by Kevin Ashman
‘Will there be much pain?’ she asked.
‘Not as much as you have now,’ answered Seren excitedly, ‘and I can help with that.’
Keera winced at the fresh assault from her tooth.
‘Ok, do what you must, but make it quick and in the name of the Sun-god, ease this pain.’
For a second, a delighted grin lit up Seren’s grubby face.
‘Come with me,’ she said, and led her to a nearby log. ‘Sit against this.’
Keera sat against the log and Seren sat opposite her on the ground with her legs crossed. The handmaiden opened the wrap and removed a handful of mixed herbs. After chanting some incomprehensible words, she placed the herbs in her own mouth and chewed them into a pulp. Despite her pain, Keera was fascinated. It was not often you had the chance to see the Shaman’s magic during daylight.
Seren stood up, removed the wad of chewed pulp from her mouth with her hand, and moulded it into a small poultice.
‘Open your mouth!’ she said and placed the chewed wad on the offending tooth, moulding it tightly around the infected molar.
‘Bite down,’ said Seren, ‘and don’t talk. Keep your mouth tightly shut.’
Keera did as she was told. The taste of the chewed herbs was not unpleasant, and after a few minutes, to her relief the pain started to ease. In the meantime, Seren busied herself with a tiny curved bow, no bigger than her foot, but the same as the larger version used by the hunters to kill the beasts of the forest. She picked up a thin splinter of sharpened bone from the wrap and twisted the horsehair twine of the bowstring twice around the awl. She returned to Keera and sat on the log behind her, one leg on either side of the old woman’s shoulders.
‘Lean your head back and open your mouth.’
Keera tilted her head back onto Seren’s lap, her mouth gaping wide as the girl’s probing fingers removed the numbing paste from her tooth.
‘Close your eyes, it will cause you less stress.’
Bracing her hand against Keera’s cheek, Seren placed the sharp end of the awl on the base of the tooth and pushing the saw back and fore, caused the awl to rotate, drilling into the old woman’s tooth. Though it was an uncomfortable feeling, there was no pain, though Keera still gripped the log in anticipation as the faint smell of burning enamel reached her nose.
Suddenly, Seren withdrew the awl from the newly drilled hole and a spurt of foul green puss erupted into the old woman’s mouth. The smell hit Keera before the taste, but she soon sat up, gagging at the disgusting flavour, spitting out the filth onto the ground.
‘You must close your mouth and suck on the tooth, Keera,’ said Seren, ‘it is important we get out all the poison.’
Again, Keera did as she was told, alternatively sucking and spitting the pus onto the frosty floor. Eventually, she looked up at Seren, a grateful look on her face.
‘It is done,’ she said, ‘the pain has gone.’
‘We are not finished, Keera,’ came the reply. ‘You must chew these herbs into a paste and leave them in the hole in your tooth for three days. It will stop further poison from developing.’
Keera accepted the offered bundle of herbs and tucked them away under her skins.
‘You have my gratitude, Seren.’ she said. ‘Later, I will bring tribute, but first I must see to Tan’s breakfast, or the old man will moan all day.’
‘There is no need, Keera, I am grateful that you trusted me.’
‘One day, you will make a good Shaman, Seren.’
‘I have a lot to learn,’ she replied, ‘but I have a good teacher.’
The old woman returned to the fire, leaving the young girl to continue her hunt for snails to break her fast.
----
The large campfire lay central to the testament of communal living, an important and essential element of clan life. In the day, it was a calm place to talk, cook and work, its heat utilized to roast meat or fish, bake crushed acorn pulp and chestnuts or simply to glean welcome warmth in these colder times. Spear shafts were hardened in its flames and tree sap was melted to glue flint arrowheads into the split ends of heat straightened arrow shafts.
At night, the fire became a place to feast and share stories. The whole clan would sit around the glowing warmth, learning from each other and passing on important lessons to the young. On occasion, the effects of the dream leaves thrown into the smoke enhanced the dancing colours of the flames, and the mood of the camp became surreal.
On these nights, when the moon was at its fullest, only the hunters sat close to the flames, with the women and children forming a second circle to the rear, staring into the flames as the hunters discussed mortality and the afterlife.
At these times, the Shaman owned the fire, her face hidden beneath the deep hood of an animal skin cape. This was when the clan watched enthralled, as she conversed with the ancestors in the ancient language, her drug filled mind crossing unimagined boundaries, as she chanted her ancient magic.
This was the spring hunting camp of the Fire-clan. A successful, yet relatively small group of hunter-gatherers that migrated between coast, plain and forest edge as the cycle of prey dictated. A society relying on the success of the hunt, complemented with the gathered forage of nature’s bounty. Family based units occupied the huts, and though life was often hard, the sick and elderly were looked after. Every two years, they migrated to the holy place for a meeting of clans, where news was exchanged and marriages arranged, thus ensuring a constant introduction of new blood to the clan’s gene pool.
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After her visit to the Shaman, Keera returned to the fire, her tongue occasionally exploring the newly formed hole in her tooth, as she continued her morning task. She checked the snares at the water’s edge and was pleasantly surprised to see she had caught a water rat. She broke the animal’s neck and carried her prize back to the fire. It would make a good breakfast.
The camp was coming to life with coughs and murmurs emanating from the various huts, as occupants rose to meet the trials of the new day. Keera gutted the rat, catching the blood in a bowl formed from the top half of a baboon’s skull. Quickly, she drank the nourishing liquid before it congealed, and after throwing the intestines to the ever-present dogs, placed the offal onto a flat stone at the fires edge to sizzle in the glare of the flames. Attracted by the smell, a small dirty child appeared and stood shivering in the frost covered grass, rubbing sleep and smoke from his tired eyes with tiny clenched fists. Keera paused and with a broken grin, lifted her skin wrap, inviting the chief’s grandson into the warmth it offered from the dawn river mist. Within a few minutes, the two distant generations were staring quietly into the flames, chewing hot slices of the rat’s heart in silence, as the rest of the camp slowly rose from its slumber.
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Chapter 3
Golau pushed another branch further into the struggling fire and stirred the embers with his knife. Briefly, the light from the flames increased and it illuminated the tiny, moss covered ledge that he had found to spend the dark hours of the night. He was wrapped closely in his reindeer hunting skin and he sat with his back against the cliff wall with the small fire at his feet and his spear resting across his knees. His knife was in his left hand and his bow was in arm’s reach to his right, both available in seconds to protect him from any night beast that might threaten.
Most predators would be deterred by the fire on the defended ledge, but not all. Great Brown Bear prowled the woods, twice the size of any man, and though the fire might deter them for a while, the ledge was well within the reach of the brute’s claws. Golau knew that, and cursed the time it had taken to bury Bran’s body, not only forcing him to leave the bounty of the dead auroch, but resulting in him picking a less than perfect night camp. With only a few minutes of light left, he had gathered an armful of wood and scrambled to the safest place he could find within the short time available. He used a small amount of the precious dry tinder from his pouch and striking the iron pyrite with his flint hammerhead, ca
refully started a fire.
Golau knew he didn’t have enough wood to last the night, but experience told him that the first half was the worst, when the Rheibwr first emerged from their lairs. If he could make the fire last as long as possible, his spear should see him through to the dawn. His night vision was useless whilst the fire burned, his pupils narrowing against the light of the fire, but it was a necessary price to pay. Without the fire, he would surely stand alongside Bran as he greeted the Sun-god in the morning.
Close by, the scream of a Wolverine mingled with the roar of a bear, as both predators clashed in the forest. Golau added another branch from his dwindling supply and forced himself further back into the cleft in the rock, his hand reassuringly grasping his spear and listened sombrely to the bear, tearing the wolverine’s flesh from its bones.
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Golau woke with a start, instantly alert for danger. He cursed himself for falling asleep and made a mental note to give offering to the Sun-god as thanks for keeping him alive. He quenched his thirst with the water from a fist full of dew-drenched moss and dropped quietly to the forest floor. The camp was many hours away, but with luck, he could be there before the sun was at its highest. Warily, he set out toward the river that would lead him to the camp, his speed and confidence increasing as the forest floor grew lighter. The unseen sun was halfway up its climb up the morning sky, when Golau’s speed slowed to a walk, and the smell of rotting flesh assaulted his senses.
Knowing he was close and with his curiosity aroused, he scanned around the forest floor for the source of the stench, using his spear to part the bracken in his search. Eventually, the buzz of the flies gave the location away, their swarming mass thick on the corpse of the rotting forest pig wedged high in the branch of the tree.
Golau’s interest rose. A dead animal in a tree meant a feline, and though these forest cats were relatively small and wary, they could still inflict a serious wound. He looked in the soft mud at the base of the tree, interested in the paw prints it may reveal. He could come back at a better time and hunt the cat.
He stopped, momentarily confused. The tracks were not of a cat. Five toe marks were clearly visible with large toe turned slightly outward, confirming the owner walked on two legs, but it was not the track of a bear or baboon, the shapes were all wrong. Everything about the print said human, yet at this time of year, all Golau’s people wore deerskin boots. Staring at the muddy track, he slowly placed his foot alongside the footprint. It was by far smaller in length and width than his was, but why would a barefoot child be out here in the woods, and how could it pull the large pig carcass so high up into the tree? Golau looked around nervously, his senses heightened by the unknown, and resumed his journey, even more determined to reach the clan as quickly as he possibly could.
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Deeper in the forest, another set of eyes watched the human as it walked clumsily through the undergrowth. He waited, silent and motionless on the bough of a tree high above the ground. He imagined the sweet grey meat enclosed in the skull of the human, but resisted the urge to kill. His belly was still full from the pig carcass. Besides, he had other business to attend. He was a stranger to this place and could not risk being discovered. He had watched this human and his companion for three days now, waiting for them to lead him to their village. Silently, he dropped to the forest floor, easily following the trail the human was leaving.
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Chapter 4
Keera finished her share of the rat’s heart and took the still warm liver to the chief’s lodge. People had started to emerge from their huts and small family units broke their fast with whatever was available to hand. Some lucky children managed to share the remnants of the roasted lungs, whilst others dipped into the store of fruit and seeds stored in each hut.
The previous night’s plans were starting to come together. Fishing was the order of the day and some of the women had already started to untangle the fishing nets for their contribution toward the day’s activities. The men and boys of the clan practiced their lunges with their three pronged barbed fishing spears, stabbing at imaginary salmon in the air as they returned to spawn in the waters of their birth. Only the male hunters were allowed to hunt the giant red fish of the river and they cast disdainful glances at the giggling chatter of the women, aloof in their self-importance. Netting was for the women.
The older girls gathered younger children and babies into crèches and the old women started on their task of skinning the hung carcasses from the previous day, stripping the hides of the fat and meat remnants.
As the very nature of their existence ensured that few reached old age, there weren’t many old men in the clan. Those lucky enough to survive butchered the meat and placed the joints into cold stone lined pits for storage or hung strips of muscle in the fire smoke to preserve the meat from deterioration.
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Sky was a teenage girl of the clan with long jet black hair and the deep blue eyes that were common in her family. She was the oldest of the unmarried camp girls and shared a lodge with her father, mother, and younger brother. They also shared their hut, and indeed their life with Alid, an orphaned teenage boy, simple of mind, but harmless and well loved.
Sky was getting frustrated with her babysitting role and was secretly looking forward to the following year’s gathering of the tribes when she would probably be offered in marriage to one of the hunters of the other clans. She longed for the authority of looking after her own hut and to having her opinions and ideas heard at the campfire. However, that was many moons away, so for now, her role along with the other girls was to look after the smaller children. Many were already running around the enclosed campsite, while several babies had been wrapped securely within the restricting walls of reed baskets. She walked up to Keera, who was still crouching by the fire.
‘You are undervalued, Keera,’ she said causing the old woman to turn round. ‘Every morning I try to catch you out, yet the fire is always well built before I leave my hut.’
‘At my age, you need little sleep, Sky,’ she said and indicated the rock next to her. ‘Sit; there is a little meat left.’
Sky sat down next to the old woman, nibbling on the offered food. After a while, she spoke again.
‘Golau and Bran are due back tomorrow,’ she said, ‘I wonder if my brother will earn his name this time?’
‘If the opportunity arises,’ responded Keera, ‘I’m sure Golau will give Bran a chance.’
‘I hope so, he is desperate to sit alongside the hunters at the fire,’ she laughed.
‘Such are the ways of men; they place much merit in such things.’
‘Are you fishing today?’ asked Keera eventually.
‘No, again I must care for the children,’ she said, ‘why can’t women ever go on the hunt? I have five more summers than my brother, yet he is allowed to chase beasts, while I have to stay here and chase children.’
‘Such is our way,’ smiled Keera.
‘I crave things to make my heart race,’ continued Sky, ‘the hunt, the kill, anything to break my daily boredom.’
‘My girl, what you need is a man under your sleeping skins,’ laughed Keera, ‘that will make your heart race.’ She laughed out loud at her own joke.
‘Keera!’ shouted Sky, gently slapping the old woman on the shoulder, ‘I am not interested in that sort of thing.’ She stood up and walked away, blushing fiercely, yet suppressing a sly smile.
‘You do not know what you are missing, girl,’ Keera said quietly chuckling again to herself.
----
Eventually, the younger members of the tribe made their way upstream to start their fishing expedition. While back in the camp, the older men discussed serious matters as they went about their skilled butchery, wistfully remembering the great days when their limbs were stronger, their eyes keener and they were able to join the hunt.
The old women gossiped and occasionally interfered with the care of the children, returning runaways to the teenag
ers and scolding them for their lack of care. Though seemingly distant and critical, there wasn’t much to escape the experienced and caring eyes of the aging grandmothers.
The day ambled serenely forward, all clan members comfortable in the familiar activity that day-to-day camp life generated. Yet all were completely oblivious of the cataclysmic changes soon to be imposed on their very existence.
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Chapter 5
Kraiach was well aware of the others. Since the long ago, they had been in his lands and though their paths seldom crossed, he and his people were always aware when the others were near. He didn’t know how, they just did. Pictures would form behind his deep set eyes, and when one knew, all knew. This was such a time.
He couldn’t make out any detail. He never could, but it was enough. The others were coming. All around the tiny valley, sleeping members of the tribe rose silently, already aware of the unspoken threat. They unwrapped themselves from tightly wound fur skins, ready to move at a moment’s notice. The three small fires were covered with damp sandy soil and the remnants were spread around the area, removing all signs that anyone had been there.
Kraiach’s kind had lived like this for many thousands of years. Their concept of the passage of time consisted of the ‘Now Time,’ the ‘Long ago’ and the Time Before.’ The first of which could be broken down into the number of grandfathers they remembered.
It was a hard existence, but they knew no other. They followed the herds of animals that roamed their lands, seldom staying in one place for longer than a few days at a time. When the hunt was successful, they killed their prey with short, stone-tipped spears, but were just as happy to scare predators off their kill, stealing the meat from under their noses.
Mortality rate was high and accepted as a natural part of their lives. If someone died, it was their time to be born in the better place. Sometimes, when someone was too ill or hurt to continue, they were helped to the better place with sharp spear or heavy boulder. If the hunt had been good, the body would be given the soil ceremony with gifts of food and flowers to take to the better place, but when times were hard, the body meat of the deceased was shared among the tribe to stay alive. It was not savage, it was not barbaric, and there was no guilt. It just was. It had always been.
