What had woken him from his dream? Smoke. Yes. A great fire somewhere to the East. Towards the lander peoples.
So the landers had set themselves on fire. Deg tried to feel some way about this but all he could find in his heart was exasperation. For only the blink of an eye had the Telf-like mammals been on this land. dTelfur travelers used to bring him stories of the landers’ ingenuity. He’d heard repeated tellings of the astonishing live births. Deg observed that this was best, as none of their species was large enough to sit an egg. He did not understand though how they would be able to regulate their population’s needs. How did Nature know what talents lay in each woman’s child? Did a woman have to carry a child around until it was needed? It seemed to Deg an inefficient system for a sentient species.
Now though, since the landers had begun attacking dragons, chasing them away, Deg got fewer stories from his friends.
“Old Mountain, what are you looking at?” Danny, one of the younger dTur who sat the eggs looked up at Deg. Unless they were flying, everyone looked up at Deg.
“I’m looking at the sky because I smell fire.”
“Trees are burning. The landers have lost all sense.” Danny laid his head back down over his cache of eggs.
Deg too curled up again over his own large cache. Pushing one dark egg further under his chest, in the protective curve of his foreleg, he mentioned, “Someone will have to go put it out if it spreads too far. Konifer will know.” And he shut his eyes.
Suddenly both dTur and the rest of the village lifted their heads and looked East. They all heard the screaming dragon before she came into view. Half the villagers within Deg’s view took off to help. It sounded like Sophie who had gone off, Deg knew, many weeks ago to hunt with dTserra and to shed. He craned his neck higher searching the sky for the pair through the crush of dragons that filled the sky between him and the noise. The volatile Telf, dTserra, was a pet of his and he had an icy fear in the tip of his tail that she had finally gotten herself into irredeemable trouble.
One of the youngest dTur in flight turned and flew back to Deg. About the same size as his head, she hovered in front of him, scared.
“What is it, Nahni?”
Nahni tried, unsuccessfully, to dip her head in respect while maintaining her altitude. In her distress and struggle to regain a balanced hover her tail twitched in control of her emotions rather than her will. The awkward hatchling hit Danny in the eye before whacking her tail into her own left wing. She fell.
Danny caught her on his snout. Another good reason the youngest had fur on their bellies, such rescues.
“Relax Nahni, I’ve got you.” Danny murmured gently so as not to disturb her precarious balance. “Give Deg your news.”
Deg dipped his head to a level with Nahni, “What is it little soul?”
“dTserra was hunted. Sophie says you’re to meet them on the riverbank.”
Nahni spread her wings suddenly to catch herself as Danny pulled back in shock. What reason could there be to ask Deg to move? Deg hadn’t moved farther from the hatching ground than the fertilization ditch in almost half a century. The old dTur was just too big. He exercised his wings at night and on hot days, but Danny couldn’t remember seeing him in the air since well before Nahni had hatched.
“Nahni, go tell them I’m coming.” Deg turned his head to speak to the Telf healer Nyah over by the grove. “Nyah, get to the riverbank and help them. Danny, find a couple of dragons to sit the eggs while I am gone.”
He took one deep breath, crouched up on his hefty forepaws, curled his tail under for an assist, unfurled his marvelous wings, and sprang into the sky. For one moment he hovered at the height of his leap, fearful that his cold wings would fail. Then he felt for the currents and brought his wings down in a great beat against the air. And soared upwards.
Deg arrived at the riverbank, escorted by a frantic Sophie darting about, torn by a need to protect dTserra from the crush of curious dTelfur and dTserra’s demand that she fetch Deg. As he landed a careful distance from the dying hunter, Deg watched some telf healers saw a spear end from dTserra’s chest while she refused an anesthetizing drink, barking orders at those around her at the limit of her considerable pitch. The healers packed the wound with cloth and conferred quietly over the impossibility of removing the spearhead without causing more damage.
“I know how a spearhead works!” dTserra snapped at the whispering healers, the pain blinding her to Deg’s approach.
“Well, you have finally made me fly.”
She turned unapologetic eyes to the old dTur, “You know you need the exercise.”
Sophie lowered her head into the conversation. “Deg is old enough to know what is best for himself.”
“No one is ever old enough…”
“dTserra,…”
“Shut up Sophie. Deg, and I…” dTserra hesitated. She looked down at the growing puddle of blood at her side. “I’m going on.”
Deg hummed assent over Sophie’s dismay. “Nahni said you’ve been hunted.”
dTserra smirked and looked off at the sky, “Ha. So that’s why. Well, it’s fair.”
The two old dragons let her stare off at the gathering crowd while the color drained from her face and her eyelids drooped. Deg ignored Sophie’s tail flicking at his. He lowered his head to the ground and whispered to his dear pet, “Is there anything you need to say, dTserra?”
Her eyes opened, “Yes. One of the eggs you’re sitting now, my egg, the dark mottled one, that…”
He murmured, “I know the one.”
“It is of Konifer. Name him ‘Mobious’.” She slowly turned her head to her friend and partner, “Sophie, when I’ve gone on, take me to the forest and leave me for the beasts. It is their turn to feed on me.” She reached up and put a hand on each muzzle, “I am hunted.”
She lived a few hours as the sun rose over the motionless crowd. But spoke no more.
Act I (105 – 106 ath)
One
∞
Black clouds rolled across the sun, darkening the already chilly forest as Hardt, hands torn with hemp splinters, struggled through the underbrush to reach the middle tree. This time the trap would be secure. He’d tied ropes off at waist high and as far over his head as he could reach not only between the two trees as his aunt Vyck had instructed, but to a third as well, creating a triangular bluff so if the buck veered off again he’d still be trapped. The two rope heights would keep him from spreading his stunted wings and gliding over the trap this time.
With many hours of an unlucky hunt behind him, Hardt’s thick dark hair lay matted about his head with sweat. He wore little clothing which clung tightly to his tall form to keep from catching on the thick trees and brush of the deep forest, the bos. The smell of his exhaustion was unnoticeable beneath the cow dung he and his aunt had spread over each other early that morning to mask their human smell from the prey and to help them blend into the brown death of the late winter foliage. With nearly seventeen frseason, sixty-six seasons, Hardt had just grown taller than his formidable aunt and the broad shoulders and strong body he’d inherited and improved with a life of hard physical labor made him an attractive and imposing figure. He would have been quite popular if he ever allowed anyone to see the heart behind his dark and distant eyes which were usually, as now, focused single-mindedly on the task at hand.
Satisfied with his knots, Hardt circled around to the west of the third tree where he whistled the signal. Vyck would know to drive the kyirghon east of his voice. He heard her commotion and readied his spears praying they would bring it down this time. They’d been playing games with the creature since well before dawn and now, with the approach of evening and thunder rolling overhead, Hardt was beginning to think the people of Stray should let the stunt-winged kyirghon have his way and just move their homes out of the bull’s newly claimed territory.
A crack of lightning split the sky and the kyirghon veered. Whooping and screaming, Hardt leaped from his hiding place and scram
bled west circling as quickly as he could to run the beast back at Vyck’s stoning. The buck was only briefly spooked by the new apparition in front of him before another sharp stone hit him in the rear. It ran on. Hardt could hear Vyck altering her chase, circling to drive the kyirghon east again with her stones. Already searching the ground before him for any missiles he could use, he heard her screaming from the other side of the stampeding beast, “Throw something! Hit him!”
He felt the first drop of rain on the back of his neck and stumbled, looking to his right as the kyirghon burst through the brush, heading straight for him. Falling to the messy, wet, and painful forest floor he threw with all his might the spear he’d forgotten in his left hand. The ground hit him hard as the Kyirghon spread its little wings and soared over him followed closely by Vyck who raced to the wounded beast, slit its thick throat and leapt out of the way of its great rack of antlers thrashing about in agony as it quickly bled to death.
Hardt slowly sat up, a hand to his aching head as Vyck, looking up at the great crocodile drops falling slowly from the black sky, sat herself down on the stone her nephew had just barely missed cracking his skull on.
“Nice throw.”
“I shouldn’t have let it get so close.” He resurveyed the scene with a rational eye.
“Ah, you still think you have to see it to hit it. You’ll figure it out.”
Hardt looked up at her, confused. “But you don’t like using magic to hunt.”
“Don’t use magic,” she paused to take a swig from her canteen. “Use your ears.”
Vyck looked away at the poor creature struggling for its final breath and spilled a sip of water over the dirt, thanking nature for the kill and the beast for its sacrifice. “Not that you didn’t give us one hell of a fight,” she added as the rain began really pouring down. “Ah well, at least our job is done for now. Give that horn a toot and the Mytree family clan can come and drag the beast ashore.”
The buck had been bothering the west lying cottages of the newly and loosely organized countryshale of Stray for three quarters of a moon. The Kyirghon, a normally reticent deer-like creature with vestigial wings and a nasty airfoil tail on the male, had attacked and badly wounded Badren, a western living hermit, as he was leaving his cottage for the full moon meeting.
Badren’s shouts were heard by several families also headed for the gathering and by luck, their sheer numbers and noise drove the buck off before he’d done any fatal damage. The rescuers tended the goring as best they could and carried Badren to the center clearing to be seen to by Gaerel, the closest thing the shale yet had to a healer. Jaydee, matron of the indomitable Mytree clan, invited Badren to stay at the family’s compound while he healed, but with the thought of Jaydee, Garce and the six young and equally wild Mytree racing about in all minds, her offer was supplanted by more quiet refuge. The question remained; what to do about the beast?
Conveniently, first on the meeting’s docket after Jaydee Mytree’s introduction of the newest settlers was the issue of what to do about the Kyirghon keeping Strayers out of the western bos. During the heated discussion, the silent Vyck and her nephew were nominated to hunt down the kyirghon.
“Vyck is the finest hunter we’ve got. She and Hardt can kill the thing if anyone can.”
“And if she’s gored no one will notice she’s gone.” This witticism came from a cruel and anonymous voice deep in the crowd.
“But you’d have to tan your own kill again, Brower.” Jaydee, standing on a tree stump, identified the wit. “I’m more than willing to join the hunting party but too many will spook the creature beyond capture.”
“We could set a trap and spook the kyirghon into it.” Heigna, a young woman hungry for a fight, pushed to where the hunters were gathering around an uncomfortably out of place Garce, father of the Mytree who left the killing to his well-liked bond, Jaydee
“Or drive it into the fields and let the dragons take it.”
Shouts of “Hurrah!” and “That’s it!” followed Brower’s suggestion.
“Oh yes, brilliant idea. Who’ll just go fetch a dragon to our bidding, hm?”
“What about poisoned bait?”
While the hunters of the shale gravitated to the center of the gathering arguing different tactics to kill the beast, Vyck remained where she stood a little apart watching the discussion, her bright gray eyes taking in each interested hunter. Vyck stood as tall as any man in the shale, passed only by Hardt in the last season. She had the family’s broad, strong shoulders, improved by her fourteen frseason living in the southern forests, bos, and bogs. Her hair was kept closely cropped since she’d had hacked off the lustrous black tumbles of it the night she fled her family’s village. Overall, it was a formidable woman who now watched the debate with calm impatience.
Hardt, though one of the finest hunters, stood apart as well not quite ignoring the commentary run by Noah, Jaydee and Garce’s fourth child third son, standing at his side. He watched the scene with the same wary alertness as his aunt. Anyone watching them, as indeed Garce was from the center of the rising conflict, would have been struck by the more than familial resemblance between the two. And when their eyes met, though the public argument raged on, the Mytree sire knew that the matter had been decided.
Vyck’s pointed contralto cut through the babble, “You can have the meat and the hooves and the antlers. We’ll keep the hide. We’ll take along Mytree’s horn and when either one of us or the buck is killed, we’ll blow it and you can carry the body back here for whatever celebration you desire.” She nodded to Brower. “Sunup after next we’ll go. We will need some particular supplies. Hardt will come round to borrow them from you.” She glanced over to the injured man for permission, “Perhaps the retrieval party could wait at Badren’s cottage?”
A judiciously drugged Badren struggled with consciousness on his litter, “You’re welcome to it.”
“Thank you. Then that is settled. What’s next on the docket, Garce?”
And no one argued with her. Hardt collected the horn, some rope, and the dung the next day as well as confirming that there would be enough at Badren’s cottage to carry the beast. In the end Gaerel the near healer joined Garce, Jaydee, their four eldest including the extremely jealous Frair, his equally miffed girlfriend Heigna, and a few other adventure-loving souls for what turned out to be the long wait at Badren’s.
The kill had finally occurred quite near Badren’s cottage and Vyck’s shouts to Hardt were heard clearly by Garce, Frair, and Gaerel who were outside, hanging a new door against the coming storm. They alerted the others and by the time the Kyirghon’s screams were dying on the wind, the party had set out with food and fresh water, medical supplies, and much equipment for hauling the carcass. The horn blast found them nearly at the kill site where the victorious hunters were huddled miserably under the dubious shelter of an early blooming tree, applying aloe to their numerous cuts and scrapes. Noah and Gaerel escorted Hardt and Vyck back to their cottage, fixed them a hot meal, and put them to bed against their protests while Jaydee organized the skinning of the beast.
Vyck woke later at the sudden silence when the storm abated to find Noah and Gaerel gone. She stepped outside onto the wet grass. The moon was high but descending and the hide had been delivered. They had left it under the sun tarp and let the rain flaps down. Vyck, though tired and sore, gathered her tools and set to preparing the hide. Soon she pulled down a thick winter rabbit fur from where it hung on one of the poles to shield her bare feet from the cold stone ground of the tanning tent as she stretched the hide onto the stakes she set up under the tarp.
Still caught in the relaxed comfort of near sleep, Vyck’s thoughts floated in her brain like dreams as she went through the almost ritual process of cleaning the skin of death and preparing it to be of use for the living. Her mind wandered as it often did over the landscape of her past. Great big Hardt had been so little once she had carried him on her back as she hunted, his tiny fists grabbing at butterflies and
flowers. He’d wrinkle his nose at the death she’d carry home with them. The small cottage she’d built slowly, learning as she worked what woods were best and which dragonbed was easiest to quarry.
Hardt never did speak much. He’d first started playing with sounds well after their arrival in Stray. While she admitted freely that she was a quiet woman, Vyck had tried to speak to the infant as much as she felt was healthy for her sanity. She called him all the old tales that she knew and Hardt was a good listener. He smiled and knit his tiny brow in concern at the appropriate moments. He just never responded until Jaydee Mytree brought her youngest, at the time, to visit.
Noah, younger than Hardt by many seasons, giggled and gurgled and babbled so infectiously that Hardt was soon trying out the sounds for himself. During Jaydee and Noah’s second visit, after some careful testing with Vyck, Hardt launched into teaching Noah how to speak words.
Vyck, who hadn’t noticed how the people of her birth village, Pace, had been hurting her until she’d seen them neglecting Hardt, watched him take control of the relationship with approval. She was unable herself, however, to accept as easily Jaydee’s proffered friendship.
The kidnapping aunt paused in her midnight work for some water which she drew from the covered keg beside the cottage. As she drank, she ran a briefly rinsed hand through her cropped hair with some regret. She thought, not often, of letting it grow back but considered that she’d cut off the past with her hair and it was best not to risk inviting it back. The truth is she’d thrown herself so completely into this new life of raising Hardt in an empty land with all the love he deserved, that she had forgotten the fierce anger with which she had cut off the hair and the heart her loves had used against her. It was her heart that she feared not the past. She had loved her hair; the cool swish of it on her back, head tilted to the sun. The joy of its wild energy twisting and flying in the wind, the romantic way it draped mysteriously in front of one eye caressing her face. When that too had been used to hurt her, she’d lost all hope in love… in joy and so she hacked it off. Best now to love Hardt and the forest and let the others all be. But, ignorant of her true heart, Vyck finished her work on the skin wishing lightly that she had met the very kind Jaydee before her heart had, so she imagined, closed and vowing once again to be friendly at the festival that would surely take place tomorrow over the meat of the Kyirghon.
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