Return to Eden

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The hillside above the spring was steep, the grass slicked by the afternoon rain. Kerrick missed his footing, skidded and fell, slid helplessly down the slope into a tangle of berry bushes. The thorns clung to him as he used the butt of his spear to clamber to his feet, ripped his skin as he pulled himself free. His thoughts had been on Nadaske before he fell, thinking that he should visit him on his solitary island, thinking in Yilanè of course. It was far better than Marbak for expressing dissatisfaction so now he writhed and verbalized disgusting descriptions of the thorny growths as he tore at their restraint. It was a fitting end to a depressing day. Heavy rain had interrupted the hunt, driven the game to cover. The few creatures they did disturb had easily avoided his arrows to be killed by others. Once free of the thorns he went carefully down to the spring, dropped his spear and bow onto the cool moss, knelt beside them and splashed water onto the scratches in his skin. There was a crackling in the brush and he seized up his spear.

“I am Tanu, not murgu,” Hanath said when he saw the pointed spear. “Spare my life, brave sammadar, and I will respond with great kindness.”

Kerrick growled in answer and drank from his cupped hands. Normally he enjoyed Hanath’s good spirits — but not this day. He watched as the hunter lowered the large clay pot into the water to fill it.

“Women carry water, hunters bring meat,” he said, ill-temperedly.

“They do,” Hanath said, rinsing out the pot, cheerfully immune to any insult. “And this hunter brought plenty of meat to little Malagen before she baked this pot. Only she can make them this big, this strong.”

“A hunter has no need of pots.”

“This hunter does. A good pot to this hunter is worth a herd of deer.”

Kerrick’s ill-humor was forgotten as he considered this novel thought. “Why?”

“Why? You who have drunk with the Sasku manduktos and have tasted their porro, you ask me why? Porro that tastes better than a young deer’s liver, better than having a woman, is far better than eating deer liver while having a woman…”

“I remember — Herilak told me. You and Morgil had trouble with the manduktos in the valley. He said that you stole and drank their porro.”

“Never!” Hanath drew himself up, slapped his chest a mighty blow. “We are not thieves in the night who steal from others. Yes, we tasted some of theirs, a very little bit. Then we watched, saw how they made it. It is a very small secret. After that we made our own, drank that.”

“And were quite sick?”

“We were.” Hanath sat down on the bank, bent and drank deep from the full water pot at the memory. “It is a small secret, making porro, but it holds a big secret to get the mixture just right. We are still learning that secret.”

“Still? Is that what the pot is for? More porro?”

“It is and it isn’t. The manduktos make their porro from tagaso, but all that we brought with us has been used up. So now we must try other ways of making it. This is a very difficult thing to do.”

“It is even more difficult to understand what you are talking about.”

“I will tell you. You drank porro, you know how good it is!” Hanath’s enthusiasm died. He sighed. “It can be very bad, too, when you get the making wrong. So simple. We put the dried porro grains into water to soak, just like making mush, stir them around. Add the moss, cover the pot, keep it warm — and in a few days, porro! Sometimes.” He sighed again.

“What does the moss do?”

“We don’t know — but nothing happens if it is not stirred in. Without it there is just old sour mush. But with it the mixture seethes, makes noise as if it were alive, sends up bubbles just like a swamp—”

“That sounds terrible.”

“No, it is something excellent. The bubbles in swamp water stink, but porro bubbles tickle the nose, are very good. But they were better with the tagaso. Some of the seeds we use made us very sick.” His frown vanished as he seized the filled pot and rose. “But today there is a new one. I think it is ready. You must come and try it.”

“Only after you do,” Kerrick said wisely. He picked up his weapons and went with the other hunter whose enthusiasm had returned with the memory of their new mixture.

“Here is how we thought, what we did. The mush from tagaso, it looks like the mush we make from other seeds. A seed is a seed — isn’t that right? This time we have cut the tops off the grass that women make mush from. Then winnowed the grain. We soaked it and covered it, used the right moss, kept it in the sun. This morning when I put my ear to the pot I could hear no more happy bubbling. That pot has rested in the shade all day, Morgil has poured water over it to cool it. Now we try it!”

Kerrick had not been here before, had not realized the great effort that the two hunters had put into their new enthusiasm. They had raised their tent in an open vale away from the other sammads, where they could have sun and shade as needed for their bubbling labors. Large pots sat in the sun, cooled in the shade, lay broken and discarded where pot or mixture had brought tragedy. Morgil lay on his side, his arms about a pot, his head pressed against it.

“Not a sound,” he cried cheerfully, then tipped some more water over the still-damp clay. “Shall we try it now?”

“Kerrick is here to help.”

“He is a brave hunter — he shall try it first.”

“Not that brave,” Kerrick said, stepping back. “You have captured the porro, you shall drink it first.”

Morgil cut the braided reeds that held the leaf covers in place: Hanath tore the leaves off and cast them aside. He bent over the open mouth of the pot and sniffed, turned, smiled.

“It smells the best so far.”

“It smelled good last time,” Morgil said with gloomy practicality. “We were sick for two days.”

At this reminder they took up the clay cups and dipped them hesitantly into the pot. Morgil had depressed himself thoroughly and did not drink, but watched while Hanath sniffed, sipped, swallowed. He grimaced in thought — then smiled broadly.

“The best we have ever made! As good as the mandukto make, better even.” He downed the rest of the cup, sighed and belched happily. Morgil gurgled his down enthusiastically. Kerrick dipped and tasted hesitantly.

“As good as the Sasku make,” he agreed. “Better than theirs — because this porro is here and not in that valley so far away.”

The only answer they made was rapid swallowing.

After this third cup Kerrick found that he liked to hear Hanath make stupid jokes — nor were they as stupid as always. Really quite funny. He was laughing so hard that he spilled most of his fourth cup and had to refill it. Morgil, who had been drinking twice as fast as the others, lay down, closed his eyes and began to snore. Kerrick sipped some more, then put his cup aside. He was beginning to understand why the manduktos only drank this on special occasions. Hanath was muttering to himself, laughing loudly at his own wit, so much so that he never noticed when Kerrick rose shakily to his feet and left. It was raining again, but now it did not bother him.

He walked slowly between the scattered tents, took great pleasure in the bustle and activity. Gray plumes of smoke rose up from the smokeholes to merge with misty rain. A woman called to another and there was the sound of sudden laughter. Nearby was a small meadow where the ground had been turned over, the tussocks of grass pulled out and thrown aside. The women had done this alone, since this was not suitable labor for hunters, and had carefully planted the charadis seed that Malagen had brought from the valley of the Sasku. The women all liked the softness of the cloth woven from the charadis fiber and were more than willing to grow the plants. Since the hunting had been so good there was now more than enough food for all. Time could be spared for the labors needed to raise the charadis. Cloth and strong pots: it was good to see these Sasku secrets being used now by the Tanu. Herilak emerged from his tent as Kerrick passed and called out in greeting.

“Was the hunting good?” Herilak asked.

“You were not there?”

“I found the tracks of large murgu to the north, two of them. I followed them with the death-stick.”

“It does not sicken?”

“I watch it, keep it where none can see it, it is well fed. I killed two murgu. The carrion eaters were on the bodies before I left.”

“There was too much rain for hunting. I brought back nothing. Others did better. All of the death-sticks do well, I talked with the others.”

The fear was always there now, had to be alleviated constantly. The death-sticks were their lives. Kerrick turned about too quickly and had to clutch a tree for support. Herilak frowned.

“You are ill?”

“No — but I have been drinking some new porro.”

“Then I understand. I have drunk it as well. Those two will be dead soon if they do not stop.”

“The new jar was very good.”

A woman called their names and they turned to Merrith who approached with a leaf-wrapped bundle. She opened it to reveal the still-smoking tubers inside.

“Baked in the fire,” she said. “I dug them yesterday.”

They cracked open the black-burnt skins, blew on their fingers, ate the sweet soft insides. She nodded approval at their appreciative murmurs. Kerrick felt a warmth of pleasure at this, something the others took for granted. To them the sammad was normal, to him a novelty to be greatly appreciated. When the sammads were together like this there were good things to eat — and drink! — much talk, sharing. It was a life that he had never known in his loneliness, that was appreciated the more because of this.

He should see Nadaske soon: it had been a very long time since his last visit. The thought came unbidden, unappreciated. Why, when everything was so good, why think of his friend’s unhappiness? Why not enjoy what he had for himself? He must be getting to be like old Fraken who seemed to get more enjoyment from his complaints than from his pleasures. No, it wasn’t that. It was because he was bound to the Yilanè male, understood his loneliness far too well. He was as alone among strangers as Kerrick had been among the Yilanè. He must go visit him. Soon.

“Have another,” Merrith said.

“Yes, of course.” He ate hungrily, Nadaske forgotten at once. Life in the sammads was very good.

As long as the death-sticks stayed healthy. That small worry was always present, always there.

Herilak turned about when he heard his name called, wiping the burnt crumbs from his fingers. It was the boy-without-a-name, solemn as always.

“The alladjex is very ill, he breathes with great difficulty. I fear that he is dying.”

He had learned to control his feelings very well. When Fraken died the boy would take his name, become the new alladjex. Undoubtedly this was what he most desired, the end to his training and servitude, yet none of this showed now.

“He will speak, we must listen,” Merrith said in a hushed voice. She had no great love for Fraken, his poultices or his predictions. But everyone knew that a person’s dying words were the most important he would ever utter. With death so close there could be no lies. There were things in death unknown in life and these the dying could many times see. The death-words were very important. When the boy turned away they hurried after him.

Others in the sammad were there before them, still more drifting up as word was spread. Furs and skins had been laid by the fire. Fraken coughed weakly when they came up, his face thin and gaunt. His eyes were closed so perhaps there would be no death-words after all. But the boy-without-a-name bent and whispered in his ear. Fraken muttered something then his eyes opened and he looked around at the silent watchers. He coughed again before he could speak and the boy wiped a trace of blood from his lips.

“You are here because I am dying. I have told you things before and you have not listened. Now I die and now you will listen. This boy who will be Fraken knows how to read the future from the owl pellets. Listen to him for I have taught him well. Listen to me now for I see clearly what I have never seen before…”

He broke off, coughed again and again and lay back until some little strength returned. “Lift me,” he said, and there was blood on his chin now. The boy supported his head so he could see across the fire to the silent, watching circle. His eyes moved across Herilak, rested on Kerrick and his face twisted with feeble anger.

“We are here in the land of the murgu and that is wrong. We should be in the mountains, in the snow. That is where we should be. Far away from the murgu, far away from thoughts of murgu, acts of murgu, sight of murgu, those who act like murgu.”

Some of the watchers looked at Kerrick, then quickly away. He kept his face motionless, expressionless. The old man had always hated him, he knew that. His were not words of truth at dying but simply bitter revenge. Die quickly, Kerrick thought. You will not be missed.

“If we live among murgu we become like murgu. We are Tanu. Return to the mountains, return to the old ways.”

His eyes closed with pain as he coughed over and over. Nor did they open again, although he did not die at once. Kerrick waited with the others, though he hated the old man, but knew that he did not dare to show this now. It was growing dark and the boy-without-a-name built the fire higher. Smoke blew over Fraken, but he was through with coughing. Herilak bent down and touched the old man’s neck, then opened one eye with his fingers, closed it again, then rose to his feet.

“He is dead. This one is now Fraken.”

Kerrick left then and walked slowly back to his tent in the darkness. He was not disturbed by the old man’s dying hatred; he was rid of him at last. Fraken had been a venomous creature, better off dead. He wanted them to return to the mountains and snow — yet he had been more than happy to come south for the warmth.

There was no game to hunt now in those distant mountains — and far too much snow. There could be no way back now for the sammads. They would have to stay where they were, here in the warm south where the hunting was good.

As long as the death-sticks kept the killer murgu at bay. It always came back to that.