Time Rocks

by Brian Sellars

  Chapter Seven

  I couldn’t stop thinking about Vart. He'd been doing fine until he met me. His life was under control and he was enjoying it. Now, he was on the run and had been forced to abandon most of his precious things. His fur pouches were left in his bed place. He had treasured his flints and fire lighting tools: his bits of bone for fish hooks, needles and bead making, his patiently twined nettle cord for snares and fish traps, and above all his flint napping tools. Everything he valued was in those bags. All of it essential to his daily survival.

  I was kicked and shoved around the camp like an aunt Sally. Everyone seemed to want to get at least one punch in. But it gave me the chance to see what they had done with our things. I was relieved to see they hadn’t found my rucksack. I had hurled it into some trees. It was all I could do in my panic, and I hadn’t seen where it went. I prayed it was out of sight.

  I was expecting the worst, and that’s exactly what I got. They kept me tied up, day and night. The only water I had to drink was whatever I could slurp up when we crossed a stream. There was this one guy who knocked me about all the time. He was dark haired with a grizzled, flat face. He looked older than the others. I’d say he was in his late thirties – an old man for these times. When he was not actually punching me, he was glaring at me like he was thinking about doing it. It was strange too, because he was the only one who treated the dog-man with any compassion. I soon saw that something was going on between him and Blaith. For one thing Blaith ignored him, blanked him like whitewash - as though he didn’t exist.

  Blaith was a brutal man, strong, quick tempered and ruthless. He kept order with a cudgel, shoving, punching and shouting all day long. Nobody argued with him. Luckily, he seemed to want to keep me in one piece. And though he kept slapping me about, he never used his cudgel on me. Also, I felt less worried about that dark haired guy when Blaith was around.

  It’s all my fault about Vart. He’d lost all his stuff, and even if he found my rucksack, there was nothing in it of any use to him except my last Toblerone. I hope he eats it, if he finds it; if he’s not already dead. He might be. They loosed off lots of arrows after him when he ran. At least one must have hit him. And these guys tip their arrows with poison. It’s so that if they only wound an animal they can track it until the poison brings it down. I had seen several men go chasing after him, screaming for blood. So they might still track and kill him. It’s all my fault.

  Some had squabbled like dogs over Vart’s bags. It just made me think how completely I’ve screwed up his life. I promised myself that if I could escape, I would go straight back to that hill and look for him. At least I could give him a decent burial.

  Blaith pushed us on for three days. My foot was killing me. One man was ordered to dress it with healing herbs every day. This wasn’t Blaith being compassionate. He just didn’t want me slowing him down. I never knew what the herbs were. The man just mashed them up with a drop of honey and smeared the goo on the wound each day.

  I couldn’t tell where we were, but after three days I had the feeling we might be somewhere close to the bear place. It’s hard to tell where you are. There are no land marks, at least, none I recognised. Everywhere was just forest, lime trees and hazels mostly. Progress was slow, especially with me limping, and them breaking off the trail every few hours to hunt something, or freshen up their makeup. Oh yeah, makeup is a big thing. They do it every time they find some special plant or coloured mud or something. They all get excited and mix up the mud or berries and repaint their faces. They think they look great. They don’t - they look like loonies. Blaith paints a wolf mask on his face. The top half is OK, but it looks rubbish where it meets his beard. He’s a real nutter that Blaith.

  He sends scouts up front. Every so often one of them comes back to report. Mostly it’s about animal signs, mud slides, or floods. Sometimes they seem scared and excited if they see signs of other hunters or an aurochs. They are more scared of aurochs than anything, even other war parties. If they can, they stay well away from both.

  I’ve seen an Aurochs bull at a distance. I’ve never hunted one. Vart says they are the most deadly animal on earth. He says it takes a full day to kill one and somebody always dies. They are huge. A tall man doesn’t even reach their shoulder. They are nasty and vicious. They just charge on sight. From tip to tip their horns are wider than a car. Think of the biggest nastiest bull you have ever seen, then double it and you are getting close. Vart says the best way to hunt them is to make them chase you and lead them so they fall over a cliff or into a pit. Then you can spear them safely.

  Anyway, when the scouts come back each time we would usually drop everything and go after whatever it is they've reported. I couldn’t see how they could carry any more game. They already had three deer on poles, some beaver and a few geese. Everybody was loaded down and sweating, except me and Blaith.

  They kept the geese alive, poor things. They just hung them upside down. The dark, staring man carried them, and I know he hurt them on purpose. He enjoyed it. If my foot had not been so painful, I would have volunteered to carry them. It might have made them untie my neck. My back was killing me from being bent over all the time. Me and the geese would be better off. I thought about it and decided to volunteer the next time Blaith came near me.

  I remember something happened one morning. It was all the dark man’s fault. He made a fuss about some tress rings that another man had. There was a hell of a row. I thought this poor man would be killed. It was like the torch thing all over again. Old Blaith got involved, and when he saw these green-stone tress rings, you know, like beads in this poor man's dreads, well, he just went crazy because he wanted them. The guy gave them up as fast as he could. He just about ripped half his hair out too, he was so scared. Everybody is scared of old Blaith. But if that dark haired, staring lunatic had kept quiet, it would never have happened. He just causes trouble on purpose, and he’s always hanging round with the dog-man. I would see them whispering, you know, like plotting stuff. Sometimes when Blaith catches them in a huddle he beats the dog-man, but always ignores the staring man. It’s because he pretends he doesn’t exist.

  From what I could tell at the time, the man said he’d found the tress rings in one of Vart’s pouches. Old Blaith showed them to me and jabbered like crazy. I think he was asking me where Vart got them. I didn’t know and I’d never seen him wearing them either. He did wear some tress beads, but only ones he made himself from hollow wildfowl bones that he coloured with berry juice. I never saw him with any green stone ones. Wow, that Blaith is a fool for bling. I kept my wristwatch hidden. If he saw it he’d take it for sure. Wow, can you imagine old Blaith when somebody eventually invents gold? He’ll think he died and went to heaven. But he’ll have to wait about a thousand years or so.

  You know what, I like tress rings too. They’re cool. When my hair grows enough I think I’ll make some of those bone ones like Vart’s.

  We stopped one morning because something was going on up front. They all put down their loads and we had to hide in the undergrowth. My foot really hurt. I heard them say, bayeth, and I knew that meant boar. Well sure, I was learning the lingo as fast as I could. It’s hard work picking it up, but by then I’d already learned that wolf is Blaith – like old Blaith, deer is karu, and they hunt it with a beru, a spear. It’s not easy, but I’m getting it. The trouble is, if I say one word to them, they say a million back and I’m lost. Anyway, like I say, we’d all stopped and I kept hearing “bayeth, bayeth” so I guessed we were going after a wild boar.

  You’ve no idea how thick the forest is. The only way through it is by following animal paths. The deer make them and the wild pigs. But the worst thing is, once you’re in the forest you can’t see more than six or eight feet in any direction. Blaith went first and the others fanned out, struggling through the underbrush. The amazing thing is how little noise they make, even going through undergrowth. I followed Blaith on this deer path. The dark haired, staring lunatic was behind me. I di
dn’t like having him so close, and he deliberately kept knocking into me and poking me up the backside with his spear. Suddenly, everyone was shouting and this crazy pig charged out of a bush. All I could see were its massive tusks, like bloody great swords. They were coming straight for me. I tried to get out the way, but the dark man grabbed me and shoved me back into its path. Spears were flying and arrows whizzing about. One spear hit the boar full in its front. The butt end dug into the ground and sort of pole vaulted this damn great pig into the air. It went flying over my head. I ducked right down, but still got whacked. I was knocked out cold. Pigged out, you could say.

  When I came round, I was in a small clearing. The man who’d been bringing me the healing plants was wiping my head with a handful of wet grass. The pig was dead and Blaith was supervising as some men tied it to a pole to carry it. My wrists were free. It felt wonderful without the bark rope digging into them. The spear shaft up my back had gone too. I could straighten up.

  The dog-man on his leash was now being held by the dark haired nutter who had tried to kill me. They were jabbering intently. Dog-man yanked his leash to free up some slack and sidled over to me. ‘Look, Kethin is sorry. He was trying to get you out of the way.’

  ‘Yeah, pigs might fly,’ I said.

  They’d taken my coat while I was out. I looked around for it but couldn’t see it. I asked the dog-man where it was. He just shrugged, but then I saw Kethin, the dark haired lunatic, hunched over with his back to me. He had it and was searching through the pockets. I just dived at him and we rolled around throwing punches until old Blaith separated us. I took a stinker on my ear, but I got Kethin with a couple of good shots. His nose was bleeding. I felt a whole lot better. I just wish my foot didn’t hurt so much.

  Blaith gave me a strange look as he shoved me away from Kethin. It was almost a smile. He held my wrists and looked at the mess of blood and bruising the bindings had caused, then eyeing me closely, he slowly released his grip on me. I wasn’t sure what to make of it, but I think he wanted me to know that I was not going to be tied up again. There was something else too, and I wondered if it was to do with that dark haired lunatic, Kethin. It started me thinking, but even now I still don’t understand old Blaith. He makes Machiavelli look like Homer Simpson.

  Another thing that was bothering me back then was this, you never saw them carry tents, or much food and bedding. All they had was weapons and hunting gear. I couldn’t work this out. They must have a base somewhere. Not like Vart. He just moved around all the time, but I was beginning to think that these guys must have somewhere. That’s when I realised that what we were doing was a food delivery - like ASDA. I was always pondering about that sort of stuff. You know, like, where were their women and their kids? What did they do with all the game they killed? Who was it for? Who treats the hides and makes their clothes? They had to have people somewhere who fed them and made their clothes in return for meat and skins. Maybe even farmers, with houses and stuff, you know?

  I still couldn’t work out why Blaith had started treating me better. He was a power hungry, brutal killer, so what had I done to please him? I was even sorry for the poor old dog-man. All he ever got were kicks and leftovers. So why was I special? What does Blaith think I am? Again I started worrying about cannibalism. I thought I had got that out of my head. I can tell you, feeling like a lobster in a fish restaurant tank is not good.