Tsuga's Children

by Thomas Williams

  He spoke slowly, in his sad old voice. “I will not tell you the future because it is not mine, but yours—for better or for worse. All my life I have been a tiller of the earth, a caretaker of the fruit trees, and a hunter. We know each other and are equals, the creatures and I. They know my need and I know theirs. That is neither good nor bad; it has been my life.

  “But before I go into the silence I will tell you what I know: it is evil to own another; it is evil to kill a prisoner; it is evil to teach betrayal; it is evil to have clean hands and eat meat, for ignorance of death is the greatest evil of all.”

  When Tsuga had finished, the people, who were used to believing his words, were confused. Low murmurs arose as they asked questions among themselves. “What does Tsuga mean?” “Is it not necessary to wash your hands?” “Can anyone be owned?” “No one is taught to betray us.” “What did he mean?” “What did he mean?”

  The young man, Lado, and the man who had made the reasonable gestures climbed to the stone platform next to the councillors.

  “People!” said the man of the reasonable gestures. “Let us show you what man may do with a wolf, whom you now fear!” He signaled to the darkness, and a large man came to the platform leading something low and gray on a thong.

  The man was a stranger, taller and more muscled than anyone else. His broad arms shone red in the firelight; his nose and mouth seemed small in his wide, oiled-looking face. He wore a broad shirt made from the glossy black skin of the shaggy cattle. He led a wolf, its white teeth and wide eyes gleaming with fear and hatred. “Now,” the big man said. “This is how we have our wolves.” He jerked the thong until the wolf, its gray fur ruffled, the hairs along its back stiffly rigid like a brush, came to the man’s feet and sat trembling, at one moment lowering its head in submission, at the next snarling defiance that was all white teeth and show.

  The big man took a short, thick leather whip, or knout, from his belt and held it above the wolf, which cowered, grinning and snarling and fawning. “Are you my servant, animal?” the man demanded.

  The wolf cowered yet snapped its long wet ivory teeth as if at an insect that had appeared in front of its jaws.

  “That is not good enough!” the man said. He shortened the noose until the wolf choked and gagged, then beat it with the stubby knotted whip. The animal rolled over on its back to expose its tender underside to the hissing blows of the whip. It cried, whining and barking in short sharp chirps, almost like a bird, before the man stopped. Then the half-wolf, still submissive on its back, licked the man’s moccasined feet and ankles, whining and salivating, its tail tucked along its belly.

  From the people came expressions of fear and wonder; even, from some of them, cries of satisfaction that a man could so dominate the feared wolf. “That one won’t steal our meat!” someone shouted.

  “Nor ever chase a man up a tree,” the big stranger said. “Our people own the earth they walk upon. Everything is ours. We own the forests and the meadows and all the creatures who live in them. Our servants hunt for us. We have no need to run, or to use our noses and eyes and ears like animals, or to freeze silently in the chill before dawn. We are the masters!”

  The people were in awe of the big man. They murmured to each other, questioning. Tsuga, who was still standing, said to the big man over the murmuring of the people, “And you, Mori, are you master of the masters?”

  “I am!” Mori drew himself up and stood with his feet apart and his arms akimbo.

  The young man who had first spoken against Tsuga said, “We must say whether we will prosper under the new ways or follow old Tsuga, who keeps us too lean and hun-gry.”

  “Lado,” Tsuga said, “would you like to be treated as that wolf is treated?”

  “I would be master of the animals!”

  “It is evil to own another.”

  Lado reached out and took the green branch from Tsu-ga’s hand. “Did this ever fill our bellies?” he said, and tossed it like a spear into the fire. It crackled and blazed up with a flash of yellow light.

  This act of impropriety amazed the people again. They were silent, looking from Tsuga to the young Lado, to big Mori with his subservient wolf groveling at his feet.

  Tsuga said, “I have told you what I know. Express your will now, my people. It is part of freedom that you are free to give it up.”

  The people still didn’t know what Tsuga meant. They asked themselves questions and shook their heads. From farther back came shouts of anger against Tsuga’s words, and from others demands for quiet.

  Aguma stood and raised her thick arms out to her sides until the noise quieted. “The council will recommend and the people will judge,” she said, “but first we must have quiet. Those who shout cannot listen. We will hear from the council.”

  The councillor who wore the cape of white mountain-goat fur stood first, a small smile on his face that Arn, for one, didn’t trust. It was not a smile of pleasure or friendliness, and what other kind was there? It reminded him of the expressions of the goats at home. From their rigid masks no one could tell what they were going to do next. They seemed only alert and interested, yet at any moment, with no change of expression at all, they might butt you or run away. They were born to wear that look, but this man’s face was made up by him. As he spoke, Arn knew what he was going to say. He wanted to find out what most of the people thought and he was going to think that way too. So he had nothing to say except that the new ideas were very interesting. And also that they must remember the traditions they had always lived by. But, he suggested, probably something as good and helpful as the smelting of iron and the making of steel was objected to by someone when it was first proposed. “We must be careful to examine and not to discard all new ideas.”

  Then the small smile broadened just slightly because he had come to the tentative conclusion that most of the people wanted all the meat they could get and didn’t care how they got it. So he said that he was inclined to go along with Lado, Mori and the others who wanted to keep cattle and make servants of the wolves.

  Many of the people cheered him, but Arn saw that their cheers were partly ironic because they knew he hadn’t made his choice out of his own beliefs.

  Another councillor, an older man whose face had been clawed on one side and had healed long ago into deep red furrows, rose to speak for Tsuga. As he spoke, those who agreed with him nodded but didn’t cheer. He held out his left arm and Arn saw that his right one was missing. “Listen well to Tsuga,” the man said. “He is saying that anyone who calls one creature his servant will in turn be a servant. Mori has already said that he is the master of the masters. When he wants to he will turn his craven wolves upon men, upon you. When the real wolves run they kill only what they need, as we do. That is not dishonorable. But for a man to be master of a man or of a creature is to be cruel beyond need. I have no hatred for the bear who took my arm. How could I have? We were both doing what we had to do to live. The reason for life is to live. But this craven of a half-wolf has in him hatred, as you can see. It is a disease given to him by his master.”

  At these words Mori, who stood on the platform with his wolf at his feet, pointed to the one-armed man and jerked the wolfs thong. The wolf leaped, snarling and slashing, only to be jerked short by the thong. The one-armed man drew his knife and held it before him, its point toward the wolf, but didn’t flinch.

  “So,” he said. “Does the half-wolf need me for food?”

  Many of the people sighed with disapproval of Mori and the wolf. Mori said, “This man’s fine thoughts will mean little when your bellies are empty in the iron month. Perhaps we will come by then and give you some red meat.” He laughed and turned, dragging the wolf on the thong until it found its feet and followed at heel, its tail curled up under its belly.

  “Wait!” Lado said. “Let the people say!”

  Aguma stood and said to Lado, “You want the people to choose because you think you know how they will choose. Tell me, Lado, would you want them to vo
te now if you had doubts about what they would say?”

  Lado was silent, and the old woman went on. “You would have them vote before they have heard from all of the council? Your thought is sick with your hunger for red meat. You do not believe in freedom any more. You would rather be the master of slaughter than be free.”

  “Free to starve,” Lado mumbled. “What kind of freedom is that?”

  “No one has starved, not in your memory.”

  Tsuga said, “To be hungry is to live and be quick. To starve is to die. There’s a great difference, Lado.”

  “Why should we be hungry at all?”

  “Why should winter come before spring? Why should night come before day? Why should fasting come before a feast? Would you live your whole life at table? You are a good hunter, Lado. You know more than you think you do of what the woods, the meadows and the water can give to us. But when you have grown slow and thick upon a glut of slaughter, and when the cattle die of the sickness that comes to all prisons, then you will starve.”

  Lado laughed at the idea of his ever becoming slow and thick and forgetting how to live from the woods, the meadows and the water.

  Tsuga spoke once again to the people. “All I can give you is knowledge,” he said in his sad old voice. He paused for a while, an old man with thin white hair falling like mist to his shoulders. He was still wiry and strong, but he was wrinkled and old. “No matter what you decide at this council fire, I am afraid it is too late. We are all one people in the valley and what happens to one settlement happens to all.” He turned away from the people and looked to the tree that grew above the ledges.

  “See!” Mori shouted as he dragged his leashed wolf back up to the stone platform. “He is powerless, as he has always been powerless!” Mori took a short broadax from his belt and tossed it to Lado. “Here, Lado. Show them what a man should respect!”

  Lado caught the ax in the air and swiftly climbed up the ledges to the tree. The ax blade gleamed red in the firelight as he drew it up and back, then sank it, with the deep quick sound of steel cleaving wood, into the living trunk of the tree.

  A moan rose from the people, not of outrage at this new act of brutality so much as sorrow and resignation at the passing of respect. Tsuga didn’t speak or move; the tree accepted the blade without a tremble and was silent. Lado wrenched the ax from the tree and struck again. A thick wedge of wood and bark tumbled into the light and to the ground. The tree’s white wound remained as Lado came back down and returned the broadax to Mori.

  “No lightning?” Mori said. “No thunder from the gods of wood?” He laughed, his coarse laughter the only sound in the night except for the quiet hissing of the fire. When his laughter stopped, he grinned at the people, at the councillors on the stone platform. “You haven’t yet tasted the power we have, the dark powers we do not hesitate to use. There are other gods besides your meek ones—your tree and your Abneeah and your stag.” He looked to the tree and then, with contempt, to the man in the stag mask who sat quietly at his place by the fire. “Let me show you a more powerful rite!”

  With that he raised his broadax, jerked the wolfs head up with the rawhide thong, and with one quick blow severed the head from the screaming animal. He picked up the still-quivering head by an ear and threw it to the stag man, the teeth and eyes turning and glowing over the fire, blood and cut wolf hair falling over the people and the children. The stag man jumped away from the cruel gift, which rolled past him into the darkness.

  There was silence then. Soon after, when the voting came,, the people were subdued and divided. Most wanted to know more, and spoke of their love and respect for Tsuga. But that love was muted and sad, as if they spoke at a funeral. Some were afraid of change, and said that their granaries and root cellars were not yet empty, and the shandeh had run well. Others saw, even though they had doubts and fears about them, the power of the new ways and knew, as did Tsuga, that they would probably come to pass. Only a few, like Lado, spoke with anger toward what they would destroy, needing their hatred to disguise whatever doubts they had.

  A smaller few stood firm with Tsuga, saying that his wisdom must not be ignored. Amu spoke and held the attention of all. He was the lighter of the fire and was respected. He stood, sturdy and dark beside the embering fire.

  “We have made no clear decision tonight,” he said. “All the councillors have not spoken because two of them have not yet returned from hunting in the western mountains. I say we should study these matters for seven days and vote at the next council fire.

  “For myself I will think also of the actions of Lado and of Mori. One wounds the Great Tree with a stranger’s broadax; the other kills his helpless prisoner. Are these the new ways, my people? Are the dark powers those of cruelty and murder? If so, what price must we pay for all this promised meat?”

  The people murmured among themselves. Many nodded. Lado and Mori stared darkly at Arel’s father, not daring to challenge him.

  When the murmurs died away Aguma, who was the speaker of the council, rose tiredly to her feet and said, “What the lighter of the fire says is true. We will meet again on the seventh day, here at the entrance to the Cave of Forgetfulness, below the Great Tree, with our guest the stag. This council fire is over.”

  The people began to rise and move off into the meadow that was dimly lit by the falling half-moon. Many were thoughtful and silent, though others spoke heatedly in low voices as they stood in groups before moving away. Mori, Lado, the councillor dressed in goatskin and some others laughed and spoke in louder voices as they went off to the eastern edge of the meadow toward the camp of the Chi-gai.

  The children were silent and afraid. Many were pale, their round faces like small moons. Bren, Arel, Jen and Arn stood together waiting for Amu and Runa, who were talking with some of the councillors. Only Bren looked angry at what had happened. He spoke in a voice harsh for his years. “The way they treated Tsuga!” But he was disappointed in Tsuga, too. Things had been done that should not have been done; the council fire he had revered all his life had been disrupted so easily, without punishment. “How could they do it? Lado! I never trusted him.” But Bren was still a child and his world was changing all around him. He didn’t know where his father was, or what his father would have thought about what had happened. Arn saw all this and went to his side, but Bren turned furious and pushed him roughly away, then strode off into the darkness.

  Jen said, “He’s upset, Arn.” They both knew that Bren could not take sympathy, that it was not his way. Jen thought of her father and mother, wanting them. “Arn, are we going to ask Tsuga … ?”

  They looked around, then, for the tall, wiry old man with the long bow. Amu and Runa were there on the stone platform, and Aguma, and the councillor with the one arm and the scarred face—but Tsuga was gone.

  14. Strung Bows

  Tsuga was gone. They looked everywhere for him—all around the ledges, among the people who were leaving to make their camps down by the hot lake, out as far as the stone sentries that made their silent, headless circle around the ledges and the tree. No one knew where Tsuga had gone, or why he had left so quickly. Arel tried to comfort them, saying that surely Tsuga would return, but Jen and Arn were worried and sad as they went with Amu and Runa to the shore of the lake, where Amu made a small fire of brush and dead branches. In the distance other fires glimmered upon the faces of the people, who seemed to sit in little rooms of fire scattered along the shore of the lake.

  It was a cold night, chill but windless, and the fire’s warmth drew them close.

  “Where is Bren?” Amu asked. “Didn’t he come with you?”

  Before anyone could answer, a young man came quietly out of the darkness and sat on his haunches by Amu’s side. He was a thin young man with a dark, lined face that looked weathered. He was quick and nervous in his gestures. He and Amu went away from the fire, where they spoke for a long time in voices inaudible to the others. Then the young man left and Amu came back to the fire.

&
nbsp; “We have heard from Tsuga,” he said in a low voice. “We must go back to the winter camp tonight, in the darkness with no moon.”

  “But why?” Runa asked.

  “Bad things are happening with the people. Tsuga thinks it would be best if we went away until the next council fire. If we can return to the winter camp tonight and get food and arrows, we can go toward the western mountains, where the Chigai never hunt.”

  “What about Jen and Arn?” Arel asked.

  “We will meet Aguma as soon as the moon has set, at the Cave of Forgetfulness. Maybe she will answer more of our questions.” Amu looked at each of them in turn, his wide face serious. “But where is Bren? Has anyone seen him?”

  “After the council fire he went off by himself,” Arn said.

  “He was angry and upset,” Arel said.

  Runa said, “Well, no one can blame him for that.” She was angry; her dark eyes glinted. “Where is his father? Has he gone over to the Chigai, as people say?”

  “Andaru is my brother,” Amu said. “Now be calm, Runa, my wife. We will see what we will see.” And then Amu, with a look to the western sky where the half-moon fell slowly toward the mountains, was silent.

  Jen and Arn looked at each other, wanting to ask about Tsuga, and if they could find him, whether he might help them find their way back through the mountain. But Amu, Runa and Arel were so quiet, so solemn now, that they didn’t ask.

  Soon the thin young man came back, and he and Amu went away from the fire again to talk. When Amu returned he told them Bren had been seen earlier, standing alone near the stone sentry with the rotting boar’s head on it, and no one could make him leave that place. “He may have heard from Andaru,” Amu said.

  The hot lake beside them breathed mist, which rose from its surface and slowly moved eastward as it rose and folded in the waning moonlight. It was as if somewhere deep within the lake a great silent fire burned, and the mist was its voluminous smoke.

  Along the lakeshore came what looked like a big spider, but then they heard its giggle and it was Ganonoot. “Amu, Amu,” he whined, “Ganonoot is hungry and his tooth is coming loose. What shall he do when it falls out? Then the story will be over, the long story over.” Ganonoot sniffled in self-pity, like a little child.