by Socha, Walt
Tork watched Nist sit straighter. His friend continued to favor his left arm, but the moss tied around his bicep no longer seeped blood. If only he had hands and hands of such warriors.
The lodge skins drew back. His wife entered with a bowl of herb water. Two slaves followed, one with drinking gourds. The other carried a second bowl filled with stewed deer and berries.
He nodded to the first woman, and then accepted one of the gourds from the first slave and dipped it into the bowl of herb water. “Inform the Grandmothers I wish an audience. I have additional plans to submit for their approval.”
“It shall be.” His wife directed the second slave to place the food between Tork and Nist. She then motioned them out of the lodge and followed.
Tork smiled as they left. The Grandmothers would approve further expansion along the coast. For the sake of their children and children’s children. His smile faded. It was necessary to finish securing his Salt Waters base before marching up the river to face his enemies.
Tork took a swallow of the herb water and returned his thoughts to the problem up the Long River. “I sent additional warriors to look for other survivors. And to relieve the three uninjured warriors that you ordered to remain and observe.”
“Thank you.” Nist rubbed his face with his right hand. “I dared not take the time to search.” His voice broke.
“It was good that you returned to report.”Tork watched the play of emotions across his friend’s face. “If Samatu is alive, he will be found.” Sorrow at the loss of a son—or a father—was not a weakness. It was a cause for revenge.
But revenge required warriors. Warriors who would not flee.
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As they broke out into the open, Kristi slowed, keeping behind Joe.
Ahead, she could see the village, now in the shadow of the ridge between this valley and the next. Joe was correct. Not only were there too few people for the number of lodges, but several of those lodges had been damaged by fire or were collapsing.
“We’ll dismount here,” said Joe when they were about a hundred yards from the nearest lodge. He slid off his horse and untied his saddlebag.
Kristi followed his lead, removing her medical bag and slinging it over her shoulder.
After tying the horses to a small bush, Joe walked in slow deliberate steps toward the gathering villagers. Three men and two women faced them, all elderly. The women wore sleeveless leather tunics that reached to the knees. The men simply wore leather around their waists. Their feet were bare.
Kristi scanned the village. “No younger men,” she murmured in English.
Joe stopped about 20 yards from the closest villager, a thin elderly man holding a spear. Joe looked over his shoulder at Kristi. “Remain standing while I exchange gifts.”
Joe sat, moving with an unhurried motion. He opened his saddlebag and removed a small hand axe, a piece of wood about a foot long and a fist sized rock. He supported the wood on the ground with his left hand and chopped a notch in it with the axe. Then he held up the rock, turned the ax over and cracked the rock into several pieces with the ax’s poll. He stretched forward and placed the axe on the ground. Then he set the rock and wood to the side.
The man with the spear stepped back to confer with the others. One of the women joined them. Then the woman left the group and disappeared into one of the lodges. After a few minutes, she returned with a younger woman carrying a basket, which she handed one of the men.
The elder man approached Joe and sat, leaving a few feet between them. He placed the basket next to the axe and picked up the axe. He felt the metal head and slid one of his fingers along the edge. A small smile softened his lined face.
Joe picked up the basket. It was a foot in diameter, tightly woven with a repeating design of spirals. It contained a dozen or so pieces of dried meat. He picked up one of the smaller jerky pieces, placed it in his mouth and chewed.
After a minute, Joe nodded. “Our healer is young but experienced. Please allow her to treat your wounded warrior.”
The old man stared at Joe for several heartbeats before shifting his eyes past Joe to Kristi. “Levanu was wounded in the raid by the men of Tork. His injuries are not healing. Our power was broken in the raid. Perhaps your power is greater.” He turned to the two elder women. At their nods, he spoke to the younger woman who had brought the basket, “Sesapa, please take the pale healer to Levanu.” “Please go with the woman,” Joe said, turning to face Kristi. “I’ll remain here to discuss this site. It looks defensible in spite of the damage done here by Tork’s raiders.”
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Kristi followed Sesapa through the lodges. Multiple layers of thin bark covered the roof and sides. Several had been fire damaged and revealed the poles that supported the structures.
Kristi frowned. There had to be at least 20 lodges of various sizes. But other than Sesapa, she’d only seen a few elderly villagers.
Sesapa stopped in front of the narrow end of one of the central lodges. A large flap of skins was draped over a peg to the right of a small entrance.
Kristi slipped inside and paused to let her eyes adjust to the dim light. The smell of smoldering herbs stung her nose, and she nodded to herself at this primitive anti- bacterial technique.
A man lay on a low platform along one of the long sides of the lodge. Several furs half covered the shivering and sweating man.
“He is dying.” A quavering voice startled Kristi. A wizened woman fanned the small fire in the center of the lodge with a bough of greenery.
Kristi hesitated, not sure how to demonstrate medical knowledge. “I have medicine from a far away land. But first, I must inspect the wound of this warrior.”
The old woman glared at Kristi.
“Grandmother Carisa.” The voice startled Kristi. Sesapa had followed her into the lodge. “Please allow this skilled healer to attend to your son.”
The old woman stood up, favoring her left side by pushing off the ground with a gnarled hand. She hobbled to Levanu’s side. “He has two wounds. One on the side of his head. That will heal. The small deep wound in his side will kill him.”
Kristi lifted up an edge of the furs. Just above his hipbone, a raw wound—about two inches long—festered red and oozed pus. “Damn.” She resisted a gag reflex. “Please, can you supply boiling water?” Why hadn’t she thought to bring a metal pot?
“I will provide.” Sesapa stepped to one of the walls, picked up a round object from a shelf of woven vines and hurried to the fire.
Kristi’s eyes had adjusted enough to the light to now make out details. Reeds and skins divided the sides of the lodge into shallow cubicles. The middle of the long lodge was open except for three fire pits. Sesapa now hunched over the middle one.
Kristi took a breath and squatted next to Levanu. She unsheathed her knife and cut away the head bandage. Some of the blood soaked moss remained. Dry. No fresh blood. She would have to remember this use of moss.
She leaned closer to the wound in Levanu’s side and flinched at the smell of putrefaction. At least it appeared localized.
She opened her bag and selected a scalpel and one of Pott’s bottles. The old guy would soil himself if he saw her washing her hands with his 12-year old scotch.
Chapter 23. Day 13
Joe accepted the full clay pipe and tobacco pouch from the elder. Placing the raw leather bag on the ground, he held the pipe in two hands and twisted his torso to the left to face him. “Peace, Tanuhu, between our peoples.” He shifted his attention to the next man, Niminu, repeating the pledge and then to the third elder, Hatimu.
The fourth man was Brent. “Brent, support our pledge of friendship.” Brent nodded. The last man around the fire was Potts, on Joe’s immediate right. Joe repeated the request, and Potts nodded. Joe fished a glowing ember from the small fire, placed it over the bowl, and sucked in the acrid smoke. He stifled a choke.
He passed the pipe to Potts along with a leather bag of raw tobacco.
Potts set the le
ather bag between his legs and reached into a pocket. He produced a ziplock bag of dried leaves. He opened the bag and sniffed it. “May we use my leaf ?”
He passed the bag to Joe.
Joe tensed and brought the bag to his face. It was tobacco. He relaxed and passed it to Niminu.
When the bag had traveled back around to Potts, he filled the pipe from his bag. He took one of the bent twigs and fished out another small ember from the fire, and then placed it on top of the tobacco in the bowl and puffed. When it was lit, he inhaled. He repeated the pledge of friendship to each man. Then he passed the pipe and both bags of tobacco to Brent.
Brent refilled the pipe from both bags, lit it and pledged. He passed it to Hatimu.
Hatimu took the pipe, but laid it on the ground in front of him. For many heartbeats, he looked at it. “Your friendship brings much risk. Tork has already punished us. You have stung him.” He stared over his shoulder at the ruined village behind him. “He will not forget, nor will he forgive, any that have helped you.”
“You should scrape skins, not talk at an elders’ fire.” One of the women sitting in a semicircle behind the village men rose, swaying, to her feet. It was the woman who had summoned Sesapa to bring the basket of dried meat. “I, Marisa, say that we have already lost everything. These travelers bring hope and bring children. I would die with them rather than live as a mouse scurrying at Tork’s name.” She sat down.
No one spoke. A log in the fire settled in a plume of sparks.
Hatimu gazed past Joe.
Joe twisted, following the Elder’s eyes. The children were attending the horses near the river’s edge under Alta’s supervision. Two were brushing Potts’s horse Osker. An older child led Kristi’s horse with one of the smaller children on the saddle. Even from this distance, Joe could see the child’s wide eyes. The horses had caused fear in the elder villagers until they had observed the children working with them. Beyond the children, Larry sat on his horse, both without armor but he heavily armed. He had refused to participate in the council, claiming that someone needed to be on guard.
Hatimu picked up the two tobacco bags. He took a thick pinch from each, placing the dried leaves in his left hand. His mouth tightened as he mixed the tobacco, took the pipe, and filled it with the mixture. “The Moon Elder speaks truth. It is better to die as a man than live like a mouse.” He lit the pipe, inhaled and pledged.
Niminu and Tanuhu smoked in turn, each repeating the pledge. When Tanuhu finished, he stood up and addressed the women who sat behind the village’s men. “Mothers of Mothers, do you approve our pledges?”
All the men turned to look at them.
Marisa sat a little straighter and glanced at each of the other two women. Each nodded in response to her look.
She returned her gaze to the men, looking at each for several heartbeats before moving to the next.
Joe felt weighed and judged when the woman looked at him.
“I and the Mothers of Mothers,” she glanced at the women on either side of her, “approve your pledges.”
She rose, and gazed behind her at the partially destroyed village. She locked eyes with Joe for several breaths, and then looked out to the fields at the rescued children and the alien horses. “They came by river. Many hands of boats. Hands of hands of warriors. They bypassed us to attack the villages of Two Valleys and Clear Streams on the other side of the river. Then they crossed to this side of the river and destroyed Spring Fish, a three hands walk upriver.” She extended her hand toward the sun. “Our warriors aided Spring Fish’s people and were killed. Then the white clay warriors swept through our village, Two Ribs, gathering the children and the younger women. Weary with victory, they laughed at us and only burned a few of our dwellings.
She looked over her shoulder to a mound beyond the village. A fresh layer of raw dirt lay at its top. “Our gods have deserted us, deserted Two Ribs village. Will your gods protect us? Will they honor our ancestors?”
Joe stared. How should he handle this?
“We worship no gods.” Potts’s voice cut through the silence. “We depend on each other.”
Joe snapped his head toward Potts.
He stared back at Joe for a moment before facing Marisa. “We will honor your ancestors. Our healer will remember their words and deeds.” He looked over his shoulder toward the hut at the center of the village where Kristi still attended Levanu. “Their memories will be preserved.” He stood and looked up the valley, past the village, to the burial mound. “We focus our minds on the physical resting place of their bodies to allow them to stay alive in our memories.”
Marisa stared at Potts for many minutes. Then she nodded.
After several heartbeats, she looked back to Joe and tightened her mouth, adding additional wrinkles to her weathered face. “Guard the children.”
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Potts sat and refilled his pipe as the meeting broke up. Brent left to relieve Larry. All the elders but one helped each other up and, nodding their farewells, moved toward the huts. Hatimu remained staring at the fire for several long breaths before looking up toward the retreating villagers. “She is distant blood,” he said as Alta intercepted the elder women and walked with them.
“More relatives are better.” Joe shifted to sit next to Hatimu. “Elder, I would ask about the burial mounds.” “My grandfather’s father moved here from the west.
He was a trader. The Grandmothers approached him for my grandfather’s mother. He agreed, and brought many presents to the village.” Hatimu looked over his shoulder. Past the partially burned village, the squarish mound dominated the cleared end of the burned off valley. “He started the honoring of our deceased in that manner.”
Joe paused, chewing his lip. “What is buried with the relatives?”
“Food and tools.”
“Anything else? A favorite dog?”
Hatimu lowered his eyes to the remains of the fire. After several deeps breaths, he said, “Never here. But I have heard talk of slaves. Young slaves.”
“Shit,” Potts said in English. “Larry will go ballistic.” “Yeah, but we have to tell him.” Joe massaged his face with his hands.
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As Joe drifted away from the fire, Potts turned to find Hatimu shifting closer.
“Elder, the warrior Joe said that you traveled from far away. Where is your home?”
Potts snorted a laugh. “Thank you for the honor, but I’m no Elder. I just cook the food.”
“Cook?” A puzzled frown worked its way across Hatimu’s face. “That is woman’s work.”
“Like Joe said, we are from far away.” “So in your Far Land, men cook?”
“Men and women cook. Men and women are warriors. Men and women are healers.” Potts unpacked his pipe and a bag of dried leaves. “Are you the head Elder here?”
The wizen man stared at the embers. “I am no longer the Sun Elder.” After several minutes, he looked up. “How can one be the leader of the warriors when they are all dead, the village is destroyed, and the children taken away?”
Potts watched Hatimu’s face morphed between anger and despair. A rivulet cut his cheek, leaving a glistening track. Potts looked down to pack his pipe.
“They came. I failed...” Hatimu’s voice cracked. “Failed to protect my people.”
Hatimu’s face iced into stone as Potts filled his pipe and lit it. Well, he had certainly had his own lessons about failure. After puffing once, he passed the pipe to Hatimu. “Bravery is continuing when all appears lost.”
Hatimu stared at the pipe, running his finger over the briarwood’s surface. “Have you fought Tork’s warriors?” Bringing it to his lips, he inhaled once.
“We met them once, but drove them off.” “Only a few?”
“No. About...” Potts looked at his fingers. “About four hands.” He lifted his hands in front on him and opened, closed and re-opened them.
Hatimu’s eyebrows rose. “But you are few in number.” “We have weapons that kill from
a distance. And kill quickly.”
“Bravery is easy when one has the power of gods.” Hatimu passed the pipe back to Potts.
“Not of gods.”Potts inhaled once. “Just the knowledge of those who have lived before us.”
“What good is the knowledge of power without children?”
“You have us.”
“My family is dead.”
“You have a new family.” And that was a powerful truth. Maybe for all of them. Potts glanced over his shoulder toward the children working with the horses.
“No blood.”
“Blood is not as important as choice.” He stared, waiting for the elder to meet his eyes. “Choose these children.”
Hatimu finally raised his eyes to meet Potts’s. “I will think on your words.”
Chapter 24. Day 14
Joe finished his sketch and stashed his notebook in his saddlebag. He had used the excuse of sketching the terrain to catch their breath from the long climb.
He and Larry stood at the edge of a small open area on top of the Two Rib’s northern ridge. Two other geological folds flanked their ridge, one to the north and one to the south. These three ridges formed two long roughly east- west valleys, cut into four by the river.
“Those burnt poles between the village and the river?” Larry looked back at the village. “Or what’s left of them.” “I’ve asked the elders about them. But they just change the subject. I’m guessing the poles are partially religious, given that there appears to be painted and carved figures on them. Tork’s men may not have bothered to finish burning the village, but they made sure to burn these poles.” Joe shaded his eyes with his left hand and pointed with his right. “Notice the center set of poles? The thick stump with a line of shorter ones to the north?
I’m guessing that its original height cast a shadow that formed their calendar.”
“Way cool.” Larry paused and looked west up the Two Ribs valley. “Okay, what about the burned clearing way up the valley?”
“The cleared land around the village was burned for their gardens.” Joe followed Larry’s gaze. Several miles up the valley between the two ridges that defined Two Ribs village was an area about the size of four football fields. “But I’d guess the interior burns were for deer habitat. Given the amount of deer scat I saw up there, that seems to be working well.”
