The Tattooed Tribes

by Bev Allen

  He ground his teeth at the memory.

  “I stayed about a week. She never stopped snipping at me the whole time.”

  “Why?”

  “I dunno. Girls are like that, they’re okay when they’re little and they sure are fine when they’re older, but in between they’re a pain. I still have to go there to learn bow making from her father. He’s a mean bastard; probably where she gets it from. He thrashed me once for what he called ‘larking about’ when I should’ve been paying attention. I was really pleased when Dad said I could go downriver with him.”

  Ahead of them men, women and children began to gather in the open space. Jon caught hold of Lucien and swung him round.

  “Listen carefully,” he said. “You follow me when greeting adults. You know the procedure with the men, but it’s different for the women.”

  Lucien nodded.

  “And try not to get into any more fights,” Jon added.

  Before Lucien could deny everything, Jon was striding forwards towards an elderly lady standing in the centre of the field. He bowed low, taking both her hands and kissed the palms.

  “Bweriit Liedwer,” he said respectfully. “May I find rest and safety amongst your sisters this day?”

  “Welcome back, Harabin dheillwer,” she replied. “You are welcome this day and for many more.”

  Jon gestured Lucien forward to follow his example, kissing the woman’s hands and stumbling only slightly over the new word.

  He looked at the hands before him and saw they were covered in pearl tattoos, while her wrists were circled by dozens of s-shaped whorls.

  “My marriages,” she told him, seeing his interest. “I lost count long before I was finally wed.”

  She looked up at him with shrewd grey eyes and Lucien felt in those few seconds she had learnt everything she needed to know about him and he flushed a deep crimson.

  She smiled.

  “Welcome, Devlin dheillwer,” she said, turning then to Jon. “You’ve taken on a lively one here, my son.”

  “I know,” Jon replied with a grin. “But we’re making progress.”

  He ruffled Lucien’s hair, which far from gratified him. He shot Jon a resentful look, but there was a certain amount of pride in the grin he got back, pride he realised was directed at him and he preened under it, surprised how much the silent compliment meant to him.

  “Bweriit, there’s much to talk about,” Jon said. “May we go to the Meeting House and consult with your sisters?”

  She inclined her head and gestured to a young woman beside her who raised her hands in some sort of signalling motion, and for the first time Lucien heard tribal drums and the hairs of the back of his neck stood up.

  In front of the meeting house several women were beating out a complex rhythm on what appeared to be a series of hollowed out logs, but when he looked closer he could see they were huge carved drums.

  From cabins all around women of various ages came towards the Meeting House.

  “Told you the girls were in charge,” Jon whispered to Lucien. “This is another mouth shut time, by the way. In fact, I won’t be opening mine without permission.”

  Lucien followed Jon and Iesgood into the Meeting House. He looked around for Vlic, but saw he, like most of the other men, had remained outside.

  It was cool inside the building. Light streamed in through windows set high up in the walls and dust motes floated in the long shafts of sunshine.

  There was a half circle of chairs facing the centre of the room. Bweriit and several of the older women went and sat in them, while the rest formed the other half of the circle

  The few men admitted stood in the middle.

  A young woman handed Bweriit a carved ivory tusk about as long as her fore arm. Lucien had no idea what sort of animal it had come from and he would have liked to have asked, but the solemnity of the assembly was enough to keep him quiet.

  “Hear me,” Bweriit began, and the silence was profound. “Let us consider what we know of the current situation. We will dispense with the expressions of horror and outrage at what has occurred; we all know how we feel and nothing can be accomplished by wallowing in the details.”

  There was a murmur of assent from the circling women; Bweriit silenced it with a small gesture.

  “First, Clieviis cheed Dhyra wasn’t the deepest of thinkers, but he wasn’t quite the fool our men like to think he was. He would not have taken his wife and child to a betrothal meeting without believing and having cause to believe it was completely genuine.”

  There were nods from around the circle.

  “He certainly would not have gone dressed and equipped for peace if he had the slightest suspicion of war,” Bweriit continued. “No lance was found, nor shield or war club. It is possible they were taken away with the child, but no signs of a fight were found, which means he must have known or trusted those they went to meet.”

  Lucien could feel the tension in the room. There was anger, but there was also a sense of bafflement and shock. Something about the situation was totally outside their experience. Again he ached to ask Jon for an explanation, but the dignity of the seated women and the power emanating from them kept his mouth shut.

  “Let me hear your thoughts, sisters,” Bweriit said, and handed the tusk back to the young woman.

  Hands rose slowly and, by some assent Lucien could not follow, the tusk was passed to a middle-aged woman.

  “I think we must conclude he believed he was meeting members of The People,” she began slowly. “From the first contact and through the negotiations, he must have had reason to believe he was amongst friends and everything was normal.”

  She paused and looked deeply troubled.

  “With regret,” she continued. “I can’t believe any outsider would have sufficient knowledge of custom to have deceived him.”

  Silence greeted this; it was obvious a large number of those present had come to more or less the same conclusion.

  Some hands were raised, but the tusk passed back to Bweriit.

  “Harabin dheillwer, you are our window on the world of the newcomers. Do you know of any who have sufficient knowledge of betrothal custom to have deceived one of us?”

  Jon took the tusk in his right hand.

  “I do not, liedwer,” he replied. “I know I could not arrange a betrothal or a marriage according to custom. And I doubt if anyone born outside the tribes could, except perhaps for The Grand Master, and it is unthinkable he would have betrayed the wisdom.”

  Bweriit nodded. “Unthinkable indeed,” she agreed. “So, someone of The People must have been involved. But who? I will hear thoughts upon this.”

  The tusk was taken by a young woman on the far side of the circle.

  “We all know Clieviis’ decision to take his family into isolation was nothing more than boastfulness,” she said. “Tradition may demand that if a family do not wish marriages for their daughters, they remove them to a place of isolation, but how often is this tradition enforced? This was nothing more than Clieviis proclaiming to the world his daughters’ status. It was the subject of jokes and gossip and the only thing faster than a swift canoe is gossip.”

  A small ripple of mirth ran around the circle.

  “Gossip can go a long away,” the woman concluded. “Maybe to tribes we know little about.”

  This was well received; no-one liked the idea friends or neighbours were responsible.

  The tusk was taken up by an elderly woman who was not a part of the seated circle.

  “They wouldn’t have left seclusion without the promise of an enormous bridal gift,” she began. “I know you are all inclined to think my sister’s second son was a fool, but he wasn’t when it came to his daughters. The youngest hasn’t the status of her sisters and he would have been anxious to make her equal with them. He would have been tempted if the amount was large enough.”

  There were nods of agreement.

  “Not one family here would have refused her, if they could have a
fforded her.”

  Shoulders were shrugged, but no-one argued.

  “So we must ask ourselves who could offer and prove a gift of sufficient value,” she continued. “Clieviis would have wanted to see a portion before he accepted the match. Who could have shown him enough?”

  With a look of sour triumph she passed the tusk back to Bweriit, who turned to her fellow elders.

  They drew together in a huddle and conferred in soft tones. It took a while.

  “Iesgood cheed Eedei,” she said, turning again to the assembly. “Do the men know of any family beyond our bounds who could raise such a breid price?”

  Iesgood thought for a while and then shook his head.

  “We thought not,” she replied. “Therefore the killers must have been from a tribe far from here, one we cannot know. What concerns me most is the girl. Why kill the parents and take her? I will hear thoughts on this.”

  A serious faced woman took the tusk.

  “Liedwer, we aren’t fools,” she said. “We’ve known for some time there are many amongst The People who covet the goods of the Settlers.”

  There was a murmur of protest, but she held the speech staff up and it died away.

  “You know I speak the truth,” she said. “Even we desire the silks, the iron cooking pans and the blankets. There are some who want these and more, much more. And there are others whose honour has been stolen by the leaf and the powders the traders feed them. They know the incomers will give them those things in exchange for the fruits of the river. Perhaps they want to exchange the girl for her sisters’ marriage gifts.”

  This was an idea of startling novelty to the listeners and it outraged them; the sound of angry conversation rose up and filled the room.

  Bweriit took back the tusk and her possession of it quietened them. She was very serious.

  “I fear what you have said is true,” she said, silencing the protests with a frown. “There has been much activity in recent years of concern to me and it is my thought that this girl may have been taken by someone of The People or with help from them. While I cannot understand why they should have done such a thing, I can see of no other possibility. Does anyone disagree with me or can anyone offer a better solution? I would welcome one.”

  There were expressions of horror around the room and of deep distress, but there was not one voice of dissent.

  Bweriit sighed.

  “The question is who and why,” she said, wearily. “I will hear thoughts upon this.”

  Many women had candidates and the tusk passed from hand to hand as suggestion after suggestion was made. None of them had any real idea who was to blame and all too often what they said came back to the unwanted and unsavoury actions of outsiders and newcomers. There was a belligerent atmosphere and, although silent, the men added to it by loosening their knives in their sheaths or punching their clenched fists into open palms. Lucien began to see why peacekeeper Jon was so concerned.

  “Enough!” Bweriit said, taking back the tusk and putting an end to the aggression. “It is obvious no-one knows. This talk serves no purpose and has no basis in anything but rumour. My mind keeps returning to the manner of Clieviis and his wife’s death. I feel there may lie the path to discovering the who and the why. Harabin dheillwer, I will hear your thoughts on this.”

  Jon took the tusk.

  “Liedwer, I’ve travelled amongst The People for all my adult life. I’ve spent time with the Bear and the Wolf, the Moose and here with the Forest Cat. I have seen tribal conflict and I have seen what men can do to other men. We have not spoken today of how Clieviis and his wife died, but Iesgood told me what they found. In all my years of traveling I’ve never seen or heard of death meted out as it was delivered to them.”

  A part of Lucien wanted to know exactly what Jon had been told, but another part of him was fairly sure he did not.

  “I’ve spoken to travellers who have been to the far north and to the west,” Jon was saying, “But they’ve never told of such horrors.” He drew a deep breath. “The only people I know of who could this are my own kind.”

  There was total silence and Lucien was suddenly extremely scared. The menace in the room was like a thick, smothering blanket. He instinctively moved closer to Jon.

  The tension was broken by a snort of exasperation from Bweriit.

  “Peace, you fools!” she snapped. “No settler could have fooled Clieviis. We will find some of our own behind this, despite what Harabin says.”

  Lucien let out a breath he did not know he had been holding.

  “We are part way to understanding the why,” said Bweriit. “Greed is a terrible thing. However, I believe we must consider an even more distasteful motive.”

  She had everyone’s undivided attention.

  “Dissent amongst The People and anger against the Settlement are ways to divide us or to unite us in war against the newcomers. Either would be a disaster for both sides. Avoiding this is one of my main aims in life. I believe we must do all we can to discover who the renegades amongst us are. And we must do all we can to find the girl.”

  There was a murmur of assent from the assembly.

  “Nothing more can be achieved today,” she announced. “We shall think more on this and call you back once we have reached a decision. Go to your homes.”

  She handed the tusk to the young woman and came over to Jon.

  “You and your biey will eat with me tonight,” she told him and left the meeting hall.

  Jon bowed to her retreating back, but muttered “shit” under his breath. He tapped Lucien on the shoulder.

  “Come on,” he said. “We’d better get cleaned up.”

  Iesgood grinned at them. “Bad luck,” he said. “I was going to invite you to my table.”

  Lucien had a feeling it would to be more fun to eat with Vlic’s family than with the formidable old lady, so he suggested they might take a rain check, but the laughter of the two men made him guess non-attendance was not an option.

  Jon led him across the assembly ground to the Men’s House. As they went in he laid his weapons on one of many shelves, including his knife.

  “We don’t take weapons in,” he told Lucien. “At least, not this sort.”

  Beyond the entrance was a darkened hall, the only light coming from tall narrow windows set all around the walls in pairs.

  “Arrow slits,” Jon told him. “This is the last place of defence if the tribe need it. There are cellars under here for stores and to hide the children.”

  He began to set a taper to lamps around the room and as the soft light penetrated the corners Lucien let out of gasp of amazement.

  The bow was a weapon for the hunt and for final defence, but before him, decorating the far wall and piled high on the floor, were the weapons of war.

  Lances with needle pointed ends, short throwing axes and longer handled killing ones; carved war clubs which could split a man’s head open like a dropped egg, and between these bringers of death were great round shields, metal bound and decorated with fine detail and the painted image of the mottled forest cat, its eyes glowing with inlaid river gold.

  “Don’t touch,” Jon warned as Lucien moved instinctively towards the weapons. “I know you wouldn’t damage anything, but it’s considered bad form to touch another man’s toys without his permission.”

  Lucien nodded, gripping his hands behind his back to prevent temptation.

  Eventually another flash of gold caught his eye and he turned to the other walls and this time his feet took him without his even being aware of it.

  A dozen deer hides hung there, each one painted with an image of a forest cat. The artist or artists had great skill and in the flickering light the animals seemed to be alive, the mottled greys, browns and yellows of their fur pulsating with an inner life.

  Lucien moved from one to the next; here a mother nursed her cubs, there two adults stalked a wood bison; now a single animal leapt for a prong horned antelope and there one lay in shadows, its jaws cl
amped to the neck of a recently killed water deer. Elusive images of cats flowed beneath trees, barely distinguishable from the undergrowth or crouched amid leaves waiting in perfect ambush.

  Never in his life had Lucien felt such a rush of desire. He wanted one of these animals. He was not sure why he wanted it or what form his wanting took, but somehow and in some way he felt he must possess one.

  “Can we go after one?” he asked.

  “Why?” Jon asked.

  Lucien was taken aback by this response. His need had no rational base and being asked to give one threw him and he stared at Jon.

  “You can’t eat it,” Jon said. “So why do you want it?”

  “I don’t know,” Lucien replied, turning back to gaze on the hides. “Why did you kill one?”

  He gestured towards Jon’s right hand.

  “I didn’t,” Jon replied with a smile.

  “But …”

  “Left hand is for food animals,” Jon told him. “Necessary for survival. The right hand is for totem animals. Those you capture alive and touch.”

  Lucien, who had turned back to the objects of his desire, swung round at this.

  “Touch?” he repeated, his voice wobbling from its normal baritone to the adolescent squeak he had not heard in many months. He stared from Jon to the fine set of teeth one image displayed and then back again.

  “With your bare right hand,” Jon stated. “Then you let them go. That part can sometimes be even more exciting than the catching part.”

  He laughed at Lucien’s expression.

  “They often aren’t pleased about the honour we have just taken from them.”

  Lucien turned again to gaze at the images for the cat.

  “How big are they?” he asked.

  “Big enough,” Jon replied. “But not as big as a bear.”

  “You’ve hunted bear for fur and food,” Lucien said. “You’ve got one on the left.”

  “That is the smaller black bear,” Jon replied. “Good for eating. The right hand bear is one of the big yellow kind.”