The Gathering Night

by Margaret Elphinstone

  My aim was true. I caught him under the shoulder. My spear went deep.

  Bakar ran to the twisting boar. He thrust his spear in below the other shoulder. Three brave dogs began to bite, tearing at the hide. The young dog ran round us, barking. The rest of us held on. We kept on holding. The boar writhed and fought. The blood from his wound ran down my spear and into the earth. The shaft slid in my hands, leaping up and down as if it were alive. The ground under our feet was slippery with blood and mud. We held on. We held fast, and slowly, very slowly, the great boar died. He thrashed and lay still, and together Bakar and I let our spears drop before the dead weight broke them.

  We eased our spears out of the boar’s flesh. The dogs licked up the blood round our feet. The barbed point of Bakar’s spear was broken, snapped into three pieces by the boar’s straining muscles. Bakar shrugged and said, ‘So there’s work for tomorrow, as if I needed it.’

  I went to my old dog and rolled him over. His body was limp, and there was a great wound in his stomach where the boar had gored him. The soul had gone out of his eyes. The other dogs watched, tails down.

  Bakar and I put our hands into the wounds we’d made, and smeared each other with the hot blood. We cupped our hands where the blood flowed, and drank. The Boar’s spirit was with us, and our hearts were his.

  I took embers from my pouch, unrolled the damp moss and blew sparks on shavings of birchbark. While I got our fire going, Bakar slit the boar down the belly-line and pulled the guts aside. He cut out the liver and heart. We cut strips, held them in the flame to seal the blood, then wolfed them down. We threw the lungs to the dogs. The hunt had made us hungry, but as soon as we ate, the life-warmth of the Boar flowed into our veins and made us strong.

  Bakar knew I grieved for my dog. He helped me weave a platform out of saplings and lay the dog high off the ground where the spirits would find him. We did that as if he were a man, because I knew the soul of that brave dog would wish to be among People, just as his life with me had been.

  Bakar cut another sapling and we lashed the boar to it. It had taken less than half a morning to walk uphill to the Boar’s Thicket, but it took from before midday until sunset to carry the dead boar back to River Mouth Camp. Although it was downhill, we had to rest often. We changed places, and shifted the weight from one shoulder to the other. He was as great a boar as two men alone could kill, let alone carry, but that day Bakar and I did both.

  When we got back, the women had known – though how you women always seem to know these things is beyond me – to line the pit and heat stones in the fire. The dogs ran ahead, barking our success. The women came out to meet us. They noticed at once that my dog was missing. Alaia cried out, wanting to know what had happened to him. We took no notice. To tell the truth I doubt if we could have carried our load another step, but we wouldn’t show weakness in front of the women. So we marched right up to the fire without speaking, and dumped the dead boar beside it.

  Alaia glanced at me once, and didn’t say another word about my dog, then or ever. Alaia is a good woman.

  Bakar looked at the cooking pit and the hot stones waiting in the embers, and scowled. ‘So you thought someone would bring back meat, did you? Ah well, you’re sadly mistaken, as you see. All we’ve got is this puny bit of a pig for you. That won’t do you much good.’

  ‘Ah well,’ Alaia grinned back at him, ‘that’s very sad. But I think if you scrape the bottom of the cooking pit you might find some old limpets. You must be hungry for your supper, after such a disappointing day.’

  ‘Not so hungry as your man here. I had nothing to do but carry the pole. That was easy, because as you see all we had was this poor half-starved pig. But you should know it was your man who caught it on his spear first. Not that I’m jealous, since there’s hardly enough meat to flavour a limpet, now I get a chance to look at it. Are you going to take first cut, Amets, or are you too ashamed of this small day’s work to set your knife to it?’

  I smiled. ‘I’ll conquer my shame,’ I said. ‘But admit it’s your shame too, Bakar. Because I think that little needle-prick on the other side is your work. If we can call it work. These women might have made a better job of it, but they won’t say so, because they’re too kind. Isn’t that right?’ I was addressing Alaia, but I could see Haizea giggling at her side. I was fond of her, but of course I couldn’t speak to my wife’s little sister directly. ‘You won’t shame us by pointing out what a miserable supper we’ve brought back for you, will you?’

  Haizea giggled. ‘I don’t mind eating it,’ she said to Bakar. ‘But then there mightn’t be any left for you, if I eat all I want!’

  So we went on, while Bakar and I laid the boar on its back. Bakar cut away the jaw while I cut the ribs apart. Alaia put the brain and kidneys to roast quickly in the ashes because everyone was hungry. I threw a hind leg to the dogs. Alaia put the hot stones at the bottom of the pit and laid the cut ribs and shoulders over them. Bakar and I hung the rest of the carcass in a tree. Alaia covered her pit with turfs so the meat would roast slowly. It soon began to smell good! One thing about being by ourselves at River Mouth Camp: we didn’t have to give any of our meat away. That night we feasted by firelight while the stars swam towards the Evening Sun Sky, until the first streaks of dawn spread across the Morning Sun Sky. There was Moon enough to eat by, and on a night of plenty, who needs more?

  That was the last hunt, and the last feast, that I shared with my wife’s brother Bakar. It was a great boar who gave himself that day. See these tusks – the ones I wear round my neck – these are his. If I spread my fingers wide – see – the long tusk reaches right from my first finger to the fourth. See that mark, that’s where his skin came to. Look how worn they are – sharp as an arrowhead! Go on, you can take them if you like – go on, pass them round – I don’t wear these tusks because I’ve anything to say about my own skill. I did very little that day. I wear them so as to remember my good dog – the bravest dog I ever had. Look! See how the dogs are listening to me! They remember. They know.

  Nekané said:

  My son Bakar went out alone at the end of Yellow Leaf Moon. He wanted to train the young dog, so he left the other dogs behind. He had his bow and nine arrows. No spear. His spear had been broken the day Bakar and Amets killed the boar by the High Lochan. Though he’d started to make a new one, he still had to finish the barbs. That last hunt had been worth breaking a spear for! We were very happy that evening when Bakar and Amets came back to River Mouth Camp with the dead boar slung on a pole. We had the cooking pit ready, so they singed the skin at once, butchered the meat by firelight and gave it to us to cook right away.

  After that it rained for three days. We cut up the rest of the boar and hung the strips of meat to dry in the shelter. Bakar and Amets cleaned the boar’s skull and wedged it into the crook of River Mouth Hazel. We all stopped what we were doing while they told the Boar how we’d eaten his meat, and now we were happy because we were his children. Then Alaia and Haizea went back to tending the fire of rotten birch logs that smoked under the drying meat. Bakar walked over Breast Hill to collect pine branches. We have to walk a long way from River Mouth Camp to get pine. He was soaked through when he came back; I hung his leggings and tunic to dry in the meat shelter.

  Bakar propped up the tent flap to make himself a shelter, and squatted under it, wearing nothing but his loincloth while his clothes dried. Raindrops dripped off the door flap and ran down his back. The marks of Auk and Wolf and Bear written across his shoulders gleamed as if they were alive, prowling in the secret hunting lands of a man’s dreams. Bakar untied the bundle of pine lengths, chose the straightest, and stripped off the bark. He took a flint core from his pouch and chipped off a new blade. My son nearly always got just the blade he wanted at the first strike – nothing wasted. He flicked out the knife blade he’d used for cutting the boar meat, and carefully glued in a new blade. Then he shaved his pine lengths into supple wands; at the tip of each he carved rounded heads. As he fi
nished each bird arrow he balanced it on his finger, testing the weight. He fletched each one with crows’ feathers. He looked up when Haizea came back, dripping wet, lugging a big eel in a basket.

  ‘Is that my dinner? It looks as if it’s been in a fight!’

  ‘It has. I had to bash its head right in to get it out of the trap. Are you making new arrows? What will you do with the old ones?’

  Bakar was always teasing his little sister. But he was kind to her as well, in his way. ‘Now why would you be asking me that? Surely you don’t want any? All right’ – Bakar shook three old arrows out of his quiver – ‘here! You can try to mend them if you like.’

  ‘My bow isn’t big enough for these arrows.’

  ‘Your bow? What’s wrong with a sling?’

  ‘Babies use slings and pebbles! I want a proper bow!’

  ‘The finest hunters test their skill on slings! Don’t let the spirits hear you getting above yourself, Haizea!’ But Bakar was always soft-hearted. When Haizea trailed away, looking upset – as well she might – he called her back. ‘Here, take the arrows, stupid. You can cut them down to fit your bow.’

  When he had made his arrows and re-strung his bow, Bakar went back to mending his broken spear. While he cut the barbs and smoothed them with pumice, I used the rest of the pinewood to make the fire hot, and smothered the eel in the ashes. When it was roasted I pulled it out of the fire and cut it into juicy slices of delicious white meat.

  ‘Eat now while it’s hot! You can finish binding that afterwards, Bakar. It won’t run away!’

  Bakar propped his half-mended spear against the Hollow Oak, and laid the leftover piece of antler next to the tent. As soon as the Sun came out Bakar went out with his bow, his six new bird arrows and three flint-tipped arrows. He meant to teach the young dog to retrieve birds. He had his knife at his belt. He was wearing his deerskin tunic and leggings – without any cloak, because the Sun was hot. I filled his pouch with roasted hazelnuts. That was all he had with him.

  He never came back.

  The dog didn’t come back either. Yellow Leaf Moon passed, and Swan Moon. The days grew shorter. Day after day I searched for my son. I walked the shores of River Mouth country, and wandered among the marshes. I followed the deer paths through the oaks, and climbed high among birch and juniper. I often climbed our Look-out Hill. I scanned the marshes, and the open water of the estuary beyond. I searched the ridges of the protecting hills that surround our River Mouth. I walked over the hills until I saw the snow-covered cone of Mother Mountain far-off under the High Sun Sky.

  Day after day I, who had always provided so well for my family, brought nothing home. Alaia and Haizea gathered roots, hazelnuts, acorns and mushrooms until Swan Moon. It was they who set the bird traps, collected shellfish and speared flatfish, and dug for roots among the reeds. They cooked the food and roasted the nuts, and fed the men when they got home. My man and Amets hunted small game, and sometimes went after the deer who come down to graze in the marshes when the days grow shorter. No one needed me. Never before had I taken more than I gave.

  Day after day I searched for my son. I slept alone under the stars, and in the mornings my cloak was stiff with frost. I didn’t stop to find food, but I felt no hunger. I journeyed far from River Mouth Camp. I followed the shores that faced the Evening Sun Sky. I borrowed a boat and crossed to Cave Island; my sister Hilargi’s family hadn’t seen my son. I followed the shore of Mother Mountain Loch and asked at every Camp I came to. No one had word of my son. I crossed Mother Mountain Island to the shore that faces the Morning Sun Sky, and I walked the coast of Long Strait. None of our kin at any of the winter Camps had seen my son. The tides had washed the sands clean, and I found no trace of him. I turned inland towards the Long Loch. As I wandered among the oaks I found the tracks of deer and pig, bear and beaver, fox, lynx, marten, cat and wolf. But there were no human tracks among them. I never found a trace of Bakar.

  Swan Moon came and went. Now it was Dark Moon. The snow came. The days were too short for travel. I was forced to go back to River Mouth Camp.

  I heard the ring of stone on stone long before I reached our clearing, and when I got there I found Amets using a wedge to split birch logs from the tree the beavers felled, and Alaia, with her big belly, stacking firewood under the shelter. A fresh deer hide, a seal hide and two beaver pelts were stretched on frames to dry. My husband and Haizea were sitting together on a log by the door, their heads bent over some work.

  They all stopped what they were doing when they saw me. My man smiled at me kindly; Amets and Alaia seemed subdued. Only my younger daughter jumped up and hugged me. No one asked about my journey. Haizea has never been able to give her mind to more than one thing at once. She dragged me over to where my man was sitting: ‘Mother, look! See my new bow! I made it! Actually Father helped me make it. We went upriver to find juniper yesterday, and we carved it and greased it with ochre – see! And today we strung it. Now we’re making arrows – we’re just gluing the arrowheads. I made the glue myself – look!’

  It was warm and dry inside the winter house. While I’d been gone they’d stripped the walls back to the bark during a dry spell, and built fresh turfs over it. Amets and Alaia had laid new birchbark round the smoke hole, and lined the inside walls with hides. Haizea had cleared out the old pine twigs and strewn new ones across the floor. She and Alaia had climbed into the hills and brought back juniper to lay under the birch boughs in our sleeping places. The beds on both sides of the hearth were covered with winter furs. Firewood was stacked almost to the roof, and there was even more under the shelter between the oaks outside. Haunches of deer and beaver meat hung from the roof, and a string of saithe dangled in the smoke above the fire. Baskets of reed-roots, lily-roots, roasted hazelnuts and orange earth-mushrooms were lashed to the walls. I saw Alaia’s hand everywhere. I wanted to praise her, but somehow the words came out wrong. She seemed angry that I should mention her work at all.

  It was the season when an old woman should make herself comfortable by the hearth. I had the promise of Alaia’s child to rock in my arms before the winter was out. But I cared for none of these things. I was starved with cold and hunger from my long wanderings. You’d think I’d be glad of food and shelter and the warmth of the fire.

  But it was all ashes in my mouth, because Bakar was lost, and I’d found no trace of him.

  Young men must die.

  When we meet at Gathering Camp there’s always news that young men have died. They die at sea when they fish far out; they die hunting bear or boar or a stag in rut; they die in spring when they climb the sea cliffs; they die killing one another. When they kill each other it’s either because of a woman, or in a brawl at the Gathering. But when Bakar was lost the Gathering was long over and we were all in our winter Camps. There were no women to be had when we were alone at River Mouth Camp, and no groups of young men to goad one another into foolishness. Bakar wouldn’t have strayed into another family’s hunting grounds from River Mouth Camp. Why should he? There were plenty of Animals where we were, and if he had gone further, why then he’d have had to carry the meat all the way back home, and what would have been the point of that? And if others had come into our winter grounds, then surely I’d have found signs of them in my wanderings.

  Young men must die.

  But not my son! Every mother thinks that: ‘not my son!’ Some mothers have sons to spare. My sister Sorné has five sons, and never lost one. I had only one, and he’d gone.

  If young men didn’t die there’d be too many. If some didn’t die People would grow dangerous, subject to the violent spirit of youth. Young men must die, just as young Animals must die when we hunt them. If there weren’t so much death we’d all perish, and not be able to come back. I’d always known that young men must die. But not my son!

  In Dark Moon, after Bakar was lost, the world grew strange around me. I began to see things that had been hidden – small movements out of the corner of my eye, shadows of other p
resences. Sometimes I stretched my hand out into the dark, full of longing – for what I didn’t know – but whatever it was slipped from under my touch. In every breath I took I heard an echo. The more I strained to hear, the faster it faded away. The chat and clatter of my family grated on me. I couldn’t listen – I couldn’t watch – I couldn’t answer the call I heard so clearly in my dreams. I had to get away from other People. Something new was happening to me. But I never thought – I was only an old woman – the wife of my husband – the mother of my children – what was I, after all? I never – not yet – not then – I never thought, ‘Go-Between’.

  Alaia said:

  When Bakar didn’t come back, my mother kept going away, often for several nights. She never brought back food or firewood. She grew haggard, and would hardly speak to us. We all mourned Bakar. But my mother made it difficult for us. I felt guilty because I ate and slept. She made me feel I oughtn’t to gather food, or scrape hides, or prepare the winter house, or even talk to my father or husband or sister, because Bakar wasn’t there. She made me feel as if I oughtn’t to be alive.

  I felt as if I didn’t have a mother any more. I was afraid of dying. I was pleased – of course I was pleased – that I was carrying Amets’ baby. The first Year we were together I didn’t get pregnant. I was glad when at last I did, but as the winter drew on, and my belly grew bigger, I began to dream about dying. I knew that if I’d been the one to die, not Bakar, I’d have been like a stone that sinks with scarcely a ripple. Every young mother dreams about death, and sometimes it turns out to be true. I wanted my mother to care about me. I’ve known some women whose mothers never left them alone when they were pregnant, always giving advice and bringing in special foods. You remember when Itsaso left her family and went away with her man’s People after the Gathering because she couldn’t stand her mother fussing over her? Haizea and I never had a problem like that. But when I was waiting for Esti, and my mother was mourning Bakar, I was angry that she didn’t seem to care at all about me, or my baby. I even thought that if I died giving birth she’d be sorry she’d neglected me.