by Dan Davis
“You have my thanks for what you did for my people,” Eron said in his strong accent. His eyes had a faraway look.
“I was not strong enough to kill them all and now they have carried off your people,” Herkuhlos replied, touching his healing wound. “Eron, we must pursue the Heryos.”
Eron nodded, gesturing at the men behind him.
“This is what we discuss, lord. Some must stay and guard what is left but some men will go and try to bring back what has been lost.” Eron shook his head and stared into the distance. “How we will do this, I do not know. Mighty warrior, destroyer of yotunan, will you lead my men against the Heryos?”
Herkuhlos looked at the new chief and at the bleak faces behind him. “I will.”
They were relieved and they nodded their thanks.
“Lord,” Eron asked. “What will you do with your captives?”
“My what?”
Eron led them to the damaged end of the longhouse where two men lay awkwardly with their arms bound behind their backs. One was an older man with a long beard and dark, evil eyes and the other a tall, thin youth with long blond hair, untied and wild about his face.
“Please kill them if you desire to give their lives to your gods. Or you may make them your slaves. The other Heryos we took captive I have killed.” Eron gestured at the remains of a man on the ground. He had been hacked into pieces.
“I don’t understand. Why are they my prisoners?”
Pehur leaned closer and lowered his voice. “You knocked these two down in the battle, lord.”
“I did?” He could not remember their faces but then the fight itself was a blur of pain and fear and victory and he saw now that both men had wounds on their skulls. The whole side of the older man’s head was caked in dark blood while the youth had a terrible gash over his eye down to the bone where the spear shaft must have caught him. It had to have been the spear shaft, Herkuhlos reasoned, for his club would have shattered the young man’s skull.
“Lord?” Pehur prompted.
“What are your names?” Herkuhlos asked.
The bearded man leaned upright and spat a mouthful of blood and spit in his direction but it fell short.
“They call me Wetelos,” the young man said in a clear voice as he looked up with bright blue eyes. “And I ask that you kill me cleanly, mighty one.”
Herkuhlos nodded and looked at the other man.
“You almost fell to my spear, demon spawn,” he said, his lips pulled back in a snarl. “Give me a weapon and we shall fight again.”
“Why did you come here?” Herkuhlos asked. “Why raid this village? Why now?”
“You killed the Roaring One,” the older man said. “You are the slayer of Thrima.”
“What was he to you?” Herkuhlos asked. “Was he your lord?”
The man scoffed and turned away in disgust.
“I will tell you all,” the young man named Wetelos said.
At this, the older man threw himself at Wetelos with his lips curled back as if he intended to bite his throat out. Seemingly expecting this, Wetelos rolled to his knees and butted the older man on the nose with a mighty crack and both men fell back groaning from the impact.
“Drag that one further away,” Herkuhlos commanded Pehur and the older man was pulled further down the longhouse by his ankles.
Wetelos groaned as he sat upright. Fresh blood welled from the gash on his forehead and ran into his blue eyes.
“Are you well?”
“Well enough to speak and then to die,” Wetelos said.
“You seek death so eagerly?”
“I seek it over slavery, lord.”
“You would even betray your lord’s trust for the sake of a clean death?”
Wetelos looked up at that, anger on his face that was quickly masked. “What would you know, lord?”
“How did you find me?”
“We came to Thrima to collect the sacrifice as usual and found him dead. The acolytes told us what had happened and we followed your trail back to this village.”
Herkuhlos had many questions but he started with one. “There were acolytes there?”
“They told us they hid in the trees while you battled. These men are called acolytes but they are really servants, that’s all. They were preparing Thrima the Roarer for the last fire when we came upon them.”
“You said you came to collect the sacrifice. What do you mean?”
“Thrima sends half of his sacrifices to his new lord, now. Every other moon we collect what he has been given and we take it away.”
“You mean Thrima the Roarer had a lord of his own? A new lord?” Herkuhlos’ heart raced, hoping that the gods had favoured him with a reward for his victories. “Who is this lord?”
“His lord is Torkos the Devourer. A mighty yotunan who has forced all others into submission. He and his warband subjugated all the people of this land. So, yes, Torkos ruled Thrima and Thrima ruled this place and so, after what you did, my lord knew Torkos would want you all killed. He sent some of the warriors back to the clan to inform Torkos and the rest of us came here to destroy this village.”
“And this Torkos is a yotunan? A newly arrived yotunan?”
“A god, lord. A powerful god of the Heryos. They also call him the Boar.”
8. Lost
Gulls spiralled overhead, effortlessly riding the wind with motionless wings before darting down out of sight toward the sea. She was sheltered by the dunes and the collection of brushwood huts her tribe lived in down here on the shore. In winter they moved inland to their camp amongst the trees but now spring was here they had returned. Down by the sands she heard the regular thump of the axes where the men worked on their canoes. The voices of the women reached her from where they worked between the houses and the sea, repairing nets, making baskets and traps, and preserving the meat and skins from the latest seal hunt.
They were also busy butchering the deer than she had killed but Alef and the other hunters had brought home. They did not exactly say that they had shot the deer but when their mothers and sisters praised them they had glanced at Sif and then had not corrected them. Disgusted with their deceit and, she had to admit, wounded by it, she had walked away without a word.
She was home, she supposed, and yet the spirits had fallen silent. Sif could not believe that both Sama and Zani were gone. For them both to have vanished at the same time was surely no chance happening and it was certain that there was some connection between the two, though they lived far from one another, on opposite sides of the village.
Sama’s house was half a morning’s walk away along the coast to the south, while it took most of a day to travel through the woodland from Zani’s house. Either that or you paddled downriver to the broad estuary out to sea and then down to the village on the shore behind the dunes. Their homes were at the farthest extent of the tribe’s territory in either direction and that, she supposed, made them vulnerable. No one from the other tribes would dare to harm an initiate of the Mother but the Furun and the Heryos were another matter.
Could they have been taken by these evil men, as Alef suggested? Or was there some other explanation? All she knew for certain was that the spirits were silent.
“Father needs your help now,” Alef said, as he ducked out of the doorway of the house, approached and looked down at her.
She shielded her eyes with a hand as she looked up at his towering silhouette. “His leg again? Or his bowels?”
He did not hide his irritation at her question. “You will ask him.” Alef did not like to admit that his father had grown weak. But then, she supposed, no one liked to admit such a thing.
She uncrossed her legs and stood. She was taller than any other woman in the tribe and taller than most of the men but she felt like a child before Alef. She always had and she did not like it.
“I will see to him, then.”
He grabbed her arm before she could go inside. “Sif,” he started.
She wished to yank her arm
away but knew that would only anger him so she asked the spirits for strength and held herself still.
“Sif,” he started again, “I am a man now and you are well past age yourself.” He tried to go on but his words failed him and he looked away.
Pulling her wrist from his, she lifted her face. “I will see to your father.”
Leaving him standing alone, she ducked inside the doorway. It was dark despite the light filtering through the gaps in the brushwood roof and the mud walls. The smell was bad, despite the sea air flowing through those gaps, and the spirits told her it was not the chief’s leg that needed attention but his bowels.
“Sif, dear girl,” the chief said from where he lay against the far wall. “Thank the Mother you are here.”
S’tef was covered with deerskins stitched together into a blanket big enough to cover him. When she was a young girl, Chief S’tef had been a big man and the best hunter of all the tribes on the mainland and many of the islands, too, but he hunted no longer and his flesh had shrunk on his big bones. Sometimes the spirits struck him down and he lay like this for days or moons but they did not let him die and he would recover and become himself once more. But each time he grew a little weaker and a little more stooped and the spirits seemed now to be taking his wits.
“The spirits tell me your belly is bad again,” she said, crossing to him and crouching at his side.
“My belly, yes,” S’tef said, trying to smile but wincing instead. “I cannot eat.”
Even through the deerskin she could see that his belly was bloated. Sif reached out and touched her fingers to his cheek. His skin was cool but damp. “We shall ask the spirits for their help.”
“I knew you would come,” he muttered and closed his eyes. “The Mother is good.”
She knew that the others talked of ending his life. Some of the women had talked of it within her hearing and N’fal had boasted to Karu that he would be the one to do it, if Alef would let him. But Sama had told them the spirits would not allow it and when she was consulted Zani had said the Mother wanted the chief to go on. This was not popular with most people but they had accepted it, even if they did not understand it. Whether Alef wanted it or not she could not be sure. He would probably become chief and that was what everyone seemed to want for the tribe and yet Alef cared for his father. She wondered what would happen if Zani and Sama did not return soon.
“We will make you strong again,” she said, setting down and opening her bags. From the first she unfolded her birch mask and laid it down and from the next she dug around for her herbs. She shifted so the light fell on the interior and bent over it to find what she needed.
“They tell me Sama has still not returned,” he said with his eyes closed.
“They tell me the same,” she said softly.
“I am sorry for you, dear one. Now Alef says Zani has been taken, also.”
“Only the Mother knows what happened. It may be Zani went to the islands.”
“Of course, of course. No man can say otherwise.” He fell silent a while. “What do the spirits say of it?”
She stretched out and picked up one of the pots by his head. One was filled with water so she poured some out into a wooden bowl and began putting the herbs she wanted into the pot.
Sif could not say that the spirits were silent for that would be shameful but neither could she lie. “I have not yet consulted the spirits,” she said. “Alef brought me away from Zani’s house.”
“There are Heryos in the woods.”
“So he says.”
The chief laughed softly in the back of his throat, amused by her disbelief. “Alef knows about such things, dear one. He keeps us all safe now.”
“I know.”
“All of us, Sif. Including you.”
When I am here in the village, perhaps, she thought. Otherwise the spirits keep me safe and the guiding hand of the Mother. “Yes,” she said.
“You know, perhaps it is your time, Sif. Perhaps Sama going away and now Zani means that the Mother is speaking to you? It is not for me to say, of course, I would never presume to speak such words with so empty a head. But you know enough to know. After all, you have never been initiated. And now you never will be.”
Her hands stopped stripping the dried herbs and she gripped the edges of the pot with her eyes closed. His words were like a spear through her heart. With them both gone, she had no route to initiation. None, that is, unless she travelled to another tribe and begged another initiate to help her. She let out the breath she had been holding and continued her work until she had added enough and she put the pot on the ashes of the fire to warm, adding more brushwood and blowing it into flame.
Taking the birch mask she tied it about her face and aligned it so she could see from the eye holes. At once, now her true face was hidden, she could feel the spirits gathering.
The chief snored suddenly and then cleared his throat. “Did you speak?” he asked, unaware that he had drifted off to sleep for a moment.
“No.”
“You will make a good woman for him, Sif,” he continued, as if there had been no break in the conversation. “I know you do not believe it but you will. And there is no man suitable for you other than Alef, that is the truth and may the spirits take me if I am wrong.”
At that, Sif took off her mask and they waited as the wood crackled and burned down and Sif blew on the coals and soon the water began to bubble and using two sticks she took it from the fire quickly and put it on the sandy floor to cool.
“You cannot go on much longer as you are, dear girl,” S’tef said. He was looking at her now and she saw the affection in his eyes. “First poor little Z’ta was taken, and now Sama has gone away and if it is true that Zani too has gone then what can you do? You must dedicate yourself to a man and bear children. There is no choice.”
It was true. Sama was not here to protect her and she could not now run to Zani either. With their help, she could give herself to the Mother and guide the tribe as they had done but not without initiation. Without initiation she could still speak to the spirits but a tribe needed a true spirit walker.
“I cannot give myself to Alef until I find out what has happened to them.” She bent forward to blow on the water.
“So be it,” he said. “When they are not found, then you will give yourself to Alef. There is no other man here strong enough for you but Alef will be able to make you submit, you know that.”
“Drink this,” she said, lifting it and holding it beside his head. The pottery was hot and hurt her skin but she held it anyway. “Sit up a little and drink.”
With a groan, S’tef rolled onto his elbow and propped himself up to take a sip. He winced. “It is too hot.”
“Drink it,” she commanded and tipped it up.
He did as he was told and swallowed mouthful after mouthful and fell back with a wet smokeweed stalk lying across his lips. She reached up and pulled it off his face, scooped out the pot and tossed the lot sizzling onto the fire.
“Find them, yes,” the chief muttered, wiping his lips. His eyes were closed again. “You must speak to Satara. He was looking for you.”
Her heart sank. Satara was looking for her. She had no desire to speak to him and yet the chief was right. If anyone knew where Sama was then he would. “I will find him.”
The chief laughed in the back of his throat. “I think Satara will find you, dear one.”
“No more talk now,” she said, putting her mask back on. “I must call to them.”
He was snoring by the time she gathered her things and finished calling on the spirits to come into him and to heal his insides. The spirits of the herbs always brought him comfort, for a time at least, and she would have to go and gather more for when he needed them again.
Outside, she straightened up and breathed the clean air and looked out to sea. Five hunters had pushed out their canoes and were heading down the coast. It was still too early for the pups to be born but if the spirits were with them they
would find at least one adult seal out on the beaches or rocks. In high summer the whole village would join the work to kill the seals for in the breeding season they were so often out of the water. It was the Mother’s bounty and she would bestow enough fat, meat, and skins to see them through another winter. With enough excess skins they could trade with the Furun for wheat and if they were fortune even for the shining axes and knives but high summer seemed a long way off and thinking of it brought a feeling of dread. It was Sama who asked the Mother to bestow her bounty on behalf of the tribe and it was Zani who consulted the spirits on when and where to find the seals and without either of them the tribe faced great uncertainty. Why was no one else as afraid as she was?
“Sif?” The voice was close behind her and she started and made a small squeak that she was immediately ashamed of.
“Satara!” she snapped. “Why do you creep about so?”
He was only a little older than her but there was something about that him that made him seem like an old man, perhaps his thin body and sharp features, and at the same time he still had the ungainly awkwardness of youth. The intensity of his gaze made his eyes seemed to bulge from his skull and she always found it hard to meet it.
“I called out but you did not seem to hear,” Satara protested in his thin voice. “Forgive me.” He placed a hand over his heart and bowed.
She sighed. “What do you want?”
“I wanted to ask you about Sama. Did you know he is missing?”
“Of course I know,” she snapped. “I wanted to ask you about it, too.”
He blinked his huge blue eyes and then smiled. “Then we may speak of it together, may we not?”
Ever since they were children, the way he spoke irritated her and she never knew precisely why. “Yes, yes. Come on.”
Without waiting for him, she turned and strode off between the houses and across the dunes towards Sama’s house. At the top of a dune she saw how far the tide had run out. The sound of the distant waves rolling against the sand and shingle was brought to her ears on the cold, stiff wind. Above, a bank of grey cloud rolled in swiftly from the islands across the sea and she knew they would have rain before they reached Sama’s house. She plunged down the dune and on down the coast.
