by Dan Davis
“It seems so,” Z’ta said and he seemed about to say more but he held his tongue.
As instructed, Herkuhlos followed the young woman. Inside the hut the central hearth had a small fire and by the glow of the coals he could make out the figure wrapped in furs on the far side from the entrance and he followed Sif to kneel at his side. It was a tiny old man with sunken cheeks and eyes, breathing so lightly that he might already have been dead but for the sweat beading on his brow.
Sif spoke softly as she stoked and fed the fire and though he did not know the words he recognised that she was calling to the sacred and so he did nothing to interfere with her. She filled a bowl from a small, low trough, wet a leather cloth and touched it to the old man’s face to wipe away the sweat and while she worked she recited the sacred words in a low, sweet voice. Herkuhlos recognised there was some pattern to her quiet, rhythmic chanting, noticing the repetition of certain words and phrases. The language was different to his own and even to the language of the Furun and the Kalekka and the other peoples he had encountered and though it was strange he found that that he liked the sound of it. There was some shape to it that was faintly familiar, like a song almost forgotten.
Turning to him, she indicated his arm and then the man and nodded, all while she continued her chanting. He took his knife and cut his wrist again, slicing through the scabbed new flesh just beginning to form over the last wound and then he took one of the empty bowls from beside Sif and let his blood flow into it. He would not let someone drink from his flesh again, especially a stranger from some impoverished clan at the edge of the world. When the blood began to stop flowing he handed it over to Sif and she took it, their fingers touching for a moment as it was passed from one to the other, and her chanting faltered for a moment before she continued. Lifting the old man’s head with one hand she tipped the bowl to his lips. Like with Pehur, he coughed at first but when he tasted it he seemed to come alive and he began gulping it down eagerly until it was tipped all the way up and the blood was gone.
The old man groaned as if he was in pain and Sif dropped the bowl and leaned over him, her face a mask of concern, her chanting forgotten.
His eyes opened and he stared at Sif. She stared back at him and whispered a question.
When he answered in a weak voice she laughed a little and he struggled to sit up so she helped him.
Then he saw Herkuhlos kneeling by his feet.
With remarkable speed the old man pushed Sif behind him and reached for a spear that had been lying between him and the wall beneath his furs and he brought the point up with unerring speed and precision to point it at his armoured chest.
Herkuhlos could have knocked the spear aside and thumped the old man back into unconsciousness if he so wished. But he knew this chief was simply surprised to find a great warrior looming over him in his own home and so Herkuhlos did not make a move. For a moment, their eyes locked together and some form of understanding passed between them.
It was Sif who knocked the spear aside and let forth a stream of angry words until finally the old man relented.
“S’tef,” Sif said with great emphasis, pointing at the chief by way of introduction. “Herkuhlos,” she said, pointing at him. She had spoken with deliberate slowness but had repeated his name with remarkable accuracy.
The chief nodded to Herkuhlos who nodded back and then the old man got to his feet, shaking off Sif’s attempt at aid and using his spear as a walking stick. Surprised at his own strength, the chief barked a laugh and then walked to the door now carrying his spear instead of leaning on it.
Sif turned, her eyes shining with joy, and moved as if to throw her arms around the kneeling Herkuhlos but she stopped herself, flashed a quick smile instead and hurried after the chief.
Herkuhlos, feeling suddenly exhausted by the night’s events, followed her out, ducking low through the door.
Outside it seemed that the whole village was quickly gathering about their chief who jabbed his spear toward Herkuhlos while both he and Sif spoke to the crowd, presumably of his healing magic.
“Let’s get back in the other hut,” Herkuhlos muttered to Pehur, who had been waiting for him with Z’ta. “I’m hungrier than I’ve ever been.”
Pehur nodded. “Me too.”
Before they could take more than a few steps the people of the village gathered in front of him. Incredibly, it seemed that the sky in the east was growing lighter. They had walked hard for most of the night and spent the rest in these huts. There was enough light now, in fact, to see that their eyes were wide with wonder and many smiled, their white teeth visible from the shadows of their faces.
Someone muttered a word.
“T’hira.” It was taken up by others until all were saying it and slowly repeating it together, steadily and reverently. “T’hira.”
One of them bowed, falling to one knee before him and then others followed his example until all the people of the village were bowed before him. Only the youngest children and the chief were not bowing. Nor was Pehur, Z’ta, or Sif, and they stood smiling at him. From the hut across from the chief’s Sunhus came out with Amra and they stood watching the scene with perfect astonishment.
“What is this?” Herkuhlos asked his.
“They call you T’hira, lord,” Z’ta said. “It means… I don’t know, the One Who Thunders?”
“Thunder?” he asked, surprised and then had a realisation. “Oh, because of my club? Because of the flashing of my armour? Tell them it is merely bronze, Z’ta. Tell them.”
“Lord, they do not mean the bronze. We know bronze, we have traded the Furun for bronze since the first days of the world. No, lord, they recognise now that you are a god. Our great god T’hira who stirs up the seas and the skies and sends down the storm. A powerful god who is the protector and the healer of our people. He destroys and he creates. He causes death and also life, like fire but fire from the skies. He is the One Who Thunders. The Thunderer. Yes, the Thunderer.”
He scoffed and gestured at them as if shooing away an annoying dog. “Well, tell them I’m not a god and make them stop this. I am nothing of the kind. Just a man who has failed and fled here instead of dying in battle as he was supposed to.”
Z’ta shook his head but did as he was asked, speaking to the chief who addressed his people and sent them back to their homes.
Before they all rose, however, Herkuhlos noted three figures standing apart from the others on a grassy ridge at the edge of the village to the east. Because they were silhouetted against the grey dawn sky he could not see who they were but they were staring at him with their spears in hand and none of them were kneeling.
He turned and drew the attention of Z’ta from his quiet conversation with Sif. “Are those men the hunters who brought us here last night?” he asked.
But when he pointed at the ridge he found that they were gone.
“Could have been, lord,” Z’ta said, rubbing his eyes. “We should eat now. Eat and sleep. We are safe.”
Herkuhlos could not agree fast enough and together they went back into their hut for their much needed rest.
24. Brother
She let Z’ta sleep on into the daytime, for he had been exhausted by his long journey from the lands of the Heryos, and she left him alone while he slurped his bowls of fish and scooped out every piece from the bottom of the bowl, and she watched from afar while he went down to the beach to wash himself clean in the surf.
Only then, when much of the day had gone, did she go to him and they sat together atop one of the dunes between the river mouth and the beach and the village and they leaned against one another looking out at the waves and at the gulls. Down on the beach their many canoes were pulled up beyond the tide line and there two of the older hunters chopped out another boat while three young boys helped and learned how to use fire and stone and water to remove and shape and transform the wood of the tree into a vessel capable of crossing the seas and carrying hunters and the seals they killed.
Satara was down there to bless the work so that the boat would be seaworthy and favoured by the spirits and the sight of him twisted her stomach and she looked away. Between the beach and the horizon a black head bobbed in the grey and white and, seeing the same thing, Z’ta snorted beside her.
“They never learn to stay away from here, do they,” he said, meaning the seals. “No matter how many we hunt there are always more.”
“The Mother sends them to us,” she replied, surprised. “We would die without them.”
“Yes,” her brother admitted.
“Besides, there are tribes on every shore from here to the islands and the Skana beyond. There is nowhere they can go where we will not hunt them. They are the blessing of the Mother.”
“You have grown wise,” he said with a smile.
“I was always wise,” she shot back.
“Yes,” he agreed, laughing.
“Everyone thought you were dead,” she said.
He did not reply for some time and they listened to the waves and watched them foaming white as they folded back on one another, pulled always back into the sea. “I’m sorry.”
“You could not get away?” she asked.
“They kept me tied up for a long time. They kicked me to make me quiet and they did not feed me until I was so weak that I could not fight back. And then…” he broke off and sighed. “I don’t know what happened, it was so long ago.”
“Tell me.”
Taking a breath, he continued. “There was this man. They call him a priest. Among the Heryos they are not allowed to touch weapons or ride horses and they perform the rites for the warriors with the chiefs. The priest of the clan took me and fed me. He had seen me watching the birds and he knew me for a spirit walker.”
“They have spirit walkers amongst the Heryos?”
“In a way. Not like us but all men know there are signs and that there are some who know to understand them.”
“This priest man was kind to you.”
Z’ta laughed. “Never. He beat me every day and if I did something wrong he made me sleep amongst the dogs, though that wasn’t so bad. But he at least spoke to me when the others never did, they only shouted at me. He was never kind to me but he treated me like a person and not like an animal. I was his slave until he died. Another clan of Heryos came from the east, so they said, and their god was more powerful than ours.”
“Your god? What god?”
“He was called Thrima the Roarer and he was a mighty god, as old as the earth, and the Heryos worshipped him and brought him cattle and slaves to feast on.”
“What do you mean? Their gods eat people?”
“The Heryos have many gods. They worship the sky and the dawn and the sun and the moon and many more but those great gods rarely walk the earth. They have other gods who rule upon the earth, they look like men but are enormous, as tall as the chief’s hut or even taller, and these must be placated with sacrifice. There was a god who ruled over Heryos and Furun and his name was Thrima and so it had always been since men were first put upon the earth. But then, not long ago, more Heryos came with warriors stronger than those here and with a god of their own named Torkos who was stronger than Thrima. Our god Thrima bowed down to Torkos and commanded that his people did the same. Even so, some clans resisted and were conquered. My master the priest said Torkos was not a true god but something evil. Something opposed to the gods, the true gods, and that we all had to oppose him even if it meant our deaths.”
“And the false god killed him?”
“His own people killed him in case his words angered Torkos.”
“It’s true what they say, then, the Heryos are an evil people.”
Z’ta touched the side of his head where she noted an ugly long scab beneath his hair. “They are a hard people,” he said. “Their ways are different to ours and though they are unafraid of death their honour means everything to them. They die gladly before being dishonoured, I have seen it many times. Indeed, they long to die with glory so their names live on and they long to die for their chief and for their god. I think most of them recognised that Torkos was the strongest and that he had the strongest warriors who had the greatest wealth and honour and so they wanted it also.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No,” he acknowledged. “I know.”
“So even after he died, this spirit walker they call priest, they would not let you come home.”
He smiled. “They do not let slaves go, Sif.”
“But you’re home now.”
“Yes, thank the Mother.”
“I missed you,” she said, stifling a sob. “Everyone said you were dead but I knew you weren’t, I spoke to the spirits and you were never there, so I knew you were not dead but you never came home so I began to doubt whether you were.” She stopped and took a deep breath. “And then you came back with those Heryos and him.” She turned to look at her brother. “What is he, Z’ta?”
She knew that he would know who she meant. “He is half a god and half a man. And Herkuhlos came from the east, too, and stories of his greatness came with him. But he had only that boy with him, Pehur, no warband or trail of slaves and he does not eat people or demand sacrifices. He is more like a chief of the Heryos, only he has no clan, no tribe of his own.”
“Everyone has a tribe.”
“Pehur says Herkuhlos left his tribe to slay the false gods like Thrima the Roarer and Torkos the Devourer so that they can worship the true gods and live without sacrificing to the yotunan. That is what my master the priest called them and that is what Herkuhlos calls them, too. Yotunan. It means devourers. They eat people without end and they conquer endlessly, also, eating up tribes and the earth until there is nothing left. And that is what Herkuhlos did, he went to the place of sacrifice. These gods all have these great circles of stone, the stones taller than a man standing upright like this, one and another all the way around.” He illustrated with his hands as he spoke. “Some gods have many stone circles and they go from one to another and the people bring out their sacrifices and leave them there and the gods come and devour them. Thrima was our god and Herkuhlos went to one of these places and challenged him and he fought Thrima and he killed him.”
She nodded. This was something she understood for her people sometimes settled disagreements between tribes by one man fighting another in view of both tribes and usually that would be the end of the dispute, although not always.
“So he freed the Heryos from the false god.”
Z’ta sighed. “Thrima had submitted to Torkos. Warriors of my clan went to kill Herkuhlos and the Furun village he was with.”
“I thought Herkuhlos was of the Heryos.”
Z’ta pinched the bridge of his nose and spoke slowly so that she would understand. “He is Heryos but he is something else, too. He is half a god, remember? He fought for the Furun. There was a battle and though I sought death in the fight instead I was struck and I was taken as captive. I thought the spirits had abandoned me and my destiny was to be a slave forever, traded between one master and another until my death. I begged to be slain so that I could be freed but I did not die. There was another fight and I was taken again by my old master. Never had I felt such despair. But then Herkuhlos came back, defeated my master, and set me free.”
“You sought death?”
“Some men can live as slaves. As could I for a time. But then I could no longer.”
“Why did you not come back to us?”
“I planned to,” he said. “But I wanted to see Herkuhlos defeat Torkos and his warriors. I wanted to fight with him, to fight for him.”
“Why?”
He took a while to answer and looked down at the hunters at work, chipping out the timber with steady regularity. When the sides of the log were thin enough they would be filled with seawater and covered with sealskin to keep the steam in while it was heated with rocks hot from the fires until the timber grew supple. Then the sides would be strengthened with shaped c
ross timbers that would be hammered in so that the sides bulged out like the bellies of seals while the fronts and backs were shaped like axes for cutting through the great waves.
“The spirits never stopped speaking to me,” Z’ta said eventually, “and I never stopped reading the signs. The spirits tell me that defeating the false gods must be done and there is no other way to do it. This Herkuhlos is half a god but he was also sent by the gods. By the true gods, I mean. It is right that I help him.”
“But he failed and he fled.”
“Yes.”
“So what now?”
“I don’t know.”
She leaned against him and gave a little nudge with her shoulder. “I knew he was a god when first I saw him.”
“You shot him when first you saw him.”
“I was surprised and afraid and thought he had come to kill us.” She shook her head. Had that been only yesterday? So much had changed since then that it seemed almost a year since. “Then when he spoke the Sacred Tongue I knew he was a god for certain.”
“It is not the Sacred Tongue he speaks but the language of the Heryos. All of them speak like that, from the lowest born to the highest.”
She frowned. “But I can almost understand it, Z’ta. It is the Sacred Tongue. And the Sacred Tongue cannot be Heryos.”
“It’s different,” he insisted. “Anyway, how is it that you know so much of the Sacred Tongue, Sif? Have you been initiated by the Mother?”
Glancing at him, she looked down at the sand. When she tried to speak she found the words closing in her throat.
He turned to look at her. “I have waited to ask because I expected you to tell me but I cannot wait any longer. Where are our mother and father, Sif?”
She looked away, staring at the sea, tears pricking her eyes. “Sama went away first, not long ago. Soon after, Zani went, too. I do not know where they went and I have been looking for them.”
Z’ta frowned and she watched him with the corner of her eye. “What do you mean went away? You mean their spirits passed over?”