The Moon Child

by Mark Lucek

  ‘Come, let us rest awhile,’ he said, but she kept on, not bothering to look back. She was too tired to do anything but carry on, one numb footstep after another. At least Tomaz had stopped with his crying, too weary to move. Please, she uttered a silent prayer to Karnobog, do not let him die in my arms, not now.

  ‘Why so coy?’ The man caught up with her. They were by a copse of aspens. Iwa recognised the place. The camp was only a little further away, but this was one of the less used paths, overgrown with bracken and roots.

  ‘You must be tired,’ he continued. This time Iwa stopped and felt the tip of the spear dip under the hem of her dress. ‘You’re a sulky one and no mistake,’ he continued as he raised the spear. ‘But I bet there’s a fine figure hidden under all those clothes.’

  ‘Won’t Greybeard be angry?’ she murmured. She would have run but there was nowhere to run to. Suddenly she felt totally alone, the weight of baby Tomaz bearing down on her arms.

  ‘Him?’ the older man scoffed as he came forward, dragging the tip of his spear along her thigh. He was at her back now, so close that she could smell the hot odour of his sweat, the rank stench of unwashed quilting that pressed under his ill-fitted armour. ‘Who am I to take orders from one such as him?’

  ‘You must be a very brave woyak indeed. Did you slaughter many of my people as they slept?’

  His free hand may have been mangled but he struck her all the same, the blow ringing through her. He let the spear fall as his hand slipped beneath her clothes to skirt round her thigh.

  ‘There, that’s better.’ His voice was soft now. ‘You’re one of these forest people. I bet you know a dozen nooks and crannies where we might be alone.’ He didn’t wait for a reply, his body pressing against her as he forced her from the path. ‘How many times have you been with a man?’ She was forced up against a tree as the weight of him pressed into her back. ‘How many of those woodland scum have had the taste of you.’

  ‘There are none that are as rank as you.’ This time he ignored the insult, his good hand feeling between her legs.

  ‘They say the clans of the forest are born as bitches in heat. Shall we see the truth of that?’

  ‘What about Fang?’ She could do little more than mumble. ‘Or do you want to catch the edge of his tongue?’

  ‘I would not worry over that,’ he said as he pressed into her, his good hand feeling round her as the side of her face was pushed hard against the bark. In her arms baby Tomaz began to wail ‘You look like one who’s had more than her share,’ the woyak whispered into her ear. ‘Would you deny Eber his rations, after you have had so many, or are you a virgin? Is that it, have you saved yourself for dear old Eber?’

  There seemed to be nothing she could say or do as he leant forward. ‘You should get back to the others,’ she managed, but he ignored her.

  ‘All in good time, my sweet. They can do without old Eder for a while.’

  He reached between her legs. Suddenly there was a crash. Deeper in the forest something moved. Instinctively he drew back, his good hand fumbling for his spear.

  If only it’d been one of the hunters. They would have killed him easily, gutted him, squealing like a suckling pig for all his armour.

  ‘Grunmir?’ he called out. There was another crack as a loose branch tumbled into the undergrowth. But the man was clearly unnerved. Maybe some of the hunters had managed to escape into the woods after all. Or there could be boar or wolves about.

  He didn’t say anything as Iwa walked back to the path.

  ‘Are you coming?’ She shot him a look of contempt before she turned and carried on down the path. ‘Hush now,’ she turned to the baby in her arms. ‘There’s nothing to fear.’ But her voice held no conviction and the baby continued to cry.

  Chapter Three

  It was past noon before they arrived, Eber trailing behind and casting fitful glances at the trees. It would have been so easy for her to run from him. If only there was somewhere for her to go. At least Tomaz was still, with only the fragile rise and fall of his breath to tell her that he was still alive.

  Before her the camp lay in ruins. A few beaten dogs prowled through the broken remnants of nets and the smashed husks of pots. None of the tents had survived, leaving only blackened circles where the charred remains of wood lay scattered across the earth. Here and there traces of their former occupants lay scattered amongst the wreckage: a child’s toy, the sole of a shoe or the broken rim of a drinking horn. But Iwa was too tired to notice as another jab of the spear drove her on, her tread hardly faltering as she walked past groups of men clad in armour and rows of spears that glistened in the cold morning sun.

  Now that they were back in the camp some of Eber’s courage returned. He drove her past a couple of armed men, slouched over a few large casks, spears held loosely in their hands. Maybe they’d been set to watch over the approach to the camp, but neither seemed to be paying much attention, their faces sweating under open-faced helms.

  ‘What happened to you?’ One of the men nodded to her captor.

  ‘Grunmir,’ came the reply. There was a muted chuckle, followed by an angry jab of the spear. ‘Get a move on,’ Eber said, anxious to get away from the looks of mirth around him. ‘Lest you feel my boot plant itself in your backside.’

  Iwa was led into what remained of the camp. Only then did she notice the ships beached on the shore and not even another jab of the spear kept her from faltering. She’d seen boats before, small crafts of leather and hide which the traders would paddle upriver, canoes too, but nothing like this. These were built for the open sea, sleek hulls curled along the keel to fit snugly as a well cobbled shoe. And, as she was prodded forward, she imagined that they could almost have been the slippers of some malignant deity.

  There were four of them, pulled up from the water and fixed to the earth by ropes. Rows of brightly coloured shields hung along the sides. Each ship must have been large enough to hold a hundred men at least, probably more. They must have been built by giants, she thought as she was herded past. The ships’ prows curved upwards like the necks of giant swans, ending in the carved shapes of snarling fire lizards.

  Each carried a single mast, from which a huge leather tarpaulin was hung and fixed to the earth to form a tent. A fifth ship, larger than the others, had been hauled to the centre of the camp. Here the tarpaulin was more complex: wooden poles lifted a central section to make a canopied doorway and a line of broad steps led to the side of the ship and into the darkness beyond. Two guards in mail coats stood at either side, the sun glinting across painted shields as, above them, the goat’s head standard fluttered.

  Another shove brought her to her senses. At the far end of the inlet two more ships lay beached against the shore. They were much like the others, except that no shields hung along their sides, but there was something odd about them. Despite her captor, Iwa couldn’t help but peer over. It took her a moment to realise what the difference was. It wasn’t the actual ships themselves but rather the groups of armed men who stood around them, spears held tight, whilst others polished shields or threw stones at starving dogs. There was a tension about the men, anxious glances cast back towards the ships. At first she thought that somebody important must live there, but then she noticed the line of broken nets and blackened stakes that formed a makeshift barrier around them.

  At the other end of the inlet was another ship, set apart from the others, and it was to this that she was guided. Here too men stood guard, but they took their ease and there was little, if anything, in the way of a barrier.

  As she reached the ship, her captor stopped. ‘You could have saved a drop for me,’ he said. Iwa didn’t dare look round, so it was a second before she realised that he wasn’t talking to her. A little way off, two men sprawled across the ground, their eyes heavy and their beards stained with vomit.

  ‘Didn’t that Grunmir sent you to scout the ridge?’ one of them muttered.

  ‘That’s little excuse.’ Eber kicked out but his foot
fell short of the man, who laughed at him.

  ‘It’s alright for you, taking your ease back here when there’s work to be done.’

  ‘When there’s work to be done you’re sure to never be found, old man.’

  ‘Just you wait until it’s your turn. I’ve never seen anything like this forest, crawling with all sorts of Leszy and Bereginya. Who knows what kind of spirits are hiding in all that? I’d rather take my chances on the open steppe, where a man might see the path ahead.’

  ‘It was only a little vodka, anyhow,’ one of the others cut in. His voice was lazy as he rested against the side of the ship. ‘And besides, we reckon on Yanush having his own secret stash.’

  ‘Which Grunmir wolfed,’ Eder said sulkily.

  ‘What’s with the girl?’ One of the men turned his spear lazily in Iwa’s direction.

  ‘We caught her hiding, out by the river.’

  ‘Now that’s the kind of fish I wouldn’t mind catching,’ the man chuckled. ‘Maybe we should go and see what else the river has to offer?’ Her captor swore under his breath as the side of the tarpaulin was lifted and she was bundled inside.

  All at once the stench hit her, the scent so acrid that the air seemed to close in about her and Iwa thought she’d throw up; it was as if somebody had slaughtered an elk buck and left the carcass to rot in the sun. She slid down the side of the ship, her feet slippery on the tar, and sank to the ground. Her head begun to pound and, behind her eyelids, the first tears started.

  It was too dark to see. The planks jabbed hard against her back and the soles of her feet. How can men live like this? She drew another breath, her lungs rebelling against the stench. She’d heard stories about how men travelled in ships like this, all the way to the far-off Arab lands or up north where ice and snow reigned all year long, but she’d never believed such foolishness. For the first time in her life she didn’t feel the touch of the earth raw beneath her feet. It was an odd, uncomfortable sensation, as if a part of her had been torn away. Recently, some of the clan had taken to wearing birch bark shoes, which the traders had brought up from the cities of the Poles, but Iwa had always laughed at them, proudly going barefoot even in the depths of winter.

  Will my feet never touch Matka Ziemia again? She peered around, but it was too dark to see. A deep hollowness settled over her and bled inside her breast. In her arms Tomaz was quiet, barely able to move as she hugged him to her. Then, in the darkness, someone moaned.

  ‘Father?’ she whispered, hardly daring to hope. But there was no reply.

  Gradually, as she became accustomed to the gloom, she began to make out the shapes that pressed in all around her. The smell wasn’t one of rotten flesh but of too many people crammed together. She began to make out faces, dimly at first, the line of a nose or the slope of a brow. It was as if the whole clan had been packed inside, but only the women. She could make them out clearly now, hardly moving, their faces riddled with fear. Here and there a few rocked against the side of the ship, their lips moving silently as if the words had been drained from them.

  ‘So they have caught you, girl.’ A voice cut through the gloom. It was Katchka. Hard to recognise her now, as if she’d aged twenty years since sunset; her face was ashen and the lines wrinkled heavily around her eyes as though carved with a knife. ‘It’s a wonder that you lived out the night,’ she said, as she took Tomaz and pressed a water skin to his mouth. The semblance of a smile formed on his lips as he sucked deeply.

  But, when Iwa reached up, her hand was slapped away. ‘There isn’t enough for two. We’ve had precious little ourselves, and who knows when we’ll see more?’ Too tired to argue, Iwa let her hand fall as she followed the motion of the water skin hungrily with her eyes.

  ‘That’s if we get any more at all,’ another voice said. At the other end of the ship one of the women stirred – it was Alia, though had it not been for her voice, Iwa doubted she would have recognised the girl. Her silken hair hung limp around her shoulders, unbraided and uncared for, and along the side of her face a dark bruise yellowed. ‘The Poles will let us starve,’ she said calmly, as if talking about picking berries. ‘They mean to kill us all.’

  ‘Where would be the sense in that?’ Katchka replied, as she pulled the skin from Tomaz’s clutch.

  ‘Where is the sense in any of this?’ one of the women murmured.

  ‘Perhaps they will sell us to the Arabs for slaves, or else…’ Alia paused and let the words hang in the gloom.

  ‘There’s no use in thinking about what might be,’ Katchka said as Tomaz, revived by the drink, began to wail, his hands grasping for more.

  ‘But we haven’t had any food since morning. Jezi Baba has forsaken us. The spirit of Karnobog has deserted the clan.’ Some of the women around Alia gasped and made signs to ward off evil, but many nodded, their faces cold and filled with fear.

  All the clans worshipped communal gods – spirits of earth and water, sacred trees or stones – but each carried their own clan god. Karnobog was the god of the Bison Grass. His spirit rested in the bones of a great bison that was carried on a litter and placed at the centre of the camp. That was the only time the clan were allowed to slaughter one of the creatures. Other clans might hunt such meat, but for the Bison Grass the animal was sacred and only to be killed when the god needed a new home.

  Even then it was only a single hunter, picked out by the hunt master, who was allowed to kill the bison, always a fully grown buck, the herd leader and the hardest to kill. Then the clan would gather and sing paeans whilst the young hunters danced round the shrine with the women. All the young maidens would wear headdresses of spring or summer flowers but always entwined with the sacred bison grass.

  Then, as the sacred song of Karnobog was raised to invite the god into the bones, the clan would gather round the shrine in three large rings joined arm in arm as they swayed and stamped their feet in time to the tune.

  Finally the Szeptun witch would come, dressed in a sacred shawl of pure white cotton and carrying the horns of the old bison corpse. In her other hand incense burned in a large flat shell. Her face was masked by leather into which the sacred symbols of the clan had been dyed. Amber glinted darkly from the sockets so she had to be led through the rings of dancers, who parted before her.

  Then, with the music still playing, she knelt before the shrine. Nobody heard the sacred chant whispered into the bones, but the air crackled with the hot scent of magic and the clan knew that their god had not deserted them.

  Iwa shuddered and sank into the dark. Even now, after all that had happened, she could scarcely believe what she’d heard. All her life she’d sung paeans to Karnobog as the men slit the throats of animals over his shrine and burned the best cuts of meat before his bones. He couldn’t have deserted the clan.

  ‘Don’t prattle such foolishness, child,’ Katchka said, as she passed Tomaz over to one of the other women. ‘The lords of earth and leaf are slow to forget their children. Karnobog lives. I have seen his bones on the sacred litter. The god watches over us.’

  ‘Where was he last night?’ Alia said, and the women murmured. ‘Where was Jezi Baba when the Poles attacked? Did she fly through the night on her birch branch and grind the Poles into dust with her pestle and mortar?’

  ‘Do not be so quick to think that we are alone. The forest works in its own time; the lords of root and leaf keep to their own seasons.’

  The women murmured and nodded. Katchka’s words still carried weight with them. But for how long? Iwa wondered.

  ‘Alia is right,’ a voice said. The words were soft and halting, but cut easily across the gloom. ‘We can rely on the gods no more.’ Over at the far end of the boat a figure stirred. It was Jacek; many times it had been he who’d killed the first boar of the hunt and there were few to better him with spear or bow. Now he levered himself from the floor with a gasp of pain. His face was pale and bathed with sweat, and the skins about him lay matted with blood. ‘We must make our own way now, without gods or spirits
. We are forsaken, we must do what we can.’

  ‘What can we do?’ Alia wailed. ‘Most of our men are dead, or have fled into the forest.’

  ‘If we could get to the other ship we could free the men there.’ Jacek coughed as a thin stream of blood ran through his broken teeth.

  ‘For them to run off into the trees like rats?’ Katchka said as she steadied herself against the side of the ship, her fingers flinching as if not wanting to touch such a profane thing.

  ‘What about the guards?’ Alia said. If she noticed the old woman’s pain she gave no sign of it. Perhaps she was too preoccupied, her fingers twisting around her beaded necklace, the wood clinking. ‘They’d kill us before we even made it out of the boat, or else…’ She stopped short, her words trailing into the darkness. Some of the other women looked pitifully around them, the young casting glances at the narrow break in the tarpaulin.

  Iwa sank against the ribs of the ship and let the conversation drift over her. If only she could get her hands on the water skins, and then perhaps a little food. I should have run into the forest when I could have; there’d be roots and berries and maybe even a little honey.

  ‘What I wouldn’t give for a handful of poisoned mushrooms,’ Katchka was saying. ‘Those woyaks would regret the day they forced me to cook for them, when they’re clutching at their bellies with their guts bled raw as spit pork.’

  ‘But we haven’t any mushrooms,’ Alia whispered, leaning against the side of the ship and staring blankly into the dark.

  ‘Do you think we’d be sold as slaves?’ someone asked. ‘To the Arabs, maybe?’

  ‘Only the young and the beautiful,’ Katchka muttered to herself. ‘They could do worse than be bonded to some noble lord.’

  Around her the women murmured. Surely nobody believed in such things? Men and women had been taken before or sold themselves as slaves, but nobody believed in the strange, treeless Arab land they had heard about from the traders.