by J. Thorn
Chapter 6
Outside the door to the room where his father lay sick, Jonah stooped under the eave and stepped out into the corridor that led toward the main room. The building that had been chosen as the clan chief’s hut had once been something called a diner. What one of those had been, Jonah had always wondered. He knew it hadn’t been a house, but the old building had been chosen generations ago, probably dozens of generations, and it had always been passed on from father to son as the abode of the clan’s chief. To Jonah, it was an eerie and unwelcome thought that it could soon be his house.
Most of the other folk of the Elk Clan lived in the surrounding buildings, spread out across the vale below the reservoir. They were mostly single or two story homes that had stood the tests of weather where a good three quarters of the buildings in the area had collapsed over time. But the chief’s home, soon to be his home, was as sturdy as it had ever been.
Jonah walked down the corridor and out into the main room, where Nera, his father’s right hand man and also the building’s caretaker, stood poking at the roaring flames raging in the huge open fire in the center of the main hall.
“Will he live?” Jonah asked.
Nera didn’t answer immediately. Instead, the man—who was even older than his father and quite probably the eldest clansman still alive other than old Logan—poked the fire until it glowed hot, coughed once, and then stood up.
“He is sickening fast,” Nera said, his deep gravelly voice loud and almost overpowering, even in such a large room.
“But he may still live,” said Jonah.
Nera nodded. “He may,” he said. “But it is not likely that he will be strong again for a while.” The old man took a seat directly in front of the fire and sat staring into the glowing flames. “We may even have to take him on the road on a cart. Not that he will agree to that.”
Jonah frowned at that. Even though his father had warned him that he would not be able to go on The Walk this year, Jonah had somehow still failed to believe it. His father would be fine, wouldn’t he? He’d be fine and he would take The Walk as he always did, as he had done Jonah’s entire life. The thought that his father may stay in the village and face the freezing winter, and die there, alone, still wouldn’t stay in his mind. It was ridiculous to think so.
“Why not?”
“Tis a poison sickness that he has,” said Nera. “Not a coughing illness or an influ. No, this is something else.”
Jonah stepped forward into the room and headed over to the fire. Even though winter had not arrived, and wouldn’t for at least another three weeks, the evening air had a chill to it.
“What kind of something else?”
Nera shook his head, his emotions hidden behind the shaggy grey beard that hung to his stomach.
“Don’t rightly know,” he said. “Don’t think it’s a bite, or I would know. Not a food poisoning or I would be ill as well.”
“Could it be Blight?” Jonah asked, referring to the sickness that killed people if they strayed into the old, tainted areas of the world, in ruined cities and craters that seemed to somehow contain a sickness about them that would wither and kill a man in days.
But Nera shook his head and spat into the fire. “Ain’t no Blight spots around here,” he said. “Ain’t nothing for miles. Not till you get up to The Big Wash. You know that.”
“Then what?”
“How am I supposed to know?” Nera asked, the irritation rising in his voice. “He was fine a few days back, and now he’s not. Has been getting worse over the last couple of days. That’s all I know.”
Chapter 7
Seren could sense the old man watching as she approached, walking up the winding path to his shack at the eastern end of the village. She was quiet, and would be able to sneak up on just about anyone, and she knew it. Except for him; the old man. He may have been old, and his bones and muscles no longer what they had been thirty years before, and true, his eyesight may have been slowly failing him, but she knew his hearing was keener than it had ever been. The slightest snap of twig a hundred yards away told him someone was coming, and the rustle of leaves fifty yards away told him who that person was, even before they came into view.
But tonight Logan stayed quiet, sitting on his chair on the cracked wooden veranda that barely clung to the side of the crumbling shack. It was where he always sat. Seren knew he loved the view of the valley, even though she was sure he couldn’t see so much of it these days.
“Well, I am honored this evening,” he said as Seren’s foot was just about to hit the bottom step.
Seren smiled to herself.
I’m never going to catch you out, am I, old man? she thought. And even though she longed to surprise the old guy, just once, it was comforting to know he was still able, still not in too much danger up here at the edge of town by himself.
And he always had that hammer next to his bench.
“Hi, Logan,” she said as she climbed the three creaking stairs onto the wooden platform at the side of the house. It was still covered—sort of. The overhang looked as though it might collapse at any moment, but it didn’t, and it seemed to still be there each time they returned from Eliz the next year.
“Hello, Seren,” Logan said, scratching at his long beard and looking up to her through eyes that looked whiter than they once had. “You brought me a little something, I wonder?” he asked, looking hopeful, but all she carried was nuts and berries. Nuts—maybe he could chew a few of those if they didn’t hurt his teeth, she thought. But the berries gave him stomach ache, or so he said. He’d certainly complained often enough about it.
He chuckled.
“Only some nuts tonight, I’m afraid.”
Logan nodded. “You gave a good kill away then,” he said, grinning at her, showing only a few remaining teeth.
Seren stopped at the top of the stairs and smiled at him. You don’t miss much old man, she thought.
“A deer I reckon,” he said. “Big one, too.”
“How do you know that?” Seren asked, striding across the wooden floor and taking a seat just a few feet away. Logan always kept a second seat out on his perch for visitors. Well, for her, since she was probably the only visitor he got.
“You need to clean your arrows better than that to fool me,” he said.
Seren grinned and shook her head. Of course, she thought. Blood on the arrow that she had carefully pulled from the deer’s haunch.
“And you should stop giving your catches over to Keana, young lady,” he said. “It’s not good for her. She will never learn if you hold her hand all the time.”
Seren shrugged and handed over a handful of nuts. Logan shoveled half of them into his mouth and started munching. She was sure he only had three teeth left, but he seemed to manage.
“She fell asleep again,” Seren said.
Logan shook his head scornfully. “She will never learn to work if you keep mollying her like that.”
“I know,” Seren said, shrugging once more. “You’ve said, often enough.”
The old man sniffed and leaned back in his chair.
“And I’ll keep saying,” he said. “You’ll be the death of her if you carry on.
“I won’t,” Seren said. “She’ll learn.”
“Like you did?” asked Logan, his expression sarcastic.
“No. I learned because I had to,” Seren said.
“As is right,” the old man snapped, then he leaned forward, stood up, and hobbled over to the front door of the shack. “I got something for you,” he said, grinning. Bin a’workin’ it for a while now, and I think it’s ready.”
Seren frowned and watched him shove his way through the front door. He came back a minute or so later and handed her something wrapped in leather. The leather alone was worth something, a fine side of deep brown suede, and soft, too.
She smiled at him, but kept the frown, curious, and then unwrapped the item. It was a knife, one no bigger than her hand, with just a three-inch blade made from
metal that shone in the fading light.
“This is beautiful,” she said, looking up at the old man. It was an unexpected gift. He’d given her things before as a “thank you.” She often brought him some of her catch after it was cooked, and barely a day went by that she didn’t visit him, but to her this was valuable beyond any small gifts of food. “Where did you get it?”
“Found it a couple years ago on a scavenge, down in Summerville, and tucked it away. It’s too small for my hands. I forgot about it and it was still in the drawer in there. I found it again last week, when I was starting to pack up for this year’s jaunt. It was a mess and needed a good clean, and workin’ on a stone to get the shine back, but it had potential, I thought.”
She held it back out to him. “I can’t accept this—it’s valuable. You could get a good price for this in Eliz.”
Logan shook his head and waved her off with his hand as he thumped back down onto his seat. “Better off with someone who will have a use for it,” he said. “At my age, such a thing, or what it will buy, don’t mean much. I’d suggest you keep hold of it, though. Never can be without a good metal knife, and that bone piece of crap you have will break before long.”
Seren shook her head. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”
“You tucks it in your boot. Maybe even attach the little holder to the inside, where it won’t get noticed,” he said. “Then if someone jumps ya, or you get cornered, you can reach down and whip it out. Be a nasty surprise for someone or something that gets too close. And, of course, good for skinning and eating. Keep it dry, girl, and keep it clean. Don’t go letting it get tarnished.”
Seren nodded, and thought about the implications of the knife’s purpose. There was no one that could be a threat to her out here, but she was getting older, and Logan had warned her that as she did, men—not the good ones in the clan, but the bad ones out there—would see her as a target and something to be taken advantage of.
She hoped she’d never have to use it.
“How is Eekan?” she asked. “How’s the bird?” She was speaking of the pigeon that Logan had brought back with him from Wytheville the last season. She always found it strange that he did that every year, picking up a bird from the market at Wytheville on their way back from Eliz, keeping it in his shack, as a pet of sorts, and then releasing it into the wilds the day before the clan left on their journey. It was a celebration of the journey, he’d always said.
“She is well,” he said, and went to stand.
“You don’t need to fetch her,” said Seren, standing with him but raising a hand, indicating that he should sit again.
Logan nodded and sat back down. “Probably best. She’s asleep at the moment, but her wings are strong and ready,” he said. “She is ready to join her kin for the winter flight.”
“She looked a bit fat the last time you had her out here,” Seren said, smiling.
“Oh,” Logan said, grinning. “Yes, maybe I fed her a little too well, but she will still fly when the time comes.”
Chapter 8
In the room at the end of the corridor, Judas lay in bed, feeling the heat on his brow rising in temperature.
I’m too old for this, he thought, coughing. The taste of blood was bitter in his mouth.
Judas was worried. He worried about his son, and his son’s family, and he worried about Nera. What would their fates be? As much as he loved his only heir, it had occurred to him that he may have to defer his leadership to another family, to a different bloodline. Jonah was a fine man, and a good father, but Judas was unsure if his son had the determination and the influence to hold the Elk Clan together.
It required qualities that Judas wasn’t sure his son possessed. He was too good a man. Over the years, Judas had needed to do things that he didn’t speak of to others just to keep the clan alive and to keep harm away. How many wanderers had he killed on the road? Thirty, maybe? It seemed that at least one turned up every summer, sometimes more, and he had to watch them carefully. Sure, there were a few that he allowed to stay, and allowed to become members of the clan, but he could count those on two hands. He’d killed at least three times as many as he had allowed to stay.
As he lay there, thinking that this sickness must be his punishment, he thought of the last man he had killed. The one that he regretted. The man hadn’t even been threatening and didn’t seem to be dangerous. But, what he was, was trouble. He, like a few others over the years, had spoken of a place other than Eliz, other than where The Walk should take them, and that was dangerous. Any deviance from the way of life that had kept his clan alive for so long had to be avoided.
But Judas had still somehow liked the cheerful demeanor of the man, and that had been the only reason he hadn’t killed him outright. But leaving him bleeding to death had been no better than killing him outright, had it?
He cursed as he coughed more blood.
You should have done the job properly, he thought, instead of letting him bleed out there. You were a fool, and weak.
But what of Jonah? Would he be able to be ruthless as well as just? Judas somehow thought not, and it worried him; it worried him deeply.
Judas lay there for a long time, going over and over the problem, but could come to no other conclusion. Jonah would never be capable of what was required. He couldn’t kill so easily, couldn’t turn others away when needed. He was too kind, too generous, and the survival of the clan demanded a man more willing to be ruthless in its defense.
That is it, then, he thought. I’ve decided. Tomorrow, when I awake, I will tell Jonah that another will have to become the leader. It will be hard on the man, but what else can I do?
Chapter 9
I wish we were at Eliz, warm and safe in the lazy tides, Jonah thought as Nera emerged from the pre-dawn gloom of his father’s house.
My house, now.
“You must come with me,” Nera said, his voice barely perceptible above the sound of swaying branches. “The moment is critical.”
“Is he still alive?” Jonah asked.
The old man shook his head, his eyes cast down into the dirt. He turned and walked back to where Judas lay. Jonah followed Nera. As soon as Jonah stepped into the room, he could smell it. Death hung on the air.
“He passed in the night.”
Jonah looked down. The man’s eyes were closed and his mouth open. A fly landed on the dead man’s nose, and Jonah swatted at it, careful not to touch his father’s face. He stood there, the fly now bouncing between him and Nera.
“Did he say anything to you?”
The old man shook his head, his beard rustling against his leather vest.
“Do you know what killed him?”
“As I told you yesterday, ain’t nothing I can determine. Not soured food or the Blight. He didn’t know, either. I imagine we’ll never know the truth.”
Jonah huffed and stood back, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. “Well, we need to,” he said. “Men don’t just die.”
“But they do,” Nera said. “All the time, and every day.”
Jonah looked up to the ceiling and bit into his lower lip with his front teeth. His father knew he wasn’t strong enough to lead. Hell, Judas all but said that to him. How dare the chief die on him like this? How dare he die on the clan?
“So what happens now?”
“You make the calls.”
“That’s not what I mean, Nera. Don’t you be coy with me. Not now, not today.”
“I was your father’s right hand, and I shall be yours, should you appoint me as such. But that is your choice and not one you should be careless about.”
“Is that a threat?” Jonah asked.
“T’was nothing but a statement of a simple observation. Make what you want of it.”
Jonah shook his head. He stomped the floor and spun, putting his arms up and his hands behind his head. He couldn’t be angry with Nera questioning his leadership when he’d done so himself, at his father’s side, last night.
“Then I’ll be on your right,” Nera said, although the words felt weak in Jonah’s ears.
* * *
“I’m so sorry.”
Jonah fell into Sasha’s arms, his tears like warm rain on her chest. He sent the children out to prepare the chief’s house for their arrival. Nera began to cleanse Judas’s body for burial without direction from Jonah. He wasn’t the first chief the old man had buried.
“I’m not ready.”
“We’ve been doing The Walk for years and years. There isn’t much guiding to be done if we follow our marked path. And the lone brigands and thieves appear far less now than they used to.”
“That’s not what I mean,” he said. “There are other things a chief must do, things I’m not sure I’m capable of doing.”
Sasha nodded, even though Jonah could not see her head. She held his face to her bosom like a child, stroking his head with her long, delicate fingers.
“Protection?” she asked.
Yes, protection. The word the village used to justify the killings.
“Murder, on most accounts.”
“Killing a threat to our own is not murder. It is self-defense.”
Jonah pushed away from his wife and wiped his eyes. He smiled, taking her face in his hands. He leaned forward and kissed her.
“I’ve watched my father work. I went with him when he was younger and stronger. He’d make me hide behind trees, in case the intruders got the best of him. But they never did. He always came back with blood on his hands and nary a wound on his body. I’ve seen him kill, and that is not in me.”
“Then you’ll become what you need to be,” she said. “It is how we survive and the way you must lead.”
Jonah shook his head and placed another kiss on his wife’s lips. He turned and walked out of their old house, realizing it could be the last time he would do so.
The folk of The Elk had gathered on the commons, greeting the day with normal salutations and mournful sentiments. Some wept while others laughed, telling stories about Judas’s accomplishments and victories, some true and others embellished. Jonah walked amongst them, accepting a clap on the back or a respectful nod, and yet he felt the glare of doubt in their faces. They knew he was not his father, would never be that kind of man. And yet, he was now to lead them.
