Dasheen refused to believe this. He was certain the Vastara lived. His own eyes observed cuttings from plants on the other side of the field that did not look like the work of any beast. They come early. Perhaps, they gather their plants during first season? Dasheen considered the possibility. That the Vastara had managed to remain unnoticed and unseen for so long… this was the only logical explanation. They must do their gathering before the land has warmed and we arrive for our harvest.
The Fisba’s fang nicked the ridge under his crown and Dasheen growled at her. The female tasted blood and she cringed. Tears leaked from the sides of her elongated eyes while she folded her lips around her fangs and renewed her efforts. She knew that she would be punished for her ambitious error.
The creature wrapped the three fingers on each of her hands around the beast rider’s sack. She caressed and probed his fleshy bags, gently caressing with her pads. All Fisba’s had their front claws removed at birth, and there had been discussions on pulling their canines. The Fisba was certain that this would be the price she would pay for maiming the Kirabi’s shaft.
Dasheen gripped the hulking creature’s pelt even more tightly. The Fisba’s… like all of the captured tribes… were also large. They were pathetically weak minded and easily manipulated into subservience. No Kirabi considered members of captured tribes as people. The Fisba, with hunched backs that enabled large packs of supplies to be strapped securely onto them for traveling, were the most adept for sexual service. Even so, they were quite hideous to watch.
Kirabi women had continued to evolve into domineering sadists. They enjoyed their role of training slaves for tribal chores, and only condescended to sex with the beast riders for breeding. Marriage or monogamous arrangements had ceased before Dasheen’s great grandfather’s time. It simply was not worth putting up with a muscled shrew who fought for control.
Dasheen considered the Vastara, again. If he could capture one of their sirens, he could keep her bound in his tent always at the ready to pleasure him… and without the inconvenience of fangs and claws. Dasheen sighed, and he fixed his eyes on the distant cliffs, willing the blinking sign of a fire to convince him the Vastara still existed.
A thoughtful scheme began to form in his mind. Dasheen knew that enough of his friends shared his desire, and he was certain they would back his plan at a tribunal before the Kirabi leaders. Dasheen shot a heavy load into the Fista’s convulsing throat as he imagined a net swiping across the meadow, and capturing his Vastara slave.
* * * * *
Sabra’s small hand reached out to fist another cluster of veran, and she sliced the thin stalks an inch above the rich soil with her curved harvesting blade. She had been walking through the grass for several hours, filling her sack with vegetables and herbs that required the bright sunlight to grow. Even though this was only the second year she joined the gatherers of her tribe, after many years of cleaning and cooking the vegetation she knew at a glance which plants were of use.
Across the meadow behind her, close to the tree line, the gatherers trained by the tansa medicine women were cloistered together in a group and stuffing their small dyed pouches with the special herbs the healers required. These few harvesters would eventually be taught the art of the tansa and become a new generation of the revered.
The young women destined for the greatness of the tansa were the first born of identical female twins. Such births were a rare occurrence among the Vastara. Their scrolls of the ancient ritualistic teachings held the tribal belief that the first twin absorbed unusual perception and intelligence from dual nourishment in the womb. This was never questioned, nor was the unfortunate role of the second twin who was considered feebleminded and lacking after generously providing for her sister. Even so, the tribe catered to the unfortunate utansas. They were not permitted to marry or reproduce, but were left to frolic and play. They were forever treated as children, no matter their age or true abilities.
Sabra was merely a cira, a commoner among her people. Her role to provide for her future husband and take care of his aging parents had been decided at her birth. Sabra cut another cluster of veran, and she moved to where Chabil had discovered a patch of temur. The rooted vegetables grew shallow, so their purple heads were visible in the grass. The root, when cooked, had a delicious sweet taste, but gathering the raw plants would leave Sabra’s hands with a pungent smell. It will probably mix with the veran and ruin it. She changed course towards the flowers of the mild lipsa.
This was her third day in the field. The major sun had not risen to noon position and she would harvest until sunset. Sabra was already bored, and she felt the strain in her back from her continuously bent position. The heat, even though it was early first season, made her uncomfortable. This short time in the full sun made Sabra grateful that her tribe spent the rest of the year in the shade of the mountains and forests.
Sabra’s mind wandered while she gathered her plants. She turned nineteen at the end of fourth season, and this year she would be married to Zifan. As far as commoners went, Zifan was not a bad match. At five foot seven, he was tall for one of their people. Most of his height had been spent on long legs and arms, and Sabra thought he resembled one of the peras, swinging from the limbs of the trees.
Zifan was an adequate hunter and he provided his family with many skins. These were used for clothing and repairing their canopy and supplies. The tribe did not eat meat, and they only took skins from aged or debilitated creatures. The hunters thanked the animals and spoke ritual words, leaving the carcasses for other beasts. The tribe believed the offerings kept the people safe from being harmed by the various ferocious animals with which they shared their forest home.
Chabil looked over at Sabra. Her friend was frowning again, and Chabil was certain she was considering her upcoming joining with Zifan. Secretly, she not only thought he resembled a pera, but what she envisioned the offspring of a utansa would be like. Whatever height the ungainly man achieved had sucked his intelligence. He was boring, with monotonous chatter, and Chabil felt sorry for her friend. Her own mate was to be Pasal, and he was already a leader among the hunters his age.
Chabil watched Sabra stand and rub her back. The two young women were the same height, five foot four. They were slightly taller than average, but it was the only trait they shared. Chabil had cropped, curly dark hair, flashing dark eyes, and a dainty figure. That was how Pasal described her, in lieu of pointing out she was basically flat chested with slim hips and practically no indication of a waist. Chabil was hoping childbirth would enhance her figure. No doubt Pasal held those same thoughts.
Sabra, gosh, to have her extraordinary looks wasted on the likes of Zifan was a shame. Chabil had hinted as much to her friend. Sabra’s hair was a deep red and her eyes were as green as the tipila leaves. Her figure was a series of rounded curves from her chest, tapering down to a narrow waist, and then rolling out to womanly hips and a rounded bottom. Even her legs, though muscular and strong like all Vastara women, were swelled and sloping with nice lines. Chabil’s thin legs were angular, and the muscles pronounced instead of softened by a layer of fat. Sabra’s babies would be chubby and pink… if not for Zifan as their father.
“What are you gathering?” Chabil called over.
“Lipsa. I’ve already collected veran.” Sabra thought of Chabil, struggling with the rooted temur. “If you collect the temur for me, I’ll collect enough lipsa and veran to share with you.”
Chabil thought for a moment. Although the temur was more difficult, she would save double the bending for the two plants Sabra would gather for her. “Okay. My hands are already reeking,” Chabil laughed. “Have you seen any fistal?”
Sabra nodded. “There are a few plants by the veran. I’ll cut some for you.” The fistal leaves and buds had an astringent, soapy value that seemed to offset the smell of the temur. They were purportedly named after an ancient tribe called Fista that used the delicate lavender flowers as an aphrodisiac and an adornment. Other than a full
washing by the cave creek, it was the best the gatherers could do to cleanse the odor of the temur.
The rest of the morning passed quietly, and Chabil and Sabra sat together for lunch, splitting their harvested plants. They returned to the field and began collecting shafrung together, with Chabil holding the tall stalks straight so Sabra could glide her sharp blade down the stem, cutting the orange buds that were attached to the thick stalk, appearing to be a line of embedded stones. The gatherers almost always worked in pairs to harvest them.
The sacks were half full when an eerie, hollow sound came from across the plain. The gathers straightened from their chore, looking across the meadow in confusion. “What was that?” Chabil asked.
“I have no idea. It sounded like the wind through the rocks, but I don’t remember the ancients describing caves on the other side of the grasses.” Sabra looked towards the older harvesters for explanation. The sound bellowed across the windswept field again, and Sabra watched Felana’s face pale as she turned back towards the tree line and the tansa initiates.
“Get back to the forest,” Felana shouted. She turned towards the gatherers who were well out into the meadow. “Leave your sacks,” she screamed. “Run… back to the caves.”
Sabra and Chabil stood in shocked confusion. Felana was already dashing towards the trees. “What is it? What is it, Felana?”
Sabra and Chabil slung their bags to the ground. Only the direst circumstances would cause them to discard the fruits of several hours work. All the gatherers, looking confused, followed Felana’s mad run. “What is it?” Chabil called out again.
“Kirabi,” Felana screamed.
Sabra almost tripped. She grabbed Chabil’s hand to pull her along. “It’s too soon,” she gasped. “Our legends tell us that they don’t come north, until the end of second season.” The hollow sound made sense, now. The stories the elders told said the beast riders blew signals to each other through the horns of kilara. Sabra had always doubted the story as no more than a fantastic tale. No one could get close enough to the enormous animals to actually gather a horn.
Chabil slipped, and when Sabra turned to help her up she saw a wall of giant shadows rolling towards them. “Up. Oh, Mother of Life. Up, Chabil, hurry,” Sabra cried in panic. They began to run again, with her friend favoring her left leg.
“I can’t, Sabra. My ankle is twisted. Leave me.”
“No.” Sabra leaned down so that Chabil could throw her arm over her shoulder. She wrapped an arm around her friend’s waist and half dragged her towards the trees.
Felana reached the safety of the woods and she was relieved to see the tansa gatherers already nearing the rocks. Some of the identical utansas were holding down their hands to pull them up. The healers were not as strong or fast as the gatherers as they spent much of their time inside learning their mysterious art. When she turned towards the plain, she saw many girls still far out in the meadow, and Sabra trying to drag Chabil to safety. Felana was terrified of the approaching threat, but she ran back to Sabra to help with Chabil.
“They’re so close,” Sabra gasped.
Felana looked out on the field and she could see the outlines of the individual beast riders. “Sabra, you and the juniors need to take the side path to divert them from following us. I’ll take Chabil, but we can’t risk them catching the tansas.”
More than anything, Sabra wanted to argue and get safely hidden. If she did not offer this sacrifice she would be spurned from the tribe… perhaps, her family and Zifan, as well. She transferred Chabil’s weight onto the older gatherer and turned quickly towards the large shifon tree to the left. It was far off in the distance, and she took off at a sprint.
As Sabra ran by, several of the other first and second year harvesters followed her. They had seen the older gatherers in the trees, pointing to the other entrance to the forest. No matter the personal danger and fear, they knew that the tansa initiates had to be protected.
Sabra’s chest heaved while she ran, her bare feet scrambling over fallen tree limbs and rocks. She did not dare look behind her. The terrifying sound of the beast riders’ surefooted bantas were thundering all around her and the deafening roaring yells of triumph were much too close. Sabra peered through her tears ahead into the distance. The safety of the shifon tree was still far off, and her determination was dissolving into panic.
How had they known? Sabra wondered fearfully. It was early in first season, and the Vastara tribe should have had plenty of time to gather their food. The elders had told them that the beast riders of the Kirabi never came this far north until the meadow was blistering hot, at the end of second season. There was only one reason that they would ride to the plain so early.
Like most Vastara… all but the oldest in their tribe when they still posted sentries in the forest by the meadow… Sabra had never seen a Kirabi. By the time the beast riders and the nomadic tribes that had been enslaved by them moved north, her people were safely settled deep within the forested hills. There they would spend the next few months preparing food, clothing, and supplies for the long, harsh winter months.
Before the first snows, the Kirabi turned their tribe and their wandering followers south again. In this way, the Vastara had successfully avoided contact with them. The passive Vastara were the last to remain free of the slavery and sadistic atrocities the Kirabi enforced on the tribes they had conquered.
The frightening legends passed down through the elders around the fires at night caused terror through Sabra’s tribe. The Vastara, most only slightly taller than five feet, were no fighters. They depended on the safety of the caves to keep them hidden from danger. Fruits and nuts could be picked in the forest, but the tribe dared not clear gardens and risk discovery.
For many generations, they had survived on the first season harvested plants from the plains just beyond the hills. When the snows had just melted, the men stayed behind, hunting the old or injured animals for their skins. The anointed meat was left as a tribute for the younger beasts that shared the forest, and it kept the tribe safe. It had been many years since a creature had turned its hunt for food towards the tribe, but their honored ritual could not keep them safe from the beast riders.
While the older women gathered food from the trees close to their spring homestead, it was the younger women like Sabra who were sent to the meadow to harvest food that grew in the bright sun. The gatherers were left alone to protect themselves, as they had become complacent with the beast riders’ nomadic schedule.
There had been times when Sabra wondered if the elders’ stories about the Kirabi were even true. How could a man tame a banta to ride? The beasts were powerful predators, with clawed front feet that could rip and tear through forest and flesh. Her own tribe never disturbed a banta, no matter how old or crippled from a battle with one of its own. No other beast would attempt a fight with one of the terrifying animals.
Sabra continued to hold hope that Felana might be wrong. It had many years… a generation before her grandmother’s… since any Vastara had actually seen a beast rider, so how could she be sure? To try to stay calm while she ran, she tried to convince herself it either was not the Kirabi crossing the field or that they could not possibly be as terrifying as the elders suggested. It had seemed improbable that they could truly be vicious meat eaters, and yet the elders told the tribe that eating meat gave the Kirabi their cruel disposition. Still, the disgusting practice of eating the flesh of another animal seemed unlikely. Sabra’s generation thought the elders exaggerated in an effort to keep them safe.
The description of the beast riders was also impossible. Sabra used to consider the vision of a man so tall, over six feet, with bronze muscles well honed from days spent practicing attack. She had measured this height on a tree, carving a notch with her harvesting knife. She had stood back and stared up, her eyes opening with uneasy amazement and a measure of disbelief. Now, the raucous, chaotic sounds around her made her believe that the legends might be true.
Sabra ha
d reached the bushes and thinning trees, feeling slightly safer until she heard a crashing sound to her right. She realized it had to be a large branch. Visions of a wild man ripping the limb off the tree with his strong bronzed hands made her gasp. It had been a while since she had caught a glimpse of the tan fur of another Vastara’s short dress. Sabra was alone… except for the sound of at least one beast rider behind her, tracking with persistent efficiency.
She wrapped her hand around her curved gathering knife. She was prepared to slice her own throat rather than be captured. There was another loud noise, still to the right, but also in front of her. Sabra changed course, angling left and pushing her further away from the caves. Even with the stamina from years of tribe running games, her legs were beginning to tire.
An explosion of heavy hooves beat from in front of her, and then more from the right, blocking her path to the shifon tree. There was a small entrance to the forest beside the sturdy tree, but Sabra realized she would not make it. She had no choice but to veer back towards the open field. Sabra’s eyes finally began to spill tears, blurring her vision as she searched the ground, frantically trying to discern a place to hide.
The trees were thinning, and she knew that she was close to bursting back onto the open meadow. Sabra had no way of knowing… and would not have understood the strategy… that she and the other Vastara gatherers were being herded.
Dasheen waited on grass on the back of his banta, watching the scene unfold. Some had questioned his decision to ride north so soon, but Dasheen had reasoned it must when the elusive Vastara left the rocks and forests to gather food for the cold seasons. They had seen signs of the disrupted vegetation each year when the Kirabi traveled to the plains to have their slaves gather food for the winter.
The First Tribe Page 2
