by Zach Hughes
"You can't pull a bow," the young one said.
"I have this."
"Don't worry," Alning said, as the young ones rushed away in search of new fun. "Your right arm is stronger than both in most warriors." But there was a darkness building inside him. He had, of course, considered the impact of losing his left arm on his life. True, he could not draw a bow. He would be able, he felt, to develop skills using one hand. He had given thought to that, and felt that by holding a shaft from the thin brothers of the hot springs in his teeth he would be able to round arrows, and, perhaps, with a journey to the southern end of the valley where the thin, hard brothers grew taller, a shaft for a spear. A one-armed man could use and throw a spear.
"Duwan," Alning said, her eyes unable to meet his, "nothing has changed."
"Only my left arm," he said blackly.
"Nothing has changed in my regard for you," she said, her heart pounding at her boldness.
His mood became blacker. She was quite rapidly becoming the most beautiful one in the village, and she was the daughter of a warrior. She deserved better than a mate with only one hand. He was silent as they walked onward toward his father's house.
The village square was swept clean. The precisely placed houses lined it, lush and green as the think vines forming the walls drank in the light of the season. The houses, quite naturally, looked a bit scraggly, for the vines had been allowed to separate, to open the ceilings to the warm air and reach tendrils upward for the gift of Du. In one open and airy house a female was singing. A group of hard-skinned ones sat in the light, telling and retelling the stories of old.
"Duwan, you have not spoken," Alning said.
He heard the disappointment in her voice, glanced at her. Her head came to his shoulder. The delicate, multi-fronded pale green of her hair gave off a sweet fragrance. He wanted nothing more than to tell her that he was grateful, that his regard for her was unchanged, but the innocent questions of the young one had opened a chasm of blackness in his mind. A warrior without a hand was only a half-one.
Alning moved quickly from his right side to his left, put her hands on his upper arm. "I don't care," she said. "This doesn't matter." He looked at her and saw a flowering face, a rich shade of yellow telling of her emotion, but there was doubt in him and he knew that her emotion could be pity as well as love. His pride swelled, filling him.
"As you said, Alning," he said, his voice sounding more harsh than he intended, "I have not spoken."
She flushed more, felt his rebuke strongly. He had not spoken. He had never spoken for her. She had been forward, lulled into it by her regard for him and by his near escape from death. She dropped her head, removed her hands from his arm.
Relenting, he said, "You are young."
She found no words. They were approaching the house of Duwan the Elder. Still she could find no words, but she felt the hot tears beginning to form in her eyes and, lest he see, she turned and ran with the abandon of the very young, ran from her shame, ran from his rejection. He raised his right hand as if to stop her, but did not call her back. Alning meant The Beautiful One. And the beautiful one deserved more than a one-handed lifemate. He turned. His mother was in the doorway, arms extended. Feeling quite young himself, he moved into her embrace.
Chapter Two
Only a few had felt that incredibly deadly draining of blood into the maw of a sucker and lived to describe it. Death was not unknown in the valley, but it was rare. A warrior, too daring in his climb, fell from the top of the cliffs, crushing his head on the rocks below. A newly mobile young one fell into a boiling spring. The hardening took some old ones, but all in all death was a memory, a memory of the old days before the Drinkers came to the valley, when war was death. It was to avoid death that Duwan's ancestors had left the Land of Many Brothers and crossed the barrens, losing many to starvation and cold when the long light failed. The valley was a miraculous oasis in the sterile, windswept emptiness. At its head it was no wider than an all-out dash without rest. In length it stretched two days' marching run, narrowing toward the southwestern end. When the wind came from the north, it brought with it the chill and the scent of the eternal ice. A southerly wind smelled of fire, and sometimes carried fine ash, an ash carefully collected to enrich the soil of the young house.
The valley was the Drinkers' only home in a cold, sterile land, land extending endlessly into waterless distances to east and west, and to fire and ice to the north and south.
Duwan, born with a full measure of curiosity, had explored, had felt the deadly cold of the ice, had pushed his horny toes farther east and west than any one in memory, had seen and smelled the eternal fires of the south, knowing the heat through the tough, hardened pads of his feet. He regarded his distant ancestors with respect, for try as he might he had found no path through the eternal fires and had, indeed, been frightened into turning back as the solid earth, itself, quavered and rolled under his feet to the accompaniment of the bellowing of countless thunderous voices and in the near distance new fire had belched from the earth with a heat so great that it seared his skin.
Duwan believed. He knew the often told tales of the great journey by heart, and would, dutifully, pass them on to his young when the time came, but it was still hard to believe that Drinkers had actually made their way through that land of endless fire. On the evening following his recovery he found cause to reinforce his unspoken doubt, for the village minstrel had already composed the Song of Duwan The Drinker, and to say that it departed slightly from the truth was a kindness. As he listened, Duwan first smiled, and then had to hide his laughter, for the song made him so heroic, built his quick thinking actions into such bravery that he wondered anew if such stretching of the truth had not been applied to all the Drinkers' history.
For example, the old tales spoke of war, war and heroism, war and death, and yet no generation of Drinkers now living had ever experienced war. From northeast to southwest the valley was dotted with villages, none more than a swift dash without rest from the next, but no one had, in the history of the valley, raised an edged weapon against another. There had been times when Duwan wondered if the endless drills, the concentrated training, the mock battles had not been invented merely as a ruse to keep the growing energies of the young under control and to keep them out from underfoot. Still, the magic of the metalmakers gave one pause. To have the ability to know exactly where in the earth and rocks to find those scattered flakes, to know how to crush and wash and blend and then to fire the metal and shape it was an ability that could not have come naturally to any one there in the valley. And the quietly voiced tales of the old, hard-skinned ones rang with emotion, if not total truth, as they spoke of gushing wounds and death and the Enemy.
Perhaps, Duwan thought, as the minstrel, by popular demand, repeated The Song of Duwan The Drinker, there had been embellishing, stretching, and, if so, what harm? Perhaps, beyond the land of the eternal fires, there was an Enemy. If so, the years of training, the hard, muscle wrenching struggles, and the resulting skills with short and longswords, bow and spear and knife might yet be called upon one day. There had been times, when he was younger, when he had dreamed of the Enemy, had, in his mind, placed this Drinkerlike foe at the entrance to the valley to be met with metal clashing on metal, with blades sharp and deadly and with flying shafts of frightful penetrating ability. Thus, he had dreamed, he would prove himself and become legend. To have become a part of the lore by losing a hand was not to his liking, but he had, before the evening was far gone, become stoic in his acceptance. It was, it had been meant to be, and he would adapt.
The purpose of the gathering in the square, with all the village present, with the young ones bunched, wide-eyed, near the glowing fires, and the elders sitting in all dignity cross-legged on the warm earth, was to honor Duwan, who had used his wits and his sword with admirable quickness. Of course, in those wondrous days of the long light, almost any excuse was good for a gathering, with Du, the source, low over the southern cliffs to
indicate eveningtime, but Duwan took some satisfaction in knowing that he was well respected, and he stood to speak his gratitude only to find that his words froze in his throat. His father, chosen Village Elder long before his son's sprouting, was an accomplished speaker. Shamed, Duwan forced out some words, not really knowing what he said, but evidently he did not make a fool of himself, for his short speech was well received with coos from the females and a whistling hiss from the males.
The fermented juices of the narrow-organed short brother had something to do with the good spirits, as cups formed of half the shell of the nut brother passed from hand to hand with great laughter and small jokes and good will.
Alning was there, but she sat far back away from the cozy fires and refused to look at Duwan, so that he, hurt, drank more than his share to feel his head become light and his blood fiery.
Mothers began to coax their reluctant young away for sleep period. At a signal from Duwan The Elder the flowering young departed, Alning among them. Most of the mature females retired to their houses, leaving the warriors and the elders, who moved to congregate more compactly around the fires. Cups were passed. Duwan The Elder gave a contented sigh and sank back to lean on his elbows. The minstrel plucked the multiple strings of his instrument almost idly, but the sounds that came were soft and dreamy.
"We must consider the matter of my son," Duwan the Elder said at last. Duwan's head jerked up. He'd been dreaming cozily of Alning, wondering how he could approach her to say that he was sorry for his harsh words.
The warriors and elders gave a hiss of assent.
"Who will speak?" Duwan the Elder asked.
For long moments there was silence, then Manoo, the Predictor of Du, lifted a hand lazily. "Elder," he said, "we have spoken among ourselves. He is your son."
Duwan the Elder shook his head in sad negation. "No matter," he said.
"The traditions are for my son as well as your son." Puzzled, Duwan sat up, his right hand clasped onto his cocked knee.
"There is peace," Manoo the Predictor said. "Perhaps for once we can waive tradition."
"And when we waive all tradition, and we forget, and the Enemy comes?" Duwan the Elder asked. "No. He is my son, but he is of the Drinkers, and he will be governed by our laws."
"I will speak, then," said a tall, strong warrior, aged to his prime, skin just beginning to roughen.
"We hear, Leader," Duwan the Elder said.
Duwan looked at Belran the Leader with anticipation and respect. The hardy one, chief of all the warriors, was well known to all who had been trained, for each new warrior had to test his newly learned skills, quite often to his pain and chagrin, against the swords of Belran.
"He was," Belran said, "a warrior of great promise. Indeed, as my skin hardens, the warrior to become the Leader." Duwan felt his face flush and he swelled with pride, but the feeling did not last long. "I am saddened," Belran said, "but the shortsword is for parrying and the longsword is for killing and one without the other is wanting."
"I hear," Duwan the Elder said.
"Had the young one a calling," Belran said, "it would be easier." Duwan looked down. He had undergone the trial periods with the metalmakers, and he had no skill for it. He had strained his brain listening to Manoo the Predictor and he could not come within days of stating the appearances of Du during the time of dims and dark. His calling was to arms, and without the shortsword in his left hand he had no calling.
"Young Duwan," Belran the Leader said, turning toward the increasingly concerned Drinker, "what have you to say for yourself? Have you, perhaps, a calling of which we are not aware?"
Duwan thought for a moment. "I have no calling other than to arms." An old one, with hard, knobby skin, spoke in his old, strained voice. "I have seen young Duwan with the young. He has a good heart." A keeper of the young? Duwan felt a deep shame. He rose. "The old ones speak of a Drinker, in the time of troubles, who lost his hand in war, and yet he fought, and slew the Enemy, and retained his honor."
"By severe test," Belran said. "Do you seek a test?" Duwan swallowed his fear. "I do seek a test."
A young warrior rose quickly and ran to the community house, emerged with two sets of padded swords. Belran the Leader took all four swords in his hands, extended the hilts for choice to Duwan. Duwan knew the swords, for he'd wielded all in his training. He selected the one he knew was better balanced, and left three in Belran's hands. Belran handed back to the young warrior the odd shortsword and hefted the others.
"Am I to fight you?" Duwan asked. "Is that a fair test? You are the Leader, honored Belran. A fairer test would pit me against one of my own age."
Belran glared at him without pity. "My father's father, five times removed, was also a Leader, and strong, the strongest and the most skillful of his village. He faced the Enemy and was slain and, without protection, the village was destroyed."
"So be it," Duwan said, leaping to the attack, trying to eke out by surprise at least one small initial victory. His stroke was parried by Belran's shortsword while a counterblow of the longsword whistled toward Duwan's stomach to be met by a swift move, a quick retraction of his longsword so that the padded instruments thudded together loudly. Duwan's footwork brought hisses of admiration from the lounging warriors and elders, but from the first he was on the defensive for Belran had thought it to be kinder to end the uneven battle quickly. With a great leap, a feint of longsword and a sweep of shortsword he delivered a blow that would have, had the longsword not been padded, disemboweled Duwan. The strength of the blow sat Duwan down. He gasped for breath and rose to the battle, but Belran shook his head, turned, handed the swords to the young warrior who had fetched them and turned to shake his head sadly at Duwan.
"I will teach you the gift of storytelling," offered an ancient.
"The Watcher of the Fire needs no more than one hand," another said.
"Thank you, my friends and elders," Duwan said, "but I have not the memory for being a storyteller, and, as you well know, to watch the fire is a position of honor to be earned, not tossed to a disabled warrior as a sop to his pride."
"Drink," Duwan's father said, extending a cup. Duwan drank. He had to be carried to his sleeping pad in the small, private alcove of his father's house and he awakened much later with a bad taste in his mouth and the thunder of the land of the fires in his head. It was the time of the new greens, tender goodness plucked from certain low growing brothers without doing serious harm to them, and after he had accepted a dish from his mother and consumed it he felt better. He had not noticed, for she sat in shadows, that the old and hard and wrinkled figure of his grandmother was motionless in a corner.
"I saw you not, Grandmother," he said, "forgive me."
"I see you." the old one said.
"You see sadness and shame, Grandmother," he said. "You see a keeper of the young."
"I see one who escaped death." The old one rose with difficulty and moved jerkily until, with a creak of old limbs and a sigh, she sat on the pad next to Duwan.
"I don't know death," Duwan said sadly.
"It is not preferable to life," his grandmother said, as his mother nodded. "Perhaps, at this moment, you may think so."
"Never to climb into the gift of Du again?" Duwan said. "Is that not a form of death?"
"Walk to the south, go out of the valley, and bask in Du to your heart's content," his mother said.
Duwan made a motion of dismissal with his good hand.
The old one leaned down, her dimming eyes thrust close to the stump of Duwan's arm. Her rough, hard hands lifted his arm and put the stump even closer. She made a thoughtful, humming sound.
"It has healed well," Duwan said.
"Uramra," his grandmother hummed, as she lifted one crooked finger and tested the tender new tissue of the stump. Then, dropping the arm and looking into the emerald eyes of her daughter. "For your sake," she said softly, "I would not speak. For his?"
"Speak, Mother," Duwan's mother said, letting her eyes dro
p.
"I had a son," the old one said.
Duwan's interest was instantly aroused. He had never heard mention of a brother to his mother.
"He was of an age to you, my son," the old one said, putting her hands on Duwan's arm again. "And he, too, was of indecision between dishonor or death. At my insistence he chose to accept a false accusation. We will not go into details, for it is an old wound best left unopened. To ease my hurt, he chose against his inclinations. It was said that his fall from near the cliff top was an accident. I have never been sure. I do know that to prevent the risk of death he chose to abdicate his rightful position, as you have been asked to do, and I fear that, realizing his own mistake, he chose death with no hope."
"I am sorry, Grandmother," Duwan said, not knowing why the old one was telling him something that obviously gave her great pain.
"Ah," the old one said, "this does apply to you. Be patient." Once again she lifted Duwan's stump to her eyes and felt it carefully with her Fingers. Then she sighed. "Yes," she said, "the bud is there." For a few moments Duwan had known a frail hope, wishing more than expecting an answer to his dilemma. Now his heart sank and he closed his mind as his grandmother continued, for she was voicing one of the most ancient and least believable of all the bits of lore.
"With the full strength of Du, it will grow," the old one said. "Not here, not in our valley, but far to the south, where the darks and lights are of equal duration, where Du is strong, it will bud, and grow. So it was of old. So it is still. We are different, my son, we Drinkers. It was this difference that drove the Enemy, this difference that he scorned and feared and made an excuse for a war of extermination."
"Oh, Grandmother," Duwan said sadly, for he had hoped. He knew that the wisdom of the very old ones was often filled with unexpected and surprising bits of esoteric knowledge, but this hoary old folktale?
"Do not the fixed brothers grow limbs to replace the lost?" the old one asked.
"They are fixed," he said.
