Drenched in victory’s sweat and blood, we all galloped toward the tent of Khun-Taa. The cheers and the shouts of praise and glory grew louder as we got closer to the Khun’s tent. The rest of the Rods and Reghen were there, the Ouna-Mas next to them. The Tribe was honoring us. Us? Him.
Before we had time to rush into the tent, the Rods dragged out Keral’s body, his bloodied mouth sealing his death.
“The crazygrass avenged the Khun,” said Sah-Ouna, and she pointed somewhere in my direction and a little to the side of me where the new Khun stood. I wondered who had given Keral the crazygrass—who had put him up to murdering Khun-Taa. What Witch had whispered to him about the night of the blade-shaped Selene?
Malan dismounted, and we followed his lead. Sah-Ouna pulled him by the hand, like a mother pulls her only son, lifted his fist high, and shouted to all around: “The sixth Khun, Khun-Malan, the First Uncarved.” Her words, her prophecy, the same as Malan’s. “The One who will cross the Endless Forest.”
Steal all my dreams away, bitch. One day I’ll do the same to you.
The killing continued into the night in the camp of the Blades, or so I heard. I didn’t go with them. The fighting stopped at dawn when the few warriors who remained alive and faithful to Keral were brought in neckropes in front of Malan and the rest of us. They had gathered all the traitors, and those who stood next to Malan at the Wolfhowl. The Tribe had a new Khun, and the traitors had to fall to his feet and plead for mercy. It was Khun-Malan’s first decision, but there would be no mercy for them, as there would be no mercy for entire tribes and proud cities that were later to get in his way.
Chaka, the loyal Chief, found the right moment to ask Malan for a favor. He was allowed to return to the Archers and be a warrior again despite his old age. Even at that moment, with his one hand severely wounded, that was all he wanted: to have another chance to slaughter Garol, Dasal, and whatever else he found in front of him. Meat. Horse. Woman. One Leader.
Olian, the Uncarved boy who had chosen not to fight next to us, was also brought in front of Malan.
“Did you think you’d become Khun by hiding? If they killed all of them?” Chaka slapped the cheek of the kneeling boy with his open palm.
“Carve me,” the boy begged.
“Oh, don’t worry, they’ll carve you wide-open,” Malan grinned.
Alian, his brother, was the one standing still and biting his lips now.
“I think your brother dies,” I said to him.
Malan looked at Alian too.
“No, not this one. This boy fought bravely next to us,” I said. “Even the other one, deserves some mercy. It was dark. He got scared…he froze,” I said to Malan.
Malan leaned right next to my ear and whispered only for me to hear. “Are we still arguing here, Da-Ren? Your turn hasn’t come yet.” His nails were pushing into the flesh of my uncarved arm hard, and I could do nothing anymore. He turned his back on me. “That boy lives,” he said pointing at Alian.
“So my brother dies,” said Alian lowering his head. He lifted his eyes up again one last time and looked at Olian. “Stupid choice, brother.”
“You wish he dies,” Chaka said.
The next sunset, Khun-Taa was laid to rest in the funeral pyre, together with his finest hides, but without his bow and blades. These were sacred weapons bequeathed to Malan. Khun-Taa’s slaves were put to death at once, so no one would ever hear a different tale about what had happened on that fateful night. The last raindrops of the Squirrel Moon were wiping out the funeral embers when Malan turned to me.
“You fought like a true Chief. The Tribe owes you, and you will be rewarded.”
My witch, the blue-eyed one, had told me so: “There are no servants of the goddess or the demon. Only moments. One moment, you kill, and the other, you save.”
How does one choose?
One doesn’t. If I wasted my breath thinking, it would have been too late. Whatever I had decided wouldn’t matter if I were slow, and Zeria, Malan, and I would all be dead now. When the moment comes, the Goddess has already planted everything. The hand will reach toward its fate on its own. If it moves the wrong way, an iron veil will fall down upon it and stop it. If it moves in the right direction, then it will get there faster.
That night, before any thought even began to run through my mind about what I did and didn’t want, my blade had saved Malan, Alian and, with them, my ass from the stake.
It was the right moment for the Tribe. Khun-Taa had long lost his vigor and his judgment, and Malan had to bring the Change. The Change came the following morning. But not for me. Just like before, my life would hang by its last thread—day and night.
I have a strong preference of stopping this Story here. I did so, the first and the second winter we came upon the events of that night. But Eusebius would always ask me every time that we’d reach that point: “But, what happened to Olian and Alian?”
The monks of the Cross have a craving for such tales of torture and death. They blend well with their delusions of divine salvation of the weak and the innocent. “I’ll tell you, Eusebius. It’s not hard to bring back the images. The sounds…well, that’s much tougher.” But the ink is silent, and we are thankful for it.
The four of Keral’s warriors who had been captured alive were impaled outside of the new Khun’s temporary tent. And so was Olian the Uncarved boy. Their screams, the stink of shit, mixed with the lard slathered on the sharp, long stakes and the blood coming out of their assholes, reminded us for the three days it took them to die that we had a new Khun.
I found Alian looking up at the screaming stakes and the trembling faces of unending pain on the second morning.
“He still doesn’t die,” he said, staring at Olian, who would only mumble, pleading for death with the last of his strength.
“No, you see, they don’t pierce the guts, the pointy wood just passes next to the spine and out the shoulder. Skewered. It will take another couple of days.”
“Damn! Stupid choice,” he said looking straight at his brother’s body faintly twitching on the stake.
“Let’s go, Alian, you don’t have to see and hear this anymore. He was your brother.”
“He still is. One of my brothers. So are you.”
Alian had already turned his back on the identical twin whom he had just called stupid for the last time.
XXXIII.
Yes, My Leader
Eighteenth winter. Uncarved—Wolf.
The celebrations to honor the sixth Khun lasted for three whole days after Khun-Taa’s pyre, and so did the torture of the traitors. Sheep, goats, chickens, rabbits, even horses—all Keral’s best—were slaughtered and put onto the spit. The animals roasted slowly over the fire. The traitors were not so lucky.
The slaves milked the mares dry and poured the milk into buckets that they sealed tightly. They tied the buckets on the animals’ backs and rode them around to shake the liquid until it fermented, taking on a bitter, stinging taste. If one drank a lot of it, it made the head dizzy and light. We called it milk-spirit. But it was not as potent or dangerous as crazygrass. The milk-spirit flooded the men’s bellies and clouded their heads. Archers holding hands in circles danced wild war dances, and their shouts became a true devotional chant for the new Khun.
Ouna-Mas were constantly coming and going from the makeshift tent that had been set up for Khun-Malan. More of their sisters were outside singing. The Khun would not sleep under the same hides where his predecessor had been murdered. Sah-Ouna would not allow that. The ground was still boiling angry from the Khun’s blood.
The milk-spirit wasn’t helping me swallow this reality. Some were slapping me on the back, praising me for my bravery in saving the life of the new Khun. Some were ending their slap with a hug, out of gratitude or fear that I would become some important Chief next to the Khun. Others were slapping me softly on the shoulder. Slapping me farewell. I just wanted to disappear, the earth—or the Forest—to open up and hide me from everyone’s st
ares.
On the third day of the celebration, I asked to see Malan, and the Rods led me to his tent. He was sitting outside on a coarsely carved wooden throne, larger than Khun-Taa’s. He had put the West and the sunset on his back to sing his victory in bright dazzling colors of blood. Chiefs and Reghen were waiting in line in front of me to pay their respects and to offer simple gifts: an amulet, a bow, a dagger. Back then, my Tribe did not have much gold. Jewelry and fancy artifacts were considered signs of the weak and the demon servants.
Malan was holding a cup and raising it to everyone. A slave girl refilled it twice while I was waiting to speak to him. He had acquired the taste of the previous Khun’s pleasures from the first night.
I knelt.
I knelt.
“Welcome, loyal Da-Ren. Are you here to claim victory’s spoils already?” he asked, raising his cup again.
But I wasn’t there to claim anything he could offer.
Wasting no time, I said, “I have to leave for the Forest. The Ouna-Mas asked for belladonna.”
I did not ask for permission. I did not realize that from now on I would have to ask him where I could go and what I was allowed to do. He made an immediate gesture with his left hand as if he were saying, “Go wherever you want,” but his hand froze midway. He looked at me for a breath; the skin around his eyes crinkling and questioning silently. As if he understood amid his stupor that I was talking total nonsense. What foolish liar would go to search for belladonna in the middle of winter and leave these nights of triumph and celebration?
I didn’t wait. I thought he had let me go, and I disappeared. I hadn’t brought any gifts.
Before dawn, as I was galloping for the Forest of Kar-Tioo, I heard the stomping of hooves approaching behind me. Six Rods were on my trail, and they stopped me at the edge of the Forest just before I managed to disappear inside.
“The Khun orders you to return to the camp.”
“I have to…the Ouna-Mas…”
“He said to wait for his orders in your hut. He’ll call you when it is time to carve your fate. Follow us back to Sirol now.”
I had promised Zeria to return after one moon since I last saw her. Two had already passed, and I still could not fulfill my vow to her.
I returned to the Wolves’ hut completely alone now, the last Uncarved Wolf, abandoned. The Tribe had a new Leader, and unless a tragic accident befell Malan, no other Uncarved would be needed anytime soon. The celebrations gave everyone a reason to stop and rest for a while. All of our Guides had died in the last battle defending Malan or had disappeared, except for Bera.
I was almost alone in what was now a camp of ghosts, the closest one to the Forest. I made another attempt to leave, but the Rods were patrolling the paths to the Forest, and I returned before they tried to stop me. I wasn’t going to sneak out like a rat. That would only bring death to the Dasal and me if I ever made it there. I still hadn’t found the Reekaal who had killed Rouba. I stayed among the few unfortunate younger Uncarved who would not become Leaders either. Alian and a handful of the rest were left fighting aimlessly with the pumpkins.
A few days after the festivities, I went out and started meandering about Sirol. It was the end of autumn, and the north wind was blowing strong. Not so strong as to stop people from working or send them for cover into their tents, but enough to quicken everyone’s pace. Everyone was dancing to a frantic rhythm under the commands of the new Khun. Even if there wasn’t anything important to do, they ran around looking busy.
“The Change. Finally, we are preparing,” a Reghen who visited the Uncarved Camp one evening told us.
“What are we preparing for?”
“Khun-Malan leads.”
The Reghen’s eyes were glowing with pride and anticipation; his voice chanted the glory of the new Khun. The men needed the Change, even if it meant death for most. It was so much better than rotting in the same valley forever. The Change, the meat, the woman, the Story.
I rode all the way to the tents where the new Khun resided. The Rods recognized me and allowed me to approach.
The Change had begun.
“What are you building here?” I asked a Craftsman who, upon seeing the arm of an Uncarved, got excited and rushed to explain himself. He was a short man, but his forearms swelled, and his palms looked as if they belonged to a bigger body.
“Khun-Malan has ordered a new tent be built, bigger than any other before it. Six-sided and a frame made from wooden beams. It has to be bigger and sturdier than the bigger huts but covered with hides to look like a tent.”
All of the tents were round, except for the wooden huts and those of the Ouna-Mas which were square, but no tent was ever six-sided.
What if I had been Khun? It would have never crossed my mind to ask for something like that.
“Why?” I asked.
But, like me, he wasn’t good with the whys.
Night fell, and my hut became a freezing cave. The Carriers had forgotten to bring dung for days now, and the first snow had fallen earlier than I ever remembered. Outside, everything was slowly vanishing in white. The milk-spirit lying next to me was my only friend. When I drank a lot, it brought back old friends: Malan, Gunna, Lebo, and the ghosts of the seven children, the seven Uncarved whom we had lost in the pyre. Seven children, hand in hand, begging me: “Don’t go. Stay with us.”
The fading image of Zeria swirled around my head all the time, but it didn’t warm me. In the iron valley of Sirol, under the light of the Sun and Selene, her magic of gold and green had no power. The Rods and the Reghen came to check on the camp every day. They would summon us outside the huts, together with Bera and the few young ones left, take a count, and then leave. They hadn’t brought any news.
After a few days, I passed by Malan’s tent again. White, brown, and black horsetails had been hung on the outside and fluttered in the song of the wind. The tails, more than thirty of them, hung vertically with bells and a red band tied at the ends. I remained completely indifferent to them, but those around me looked in awe to find the new Khun’s face, the hope, the change.
To the right of the tent’s entrance, four heavy wooden beams were raised. They supported the Khun’s new emblem, a huge horizontal iron leaf.
“And this is what?” I asked the Craftsman.
“They say it stands for the Unending Sky,” he replied, his face glowing with pride.
The metal plate had holes in the middle. Hanging from each were three spheres, each a different size.
“What are those spheres?” I asked.
“The Sun, the World, and Selene. It was what Sah-Ouna asked for,” he answered.
“And why is the World a sphere?” I asked.
The Craftsman shrugged awkwardly.
“It is a magnificent emblem, though,” he said.
No other tribe would agree with him, but I had to travel the world to learn that.
I wanted to go inside Khun-Malan’s tent and learn my fate. I wanted to tell him about the Forest, the Dasal who had saved me, and the monstrous Reekaal who had attacked me. I wanted to win the admiration of all because I knew the secrets of the Forest better than anyone else. But distrust and envy were enough to keep me back, and I didn’t do any of that.
When Malan became Khun, my fate was sealed. At best, I could hope to become Chief of a Pack, forty men under my command. But I had to learn what Banner I’d follow first. There were three real choices: Rod, Archer, or Blade. There were lesser Banners also, like Hunters, Trackers, Craftsmen, and even Tanners, but they amounted to deadly disgrace for someone with my warrior training and ability. Somehow, I always knew that I would never be an Archer.
“Have they told you where they will send you? How many carvings?” Bera asked. He had become the new Chief and only Guide of the few younger Uncarved, a useless honor that carried no importance anymore.
“No. I hope only one.”
One carving would mean that one day I could be Leader of many Packs, all Archers, all Rods, or someth
ing else, getting my orders directly from Malan.
“But I’m afraid they’ll send me to the Rods,” I said.
“That will be great luck for you. The Rods are Malan’s guard. They live next to him and drink from his power.”
“I don’t like to be stuck in that camp forever.”
The Rods spent their whole life around Malan’s tent. They could never leave for days and nights to roam in the Forest, or anywhere else.
“They taste the fresh women first, eat the good meat, even the cow, get the best share of the loot, and are the only warriors with five horses each. Even the Archers get only four.”
The Rods were tall men with powerful thews who stood proud and fearsome, but their lives were bowed and dark. Dark because they were constantly in the shadow of the Leader, and bowed because they saw him often.
“They can keep their fifth horse, Bera. I don’t want to become a Rod.”
“Yes, my Leader,” said Bera, bowing his head.
“What?”
“It is what they do all day and all night, those Rods. They bow to the Khun and say, ‘Yes, my Leader.’ You wouldn’t be good at that.”
It was the one thing that I hadn’t been taught, having been an Uncarved for five winters. To bow. It would turn all my livers upside down. The reality of my training was that I wouldn’t be good at anything. I had been bred to lead the Tribe or to die trying. Not to kneel.
For one and two and three more nights, I fought with those thoughts and the choices that I didn’t have. Even worse, I fought to remember my naked body embracing and entering Zeria’s in the pond at Kar-Tioo. If it had actually ever happened. Zeria, her legs wrapped around me, the feeling of her skin a dying memory…my downfall. That was how my nights passed: the dreams of her soft, warm flesh, the humiliation of my lonesome carnal pleasure, in the white exile of the snowstorm that had covered us.
My torture ended on the thirteenth night of the new Khun’s leadership, when the frozen snowflakes of despair were falling heavier than ever upon Sirol. An Ouna-Ma with no other name rode alone through the white darkness and entered my hut uninvited. She had the most lustful eyes and the biggest breasts.
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