by Bev Allen
Lucien just grunted.
Vlic tried a new tack.
“And if you learn as much as he has, you could become a member of our tribe and we could make our totem hunt together.”
“Totem hunt?” Lucien asked, his interest roused.
“I shouldn’t have said so much,” Vlic said ruefully. “But you get the idea.”
Lucien did get the idea and it seemed the answer to his problem.
“How soon could we do it?” he asked.
“Hey!” Vlic protested. “You’d have to become a tribal member first. And we’d need a lot more hunter’s marks before the olds would allow us on a totem hunt!”
Lucien’s brow furrowed and he glared at Vlic. All he was being offered was delayed satisfaction. Not even promises, only possibilities, and delay was not something Lucien had patience with.
“Anyway, we need to get back today or Ma’s berries will spoil,” Vlic concluded.
But Lucien had made a decision. “I’m not coming back with you.”
“What!”
“You heard.”
“But you must!” Vlic protested. “You can’t stay out here alone.”
“Why not?” Lucien demanded.
“Cos you can’t!”
“Give me a good reason why not?” Lucien demanded, his chin thrust out belligerently.
“Firstly because you’ll either starve to death or get killed by something,” scoffed Vlic. “And secondly, cos Harabin said two days and so did my father!”
Lucien shrugged. “I don’t have to do what your father says.”
Vlic laughed scornfully. “No, but I do! And you have to do as Harabin says.”
Again Lucien shrugged. “Jon isn’t here. I’m staying.”
“Listen to me, Lucien,” Vlic pleaded. “You don’t know enough to stay here alone …”
“Are you saying I’m stupid?”
“No!” Vlic replied, almost desperate. “But there’s so much you don’t know.”
“Such as?”
“Too many things to remember them all. You must come back with me.”
“I don’t have to do anything you say,” Lucien snapped back. “And if I want to stay, I will!”
His tone made Vlic’s eyebrows draw together.
“Why?” he demanded. “Because you want to go after the cat?”
“Any reason why I shouldn’t?”
“Dozens!” Vlic replied.
“Well, unless you can tell me all of them, I suggest you mind your own business and run back to your mother.”
Vlic curled his lip in disdain. “You’re a fool. I’ll be damned if I’m going to argue with you anymore!”
He threw his gear into the canoe, carefully placed his mother’s fruit in the bow and pushed off without another word.
It seemed to Lucien he went very slowly, as if waiting and expecting to be called back, but the call never came.
Once Vlic was finally out of sight, Lucien packed his gear and moved back into the forest to the edge of the clearing. He carefully set up a new camp, mentally ticking things off Jon’s list as he went. Building the fire went really well, practise had made him skilful, but rigging some sort of shelter was not so successful, the result was a bit ramshackle. It had looked a whole lot easier when Jon and Vlic had shown him how to do it.
After some careful thought he decided his next priority was food, but once he had satisfied the inner man, he planned to work on ways to build a trap for the forest cat.
He told himself he had no intention of killing her, he just wanted to be able to see her really close, but he checked all his arrows and made sure they were in good order.
At one point he caught sight of himself in a piece of still water. It had been a while since he had seen his own reflection and he was surprised how lean his face had become.
He also found he had difficulty looking himself in the eye.
Giving an annoyed snort, he threw a rock into the water so he would no longer be bothered by the thoughts engendered.
Food was not hard; he fished and dug up some tubers; then he filled a quickly made basket with berries and was moderately pleased with himself.
Over the next few hours he worked out an elaborate spring loaded net trap. It was a little complex in design, but he thought it would not be difficult to produce and was guaranteed to work. All he needed was a large supply of cordage and thanks to Vlic he knew how to make it.
The afternoon was spent slowly relearning how to twist and plait the reeds into string. It took a long time to produce a decent length and when he had done it Lucien realised it was not going to be strong enough to hold a struggling animal. He plaited what he had made again and this time it was strong enough, but there was even less of it.
Finding something to make longer, stronger rope would be tomorrow’s main task.
To his dismay he found his preoccupation with rope making meant he had not collected enough wood to keep his fire going for much longer, and the shadows were already too deep to gather more safely. Less than a day in and he had made one of the most basic errors of woodcraft; he had allowed his fire to go out.
He knew exactly what Jon would have said and for a second or two he did not need a fire as the blush roared up his face and neck and heated up his whole body.
His fish supper was barely cooked and his tubers were half raw and gave him belly ache.
The next morning the dew had penetrated his inadequate shelter and he awoke numb with cold and damp. The underdone tubers and the berries made their presence felt immediately and he realised he had not dug a hole.
He was left feeling sore and with the happy prospect of a lot of flies if he did not get the results covered over quickly. And in short order he realised he had made a mistake with his hygiene leaf of choice as well. He had to sit with his backside in the cold lake water for thirty minutes until the hot itching went down.
It was hard work gathering enough dry wood to start the fire again and his teeth were chattering as he finally got it going. The cold water bidet had chilled his inner core. His throbbing head told him he was a little dehydrated and he needed to get some liquid inside him quickly. He knew he should have boiled the water it first, but it would take a long time and he was very thirsty, so he decided to chance it.
Feeling a lot better for the liquid, he threw the rest of yesterday’s tubers in the embers and set about improving his roof. He could not face another night like the previous one.
Breakfast was not half raw this time, but it was a bit burnt and he had to discard most of it, but an unwary hare fell victim to one of his arrows and he wrapped it in leaves and stored it under some cool stones for dinner.
His bowels were still giving him trouble, but he put it down to the berries and decided to avoid them until his stomach settled.
With supper taken care of, he was free to look for cordage material. Keeping a careful watch to make sure he did not misplace his camp, he investigated the surrounding area and just after noon he thought he found what he was looking for.
Cutting through the thick vines was not easy. They resisted all attempts to snap them and even twisting them to break the fibres did not separate them from the main stem. He congratulated himself on finding exactly the right stuff for rope and blunted his knife gathering up enough.
He was back in camp when he noticed his hands felt stiff and he thought it must have been from the effort of hacking and twisting the vines, but it soon became obvious he had touched something toxic.
The left one swelled up like a balloon, hot and tingling, and where he had scratched it, deep ugly red wheals had erupted. In a short time one of them opened and began to weep a thin yellowish liquid. He tried to suck and spit it away, but it kept coming in a sluggish trickle.
The right hand was a little better, but he had trouble gripping his knife.
It was virtually impossible for him to hold it against the whet stone to sharpen and as a result it was too blunt to deal properly with the hare.
He did his best with his swollen hands, but it was a poor job, more mangled than skinned.
Gathering fuel was hard as well, as he could not hold more than a couple of sticks at a time. Eventually he had enough to char the meat into a near edible form and he was so hungry near edible was fine.
His hands got worse during a long cold and uncomfortable night and his bowels were not better either. By morning it dawned on Lucien he was in a bit of trouble and fear began to add its churning presence to the upheavals already going on in his guts.
He felt sick and feverish and he had a raging thirst; desperate to quench it, he chanced another drink of untreated water. By now his stomach was cramping and his swollen burning hands had become very painful. The left one was so big his fingers looked like pink sausages and he could not bend them at all and the yellow liquid oozed from another weal. His right hand was not quite as bad as the left, but it hurt and he could not hold his knife.
Slowly he managed to gather some wood and kick the ashes of his fire back into life. There was comfort in the warmth and in the dancing flames, but not much.
He knew he had to eat and drink or he would die, but he did not know what he could find with his hands in their present state. He certainly could not hunt and he did not think he could fish, but it was worth a try.
After piling a little more wood on his fire, he took his rod down to a still pool. Digging for worms was not an option, but he managed to use his teeth to tear a scrap from his shirt. Painfully and slowly he threaded it on to the hook and prayed it was sufficiently novel to attract a fish out of curiosity.
Several fruitless hours later he was forced to conclude fish were not as stupid as he had always believed them to be.
The day was moving on and he was faced with the choice of trying to convince the fish to take his bait or go back to camp and make sure he had enough wood to keep his fire alive through the night.
He was starving, but Jon’s instruction on the importance of keeping a fire going won. He told himself his hands would be better tomorrow and he would be able to find plenty to eat.
It took both hands to pick up every single piece of wood as he could not grip with any of his fingers. One of the weals had opened right up and he could see a raw red line. A hungry fly settled on it as he was inspecting it. Angrily he brushed it away, but it and a number of others buzzed around him until the sun went down.
The small amount of wood he was able to collect kept the flames alive until it was dark, but then it died and he crawled into his tent and under his blankets and fell into a feverish sleep full of nightmares.
There were periods of darkness and periods of light when he fought against invisible foes and chased after something forever just beyond his grasp. Sometimes during them he was burning hot, but at other times he was so cold his teeth chattered non-stop and every limb shook. Finally, when he thought he could not bear the heat and the cold any longer and the darkness seemed about to envelop him forever, something pulled him back.
In his dreams someone had given him water to drink; it had tasted odd and he had not wanted to swallow it, but someone had forced him.
He remembered crying when this happened, wanting to be left alone, but whoever it was had been kind but firm, comforting him, but had insisted he obeyed. He had been too weak to fight and eventually the dreams stopped.
When Lucien woke up he was idly curious about his location, but was so tired indifference overcame curiosity and he calmly accepted his surroundings. It was an effort to turn his head and for a long while he did not bother, but eventually listless curiosity overcame him.
He was in a tent, and he was warm and comfortable and the demons of hot and cold had gone.
Content, he dozed for a short while, but when he woke up again he was more alert and remembered a little of what had happened. He held out his hands to look at them.
The right one looked as it always had, but the left one was still a little swollen and he had a long healing scab across the back of it.
Further consideration brought the happy news his guts were only talking to him because he was hungry, not because they were heaving and surging.
He knew he had been very ill and it did not take much energy to work out someone must have helped him. The guilty part of him wanted to worry about who it might be, but weariness overcame him again. Besides, the sensible part of his head had a good idea who it was.
When the tent flap was drawn back Lucien was not surprised to see Jon.
“Hungry?”
Lucien nodded and tried to speak, but found his mouth was dry and there was a lump in his throat. He was helped into a reclining position and a cup was put to his lips.
Never had water tasted better. Nor had food tasted as good as the meat broth Jon spooned into him afterwards.
The effort of eating made him tired again and Jon eased him back down.
“Sleep,” he ordered and Lucien obediently closed his eyes. Before he drifted off it occurred to him he had not felt like this since he was very young and his mother had put him to bed, and he had known he was totally safe and no harm could possibly come to him while she was there.
When he woke again it was night and he could see Jon silhouetted by the light of the fire. He was able to drink some of the water he found beside him before sinking back into sleep.
The next time he came awake it was morning and he was still weak, but the bone weary sensation had passed.
Jon was there and helped him with his most urgent bodily need; then he wrapped a blanket around him, sat him down by the fire and handed him a cup of tea and a bowl of steaming mush.
“The inside of a stem,” he told Lucien. “The closest you can get to porridge out here.”
It was not unpleasant to eat, just bland.
“Are you very angry with me?” Lucien asked warily when he had finished eating.
Jon considered this for a second or two.
“I was,” he said. “But I’ve cooled down since then. Now I’m just annoyed, so you and I are going to have a serious talk soon, but not until you’re well enough.”
For a minute or so Lucien thought he would prefer to have the talk right there and then, but he was suddenly tired again and content to lay back and watch Jon tidy the camp.
It was another couple of days before he was able to do more than drag himself from his bed to the fire, but once he was eating properly he bounced back towards health as only the young and fit can do.
He had just finished swallowing his share of a duck when Jon said, “Ready for that talk?”
Suddenly the duck was not as comfortable in Lucien’s stomach as it had been, but he swallowed hard and said, “I guess so.”
“I’ve a good idea what happened before Vlic left,” Jon said. “How about you tell me what you did afterwards.”
Slowly Lucien went through everything he had done; carefully avoiding the reason why he had wanted the strong rope.
“Sweller vine,” Jon told him. “Get the sap on any part of you and you blow up like a balloon.”
“Did that make me sick?” Lucien asked.
“It didn’t help,” Jon replied. “You had a toxic reaction, but you were already in trouble.”
“Why?”
“You ate half cooked tubers, they gave you the trots and you began to dehydrate. You added to it by drinking water you hadn’t sterilised.”
Lucien coloured.
“You also scratched your hand and allowed a nasty little infection to get in. It shoved your temperature up and you became delirious,” Jon continued. “You were pretty far gone when I found you.”
“I’m very grateful,” Lucien said in a small voice.
Jon seemed indifferent to his gratitude; he shrugged his shoulders and poured himself another cup of tea. Lucien fidgeted in the uncomfortable silence that followed.
“I … I’m sorry,” he finally blurted out, unable to bear the quiet longer.
“Are you?” Jon asked. “What for?”
Lu
cien’s mouth dropped open.
“For …” he began and then he stopped.
He was sorry he had been less of a woodsman than he thought he was; he was sorry he had got sick and he was very sorry a justifiably annoyed Jon was sitting in judgement on him, but he was not sorry for the reasons behind all of it.
“I thought as much,” Jon said. “The Grand Master warned me you were probably another Frain, but I thought I saw something more in you. I was wrong.”
“Frain?” Lucien repeated. He had almost forgotten the arrogant trader they had brought up to The First Cataract.
“He was an apprentice at about the same time as me,” Jon said. “But like you, he was only really interested in what he could get out of this land and The People. He was sacked for trying to sell a stolen totem hide.”
Lucien wanted to protest. Money had no part in his thinking, but Jon was speaking again.
“What were you planning to do with the pelt?”
“I wasn’t going to harm her!” Lucien protested.
“Really? What if you’d caught her in that net you were planning and she’d been injured?”
“I’d have been careful,” Lucien replied. “Honestly!”
“And what about her cubs,” Jon continued. “What if you’d injured her, made her unable to hunt, so her milk dried.”
“C … cubs?” Lucien repeated.
“I’ve been watching her,” Jon replied. “If you knew anything, you’d have known she’s a lactating mother and there are at least two cubs tucked away nearer the river, possibly more.”
“I didn’t know,” Lucien replied. “If I had …”
“It shouldn’t have made any difference!” Jon retorted. “You’d no business doing anything to her. This is her world, not yours. You come here on sufferance and you should’ve given her the respect The People do. What is it you want from this place, Lucien? If all you’re looking for are the skills to rape and pillage it, like that bastard Frain, you’re going to make me wish I’d left you to rot back at the Settlement.”
“It’s not!” Lucien wailed. “I don’t want that. It’s just … it’s all so big and I need … oh, I don’t know what I need.”
