The Hawk Eternal

by David Gemmell

  “She did indeed.”

  “Is she a witch?”

  “All women are witches, Gaelen, for all are capable of such a spell if the time is right.”

  “They’ll not bewitch me,” said the boy.

  “Indeed, they won’t,” Caswallon agreed. “For you’ve a strong mind and a stout heart. I could tell that as soon as I saw you.”

  “Are you mocking me?”

  “Not at all,” he answered, his face serious. “This is not a joking matter.”

  “Good. Now that you know she bewitched you, why do you keep her with you?”

  “Well, I’ve grown to like her. And she’s a good cook, and a fine clothes-maker. She made those clothes you are wearing. A man would be a fool not to keep her. I’m no hand with the needles myself.”

  “That’s true,” said Gaelen. “I hadn’t thought of that. Will she try to bewitch me, do you think?”

  “No. She’ll see straightaway the strength in you.”

  “Good. Then I’ll stay with you . . . for a while.”

  “Very well. Place your hand upon your heart and say your name.”

  “Gaelen,” said the boy.

  “Your full name.”

  “That is my full name.”

  “No. From this moment, until you say otherwise, you are Gaelen of the Farlain, the son of Caswallon. Now say it.”

  The boy reddened. “Why are you doing this? You already have a son, you said that. You don’t know me. I’m . . . not good at anything. I don’t know how to be a clansman.”

  “I’ll teach you. Now say it.”

  “Gaelen of the Farlain, the . . . son of Caswallon.”

  “Now say, ‘I am a clansman.’ ”

  Gaelen licked his lips. “I am a clansman.”

  “Gaelen of the Farlain, I welcome you into my house.”

  “Thank you,” Gaelen answered lamely.

  “Now, I have many things to do today, so I will leave you to explore the mountains. Tomorrow I shall return and we’ll take to the heather for a few days and get to know one another. Then we’ll go home.” Without another word Caswallon was up and walking off down the slope toward the houses below.

  Gaelen watched until he was out of sight, then drew his dagger and held it up before him like a slender mirror. Joy surged in him. He replaced the blade and ran back toward the cave to show Oracle his finery. On the way he stopped at a jutting boulder ten feet high. On impulse he climbed it and looked about him, gazing with new eyes on the mountains rearing in the distance.

  Lifting his arms to the sky he shouted at the top of his voice. Echoes drifted back to him, and tears coursed from his eyes. He had never heard an echo, and he felt the mountains were calling to him.

  “I am going home!” he had shouted.

  And they had answered him.

  “HOME! HOME! HOME!”

  Far down the slopes Caswallon heard the echoes and smiled. The boy had a lot of learning to do, and even more problems to overcome. If he thought it was hard to be a thief in Ateris, just wait until he tried to walk among the youths of the Farlain!

  A Lowlander in Highland clothing . . .

  A sheep to be sheared . . .

  And being the son of Caswallon would make life no more easy.

  Caswallon shrugged. That was a worry for tomorrow.

  * * *

  For three days the new father and son wandered the Farlain mountains and woods, into the high country where the golden eagle soared, and on into the timberline where bears had clawed their territorial marks deep into the trunks of young trees.

  “Why do they do that?” asked Gaelen, staring up at the deeply scored gashes.

  “It’s very practical,” Caswallon answered him, loosening his leather pack and easing it to the ground. “They rear up to their full height and make their mark. Any other bear in the vicinity will, upon finding the mark, rise to reach it. If he can’t he leaves the woods—for the other bear is obviously bigger, and therefore stronger, than he is. Mind you, the bear that lives here is a canny beast. And he can’t reach his own mark; in fact, he’s quite small.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Gaelen. “How then did he make the gashes?”

  “Think about it for a while. Go and gather some wood for a fire and I’ll skin the rabbit.”

  Gaelen scoured the clearing for dead wood, snapping each stick as Caswallon had taught him, discarding any that retained sap. Every now and again he glanced back at the tree. Could the bear have rolled a boulder against the trunk? He didn’t know. How clever were bears? As he and Caswallon sat by the fire he told the older man his theory about the boulder. Caswallon listened seriously.

  “A good theory,” he said at last, “but not true. Now look around you and describe your setting.”

  “We are in a hollow where our fire cannot be seen, and there is protection from the wind.”

  “But exactly where in the hollow are we?”

  Taking his bearings from the mountains, as Caswallon had taught him, the boy answered with confidence, “We are at the north end.”

  “And the tree, how is it placed?”

  “It is growing ten paces into the hollow.”

  “Where does the wind come from in the winter—the freezing wind?”

  “From the north,” answered Gaelen.

  “Picture the hollow in winter,” prompted the clansman.

  “It would be cold, though sheltered, and snow-covered.”

  “How then did the bear make his mark?”

  “I see it!” yelled Gaelen. “The wind whipped the snow into the hollow, but it built up against the bole of the tree like a huge step and the bear climbed up the snow.”

  “Very good.”

  “But was that just luck? Did the bear intend to fool other bears?”

  “I like to think so,” said Caswallon. “You see bears tend to sleep through the winter. They don’t hibernate as other animals; they just sleep a lot. Mostly a bear will only come out in winter if it’s hungry, and then it wouldn’t be thinking about territorial marks.

  “But the lesson for you, Gaelen my lad, is not about the bear—it’s about how to tackle a problem. Think it through, all the way. A question about the land involves all four seasons.”

  As Gaelen rolled into his blankets that night, beneath the hide roof Caswallon had made, his mind overflowed with the knowledge he had gained. A horse always kicks the grass back in the direction from which it has come, but the cow pushes it down in the direction it is facing. Deer avoid the depths of the forest, for they live on saplings and young shoots which only grow in strong sunlight, never in the darkened depths. Never kill a deer on the run, for in its terror its juices flood the muscles making it tough and hard to chew. Always build your fire against a cliff wall, or fallen tree, for the reflected heat will double its warmth. That, and the names of all the mountains, floated through his mind and his sleep was light, his dreams many.

  He awoke twice in the night—once as it began to rain, and the second time when a large fox brushed against his foot. In the moonlight the beast’s face seemed to glow like some hellish demon of the dark. Gaelen screamed and the fox fled.

  Caswallon did not stir, though in the morning as he packed their makeshift tent he told Gaelen grimly, “In the mountains a man can pay with his life for a moment’s panic. That was a good lesson for you. In future, make no noise when faced by a threat. You could have been hiding from the Aenir, and felt a snake upon your leg. One scream, one sudden movement—and you would face death from both.”

  “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  Caswallon ruffled the boy’s hair and grinned. “It’s not a criticism, Gaelen. As I said, it’s a valuable lesson.”

  Throughout the morning the companions followed the mountain paths and trails. Gaelen listened to the older man’s stories of the clans and learned. He learned of the Farlain march to the island of Vallon and the mysterious Gates, and their entry to the mountains. He learned of the structure of the society an
d how no kings were permitted within the clans, but that in times of war a High King would be elected: a man like the legendary Ironhand. But most of all he learned of Caswallon of the Farlain. He noticed the smooth, confident manner in which he moved and spoke, the gentle humor in his words, the authority in his statements. He learned that Caswallon was a man of infinite patience and understanding, a man who loved the high country and its people, despite lacking the harsh cruel quality of the former and the volatile, often violent passions of the latter.

  Toward the afternoon Caswallon led the way into a small pine woods nestling against the base of a towering rock face. As they entered the trees the clansman stopped and Gaelen started to speak, but Caswallon waved him to silence. They could hear the wind swishing the leaves above them, and the rustle of small animals in the dry bracken. But inlaid into the sounds was an occasional squealing cry, soft and muted by the trees, like an echo.

  Caswallon led the boy to the left, pushing his way through intertwined bushes until they reached a larger clearing at the base of the cliff.

  Here, before the cave mouth, lay the evidence of a mighty struggle. A dead mountain lion was locked in a grotesque embrace with a huge dog, the like of which Gaelen had never seen. The dog’s jaws were clamped together in the throat of the lion that in its death throes had disemboweled the hound with the terrible claws of its hind legs. The dead animals had already begun to putrefy, the lion’s belly bloated with gases.

  “What kind of hound is that?” asked Gaelen.

  “The best there is,” answered Caswallon. “That is Nabara, the War Hound, she who belonged at one time to Cambil, the Farlain Hunt Lord. But she was a vicious beast and she ran away to the hills the day before she was to be slain.”

  Gaelen walked close to the bodies. “Her jaws are huge, and her body is long. She must have been formidable,” he said.

  “There are few war hounds left now. I don’t know why. Maybe because we don’t have the old-style wars. But yes, they are formidable. Terrifying, in fact. As you see, they can even be a match for a lion.”

  The squealing began again from within the cave.

  “Her pups are inside,” said Caswallon. “That is why she fought to the death. Little good it will do them.”

  “Are you going to kill them?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why?”

  “She’s been living in the mountains for over a year. The only animal she’s likely to have mated with is a wolf. But we’ll see.”

  The cave ceiling was low and the companions entered warily on hands and knees. Inside, the cave narrowed into a short tunnel bearing right. Beyond that was a deep cleft in which the hound had left her pups. There were five small bodies and a sixth struggling to stand on shaking legs. Caswallon reached over, lifted the black and grey pup, and passed it back to the boy. Then he checked the bodies. All were dead.

  Once back in the sunlight Caswallon retrieved the pup, tucking it half into his tunic where his body heat would warm it.

  “Build a fire over there, Gaelen, and we’ll see if the beast is worth saving.”

  Gaelen built a small circle of stones, laid his tinder, and struck sparks from his dagger and a small flint block. The tinder began to smoke. He blew on it softly until the first tongue of flame rose, then he added small twigs and finally thinner sticks. Caswallon eased his pack from his shoulders, pulling out the strips of dried meat packed by Maeg.

  “We need a pot to boil some thick broth,” he said. “And here is another lesson for you. Cut me a long strip of bark from that tree over there.”

  Gaelen did as he was bid and watched amazed as Caswallon shaped the edges and then twisted the bark into the shape of a deep bowl. Half filling it with water from the canteen, he laid the pot on the small fire.

  “But it will burn away,” said Gaelen. “It is wood.”

  “It will not burn as long as water is in it and the flames stay below the waterline.” Taking his dagger, Caswallon sliced the dried meat into chunks and added them to the pot.

  Before long the stew began to bubble and steam, the meat expanding. Caswallon added more meat, stirring the contents with his dagger. Gaelen moved beside him, reaching to stroke the small dark head poking out from Caswallon’s tunic.

  As the sun sank behind crimson clouds, bathing the mountain peaks in glowing copper, Caswallon ordered the lad to remove the bowl and allow the stew to cool. As they waited, the clansman opened his tunic and lifted the pup to his lap. Then he cut a section of the dried beef and began to chew it. “Can you give some to the pup?” pleaded Gaelen. “He is starving!”

  “That’s what I am doing, boy. It’s too tough for him. I am doing what his mother would do.”

  Removing the half-chewed meat from his mouth, Caswallon shredded it and offered a small amount to the pup. Its tiny tongue snaked out, nose wrinkling at the smell of the meat. The tiny beast ate a little, then its head sank against Caswallon’s hand. “Still too tough for him,” said the clansman. “But see the size of his paws? He will be big, this one. Here, hold him.”

  The pup began to whine as Caswallon passed him over, but he settled down as Gaelen stroked behind his floppy ears.

  “As I thought, he is half wolf,” said the clansman. “But there’s enough dog in him to be trained, I think. Would you like to keep him?”

  Gaelen lifted the pup to his face, staring into the tiny brown eyes. Like him, the helpless beast was an orphan, and he remembered his own long crawl to the high ground.

  “He is a child of the mountains,” said Gaelen. “I shall adopt him. Is it my right?”

  “It is,” said Caswallon gravely. “But first he must live.”

  After a while Caswallon tested the stew. When it had reached blood heat he passed it to Gaelen. “Dip your smallest finger into it and get the beast to lick it. He’s obviously too young to take it any other way.” The stew was thick and dark and Gaelen followed the instructions. The pup’s nose wrinkled again at the smell, but its tongue licked out. The boy continued to feed the animal until at last it fell asleep in his arms.

  “Do you think it will live?”

  “I don’t know. Tomorrow we will have a better idea.”

  “I hope it does, Caswallon.”

  “Hope is akin to prayer,” said the clansman, “so perhaps it will.” He rose to his feet. “Wait here, there’s something I must check. I should not be long.” With that he was gone into the undergrowth. The sun had set, but the moon was high and bright in the clear sky, and Gaelen sat with his back against a tree, staring into the flickering coals of the fire.

  This was life, this was a peace he had never known. The little pup moved in its sleep and he stroked it absently. In the distance the mountains made a jagged line against the sky like a wall against the world—deeply comforting and immensely reassuring.

  Caswallon returned silently and sat beside the boy.

  “We have a small problem, Gaelen,” he said. “I saw a couple of footprints at the edge of the woods as we entered, but I was intent on finding the pup. I have followed the track to softer ground where the prints are clearer. There is no doubt they are made with iron-studded boots. Clansmen all wear moccasins.”

  “Who made the footprints then?”

  “The Aenir. They are in the mountains.”

  In the morning as Gaelen fed the pup the remains of the stew that had been warmed on the glowing coals of the fire, his mind was clear, the terror of the night condensed and controlled into a manageable apprehension.

  “How many are there?” he asked the clansman.

  “Somewhere in the region of twenty. I think they’re just scouting, but they’re headed into Farlain lands and that could prove troublesome. We will walk warily today, avoiding the skylines. Have no fear, though, Gaelen, for these are my mountains and they shall not surprise us.”

  Gaelen took a deep breath, and his gaze was steady as he met Caswallon’s eyes. “I am not afraid today,” he told the clansman. “Last night I was trembling. Toda
y I am ready.”

  “Good,” said Caswallon, gathering up his quarterstaff and looping the straps of the pack across his shoulders. “Then let us put the Aenir from our minds and I will show you something of rare grandeur.”

  “What is it?”

  “Do not be impatient. I’ll not spoil it with words.”

  The clansman set off toward the west, and Gaelen gathered up the pup and followed him.

  Throughout the morning they climbed through the timberline, over rocky scree slopes, down into verdant vales, and finally up into a sandstone pass. A sound like distant thunder growled in muted majesty and Gaelen’s heart hammered.

  “Is it a beast?” he asked.

  “No. Though legends have it otherwise. What you are about to see is the birthplace of many myths. The Rainbow bridge to the home of the Gods is but one that springs from Attafoss.”

  Once through the pass, Caswallon led the way along a grassy track, the thunder growing below and to the right. Finally they climbed down toward the noise, clambering over rocks and warily walk-sliding down scree slopes, until Caswallon heaved the pack from his shoulders and beckoned the boy to him. Caswallon was standing on the lip of a slablike ledge. As Gaelen approached he saw for the first time the glory of Attafoss, and he knew deep in his heart that he would never forget the moment.

  There were three huge falls, the water split by two towering boulders before plunging three hundred feet to a foaming pool beneath, and onto one great waterfall whose roar deafened the watchers. Sunlight reflected from black, basaltic rock, forming rainbows in the spray, one of which spanned the falls and disappeared high in the air above the mountains. The falls were immense, almost half a mile wide. Gaelen stood openmouthed and stared at the Rainbow bridge. Even in Ateris he had heard stories of it.

  Caswallon lifted his arms to the sky and began to speak, but the words were whipped from his mouth by the roaring voice of Attafoss. The clansman turned to the boy and grinned. “Come on,” he bellowed.

  Slowly they worked their way above the falls to sit beside the surging water in the lea of a rock face that deadened the cacophonous noise.

  Caswallon pointed to a tear-shaped island in the center of the lake. It was heavily wooded, and from here the boy could see the mouths of deep caves in the rocky hills above the tree line.