Although the Lobsters were an occasional welcome addition to our diet, the clan’s hunters were forced to travel further and further afield to obtain sufficient meat to feed our hungry mouths. By now I had become quite proficient in the signing language and suggested that we should move to a new location. A tall volcano in the distance, surrounded by a range of foothills was agreed as our final destination.
Under my guidance the clan’s hunters practiced with spears until every man and woman could throw one with amazing accuracy. We made targets from the Lobster heads, aiming for the small gap between the circles of eyes where we knew they had a weak spot. Most clans-folk could accomplish a killing strike from a distance of fifty paces or more. Missing could mean the difference between life and death.
~
Once more we began our trek towards the volcano, leaving the protection of the stockade, the Brosynans moved across the plains with more confidence than ever before.
We have found a valley in the lee of the tall smoking mountain, which has numerous deep and expansive caves in the hillside, it is an excellent location and we have fortified the valley entrance against the Bears.
The clan has begun to be blessed with children. I eventually took one of the clan women as a companion, though I was loathe to do so, memories of my dear Laura were still strong, but there were many volunteers for the position. It was also intimated that it would be classed as an insult to the young females to refuse them all, in the end I acquiesced.
The clans have elected me as their war leader and I have built my regime based upon that which I knew best, military discipline, the little Brosynan people have taken to it well. I feel it would be wrong of me to assume the position of supreme ruler as they asked, and therefore instigated the appointment of twelve elders who would be democratically elected.
I remember one of my most exciting episodes. I accompanied the hunters. The troop leader I had named Jax, his name, a couple of gestures and a click did not translate too well. They had begun hunting the Bears, the fur coats we created from their thick coats were a welcome addition on our trips to the ice fields.
On the plains under the darkened sky, we quickly formed up into a phalanx, with spears pointing outwards. It wasn’t long before we came upon a pair of Bears which were close to a stream, surrounding the formidable looking creatures was easy for they showed no fear, Jax himself made the first kill, thrusting his spear down the throat of a charging creature, his lieutenant a huge bull of a hunter, dispatched the second just as quickly.
The team, swiftly stripped and skinned the creatures, and then proceeded to drag the carcases the fifty paces back to the river. Within moments eight others drawn by the smell of blood came dashing up to claim the bodies. Others appeared out of the dark, approaching us with obvious menace. They showed no fear of our spears, never having known resistance and expecting none. They were eating machines, and anything that existed was fair game.
The pungent smell of blood was enough to spur them into claiming their share of the bounty, a fierce fight broke out amongst the creatures as they jostled their way to be first to the free meal. We turned to face the charging beasts, our spears taking down two more of the monsters, thankfully as each one was killed those nearest would turn on it and begin tearing lumps off the still twitching body, this gave the rearguard opportunities they hadn’t expected, the creatures were more interested in eating their own fallen than they were in attacking the small band of fierce hunters.
By the time we had made our way back to the skins there were at least fifty of the creatures, screeching and hooting as they ripped the bodies of their own fallen apart.
The under body skin was soft and pliable, and could be worked into wonderful soft leggings and jerkins, the bones when boiled gave us a useful glue which when dried was impervious to water, we used it to coat the outside of our clothes and boots making them warm and snug, albeit a bit smelly, but we soon got used to it.
From the above you can gather that we made frequent forays, we also made noose traps which we baited during the daylight hours with rancid flesh, this way we caught many of the creatures, leaving them ensnared until daylight when their fellows sought the darkness of their burrows. They were dispatched in the daylight, providing us with a multitude of useful items and utensils, their bones apart from the glue they provided, were tough and strong. Using flint knives we carved them into smaller bone knives, needles and many other items. The stylus I have used to write this part of my journal is but one example; these items became so useful to us, that the crazy exercises seemed well worth the effort.
Bear tooth necklaces were prized by the females, showing off the prowess of their men folks. A hunter who was prepared to risk life and limb to make a kill and claim the teeth had prestige, for even though the creatures hated the sunlight, and would squint their eyes against it, almost blinded they were still a fearsome foe, even with a limb caught in a trap, they would fight until the last moment.
The youngsters too, loved these hunting trips, and would tease the Bears, running up to them, hooting and striking their heads with sticks, distracting the creature until the hunter could make his kill. More often than not a Bear would break the restraining rope and charge at the hunters, the youngsters scattering in all directions away from the lumbering, almost blind beast. It soon became a symbol of prowess to kill a charging monster single handed and the eye teeth were worn with pride. The teeth of a full grown bull were the most sought after. The fearsome creature on four legs stood as tall as my chest and could cover the ground at a fantastic rate.
The preferred and most courageous (some would say crazy) method of killing them was to face the charging beast with a spear driven into the ground and aimed at the snarling mouth, the impetus of the beast’s charge would drive the spear into the creature’s brain, killing it instantly. However a creature which weighed easily twenty times that of the Brosynan facing it, at full charge was not easily halted. If the spear had not been placed exactly right, or the hunter did not dive in the right direction, either scenario could end in certain death.
Either way the young ‘stags’ had to learn quickly, or another burial would be taking place. Thankfully not too many of the intrepid youngsters were killed, although some were injured quite horribly, and had to retire permanently from the sport. The practice continued for many years. Our youngsters were keen to prove their competence when they came of age.
April 2011
Jeanne lay the manuscript down at this point; dawn was beginning to break through her bedroom window. I’ll be fit for nothing today then, she thought covering her head with a pillow.
She laid waiting for the alarm to sound.
17.
NY-MO'S THEORY
Evans’ Barn.
Cherokee County, OK.
April 2011
As she did every morning, Winn began her talk with Ny-mo inquiring into his welfare.
‘Good,’ he clicked back. ‘Here, I am safe. Ample water, ample food. The shade of your structure prevents too much exposure to sunlight.’
“Structure,” Winn mumbled. “Structure, structure.”
Darn it, she’d tried to figure out how to sign the word ‘barn’ so that Ny-mo could understand, but the term was apparently missing from his people’s vocabulary.
Uncle Tom, behind her, overheard her mutterings. “Structure, Winn?”
“Yeah, that’s what he keeps calling the barn. I’ve been trying to figure out how to get the word barn across to him, but it’s like he don’t know it.”
“Winn,” Uncle Tom asked softly after a passing silence. “Where did you learn to communicate with our friend, here?”
“Huh?” She threw him a glance over her shoulder, blinking owlishly through red-framed glasses. “Oh that. As you know, I’ve been tutoring special needs kids after school for the past couple of years. Dad thought it would be good for me: help me live in the real world, I guess. I had to learn sign language so I could talk to the ones who’re hear
ing and speech impaired.”
“Yes I know, but how - how did you learn how to talk to ... Ny-mo, did you say his name was?”
“Yeah,” Winn murmured, returning her attention to the newcomer. “Ny-mo. Well, I dunno. I just kept seeing him move his hands around and I thought it looked kinda like what I do, so I thought I’d try it. And it worked.”
Perched upon his bale, Ny-mo gazed at her with intelligent, golden eyes, awaiting an introduction to the latest stranger she brought before him. During the past several days, she’d learned at least one thing about the Troll. Or, Boggart, as Uncle Tom called him. Croninn, he called himself and his tribe. Whatever the title, Ny-mo was possessed of extraordinary patience. About some things. Others...
After figuring out his strange finger clicking was a novel form of communication, Winn had decided to try her skills with signing on him. Though their talks were rather primitive at this point - both of them had to repeat themselves often - the two methods of hand communication were similar in their most basic motions and meanings. Happily, each day it seemed she and Ny-mo’s skill at sharing information grew. Of late, she’d also begun speaking to him verbally as well as moving her mouth to shape words when she signed. Winn was pretty sure he was picking up a few things. He’d pick up more if he’d apply himself a little more, but the guy’s patience was limited when it came to verbal speech. Hand signs were good enough for him ... and it was by hand signs that, early on, he’d expressed his desire to speak with her “chief.”
That was one of the first things she got out of him. ‘Chiefs, we do not have,’ Winn had attempted signing back. However, going into a discussion of the Judiciary, Legislative, and Executive branches had yielded no fruit. Ny-mo just got more and more antsy.
‘Your chief, I must speak with your chief!’ he kept insisting.
Finally, Winn realized to him a “chief” was whoever happened to be in charge. Ny-mo refused to give up his story to anyone but the chief, which had cemented Macy and her decision to call their parents. When Chad leaked the news and Case and team showed up with their snoopy, overbearing doctors and scientists, she could’ve legitimately passed one of them off as a chief and had Ny-mo share his tale with them. However, something held Winn back. This was her find, her friend. Mistrustful of others, he believed whatever she told him. And she didn’t trust Case and team; she trusted her parents and Uncle Tom. When they said Uncle Tom was coming, that had been good enough for her.
Excited, she’d dashed out to the barn, informing Ny-mo in a series of rapid signs and clicks-improvised from his own method of communication - ‘The chief is coming! He’s coming!’
At this point, Ny-mo’s former restless prowling about the barn had ceased. Plunking down on the same bale of straw on which he rested now, he’d scarcely moved a muscle except to eat, drink, and go outside for necessary visits. Always, he returned to the same spot where he sat motionless and mute, just as he was now. Except now, she could see the gleam in his golden eyes as he appraised the man standing behind her. The slightest tremor shook his hands as he lifted them to sign: ‘Is this your chief?’
‘It is,’ she signed back. ‘This is Tom. He is - brother of my father,’ she stumbled then chose to say. Not that “Uncle” Tom was really her father’s brother, but the explanation was good enough. She wasn’t sure if Ny-mo and the Croninn knew anything about adopted relatives or not.
‘Brother of your father - and he is chief?’
For you he is, mister, she thought, but only signed, ‘He is. You may entrust your story to him.’
Hmmm. Though she couldn’t actually hear the creature saying it, his body language expressed his appraisal.
Rising off the bale, Ny-mo leapt lightly to his feet and strode up to her uncle. As always, Winn admired the grace with which the fellow moved. He was a bit shorter than her petite sister, meaning he stood considerably shorter than Winn herself, yet his movements were as lithe as any professional dancer. To her mind, his feline grace, the practical suit of buckskin, and the well-honed knife he’d allowed her to examine, established he must be a warrior or fighter in his tribe.
All warriors move like that, she thought. At least they do in my books.
Next to her tall uncle, Ny-mo was positively dwarfed. This didn’t stop her new friend from flicking out his tongue in a bold offer to ‘read him,’ as Winn thought of the Croninn’s peculiar form of greeting.
“Uncle Tom, you have to stand real still, stick out your hands, and let him lick them,” she started to say. But to her amazement, before she’d uttered more than a word or two, the man was already lifting his hands, holding them out for Ny-mo to examine. Winn’s eyes widened to see her uncle stand frozen as a statue while Ny-mo’s warm, rough tongue flicked lightly across his fingers, fingertips, palms, and knuckles.
Where did he learn to do that? she gaped.
Naturally, she remembered his story of the “Boggarts” somewhere in Scotland that he was studying with some lady doctor. At the time he’d told her, Winn had been interested but not entirely impressed. Uncle Tom hadn’t even seen her troll yet. How could he know if the whatevers in Scotland were the same as hers? Now, well, she couldn’t deny being impressed. Either her honorary uncle had seen her do it and was a quick study, or else he already knew about the Croninn’s unusual form of investigating newcomers.
Either way, she had to admire his bravery. Shelby had refused the scrutiny outright. Johnson had been hard pressed to submit. O’Rourke had grimaced. Only Case had yielded without any sign of repugnance. Oddly enough, when Ny-mo was finished he had stepped back and hawked a perfect spit ball into the corner of the room.
‘Bleah. This one tastes of blood,’ he’d signed.
Whatever that meant. What would he say about Uncle Tom?
Completing his quest, Ny-mo withdrew his snakelike tongue. Turning to her, he lifted those miraculously fast hands.
‘Integrity,’ he signed and clicked. ‘Some degree of power. He is not the most powerful of chiefs, but he possesses a willingness to aid my people.’
‘Then you will tell him your story?’ Winn signed back.
‘I will,’ Ny-mo replied.
‘Excellent.’ Smiling at her uncle, she said aloud, “Looks like we’re all set.”
~
‘This land, your land, is like mine,’ Ny-mo’s story began, his fingers spelling out the words. ‘Yet it is not.’
Winn saw Uncle Tom’s puzzled expression as she translated out loud, but he, restraining himself, did not interrupt. Ol’ Uncle Tom was pretty cool for a grown-up, Winn had to admit. Not snooty and stuck up like Macy could be, like Chad was, or condescending like Johnson - that Fed who had his eye on Macy. Yeah, she’d seen the signs. Even being as short as she was, Macy possessed a certain something that most men didn’t overlook. Even Ny-mo had recognized her appeal, clicking days earlier, ‘This one could be mate to a chief.’
Mate to a chief, Winn had thought, tossing her corkscrew red curls. My foot. - Macy would drive him up the wall.
That was her basic opinion of her older sister. Clearly, lots of guys didn’t agree. Nevertheless, all that was beside the point. Wintergreen took secret, selfish satisfaction in the fact that Macy could never have communicated with Ny-mo like she was doing now. Surely that meant she’d found her own niche; that she, too, had some worth.
That worth was proved as she tracked Ny-mo’s hand movements from behind her glasses, repeating aloud everything the little fellow signed.
Ny-mo’s story was long and detailed; he described his people, their ways and their interaction with the humans of his world.
‘For many years the Brosynan stood together, side by side with those tall sons of the plains. Both they and the Brosynan were warlike, and after initial bloody skirmishes they came together in harmony. The tribe that the Brosynan met with had many men, but amongst them not as many females. So it was, as they had need, they took Brosynan females as their mates, from those unions came my people, the Croninn.
&
nbsp; ‘The pure blooded children of the warriors, suffered a terrible time of dying, almost thirty years after they were born, which devastated their numbers. Many of their old folk died too, as would be expected, the cross bred children however were not affected. So it was that they moved north, leaving us the cross breeds alone, blaming us of mixed blood for the great death, from that day to this we have grown apart and have little contact with the old people.
‘We settled the plains and built permanent settlements, villages and farms. Then arrived new people from the East, yellow skinned, harsh of speech and manners, we fought many wars with them. My grandfather and his brother battled with them and eventually were successful in driving them from our lands. That was many generations ago, we have grown strong, our lands are our own, our beasts many. But now …’ he paused and seemed to struggle with himself for a moment or two.
The Tirnano - Book 1 'FINN' Page 11
