Returning, I caught in his widened eye the look of that first sadu’h I had hunted.
*
I got through my first day living with Briarris without breaking anything. That was my initial concern. Then through the first week, the first month. Briarris ignored me. He would serve food onto my plate as I held it, standing beside him at his cookstove, then sit across from me at the table and eat—all without once looking into my face.
It was Bria food—leafy greens and callan cheese and farmborra eggs, tasteless like the poor, tame livestock it came from. Instead of frying their corn as we did when we found it growing wild along the river, they ground theirs up and baked it into loaves, which dulled its gritty flavor. At least the root vegetables were familiar to me, although they were boiled until they were too soft.
When I formed shapes with my hands and fingers, hoping we could learn to talk to one another, Briarris pretended not to notice. If I hadn’t been so lonely, I would have given up. I watched him and tried to be patient.
My duty on the wall sustained me. It was a relief to be back among Ghen, where I was neither ignored nor resented. I appreciated my own kind more than I could have imagined. The guard on the wall was tightened as we neared stillseason. There were no more jokes about napping and even Mant’er ceased to grumble about wasting his time when he could be hunting. Not that we truly worried. The wall was a precaution for most of the year, a necessity only in stillseason, when all who were not mating guarded it.
*
After our first mating, Briarris consented to learn to talk with me. We grew more comfortable together during our second year. Instead of lessening his attractiveness, Briarris’s pregnancy drew me more and more to him. His vulnerable beauty, even his stubborn pride, moved me to a tenderness I wouldn’t have imagined. I disliked deceiving him about the upcoming birth, but I told myself that I was merely sparing him needless fear.
When the Broghen was born, Briarris’s shock and humiliation were terrible to see. I was bitterly ashamed of the role I had played in deceiving him. His horror was short-lived, nor did he slide into depression as I’d been warned. He breathed in courage like a hunter and reached to feed the newborn Broghen! I realized then that I loved him.
I held that image in my mind—Briarris’s trembling hand stretching toward the monstrous infant—as I carried it to the Ghen compound. I tried not to imagine what it would have done to his defenseless hand had it not been caged.
I was one of the first to arrive at our meeting spot, a half day’s walk from the City gate into the forest of the mainland. I had to listen to the infant Broghen’s frenzied howls for two days, until all of the new Ghen parents had joined us. I gave it water and wild corn, but could not feed it more than that. Once it ate meat it would begin to produce the poison that made it such a lethal predator.
We headed west, carrying with us a hideous cacophony that silenced everything else within miles. I felt ashamed, as though I carried some vile disease and was about to release it upon Wind. I saw similar expressions on some of the Ghen faces around me.
We didn’t speak—it would have been hard to make ourselves heard over the howling Broghen and we had nothing to say. We were doing what had to be done.
We walked quickly, the sound of our howling Broghen driving everything from our path. The ship was ready for us when we reached the Symamt’h River. A dozen older Ghen had gone out earlier to prepare and provision it. This was the first time I’d seen it. I stood back, allowing others to climb into the raft that would carry them to the middle of the river where the ship waited.
It sat high in the water, its wooden sides as taut as a young Bria’s skin, flung with spray that sparkled in the sun. I could hear the slap, slap of the river against it as it moved in the water, eager to begin its trip. The front narrowed sharply almost to a point, but the middle was wider and the back cut straight across, so that it had the shape of an elongated half-circle. A tall staff rose from the middle of the deck. It was furled with bright cloth, which would soon be untied to form a wind-sail. I hadn’t imagined it would be so large, or so beautiful.
Several Ghen bent over the back railing, hauling up the huge weights that moored the boat. Others leaned above the ladder, offering their hands to the Ghen climbing aboard. Two or three passed down lines to which the Broghen cages were being tied by those still on the raft.
“We won’t even get wet.”
I hadn’t noticed Mant’er approaching. I was a little annoyed that he misinterpreted my silence for nervousness, even though his assumption was only natural.
“I was admiring it,” I said, and left him staring after me, mystified.
Only Char’an, the steersman, stayed on the ship to accompany us. He soon saw that I was the most promising rivermate and had me maneuvering the boom, a long beam of wood to which the bottom of the sail was tied. He taught me to work the rudderpost, which was attached to a broad, flat piece of wood beneath the boat. When turned to left or right, it guided the vessel’s direction. A most amazing thing, this ship! I questioned him extensively about its building and operation, and he was happy to talk about it. He was almost as disappointed as I, to learn that I was to be a councilor.
*
“It’s beautiful.”
“Yes,” Mant’er agreed.
We stood at the prow of the boat, looking out at the land. We’d been sailing south for several days under strong winds and were almost at the river’s mouth. It would have taken us over a month, pushing ourselves hard, to travel this far by land. The river had widened considerably but was also much deeper, according to Char’an, so we’d been able to move in closer to the east bank.
The sun had just risen and the land was bathed in its glow. It had rained—it rained often here, light drizzles that cleared away quickly—and a rainbow arched over the riverbank. The vegetation was a brilliant green, lighter and brighter than any I’d seen in the north. There were only a few ugappas, scattered among orillias, a tree I’d heard about but never seen.
They had thick trunks, easily as wide around as three ugappas, which rose to about eight handspans in height. At that point a series of large fronds, each as big as a half-grown Bria, rose from short stems in a circle around the tree. Just at the point where one could begin to glimpse, through their narrowing tips, the diminished trunk, another circle of fronds began. This continued, with the size of the fronds and the circumference of the trunk shrinking at each level, until the treetop ended in a bright spray of tiny, new fronds. Many of the orillias reached as high as forty handspans into the air.
There were no cappa bushes, but such a mass of other shrub-like vegetation that it was almost impossible to distinguish individual plants. One type had long, thin leaves, about the length of a Bria’s leg, but flat. The leaves were bright yellow and looked fuzzy, as though covered by tiny hairs. Another shrub completely surrounded itself with crimson spikes, each two handspans long at the base and as thick as three of my fingers, narrowing into a vicious-looking point. As I watched, however, a strong wind came up and I saw the deceptive spikes bend in it.
Where the taller vegetation thinned near the riverbank, the ground was covered with a thick yellow-green plant that looked like a cross between groundherb and moss, and was dotted with tiny blue flowers. They glistened in the sun as though drops of the azure water had been flung up by the wind to crystallize on the shore.
Even more amazing were the birds. Their feathered wings and furry bellies sported all the colors of the rainbow, which appeared faded beside their brilliance. They flitted from tree to tree by the hundreds, pausing briefly now and then to open their throats in lilting melody. They were so numerous the entire forest was filled with their songs.
Now and again I saw, leaping between the trees, cousins of our mangarr’h. These were slightly larger, with yellow pelts more suited to the rich colors of the trees they lived in. No other creature came near them and so I surmised that here, as in the north, they were in-breeders.
W
hat would it be like to breed within one’s own species? I shuddered at the thought. Mangarr’h, liapt’h, courrant'h’h; the predators of Wind, large and small, were all in-breeders. Perhaps it was by necessity. They would have devoured any other species that let them come so close.
Along the shore I also saw an unfamiliar mammal, plump and unhurried, which divided its time between water and land. I knew by their gleaming blue-black scales that these must be wattel’hs. Every so often I caught a glimpse of their shy mates, more fish than mammal, the phora’hs.
It was thrilling to see species I’d only heard about. I found myself wishing Briarris was here to share these sights. Then I remembered the purpose of this journey and was ashamed of my pleasure.
I looked away from the land, down into the river. It teemed with fish of all sizes, as colorful as the birds overhead. They swarmed into our nets each morning in such profusion we had to let go as many as we kept to avoid breaking the nets. They were juicy and sweeter than any fish I had tasted.
I was enchanted; there was no other word for it. Never had I seen anything so lush and lovely, so full of life, as this southern land. Mant’er, admiring the view beside me, pointed along the bank where hundreds of anhad’hs nested in narrow inlets, their russet feathers blending in with the rich, dark earth. Stillseason was over and they would soon be flying north again.
They had molted during their flight south, and would molt again on their flight back. Although their back and wing coloring was only a little brighter now than when I had occasionally hunted them in the wetlands, the markings on their necks and under-wings were quite different. When they extended their graceful necks I could see bands of yellow, which continued to the underside of their wings. At dusk on the water, they tucked these markings away, but in the daytime, when they sunbathed on the land, they stretched their necks to lay their heads in the middle of their backs, between their wings, which they twisted outwards to reveal the dappled yellow markings. They were difficult to see against the sun-speckled, yellow-green groundcover.
Above them, the mossy bank was thick with their mating species, the terriad’hs, which apparently could not fly, but used their short wings to boost themselves in a series of hops onto the land or over the water.
I asked Mant’er if he thought we’d have a chance to stop and hunt, thinking he’d pointed them out for that reason. He expelled a noisy expletive of air. He didn’t curse often, so his vehemence surprised me.
“Hunt?” he said, “There’s no hunting here. Taking those would be more like gathering cappa fruit. But it’s a good place to leave our Broghen offspring.”
His comment struck me as somehow vile and before I could stop myself, I asked, “How can we do such a thing?”
He misunderstood me. “I know they’ve suffered. I don’t like to see them so weakened, but Char’an tells me we’re almost there. Tomorrow we’ll feed them fresh fish. They’ll have poison in their fangs only a few removes after we’ve left them on the shore, and be a match for all but each other. And there’s enough easier game to distract them from killing one another.”
“This is the most beautiful place on Wind!”
He grunted dismissively. “Too bright and busy. Too moist. I prefer our northern forest; the wind is less forceful here. Soft,” he said, with disdain. “We’d grow soft here.”
A thin and plaintive wail came from the center of the deck, where we’d lashed the wooden cages. Mant’er grinned.
“They won’t grow soft,” he said.
I turned away, sickened.
“Ocallis will be pleased to know our rejected offspring has a good place to live.”
I looked back at him. He was looked at me intently.
I remembered Briarris’s words: Let me feed him. This was our offspring, regardless of its deformities and vicious nature. I was the unnatural one, not Mant’er.
When I looked back at the land, it appeared to have faded. The sky was overcast. Mant’er moved back, under the canopy, but I stood in the rain, heavy-hearted, looking out over the weeping land.
That night I held the boom while Char’an steered. In the night I heard the demonic screams of Broghen, as I had for two nights now. All the teeming and joyous daytime life lay trembling and silent under the savage dominion of those night-predators.
“Do you like this land?” I asked Char’an.
“I pilot this boat so that I can visit it,” he replied.
I was silent a long time, while the shrieks of Broghen pierced the dark. Several of the caged infants cried out in weak emulation.
“What is the difference between hunter and predator?” I spoke softly, almost to myself.
“Conscience.” Char’an had heard me and replied.
“I thought it was prayer,” I said. But I knew that many Ghen did not pray when they hunted, including Mant’er. Yet they all cared about the land, loved the harshness and the sweetness of it, both.
“Conscience is prayer.” Char’an’s voice floated out of the darkness.
In the dark of night the shore was invisible, but I could see it in my mind, bursting with beauty and life. How many Broghen would it take to destroy it? I thought of Briarris, pictured him as I had last seen him, on his sleeping ledge, his face aglow as he nursed our three newborns and his hand reaching out to offer nourishment even to the one that would have ravaged him.
Char’an said nothing when I lashed the boom to hold the sail’s position, although he must have heard me. I stepped carefully between the sleeping Ghen and reached for the wooden cage I had made. The Broghen inside whined in hunger as it felt itself lifted. At the railing I hesitated, wanting to pray, but none of the prayers I knew were suitable. Nevertheless, my hands were steady as I lifted the cage over the railing.
I heard a tiny splash as it hit the water, and then it was gone.
HUNT
Mant’er
“You went out in stillseason? In your first year of hunting?” Chair Ghen’s tone was daunting, but I suppressed my discomfort and returned his gaze evenly.
“Everyone knows you’re a fine hunter, Mant’er, despite your youth,” he said, with an air of tried patience. Again I was silent. My triad had brought home four large harrunt’hs, during stillseason. They were being butchered and smoked by less capable hunters as we spoke.
“...but you owe it to your parent to sire a child before you take unnecessary risks.”
“Because my parent died on a stillseason hunt doesn’t mean I am at risk,” I replied. He had aimed low with that barb and drawn my anger. I saw the sharp scales that rose over the ridge of his spine tremble slightly as he struggled with his own temper. When he looked up again he was calm.
“You will go to Festival Hall tomorrow and choose a Bria. You will not hunt in stillseason again until you have a youngling. I say this on behalf of all Ghen.”
I bowed my head. When Chair Ghen invoked that phrase, his word was law. I had intended to go at any rate, but it irked me to be ordered about like a child. Even as I acquiesced, I murmured, “I hunted for all Ghen.”
“You hunted for yourself!” he said, and turning sharply, left me.
*
I noticed Ocallis and his sibling at once when they entered Festival Hall. Rukt’an led them in as pleased as though they were his younglings, not merely those of the Bria with whom he’d joined. They sat in the seats he led them to, catching their breath.
I turned back to my conversation with Igt’ur, for Bria must wait when Ghen discuss the hunt. Igt’ur is small and only a mediocre hunter, but Igt’ur notices things. Not only the track and spoor of the prey; Igt’ur notices tendencies, changes. The “hunting wind” he calls it, and “the wind is changing” is what he had to tell me. I realized as he talked that I’d noticed the same things myself: the harrunt’h herds drifting northwards, the flocks of plump terriad’hs that nested along the rivers diminishing, even the small sadu’hs, such prolific breeders, were becoming fewer. Not enough to be worrisome but something to keep an eye on, we a
greed.
Igt’ur’s gaze shifted slightly. When I turned, Ocallis was standing behind me. I saw him bite into his first taste of wild corn coated with liapt’h egg and I saw the taste of it please him. He was a hunter also, in his own way.
The thought amused me. I admired the tawny curls of his pelt, the long, slender legs and willowy body, the plump, soft belly and firm, enticing breasts. A heat rose in me as I watched the languorous movement of his body, the slow sway of his hips, the knowing laughter in his eye. He was the most beautiful Bria in the room and instinctively sensual.
I chose Ocallis not only because he was beautiful, but because he knew it, and knowing made him strong. I wanted my youngling to feel that strength while he was in Ocallis’s womb.
*
When my child was born I named him Heckt’er after the fabled Ghen who saved us from extinction by the Broghen. Why should my offspring not be as great as Heckt’er? He was strong and he had me to teach him.
Even as an infant Heckt’er was fearless. I had to pry his claws from the flesh of the Broghen infant at their birth, not the other way around. At one, he cried for meat and I gave it to him. He was already as big as a two-year-old. I would have had him weaned early but Ocallis said he needed milk as well as meat. Ocallis held him too often, but it pleased Ocallis to do so and didn’t seem to weaken Heckt’er.
During the stillseason before he turned two, Heckt’er climbed the ugappa in front of Ocallis’s house and leapt upon an unsuspecting bird. He missed his footing and fell to the ground. From treetop to ground he never lost his nerve, neither cried out nor loosened his hold on his prey. He was a worthy youngling for me!
When he was two I took him with me to the Ghen compound. He didn’t cry to leave Ocallis and yet I know he felt affection for him. He asked me to tell Ocallis not to worry, that it was time for him to learn the forest. His words surprised me; of course Ocallis knew it was time. Ocallis had his Bria offspring to train and I had mine. What more was there to say? Nevertheless, I passed on his strange comment and Ocallis blinked in pleasure. As I turned to go, Ocallis signed, “Try to love him, Mant’er.”
Walls of Wind, book I Page 5