“I heard you coming,” Harl said from behind the tree. “Thought you were a murgu.”
Kerrick turned, startled, then smiled at the boy. Harl was a Tanu raised in the forest; Kerrick knew that he would never be as good a tracker or hunter. “Tell me of the camp,” he said.
“I killed a deer yesterday, a buck; it had seven points on its horns.”
“We will all eat well. Other than that, has there been . . . any trouble?”
“The murgu you mean? They stay far away from us; we never see them.” The boy’s eyes never rested as they moved through the forest, searching on all sides. Though he apparently did not look where he was walking he never made a sound; a twig hidden by the grass cracked when Kerrick stepped on it. “I’ll go ahead, tell them that you are coming,” Harl said.
“Do that.” To carry the good news—or to get away from his mastodon tread? Kerrick smiled as the boy swiftly moved out of sight.
They were all waiting for him when he came to the camp, Arnwheet running out shrieking with happiness, to be swung high into the air. Armun smiling, Ortnar leaning heavily on his crutch, looking grim as always. Kerrick told them at once what he had discovered.
“The sammads are no longer in Deifoben—but they are alive. And I have another death-stick and these maps. There is more—but water first, I’ve come a long way.”
He sluiced it over his head, gasping, drank great mouthfuls. Then sat and told them what he had seen, what had happened.
“But you cannot know where the sammads are,” Ortnar said when he had done.
“There is only one place to go—back to the valley. The Sasku know the trail very well. They have many death-sticks. The murgu will find them hard to kill.”
“Yet the murgu you spoke with said they would be followed, attacked,” Armun said, worriedly. “Should we not go to them, warn them.”
“They know well enough.” His words were grim as were his thoughts. What could he do? What could anyone do? Was there never to be an end to the killing? It was Vaintè who did this. Without her there might be an end to the fighting. But she was far from his spear or arrow, could not be killed.
There was nothing that could be done, that was the answer. Nothing. The sammads would flee—and the Yilanè would follow. That was the repellent yet inescapable truth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
That afternoon Kerrick crossed the invisible boundary between the two camps to return the hèsotsan to the males. They would need it for their hunting, having no proficiency with spear or bow. Arnwheet saw him leave, called out then ran after him. The boy had one of Erafnais’s charts tucked under his arm; he was fascinated by the colors and was the only one besides his father who seemed at all interested in the Yilanè artefacts. Kerrick took him by the free hand and they walked slowly together under the trees. Kerrick was cheered by the small hand in his, the boy’s presence and affection, but could not escape from the ever-present feeling of despair.
“One who has gone returns,” Kerrick called out when he saw Imehei. “Information to impart of great importance.”
Nadaskè heard the sound of his voice and pushed his head out of their sleeping shelter to see what he was saying. “Pleasure to see-again,” he said, and there was a movement of undisguised relief as he spoke.
“Agreement,” Imehei said. “Death from vicious ustuzou threatened us each instant you were departed.”
Kerrick ignored the obvious exaggeration and returned the hèsotsan with a signed gratitude-for-use. In response to the querying movements from the two he told them what had happened in Alpèasak.
“Ustuzou fled, Yilanè once again.”
“Females and death, too close, too close,” Imehei wailed.
“Well you weren’t very happy when the city was ustuzou,” Kerrick reminded him. “You had better decide which you prefer.”
“Equally had,” Nadaskè said. “Death from stone tooth, death on the beaches.”
“Then stay away from the city.”
“Look, see,” Arnwheet said, coming between them and holding out the chart.
Imehei took it from him with appreciative movements at the rich colors. Kerrick started to speak—then stopped, shocked.
Arnwheet had spoken in Yilanè. Crudely and simply—but Yilanè it was!
Imehei and Nadaskè admired the detailed lines and colors of the map while the boy looked on proudly. He watched and listened when they spoke and seemed to understand some part of what they said. Kerrick was overwhelmed by affection for the boy, bent and seized him, hurled him laughing into the air, sat him proudly on his shoulders. Why shouldn’t he understand? He was young, he learned like all children by listening to others—Kerrick as a boy had been far older and he had learned Yilanè. He was proud of his son’s accomplishment, more than proud. It was an important thing to have happen, a greater bond between them. Up until this moment he had been alone, the only living creature in the world who could speak with both Yilanè and Tanu. This was no longer true.
“Objects of great delight,” Imehei said, holding the chart up to the sun the better to admire the colors. “Great artistry, see how the lines penetrate from one side to the other.”
“They have a function and a purpose,” Kerrick said. “They are aids to navigation, directions for crossing the ocean.”
“Little purpose, no importance,” Imehei said.
“They were needed by the uruketo that brought you here,” Kerrick said with overtones of malice. “Without them, you could have ended up in the frozen sea.
“Since I shall never venture aboard an uruketo again, smelling-boring, they are useless. Except for wall hangings, color to place of living; could be placed beside the sculpture of the nenitesk, polite request.”
“No,” Kerrick said. “I want to study them. They are from Ikhalmenets—do you know where that is?”
“Distant—fish-filled.”
“Island of little importance.
As always the males took no interest in anything other than their own comforts, their own survival. They could be no different, Kerrick thought. In the hanalè they had no responsibilities. But they had made the break, were self-sufficient now; he must give them credit for that.
He carried Arnwheet and the map back in a strangely thoughtful mood. The fact that the boy was beginning to speak Yilanè was of great importance. He felt that—but logically knew no reason why. When the others were asleep that night he lay awake in the darkness speaking softly to Armun.
“Arnwheet can speak with the murgu a bit—he will get better at it.”
“He should not go near them, disgusting. I will see that Darras plays with him more. When do we go back to the sammads?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.” To her in the darkness he admitted his worries and fears, held tight to her, as she to him. “The valley is distant and the murgu will be watching all of the trails. How can we escape them? Ortnar cannot walk. And I do not think he would go with us if he had to ride like an infant in the travois. I think that he would walk into the forest alone if he had to go that way. What would that leave us? Children—and one half-grown boy who is probably the best hunter here, better than I am I know.”
“I have a strong arm and a good spear.”
“I know.” He held her, smelling the freshness of her hair. “Your strength is my strength. But you know as little of hunting as I do. We will need food. The hunting is good here, Harl gets what we need, and we have the fish in the lake. But it would be a long and hard trail if we left. I think we have been on enough trails like that. Far too many.”
“Then you want us to stay here?”
“I don’t know what I want, not yet. When I try to think about it I feel a knot of pain and my thoughts twist away. But now we are safe here. We must take time to decide what to do. And the sammads, I think about them too, and wonder if there is anything we can do to help them. The murgu will be after them.”
“Their hunters are strong. They can take care of themselves. I
t is not yours to worry about,” she said.
It was a true and practical answer. She understood his feelings—but did not share his sense of responsibility for all the others. What she had received in her life she had fought for. He, their son, this tiny sammad, this was her world and the only thing of any importance to her. To live in peace with them, to survive, that was her only desire. The sammads were not her concern.
Nothing was that simple and straightforward for Kerrick. He rolled and turned and finally fell asleep.
He awoke at dawn, went to sit at the lake’s edge and looked across the still water. The surface rippled as unseen fish arrowed under it. A flight of great coral-colored birds flew by in line, calling to each other. The world, here, at this moment at least, was at peace. Arnwheet had left the Yilanè charts blowing about the camp so Kerrick had picked them up as he walked, gathered them together. Now he spread out the top one and tried to make sense of it. It was useless. Perhaps some colors meant land, some meant ocean, yet they turned and twisted over each other in a manner quite impossible to understand. In this they resembled the Paramutan frames of joined bone. But those were just possible to comprehend. Kalaleq had pointed out the ice cap, the distant land, and Kerrick had understood that much. But other things about them were beyond him. Perhaps the Paramutan might understand these masses of color, he certainly could not. Maybe he should give them to the males to hang up for decorations. He tossed them to the ground and looked unseeing and uncomprehending at their swirls.
What could he do? When he looked at the future he saw only blackness. To remain here by the lake provided only temporary salvation; it had no future. Here they were like animals burying themselves in the ground, hiding from the enemy outside. The spy-birds flew, the Yilanè watched, and one day they would be seen. It would end then. But what other choice had they? To trek west to the valley? A dangerous trip—yet at the other end there would be friends, all of the sammads. Under a threat of disaster because Vaintè was on her way there as well. So what should he do? What could he do? In all directions he saw nothing, nothing but certain despair, despair ending in certain death. There was nothing he could do, nothing at all, no way out. He sat in the shadows beside the water until the sun was high in the sky and the flies busy around his nose and eyes. He brushed his hand across his face but was really not aware of them at all, so deep and intense were his fears.
Later they ate most of the leg of the deer Harl had killed, admiring it and his skill greatly so that the boy was red with pleasure and turned away. Only Ortnar disagreed.
“You should be ashamed. You needed three arrows.”
“The undergrowth was thick and there were leaves in the way,” Harl protested.
“The brush is always heavy. Come over here and bring your bow. We will say that tree is a deer. Now you will kill it for me.”
Ortnar moved only with a great effort. He could no longer use his bow—but was still deadly with his spear. And he knew how to hunt: there were many things that he could teach Harl. Arnwheet too Kerrick thought, as the smaller boy ran over to join the fun, to watch and learn.
“It is not yet time for Ortnar to go alone into the forest,” Kerrick said to Armun. She followed his eye and nodded agreement.
“The boys must learn. Ortnar is a hunter who knows all the important things.”
“And I am one who doesn’t.”
She was angry in his defense. “You know things stupid hunters will never know! You can speak with the murgu and have crossed the ocean. You are the one who led the sammads in battle to victory. Any hunter can shoot a bow or throw a spear—but did they know how to use the death-sticks until you showed them? You are more than all of them.” Her anger faded as fast as it had come and she smiled at him. “All of those things are true.”
“If you say so. But you must know that nothing now is clear to me. I look at the sunshine and I see only darkness. If we stay here we will certainly be found by the murgu one day. If we go to the other sammads we join them in death when Vaintè attacks them. What shall we do?” He thought of what she had said, searching her words for some help. There was a glimmering there. “What you said just now about crossing the ocean. I did that in the belly of a murgu beast. But there are others who cross on top of the water.”
Armun nodded. “The Paramutan. They sail the ocean to spear the uluruaq, that is what they told us.”
“Yes, they must be able to do that. The Paramutan who brought us south, they said that they would return here to fish. If only we could go with them. But we don’t know what is on the other side of the ocean. Death could wait there as well as it waits here. We should not cross until we know what is there. By then it could be too late. What should we do? Perhaps I should join them. Cross with them to the other side of the ocean. They said that there was a cold land there. But south of the cold land it will be warm; I know because I have been there. It is the land of the murgu and they only live where it is hot. But perhaps I can find a land between the heat and the ice where we could live and hunt. Perhaps.”
He seized her hands, trembling with excitement. “I could go with the Paramutan now and search for a place of safety over there, find somewhere to the south of the ice and north of the murgu. It might be all right, there might be hunting. Then I would come back for you. We would be able to leave here and find a place that is safe. While I am away you will be all right as long as you stay under cover and watch out for the birds. You will have food and you will be safe until I return. Don’t you think this is something that I could do, that might save us all?”
Kerrick was so absorbed with his new plans, at the thought that there might be a way out of this trap, that he was not aware of the coldness that replaced the warmth in her face, the stillness of her features, was unaware of how she felt until she spoke.
“No. You cannot do that. You will not leave me.”
He looked at her, shocked at the rebuff, his temper rising.
“You cannot order me. I do this for all of us and it is I who will risk crossing the cold sea . . .”
He grew silent as she reached over and placed her fingers gently over his mouth.
“You take the wrong meaning from my words and that is my fault. I spoke quickly out of fear. My true meaning is that I will not leave you, ever again. Where you go, there will I go also. Once we were apart and each came to the very edge of death seeking the other. That was too terrible and must never happen again. You are my sammadar—and I am your sammad. If you wish to cross the sea, we will cross the sea. But you will not go alone. I will go with you wherever you want to go. I will aid you with my strength and ask only a single thing. Never leave me again. We will both go together.”
He understood for he felt the same way. Had been alone all of his life—as she had been—until he had found her. He had no words to speak his feelings and held to her tightly, as she did him.
But there were still dangers that must be considered.
“I must go,” he said. “If you will go with me that will be better. But we cannot bring all the others until we are sure there is a safe place for them to go to.”
For Armun this was a bad thought, a tearing thought. Must she leave her son here and cross the sea? Was there no alternative? She could think of none. It would have to be done this way. It was not a good answer—but it was the only answer. She would have to be the strong one and the practical one now. She considered carefully before she spoke.
“You yourself have said how safe it is here. Harl will hunt, he is no longer a child. Ortnar is needed to watch over everything until we return. Arnwheet and the girl will be no trouble—she is already learning to find plants in the forest, to cook and to do woman’s work.”
“You would leave the boy?” he asked, stunned. This is not what he would have expected.
“I would. He is everything to me and I do not wish to be parted from him—but I will leave him. I can go away from him, leave him in another’s care until I return, I can do that. It is you whom I will
never leave.”
“I must think about this,” Kerrick said, shocked by the granite-like hardness of her feelings, her resolve.
“There is nothing to think about,” she said with steadfast determination. “It has been decided. Now you will make the detailed plans and we will do as you say.”
The strength of her support forced him to believe that it could be done. What were the alternatives? Follow the sammads to the valley? And if they did not die during the march they would die there when Vaintè brought her poison thorns and darts, her numberless fargi. Stay here? It was a life with no future. There would only be a lifetime hiding here with the Yilanè city close by, and they would surely be discovered one day. It was all right for the two males, they had no choice, had nowhere else to go. Yet he would have to think about them as well; he must talk to them about his plan.
Imehei moaned aloud when he went to speak to them. “Do not leave again, too terrible to consider.”
“Satisfactory here, desire you stay,” Nadaskè said firmly.
Kerrick shaped his limbs into orders from her-on-high to lowest-creatures-below. “You will not be eaten or killed. Now all I ask you to do is simply to cross over with me to the other camp now and talk about this thing. I want you all there when I speak of the future. You do not fear fresh-from-sea, Arnwheet, and have marched with Ortnar. Nothing will happen to you. Now come.”
It took a long time for him to convince them—but he was firm. His plans were made; he must cross the ocean and find a safe haven for his sammad. He was not going to let these two stand in his way. He forced them to go with him then, but they sat as far from the others as they could, leaning against each other, filled with fear.
Kerrick stood between the two groups. He looked at the two Yilanê males to one side, rigid with terror—or at least pretending to be. On the other side Ortnar sat slumped against a tree and glowered. The rest of the Tanu beside him seemed accustomed to the murgu now, particularly when Arnwheet crossed over and showed Imehei his latest treasure, a bone whistle that Ortnar had made. And there were no weapons present, he had seen to that.
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