‘But the Astronomers—’ Cucub protested.
‘The Astronomers are wasting their time debating contradictions,’ the luku cut in sharply. ‘We have no such doubts. We are going to the Great Council to show them the White Stone. We trust this will be enough for the peoples of the Fertile Lands to understand that the war has already begun. And above all, that Magic should take up arms without delay. If they do not, then we will deserve our defeat.’
‘What will the lukus do if the Council does not support them?’ asked Dulkancellin.
The luku shook his bushy white tail before replying:
‘In that case, we will fight and die alone. You can be assured that the enemy will not find the lukus making garlands in their honour.’
‘If you decide to go against the Council’s decision you will be seen as traitors,’ said Cucub.
Something flashed through the luku’s mind. Something that he refused to express out loud.
‘Whatever happens, we must now continue our journey northwards. We will only halt to talk to the Pastors of the Desert,’ was his sole answer.
‘Remember this is not the time to reveal any secrets!’ Cucub warned him.
‘But bear in mind we do not think as you do!’
The luku thrust himself forward defiantly, and raised himself to his full height. He tucked the stone back beneath his beard, turned on his heels, and left without a goodbye. The two young lukus did the same, following him at a short distance.
Dulkancellin and Cucub were alone again. Wrapped in their own thoughts, they sat in silence as the fire died out. After a while, the Zitzahay lay back with his hands behind his head.
‘Look, Dulkancellin!’ he said, sitting up and pointing to the sky.
He was staring up at the stars, the few stars twinkling high above the forest.
‘We can sleep in peace, brother. Tomorrow we will be woken by the sun.’
13
THE CARPET ON THE SAND
The luku army sped onwards, soon leaving the two men behind.
Standing on its hind legs, an adult luku came up to the waist of a Husihuilke warrior. When erect, they advanced only awkwardly, yet if they used their paws, they could bound along tirelessly. Their shiny tails, which rose high above their heads, were lashes for any foe. Wherever they struck, they left a bloody wound. Then, thanks to the confusion this caused, the luku would return to the attack. If a luku succeeded in wrapping his tail round his adversary, the result was horrific. To emerge alive from a combat against a group of enraged lukus was rare, even for the warriors of the Ends of the Earth. But the lukus had enormous eyes, through which their souls were visible.
When the lukus crossed the Marshy Bridge, the same one Cucub had taken in the opposite direction on his way to Dulkancellin’s village, the sky was blue; the sun was warming the sand. Unlike the Zitzahay messenger, the lukus did not try to avoid the Pastors. On the contrary, they deliberately sought them out. They had travelled for a day when in the middle of the desert they saw a line of high dunes. This seemed to them like a good place from which to reconnoitre the land. And so it proved. As night fell, the group of luku scouts who had climbed the dunes spied campfires in the distance. At first light, the luku army headed for them.
A few tents spread in a semicircle, an adobe hut used to store grain and other things, animal pens, a water hole . . . and scattered all around, pots, tools, piles of wood, men and beasts. The camp was a temporary one, which the Pastors would soon abandon, leaving only traces that the wind would soon erase.
The island creatures were warmly received by the Pastors. The main part of their army stayed on the outskirts of the camp, while the old luku was immediately taken, as he had requested, into the presence of the leader.
Their conversation was brief, and took place inside a tent similar to all the others in the camp. The Pastor chief was sitting on a pile of llamel skins. He listened to everything the luku had to say, which was almost the same as what Cucub and Dulkancellin had heard when they met in the forest. As he had done then, the luku was about to show the White Stone as proof of his words, but something stopped him. A vague feeling made him change his mind and tell the Pastor he had nothing more to add. The Pastor chief realized it was his turn to respond. The luku had to struggle to understand him, because not only did he speak the Natural Language badly, but he had the rough accent of those living in the desert.
‘Not everything you have said is new to us. Some days ago, our Head Herdsman met a Zitzahay who brought a message with him. He spoke of a Council to be held in Beleram. He explained why it was being held, and said he wanted to take the man’s first-born son with him. The Zitzahay said he would take him to the House of the Stars to represent the Pastors there. The herdsman watched his son leave with the Zitzahay, but was troubled by the news and did not delay in reporting it to the chiefs in the camps. Now you have arrived and shown that he was right to be concerned. I will have to find him quickly so that we can act! I will set out this very day. I will need to visit our camps to ask where he is, because at the moment I do not know. When I find him I will tell him the decision the luku people has come to. You go on ahead with your army. We will join you in the Remote Realm.’
The white-tailed luku felt that his message had been understood, and that they had sealed a pact of loyalty.
‘Wait, luku! I will tell my people to prepare an offering in honour of you and your army. We have little more than maize beer, but I think it will be refreshing for you. Drink, it will give you strength for your journey.’ The Pastor’s smile revealed his black, decaying teeth.
The Pastors told the lukus they would take them to a place where they could celebrate. This was a piece of flat ground surrounded by dunes covered in thorn bushes. The only entrance was along a narrow path that the lukus found hard to walk down. On the sand in the centre of the hollow, the Pastors had spread a rush carpet. They placed bowls full of their maize beer in the centre. The sun beat down on the offering.
Exhausted from the heat and their days of travelling, the island creatures tasted the slightly acid maize beer with great pleasure: all the more so as it was cool from being kept in jars under the sand.
The Pastors did not join in the celebration. Drawn up in two lines on either side of the lukus, they watched them drink. They watched anxiously. They watched them ...
After their encounter in the forest clearing, Cucub and Dulkancellin never saw the lukus again.
Now that the rain had stopped, their trek became easier, so that they soon reached the river on the border. They were at the edge of their territory, and the Earth Wizard had still not appeared.
‘It’s odd we have not seen Kupuka,’ Dulkancellin commented to his companion. ‘He assured us we would see him again before we left the Ends of the Earth. And he would not go back on his word except for a very serious reason.’
‘I agree with you,’ Cucub replied, and was even more surprised at his answer than was Dulkancellin.
With the purpose of resting and waiting for Kupuka, the two men decided to halt on the banks of the Marshy River. They walked inland from the estuary until they came to clear water, and bathed for a long while. Then they washed their clothes in the river and spread them out to dry in the sun. Beside them they laid out all their belongings so that they could dry out too. This was a good moment to get some respite, because from now on they would have to redouble their precautions.
The Zitzahay looked for a strong branch, and sharpened one end. He waded back into the river up to his knees, then stood stock still with his improvised harpoon raised in one hand. Twice he plunged it into the river without success. The third time he speared a big fish. So big that after they had flavoured it with herbs and cooked it on hot stones it made a real feast. All this food left them feeling sleepy, and they decided to rest under the shade of a tree. When they awoke, the sun had set and Kupuka had still not appeared. The Earth Wizard was taking too long: the travellers knew they could wait no longer. Reluctantly, they pu
t their dry clothes back on, swung their bags on their backs, and set off once more.
Dulkancellin and Cucub crossed the bridge under a full moon that shimmered on the desert sand.
They walked all through the night. At first light, the north wind brought bad news.
‘There’s a smell of death,’ said Dulkancellin, sniffing the air. ‘The wind reeks of death.’
As they walked on, the stench became stronger.
‘It’s coming from over there,’ said the warrior, pointing to a circle of high dunes to the north-east of their path. The gaggle of carrion and their dreadful screeching told Dulkancellin that they had a lot to feast on.
‘Cucub, we have to go and see what has happened.’
The Zitzahay tried to persuade him otherwise.
‘What are you saying? We have to avoid the Pastors. That means we should aim back towards the coast. And if I am not mistaken, those dunes are in the opposite direction. If we do as you suggest it would be disobeying orders and running a terrible risk!’
‘Even so, we have to do it.’
‘Why do we “have to”?’ said Cucub. ‘Why go out of our way for a dead llamel?’
‘The stench on the breeze cannot be due to one dead llamel.’
‘All right,’ Cucub admitted. ‘Let’s say there are lots of them.’
‘I trust I am wrong, but I have the feeling this is something far more serious. Anyway, if you are right we will only lose the time it takes us to reach the dunes and return. They are not far off, so we will not be long.’
With this, the Husihuilke set off towards the dunes. The Zitzahay followed. He was muttering complaints and conjectures until the fetid odour silenced him too. As they drew nearer to the dunes, it became harder and harder to breathe. In a short while, they were struggling up a steep mound of sand. Cucub made no great effort to catch up with Dulkancellin, who had strode on ahead of him. Even though they were both protecting their noses and mouths with their cloaks, it was not enough. Cucub doubled up several times, overcome by the foul smell. Dulkancellin also had to fight against rising tides of nausea.
‘Over here, Zitzahay! I’ve found a path.’
The path was a narrow gap through the thorn bushes, leading to the top of the dunes. From there they could look down into the hollow below. When they did, they immediately wished they had never come to this spot. Scattered all over the patch of ground, their bodies pecked at by hundreds of beaks, the luku army lay rotting in the sun.
Unable to bear what he was seeing, Cucub closed his eyes. His one thought was that he never wanted to open them again. Perhaps because he had often returned to battlefields in search of his dead, the Husihuilke warrior forced himself to be strong.
‘Stay here,’ he ordered the Zitzahay. ‘I’m going down there to find out why all the lukus died. And if I can, I’ll try to save the White Stone.’
Dulkancellin rushed down the slope through the thorn bushes. His presence disturbed the birds of prey, though they merely flew up and circled overhead, waiting for the first opportunity to renew their banquet.
It was midday in the desert. In the burning heat, the Husihuilke searched among the dead bodies for the luku elder. Some of the corpses lay with their faces to the sky. Others had fallen face downwards, or were piled up in a heap. Dulkancellin pulled them from each other, trying to find the luku with the long beard he had met only a few days before. But all their faces were grimaces of pain, too similar in death.
Feeling giddy and sick, Dulkancellin carried out his task as if in a dream. He had not achieved anything, apart from confirming that the lukus had not died fighting. At that moment, a noise made him raise his head. Along the top of the dune he saw two lines of Pastors, already drawing back their bows. And they had Cucub with them!
14
TAKEN PRISONER
Cucub walked in front of Dulkancellin, with the Desert Pastors urging them on as quickly as possible.
The Pastors resting in the shade of their tents were amazed to see two strangers arriving, flanked by the desert guards. They ran out to meet them. Neither Cucub nor Dulkancellin could understand either the questions asked or the replies given, because the Pastors were speaking in their own tongue. They imagined, however, that they were to be taken to see the chief. And they were not wrong.
The group came to a halt outside a tent that was no different to any of the others. Two Pastors who, to judge by their bearing, must be in positions of command, disappeared inside and did not reappear until several hours later. By this time it was growing dark in the desert; the wait continued by the light of the first campfires. Cucub held his head in his hands, dejected at the result of what he saw as their disobeying of the orders they had received. Faithful to his habit of only being concerned with the present, the Husihuilke warrior was busy studying the area in which they were being held captive.
All of a sudden, the tent flap opened. One of the men inside poked his head out and shouted an order. The two strangers were immediately bundled inside. The roof of the tent was so low that Dulkancellin could not stand upright. Perhaps for this reason, or because this was the custom, the man who appeared to be the chief signalled the two men to sit on a mat. He himself remained seated on a high pile of llamel skins. Perched there, and with a cloak covering his entire body, he looked far more imposing than he would have done standing.
‘The lukus came here to tell us of their fears over what is about to happen. Now my men tell me they have found them all dead in the desert. And that you, stranger, were searching among their bodies. The lukus were our guests. Now they all lie dead in a hollow ... Who are you, and what do you know about these deaths?’ The Pastor chief spoke the Natural Language unclearly, mixing it with the guttural sounds of his own tongue.
The two men were sure that the lukus had told the Pastor about the Great Council soon to be held in Beleram, and of the warning from the White Stone. They also knew that if they were not completely honest they would never reach the House of the Stars in time. What then of the command to keep the true reason for their journey a secret? Was that not one of the strictest instructions they had received?
Cucub and Dulkancellin exchanged glances. The secret was already fatally wounded. They, though, could still reach their destination. The Zitzahay, who was more skilled at speaking, took the lead and explained who they were and where they were headed.
‘We too spoke to the lukus,’ he said, by way of conclusion. ‘In the forest, two days’ march before the Marshy River. Later, the stench of death led us to the place where we found them. My companion was not rummaging among their corpses. He was searching for—’ All at once, Cucub decided not to mention the White Stone. ‘He was searching for the cause of their death. It seems as though there is someone roaming these deserts. Someone apart from you and us.’
Unfortunately, this revelation did not produce the result Cucub and Dulkancellin had been hoping for. The reply they received seemed friendly enough, but it was not what they would have liked to hear.
‘I believe what you have told us, stranger from the Remote Realm. I think it is true you were sent to take this Husihuilke to the House of the Stars by the Astronomers. I believe you . . . but I must tell you it is our Head Herdsman whom you have to convince. He is the one who must decide if you will be allowed to continue with your journey. We know he is on his way, and trust he will soon be here. But until he does we will keep you with us.’
‘Please understand! We must make all haste. We are already late, and many people are awaiting us. Let us be on our way!’
Cucub’s urgent appeal had no effect.
‘That cannot be. But do not worry, the Head Herdsman will be here soon. I promise to speak on your behalf. When he gives his approval, we will supply you with llamels to cross the desert more speedily.’
With that, the chief spoke to the other Pastors in the tent in their own language. Afterwards, to show his consideration, he explained what he had told them.
‘I have ordered these me
n to search. I’ve told them to try to discover what happened to the lukus.’
Dulkancellin understood that for the moment there was no point insisting. He contented himself with asking a favour on behalf of the dead lukus, towards whom he had a longstanding debt.
‘I beg you also to order a proper burial for them,’ he said.
The Pastor chief settled on one elbow. His silence could have been taken as agreement.
‘That silence troubles me,’ said Cucub.
‘That silence ...’ Dulkancellin could not forget it either.
The two men were talking together. They were shut in an old building that served as a grain store, a barn when the flocks were having their young, and a shelter against sandstorms. It smelt of damp and manure. The only light came in through a small opening near the roof.
‘We have been here too long,’ said Dulkancellin.
‘Four suns. The one beginning to appear outside now will make it five,’ Cucub replied.
The warrior paced up and down the floor of their prison.
‘I dreamt of the lukus again last night,’ he said. ‘At first it was just as before. They appeared in my dream in the same way as they appeared to us in that hollow. I went down towards them ... but before I could touch them, I awoke with a start. This time, though, the lukus waited for me to fall asleep again, then came back to my dreams.’ Only then did the warrior seem to remember he was not alone: ‘Listen, Cucub! The only wounds I saw on the lukus’ bodies were made by those birds. Death did not come from outside. It came from within, and caused them great pain. They must have swallowed some strong poison.’
‘You’ve said the same thing countless times in these past few days,’ Cucub complained. ‘Don’t you have anything new to add?’
‘I could add that this second dream left me feeling very uneasy.’
The Days of the Deer Page 10
