Love him? Hadn’t I taken him along the wall and into the woods more often than any other Ghen parent, only returning when he was so tired he stumbled, though he tried to hide it from me? Didn’t I praise him, perhaps overly, when he sniffed the wind and answered my questions well? Bria foolishness, I thought, and signed, “I will make him a great hunter,” so that Ocallis would be reassured.
*
Heckt’er understood the forests of Wind instinctively, as I did. I taught him the ways of the timid sadu’h, no taller than my knee, with their large eyes and soft, furred pelts, and showed him how to track them to their burrows. I pointed out the feathered terriad’hs flying back from their migration in the mountains to mate with the anhad’hs, waiting for them in the eastern wetlands. I described the majestic harrunt’hs, a third again as tall as I, fleet on their powerful legs and sharp-hoofed, formidable for all that they were herbivores.
I told him of the three large predators on Wind: the cold-blooded liapt’h with their long, fang-studded jaws, that swim in the rivers of the wetlands; the fierce courrant'h, silent, four-footed mountain killers that mass as much as an adult Ghen; and most dangerous of all, the Broghen that rage along the seashore on the mainland, far to the south of our peninsula.
I taught Heckt’er to read the messages brought by the wind and how to avoid letting it tell of him. I taught him to move in silence, to leave no trail and to follow any trail, including mine. When he found me, I praised him, and when he failed, I waited. Many times we stayed in the woods all night while he hunted for traces of my passage. He never cried or called out. He never rested. He never quit. When I no longer had to leave a sign, when he could find me no matter how I tried to escape his notice, then I was satisfied.
When Heckt’er was four I sent him to a farm for stillseason. The Bria had retreated into their houses, unable even to tend their tame callans and farmborra. Heckt’er accepted the extra duty as he accepted all my training, even though farm work is despised. The farms are, after all, an affront to Ghen hunters, a lack of confidence in our abilities. However, Bria are timid, superstitious creatures, who fancy droughts and famines and what-have-you in every change of weather. We indulge them.
The city itself had spread to the edge of the Symba River, which abutted the farms. In fact, some of the farmland to the west had been converted into additional housing areas, and every few years more houses had to be built. As the houses encroached on the farms, so the farms encroached on the woodlands, and we cut back the trees to increase the callans’ pasturage. Someday we would occupy the entire peninsula.
I left Heckt’er on his own to care for the callans and farmborra on one of the large farms south of the city. I knew the callans would wander in their pastures, and a few would hide from him at sunset, some among the cappas, some in the river, evading the heat of stillseason. They would try to kick him every morning until he learned to milk them as though he were a calf himself.
The farmborra would hide their eggs from him and the cocks would wake him in the night until he came to understand their cries: the joke of false alarm or brief dreamstartle from the rare pitch of genuine terror when a mongarr’h had ventured from the southern woods in search of easy prey. I knew all this because in my youth I, too, had spent a stillseason on the farms.
“Become a callan,” I told Heckt’er when I left him. “You will only find your prey when you can think as they think. You’ll only draw close enough for the kill when you have learned to convince them that you are one of them.” If Heckt’er could come to understand these pitiful, tame beasts, which give the Bria their milk and cheese and butter and the fibres they spin into wool, or twist into rope, or weave into their delicate, dyed fabrics, then he could understand their majestic mating species, the wild harrunt’h.
The morning that the wind returned, I went for Heckt’er. I didn’t find him in the farmhouse or the barn or the roost-hut. He wasn’t in the farmyard or the near pastures. At last I went to the far pastures where the callans grazed. I grinned to think that he had felt the wind on his face as he drove them from the barn and it had drawn him with them into the farthest meadows.
I searched the ugappas that lined the callan trail and saw here and there a bent branch or twisted leaf that remembered his foot as he climbed to feel the light, cooling breeze. I searched the groupings of callans but he wasn’t among them, though I saw a disruption of pebbles where he had run with the young harrunt’hs. Soon they would be driven up onto the mainland to join a wild herd in the forest, leaving only a few to keep the callans productive.
I beat my way slowly through a dense copse of cappas, but Heckt’er was not resting in their leafy thickets. Along the bank of the Symba I thought I saw his imprint in the mud amidst the tracks of callans, who love to swim in the cool waters at midday.
Ghen don’t swim. There is no buoyancy in our heavy bones and muscular bodies and the weight of our scales bears us down. I shuddered to see the callans gamboling in the current, remembering the worst part of my stillseason on the farm when I was Heckt’er’s age: the evenings I had to wade into the swirling waters to drive the reluctant callans to their barn.
Three times I searched the meadows, the cappa copse, the ugappas; three times I returned to the farmhouse, barn, roosting-hut, before I stood again on the banks of the Symba. The sun was already sliding into the west. Bria, recovered with the returning breeze, were coming to round up their callans. I examined the gold-tinged waters anxiously.
And there I saw the tip of a slender, hollow reed moving as no reed moves, against the current. I could hardly credit what it must mean. Nevertheless, I plunged into the river and reached down. My hands closed over scales cold and slimy with the silt of the riverbed, sodden with long submergence. For just a moment, before I drew Heckt’er up to break the surface, I thought I had mistaken and held a fish.
*
Heckt’er returned with me to the Ghen compound. There was nothing more I could teach him without taking him out on the trail, so I set him up to learn firearm production. Normally, he wouldn’t have been studying this until he’d had his first hunt, but youths who showed interest were always welcome; the smithy needed apprentices. Not that Heckt’er would become one of those who made the firearms used by better hunters.
I had a new stock—one I’d carved during stillseason from the strong thigh bone of a harrunt’h I’d brought down that year. Heckt’er could observe the boring and rifling of the barrel, made from smelted bog ore; the insertion of the hammer and trigger; the placement of the crystal so the strike of the hammer would unfailingly draw a spark. A Ghen should see the construction of his weapon, and this would be Heckt’er’s after he had had his first hunt.
“A youth firearm,” I said to the smith, “and the youth to watch its making.” I was warmed by the flush of surprise and pleasure on Heckt’er’s face. He reached for the stock I’d placed on the smith’s table and examined it.
I’d kept it hidden because its size would have given away the surprise. A youth firearm was smaller, lighter than an adult’s. It had a shorter barrel and therefore a shorter range, but it was just as deadly. I’d outgrown my youth firearm quickly, as Heckt’er would, but I still had it. With that in mind, I’d taken great care in the carvings: liapt’h and courrant'h’h both on one side, and on the other, a Broghen.
“You’ll be master over every beast on Wind,” I promised him when he looked back up at me.
“Explosives?” the smith asked.
“Yes,” I said without hesitation. Many Ghen wouldn’t let their younglings observe the nitration of the fluffy seedballs produced by threadplants—so named because the Bria spun its fibers to make our woven bedmats. Occasionally, when a smith had failed to remove all traces of the nitric and sulfuric acids, the resulting nitrofiberballs could undergo spontaneous decomposition. This never happened to a master, and the smith accepted my compliment with a nod. Of course, I wasn’t simply being polite; a Ghen who didn’t know how to handle explosives didn’t
deserve a firearm. Heckt’er wouldn’t be one such.
By mid-year the smith sent Heckt’er back to me, saying he’d learned all he could without apprenticing. Heckt’er couldn’t practice shooting until he was a hunter, but I showed him how to hold his firearm braced between his chest and shoulder. I let him catch the trigger with his claw and bend his finger over it till he could pull it back, sliding his entire hand along the side of the stock. I loaded it and, pointing to a distant falling leaf, shot cleanly through it. A fine weapon.
*
“He’s only four,” Prakt’um said when I asked if we could go with them on the last youth hunt of the year. Prackt’um was twenty, the leader of the party. He was taking his second youngling, Dur’um, on his first hunt. The others were all fourteen, a year older than I, taking their firstborns out.
“He’s ready,” I said.
“He knows more than I do,” Dur’um broke in. We hadn’t noticed him approaching us on the training field and Prakt’um frowned slightly.
“That’s beside the point, Dur’um.”
“He’s as tall as Dyit’er. They’re friends already, and Dyit’er’s coming with us.”
“I’ll ask the others,” Prakt’um said to me.
I learned later that Cann’an, a large, sharp-eyed Ghen who liked to boss those smaller than he, had opposed our coming. Timb’il had also expressed doubts, mostly in deference to Cann’an, because their younglings were in the same hunting triad. I snorted when I heard that. I had no use for Cann’an and less for Timb’il; he always followed the prevailing wind.
My request was granted, however, because Dyit’er’s parent, Piet’er, pointed out that another youth was needed to complete Dyit’er’s hunting triad. Since Dyit’er and Heckt’er had often trained together, Heckt’er was an obvious choice. I was glad to team with Piet’er. He was a good one to have at your back, strong and unhesitating. From what I’d seen, Dyit’er was like his parent.
We passed through the gate onto the mainland and headed north into the forest, twelve hunters with their twelve younglings. Far to the south lay the seashore, where we left infant Broghen. East lay the wetlands, where terriad’hs nested. Succulent fare, but we were after bigger game.
The forest was dappled with shadows, its silence broken occasionally by the calls of birds. The wind carried near and distant scents to us: the dank smell of moss and decomposing leaves on the forest floor, the sweet smell of ugappa sap, faint because it was no longer running but dried on the bark, the tangy scent of ripening cappa fruit.
At regular intervals one of the youths would climb a tall ugappa and sighting by the lean of the sun, confirm our direction. When it was Heckt’er’s turn he altered our course slightly. Young Dam’an had climbed before him and frowned, about to protest, but the adults concurred. We knew this route well although we left no path to mark our frequent traverse.
When the sun lowered the youths made camp, rolling out our sleeping mats, collecting dry twigs and branches that would burn well, with little smoke. Dyit’er emptied two canteens from our store of water into the pot on the fire and made a warming brew for us to drink with our dried rations.
During one of our stops Heckt’er had taken aside Bab’in, the smallest youth, to pick ruberries, which they now shared around. Bab’in grinned with pleasure when we thanked him, glancing sideways at his approving parent, Mart’in. We appointed them the first watch. I was happy, sleeping in my forest, and proud to be taking Heckt’er on his first hunt.
It was several days before we came upon the tracks of sadu’hs and even then they were scarce, hiding in their burrows day and night. The birds had also quieted. Occasionally, branches rustled overhead as mongarr’hs leapt from tree to tree away from us. Their dark skin made them almost invisible in the treetops, but once or twice I caught the malevolent stare of a small, pinched face peering down at us, its muzzle drawn back in a silent snarl.
I thought it strange that they came so close. It almost seemed they were watching us. Sinewy and hairless, they were good for neither meat nor pelt, too vicious to be tamed, too small to be a threat. Nevertheless, their tiny teeth were sharp. The youths climbed noisily to sight our direction, not wanting to stumble onto a startled mongarr’h which, feeling cornered, might bite. On the sixth evening Heckt’er and Dam’an killed three sadu’hs with their slingshots and we ate well again.
At night each parent on watch kept his firearm close, more to teach his youngling vigilance than for any real need. Courrant'hs inhabited the mountains and Broghen roamed far to the south, while we had come north. But we were on the trail and the line between hunter and hunted can be as small as a single moment of unreadiness.
The increasing silence of the forest put us all on edge. When I saw the first sign of harrunt’hs—a disturbance of twigs, a single hair caught in the bark of a tree—I looked aside. This was our younglings’ hunt. But I was relieved. I glanced over at Heckt’er and saw that he noticed as well, though he turned away at once. Why didn’t he speak up?
Soon after, Dam’an and Sark’il called out, pointing with barely concealed excitement to the soft imprint of a harrunt’h hoof on the forest soil. It was several days old and faint; we were lucky there’d been no rain. Nearby, a few snapped branches and missing leaves indicated that a small herd had passed. The youths conferred together.
They were fortunate; the animals were heading northeast, into the wind. We could follow quickly without fear that our scent would reach them. Dam’an and Sark’il left their packs with their parents and ran silently ahead to scout. It should have been Heckt’er running ahead but I held my tongue, though it galled me. Heckt’er would have to learn to speak for himself.
We didn’t see our scouts that night or the next, but the night after that we met them on the trail in late afternoon. The beasts were less than two removes away, moving slowly. We would rest for the night and fall upon them at dawn.
In the night the wind changed. I was awake at once, but Heckt’er was already going from blanket to blanket, quietly shaking the others awake. It was too late to move out of the path of the wind; we were too close. The youths would have to strike at once, before the harrunt’hs caught our scent and stampeded. We ran silent and intent between the trees, our eyes adjusting already to what little light filtered down from the starry sky above.
We heard the snorting and stamping before we saw them. The older ones were circling through the trees, nipping awake young adults and yearlings, gathering them close, heading east. The herd was small, two or three dozen at most. The youths split into their triads, racing silently toward the milling beasts. Holding their knives between their teeth they moved in circles as the beasts were doing, choosing their prey. Our nearness stirred the herd to greater fear, black shapes in the black night between tall, black trees.
Dyit’er led Heckt’er and Dur’um in their triad. He motioned them toward a young harrunt’h looking belligerently about as though deciding which way to run. Heckt’er and Dyit’er circled behind the beast while Dur’um pulled himself into the tree he had indicated and moved along its lower branches.
Suddenly an eerie whistle pierced the night and every beast took up the shrill cry until the forest rang with their alarm. The harrunt’hs stampeded, following the summons of their lead buck. The ground trembled under their hooves, branches lashing and snapping in the path of their flight.
The young harrunt’h whirled straight toward Heckt’er and Dyit’er. They leaped into its path, shouting and waving their arms. Its eyes widened, ringed in white terror, nostrils flared, as it pounded toward them. They stood their ground, faces pale in the night as they waved and shouted, knives ready and claws extended. We parents held our breath while the forest thundered with the rush of the huge beasts. At last the harrunt’h swerved, heading under the tree where Dur’um waited.
Dur’um dropped from the branches onto its back, sinking his claws into its neck. It bucked, rising and pawing the air with its hooves while it whirled in a frenzied circle. T
he side of its neck smashed into Dur’um’s forehead. Caught off guard, nearly stunned, he let his knife fall.
Heckt’er and Dyit’er rushed forward with their knives but the flaying hooves kept them at a distance. Without warning, the buck threw itself sideways into the wide trunk of a ugappa and Dur’um leaped from its back barely in time to avoid being crushed. I watched him roll aside, then ahead I saw Heckt’er crouch to leap astride the buck when it raced by him. He was in a good position to do so, and it was bleeding, winded and running slowly enough that I knew he could mount it if his balance held. My youngling would bring it down alone on his first hunt!
It had almost reached him when Dur’um cried out. He lay on the ground between the trunks of two trees, holding his left leg. A large harrunt’h bore down on him, crazed with fear. Dur’um was too low to the ground to turn its path, it would trample him as it would a mound of dirt. Prakt’um was already racing toward his child, silent and desperate, but we were too far away. I looked back at Heckt’er in the moment that he made his choice.
Turning away from the buck, he raced to stand over Dur’um, waving his arms at the oncoming harrunt’h and yelling. It was too close to turn; the huge beast was almost upon them!
“Heckt’er!” His name caught in my throat, tore free, was lost in the screams of the beasts and their thundering hooves. I willed him to leap aside, to save himself.
He never flinched, not even in the last moment when the harrunt’h finally swerved, smashing against the tree beside him with such force it cracked, splitting in two as the harrunt’h swept around it.
A few moments later Prakt’um reached them. He lifted Dur’um in his arms, and then I was beside Heckt’er. He looked up at me. When I stood speechless before him, he hung his head.
Walls of Wind, book I Page 6