by Mark Lucek
Often the traders used Arab coins, and everyone knew stories of treasure buried in the forest, but nobody thought of the Arabs as anything more than a wild tale to excite children or beguile women into the sleeping skins. The coins probably came from another part of the forest.
But could the place be real? Where did people go when they became slaves? A wave of fear closed across the ship, anxious glances cast from woman to woman. Would they be pretty or useful enough to be sold as slaves? What would happen to the others, would that be worse?
‘Iwa could pick the mushrooms.’ Jacek’s voice was so quiet that Katchka didn’t appear to notice. Slowly Iwa moved away and looked for somewhere to hide. ‘She knows the forest paths.’
‘Well, she’s always been one for skulking,’ Katchka said softly.
‘She can go in the night. She’s so small, like a rabbit. Who would notice her?’
Grunmir, Iwa almost said as she sank into the shadows. She’d seen plenty of gutted rabbits hanging from the branches.
‘Would you trust anything as important to a girl like that?’ one of the women said; but there was no one else. Most of the other children kept close to their mothers and picked berries – it wasn’t as if any of them had ever strayed far from the forest paths or knew where the poisoned mushrooms were to be found. Not like Iwa, who had always run off as far and as fast as she could.
‘Who else knows the best places?’ Jacek said.
‘That’s right,’ Katchka replied in triumph, ‘she’s never to be found when there’s work to be done.’
But you always got me in the end, Iwa thought sulkily, and if Grunmir catches me I’ll get more than a beating.
‘Now you know the kind of mushrooms I need,’ Katchka continued, ‘the tiny red-capped ones.’
‘With the white spots that look like stars,’ Iwa replied.
‘And the wide skirt underneath. Don’t forget to check for that – we don’t want to give this scum a taste of anything but death.’
‘But are you sure you can find them?’ the women asked as they gathered round. ‘Do you know where they grow?’
‘Of course she does,’ Alia said, hardly moving. ‘She knows all the secret groves and the hidden places.’
Normally, once Katchka was done, Alia would be the first to scold. ‘Why should you scoff the fruits of others’ labour when all you do is run and hide?’ she’d chide as she held up her scratched fingers and broken nails. ‘You’re always off at play whilst others do the work, and the first to return when there’s eating to be done.’
Now Alia was desperate, ready to cling onto whatever hope she could conjure. ‘I bet she’d find those mushrooms without a shred of difficulty, easy as picking lovage.’
‘Not really,’ Iwa mumbled, trying to shrink away. But there was no denying it, she’d always been able to pick up all kinds of things in the forest and sometimes not even old Katchka could tell what she’d found, like the purple berries she’d come across one time. About the size of an acorn and soft to the touch, nobody had known what they were, but later Godek’s old hound, who had been sick for a week, had eaten some and all of a sudden he started jumping and barking like a pup.
Slowly Iwa hunkered down against the side of the ship and tried to merge into the dark. Her head swam with fear as she pressed hard against the wood. To go into the forest at night was suicide. What if some malicious Leszy, or other tree sprit caught her? The clan stories were full of people who ventured into the woods after dusk, never to be seen again. Sometimes the clan would find their heads hanging from an oak or a linden, the branches twisted, like fingers, in their hair. Even the memory of the purple berries filled her with terror. She should never have got caught in that part of the forest, but she’d run off after a fox cub and had wandered far into the undergrowth.
After Godek’s hound had recovered, the clan had sent her out to gather more of the berries, but they had disappeared and, no matter how hard she’d searched, she couldn’t find them again.
Perhaps that was for the best. In truth there’d been something wrong about the place, a vague feeling of disquiet as she entered the grove, as if she’d stumbled into something evil. Perhaps some malign Leszy held the grove as its sacred place. Even the trees appeared unfamiliar, their leaves, sharp as knives, shimmering in a pale, unnatural light.
‘Slip out once it’s dark,’ Katchka said. ‘Those murderers have more than enough to distract them, with their vodka and their feasting. You’ll be able to creep out of the camp, easy as rain slips off a hide.’
Easy for you to say, Iwa thought, when you’re not the one risking your neck. But it was no use: the women had already forgotten about her, their eyes gleaming as they imagined the swift revenge they’d take on the helpless Poles.
‘I’ll mix in just enough for a slow death,’ Katchka smiled, her teeth chipped and broken like blunted knives.
‘Tonight,’ Alia said. ‘It’ll have to be tonight, when the sky is moonless and Matka Ziemia lies shrouded in darkness.’
Iwa opened her mouth in protest, but there was nothing she could say or do. Slowly she sank to the ground and put her head between her knees, while the women huddled together and talked over their plans.
‘Only a fool faces danger without fear.’ Iwa felt a hand on her shoulder; it was Jacek. ‘And then he’s swiftly dead.’ With a gasp of pain the old hunter leaned closer, the stench of blood growing as he pushed something into her hand. It was a totem carved in the shape of a boar. All the hunters kept such totems, carved from the teeth of their first kill so that the power of the animal would pass into them and forever guide them in the hunt. Iwa rolled it smoothly in her hand, her fingers trembling over the bone.
‘We’ve faced much together.’ The hunter’s voice was so soft it took Iwa a moment to realise he was talking about the totem. ‘And it has never guided me falsely.’
Until now, Iwa thought, but took the thing all the same.
‘It should be with me, to help me in the ancestor world,’ Jacek said slowly, as a thin stream of blood gurgled between his lips, ‘but I will have to find my own way. It’s far more important that it guides you now in this world.’ He put his hands around her fist and gripped her tightly.
‘I’ll guard it well,’ Iwa clutched the totem to her, ‘so I can return it when we meet again in the ancestor world.’
‘The hope of the clan follows your tread.’ Jacek coughed up a thin film of blood. He’d tried to sound confident, but his eyes held little conviction. ‘May Karnobog guide you and…’ Iwa reached out to him, his skin clammy to her touch as he sank back, the words dry on his lips.
So what else was there for her to do but smile and crawl off into the dark? If only the timbers could open up and swallow her whole. What if I were to run away? Forget about the mushrooms and never come back? It’s not as if the clan ever cared about me anyhow. But how long could she survive out in the forest alone?
There were stories of hunters who’d abandoned the clan or been exiled, and sometimes they came across hermits living alone in caves or tiny crude huts – half-mad creatures babbling to themselves as they eked out a bare living. They were shadows, forgotten by clan and gods. Few would come too close to them, lest they be cursed by their spirit.
Even the mere thought of it was enough to stick clammily at the back of Iwa’s throat. Her world, Karnobog and the clan was all she had and, no matter how far she strayed when there was berry-picking to be done, she’d always been quick to come back. Her life was mapped out by the sacred paths and the following of the herds.
Behind her some of the women had begun to sing quietly to themselves, but she couldn’t join in. The words gummed at the back of her throat as she trembled against the hull. Strange fears closed in about her. Could she really survive the forest at night?
Carefully she weighed the totem in her hand, the ivory smooth and warm to her touch. Jacek’s first kill must have been a monster: the tooth nestled in the palm of her hand almost reached across its entir
e length. The carved outline of a boar was crudely honed at the centre. Around it the clan marks ran along the length of the bone. Not even Iwa understood all the runes. Many were symbols of Karnobog but in amongst them others danced; secret scripts kept only for the men. From the day the hunt master hung it round his neck, the hunter would always keep the image upon him and from then on he’d always carry the spirit of that animal to guide him. To lose the totem would be like losing part of his soul.
So she’d never seen one up close, let alone held one in her hand. She closed her fingers tight over it, oblivious to everything else, the singing of the women and the creak of the wood or the stench of sweat and fear.
My mother touched this. She turned the totem in her hand. Nobody spoke about her mother, not even Yaroslav. It was bad luck to talk about one who’d died in childbirth, especially to the child who’d killed her with its birth, but she’d heard the stories, nothing but scraps passed around the campfires at night when the old ones thought she was asleep.
The light dripped across polished ivory as she ran her thumb over Karnobog’s sacred image. She glanced over to where Jacek lay propped up against the side of the ship, a thin film of sweat coating his features as he struggled for breath.
No hunter would ever give his totem to another. Not even in death. She knew that as well as any of the other women. Jacek must have been very frightened to have done so now. But he had given it over to someone else once before – to her mother. Nobody knew why, or if they did they had kept quiet about it. There were stories of secret rites in ancient groves where the old gods mumbled in the bracken. Iwa shivered and made the sign to draw off evil. What had her mother to do with such things?
Few of the other hunters had ever trusted Jacek, not completely, quick to draw aside even as he brought in the best of the catch. And he was often alone, a silent, morose presence hawking on the edges of the campfire.
Not that she’d ever thought often about her mother. Best to forget such things, this woman who she’d never known, but there’d always been a part of her that’d never accepted the silence. Carefully she traced her thumb over the carvings, and a feeling of painful loneliness crawled over her.
An arrow of light cut across the gloom. Instinctively she snatched the totem into the folds of her dress as the women’s song faltered and the tarpaulin was lifted. ‘You lot,’ a voice shouted from outside, ‘get out and be quick about it!’ Dumbly the women began to climb out, Iwa being one of the last to leave, the sunlight stinging her eyes as she dropped to the ground. One of the men poked his head behind the tarpaulin, his face twisting at the hot stench. ‘Move!’ he shouted at the old hunter.
‘Leave him,’ one of the others said, ‘he’ll only slow us up.’ With that the tarpaulin was snapped shut. Iwa was herded forward, stumbling, half blinded by the sun as a spear butt drove into the small of her back.
They gathered around the boat; a tiny ragtag group, the children clutching at their mothers’ skirts and the women desperate to hold down their tears. Around them, armoured men circled and began to herd the women into the camp. Please Karnobog, let my death be quick and be there to guide me easily to the spirit world. She reached into her dress to feel the totem smooth between her fingers. I should have died by the river’s hand – better that then to end my life on a raider’s spear.
Around her the women pressed in, huddling together as they staggered across the ground. Somewhere up ahead a prayer was muttered. Iwa kept on, not daring to look up even as she stumbled into someone’s back. There was no complaint from the woman in front, only a long and bitter silence. Even the children were quiet, their faces filled with fear. In the thick of the crowd Tomaz had wakened and began to cry.
If only she could hold him now. Suddenly and quite unexpectedly she wanted to have the baby in her arms, as if cradling him in death would make her slip into the ancestor world all the more easily. After all, I carried him in life. She looked round, half panicked, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Suddenly the group came to a halt. Iwa pressed herself against one of the women but couldn’t bring herself to look up. Luckily she was locked in the middle of the crowd. I’ll be one of the last to die. Maybe she could just drop down and pretend to be dead, but even then there’d be little chance that she’d survive the slaughter. Around her the children pressed close to their mothers. A few of the elders took cold comfort from the ancient song of Karnobog. Iwa heard it murmured all along the line. She’d sung it often enough but, as she tried to form the words, she found her lips cold and unyielding, like the skin of a dead fish.
They were in the very centre of the camp, by the remnants of the great fire that the clan would light before Karnobog’s shrine, but there was no sign of the god. A line of shields blocked everything from view. Then the song subsided and an odd stillness fell as the children pressed their faces into their mothers’ thighs. A few began to cry, but there was no escape. The men had formed a tight circle around them, their faces hidden behind their shields.
Much against her will, Iwa found herself pushed near the front. At least now she could see what was going on. Miraculously, Karnobog’s shrine had survived. She could just about make out the bleached white bones and the oak beams of his litter. She swallowed and took a strange comfort from the sight. At least they would die under the eyes of the clan god.
In the distance a horn sounded and the men parted. Catching sight of the shrine, the garlands still hanging along the spine, she couldn’t help but mutter a prayer. But the bones lay silent and the eye sockets stared back at her, blank and hollow. A shiver ran through the group. How many of them had uttered silent, half whispered prayers to the god?
A figure stood before the altar. Slowly he came forward, the sunlight banded across his scale mail. It was Godek’s killer, except now he had on a cloak made from the skin of a great snow leopard, the claws fastened around his neck and fixed with gold. He’d taken off his helmet to reveal a mane of red hair flowing over his shoulders round a weatherbeaten face, not handsome but striking, his jaw thickset under the beginnings of a beard. Grunmir stood to one side and eyed the women coldly. Was it just her imagination or did his gaze momentarily settle on her? But, when she next looked up, he’d turned away.
Godek’s killer stood before the women, tall and lean, his face inscrutable. A clubfooted boy followed him. Maybe he’d been the shield bearer. Iwa couldn’t be sure. He dragged his leg painfully behind him, a small figure, dressed in a simple black tunic, his tongue poking through crooked teeth as he hunched like a toad at the armoured man’s feet. Behind them the shield wall closed.
Only then did the man speak, the words halting, as if he was unused to talking to such a crowd. ‘I am Gawel,’ the words rang out across the camp, ‘and I am your krol.’
There was a stunned silence from the women. Nobody knew what to say or do: most of them still expected death. In the distance Iwa thought she heard a twig snap. Perhaps the hunters had come back. She could sense them lurking just beyond the tree line. There was the sound of footsteps, the scrape of bark and the rustle of bushes. Under their heavy battle helms the raiders didn’t appear to notice. Iwa tensed, ready to duck the moment the arrows began to fly. She imagined them coming from behind every tree and bush, wave after wave of hunters until all the raiders lay dead.
But how many had managed to gather their bows before they’d fled into the woods, would there be enough to kill them all? She’d seen a full-grown elk felled by a single arrow, the flesh shivering under the weight of the blow as the animal’s legs buckled. But would the arrows be any use against the raiders, with their heavy armour and metal-rimmed shields?
‘You must bow down before me,’ Krol Gawel continued, ‘and all must call me their krol.’ He paused as he realised that the women had no idea what a krol was. ‘Krol,’ he said again as if to a child. ‘Krol, king, kaiser?’ Still the women didn’t understand. Slowly Krol Gawel took out his sword, the blade so heavy that he used both hands to wield it. At last the w
omen understood.
‘Krol!’ Gawel shouted and raised his sword. Then the men began to chant, beating spears against shields as they yelled the word ‘krol’ over and over again. Maybe they realised that the hunters were watching: this was as much for their benefit as it was for the women. Then Krol Gawel lowered his sword and the chant stopped. ‘Obey my will and my warriors – my woyaks – will protect you.’
‘Since when have we needed the protection of woyaks?’ a voice spoke out. It was Katchka. ‘We have hunted these forests and these mountains since Bielobog and Chernobog spat dry land into the sea. Our men have always looked after us.’ The crowd was quick to draw away until Katchka stood alone. There was a dreadful silence as the women almost willed that Krol Gawel would cut the old woman down before she’d had the chance to make him angry. But the krol burst into laughter, his cheeks trembling as he turned to face his woyaks. ‘And where are they now, these men of yours? They were quick to run into the woods or else crawl on their knees and beg for mercy.’
The krol turned back to the women, his face full of fury. ‘Do you think that my woyaks are the worst thing that could have befallen you? You are surrounded, the lands of the Poles stretch around you in all directions. Many war bands scour these mountains. Demons armed with spear and flame, men who’d spill out your guts and toast them on the fire for your children to eat. Compared to them my woyaks are as lambs. You should fall on your knees and give thanks to Piórun, the thunderer, that it was I who came across your camp, for I am merciful. And I will spare you, old woman, so long as you accept my command and do not try to hurt either me or my woyaks. We will become friends and then I will spare your men too.’ He motioned to where some of the woyaks stood guard round the far ships along the shore. ‘But do not anger me or I will sell you to the slavers. The salt mines hunger always for fresh labour, while the Arabs hunger for the strong and the comely.
‘But it does not have to be that way.’ The krol smiled. ‘We must be as one; work together to forge this land anew.’ Now the women were confused again. Only the gods could cough up new land and spit it into the sea.
