Beechnuts, whatever else they indicated, certainly indicated a beech tree.
Not bothering to brush the sand from his bare legs and bottom, not from the leather kilt he swiftly and absently donned, he slung on his gear once more and set off along the river. But this time he walked along the dry land and looked, not down, but up. And so, by and by, by its silver-gray bark and its pale green leaves, but most of all its height, he saw the trees he sought. Some long past storm or earthshake, or perhaps a hidden subsidence of the ground beneath its roots, had inclined it at a slight angle, for it was near enough the river for the stream in spate to have undercut and then covered up its excavating — or, perhaps the blow of a thunderstone had bent it; above the lowest branch, many times his own length high over his head a great scar was burned into the massive trunk.
Once again he had the feeling of being watched; the feeling ebbed again.
And there was certainly no sight nor sign of a bear.
• • •
His disappointment was great. It would have been easy to stumble or falter, only that day’s morning had he gotten up from a daze of illness which had lasted — he realized he did not know for how long — and he had barely paused for rest. He had drunk once. He had not eaten. Weakness rose inside him. What had he expected? To find his father and, in finding him, an end to all mystery and aloneness forever? Had he expected to find a father sitting at the bottom of the huge beech tree, ready to welcome him with warm embrace? Here he was, Arnten, and he was as alone, as hungry, as unknowing as he had ever been.
What then was he to do? Slump behind the shelter of a bush and sleep and die? Weakness vanished. The very force of its sensation became a strength that blazed up within him and made itself felt without. He felt his skin tingle with something close to rage against this curious father who had cost his mother’s life, had never come near to see what he had begotten, had left his cryptic messages with the nains alone. A father who might be dead, long dead.
Had he been pursuing a ghost? Had he himself perhaps died already under the blows of the Painted Man and was now himself but a ghost? Did ghosts hunger? He allowed himself a cry of anger and bafflement. Then, fiercely, he filled his bark basket with such nuts and berries and leaves and shoots of greenfood as were close to hand. At a small trickle on its way to join the stream, he filled the perryware flask, stopped its neck with a plug of fern. He arranged everything to hang behind him. Then, angry and hot-eyed, defiant and determined, he set his toes and fingers in the cracks and ridges of the beech tree’s bark and began to climb. For the first time he allowed himself to speak his thoughts aloud.
“I will go up!” he said, through his set teeth. “I-will-go-up!” He inched up. And up. “And I will find out!” The bundle and basket dangled, swung out, bumped back, grew heavier. “And until I find out” — he panted, dug in once more, advanced, advanced — “I will not come down — ”
He swung one leg over the lowermost branch, hoisted himself up, pressed his head to the rough bosom of the tree and hung on for very life against the wave of vertigo which threatened to plummet him to the ground. Slowly it passed and slowly he opened his eyes. The lazy wind swung into his face, laden with scents of the rich earth, of flowers and other growing things. He looked over leagues of land and the swelling and falling away of hills, the glittering serpentine length of the river, forest forever a great green roof. And far, far off, so distant that he could not be sure, he thought he saw thread-thin smoke. It might have been his village. He thrust forward his chin so suddenly that he felt a creak in his neck and, with all his force and might, spat in its direction. And then he allowed himself to realize that the lightning-burn upon the tree, just above the branch, was actually a tree-cave, a hollow.
It was, he considered (with a shiver), too small to harbor either tiger or leopard; it even lacked the reek of a bird’s nest. Serpents would not go so high. Slowly, cautiously, he passed himself into it. Part of the bark still lay in place like a shell. And, patiently awaiting his discovery, wedged with splits of wood, protected from the worst assaults of the weather, was another hide-bound bag. Inside this was a box of carved wood. And in the box, padded with red-dyed fleece, was something that lay almost outside all his experience. Long he crouched in the dim light, half-afraid to touch it; then his fingers played over the intricate carvings. There was mammont-ivory and horn of wild ram, horn of elk; there was bear claw, there was — there were many things. Parts of it moved around, circle-wise, when he turned them. Parts moved up and down from holes, like little levers, when he touched them. Shapes of beasts and birds were carved into it. No man — nor nain — nor perry — had devised it. It was wizards’ work, and wizardry of witchery alone. It was a witch-horn, so huge and adorned and complex it could only be the witch-horn. Could only be All-caller, the great fey horn.
Chapter V
See then, in the late rays of the afternoon sun, while the great red circle still throws heat before descending for its slow journey through the Cavern Beneath The Earth whence it will rise again next morning, a small, a very small Something sticking out its head from the bole of the huge beech tree. After the head, an arm, at the end of the arm a hand and in the hand — what? It is needful to come closer. A shaggy boy, not quite a new young man, excitement and triumph and also fear upon its mold-smutched face. Carefully he holds the great horn in both his dirty hands. Carefully he examines it yet again, turning its turnable parts.
Ah. Ahah. So. Here is the bear claw, as like to the bear claw in his witchery-bundle to make one think they had come from the same bear-beast. As, perhaps, they had.
The boy’s full lips protrude, compressed in thought. So — here is the bear carved in ivory upon the horn band. Surely it was meant to come in apposition to the bear claw. He takes a deep breath, fills his dusty cheeks, lifts the horn to his lips. His eyes roll, his nostrils distend.
And below upon the mossy ground, while the echoes of the great cry, part growl, part roar, still send the birds whirling about and the leaves quivering, something comes into the open glade around the beech tree. Something comes as though the thicket were mere fern grass. Something comes crashing, comes trampling, comes on all fours, comes walking upright. Stands, stopping. Peering this way and that. Paws and head swaying. Issues a cry, part roar, part growl. Part challenge, part question. Puzzled. Vexed. Brute. Bewildered.
Bear.
Bear.
Bear.
A moment passes, or does not pass; endures without end. Then the bear coughs, grunts, sighs, brushes at one ear. Gurgles deep within its shaggy chest. Ambles and shambles down to the river. Stands there without motion. Then makes gestures which no bear has ever before been seen to make — or so it seems to the watcher up high. Who has ever seen a bear take off its skin before? Who has ever seen a man inside a bear before? Who has ever seen a man stride into the water and leave an empty bearskin lying on the bank behind, gaping empty, eyeholes looking up, sightless, at the sky?
Has anyone — ?
• • •
Arnten plucked up his talisman and, though it was the familiar-most of any object he had with him, he studied it as though he had never seen it before. Almost, for that matter, he had never seen a bear before. Perhaps he had seen live bears one or two times — dead ones, before they had been all skinned and dismembered for food and hide, several times. The carving did not seem to have changed. The bear was still certainly a bear — except that it still certainly had man’s feet. He could not recall that he had ever observed the feet of living bears, these must have been concealed in grass or underbrush, or perhaps he had just not been looking; likelier he had had his eyes (as he crouched fearfully out of sight) on the paws of the forelimbs, on the fearsome jaws. Perhaps all bears had man’s feet. But then a clear picture came to him of the four paws of one dead bear, cut off for the pot — and all were paws, none truly feet. And yet, might it not be that bears, alive, had feet like men, and that these changed at death? As for the bear below? Truly, he h
ad not noticed. He did not know.
Well, regardless, he knew what he had to do now.
He watched the man (formerly bear) swimming strongly in the water, bobbing under, emerging with hair all sleek, shaking his head, then resuming his swim, finally passing out of sight around a bend in the river. He would certainly be back. But Arnten was certain that he would not be back at once. Unencumbered by any burdens, all of which he left in the hollow, he climbed carefully down; he ran, eyes racing between three places — the ground, lest he stumble — the water, lest the man, returning, see him soon — the bearskin, lest — lest what? Lest, perhaps, and most horrifying by far, the empty skin somehow take on life and move, either toward or away from him. For a second it did indeed seem upon the point of doing so and he gasped in fright. But it was only the wind raising a worn corner.
He seized the skin and ran, flinging it across his shoulder and feeling it on his back, bounding and bouncing. He could see it, feel it, thankfully he could not hear it, he had no desire or reason to taste it. He could smell it, though, and its reek was very strong, partly bear, partly man. All these things he perceived without being aware of concentrating on them. He concentrated first on getting out of sight of the water. And then he paused to think of what he should do next.
And, with a start, realized that he had already done something. Perhaps he should not have, perhaps he should return and undo it. But he knew he would not. That which he had so greatly desired, the one whom he had so straightly sought, the source of his being and his childhod’s woe, man or bear or man bear or bear man, the witchery creature which had been his weakness and must now be his strength …
“I am afraid,” he whispered.
True, That One In The Water clearly had desired to see him, had left a trail for him to follow perhaps not as clearly as if it had been blazed, as if it had consisted of traditional and familiar hunters’ marks or patterns (but blazing and patterning were not intended to be other than open for all who could to read). And yet — and yet, why had he intended that his son should some day follow? How sure he had felt the son would follow, would meet the nains, would understand the messages bound up in the witchery-bundle: but this was for the moment beside the point and the point was: the bear man/man bear was power, and power, as much as it was to be desired, so much was it to be feared.
Presently something showed itself in the river, moving against the current. Arms flashing in the declining sunlight. A figure came padding out of the water on a sandbar, moving as a bear does on all fours, but was not a bear; moved to the other end of the sandbar, where, motionless, it seemed to be staring into the water. A forelimb moved so fast that the motion could hardly be followed. Something flew out of the water, sparkled, fell. Twice more was the scene repeated before, now walking upright, a fish in each hand and one in the mouth, the figure walked through the water to the shore and shambled up the bank. Another, smaller figure, watching, trembled. The tall one was thickly built, with hair (now slicked down flat with water) so thick that almost the skin could be termed a pelt. It seemed that all the brightness of the sky of Thule, which had only an hour ago been evenly divided, was now moved and crowded to one side and that side so much brighter; while a blue dimness gathered on the other side. The birds began to fall silent. The air grew cool. Leisurely, the tall figure ambled up the slope and onto the bluff. The fish fell from its hands and mouth and it dropped backward so that it came to rest sitting down, legs straight out and arms crooked upright from the elbows. It gave a great roar of disbelief and rage. Then it rose and stabbed at the mossy ground and took up something in its hands.
The talisman, the wooden carving …
Then the head rose and scanned the bluff, the brush, the crowded arbor of the forest. Abrupt growls from the thick chest formed themselves into rage words.
“Where are you?
“Why have you done this?
“Where is my skin?”
A voice came from somewhere up above, from the thickening darkness. “I will not answer your questions till you have answered mine.”
“Ask, then — ”
And the other voice, a moment silent, wavering a bit, but not halting, said, “Who are you? Who am I? What is next?”
• • •
Appropriately the backlog of the fire had come from the great beech tree. “Long since, I have made fire, or eaten food cooked on it, or food with salt on it,” said Arntat. His hands, however, seemed to have lost no skill. The fish had been deftly gutted, gilled and grilled. Salt, in a screw of barkrag, was still in Arnten’s basket. “Salmon will be better,” Arntat said, smacking his mouth at the thought, “but these are well enough.” Sparks leaped, embers blackened, glowed again. Abruptly he swiveled and faced the boy. “You be thinking, ‘Is it to hear talk of fish and fire that I’ve come this long way, waiting?’ Eh? I see it by your face, ‘tis so. Arnten. I have waited longer than you. Be patient.”
And the boy was silent.
And his fullfather said, “The bear is in the blood and the bear may take you as the bear took me. At any time whilest life blood be in you the bear may take you, for the bear is in the blood. If it takes you not, and it may not take you, if it takes you not then ‘twill take your son and if not you and not him then ‘twill take your son’s or daughter’s son for sure. Let this be no burden. Fear it not. I’ve dabbled and dallied with a queen of love, and though ‘twas joyous passion, yet ‘twas nought compared to shambling ‘mongst the new berries or finding honey in a tree or scooping forth first salmon, when I was gone a-bearing,” his fullfather said.
• • •
And he said, “Bear’s weird be better than man’s weird and better than nain’s weird. As a man I’ve been a chieftain high with lands and wealth — you may let your ears drop, ‘tis nought to you where and nought to you what’s-my-name-then. You were not made upon empty bear hide in lawful bedchamber, ah no, you were made when the bear was in the bearskin. My heritage to you is other than to my othergotten sons. Heed and hear me now, Arnten. By my witchery-bundle and by my shadow, sons you make outside the bearskin be outside the bear-blood. But sons you make when you be a-bearing and be inside the bearskin, the blood of the bear be in them. And if the blood of the bear be in them, then not running water nor icy pools nor fire-hot springs can wash it out.”
And the bear was silent.
• • •
Beechwood makes hard embers and hard embers make long fires. Long fires make long tales. Long they sat there in the scented night and Arntat talked and Arnten listened and learned. He learned that the shift and shape was truly not confined to man to bear, that other creatures indeed could pair, could couple, could double and shift.
Bee and salmon, wolf and bear,
Tiger, lion, mole and hare …
He learned of the slow growth of metals beneath the earth’s skin and the formation of amber beneath the sea, how amber was one of the things of the perries, whereas metal was a thing of the nains. Once there was a metal called bronze but at length it grew green and sick and presently it died. Now there was iron.
“The sickness of iron is red,” said Arnten, “and iron is dying.” Red glints in the ashes. Reflections in the eyes of the watchers.
“Aye, eh,” muttered Arntat. “The sickness of iron is red.” He swung up his head and his hand gripped his son’s. “What say thee, bear’s boy? ‘Iron is dying?’ What?”
That he, knowing so much, should not know this kept Arnten silent and astonished for several heartbeats. Then he saw pictures in his mind: one, one, then he saw things moving, heard the nain tell of years since “Bear” was by them seen. Arnten said, “You have been long inside the bearskin, then, and that long you’ve not seen iron?”
Still the hand gripping his did not move. “Iron is dying? True, true, many springtimes I have caught and killed the great salmon and many summer-times I have climbed for honey in the honey trees and in the rocky clefts. Many falltimes have I eaten the last of the frost-touched fruits and the s
weet flesh of nuts. And many wintertimes have I felt the bearsleep come upon me and felt the numbness grow inside my head and sunk into the lair till the snows grow thinner. Aye. Eh. I can count the time only by counting your time. You are barely a man. And the last iron I had seen, the last iron I had thought of, I wrapped well the iron knifeiet in my witchery-bundle and hid it well for thee. May it be sick?”
Arnten did not mind the grip upon his hand. He crouched against the crouching body of his fullfather. He rested on that puissant flesh which had made his own and which was now his present as well as his past. Defying mankind and beastkind and time and the night, he let himself recline against the great rough beast which was his father and he let his hand recline in that great rough paw. Quietly, almost drowsily he said, “That witchery-knife alone is not sick. But all other iron is sick.” And he muttered, “The nains,” and he muttered of the nains. And he sighed, “The king — ” and he sighed words of the king. And almost he fell asleep, comforted by the rough, warm body and its rough and powerful smell. Then the body moved, releasing his hand, and a sound which was almost a cry and almost a groan rumbled and broke loose from that strong fatherbody by the embers.
“Iron!
“The nains!
“The king!”
Almost he flew awake. He slid down so that he might stand up. The day had been long and there was still much to talk about. The day had begun with the mammont hunt and he had run far and he had been hurt and nains and perries and Painted Men pursued him and he ran along the river and now the long long day was over and he had nevermore again to run to bolt to flee and Iron! Sick iron! The wizards! and The King! sounded their names in the darkness. And the embers slid down because they were tired and the embers slipped beneath the ashes and the embers slept.
Ursus of Ultima Thule Page 5
