by Angus Watson
“Sure.”
They walked in silence. The sun dissolved the cloud and lanced down in beams that dazzled silver from leaves and boiled tendrils of mist from the wet ground.
“What kind of bear is your bear?” asked Finnbogi after a while.
“Astrid? She’s not my bear.”
“Astrid? You named her after …”
“Your mother.”
“So you know it all?”
“I found out yesterday. If I’d known, I would have come back, but—”
“They would have killed you.”
“There was that.”
“Gurd Girlchaser still wants to kill you.”
“Yeah? Hardwork law says he should and some people prefer rules to sense.”
“How would you know about people after twenty years alone?”
“I’ve been with Scraylings. They’re people, too.”
“They’re different.”
“Nope. People are pretty much the same as far as I’ve seen.”
“What do you remember about my mother?”
“Well, she was hot, but, by Spider Mother’s eight-legged trousers, was she a bitch.”
Finnbogi giggled.
Erik laughed. “You know, she probably wasn’t a bitch, she was just young and young people are idiots.”
“Great. I’m young. I’ve been talking to my newly discovered dad for one minute, and he’s told me that I’m an idiot and my mother was a bitch.”
“We’re all idiots. Show me the man who doesn’t know that and I’ll show you the biggest idiot.”
“I guess … What do you know about The Meadows?”
“Nothing. It’s more of a sense that we should head west and a little voice saying ‘The Meadows,’ a bit like how I know to go to the larder when the little voice in my head says ‘honey cake.’”
“Whose voice is it?”
“Not a clue. Could be luring me to my death for all I know.”
“What’s the voice like?”
“Feminine, possibly. Maybe an effeminate guy or a boy. But it’s different from the voice I heard calling me back to help you lot.”
“Ottar’s.”
“So I’ve gathered. He’s a funny one.”
“He’s a nice little guy. Do you know his story?”
“I do not.”
Finnbogi told him. Erik made suitably amazed and disgusted noises. At the end he said, “And I thought I was a bad dad.”
“At least Ottar’s dad showed him some attention.”
“You know, don’t you, Finnbogi, that I never knew about you?”
“Can you call me Finn?”
“All right, Finn. It never crossed my mind that you existed. I know theoretically it takes only one … um … shag to make a kid, but … if I’d even half guessed I had a son I really would have come back and at the very least spied on you.”
“You could have watched me from the bushes, maybe freaked me out by throwing stones at me every now and then or something.”
“It would have been the least I could have done as a father.”
“Look over there,” said Erik a while later.
There was a family of buffalo lying among the trees next to the path—what Finnbogi took to be a large bull, a cow and two calves. It was the closest Finnbogi had been to the creatures. He’d thought that they were furry all over, and the paler calves were, but the male and the female had bald back ends. The adults were different from each other, too, the male wasn’t just larger, his head was proportionally much bigger, almost ridiculously huge.
The bull was staring straight ahead. He could doubtless see Finnbogi and Erik in his peripheral vision, but in so little regard did he hold them that he didn’t even turn his head. The mother and calves also seemed indifferent to the passing humans.
“Aren’t they scared of us?” Finnbogi asked.
“Should they be?”
“No, but they don’t know that.”
“Are you scared of them?”
“No.”
“Why not? They’re huge.”
“I don’t know. I just feel that they’re not going to trouble us.”
“And they probably feel the same about us. The Lakchans reckon all animals are just as intelligent as humans, they just don’t bother with all the running around, talking crap and agonising over pointless bollocks that we do. I think they’re probably right.”
Finnbogi nodded and they walked on, Finnbogi trying to work out if animals could be as intelligent as humans, and whether his father really believed that or not.
“In all seriousness, Finnbogi, I am sorry,” said Erik a short while later.
“In all seriousness, it’s fine. I’ve quite liked being the hero orphan.”
“Yeah, I get that.”
Finnbogi smiled. He couldn’t think of any of the Hardwork survivors who would have got that, with the possible exception of Sassa Lipchewer.
“So,” said Erik, “are any of the chicks with you single?”
“Erik!” Finnbogi could not bring himself to call him Dad.
“I’m joking. It looks like we’ve got enough woman trouble on our tail without me creating my own.”
“What do you know about the Calnian Owsla?”
“If they catch us, we won’t stand a chance.”
“But we’ve got Wulf, Garth, you … and they’re … women?”
“So is Thyri and she’s one of your best warriors, apparently.”
“Fisk beat her and I didn’t rate him at all.”
“I saw that. She was the better fighter. He was lucky.”
“So it was you who saved her?”
“It was Astrid.”
“And we might be lucky against the Owsla, even if they’re better?”
“No. What they’ve got, and we haven’t, is magic.”
“You believe that?”
“The Lakchans believed it. Their chief, Kobosh, believed it, and he’s a great deal cannier and wiser than any Hardworker I ever met. He was fascinated by the Calnian Owsla and used to drag me over to hear travellers’ tales about them. He was full of theories about how they got their powers, and what those powers really were.”
“So what are the Owsla?”
“You Hardworkers did not take much interest in the world around you, did you?”
Erik told him about the creation of the Owsla, about its members and how they got their names—the super-fast Paloma Pronghorn, the giant Chogolisa Earthquake—and more tales he’d heard about the Owsla killing entire tribes and beating impossible odds. Finnbogi didn’t know whether to be terrified that such creatures were after them, or thrilled to know that these goddesses existed.
“Can’t we reason with them?” he said when Erik had finished. “Surely they won’t kill the children?”
“That’s the thing. At the same time as they were developed physically, they had all human compassion removed. You might as well hurl a rock at a wasp’s nest then ask them not to sting you. The Owsla are bred to kill everyone the empress asks them to, without question. That’s why we have to escape.”
“But how?”
“We should be safe once we cross the Water Mother.”
“Why?”
“The Calnians don’t cross the Water Mother.”
“Why not?”
“Because what’s on the other side of the Water Mother is apparently a whole lot worse than the Owsla.”
“So why are we going there?”
“The Meadows are there, and we don’t have anywhere else to go.”
Chapter 20
The Hair Trick
On the bright side, they’d avoided the worst of the rain. On the dark side, it had rained so hard on the Mushroom Men that even Paloma Pronghorn couldn’t track them. One interesting thing, though: the Mushroom Men had walked along a stream, which meant that they knew they were being followed. That posed some questions.
“I can tell you exactly where they went into the stream, and that they headed north, upstrea
m,” said Pronghorn.
“But not where they left it?” asked Sofi.
“Not a clue, or even the beginnings of one. They’ve been relatively clever covering their tracks. Relative to people who let two of their number get killed by a black bear, that is. With so much rain it would have actually been quite hard to leave tracks if they’d been trying to. Chances are, they turned west again.”
“Unless they knew they were being followed, in which case they might have headed north, or south or east.”
“That is true,” smiled Paloma.
Sofi looked around. Magnificent storm clouds hung heavy in the north-west but the local weather was a uniform drab. They were on a plain of grassland fringed by trees. Buffalo grazed to the south, white-tail deer and elk to the north. Her Owsla stood about her. Usually they’d be sitting to rest, but the ground was soaking. Somehow Yoki Choppa had lit a fire and was preparing their morning sustenance.
Although she could see for miles, this was only one infinitesimal part of the vast land, and even though it looked flat she knew it would be riven with gullies that could have hidden entire tribes for years. She could either assume that the Hardworkers were carrying on west and head that way, too, or she could use a spiral search pattern from their last known location, hunting for traces and interrogating any people they met.
“Yoki Choppa, where do you think they’ve gone?”
The warlock looked up from his smoking alchemical bowl, bone in hand. “West,” he said.
“Why?”
“One of them has been leaving deposits of hair.”
“They have?”
“I’ve found hair several times in the low branches of a tree on their route.”
Sofi nodded. “It’s definitely Hardworker hair?”
“Yup.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s light but not albino, and it’s been left recently by the same person, in a trail from Hardwork.”
“He couldn’t have snagged his hair repeatedly by mistake?”
“No.”
“So they have a traitor?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t be. Why would anyone betray themselves? It must be a ritual.”
Yoki Choppa shrugged.
“Why didn’t you tell me about it before?”
“Pronghorn’s tracking is quicker and more accurate that the hair trick.”
“When she can track them.”
“Yes.”
“So where are they now?”
Yoki Choppa pointed west. “That way. Could be twenty miles, could be forty. Not more than fifty.”
“So we should catch up with them tomorrow, or the next day at the latest. Pronghorn, run west and come back when you’ve found the trail.”
“Will do!”
A short time later they caught up with Paloma Pronghorn. She was standing at the edge of a swollen river, hands on hips. There were two buffalo-skin canoes hauled up the bank on the other side.
“They crossed here and left both boats on the far bank!” She shook her head. “No manners. I’m glad we’re going to kill them.”
“Maybe they didn’t want us using the boats?” suggested Talisa White-tail.
“You know, you may be on to something there,” said Paloma.
“Can you swim it, Sadzi?” asked Sofi Tornado. Sadzi Wolf was from a tribe that lived off the Water Mother and spent most of their waking hours swimming in it, so could move through the water like an otter. The rest of them were more like cats than otters in the water. Swimming. That was something else to look at when they got back to Calnia. Swimming and teamwork.
“Of course I can swim it,” said Sadzi Wolf, already stripping.
Chapter 21
Rock River
The Hardworkers set off in the dark again, after almost no sleep. Finnbogi’s mind was strangely zippy and clear. Screw the pursuing Calnian Owsla and screw Garth Anviltwat. He’d woken to a revelation that changed everything. He tripped along the starlit path with a new nimbleness, inhaling the sweet and woody odours of the night.
He’d realised that it was by no means over between him and Thyri, in fact it hadn’t even begun. He was certain that she’d liked him, and any objective observer would surely have agreed. If a girl didn’t like a bloke, did she place his hand onto her naked breast and leave it there all night? She did not. His mistake was not making a move.
He should have been brave.
Then it had been just Tor-awful double shitty luck when the Lakchans had attacked that Bodil had come onto him so weirdly and so publicly, and that Garth had been next to Thyri.
So, Finnbogi reasoned, as an owl hooted nearby and a wolf howled in the distance, clearly Thyri fancied Garth a little, or else she wouldn’t have reacted to his advances, but not as much as she fancied the nearer-her-age-but-wise-beyond-his-years Finnbogi. It was as if Sassa had come onto him when they were certain to die. Sorry, Wulf and Thyri, but he’d have gone for it, even if he much preferred Thyri.
So it was the same deal with Thyri and Garth. She’d kissed him, then started this relationship with him only because her true love Finn the Hero looked like he was taken by Bodil and because Garth Anvilcock, curse him to Niflheim and beyond, had had the balls to go for it.
So, there was an obvious answer to all his problems. He’d sleep with Bodil Gooseface.
He’d enjoy it. Bodil might be dumber than a bucket of wet fish, but she was pretty and she had a good figure. Then Thyri would get jealous. She’d see the smile on Bodil’s face, know what she was missing and come running to Finnbogi’s arms.
The plan was foolproof.
Hang on, said a voice from somewhere low down in his mind, are you sure you’re not sleep-deprived and a bit crazy and perhaps this is the most stupid idea you’ve ever had, which is going some for the man who once tried to pop a spot by banging his head against a tree?
No, said Finnbogi to himself, that’s the point. The chance is still there.
Or could it really be the worst idea ever … He resolved to discuss it with Erik—surely this was what fathers were for—but Erik was way ahead with Wulf. Gunnhild was much closer. She’d have to do.
Gunnhild Kristlover replied so cursorily to his attempts at starting a conversation that he gave up trying and walked along next to her, planning his conquest of Bodil and thinking about what it would be like to sleep with her.
As the sky lightened, he saw why Gunnhild had been such a useless conversationalist. Her eyes were narrow, her skin flushed a blotchy red and her mouth drawn in a humourless skull’s grin. She was exhausted.
“Can I carry your clothes beater for you?” he asked.
“It’s called Scrayling Beater, and no thanks. Always keep your arms at hand; it is hard to know when you will need a weapon.”
She was too tired to discuss the most important thing in Finnbogi’s life, but not too tired to dredge up a dreary old world saying.
“Do you think you’ll need it today?”
“‘Need’ is probably the wrong word. The Calnian Owsla will catch up with us today and I’ll want to have Scrayling Beater with me, but it won’t be much use.”
“It worked well against the last lot of Calnians.”
“They were human. The Owsla are devils.”
They walked on, Finnbogi looking over his shoulder repeatedly, expecting to see the gang of Calnian women charging at them like a pack of lions. But he saw only Keef and Bjarni bringing up the rear, plus the odd deer and other furry beasts stepping onto the path to watch and wonder after the Hardworker exodus.
He felt like a deer himself, fleeing predators. It wasn’t an entirely unpleasant sensation. After Erik’s descriptions of them, Finnbogi had built pictures of the Calnian Owsla in his mind. They were savage and powerful but beautiful—basically ten versions of Thyri mixed with bits of Sassa plus a hefty dose of lascivious imagination.
“What could you have possibly found to smile about?” asked Gunnhild.
“I’m looking forw
ard to seeing the Calnian Owsla.”
Gunnhild shook her head. “Stupid boy,” she said.
Paloma Pronghorn ran faster than her namesake, skimming over the dawn-lit land, singing a song her mother had sung to her. She could feel the glow of strength in her feet, calves, thighs, buttocks and swinging arms as they powered her on, faster and faster. She was quicker than any living thing, with the possible exception of some of the faster birds when they tucked their wings and dived, but that was actually falling and didn’t count. Nobody, nothing, could run as fast as her. She leapt, held her arms by her side and twisted in the air, to feel what it must be like to be a bird. Not bad, she thought as she landed lightly. But not as good as running.
She sprinted on.
Racoons, squirrels, deer, chipmunks, snakes and all the other animals looked up startled but didn’t have time to flee before she’d zoomed past. She ran up to a recently woken humped bear, ruffled the hair between its ears, dodged a paw swipe and was gone as it roared after her.
She spotted a footprint on the path, swung her arms and dug in her heels to stop. She jogged back to it.
She was coming to know the Mushroom Men by their tracks. This was one of the younger men who was usually found towards the back of the group, carrying more supplies than most of the others. She’d thought he was heavier at first, but his tracks around their camps showed that he put down his burden in the evening and spent his time exercising, at first with a woman and latterly on his own. This man interested Paloma most of all the Mushroom Men. She felt a connection with him. Perhaps they shared a spirit animal? It was interesting, but it didn’t matter. He’d be relieved of his current burdensome existence and be on to the next life by the end of the day, the lucky fellow.
The other Owsla women enjoyed killing. Paloma Pronghorn didn’t so much, but she did love helping people on to a new life. Her original tribe believed the dead were instantly reincarnated into a better life, or at least into an animal or person with a chance at a better life. When her older sister had been killed out hunting, her mother had told her again and again that it was a good thing, her sister was in a better place, and this notion became Paloma’s central philosophy. She was like a fat person, she told herself, who didn’t like cooking but loved food. She didn’t like killing much, but she loved making people dead.
