West of Eden

by Harry Harrison

  Kerrick turned angrily to reproach Inlènu*—then realized that it was not her fault. To Inlènu* all those who talked were Yilanè. What she really meant to say, though she knew no way to express it, was that someone, some person, was approaching.

  “I saw murgu,” Herilak said, and Kerrick’s fear returned. “They were in the next valley, going back towards the sea. I think that they have lost our trail. Now we will eat.”

  Herilak used the spear to open and gut the still-warm deer. Since they had no fire he cut out the liver first, divided it, and handed a piece to Kerrick.

  “I am not hungry, not now,” Kerrick said, looking down at the raw and bloody lump of flesh.

  “You will be. Do not discard it.”

  Inlènu* was facing away from them, but her nearer eye moved and followed every motion Herilak made. He was aware of this and after he had eaten his fill he pointed a bloody finger at her.

  “Does that thing eat meat?”

  Kerrick smiled at the question and spoke swiftly, ordering Inlènu* to open her mouth. She did so, only her jaw moving. Herilak looked at the rows of glistening, pointed teeth and grunted.

  “It eats meat. Should I feed it?”

  “Yes, I would like that.”

  Herilak hacked off a forelimb and stripped most of the skin from it, then handed it to Kerrick.

  “You feed it. I don’t like its teeth.”

  “Inlènu* is harmless. Nothing but a stupid fargi.”

  Inlènu* closed her thumbs about the deer leg, then chewed slowly and powerfully on the tough meat, gazing blankly into the distance.

  “What did you say it was?” Herilak asked.

  “Fargi. It, well, I cannot say what the word means. Something like one who is learning to speak, but is not very good at it.”

  “Are you a fargi?”

  “I am not!” Kerrick was insulted. “I am Yilanè. That is, although I am Tanu, I speak like a Yilanè so I am considered one. Was considered one.”

  “How did this happen? Do you remember?”

  “Now I do. But I didn’t, not for a long time.”

  His voice was halting, the words difficult to say, as he spoke aloud for the first time about what had happened to sammad Amahast. Relived the slaughter, the captivity, the fear of certain death and the unexpected reprieve. He stop then because the words he spoke now did not seem capable of describing his years since that day.

  Herilak was silent as well, understanding a little of what had happened to the boy Kerrick who had managed to live when all the others had died. A lone survivor who had somehow found a way to come to terms with the murgu. Who had learned their language and learned to live among them. He was a lot like them now, though he would not be aware of that. He moved about when he talked, then sat immobile when he was finished. They had done something to him; there was not a hair on his body. And he wore that pouch, made to look like his skin, as though they had taken away his maleness as well. Herilak’s thoughts were interrupted by a sudden splash of water.

  Kerrick heard it too and the color drained from his face. “They have found us. I am dead.”

  Herilak waved him to silence as he took up the spear, stood and faced downstream. There was more splashing, the sound of the bushes being pushed aside just around the bend. He raised the spear as the hunter appeared.

  “It is Ortnar,” he said, then called out.

  Ortnar recoiled at the sound, then straightened and waved back. He was close to exhaustion, leaning on his spear as he came forward. Only when he was closer did he see Inlènu*. He seized up the spear to hurl it at her, was stopped only by Herilak’s command.

  “Stop. The marag is a prisoner. Are you alone?”

  “Yes, now.” He dropped heavily to the ground. He laid his bow and empty quiver aside, but kept his spear in his hand and looked angrily at Inlènu*. “Tellges was with me, we had been hunting when the murgu attacked, we were just returning to the sammad. We fought until our arrows were gone. They came at us with the death-sticks. There was nothing more we could do. All behind us were dead. I made him leave, but he hung back, did not run fast enough. They followed and he turned to fight. He fell. I came on alone. Now tell me—what are these creatures?”

  “I am no creature, I am Tanu,” Kerrick said angrily.

  “Like no Tanu I have ever seen. No hair, no spear, tied to that marag . . .”

  “Silence,” Herilak ordered. “This is Kerrick, son of Amahast. His mother was my sister. He has been a prisoner of the murgu.”

  Ortnar rubbed his mouth with his fist. “I spoke in haste. This has been a day of death. I am Ortnar and I welcome you.” His face twisted with an expression of grim humor. “Welcome to the sammad of Herilak, much reduced in numbers.” He glanced up at the darkening sky. “There will be many new stars there tonight.”

  The sun was low now and the air was cool at this altitude. Inlènu* laid aside the well-gnawed bone and looked in Kerrick’s direction.

  “Humbly ask, low to high, where are the cloaks?”

  “There are no cloaks, Inlènu*.”

  “I am cold.”

  Kerrick shivered as well, but not from the cold. “There is nothing I can do, Inlènu*, nothing at all.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Inlènu* died during the night.

  Kerrick woke at dawn, shivering with cold. There was a beading of dew on the grass and mist was rising from the stream. When he turned towards Inlènu* he saw that her mouth was gaping open, her eyes staring sightlessly.

  The cold, he thought. She died in the night of the cold.

  Then he saw the pool of blood under her head. A spearpoint had been thrust into her throat, silencing her and killing her. Who had done this cruel thing? Herilak was still asleep but Ortnar’s eyes were open, staring coldly at him.

  “You did this!” Kerrick cried out, jumping to his feet. “Murdered this harmless creature in her sleep.”

  “I killed a marag.” His voice was insolent. “It is always a good thing to kill murgu.”

  Shaking with rage, Kerrick reached out and seized Herilak’s spear. But he could not lift it; the big hunter held fast to the haft.

  “The creature is dead,” Herilak said. “That is the end of it. She would have died soon of the cold in any case.”

  Kerrick stopped tugging at the spear and sprang suddenly at Ortnar, seizing him by the throat with both hands, his thumbs digging deep into the hunter’s windpipe. His own throat hurt where the collar cut in; he had dragged Inlènu*’s dead weight after him, but he paid it no heed. Ortnar writhed in his grasp and groped for his spear, but Kerrick jammed the man’s arm against the ground with his knee, grinding down hard. Ortnar thrashed feebly, tearing at Kerrick’s back with the nails of his free hand, but Kerrick felt nothing in his rage.

  Ortnar would have been dead had not Herilak intervened. He seized Kerrick’s wrists in his great hands and pulled them wide. Ortnar hoarsely gasped in breath after breath, then moaned and rubbed at the bruised flesh of his throat. Kerrick’s blind anger faded and, as soon as he stopped struggling, Herilak released him.

  “Tanu does not kill Tanu,” he said.

  Kerrick started to protest, then grew silent. It was done. Inlènu* was dead. Killing her murderer would accomplish nothing. And Herilak was right; the winter would have killed her in any case. Kerrick sat down by her still form and looked out into the sunrise. What did she matter to him anyway? Just a stupid fargi who was always in his way. With her death his last link with Alpèasak was severed. So be it. He was Tanu now. He could forget that he had ever been Yilanè.

  Then he realized that he was holding the flexible lead that joined him to Inlènu*. He was not free yet. And this lead could not be cut, he knew that. With that came the realization that there was only one way that he could be freed. He looked up, horrified, into Herilak’s face. The sammadar nodded with understanding.

  “I will do what must be done. Turn away for you will not enjoy the sight.”

  Kerrick faced the stream, but
he could clearly hear what was happening behind his back. Ortnar stumbled to the water to bathe his face and neck and Kerrick shouted insults at him, trying to drown out the sounds.

  It was over quickly. Herilak wiped the neck-ring on the grass before handing it to Kerrick. Kerrick went swiftly to the stream and washed it over and over in the running water. When it was clean he took it in both hands, stood and walked upstream away from the spot. He did not want to see what was lying back there.

  When he heard the hunters approaching he turned quickly to face them; he had no desire to be killed from behind.

  “This one has something to say,” Herilak said pushing Ortnar forward. There was hatred in the small hunter’s face and he touched his bruised throat when he spoke. His voice was hoarse.

  “I was perhaps mistaken to kill the marag—but I am not sorry that I did it. The sammadar ordered me to say this. What is done is done. But you attempted to kill me, strange one, and that is something that is not easy to forget. But your bond to that marag was stronger than I knew—nor do I want to know more about it. So I say of my own free will that your back is safe from my spearpoint. How say you?”

  The two hunters watched Kerrick in stern silence and he knew that he had to decide. Now. Inlènu* was dead and nothing could restore her life. And he could understand Ortnar’s cold hatred after the destruction of his sammad. He, of all people, should be able to understand that.

  “Your back is safe from my spear, Ortnar,” he said.

  “That is the end of the matter,” Herilak said, and it was a command. “We shall talk of it no more. Ortnar, you will carry the deer’s carcass. We will have a fire tonight and will eat well. Go with Kerrick, you know the path. Stop at midday. I will join you then. There is cover among those trees. If we are being followed by the murgu I will know it soon enough.”

  The two men walked in silence for some time. The track was easy to follow, the ground deeply scored by the poles of the travois, leading up the valley almost to its end, then over the ridge to the next valley. Ortnar was gasping for breath under the weight of his burden and called out when they came to the slow-moving stream on the valley’s floor.

  “Some water, strange-one, then we will go on.”

  He threw the deer down and buried his face in the stream, came up gasping.

  “My name is Kerrick, son of Amahast,” Kerrick said. “Do you find that too hard to remember?”

  “Peace, Kerrick. My throat is still sore from our last encounter. I meant no insult, but you do look strange. You have just stubble instead of a beard or hair.”

  “It will grow in time.” Kerrick rubbed at the bristles on his face.

  “Yes. I imagine so. It just looks strange now. But that ring on your neck. Why do you wear it? Why not cut it off?”

  “Here, you do it.” Kerrick handed over the ring he was carrying and smiled as Ortnar sawed uselessly at the transparent lead with the edge of his spear point.

  “It is smooth and soft—yet I cannot cut it.”

  “The Yilanè can do many things that we cannot. If I told you how it was made you would not believe me.”

  “You know their secrets? Of course, you must. Tell me of the death-sticks. We captured one but could do nothing with it. Finally it began to smell and we cut it open and it was a dead animal of some kind.”

  “It is a creature called a hèsotsan. They are a special kind of animals. They can move around like other animals when they are young. But when they grow old they become as you saw. They must be fed. Then darts are placed within them and when they are pressed in the correct manner the darts are fired out.”

  Ortnar’s mouth hung open as he fought to understand. “But how can that be? Where are there animals like that?”

  “Nowhere. That is the murgu secret. I have seen what they do, but I do not understand it myself. They can make animals do strange things. They know how to make them breed to do anything. It is hard to explain.”

  “Even harder to understand. It is time to go. Now it is your turn to carry the deer.”

  “Herilak ordered you to carry it.”

  “Yes—but you are going to help eat it.”

  Ortnar smiled as he said this and in spite of himself Kerrick smiled back. “All right, give it to me. But you’ll get it back soon enough. Didn’t Herilak say we would have a fire?” His mouth was suddenly wet with spittle at the memory. “Cooked meat—I had forgotten what it was like.”

  “Then the murgu eat all their meat raw?” Ortnar asked as they started up the track again.

  “No. Well, yes and no. It is softened in some way. You get used to it.”

  “Why don’t they roast it properly?”

  “Because . . .” Kerrick stopped in his tracks at the thought. “Because they don’t make fires. I never realized that before. I guess they don’t need fires because where they live it is always warm. Sometimes at night when it is cool, or on wet days, we wrap—there is no word for it—warm things around us.”

  “Skins? Fur robes?”

  “No. Living creatures that are warm.”

  “Sounds disgusting. The more I hear about your murgu the more I detest them. I don’t know how you could bear living with creatures like that.”

  “I had little choice,” Kerrick said grimly, then walked on in silence.

  Herilak joined them soon after they had reached their stopping place for the night.

  “The trail behind is empty. They have turned back.”

  “Cooked meat!” Ortnar said, smacking his lips together. “But I wish we had brought the fire with us.”

  These words touched a memory that Kerrick had long forgotten. “I used to do that,” he said. “Keep the fire in the bow of the boat.”

  “That is a boy’s work,” Herilak said. “As a hunter you must make your own fire. Do you know how to do it?”

  Kerrick hesitated. “I remember seeing it done. But I have forgotten. It was so long ago.”

  “Then watch. You are Tanu now and must know these things if you are to be a hunter.”

  It was a slow process. Herilak broke a branch from a long-dead and dried tree, then carefully cut and rounded a length of stick from it. While he did this, Ortnar searched deeper in the forest and returned with a handful of dry and moldy wood. He shredded and pounded this into a fine powder. When Herilak had finished the stick to his satisfaction he scraped another length of the wood flat, then drilled a shallow hole in it with his spearpoint.

  When the preparations were done Herilak took Ortnar’s bow and wrapped the bowstring about the carefully fashioned stick. He sat on the ground, held the length of wood steady with his feet, then placed the pointed tip of the stick into the hole in the wood and began to draw the bow back and forth to make it spin. Ortnar pushed some of the powdered wood into the hole while Herilak spun the stick as fast he could. A tiny thread of smoke twisted up, then died away. Herilak gasped with the effort and sat back.

  The next time he spun the stick the wisp of smoke became a tiny spark of flame. They dropped more wood-dust upon it, blew carefully, cupped it between their hands as the flame grew, laughing with pleasure. They built the fire high, adding more and more wood, then let it die back to a bed of glowing coals. Soon the meat was roasting in the coals and Kerrick breathed in the cooking odors that he had completely forgotten.

  They burnt their fingers on the hot meat, hacked off great pieces, ate and ate until their faces ran with grease and sweat. Rested, then ate some more. Kerrick could not remember having eaten anything so good in his entire life.

  That night they slept with their feet to the banked fire, warm and content, their stomachs full.

  Kerrick woke during the night when Herilak got up to put more wood on the fire. The stars were bright points of light in the black sky, the star-group of the Hunter just above the horizon in the east. For the first time since their escape Kerrick was at peace, feeling the security of the hunters on both sides of him. They had not been followed. They were safe from the Yilanè.


  Safe from the Yilanè? Would that ever be possible? He knew as these hunters did not how ruthless their enemy was. How strong. The raptors would fly and find every Tanu in every valley and meadow; nowhere could they be safe. The armed fargi would attack again and again until all the Tanu were dead. There was no possible escape. Nor could he sink back again into the blank escape of sleep.

  Kerrick lay there awake, possessed by the knowledge of certain destruction. He watched as the sky lightened in the east and the stars vanished one by one. The new day had begun. The first day of his new life.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Kerrick’s feet were swollen and sore after the long walk the day before. Sitting on a large boulder, chewing a lump of tough yet delicious meat, he bathed them in the cool water of the stream. Although his soles were thickly callused and tough he was unaccustomed to walking on stony ground. Now his feet were scratched and cut and he was not looking forward to the strenuous day that lay ahead. Herilak saw what he was doing and pointed to the long gash that cut through the callus of Kerrick’s right foot.

  “We must do something about that.”

  He and Ortnar were wearing flexible but strong madraps, made from two pieces of cured leather that had been carefully sewn together with lengths of gut. They did not have the materials here to fashion anything for him this complex—but there were other raw materials close to hand. Herilak found stones that would chip correctly and hammered off small, sharp flakes. Under his direction Ortnar removed the deer’s skin, then scraped the adhering flesh from it in the running water. Herilak cut squares and strips from this, put the larger pieces around Kerrick’s feet and bound them into place with the thin lengths.

  “Good enough for now,” he said. “By the time the skin gets stiff and starts to stink we will be far away from here.” Kerrick picked up the rest of the discarded deerskin and found that it would just fit around his waist, where it could be held in place with a prong of the deer’s horn. He scraped it clean of flesh, as he had seen Ortnar do, then took off the soft skin pouch that he had worn for so many years. It lay limply in his hand, the adhering suckers inside it gleaming wetly. With sudden revulsion he hurled it into the stream. That life was behind him forever; he was Tanu now.