by Bjorn Kurten
But the rule of the Guardians was essentially benevolent, and the animate world was good. It gave men the things they needed; and in return, they offered ritual and prayer to complete their compact with the powers. Nor did the Guardians lack humor. They would stand for chaffing and impertinence with a glint in their eyes. But the sins of gluttony and extravagance they did not excuse. If a man took more than he needed, robbed others of the necessities of life, or killed indiscriminately, he broke his compact with the powers, and no ingenuity could help him escape their retaliation.
So the Whites and the Blacks, the men of the past and the men of the future, lived in a compact with the same powers, though they often interpreted the mysteries, of which the world was so full, in different ways. One might see the Star-Hunters’ bridge of ice and snow in the wintry night sky; the other might see the pathway of the birds of the soul, soaring toward eternity. One might hear the voice of the mammoth’s Guardian in the thunderstorm; the other might hear the boom of the Great Swan’s flapping wings. Yet that is the world of appearances; the central compact is the same.
MISS SUNDEW’S CLOUD-BERRIES
Lotte ist todt, Lotte ist todt, Julie nah’ am Sterben—
Schwere Noth, schwere Noth, da ist nichts zu erben!
—Viennese street song (eighteenth century)
“Mother!” called the girl. “Here is another God. And he is alive.”
The girl’s full name was Miss Woad daughter of Angelica Parnassia-granddaughter Torchflower-great-granddaughter, and so on, but she was called Miss Woad for short. Tiger, using his own language, would soon call her Veyde; and that name, which she could hardly pronounce, was later adopted by others. She knew the life stories of her mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, and so on, through ten or more generations; she also knew those of her father, maternal grandfather, and maternal great-grandfather; she did not know her own age, which was about seventeen. One year ago she had had a child, a girl, who died a few weeks old. Since then she had been barren, and last winter her man had been lost on the ice.
Her blond head was barely visible above a tall clump of scorched juniper. One night had passed since the slaughter at the bog, and the reek of smoke hung in the air, blending with the intense fragrance of the bog and the stench of death. The fires had burned themselves out in the stillness without touching the woods. The remains of slaughtered mammoths and men seemed to be everywhere.
Miss Woad’s people called the bog “Miss Sundew’s Cloudberries,” after a female ancestor (Woad could have recited her life story if asked to), and they had harvested it every summer for untold generations. The place, which the day before had been aglitter with the luminous wings of myriad dragonflies, was darkened now, not by soot but by ravens. They feasted in hordes, and some were so full they could hardly fly. Two golden eagles were intent on a mammoth cadaver which had been neatly skinned and fleshed on one side, then flipped over to expose the other, but left with most of the meat. Several other eagles circled above, majestic in flight, their straight broad wings dark against the blue sky. Winged scavengers arrived from ever farther away, and now there were even gulls all the way from the coast in the southeast.
Woad’s party had been drawn to the place by the noise of the hyenas, who were unable to keep a secret. Their hysterical laughter, ranging in pitch from the self-confident boom of the leaders to the shrill falsetto of the underdogs, could be heard in the far distance. They had retreated to the pines now, and were slinking about, betraying their anxiety with occasional twitterings.
As usual, Woad’s call led to the appearance of her mother, Miss Angelica daughter of Parnassia, and several others: old Mister Silverbirch son of Tansy, Miss Silverweed daughter of Buttercup, Mister Marestail son of Tormentil, and young Mister Baywillow son of Angelica. They hovered in the background while Miss Angelica bustled in, composed and authoritative.
Some thought her firmness bordered on acerbity and mumbled that she ought to be called Miss Cowbane, after the poisonous herb akin to the benevolent angelica. To her people, her authority was vested in every feature of her face and body: in her large, vivid blue eyes, overshadowed by proud eagle brows—the “brows of command”; in her full, round face; in her broad chest with its firm, big-nippled breasts; in her flame of pubic hair, disclosing good-sized labia; and in her strong arms with broad yet sensitive hands. She carried a big sealskin bag across her shoulder, and wore a seashell bracelet. Like her people, she was naked. To them her beauty had not faded, and her current husband, Mister Marestail, loved her dearly. He was a few years younger than she.
Saddened by the scene of havoc, she looked down at the boy, who was lying unconscious, pinned by a fallen pine tree.
“Are you sure this is not one of the Devils, Miss Woad?” she asked.
“Of course I am, Mother. Just look at him!”
Clearly the boy was young, still beardless. He was tall and dark like the Gods, but so were the Devils. His young face, now helpless and covered with grime, struck them with a sudden wistful feeling of unattainable beauty. His eyes, with long lashes, were closed. They knew that if he opened them, they would be dark like the moonless night.
“I think you are right, Miss Woad,” said Miss Angelica. “If he were one of the Devils, they would have carried him away.”
“I wonder why they left him alive?”
“They probably thought him dead—or thought he would die anyway. And so he will, if we leave him here.”
The girl and her mother exchanged glances. Then Miss Angelica smiled. “We will try.
“There is no question that this is the work of the Devils,” she said, indicating the scene of the tragedy. “We first heard of them earlier this summer, when they killed some Whites in the north and took many others prisoner. But this slaughter is worse than any I have heard of. Those murderers are enemies of the Gods, just as they are our enemies, so we must save this boy and bury his people with honor. We must also take care of the meat they have left. But first we have to know if the Devils have gone away for good; we cannot risk their returning. Mister Baywillow, would you have the kindness to check their trail?”
The young man passed his hand deferentially over his face. He did not look like the others: he was a full head taller, with chestnut hair and brown eyes. His skin, too, was darker, and became rich with the sun. His shy bearing contrasted with the eaglelike ridge of his brow, which suggested latent strength. Now he set off at an easy run, vanishing soundlessly into the forest. To his trained eye, there was no difficulty in following the tracks of the Devils. Miss Angelica watched him fondly, then turned to old Mister Silverbirch. Her manner underwent a distinct change, and she passed her hand over her face.
“Would you be gracious, Mister Silverbirch, and look at the young God? Can you tell us how badly he is hurt?”
The old man was already beside the boy. “We must get the tree off him, Miss Angelica,” he said.
“Please, Miss Woad, would you ask some of the men here to assist?”
“With pleasure, Mother.”
Gently they lifted the tree and flung it aside, muttering, “Excuse me, Miss Woad,” “Please, Mister Silverbirch,” and other civilities. The tree had fallen on the boy’s legs, which were badly bruised and bleeding; the left leg had an ugly twist.
“He is alive, Miss Angelica,” said the old man. “His leg must be straightened out. I should like to have some plantain for the wounds, but we have to go back to the coast for that. I will need a strong stick and some straps. Then we must make a litter.”
“We will do this first,” said Miss Angelica. “We must care for the living before the dead. Mister Marestail, I wonder if you and Mister Alder would be kind enough to see to the litter. Miss Rosebay and Miss Silverweed can take a party to start working on the meat. Miss Woad and I will see to the dead.”
Much to the annoyance of the ravens, who took wing in a noisy black cloud, the meat-collectors went to work on the fallen mammoths, most of which had been very sketchily dressed
. The real delicacies—tongue, brain, and liver—were gone, but much of the red meat was left, and would keep perfectly well if smoked without delay. “They must have departed in a hurry, Miss Silverweed,” said Miss Rosebay. Miss Silverweed, wielding a big hand-axe and splattered with blood from head to foot, agreed.
Meanwhile, Miss Angelica and Miss Woad looked for the corpses of the Gods. They started at the far end of the bog to head off the hyenas, who promptly vanished into the forest. Some of the dead had already been attacked, and one or two mostly eaten. A number of them still carried ornaments, mostly necklaces made of teeth, which did not look particularly valuable. “The Devils probably carried off the best pieces,” said Miss Angelica. The two women carried the corpses to the edge of the bog, where they meant to bury them. Though they did not know the dead men, it was sad work for both women.
Untouched by scavengers, the last corpse lay on its face, quite close to the wounded boy. Its wounds showed that it had been killed instantly by a light javelin.
“That is one of the Devils’ weapons,” said Miss Angelica. “They fly faster and farther than ours, with a magic which makes the arm longer and stronger.” Turning the body over, she gazed with wonder at the great tiger tooth that had been concealed beneath it.
“Look, Mother! I never saw such a thing before,” cried Miss Woad.
Miss Angelica’s lips moved though she made no sound. She stared at the dead God, looking from his face to the tooth and back again. “Mother?” repeated Miss Woad, and finally Miss Angelica became aware of her again.
“It is a tiger tooth,” she said. “There have been no tigers here for a long time. I saw a pair a very long time ago, when I was younger than you are now, Miss Woad. And once, also long ago, I saw a tooth like this.” Again, she searched the face of the dead God.
“We will take the tooth,” she said, “and give it to the young God.” Very gently she lifted the head of the dead God and took off the tooth, which hung on a simple necklace of twined mammoth hair. “Now, please, go and see how old Mister Silverbirch is getting on, and bring the men to help with the grave. I will keep watch.” The girl strode off obediently, with a glance over her shoulder at Miss Angelica, who knelt by the bodies. But she could not see her mother’s face.
Mister Baywillow returned, saying that the Devil party had left for good. The dead Gods were then buried, each with a generous piece of smoked meat to sustain him on his journey to the Land of Dead Gods. For surely there must be such a place, just as there was a land for Dead Men. Big boulders were rolled down from the esker overlooking the bog and placed upon the graves to keep their contents safe. Finally, yellow loosestrife, red campion, and other flowers in season were scattered over the graves, and the dead were honored in an epic song by Mister Silverbirch, who made up a remarkable catalogue of their feats. His tales astonished all who listened, and would have astonished the principal characters even more.
Woad’s people had cut the mammoth meat into strips, treated it with fragrant juniper smoke, and piled it on runners. It was late in the afternoon before the party set out, heading due southeast and pulling their runners easily through the low bilberry bushes that covered the floor of the forest. Two of the men carried the litter with the young God’s unconscious body.
Tiger awoke and felt he was leaving one nightmare to enter another. He shivered with cold and a dull pain ran through his body, gradually collecting itself in his left shin. He tried to fight it, but the pain barricaded itself like a patient enemy, preparing to strike again. Tiger realized that he was being carried, and looked up to see stars in the gathering dusk, visible in the openings between the pine crowns.
Why was he being carried? Something had happened: that he knew with a terrifying certainty, but he could not remember what it was. He must be hurt. Were they carrying him home? Tiger looked for his friends, but could not see them clearly in the dark. There were shapes around him, but they seemed odd, uncouth, hardly human.
The odd sensations waned, and Tiger fell unconscious once more. Time passed. The shooting pain came back. He groaned and looked up.
He was staring into a big, hideous face, which grinned down at him like a madman. A Troll, thought Tiger, too weak to be surprised.
It was dark, but there was a fire near by. He felt its warmth on one side. On the other, the cold of the night assailed him. The swaying had stopped. He felt his body covered by something furry—a bearskin.
Again he stared into the large pale face, still showing its teeth in a fearsome grin. He’s going to kill me, thought Tiger. And with that idea, memory returned, with a violence which drove out his physical suffering. The image of his father, transfixed by an atlatl spear, stood before him. That picture would be with Tiger for the rest of his life.
They killed him, he thought. Now they are going to kill me. And the idea came almost as a consolation. Yet there was still fight in him. Closing his eyes, he raised his voice in an incantation:
“O Black Tiger, Mammoth-Killer, stand by! I need your help!” He was surprised at his own rasping, unsteady voice.
Nothing happened. The Troll chuckled, and Tiger opened his eyes again, to find the strange figure bending over him still. It was a Troll ox with a broad nose, an enormous mouth, and light grey eyes under heavy brow-ridges. There were deep wrinkles around the eyes, and the head was completely bald. The Troll passed its hand over its face, and the gesture was oddly reassuring to Tiger.
Then the Troll turned and uttered something in a surprisingly high-pitched voice. In a moment several more of the big pale faces were looking down at Tiger. The Trolls were all talking, gesturing, passing their hands over their faces. The bald Troll raised his hands and started talking slowly.
Tiger stared at him without understanding, and the Troll passed his hand over his face many times before trying again. Suddenly Tiger realized that he was hearing something like his own language, only so distorted that he could hardly recognize the words.
“Ah spahk Man talk,” the Troll was repeating. “Ah spahk Man talk.”
“You…” mumbled Tiger, “you speak my language!” With the image still torturing him, he had a ready accusation. And yet, something made him turn it into a question: “Did you kill my father?”
He had to repeat it twice before the Troll understood. Finally, he shook his head vigorously.
“Na kall, na kall,” he said. “Troll na kall. Black man kall.”
Tiger tried to understand. “I don’t believe you,” he said in a whisper. He looked around. “I saw the javelin hit him…” Then his eye was caught by the Troll spears stacked close to the fire, and he remembered an echo of the Chief’s voice—yesterday? a week ago?—“Big spears with crude points…” He saw Marten with the spear-shaft coming apart in his hands; himself, making a new shaft.
With a sudden exertion, Tiger rose up on his elbow, ignoring the spasm of pain that immediately shot through his body. He looked around the camp, barely visible in the flickering light of the fire, and a curious gleam came into his eyes. Yes, there was the fire, the stacked spears, the packs of meat, and other supplies on the runners. The Chief had been right. His own recollection was right. The Trolls had no atlatl javelins.
Tiger tried hard to remember the day of the hunt. He felt that he had forgotten something important. Suddenly, he was reminded. Among the Troll oxen and bitches, all short and sturdy, with large pale faces and almost white hair, he now saw someone different—one dark face among the Whites. As if drawn by Tiger’s gaze, the face moved closer.
“Shelk,” said Tiger.
The tall dark Troll responded at once. “Shelk?” he repeated.
And at that single word the other Trolls looked at him with awe. Already, Tiger perceived his mistake.
“No, you’re not Shelk,” he said. “You’re much younger. But there is something…”
“Shelk?” said the young man again, as if trying out the sound of the word on his tongue.
Weary, Tiger returned to his own problem. Shelk! He
remembered the stranger’s arrogant face and bearing, his rich amber ornaments, his retinue of hardened hunters, and his eagle brows, shadowing dark and penetrating eyes. Yes, the shape of the face and the brows were the same, but in the eyes of this young Troll there was only innocence and wonder.
Tiger’s people had known violence, but in a restrained form. They dealt death swiftly and competently to the animals of the hunt, and in this act they felt that they fulfilled the demands of the mystical bond between man and beast. No hunt was consummated without a ritual of participation and love, without celebrating the quarry as a chosen animal and honoring its life, which sustained the men whose tryst it had kept. Building their houses from mammoth bones, men talked proudly of the splendor and might of that animal, thus ensuring long life and prosperity to the structure.
Clashes with their fellow men occurred too, but they were always conducted in a way that combined a minimum of bloodshed with a maximum of excitement. Each warring group chose one man, and the outcome of a single combat decided the issue. In early summer, soon after Tiger’s initiation, the right of his people to the hunting grounds west of Trout Lake had been challenged. The question had been settled by a man-to-man fight, without arms. The Trout Lake Chief emerged victorious against the champion of the other party, and that settled it. No one was seriously hurt, and reconciliation followed at the Summer Meet.
The image hovering before Tiger’s eyes was utterly different, beyond the experience of his people, just as it was beyond the experience of the Troll tribe. One thing could never be justified: that was the deliberate shooting of an atlatl spear into the body of a fellow man. Yet the image of his father’s death rose to his mind’s eye again and again.
