The Tattooed Tribes

by Bev Allen

  At various places the trees grew right to the edge of the bank, some hanging on only by their roots where floods had swept the soil from under them. It made the going hard.

  Vlic had point, Stacey was in the middle and Lucien concentrated on following them as quietly as he could, when Vlic suddenly disappeared from view. Hastily suppressing a cry of horror, he and Stacey ran to the point where Vlic had vanished.

  “I’m all right,” a soft voice whispered up to them. “There’s some sort of overhang here, it goes back a fair way and you can’t see it with the vegetation.”

  Lucien lowered himself and found Vlic crouched on a ledge hidden under a canopy of vines and branches. Inside the tree’s roots stood like a series of columns with crawl spaces going back into the earth. It was quite dry inside and they found evidence that some creature had used it as a lair.

  “I guess the river must have cut this before the beavers dammed it,” Vlic said.

  They scrambled back up, climbed out over the lip of the depression and returned to the tree line, watching carefully in case there were other traps for the unwary along the way.

  Keeping within the safety of the tree cover, while staying in visual touch with the valley, was proving hard. A couple of times they found they had ventured far deeper into the woods than they wanted. Once they unwittingly walked straight out of cover and into the open, had Jon or an enemy scout been around they would have been seen immediately.

  It gave them a fright and they were far more careful afterwards. The delays meant it was well past noon before they reached a place behind the camp where they could observe without being seen.

  To their surprise they saw no sign of Jon and no sign of the sort of activity that would signify his presence.

  They were close enough to see the tents were made from bison hides stretched over larch poles.

  Vlic caught Lucien’s eye and mouthed ‘Tribal’ to him, confirming their suspicions of the previous day.

  Slowly and silently, they moved around a little, hoping to get a better view. At first they thought the whole place was deserted, but smoke trickling from the banked fire in the pit told them there were people here.

  They listened for sounds and Lucien thought he caught the faint buzz of someone snoring, but it was hard to be sure.

  Stacey touched him on the arm and pointed towards the lean-to built up against the side of the cabin. There was a sound coming from it and it was easy to identify; someone was singing and sounded very young.

  Vlic stiffened and listened hard. “Women’s magic,” he breathed.

  Stacey nodded confirmation. “A cursing song by the sound of it.”

  The door of the cabin opened and a woman came out. She was small and round and looked ill at ease in her deer-hide jacket and knee-high boots.

  “For god’s sake,” she snapped at someone in the house. “I’ll shut her up, but why you’re so upset by a little girl singing I’ve no idea.”

  She stamped off towards the lean-to as a man emerged from the darkness within.

  “Tell her if she doesn’t stop she won’t be fed,” he said in a peevish tone.

  This time it was Stacey who stiffened.

  ‘Father?’ Lucien mouthed.

  She nodded, her jaws clamped so hard together a muscle in her cheek gave an involuntary spasm.

  The woman disappeared into the lean-to and after a moment or two the singing stopped and she came out again and returned to the cabin. Almost immediately there was a rhythmic sound, like someone tapping out a dance tune.

  Vlic’s face broke into a grin. “More women’s magic,” he whispered.

  “Oh, yes,” Stacey answered.

  The cabin door flew opened and the woman stormed out and into the lean-to; there was the sound of an angry raised voice and the tapping stopped, but by the time the woman was back inside the cabin, the singing had started again.

  “You stop her!” she was heard to shout at someone inside. “She won’t listen to me.”

  There was the muffled the sound of an argument.

  The angry voices or perhaps the singing had disturbed others, and tent flaps were being thrown back and men began to emerge. They yawned and scratched as if they had been woken from deep sleep.

  One went to stir up the embers of the fire, another to fetch more wood from the pile, while the others went to relieve themselves in the general vicinity of the latrine, but not with any accuracy.

  There were well over a dozen of them and from their dress they were tribesmen.

  One banged on the wall of the lean-to and said something, but whatever the reply was, it made him jump back as if afraid.

  He said something else, but he made sure he was a good way off. He then staggered over to the fire to hear some mocking remarks from his fellows.

  It struck Lucien the area was filthy, something he had never seen before. Jon was strict about camp cleanliness and even stricter about hygiene, and he nearly gagged when a slight change in the wind brought the smell of the latrine searing up his nostrils. It was bad enough to make his eyes water.

  During his time with the Forest Cat he had never seen anything to disgust him or anything below the standards he had been taught, but here it appeared that even a proper midden was beyond the inhabitants.

  There were also far more flies than he was accustomed to seeing; they were settled on the bones, rotting remains and detritus that littered the site and, as one of the men moved close to some pile of ordure, they rose in a thick black cloud only to sink down again.

  Looking up, Lucien saw several scavenging raptors hanging on a thermal above them and Vlic, who had been following his gaze, had a stunned expression on his face.

  He shook his head in bewilderment. No woman or man of his acquaintance would ever have allowed this level of slovenliness.

  Stacey seemed too have withdrawn inside herself for a while; the sight of her father had affected her more than she thought it would. She had been expecting it, but reality was cruel. What now assaulted her nostrils dragged her out of her reverie and she also stared at what was before them.

  She touched Lucien’s arm and whispered, “No women.”

  He was about to protest when he realised she meant tribal women, and this was another surprise. Hunters might go off in small all-male groups occasionally, but women’s magic was considered by most tribesmen essential to a successful outcome of any such expedition. Plus the women saw no reason why men should have all the fun.

  There was a shout of greeting from the woods away to their right and four more tribesmen stepped out from cover and into the clearing; one of them had a deer slung over his shoulders.

  Their appearance was hailed by those now gathered around the fire and a quick head count showed there were about a fifteen of them in total. It also brought the woman out from the cabin.

  She stood talking to one of the hunters, who listened with patience but no sign of enjoyment. Whatever she said resulted in a long fillet of venison loin being delivered to the cabin door when the deer was butchered.

  The smell of spit roasting meat, even mixed with the other viler smells, was enough to remind three young people they were hungry again and there was nothing for them to eat.

  Silently they slid further round the camp to get up wind of the tormenting aroma. As they came around they had a clearer view of the lake and the three canoes pulled up onto the bank.

  Retreating deep into the cover of the woods they hunkered in a small stand of young pine trees to consult.

  “What tribe are they?” Lucien asked.

  “I don’t know,” Vlic replied. “We’re too far away to see their hands and I didn’t see any shields.”

  “Neither did I,” Lucien admitted. “But I think it was Clieviis’ daughter we heard singing in the hut.”

  Stacey nodded in agreement. “It was women’s magic, but she was using the girl theme and rhythms.”

  “Why are they keeping her locked up like that?” Lucien wondered

  “Kn
owing what my little sister is like, I bet she’s tried to escape a couple of times,” Vlic replied.

  “Any idea who the woman is?” Lucien asked Stacey.

  “I’m not sure,” she replied. “I thought I recognised her, but I can’t remember when or where.” She paused. “You saw my father.”

  Lucien nodded. “No sign of mine,” he remarked and watched with satisfaction as the chagrin stole across her face and then felt a stab of guilt. “Sorry,” he muttered. “That was …”

  He could not bring himself to apologise, so he changed the subject.

  “Where the hell is Jon?”

  Vlic shrugged. “The best we can do now is watch and wait,” he said, hoping his mercurial friend would see the sense of this.

  Apparently he did, but he was brooding and restless as they watched the meal before them progress. Tubers were thrown into the ashes and a variety of herbs, leaves and nuts appeared.

  The woman from the cabin emerged again and after some debate was given a share of these. She appeared, from the smell floating out of the cabin and across the camp site, to have made damper bread, but she did not offer to the men gathered around the fire.

  Judging from the gestures they made in her direction, this was not well received.

  Flour was a luxury among the tribes; they had substitutes, but had neither the technology, nor the inclination to grow and harvest wheat.

  It was sometime before food was taken to the little girl locked in the lean-to, and all three of them frowned over the amount on the plate.

  “Looks like your father was hungrier than usual today,” Lucien said, watching Stacey to see the reaction.

  Even as he said it, he was angry with himself. He felt bad enough the last time he goaded her, but here he was doing it again. He had no idea why he needed to keep on, but no matter how hard he tried to stop himself, all she had said about his father kept coming back to him. And the more often it came, the more feasible it sounded.

  “Stop it!” Vlic hissed. “Leave her alone.”

  Lucien, completely ashamed of himself, shrugged compliance and turned away to hide the colour staining his face.

  As a result, he missed the first sight of Jon as he walked out of the woods no more than five hundred yards from where they were hidden.

  He strode out in full view of all those around the fire, called out a single word and raised his arm in salute.

  There was a moment of stunned silence as the diners stared at him in astonishment; then there were exclamations of alarm and a rush for weapons. A babble of orders and counter orders rang out, only to be ignored by all in their haste to defend themselves.

  Lucien, Stacey and Vlic were as surprised as the tribesmen and nearly betrayed themselves by doing the same things, but with effort they managed to keep their heads.

  Even so, Vlic thought it wise to keep a firm hand on Lucien’s arm. He could feel the tension in his friend’s body.

  “Greetings,” Jon said, crossing his arms over his chest, the backs of his hands turned outwards to show his status and confirm he was not holding a weapon. “I am Harabin, a Master Traveller of The Tribal Liaison Guild.”

  The tribesmen came forward cautiously and every one of them had some sort of weapon to hand, mainly the knives they had been using to eat, but there was an axe or two, and a war club was being smacked gently in the palm of one man’s hand as he approached.

  They began to form a circle around Jon and as they did so, Lucien swung his rifle from his back and slowly pushed a bullet from the magazine into the chamber.

  He began to bring the weapon to his shoulder, but the pressure of Vlic’s hand increased and he reluctantly lowered the barrel.

  One of the men stepped out from the circle and at a gesture from him, the others stopped their advance. He studied Jon in silence for a second or two, his pale grey eyes unmoving and devoid of emotion.

  Lucien stopped breathing.

  There was another slow hand gesture and reluctantly the other tribesmen began to relax their belligerent stance and drift back towards the fire. After one last long look at Jon, he jerked his head in invitation.

  Jon followed him back to the fire, sinking down on his haunches as the men had. They may have been squatting, but none of them were relaxed; one glared at Jon before spitting copiously into the fire.

  “As I said, I am Harabin dheillwer,” Jon began, ignoring the insult and addressing the man who seemed to be in charge.

  “And I am Eldrien of no tribe,” the man replied. “What do you want here, dheillwer?”

  Vlic had given a gasp at this and Lucien pulled him down deeper into cover.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked in a ghost of a voice.

  “Niifliinling,” Vlic hissed. “He’s a man without tribe. Expelled for crimes against custom.” He rose up to peer again at the group around the fire. “All of them, I think.”

  Lucien had been scared for Jon before, but now his stomach clenched and he thought for a second he was going to be sick. None of those around the fire had crossed their arms in greeting. Never in his time amongst the tribes had any man greeted him without showing his hands.

  “This isn’t right,” he said. “I wish your dad was here.”

  “So do I,” Vlic admitted.

  They turned back to the scene before them.

  “I wish to have speech,” Jon was saying, calmly and reasonably. “To pass the stick and hear your thoughts, Eldrien. And the thoughts of these others.”

  There was a rumble of dissent from the group.

  “We no longer follow the customs of those who bred us!” Eldrien replied.

  “Really?” Jon said and pulled a pure white stick out from inside his jacket.

  It was completely plain, but it was without a flaw, beautifully smoothed and the ends rounded. Finding it and carving it must have been one of the reasons Jon had taken so long to get there.

  There was a stirring amongst the men and their body language changed. Some of the aggression eased and they looked expectantly at Eldrien. Old customs die hard, even amongst those alienated from their kind.

  Eldrien considered them and then Jon. He was tense and seemed to be having some sort of inner debate, but finally he scratched at a biting thing in his arm pit and relaxed.

  “I will hear Harabin dheillwer’s thoughts.”

  Jon held the improvised talking stick out before him.

  “Eldrien liedwer, I think much has been done against custom and tradition in the recent past. Things not usual amongst The People.”

  This was greeted with total silence, but the body language of his listeners had changed again; they were wary, not yet aggressive, but hands were fiddling with blades.

  If Jon saw, he chose to ignore it.

  “It is my thought that the taking of a breid from a hand fasting is without tradition, custom or honour,” he continued. “What is your thought?”

  He handed the talking stick to Eldrien, who took it and gazed at it for a time, rubbing his thumb against the smooth wood.

  “Mine is to wonder what concern it might be of yours, Harabin dheillwer.”

  He took out a knife and whittled a little of the white wood away, before returning the stick to Jon.

  “All matters against custom are the concern of The Guild,” Jon replied. “It is through custom and honour that peace is maintained.”

  The stick went back to Eldrien, who again applied his knife, this time beginning to bore a hole in the wood.

  “Peace does not concern me,” he said. “Nor does custom. Without tribe there is no custom. With no custom, there is no tradition. Without both, there is no honour.”

  The hole having progressed to his satisfaction, he returned the stick to Jon.

  “To be without tribe is to be without custom,” Jon agreed. “But does a man require them to have honour?”

  “What is honour?” Eldrien asked with the air of one prepared to be amused.

  “Perhaps,” Jon said, “it is nothing more than avo
iding dishonour.”

  Eldrien chuckled. “And what is dishonour, Harabin dheillwer?”

  Jon smiled at this. “Would not the taking of a breid be dishonourable? And the killing of her parents?”

  Eldrien held out his hand for the stick. “Was I still bound by custom,” he said as he shaved a curl of wood, “such an act would be a matter of dishonour.”

  “In our hearts we are all bound by custom,” Jon replied.

  Eldrien shot him a look of cold calculation. “Perhaps a new tribe without custom is a better place.”

  “Perhaps,” John replied. “Not all customs are good and sometimes new ones are needed, but …”

  “What is going on here?”

  All those seated around the fire had been so absorbed in philosophy and the passing of the stick; they had not noticed the cabin door open. Congressman Eric Wainwright and his woman companion came hurrying over to the men gathered around the fire.

  In the bushes Stacey groaned.

  “No, you old fool,” she muttered. “Don’t do this.”

  Jon rose to his feet at their approach, but Eldrien spat in the flames and continued to shave curl after white curl from the talking stick.

  “Who is this man, Eldrien?” Wainwright demanded. “And what is he doing here?”

  “I’m surprised you don’t recognise me, sir,” Jon said stepping forward. “I recognise you. My name is Jon Harabin. I am a Master Traveller of The Tribal Liaison Guild.”

  Wainwright went very pale for a moment; then the colour rushed back to his face, a high red hue.

  “Anyone could claim to be a Guildsman,” he blustered. “I demand to see proof, if prove it you can.”

  Jon silently produced his badge and held it up for inspection. “Do you wish to see my written authorisation?”

  “No, no. That won’t be necessary,” Wainwright spluttered. “I’m sure everything is in order, but I must ask you to leave here immediately.”

  “Why?”

  This seemed to throw the Congressman. “Why?” he repeated.