Return to Eden

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Kerrick did not want to speak of what he had seen, as though in keeping silent the spot would vanish, might have never existed. Arnwheet approved of his silence as he stalked ahead. He shot his arrow at a basking lizard, came very close as it scuttled away into the grass. Then he sat in the bow of the boat all the way back, trailing his fingers in the water. Kerrick started to warn him with sudden memory of doing the same thing when he was a boy, the horror of the marag surging up from the sea. But that had happened a long time ago: there was nothing to fear from these shallow inland waters. They beached the boat, turned it over and Arnwheet ran ahead to the tent. Kerrick looked again at the hèsotsan. The spot was still there.

There was silence around their fire. Armun knew where they had gone and her disapproval was obvious in her every movement. This one time Kerrick did not attempt to talk to her, to make her forget their visit to the island: he was just as silent as she. Arnwheet, tired from the day, was asleep even before the first stars appeared. Kerrick kicked sand over the smoldering fire then went to the stream to wash his hands and arms. He rubbed them thoroughly, then did it all a second time. Though if he had brought the disease to the hèsotsan it was far too late for this. He shook them dry and went down the path to Herilak’s tent.

When he came into the clearing he saw that Merrith had moved her tent until it was just beside that of the sammadar. Darras sat now in the open flap of the tent holding a doll woven of straw. She was still a silent little girl, but she did smile at him even though she did not speak. The flap of Herilak’s tent was closed and he heard laughter from inside. He was going to call out when he realized that it was woman’s laughter. He had not known about this before. It was a good thing. He sat down on the fur beside Darras.

“I never saw that doll before.”

“My grandmother made it. I watched her do it. Isn’t she nice? Her name is Melde. That was my mother’s name too.”

“It is a very nice doll.”

He added some dry branches to the fire and stirred it until the wood crackled and the flames grew higher. The flaps of the other tent were opened and Merrith came over and sat next to him.

“Darras was telling me about her new doll. She is very happy with it.”

Merrith smiled and nodded agreement. “She is not the only one who is filled with pleasure.”

Herilak called out greetings and Kerrick went to join him. They sat in darkness before the tent looking at the woman and the little girl in the flickering firelight. Herilak seemed as happy as Merrith was. Kerrick was reluctant to spoil all this; Herilak had been grim and unsmiling for far too long. They talked of hunting, the other sammads, and of the Sasku valley. They did this until Merrith took the girl into the tent and the flap was closed.

“It may be very hot here in the summer, Herilak said. “But it is never cold in the winter. This island is a very good place for the sammads.”

“Will we ever go back to the mountains? That was what old Fraken talked of when dying.”

“Old Fraken was an old fool. I have heard you say that many times. There is still the winter that does not stop to the north.”

“I think that my death-stick has the sickness.”

Herilak was very still for a long time. When he finally spoke the grim unhappiness was back in his voice.

“It had to happen some day. We all knew that it would. This time we must get new death-sticks before the old ones die, keep them apart.”

“You mean go to the city again? Steal more of them? Kill more murgu?”

“Can you think of any different thing to do?”

Kerrick had no quick answer for this. He sat in silence, his hands clasped before him, wringing his fingers together so hard that his knuckles cracked. The moon rose above the trees and drenched the clearing with cool light. An owl drifted silently above their heads: a night creature called distantly in the forest.

“No,” Kerrick said with great reluctance. “I can think of nothing else. We know now where the death-sticks are. But if we are seen again…”

“You need not go this time. I know where the pit is now.”

“I am not afraid of going there!”

“I did not say that you were. I meant only that others can take the risk. You have done your part, and more, many times over.”

“That is also not important. What I fear most is our dependency on the murgu and the city. We will go now because we must, then one day we will have to go again. But one time when we go it will happen. Once when we are in the city we will be seen by the murgu. And what then?”

“You worry too much. Life is to be taken one day at a time.”

“That is no longer true. When we lived in the mountains and followed the deer you could say that. No longer. We are in a trap and there is no way out.”

“We will be a bigger hunting party this time. We will bring back many death-sticks.”

“No. Impossible. The risk is too great. Two hunters at most. And we will leave our own death-sticks behind here. Then, when we are distant from the sammads, we must wash ourselves and the skins we wear, many times. If there is a sickness it must not spread to the death-sticks we bring back.

“I do not understand your talk of washing and sickness.”

“Neither do I,” Kerrick said with a twisted smile. “But I was told about it by one who knew. This was before we met and I had been very sick…”

“Then it was a marag who told you this?”

“Yes. And after the attack on the city, then the valley where they grew special plants just to kill us, you can see clearly how much they know of living things. This marag of great knowledge told me that disease, infections, are spread by small living things.”

“I have seen grubs in wounds.”

“Living creatures even smaller than that, so small that you cannot see them. I know it is hard to believe, but I am just telling you what I was told. So perhaps what is killing the death-sticks passes from one to the other. I don’t know. But if we can stop it by washing ourselves then we must do it.

“Surely we must. And any hunter would smell better for a good washing. It will be you and I then. We will go.”

“No,” Kerrick said with sudden firmness. “You are a sammadar and I cannot tell you what to do. I will take one who will obey me, who will do as I order. We will go in silence and avoid the murgu. Avoid killing if we see any of them. If you were there, and that should happen, would you obey an order not to kill?”

“I would not. You speak the truth in that. But who would you take? Your sammad is small, the boy Harl the only hunter you have.”

“He is skilled and silent in the forest. He will go with me. That is the way it must be.”

“You are making a mistake—”

‘I might be — but it is my mistake.”

Herilak frowned angrily but could think of nothing more to say. The decision had been made. “When do you leave?”

“Very soon. This time we must go there and get the death-sticks, bring them back before the others that we have here die. They must be ready for us when we need them.”

There was little to add after this and they parted in silence.

Kerrick was still awake the next morning at first light, had slept little during the night. He lay unmoving, listening to Armun’s gentle breathing, until sunlight touched the wall of the tent. Only then did he slip out quietly and go to the shelter where he kept the hèsotsan, to unwrap it carefully and hold it up in the light. The dead area was there, bigger now, still there.

The flap of the hunters’ tent had been thrown back and Ortnar sat in the morning sunlight. His dead leg was stretched out before him on the ground, his perpetual scowl etched with deep lines into his face.

“I want to talk with Harl,” Kerrick said.

“I still slept when he left, well before light. He knows a place by the stream where deer come at dawn. He will be a good hunter one day.”

“I will speak with him when he returns.” There was nothing to add, Ortnar was never one for small talk. Kerrick turned away and went to his own tent. Armun was awake, stirring the fire to life.

“I saw you looking at the death-stick. You worry too much about it.”

“It is more than a worry. It has the sickness.”

“Not again!” The words were a cry of pain, wrenched from her.

“Again. I will have to go to the murgu city. Again.”

“No, not you. There are others who can go.”

“Others could surely go — but they would never return. Only a Tanu who is half marag can understand that murgu city. Now I will eat and rest. I slept little last night.”

The sun was high in the sky when he awoke. The sky was bright and he blinked into its glare. Harl was sitting outside, waiting for him in patient silence. Seeing him like this, his mind still clouded with sleep, Kerrick looked at him as a stranger. No longer the small boy, but a hunter grown. As soon as he saw that Kerrick was awake he stood and came over to the tent.

“Ortnar said you came to find me, you would speak to me.”

“He told me that you were hunting. The deer came?”

“Right beneath me. Two are dead. What is it you want?”

Like Ortnar, he had no time for small talk. He used words like arrows, sharp and swift.

“I want you. Will you go to the murgu city with me? My death-stick has the sickness.”

“How many will go?”

“You and I alone.”

Harl’s eyes opened wide. “You went with the sammadar Herilak last time.”

“I did. And he killed the murgu we met. This time I wish to rely on skill in woodcraft and not killing. I wish to see and not be seen. Will you go with me?”

Harl smiled and held out his clenched fists, one above the other. “I will go. We will bring back death-sticks?”

“Yes. But you must tell me one thing now. Will you do as I order you to? If we see the murgu of the city they must not be killed. Will you do that?”

“You are asking a difficult thing.”

“I know. But if you do not do it, then another will. You are of my sammad. If you will do as I ask you, then there will be no other hunter. It is your choice.”

“Then I choose to come with you. I will do as you order, sammadar. When will we leave?”

“In the morning. Spear and bow only. The death-sticks stay here.”

“What do we do then if we meet a large marag that we cannot kill with spear or arrow?”

“We die. So it is your skill in the forest that will lead us away from them. Can you do that?”

“Yes. We will do as the sammadar says.”

They left at dawn, and by the heat of the day they were well upon the track south. When they came to the ford across the narrow river they took turns to scrub themselves clean in the clear water, one washing while the other stood guard. Harl could not see the reason for this, still he did as he was told. He grumbled about getting his bow and quiver wet, spread his arrows on the grass to dry. Kerrick looked at their packs of dried meat and ekkotaz.

“You cannot wash the meat,” Harl said. Kerrick smiled.

“True. But we can eat it. Before we enter the city we throw away what we haven’t finished, the bags as well. The last time we went I cut up the leather to bind the death-sticks. The illness could have been passed on that way. This time we will use split saplings and vines to hold them. They must not get the sickness again.”

On the second day Harl stopped them with a raised hand, listened to the forest ahead. There was something there, large. They made a long swing out through the trees to the shore, went along the sand for the rest of the day. Only when the coast became swampy and impassable did they return inland. There were no other disturbances after this and they made very good time. When they reached the now-familiar outer reaches of the city Kerrick called a stop.

“We will go back to the last stream we crossed. Get rid of the meat bags and wash again.”

“We will eat all the meat we can first.”

“Yes, of course. Then go on in the afternoon.” Harl frowned at this, seemed displeased. “There is a good reason to wait. The murgu in the city do not move around at night. If they are near the death-stick pens they will leave in time to be well back inside the city by dark. If we reach there at dusk we can get the death-sticks and find our way out even if it is after nightfall. Can that be done?”

“If I see a track by day I can walk it by night. It shall be as you say, sammadar.”

By midafternoon, their leather garments still wet and cool against their skin, they penetrated the outer wall of the city. Kerrick went first, cutting and pushing aside the poisonous plants and thorns. Once past this barrier he whispered instructions to Harl who now led the way. Slower and slower, crawling the last distance to the earthen wall of the pen. Harl went on himself, then waved Kerrick forward.

“There is no one here, no tracks since the last rain.”

“I still want to stay out of sight until it is darker. We can use these vines to make nets to carry the death-sticks.”

It was near dusk when Harl pulled himself up onto the earthen wall, looked around and beckoned Kerrick forward. The hèsotsan were thick in the shallow water below and on the sandy bank. Kerrick threw clods down to chase the active ones away, then jumped down into the pit. There were hèsotsan close by on the sand, feebly moving their legs and unable to escape.

“These are the ones we want,” he said. “I’ll hand them up to you.”

He passed up as many as they could carry easily, then took Harl’s hand and pulled himself out. The hèsotsan hissed weakly when they were bound and tried to snap at their fingers. It was quickly done. They slung the bundled creatures over their shoulders and seized up their weapons.

“We have done it!” Kerrick said, already feeling the tension drain away. “Now — let’s get out of here.”

Harl led the way in an easy lope, back along the track they had followed when they had entered the city.

As he came around the end of the embankment there was the sharp crack of a hèsotsan and he collapsed. Dead before he hit the ground.