Misáianes, the Ferocious One, is the end of all light. Misáianes is the beginning of inbred pain. If we are defeated in this war, Life will fall with us. If we are defeated, light will be condemned to drag itself over ashes. And Eternal Hatred will stride through the twilight of Creation.
This much we have written of what the Northmen told us. We will keep the sacred books as they asked us to. The day will come when someone speaks the name of Misáianes once more. They will name Misáianes and ask where he comes from. And whoever asks shall find an answer.
11
FAREWELL!
It was the morning of their departure. During the night the rain had eased until it had almost ceased, but with the dawn it began to fall heavily once more.
Everything needed for the long journey had been ready since the previous day. Despite this, Dulkancellin carefully checked every item again. When he was sure everything was there, he turned to face his family. He wanted to speak to them, but his throat was dry, and so many confused thoughts were running through his mind he could barely order them.
‘This is the moment of departure. You know I have no choice but to leave you and undertake this narrow path. Take care of yourselves, and wait for Kupuka. He will bring you news.’
The moment for them to leave had come. Dulkancellin, who did not know how to shed tears, went up to his daughters. To avoid crying, Kuy-Kuyen tried desperately not to blink. Wilkilén dried her tears noisily. Their father leant down and kissed them both on the forehead.
‘Farewell.’
Then he hugged Piukemán. The boy would have liked to prolong the embrace, to confess he was afraid. But his father’s eyes prevented him.
‘Son, you must help Thungür in his tasks, and obey him.’
‘Yes, Father,’ replied Piukemán.
Thungür and Dulkancellin said goodbye clasping each other’s forearms, in the manner of warriors.
‘The golden oriole’s prediction has come true. As you can see, my son, the forest is never wrong. As soon as I cross that threshold, you will be the head of this family.’
‘Against my wishes,’ said Thungür.
‘Hunting and fishing, decision-making, the life of the village; all of that will continue while I am away. So should all of you.’
‘What are we to say when people ask after you, Father?’
‘Tell them I have gone on a journey. Nothing more. Kupuka will explain the rest when he judges the time to be right.’
Dulkancellin gazed at his mother. She came over and took his hands in hers. Old Mother Kush was thinking of Kume.
‘Dulkancellin, do not leave this house without embracing another of your sons. Do not increase the pain.’
‘Old Mother Kush,’ the warrior replied, ‘it seems as though the years are clouding your mind. I have four children, and have said a sad goodbye to each of them.’
They all stared at Kume, who sat apart from the group, threading leather thongs. The boy did not raise his eyes from his task, but Kush could see him clench his teeth. He is the most handsome of them all, the old woman thought, trying to find consolation in the thought.
‘Hurry up, Zitzahay,’ said Dulkancellin. ‘We need to be going.’
‘Wait a moment,’ was Cucub’s reply. ‘I have to repair a hurt.’
It was plain the Zitzahay was referring to Kume, and so Dulkancellin tried to stop him.
‘We don’t have time, Cucub. We have to go—’
‘Husihuilke, I have respected the laws you live by,’ Cucub said firmly. ‘Now you should respect mine. We should be as close to one another as are grains of sand. Any discord will be used against us. That is what I think, and I will behave accordingly.’
He went over to Kume, who had risen to his feet.
‘There will be so great a distance between us that we are unlikely to meet again. I am not to blame for what is happening; I had no wish to burst into your forest. I would have preferred to stay singing my songs under the sky I am familiar with, but that was not to be. I salute you, and offer you my friendship.’
Kume’s black scowl became moist. The wetness around his eyes sprang from somewhere deep inside him, a place where he was always sad. All of a sudden, he stiffened once more. Smiling disdainfully at Cucub, he left the room without a word.
‘Let’s go,’ said Dulkancellin.
‘Whenever you wish,’ Cucub replied, glancing down at his empty, extended hand.
At the door the two men gathered up their bags and drew their cloaks tight. Dulkancellin knew everyone was waiting for him to say a single phrase: I will return. But Dulkancellin, who did not know how to shed tears, did not know how to lie either.
‘Farewell!’ was all he said.
They had only gone a few steps before the pouring rain rendered them invisible. Five pairs of eyes sought them out: they all wanted to see them one more time. To smile at them and keep back the grief.
‘Farewell, Dulkancellin,’ said Old Mother Kush, knowing this was the last time she would see him.
It was Cucub’s song that led their way through the labyrinths of rain. The Zitzahay was singing:
I crossed the other man
And the river took care of me
And I had no river bank ...
Part Two
12
HEADING NORTH
The two men set off from Whirlwind Pass heading for Beleram, the city where Cucub lived. This was also where the House of the Stars, excavated into the side of a mountain, concentrated its Magic. They knew the points of departure and of arrival, but the path between was uncertain. The two travellers had to invent it each time water destroyed the usual tracks, fallen trees blocked the way, or marshy ground meant they had to make long detours.
They also had to seek shelter each night. Dulkancellin was expert in finding the protection the forest offered hunters and the lost. Protection which marked the rhythm of the first days of their journey. One day, shelter appeared too early, when they still had the strength to go further. The next day, it would be far off, and the distance they had to cover would test the limits of their endurance.
When they first started out, they spoke of unimportant matters. Neither of them wished to mention the reasons for their journey, or to speculate about what might happen. The warrior was interested in knowing what life was like in the Remote Realm. Cucub was happy to respond to all his questions, raising his voice so as to be heard over the noise of the rain in the forest. When Dulkancellin had no more queries, the Zitzahay sang.
The following day, the Husihuilke spoke no more than was necessary. And the Zitzahay’s song sounded weary.
On the third day, they began to feel irritated. Their swollen feet in muddy leather boots, their constantly soaked clothes, and the sweaty smell of their bodies made them ill at ease. Because of this they were sure that anything they said would be misinterpreted, and so said nothing at all. A long time later, Cucub recalled that part of the journey as a prolonged silence in the rain.
The very same cave where Shampalwe had cut her last flowers gave them some respite. It was there, thanks to the Zitzahay’s insistence, that they stopped for their first meal. They had not brought an abundance of food with them, but it had been chosen to help them resist the arduous climate and their difficult march. Properly rationed, it would see them through the period when the pouring rain made hunting difficult, if not impossible.
Cucub separated two portions of dried figs, and offered Dulkancellin his share. The warrior rejected them without even looking.
‘You should not refuse to eat,’ said Cucub. ‘Have some, even if you are not hungry.’
‘I’ll do so later,’ Dulkancellin replied. ‘But don’t try to copy me! Eat until you’re licking your fingers. You need it more than me.’
Cucub, who had no wish to copy behaviour that would make life harder for him, went inside the cave to enjoy his meal. Since this was the first day of their march and he was still singing, he hummed between every mouthful.
Seated
at the entrance, Dulkancellin watched the rain fall on Butterfly Lake. He knew that before long its waters would rise to the foot of the rocky outcrops that bounded the lake to the west. And that to the east, it would become a dangerous muddy swamp.
The warrior did not have the gift of imagination. He did not know how to daydream; still less how to invent things. But on that dark noonday, so close to where Shampalwe had cut her last bunch of flowers, he saw his wife more clearly than the landscape around him. The slopes running down to the lake were covered with the fresh green of summer. The summer when Wilkilén was born and her mother came here to fulfil the rite of motherhood. Dulkancellin saw Shampalwe dancing by the lake shore as the ceremony demanded. He saw her turn first one way, then the other: one hand at her waist, the other cupped by the side of her head. ‘Turning with the steps of a partridge,’ she would tell Kuy-Kuyen, to teach her the dance of the Husihuilke women. Shampalwe greeted the warrior with a smile that shaped her eyebrows into a single black line. From the mouth of the cave, her husband returned her greeting with a wave of the hand. Fortunately Cucub was so intent on devouring the last figs that he did not notice: if he had seen the warrior waving at empty space, he would have thought he had caught a fever.
‘Cucub!’ called the warrior, drifting back to the reality of the rain. ‘Let’s walk on. This is a region of caves. We will soon find another one where we can sleep.’
Although Dulkancellin knew every inch of the forest, he had to pay attention to their progress. He stopped every now and then to consider which was the best, or least risky, route to take. Whenever he did this, Cucub would look up at him like a child to his father. And when the Husihuilke set off again, the Zitzahay would follow him without a moment’s hesitation.
They walked and walked. Many days went by in which the wind never stopped shaking the trees for a single moment. High above their heads, the branches groaned and bent in a threatening fashion. Frequently the threat was real enough, and enormous boughs came crashing down, far too close for Cucub’s comfort.
Every so often, above the noise of the storm, they could hear the Earth Wizards’ drums. The two men would pause and raise their heads, trying to determine exactly which direction the sound was coming from.
‘It sounds as if they are following our footsteps,’ Cucub would say.
Wherever the sound came from, and whatever it might mean, the beating drums kept the men company. The Husihuilke and the Zitzahay were comforted to know that Kupuka could not be far away. They renewed their march with a spring in their step.
Then one night, just after they had finished eating a hare Dulkancellin had succeeded in catching, something unexpected happened. They had found nowhere better to spend the night than a hollow trunk, where they were preparing to get some rest. Curled up at the back, Cucub was already almost asleep. Dulkancellin was trying to squeeze into a space that was too small for his big frame. All of a sudden, the warrior saw something that made him leap out of their den without bothering to protect himself from the rain. His sudden movement woke the Zitzahay.
‘What is going on?’ he asked, poking his tousled head out of the trunk.
‘Come quickly!’ shouted Dulkancellin. ‘You have to see this.’
Cucub picked up the warrior’s cloak and his own, then struggled outside.
‘What is happening?’ he asked again, throwing Dulkancellin’s cloak round his shoulders as he did so.
Dulkancellin pointed towards the sea. A stream of lights like will-o’-the-wisps could be seen against the black night. Heading north just as they were.
‘Lukus!’ muttered the Husihuilke warrior. ‘I wonder what made them leave their islands to travel in this rain.’
‘There’s an easy answer to that,’ said Cucub. ‘The lukus have also been called to the Great Council. The ones we can see are probably going to the House of the Stars. But there seem to be lots of them, and as far as I know, there should be no more of them than of us.’
‘There certainly are many there,’ said Dulkancellin.
‘As you can see, most have reddish tails.’
‘That means they are young, of fighting age.’
While Dulkancellin and Cucub were speaking, the lukus disappeared. They must have gone back into the thick forest.
‘Let’s go home,’ the Zitzahay suggested, meaning the hollow trunk. ‘We’ll be able to think it over better there.’
They returned to the tree, where they spent most of the night searching for an explanation of what they had seen. Shortly before the dawn, none the wiser, they both fell asleep. They awoke stiff and sore, chafing in their damp clothes, and still thinking about what they had seen the previous night. Outside their shelter, the morning was the same as ever: cold and rainy. In order to save provisions, they set off once more without eating anything.
Over the next few days, they often saw the lukus again. Always after nightfall, and always heading north.
Almost a hundred of the creatures had left their islands and taken the western path, which for most of the way bordered the coastline of the Lalafke Sea. This was a great number, as the population of lukus was not large. If a hundred young lukus had left their islands to travel up a continent they hardly knew, then these were strange times indeed.
Men and lukus continued in the same direction, but by different paths. Several days went by with no contact between them. Some nights Dulkancellin awoke with a start, thinking he could hear the breathy whistling the creatures of the islands used to communicate with each other. He thought the lukus could be watching them, but knew he would not be able to see them until the lukus chose to show themselves.
Nothing else relieved the monotony of those days of their march. The northern limit of the Ends of the Earth was close. The climate was finally growing less harsh: the rain was easing off, and occasionally stopped altogether. The wind from the sea that had been constantly lashing them was now a plaintive moan.
It was on one of those nights without rain that the lukus showed themselves. Dulkancellin and Cucub saw them draw near: two red tails and a white one, and prepared to receive them.
The old luku was a few paces behind his young escorts. Men and lukus stared at each other without surprise.
The meeting took place in a clearing where Dulkancellin had succeeded in lighting a fire, which Cucub had managed to keep alight. The white-tailed luku spoke in the Natural Language so that the two human beings could understand him.
‘Like you, we are going to the city of Beleram. We are to take part in the Great Council being held in the House of the Stars.’
The Husihuilke and the Zitzahay realized there was no point denying what the luku already appeared to know for certain, and so decided not to say anything.
‘I was chosen to represent my people,’ the luku went on. ‘And I was told to travel along the coast of the Lalafke until I reached Umag of the Great Spring. There a guide from the race of human beings will be waiting to lead me for the rest of my journey.’
‘But you are accompanied by many others,’ Dulkancellin said.
‘I am travelling with those who are most skilled in the art of war. Only a few others have remained on the islands to protect the weak.’
‘Can you tell us why you disobeyed the orders and decided to send an army?’ asked Cucub.
‘Of course I can. That is the only reason for this visit.’
A star appeared in the sky. A glimmer of light that none of them saw.
‘We do not think it should remain a secret that strangers are arriving in their ships,’ said the luku. ‘That is neither necessary nor acceptable for the inhabitants of the Fertile Lands. On the contrary, we are sure that these events should be proclaimed, because only an army of all our peoples will be able to face this new enemy.’ As he spoke, the luku’s appearance changed. A frown spread over his harsh features, and his words were mixed with strange whistles. ‘We should not give these intruders any time. If we let them land, we will be lost. If they so much as leave the mark of
their footsteps on our earth, then many generations will reap poison.’
‘You say that the men arriving from across the sea will be our enemies. How can you be sure of that, when the Magic itself is not certain of it?’ asked Cucub.
‘Do not be so impertinent!’
The luku’s neck stiffened. His two escorts looked to him for an order, but none came. Dulkancellin, who knew the inhabitants of the islands well, prepared to defend the Zitzahay. But the luku’s neck gradually sank back into its shoulders, and so he relaxed his grip on his axe. When the luku spoke again a few moments later, it was in a less hostile manner.
‘For many generations, my people have had the White Stone in our possession. It came from the depths of the sea, and was in the islands long before we inhabited them. But the White Stone was put in our charge, and with it we received a prophecy: “When the White Stone changes colour, and turns from light to dark, this will mean the power of Life over Death has been vanquished. It will be because the reign of sorrow is commencing . . .”’
The Husihuilke warrior nodded. He had heard of the existence of the White Stone from the elders.
The luku searched for something under the long, flowing beard that hung from his chin. The lukus’ hands were very useful to them when they ran, because they were short and strong, but they were not very agile. This meant it cost the old luku a great effort to pull out the small leather pouch hidden there. And an even greater one to remove the White Stone from the pouch and show it to the two men on his callused palm. The Stone was perfectly cylindrical, and was a translucent white colour. Deep within it was an irregularly shaped dark stain.
‘Here it is!’ said the luku. ‘This Stone has always been pure white, without any kind of colour to it. Last summer, deep in its heart, a shadow started to appear. So tiny that many preferred not to see it. Now that winter has begun, nobody can claim the stain does not exist. The Stone is turning dark! The prophecy is being fulfilled! As you can see, Zitzahay, the magic of the lukus is also speaking: and it has no doubts.’
The Days of the Deer Page 9
