by Angus Wells
He leant against the oak, wary of sitting for he was not sure he had the strength to rise again, thinking that without food he might well starve before he could reach home. He would need, he thought, to set his snares again, and drop his lines in the stream. He could surely last this one more night without food.
He went to where he’d stowed his gear in the fork of a low-hung branch. The snares and fishlines were there, his bow and all his clothes. Or had been: now they were gone.
For a moment, panic threatened. He could not understand what went on. The fish were perhaps taken by some scavenger more agile than most, but the snares, his clothes? He searched the ground and found no sign, no remnants or wreckage: all was gone.
He wondered if he dreamed still, if this was some extension of his oneiric quest, but he could feel the night air chill on his naked skin, the grass moist under his bare feet, the rough bark of the oak. He could hear the night sounds of the wood, the small noises of the hunters and their prey. Then it dawned on him that he could not hear his horse. Nor could he see it when he looked about. He fought a fresh surge of panic then, for he knew that he could not survive the journey home on foot: without a horse, he must surely starve.
Frightened now, he stumbled across the clearing, desperately hoping that the animal had merely wandered a little farther afield, but he could find it nowhere. Instead, close to the stream, he found the hobble—it had been cut.
For long moments he stared at the severed rawhide, struggling to comprehend. It was almost too strange, too enormous to accept, save the reality forced itself on him. As he had lain dreaming, someone had come to the clearing to steal his horse, his gear, his food; to leave him naked and alone, and—afoot—too far from home that he could hope to reach camp alive.
14
Fight to Survive
His mouth was very dry and he went weak-kneed to the stream, dropping on his belly to drink. Thirst slaked, he heaved to a sitting position, the movement setting his head to reeling again. He was afraid and at the same time oddly distanced, as if he observed himself objectively and wondered how he should survive. The waxing moon told him he’d been eight or nine days, perhaps more, in the sweat lodge. The camp was three days’ ride away—six for a healthy man on foot to walk. He was unsure how long it might take a hungry man; longer, he thought, than he could endure.
Suddenly he began to laugh at the irony of his predicament. He had come here alone to seek an answer, and dreamed strange dreams of danger all oblivious of his own immediate peril. It should surely be a cynical jest if he were to die here, answered; to starve in Ket-Ta-Thanne after surviving Bantar and the Sea of Sorrows, indenture in Salvation and the dangers of the wilderness. He stifled his laughter as it turned to sobs, and he realized that tears filled his eyes. This was no way for a warrior of the People to act. He gasped, his chest heaving painfully, his belly abruptly reminding him it was empty, and forced himself to ignore discomfort as he assessed his situation.
Morrhyn had survived alone on the Maker’s Mountain and come back through the snows to bring his warning to the People. Now Davyd sensed he owned a similar mission. He could not properly interpret his dreams, save for the one clear answer, but he knew he must describe them to Morrhyn, else dreadful threat again come upon the Matawaye. Or was that only vanity born of fear? The Maker had gifted Morrhyn with certain knowledge, and kept the wakanisha alive that he deliver the People, but would he look so kindly on Davyd?
“The Maker is like a wise father,” Morrhyn had told him. “He guides us and guards us, but he does not indulge us. We should not expect him to pick us up each time we fall, for he’d leave us to take our knocks and learn from them. It is our duty to seek our own solutions before we turn to him and ask him to carry us through the hard times. Do we always run to him asking that he resolve our every difficulty, then we are less than he’d have us be.”
So then, Davyd decided, he could ask the Maker for aid, but must also look to help himself. He rose slowly to his feet, swaying a moment as he shuddered, his limbs trembling as if his blood ran thin and all his muscles vibrated to some internal disharmony. He felt mightily weary, and feared he should fall down. He swallowed, taking deep breaths, willing his shaking body to stillness, and then turned to the four points of the compass as Morrhyn had taught him, intoning a prayer that the Maker grant him life, at least long enough that he be able to describe his dreams to the wakanisha.
Then he set to the fleshly preparations for survival.
First came a fire—the nights were chill in the Moon of the Turning Year, and rain was likely—naked and near starving, he could not survive without warmth. He wished he’d brought his tinderbox, but he had elected to perform the rituals in the traditional manner and lit his fire with dry wood and a fire-stick. Both were now consumed and he must scavenge the clearing before he could find suitable materials to start the blaze again. In time, he found what he sought and carried dry branches and kindling to the entrance of the wickiup. His hands shook as he turned the stick between his palms, and it took several attempts before the drilling sparked the moss in the ancient log. He leant forward, blowing gently, and saw tiny flames rise. He added twigs, adjuring himself to patience, and waited until the kindling took before setting larger pieces in place. Slowly, the fire built, the flames rising stronger, and he set a cone of wood in place, watching as the blaze sent flickering red light across the clearing.
He was tempted then to lie down close by that seductive warmth, and sleep, but he was not sure he’d have the strength to rise again. So he warmed himself and wondered how he could procure sustenance.
Tekah had shown him how a fish might be caught by hand, tickled from its watery bed were the fisherman skilled enough and swift enough. Davyd had caught a few in this fashion—after frustrating hours and many failed attempts—but now it seemed the likeliest way to gain immediate food. He might build traps, could he find suitable wood and pliant vines, but that should take much longer, and even then hold no promise of success. Fish, he decided, were his best option. He returned to the stream.
The surface was patterned with light and shade, the moon shining down through the overhanging trees so that it was difficult to locate the trout, their camouflaged backs blending with the pebbly streambed as they drifted in their piscine sleep. Catching them was harder still. He could barely quell the trembling that possessed his limbs, and too often that disturbed the water, sending the fish scattering, leaving Davyd moaning with frustration, his arm chilled by the cold immersion. And that chill grew to pervade all his body, so that the shuddering grew worse and he must crawl back to the fire, to warm himself again before his next attempt.
The moon passed across the sky and the light faded into the toneless gray that precedes dawn. The cold grew worse and he must go more frequently to the fire now, chanting prayers that he not succumb to sleep. Delirium threatened, and several times he found himself drifting, his arm submerged and the cold taking hold, sucking out what little energy he had left. Then he would start back—again frightening the fish—and curse himself for a weakling and damn whoever had stolen his gear and horse.
Almost, he gave up; almost consigned himself to death. But some spark of obstinacy still burned, some small flicker of determination, and despite his chattering teeth and the numbing weariness that filled him, he continued. And then, as the gray predawn sky began to brighten, his resolution was rewarded, as if the Maker tested him and now granted him a prize. It was a small trout, but it was enough: he carried it back to the fire, barely scorching the skin before he tore at the meat.
He felt somewhat better then. The fish was not enough to assuage his hunger—if anything, it served to remind him how starved he was—but he was proud of his success, and as the sun broke through the mist floating amongst the oaks, he returned to the stream. But this time he was disappointed, and by midmorning he admitted defeat and gave in to cold and weariness. He wrapped himself in the tarpaulin and allowed himself to sleep.
“Ten day
s!” Flysse faced Arcole across the lodgefire, her blue eyes both angry and concerned. “Is it not time to seek him out?”
Arcole shrugged. “You said he went seeking dreams, no? And he can look after himself. Likely he’s made camp and looks to dream his destiny.”
“And is he hurt? Has he suffered some accident?”
Arcole faced her square, a measure of guilt kindled by those burning eyes. He nodded and said, “I’ll speak with Rannach and Morrhyn come dawn.”
“And go find him?” she asked.
“He might not,” Arcole said cautiously, “appreciate that. Is he on a dream quest, then likely he’d sooner be left alone.”
“Left for dead; perhaps starving?”
“I’ll speak with Rannach and Morrhyn,” he repeated, “and do they agree, I’ll go looking.”
Flysse ducked her head in acceptance. “I’d not lose Davyd.”
“Nor I,” Arcole declared. “Do the others agree, then I’ll go in search of him.”
Flysse said, “Good,” but even as she smiled and set their sleeping furs ready, she felt a terrible doubt that all was not well with Davyd, and wished he had not gone away alone.
The sun was westered when Davyd awoke and the fire burned down to embers. He rose—a little steadier now, the dizziness receded somewhat—and painstakingly gathered more wood, rebuilding the fire. When he was satisfied with the blaze and had a stock of dry branches in reserve, he returned to the stream. He was no more successful, and before the light faded he gave up, electing to search out what berries and tubers he could find before dusk came down. He ate the sorry results of his foraging raw as birds chorused farewell to the day and the night creatures came out. Bats fluttered amongst the trees, and he wondered if it was the same owl he saw perched on the far side of the stream, the same raccoon that wandered unafraid past his lodge. He was again light-headed, and the earthy roots sat uneasy in his stomach. He felt queasy and very weak, and when he drank from the stream his gut complained violently and expelled its contents. He dragged himself to the fire, his belly cramping, and painfully banked the flames before crawling inside the wickiup.
“Ten days are not so long,” Morrhyn said. “I spent twice that on my first dream quest—the Maker decides the duration.”
“And Flysse my patience,” Arcole returned. “She’d have me go out in search of him now.”
Rannach chuckled fondly. “Wives, eh?”
Arcole smiled in response, but still could not help feeling the doubts Flysse had set in his mind. He said, “Even so.”
“A while longer,” Morrhyn said. “Surely, had harm come to him, I’d have dreamed of it.”
Arcole nodded and wondered how he might tell Flysse this news.
The next day Davyd woke a little after dawn and lay shivering, his mind wandering random, waiting for the sun to warm the clearing. He thought it should be near impossible to make his way home without provisions of some sort, and wondered if he could lay up sufficient fish for the journey, or fashion traps successful enough to catch rabbits. He wondered if he was missed, and who had stolen his horse. Had they been turned free, they’d no doubt make their way back to the valley, and then his clan—he smiled as he realized he assumed himself a Commacht now—would surely come seeking him. But why would the thief turn them free? His smile became a frown as he pondered the mystery. The clans were in alliance after the exodus, and there was none of the horse-taking Rannach had described so proudly: the People did not steal from friends. Only rivals or enemies took horses, and he could think of no enemies—save one. He thought on his dreams and remembered Taza’s laughing face. He recalled Arcole’s words: “You’ve an enemy there: best watch him.” Was it Taza then, had sought to strand him alone and starving in this wood? Could the young Lakanti hate him so much?
It mattered less than surviving. He put Taza out of his mind and went looking for food.
The sun was bright this day, the rays that struck down through the canopy of branches blinding him and setting his head to aching, the painful throbbing a counterpoint to the hunger pangs that cramped his belly. Several times as he searched he doubled over, curling around the focus of his discomfort, his eyes screwed tight closed, and must force himself upright, to go on with his desperate hunt. He found more berries and realized they were not yet ripe enough to eat—he left them and concentrated on digging out edible roots, which he charred in the fire. This time he kept them down, and as the sun passed its zenith he decided he might survive. It would not be easy, but the hope alone energized him somewhat and he spent the remainder of the day fashioning traps of supple green wood and laboriously woven grass, and set them in the rabbit runs. That simple effort exhausted him and he collapsed into a deep sleep.
Too deep: rain fell during the night and doused his fire, so that he woke to an unfriendly morning, all chilly mist and dripping trees. His spirits fell then, and more when he found his traps empty. Most were destroyed, only one sprung, and all that held was the severed leg of a rabbit taken by some predator more skilled than he. It seemed a useless endeavor to rebuild the traps and he left the scattered remains where they lay. He felt gloomy as the day, but even so, for all his belly complained bitterly and the cold struck deep into his bones, he refused to give up hope. He rebuilt his fire and ate more roots, then inspected the stream again. It seemed the trout had grown wiser and fled that section running through the clearing, so he wandered on unsteady legs deeper into the wood until he found a place where stones and a toppled tree shaped a small pool where fish hung in the current like speckled clouds. Tekah had shown him how the People sometimes built fish traps to catch migrating salmon, and he thought to put that knowledge to use. The effort left him exhausted, but as the shadows lengthened he had the downstream end of the pool blocked with stones and branches, denying the fish exit.
That night he slept hungry, and in the morning wanted only to lie still, warmed by the smoking fire. But that was weakness and should bring him closer to death, which he was not yet ready to meet, so he steeled himself and rose shivering into another day of dull gray skies, shaking as the chill invaded, seeming to slow his blood, to dull his thoughts, so that he longed to curl beneath the tarpaulin and escape into slumber. He crouched a long time beside the fire and only when the shaking had abated did he return to the stream.
The sun was a pale eye in the gray, indifferent in its observation of his labors as it traversed the somber heavens and descended toward the western horizon. By then he had the upstream entrance to the pool blocked with a second makeshift dam, trapping the fish. It would be a little easier to catch them now, he thought wearily, but later—for now he was too cold, too weak to contemplate wading into the deepening fishpond. His head swam, lights dancing before his eyes as his teeth chattered, a ringing as of distant bells dinned in his ears, and all the aches possessing his body seemed to merge in a singular torment. He fell down as he returned to his campsite, unsure how often, not caring, seeking only the comforting warmth of the fire and sleep, unaware of bruises or cuts, finally moving on hands and knees like some wounded animal intent only on reaching its lair.
After the rain, his fire smoked abominably, but he was warm again and his spirits rose accordingly. He gave thanks to the Maker for the simple fact of his survival, and promised himself that the next day he would catch fish and eat well. He crawled into the wickiup and clutched the cold tarpaulin to him. And then he thought again of his dreams, and what they might presage, and knew that he must take word back to Morrhyn. He thought now that perhaps he could survive in this wood, like some hermit returning gradually to a primitive state. Could he take fish from the pond he must grow stronger, and then he could fashion weapons and hunt the larger creatures he heard moving in the night, make clothing from their skins, build a better shelter. He was still not sure he could make the journey home, not afoot and naked, and then he wondered if that was the intention of the mysterious thief. Had Taza—if it was Taza—taken his horse and his gear that he be trapped? Or perhaps th
e Lakanti had not believed he could survive, thinking he would starve. Davyd grew angry then, and determined to confront the youth.
But to do that he must find the People again, or they find him. He stared at the smoking fire, the sputtering flames seeming to mock his resolve. The moon was close to full now, its light filtered by the smoke that came in thick billows from the damp wood. He raised his head, staring intently at the gray-white clouds that drifted up, swirling about the overhanging branches, rising dark against the stars. Then he smiled and thanked the Maker for another answer.
“I found it running loose by the little river to the north where the hornbeams grow,” Taza explained. “I saw it was Davyd’s horse, and I wondered if he’d fallen off, so I looked for him awhile. But I could not find him, and so I brought it back. He’s not here?”
Rannach said, “No.” Then: “What were you doing up there?”
“Hunting,” Taza said, pleased with his dissimulation. “I looked to earn my keep.”
“And you found it along the hornbeam river?” Tekah asked.
“Yes.” Taza nodded. “It was drinking when I saw it, and there was sweat on it—as if it’d run a long way.” He affected an expression he trusted combined both doubt and fear. “I pray he’s not come to harm.”
Arcole said, “To the north?”
“Yes: to the north.” Taza nodded, and congratulated himself.
The next morning the sun shone bright, warm with the promise of the year’s turning, and for all Davyd tottered like some ancient he went to the pool optimistic. The sun was warm, but the water cold; it seemed to envelop his legs in an icy blanket as he waded in, numbing his trembling muscles, driving shards of chill into his groin so that he moaned with the pain as he bent and reached for the frightened trout. He knew he could not withstand such cold for long and prayed as he fished, asking that the Maker grant him a catch, grant him the strength to carry word of his dreams back to the People. Only that, he asked, and must I die after, let it be; only not before.
