite but always remaining behind a thick cover of trees. Cas waves me towards a bush between two thickets of trees. There we can peer through a gap in the foliage and view the campsite.

  The people are dark-skinned and wear ragged clothing. They are similar to each other in appearance, with high cheekbones, curly hair, and slanted eyes. Some don’t wear shoes, and the children run around without any clothes at all. But there are tall men with spears and serious expressions on their faces. Hunters.

  The hunters are clad in bulky boots, and when I see them, I know I have found the owner of the footprints out by the stream. That means one of them hunted Anta.

  Most of the group sit around chatting in a language I don’t understand, but the hunters sit silently, chewing on grass roots, their faces covered by wide-brimmed hats. Even though my body itches with impatience, we sit and watch them for a while, noticing how their body language is different to mine, to the people I am used to in Halts-Walden. There doesn’t seem to be any affection amongst them, not even towards those who appear to be related. Their voices are loud, almost to the point of shouting.

  Cas nudges me and nods towards the back of the camp. I’d been so enthralled by the curious tribe that I hadn’t noticed the antlers peeking out from behind a tent. Anta. I grab hold of Cas’s tunic for support. He’s here. But how are we going to get him back? I gulp as I survey the people in the camp. There are at least a few dozen, including experienced hunters, not to mention a complete language barrier.

  We could try to steal him, but these people will not abide by laws of the realm. Just one look at them shows that they have their own way of life, their own customs. If we steal from them, they could kill us. And why shouldn’t they? They don’t know that Anta belongs to me. They wouldn’t believe me even if I could tell them.

  I move back away from the camp, and Cas joins me. “What are we going to do?” I whisper. “We can’t take those hunters on. Can we steal him back?”

  Cas folds his arms and places one hand underneath his jaw. “What if Anta saw you? Would he come for you?”

  “Yes, but that would only work if he was untied. Do you really think they’ll keep an animal like Anta untied?”

  “No, it’s unlikely,” he admits.

  We creep around the edge of the camp, listening to them going about their business. Cas is a warm, comforting presence beside me. He could have turned around and left, but he chose to stay and help me. I shoot a quick glance in his direction, taking in the depth of his eyes. If he does this for me, I will help him get Ellen back. I make a silent promise.

  “He’s tied up behind that shack,” Cas whispers.

  I squint through the trees at the camp. Anta is tied up by his bridle, but his saddle has been removed. He seems in good condition, still fat enough, with his head down grazing.

  “Mae, call to him, get his attention,” Cas says. He nods encouragingly.

  “The camp will hear. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Then I’ll create a distraction for you,” he says, grinning. He begins to straighten up, but I seize him by the arm and pull him down.

  “Are you crazy?” I say. “You can’t do that! What if they capture you? What if they kill you?”

  “I’m not afraid,” he says, smoothing down the front of his tunic and puffing out his chest. “Listen, you’ve saved my life three times already in the forest. I want to do this for you. And if they do capture me, you’ll just have to save my life again. You seem pretty good at it.”

  I glare at him. “I was hoping to avoid having to do it again.”

  He laughs. “So was I.”

  Before I can reply, he springs to his feet and runs out from the bushes into the camp. At first the people are so shocked that they sit there, utterly frozen. Then Cas begins to yell and runs straight through their camp, knocking things over. The two largest hunters with the heavy boots narrow their eyes in confusion before chasing Cas through the camp. I have to work fast. I make my way over to Anta, and his head shoots up as soon as he sees me.

  “You’re causing a lot of trouble, old boy,” I say, giving him a quick nose rub. Then I untie his bridle. He rubs his face against my shoulder in greeting. “Where’s your saddle, lad? Huh? No time. Come on.”

  I spring up onto his back and kick him hard. Anta comes to life, darting through the trees away from the camp. I have to find Cas before he’s captured, so we follow the length of the camp, moving so fast that I have to grip onto Anta’s coat to stay on his back. A rush of exhilaration sweeps over me like a forceful wind. It’s so good to be back riding my stag. The ground disappears below me, the trees blur beside me, and the sound of the natives is a mere echo next to the thundering of Anta’s hooves. I lose myself for a moment, pulled back to reality only by the piercing scream of a man.

  Cas.

  With a tug on my reins, Anta turns towards the scream. This time his thundering hooves have the opposite effect on my body, mimicking the pounding of my heart instead of relaxing me into a familiar rhythm. They must have caught him. If something happens to him, I will never forgive myself.

  Anta responds to my urgency. His shoulders tense, and he stretches out his neck so that I have to hold on to him for dear life. My knuckles whiten as I cling to his fur. It’s at the entrance of the camp that I see the crowd of people and the curled-up body in the mud. One of the hunters retracts his leg and hits the curled-up body with the toe of his boot, causing Cas to cry out in pain.

  “Stop it!” I yell, forgetting that the hunters can shoot me down in an instant. “Leave him alone!”

  The faces of the group turn from Cas’s crumpled form to me. The heavy weight of their glare causes every hair on the back of my neck to stand on end. Even the children stare at me with eyes deep, dark, and solemn, the likes of which I have never seen before. The hunters stop kicking Cas and stand up. One of them takes a step towards me. His eyebrows are furrowed, and there are questions in his clear eyes. I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out.

  One of the young children lifts his hand and points to me, mouthing a single word: valta. I don’t know what it means, but the others follow suit, saying valta, valta over and over. They bend their knees and place their hands on the ground as I have seen some of the worshippers do in the church in Halts-Walden. Eventually even the hunters kneel before me. Cas struggles to his feet and stares down at the tribespeople.

  “Gods above, Mae, what have you done to them?”

  *

  “Thank you for the kind gestures,” I say, waving Cas closer. He backs away from the people, who are now moaning in their language and performing some sort of dance which involves vigorously jerking their arms and legs. “It’s time for us to go now.” I turn Anta away from them, but the crowd shout so loud that Anta jerks to the left and unseat
s me in the process.

  I land in the mud with a soft thump, hitting my head against something hard. Before I even get a chance to lift myself up, the clan have surrounded me, each touching a different part of my body. Cas pushes his way through the group and takes hold of my hand. I am hurt and jostled by the tribe, and yet his hand on mine sends a tingle up my arm.

  “Are you hurt?” he asks. He tries to help me up, but the people push him away, and our hands break.

  “I’m not hurt, but—”

  Strong hunters loop their arms underneath my body and lift me higher and higher until I’m above the heads of the crowd. It’s bizarre, as if I’m floating on hands. Beneath me, young children run alongside as the men carry me back to their camp. Panic rises in my chest, and I search for Cas behind us.

  “I don’t know what’s happening,” I shout. “Get Anta.”

  Cas’s eyes are wide with fear. He dashes towards Anta, but more of the tribespeople catch up with him, and they reach for his clothes with their hands. As we turn a corner, I see them pulling him towards the camp. There are people dancing and singing, chanting and shaking their bodies. It reminds me of harvest day in Halts-Walden, when the villagers thank the gods for our crops by laying out a feast and lifting their tankards. I long for harvest day right now. I long for the familiar taste of mead. This is so alien to me, so strange. I’m the farthest from home I’ve ever been, and my heart is sick.

  Chapter Fourteen – The Valta and the Prophetess

  Covered in mud, the tribes folk take me through their camp to a clearing. One of the hunters brings a strange seat made from twisted twigs and sets me down. They bow to me. Chants rise from their collective voice in a strange, punctuated rhythm, completely different to songs we sing in Halts-Walden. Some of the women smear paint on each other’s faces before adorning the hunters with red paint on their chests until it resembles three slashes. Cas and Anta are nowhere to be seen. I’m surrounded by people and yet I’ve never felt so lonely in my life.

  A woman comes close to me with a bucket of cold water and begins to wash the mud from my body. She has a gaping smile, with most of her front teeth missing. I try not to flinch from the smell of her breath, but inside my stomach roils.

  “What do you want with me?” I whisper. My voice sounds more pathetic than it ever has before. It is small and tinny, barely audible to even my own ears over the raucous sound of the tribe.

  She only grins in response and continues to clean me. I’m like a pet, being washed down before put to bed.

  “Where is my friend?” I say, forcing myself to speak louder than before. I try to animate my face and mime a person with my hands. “My friend.” I place a hand over my heart. The woman shakes her head. It’s no use. She doesn’t understand. “Does anyone speak the common tongue of Aegunland? Anyone?” I raise my voice this time. Drums and stomping feet drown me out. “Please, I need to talk… I need to understand what’s happening.”

  A hunter approaches. He has a thick, dark beard, and the whites of his eyes are enlarged like someone who is either afraid or very stirred. The red paint gleams from his chest, and I find I can’t move my eyes from it. He bends one knee and bows his head.

  When he lifts his head and meets my gaze, he says, “I speak your language, Valta. What is the knowledge you wish?”

  He is a man who has never laughed in his life, who spends his life caring only about survival and honour. I see that in the set of his jaw and the scars on his cheek. “Where is my friend, Casimir?”

  “He is with the stag. At our camp.”

  “What does valta mean?”

  “It means chosen one. You are the chosen one of the forest. You’ve come to us, Valta, to save us.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask. As I talk, the woman washing me lifts a flower braid over my head and settles it onto my neck. I finger the soft petals, a delicious shade of pink. She retreats with a bow and a smile.

  “Our people go hungry. The forest does not provide for us anymore. You can change that, Valta. Your blood.”

  That word makes me sit bolt upright. My breath freezes in my throat. “Blood?”

  “Valta, your sacrifice, it would save—” I try to stand, but he pushes me back into the chair. “It would save us all.”

  “You mean… sacrifice my life?”

  “What else would I mean? The prophecy told us you would come riding on a white stag. Our prophetess saw it with her own eyes. Ret metta il fonta. So it shall be done.”

  “No,” I whisper. “No. I want to see your prophetess, I want to speak to her. I’m not your valta, I swear. It’s not me. You must be mistaken.”

  The hunter jerks his head at another man and says something in his language. This man is older, with the same markings on his chest and the same full beard. They exchange words, and the older man runs back to the camp. I see him duck under the animal skins overhanging a tent. The first hunter remains in front of me with his eyes, dark as night, boring into mine. I find myself assessing the camp, taking in everything to do with the natives—anything to avoid those eyes.

  Behind the camp is a small patch of land with very few trees. They have a couple of goats and some horses tethered. The camp itself is made up of half a dozen shacks, some constructed from sticks and mud, others made from animal skins thrown over structures. There are numerous tools and weapons strewn over the ground, near their campfire and in front of the tents. Bowls of half eaten food litter the ground. The people themselves are not heavy—they are lithe with rope-like muscles up their arms and legs, muscles I’ve seen on labourers and farmers. They work hard and eat little. We must have interrupted them eating.

  Eventually my eyes find their way back to the hunter. “What is your name?” I ask.

  “Finn,” he replies.

  “I’m Mae,” I say. “How did you learn to speak the common tongue?”

  “I am trader for the Ibenas. My father was trader before me. He taught me this tongue,” he says.

  “What happened to your father?”

  “He… What is word? Died?”

  “Yes, that’s the word.”

  “He died on hunting trip. Bitten by snake.” Finn doesn’t flinch as he recounts the facts. It’s as if he’s discussing the weather.

  I shudder. The forest is bad enough already, without the thought of venomous snakes hiding in the fallen leaves. “I’m sorry.”

  “What is… ‘sorry’?” Finn frowns.

  “It means: I’m sad your father died.”

  His frown deepens, and his brow furrows. “Why are you sad? You did not know him.”

  “I’m sad for you,” I explain, holding out my arm towards him to somehow clarify. “I’m sad because you never get to see your father again. I can never see mine either. He died, and I know it hurts.”

  “Hurts? Like feel pain?”

  “Yes. It hurts.” I touch my heart. “Here.”

  Finn lifts his chin, and his eyes drift to the sky. Eventually he fixes his gaze back on mine, and those black eyes have softened. They remind me of horse eyes, wide and dark, with a gentleness about them. “It does hurt.”

  I nod. Somehow, despite the setting and despite the language difficulties, we find a common ground, but we are interrupted by the young hunter bringing the prophetess to us. She is not what I expected at all. She’s a young girl, no older than thirteen, wearing a leather dress and a headdress of dried flowers. Her hair is long and dark, flowing almost to her knees. She has black lines drawn around her eyes, which makes them almost imperceptible against her dark skin, and her lips are also painted black. The sight of her amongst the people causes quite a stir. Most of the natives stop dancing or drumming and turn towards the young girl with their expressions frozen with fear. Yet they furtively seek her out in curiosity, so that all the faces are turned towards us. She tips her head to one side and says something in the aggressive Ibena language.

  Finn begins to translate. His voice is loud and clear amidst the new silence. “This girl is an ordin
ary girl.” I sigh in relief. “She is not special. She does not look special or sound special. She is not beautiful, and she is not cunning.”

  The prophetess pauses.

  “Then can I go?” I ask.

  She steps forward and tips her head to the opposite side. She walks like a cat hunting its prey, her feet soundlessly caressing the ground. Her eyes widen so that I can see the whites, and she reaches out with one hand. Bile rises in my throat when I see that the nails on her right hand have grown long and been filed to sharp points. The contrast between a young girl and those menacing nails make me squirm in my seat.

  She continues in the Ibena language, and Finn translates. “Yet the girl has a mission. A purpose. She has power within her that she does not know how to use. It is ancient power.” Those fingernails trail down my cheek, and I shudder, but not from the chill of the wind. “She with the wings of a bird and the heart of a stag, she with the call of nature at her fingertips—she will be the only one to save the Ibena. Her blood will enrich the soil and save the crops. It will ward off the Nix and the shadows. She alone will save us.”

  I shake my head. “No. You can’t do this. You can’t justify taking the life of one to save your camp. There has to be another way. Tell her, Finn. Tell her what I say.”

  He relays the message to the prophetess.

  The girl comes forward and grips my face in her strangely strong hand. The fingernails draw blood, and it trickles from my cheekbone to my jaw.

  “It is the will of the gods,” Finn translates. The girl’s breath smells like fermented meat. “It is the way of the Waerg Woods.”

  The wood nymph was right. The Waerg Wood will spit me out, most likely after being eaten by the natives. I try to shake my head, but the girl keeps me in her grip.

  “She will now be prepared,” Finn translates. The girl lets me go.

  Finn ties my hands and legs to the chair and places a gag over my mouth.

  *

  The Ibenas groom me like a prize pig. Children comb my hair. My face is washed with stream water. At one point, Finn unties me and lets the women clothe me in white robes. He turns around, but I feel at least some eyes on my naked, vulnerable body. The chilled air hits my skin like a cold bucket of water. When they’re done, I’m tied back to the chair. Other women place golden necklaces around my neck. They are thick ropes dipped in some sort of paint. The fibres scratch at my skin.