by V M Jones
Grey smoke on a grey horizon.
My mind snapped shut on every thought but one. I turned and headed back to the others, my blood singing.
Hunting the hunters
With the excuse of washing up I hustled Rich, Jamie and the girls to the riverside to see the smoke. They were quick to agree on what it was, but that’s where agreement ended and a heated argument began.
The girls wanted to sneak off into Limbo without a word to anyone. But Rich was all for confrontation: ‘I say we tell Borg we’re going, and let him try to stop us!’
‘I don’t think we should burn our bridges,’ Jamie objected. ‘Let’s talk to Blade and Lyulf, and see what they say.’
‘And tell them what? Once you start talking, you never know what might slip out,’ retorted Rich.
‘I guess you’re right,’ Jamie admitted. ‘They’re bound to ask …’
‘They won’t ask anything.’ I was certain of it. ‘Not Lyulf. He already knows we’re looking for someone in Limbo, and he hasn’t asked a single question. It’s not his way. Let’s show him the smoke, tell him we need to investigate, and see what he says.’
Now, side by side, Rich, Lyulf and I stood staring at the smoke. I’d been right — so far Lyulf hadn’t said a word. He’d followed us to the river without comment, listened to my brief explanation, and then stood silent and focused, staring at the horizon with narrowed eyes and head raised as if he was sniffing the air.
When at last he spoke it was almost as if to himself, and not with questions at all.
‘So, the tales of the Lost Tribe are true … yet this is the first sign I have seen of them. They must not often stray as close to the Borderlands. It is smoke from a wood fire — karas, by the scent of it. The change in weather has taken them by surprise — dry, the wood burns clean, but dampness makes it smoke.’ He was quiet for a moment, thinking. ‘A hunting party rather than a permanent camp, I’ll wager. And if it is, they’ll strike camp within the hour and move northwards away from the border, travelling fast and far.’ Our eyes met. His were a clear greenish-gold, flecked with chips of brightness like sunlight. They held a smile. ‘You will have to move swiftly, Whistler. Blunderbuss would slow you, and the girls too … take Tornado, keep the sun on your right and meet us a day’s journey to the east by nightfall.’
Rich didn’t even try to wipe the grin off his face. ‘But won’t Borg —’ he began half-heartedly.
‘I will deal with Borg. Go now — and good speed.’
Rich raced off to tell the others the plan, and I hurried to the caravan and threw a few things into a pack. Cloaks, a crumpled bag of dried fruit, a handful of spicy smoked meat, water bottles filled to the brim — and my larigot. Down the steps in one bound — and I just about smacked straight into the Masked Man. ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled, ducking round him — but he reached out and grabbed my arm.
‘If you travel to Limbo, you should not go alone,’ he growled.
I gaped at him. I’d almost forgotten the few words he’d spoken before; like the others, I’d become so used to his silent, brooding presence that now I scarcely noticed it. I cast my mind back to the riverbank — had he been lurking nearby?
I pulled my arm free. ‘I’m not going alone. Richard — Tornado — is coming with me. I’m surprised you didn’t hear that too, if you were listening. And anyhow —’ it sounded rude, but then he shouldn’t have been eavesdropping — ‘what’s it to you?’
‘Something and nothing — the brotherhood of the arena, perhaps,’ he replied with ironic emphasis. ‘I offer you the protection of my sword and the arm that wields it. The choice is yours.’
So he wanted to come along! Why? What made him such an expert on Limbo — and why was it was only ever me he chose to talk to? I opened my mouth to ask any one of the dozen questions that had bobbed to the surface of my mind, but I knew I’d never get a straight answer. Instead, I gave him a grin. ‘Thanks, but Tornado and I’ll be just fine.’
With what I hoped was a comradely wink and a nod, I dodged round him and pelted off to where Rich was hopping from foot to foot on the riverbank, desperate to be away.
We ran and walked and ran again, keeping the sun on our right as Lyulf had told us. The misty cloud soon burned off and the fuzzy smudge became a ball of fire beating down on the bare earth and burning our cheeks. After the first half hour or so I realised with a sickening jolt that with all the talk of swords I’d forgotten my own; another half an hour, soaked with sweat and puffing like a steam train, and I was thankful not to have it.
On and on we jogged across the shimmering desert. ‘Nothing but dust and emptiness’ was how the sandwich-seller had described Limbo, and it was true. It was hard to believe anyone could live here — impossible to imagine what kind of existence they’d have if they did.
Not just anyone — my twin. This arid, inhospitable landscape was home to him. For the first time I felt something twist deep inside me. What kind of man would grow from this harsh soil? I pushed the thought aside and ran on.
When we couldn’t go another step we’d stumble to a halt, doubled up and groaning; swap the pack over, have a swallow of water, catch our breath and then push on. I didn’t dare think what would happen if we were heading in the wrong direction; just hung grimly to the belief that Lyulf was never wrong — about that kind of thing, anyhow.
We ran for the most part in silence, exchanging no more than the odd glance of encouragement or grunted word. Exhausted as I was, I knew I could run all day. Because soon — today — I’d meet him. That thought was a bottomless fuel tank of energy I knew would last as long as it took to find him … and every stride was bringing us closer. Zenith — my brother.
I was grateful to Richard for not talking. What I was feeling was way beyond words.
When at last we reached the campsite we almost ran right past. But I’d become so used to the sameness of the drab landscape — grey-brown undulating earth pocked with scrub and boulders — that my eyes snagged instantly on the fragment of blackened firewood half-buried in a drift of sand.
We stumbled to a halt and together we unearthed it: a scatter of charcoal and ash, still warm to the touch. Now even I could pick up its scent: a sweet, woody fragrance with a hint of burnt cloves.
Apart from that there was nothing — no sign that anyone had been there. In the back of my mind I’d imagined we’d track them once we got closer: follow a trail of footprints and bent blades of grass till we found them. But there was no grass, and not a grain of sand out of place that I could see.
North, Lyulf had said. Fast and far.
We ran on.
At midday we panted to a stop and flopped down into a sliver of shade under a rock. The sun beat down like a mallet. ‘My water’s pretty much finished.’ Rich gave his bottle a shake and didn’t look at me. ‘I’m sorry, Adam, I’m not sure we should go on. We may never catch them, and we promised —’
And suddenly they were there.
There was no sound, no movement, nothing: just a presence where before there had been emptiness. Men — five of them — grouped round us, holding evil-looking spears with fire-hardened tips. Rich and I were on our feet in an instant, shoulder to shoulder, hearts pounding.
Their skin was brown as leather, their heads shaven and tattooed. White paint streaked the skin from cheekbone to jaw; their flat black eyes watched us, unwavering. Their bodies were naked except for a skin breechcloth and a couple of strings of cream-coloured beads circling wrists and ankles; their feet were bare. Something about them — the flatness of muscle, the stillness of eye — made me think of animals rather than people. Animals, wild and free.
Rich had turned several shades paler; now he slid his eyes sideways to meet mine. But for me, shock and fear were tinged with a fierce excitement. These were his people — they would take us to him. If they seemed savage, it was because they had to be, to survive. But once they realised we came in friendship … I was suddenly even gladder I hadn’t brought my sword. I stared from o
ne face to the next, searching for something — a glimmer of warmth, a glint of humanity …
One was younger, a year older than me perhaps, his tattoos a brighter blue than the others’, his body still holding echoes of the contours of boyhood. But his eyes were as hard and cold as the rest. One was an old man, shrunken and skinny, white powder caked in the deep wrinkles of his cheeks. The other three were warriors, hunters in their prime. One seemed taller, stood straighter … I turned to him, holding out my hands palm-upward. My mouth felt very dry. ‘We come in peace,’ I said quietly.
Without taking his eyes from me he jabbered something — a string of harsh, meaningless syllables. Somehow I could tell his words weren’t directed at us; the old man replied: swift, sharp words like stones.
The tall man’s eyes bored into mine. ‘Quicksheeottle?’ he demanded. ‘Shannagalore?’
I stared at him stupidly, my brain in a tailspin. Why hadn’t we thought of this? What now? What if none of them spoke English — what if Zenith didn’t? What would we do then? You didn’t have to be a genius to figure out what he was asking. Who are you? What are you doing here? But how could we answer them in words they’d understand?
‘Hasta!’ snarled the man beside him. ‘Nga!’
‘We … I …’ A trickle of sweat ran into my eye. I brushed it away — and instantly the youth leapt forward, teeth bared, the point of his spear digging into my neck. It felt sharper than it looked. Now he was close enough to smell: a gamy pungency that caught in my throat.
I raised both hands and took a slow, careful step back, out of range. ‘Settle down,’ I told him, keeping my voice low and even. His eyes flickered, and I saw something in them I recognised: the glitter of bravado I’d seen a million times in the playground — and only ever in the eyes of boys in a group who knew they had the upper hand. I traded look for hard look. ‘And keep your stick and your BO to yourself, OK?’ His gaze wavered; sullenly he lowered the spear and took a single, shuffling step back.
‘Don’t insult them!’ hissed Rich.
It’s OK — they don’t understand … But as the words formed in my mind I knew it wasn’t true. They might not be able to understand the words, but they could understand the sense behind them — just as I’d understood the tall guy without knowing a single syllable of his language.
I turned to face the old man, and took a deep breath. ‘We …’ I said, gesturing to Rich and then to me, ‘come …’ — I made my fingers into a little man, walking — ‘from the river.’ I pointed south, and made a rippling motion with my arm. ‘I … look …’ — pointed to my eye — ‘for brother …’ I held up one finger, then two, hoping that wouldn’t be the one thing that meant the same in their language as in ours. ‘Baby …’ I made a cradle of my arms and rocked it; ‘long, long ago.’ I swept my arm up and over from one horizon to the other, again, and again.
And then I waited.
The Lost Tribe of Limbo
I don’t know how much of what I tried to say they understood, but somehow, in the course of those few clumsy words, all the tension drained away. They still held their spears towards us and the points looked as sharp as ever, but the threat was gone.
Though the youth glared and scuffed his feet and darted me sulky glances, I knew we’d won through. The old man’s eyes weren’t flat and opaque any more; now they had light and depth.
He rumbled some question or comment to the tall man, who gabbled a reply … and next thing we knew the whole lot of them were having a lively discussion, fingers rather than spears jabbing away at us to drive home whatever point they were making. One word was repeated so often even I could pick it out: Temba.
I wondered if perhaps it was my brother’s name.
The tall guy barked an order, and his two mates prowled off behind a nearby rock and retrieved a deer carcass strung on a pole, slinging it between them. A finger stabbed once at Rich and once at me, and a lean brown arm beckoned in a gesture that was universal.
Then the hunting party loped off across the sand with Rich and me jogging along behind.
It was evening before we reached the main encampment: a huddle of rough tents made of animal hide; the glow of campfires; the clear note of voices calling through the twilight air.
On the long tramp our escorts had all but ignored us — I’d had the feeling that while we were welcome to tag along, they wouldn’t so much as slow their pace if we fell behind. But now hard hands gripped our arms and we were hustled through the campsite, startled eyes and silence following our progress, children peeking at us from the flaps of doorways.
We reached a tent bigger than the rest, a woman in a beaded skirt stirring something over a fire outside. She gawked at us as if we’d come from outer space; then, at a gruff word from our escorts, scurried into the tent. I could hear an urgent exchange of voices, some kind of garbled explanation … then the door flap lifted and a man emerged, straightened to his full height and surveyed us haughtily without the smallest hint of surprise.
He was the leader — of that there was no doubt. His face could have been carved from hardwood; his eyes were sharp as an eagle’s, their intensity proclaiming his status more clearly than a crown. His presence seemed somehow larger than he was, a coiled energy radiating from his gleaming-dark skin like heat.
I bent my head, sensing Rich beside me doing the same. When I lifted it he was still staring at me. Then he inclined his head once, deeply, gravely, as if returning the bow of an equal. I felt a moment’s confusion: who — or what — did he think I was? What had the hunters told him? Then, looking deep into those eyes, I knew: this man didn’t need to be told. In the same way I’d known him for what he was, he had looked beneath the tattered clothes and grime and tangled hair and seen … what?
He said his name: ‘Jabula.’
This time I didn’t bother with hand signs. Slowly, thinking carefully before each word, I told him why we’d come — though I sensed he might already know. ‘I am Zephyr.’ It was the first time I’d spoken it aloud; saying it made it true. ‘I come from Karazan.’ A light flickered deep in his eyes. ‘Meirion sent me.’ He nodded at the name.
‘I have come for Zenith.’ There was something unsettling in his face now … something too deep and complex for me to read.
He spoke haltingly, as if reciting something he’d been taught long ago, each unfamiliar word falling awkwardly from his lips. ‘Show me the sign.’
There was only one thing it could be. I drew my ring out from under my shirt and held it up for him to see, gleaming in the firelight. He nodded once. ‘Come.’
He led me away from the hearth into the darkness beyond, my footsteps keeping time with the beat of my heart in the stillness. We came to a path bordered by flickering torches and followed it, soft-footed; and as we walked I realised the sound I was hearing wasn’t my heart, but the rhythmic beat of a single drum in the darkness.
Then out of the night came another sound: a high, wavering ululation; women’s voices tangling and parting, twining and unfurling in a lament that wound up towards the stars like a prayer. Part of my spirit twisted upwards with their song — and in that moment, deep in my soul, I knew what I was going to find.
We came to a simple hut made of woven branches. A ring of torches surrounded it; beyond them, invisible in the night, wove the circle of song. There was no door, only a low archway leading into darkness.
Jabula touched me lightly on the shoulder and left me. I stood for a moment alone under the ceiling of stars, the silver moon rising, the golden one already low in the night sky. I bent and entered.
An earthen floor beneath my hands, swept clean; a smouldering wigwam of twigs sending a whisper of fragrance into the still air. And on the far side, a shape huddled motionless on a low bed. On hands and knees I crept closer. It was dark … too dark to see anything but a tangle of whiteness, the faint outline of a cheek. There was a tang of something in the air, a sourness the incense couldn’t hide, like ashes from a dying fire. Then the figure stir
red and turned towards me. I saw skin faded grey, pleats and wrinkles folded in on themselves by time, a pale halo of crinkled hair, eyes quick and bright in sunken sockets.
‘So, at last you come. Almost too late.’ It was a woman’s voice, with the querulous crack of extreme old age, but an edge that told me the mind was sharp and clear.
‘Who are you?’
‘I am Temba. Mother of the Chief.’
‘You speak English …’
‘I speak the tongue of the Lost People, and the tongue of the Borderlands and beyond — though I have not spoken it these fifty years, and will not speak it again.’
‘You knew I’d come.’
‘I prayed you would not.’
Everything was still. I whispered the words. ‘Why? Where is he?’
‘Dead.’ The single word fell like a stone into the silence.
I couldn’t speak; barely felt the skinny claw creep from the folds of fur and find my hand.
‘The mage brought him here: a speck of a thing hardly a day old. My own son was suckling — Jabula, chief-child — but I had milk enough for two.
‘Keep him for me, Meirion said. Keep him safe and guard him well, and treat him as your own. And we did.’
‘What …’ I swallowed. ‘What —’ My voice cracked.
‘What became of him? Two sons, one born, one given, but a few days separating them. Jabula pulled struggling and screaming into the world, kicking, walking, running before the first nine moons were past: a quick mind and strong body to match it; his father’s son. I loved him for his strength … love him still.
‘But the babe Meirion brought … I loved him more. He was not my birth-child, but I loved him for his weakness, his frailty, though I knew it doomed him. Slow, so slow to everything … yet so perfect. There have been other infants like him, in the annals of the tribe, where growth does not keep pace with the journey of the days.’
