by Dan Davis
“I know better than you the tracks of the sea,” Alef growled.
“Quiet,” Sif shouted as Z’ta made to continue the argument. “Just paddle and hope that the Mother grants us safe passage.”
As the sun set they were already out of sight of their village but still the smoke could be seen spreading across the horizon. The waves grew higher and quicker as they crossed the fishing grounds where in the summer they caught more garfish, mackerel, and mullet than they could eat and almost more than they could smoke for winter and the waves clapped against the sides of the hulls, splashing over them, and soon they were all soaked and they took turns in bailing out their hulls while the others drove them on. When the moon shone through the clouds they could see the white tops of the waves all around them and it seemed that they made no headway at all but later the distance between the wave tops grew longer and the passage was easier. Still, they drove their paddles into the water and turned the double hulled canoe across the current. Behind her S’tef lay like death while the great weight of Herkuhlos lay like a beached seal in front of Satara who paddled and steered expertly and without complaint.
Though she paddled on, sleep took her away and she travelled across the water over the waves, her spirit soaring like a seabird into a night sky of swirling stars. The clouds pulled away and she washed up on a shore where her father waited for her in his sealskin cloak with his arms spread wide and a smile on his aged face.
“My little otter cub,” he said. The feathers of seabirds hung from his headband and the bones of every animal of the sea, the land, and the sky jangled in his hair when he moved.
“I am a child no longer, Sama,” she said as she floated to a stop at his feet.
“We are all children to the Great Mother, dear one,” he replied and pointed up at the stars with his spirit staff. The shells and bones on the end rattled. He smelled of ashes and dried feverfew and the blood of a sacrifice was caked under his nails.
“You left me,” she said.
He did not seem to hear her. Instead, he held up a shining black mussel shell and shook it so that the moonflower seeds inside rattled. With a flourish he flung them into the black sky and they sparked and burst into infinite stars.
“You see, little cub, our lives upon the earth are but a blink in her great eye. Look at the Great River, child. Those are the celestial waters that flow through the black seas of the night taking our spirits from this world to the next like an unending current through the universe. Nothing can stop the Great River and nothing can divert it. All any of us can do is ensure we live our days as the gods and the spirits command. When we come to the end of our days we must be certain our spirit finds its way to the edge of that stream and then the waters will do the rest. It is up to us, little otter, to guide our people in this world so that when their times come their spirits will flow the right way. You will find that they fight against us at times, fight against the current as if they can resist or control it but you must never be weak before them for our way is the true way and the only way. One day, your mother will travel that river and on another day I will travel it also and then you alone will be the hand that guides the canoe of our people. The chief commands and the people drive the boat forward with their paddles but we must steer them toward that stream. Look up, my little cub.”
“Where did you go? Where is Zani?”
Smiling, he reached for her face and placed his hand against her cheek. “You do not need us any longer.”
“But I do.”
“No, you must make a choice.”
“What choice?”
Still smiling, still holding her cheek he looked out at the stars now swirling around them both. “Your people need your guidance. So, will you give it as a crone or as a mother?”
“I will not submit to Alef,” she said. “Nor Satara.”
Shaking his spirit staff in one hand so that it sounded like waves against the shingle, he leaned in close, pushing his hand against her cheek so hard that it hurt her. “Then find one who is worthy of your devotion, Sif. Sif. Sif.”
Someone was calling her name and she jerked upright in her canoe. Her cheek had been leaning against the gunwale and she shook her head to clear the sleep from her eyes and looked around. It was almost dawn and there was a darker smudge on the dark horizon and a gull called in the distance.
“You were asleep,” Z’ta said softly from the other hull.
“No I wasn’t,” she replied and continued paddling. “I wasn’t.”
They had picked up the current that would take them past the islands if they did not paddle hard across it but the tide was also flowing in toward the land. Still, Satara told them there was a long way to go and her shoulders and back ached and more often now they all stretched their muscles between bursts of paddling. They ate a breakfast of the dried seal meat and smoked fish she had prepared for the journey and drank most of the water she had brought intending it for two but now sharing it between four paddlers and tipping some into the mouths of both S’tef and Herkuhlos.
The chief stirred but he was feverish despite the cold of the sea on his skin and he shivered when she tried to rouse him.
Herkuhlos, too, seemed on the edge of death and yet despite that she did not fear for him. Not for his body at least but his spirit was deeply wounded and she did not know if he would ever have the strength to heal. She touched his cold cheek and looked at his face. The bones of his skull were big and pronounced and there was an immense solidity to him yet for the first time she saw how young he was and his youth startled her. He could not have been much older than she was. Suddenly, she understood the shyness and discomfort he had shown when the children were climbing all over him back at the village and the women were talking about him behind their hands.
“How is he?” Z’ta asked.
“Fine,” she replied, removing her hand from his face and taking her place once more. “He is strong.” As she moved away she caught Satara’s eyes on her, watching her closely.
Hunching her shoulders she paddled on, following Satara’s directions. Soon, they saw other hunters in the distance out fishing or heading on a hunt or travelling to trade. They slipped in to the shelter between the islands and though the waves grew the wind declined and with the sun on them she started to find strength enough for the final push to the sacred island.
It could hardly be kept a secret as it was within sight of three more islands, one of them covered with trees big enough for a winter camp, but as they approached she understood that this was a special place. A dense tangle of gnarled and ugly trees seemed to cover the whole island but there were people within them for smoke drifted above the treetops before it was whipped away over the sea by the winds. The sands offshore were bunched around it on two sides and strange rocks appeared from frothing water on another side and it seemed that there could surely be no way through this mass of treacherous obstacles. Satara knew the path, however, and called out instructions as he steered them closer. The coastline was rocky on one side and there was no place that a canoe could land without being dashed against the rocks and though there were beaches on the other sides the abrupt lines of sands and channels across their path barred the way.
“Now we go in,” Satara called. “Between this line of rocks and that one beyond.”
“Are you sure?” Z’ta asked.
“Madness,” Alef cried. “There is nowhere to land, Satara.”
“It is the only way,” Satara replied though he sounded as fearful as they all did.
“There are rocks just beneath us,” Z’ta called, looking down through the choppy water. “Between the waves we almost ground against them.”
“This is right,” Satara called. “This is the path, I swear it. Paddle hard now, straight around that headland. Great Mother protect us.”
Alef drove his paddle into the waves. “If you’re wrong I will gut you.”
“Great Mother protect us,” Sif muttered, the fear rising and falling as she fought to contro
l the boat.
It seemed certain they would be picked up by the waves and slammed against the looming rock but the current suddenly dragged them around it and then sucked them past and around the high rocks into a narrow channel beyond. It was a narrow, hidden entrance to a long bay with high rocks on either side that ended in a short, steep beach with trees overhanging it. There were four canoes there pulled high above the tideline beneath the trees.
“Thank the Mother,” Sif said aloud.
“You did it!” Alef cried, laughing. “Satara, you are not as foolish as you look.”
“I know,” Satara muttered as they drove their way in on the waves until their double hull ground on the pale sands and they leapt out to drag and push it higher.
Exhausted, she dropped to her knees and rested her raw, bleeding hands on her thighs and breathed in the air.
“Sif!”
Her brother’s voice was harsh and fearful and angry and she dragged herself to her feet as he crunched across to her. Following his eyes she looked up to the dozen figures on the rocks above them with bows and javelins ready in their hands.
28. Weakness
“What do I do, Pehur? How can I free myself from the failures that bind me?”
Pehur smiled in the darkness that enveloped them. “Why do you ask me? I am your slave. I am a mere boy and I am weak.”
“Pehur, you are wise in counsel and courageous in battle. Your eye sees what mine does not. Your hands are skilled and you are blessed by your god and you keep my armour strong and my weapons sharp.”
Pehur laughed, an absence of light beyond him in the endless void. “But, lord, you have no armour or weapons. And your failures have slain me.”
As he spoke, his heard burst apart in a shower of blood and bone that drenched Herkuhlos and filled his eyes.
The vision startled him into wakefulness and he found that he lay on his side on a hard floor beneath a high timber roof. He tried to roll over but found his arms were bound by strong rope behind his back. The rope was bound to one of the thick timber posts that ran in two short rows along the interior of the building. It was daylight outside but the only door led not to the outside but to another room beyond this one.
Flinching, he found he was not alone.
An enormous dog watched him. It was lying on its belly not two paces away, staring with yellow eyes. Without question, it was the largest dog he had ever seen and it was more wolf-like than most although it had a shorter snout and heavier skull and a thick jaw that was unlike any wolf. Despite its fearsome appearance it watched him impassively.
“Good dog,” Herkuhlos said, his voice dry.
The dog’s ears twitched and it tilted its head to regard him.
Herkuhlos closed his eyes as he remembered the raid at the village of the Seal People. They had tracked him after all and caught him without his weapons and armour and he had lost everything. The last of his followers had died. Ghebol the chief of Torkos had wielded the axe that killed Pehur and Herkuhlos had not stopped him, he had not saved his friend and he had not killed Ghebol and he had not even managed to die in the battle. Failure after failure after failure.
What had happened? How was it that he lived?
He had fled once more, he recalled that much, fled for the beach and the boats and the sea like a coward. What then? He remembered almost nothing. Darkness and being confined in a wagon bouncing across the plains in the rain and he had no idea how long he had been asleep. He was in pain but he could see no blood on the floor beneath him so surely his wounds had healed.
Torkos must have him now. Looking around with one eye on the dog, he assumed this huge structure was Torkos’ home. At the far end of the wall was a raised platform and atop it was a sturdy stool, tall with a wide seat and low armrests. On the corners of the platform sat four large lamps burning a smoky oil and casting a pleasant light that nevertheless left the edges of the room in deep darkness. The timber walls he could see were plastered with smooth daub and the high ceiling above was supported by rows of massive trunks, one of which he was bound to by a length of thick rope, and there was a hearth in the centre between the posts that was big enough for a roaring fire but was now cold and clean.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he eased himself upright. His hands were bound behind his back and his bonds were fixed by a short rope to the thick timber post behind him but he was able to sit against that post, at least. The great hound watched him closely with something like contempt in his eyes.
Looking down at himself properly he found that he was clean. Someone had washed him and dressed him in a white tunic and by the way it felt he suspected they had also combed his hair. Why would his captives treat him so well?
Footsteps sounded behind him and the dog’s yellow eyes lifted to watch as a single young woman entered. She wore a long white dress, like a priestess, and her fair hair was bound into a thick braid hanging down the back of her neck. With her high cheekbones and blue eyes she looked like one of the Seal People.
“Where am I?” he asked her.
Without hurry, she turned and walked out the way she had come, through the doorway that led into another room of this strange building.
“Wait, please speak to me,” he called, his voice echoing.
He and the dog turned back to one another.
“Who was that?” he asked the dog. It blinked, its yellow eyes piercing but somehow calming. “What’s your name?” The dog stared. “I’m Herkuhlos. You’re a big dog, aren’t you. I’m going to call you Aurochs because you’re made like one, aren’t you, you monstrous great thing. You like that name, Aurochs?”
The beast stared back impassively but his great tail lifted and slapped against the floor.
Keeping his tone friendly, he continued. “I wonder if I can break these bonds and throttle you before you rip my throat out, boy. What do you think of that?” The dog’s tail wagged harder and Herkuhlos snorted. “I don’t think so either.”
The dog’s tail stopped and it looked past him at the doorway. Footsteps sounded from the room beyond and he craned his neck to see half a dozen men enter with long spears in hand. They too wore sleeveless white robes that reached almost to their ankles and had their long hair braided but they looked like hard men and though some were quite old the muscles of their forearms rippled in the lamplight as the men took up positions in an arc around him and levelled their spears. Though Herkuhlos sat back as far as he could against the post, six spearheads of the finest pink flint glistened in reflected light an arm span from his face.
Herkuhlos glanced at the men holding the weapons but he could hardly tear his gaze from the wicked edges that could so easily tear him to pieces.
“Kill me, then,” Herkuhlos said, lifting his chin to expose his neck. “Free me from my flesh.”
“You seek death?”
The voice came from someone behind him, so close that it made him start with surprise and he twisted around to look. It was a woman’s voice but deep and effortlessly strong. He understood at once that this was a woman of power. From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a large figure standing in the shadows in the corner of the room. Had she been there behind him the whole time?
“Who are you?” he asked. “Where am I?”
“I am your host and you are my guest,” the woman said. She spoke with a strong accent but her voice was beautiful. “And I have washed you and clothed you and tended your wounds and now I am permitted to ask my questions and you must answer them.”
“Hosts do not bind up their guests,” he said but without anger. “Untie me and perhaps we shall speak as friends.”
“You will be bound until I am satisfied with your answers. My people’s safety is all.”
“Your safety? I am no danger to you.”
“That remains to be seen.” She stepped closer, out of the shadows but still he could not twist his head far enough to see around the pillar. He had the impression of great height and a brilliant white robe but no more. “Tell me yo
ur name.”
“I am Herkuhlos, son of Sky Father and Alkmene of the Heryos.”
His captor was silent in response. “Your mother is a mortal?”
“She was.”
“You are from the east?”
“Yes.”
“You were raised in Tartaros?”
“No. I am merely a warrior from the valley of the Kweitos that runs swiftly into the mighty Rasga.”
“Why did you come here?”
He almost laughed and tried to look at her again. “I do not know where I am.”
“Why did you come to these lands? Why did you prey upon the Seal People?”
“I did not prey upon them,” he snapped. “I was their guest, they fed me, sheltered me.”
“And you betrayed their generosity by destroying them.”
He shook his head. “What do you know of it? Who are you? What did they tell you?”
“Why did you destroy them?”
The spears wavered slowly before his face and he looked at the dog who still lay on his belly looking back at him. “It was not my intention. My enemies followed me there.”
“Who are your enemies?”
“You know who they are.”
“Do I? Speak of them to me.”
“A yotunan named Torkos and all who serve him.” He tore his eyes from the spears and glanced in her direction. “If you are his then you are my enemy and you should command your men to kill me before I get free or I will slay you all with your own weapons.”
She seemed not to hear his threats. “Why is Torkos your enemy?”
“I swore an oath to slay him and eleven more of his kind who escaped from Tartaros. One I already killed, a yotunan named Leuhon, and I came here to do the same to Torkos the Devourer who is called the Boar.” He peered over his shoulder. “Are you his, woman? Who are you?”
Her footsteps came closer and stopped right behind the pillar. He imagined her reaching around to cut his throat with a bronze knife or bashing in his skull and he lifted his chin and braced himself for death.