Chapter 10: Moccasin Prints
As the weather grew colder, Wisteria saw more signs that the others were nervous. Ayuvah would eat his breakfast, then vomit afterwards. When Wisteria asked Ayuvah if he was ill, he replied, “No, only afraid. We sit on the wagon, and every day it carries us closer to Craal. Perhaps if we had to walk, I would not think about it so much.”
Ayuvah was a brave man, a proven fighter. She wondered how he could be so afraid of a place he’d heard of only in legend. At night, Tull and Ayuvah practiced with their weapons—sword bashing on spear. The two Neanderthals battled with their might and their hearts, as if their very lives depended upon each blow, and at nights when Wisteria looked upon Tull’s body, bruised from practice, she worried that perhaps he was right. Perhaps his life would depend upon those swings.
The Hukm traveled slowly as they neared the mountains, making less than seven miles a day. The open plains turned to oak forest interspersed with buck brush and an occasional pine. There were no wild mammoths, so the land was left to the boar and sabertooth. They found a great path made of stone, where armies must have crossed often, for the ground was furrowed with mastodon tracks.
Tull soon became infected by the fear. He quit making love to Wisteria, and at times his legs trembled. She asked him what he was thinking, one night as they lay abed, and he said, “I just remembered a tale. Once, a Pwi named Zhez was taken slave and put to work in the copper mines. He was a young man, newly married, so in eagerness to return to his wife, he killed his overseer and tried to run away. He was captured and sentenced to death in the arena. But after four years, he was still alive, so he won his freedom and became Blade Kin. It is said, he is the only Pwi ever to become Blade Kin, for all Pwi know what an evil thing that is, so they choose to die in the arena instead. But Zhez became Blade Kin, and every month he slaughtered a pig in sacrifice to Adjonai, for he believed that he had lived through his arena battles only because he prayed to the dark god.
“After several years, a party of slavers came through the mountains, and among their slaves was a desirable young girl. Zhez raped her, as was his custom, for he had become one of the most wicked Blade Kin. And while the girl was on the ground crying, he got up and dressed and said, ‘Do not cry, child. I, Zhez, was once carried slave into Craal.’
“At that, the girl lashed out with her nails and slashed off his penis. Zhez fell to the ground, and the other Blade Kin began beating the girl, shouting ‘Why did you do that? He was finished with you! Now your punishment will be ten times worse than his fate!”
“And before they killed her, the girl cried, ‘I have always hoped to see my father once before I die, and look how it has come to pass.’
“For Zhez was her father.”
Wisteria looked at Tull, at the copper hair of his eyebrows, the smooth features of his cheeks, his deep-set yellow eyes. She could barely understand why he would tell such a story, why the myth moved him, but she knew it had to do with kwea.
Could the kwea of others’ fears have such a profound effect upon him? she wondered.
“How do you feel about the sky today?” she asked.
“I feel threatened by it,” Tull answered. “It has an evil kwea.”
“Other than you, how many Pwi have walked into Craal?”
“Some have,” Tull answered. “I’ve heard of man who lost his wife to the slavers, then went to Craal to find her. It was better to work by her side as a slave than live without her.”
“I’ve heard about such free servants,” Wisteria said. “But aside from them, what Pwi has gone to Craal?”
“Aside from them,” Tull thought, “No one that I have ever heard.”
“Then, in a thousand years, not one has willingly entered Craal?” Wisteria asked.
Tull thought a moment. “Only a fool would go there,” he said.
Three days out from the mountains, they crossed a field near a small creek and Born-in-Snow stopped to study some fresh tracks. Phylomon got out of the wagon and brushed aside a yellowed strand of blackberry vine to look at the muddy moccasin prints.
“Human,” he said. “See how the great toe is straight instead of curved inward like that of a Neanderthal.”
“Zhe hemania thenza? Why is a human here alone?” Ayuvah asked.
Scandal studied the footprints and scowled. “Whoever he is, he’d have to have a soul as dark as hell to be sneaking around up here. We should be ready if we meet him.” Water from the drizzling rain seeped into the footprint, slowly filling it.
“He was here not fifteen minutes ago,” Phylomon said, “Probably lying under the shelter of that pine.” He nodded toward a pine a few yards off.
“Any danger in him seeing us?” Scandal asked.
“It’s hard to say what he saw,” Phylomon said. “Two Hukm riding mammoths, pulling a wagon with a large tarpaulin over it, heading toward the White Mountains. We’ve got three possible passes within two week’s journey, and he’ll suspect we’re heading for one. My guess is that he’s a spy—just come back from watching Okanjara movements out east over the summer. That, or he’s paid to watch the borders. Either way, news of Hukm coming this way will interest him.”
Phylomon studied the ground a moment. “My guess is that he’ll head for the fortress up at Gold River Pass. With winter coming, the Blade Kin will hole up there, or he’ll head south to the garrison at Powder Mountain.”
Phylomon spoke to the Hukm in finger language for a few minutes and then turned to the others. “Born-in-Snow is going to run up toward Dumper River. I’m going to check ahead toward Gold River. If he goes in either direction, we should find his trail. We’ve got several hours of light left.”
“What will you do if you find him?” Ayuvah asked.
Phylomon said dryly, “Kill him.”
Phylomon strung his bow. Born-in-Snow unslung a ten-foot-long burnished war club from his mammoth’s back, and then urged the mammoth under the trees where it could hunt for tender water plants beside the creek. Short Tail looked as if he longed to go on the hunt as well. Born-in-Snow said goodbye to his brother in finger talk, went to the creek and smeared his white fur with mud for camouflage, then Phylomon and the big Hukm set off together.
In the drizzling rain, there was nothing to do but seek shelter and wait. Tull opened the tarp over the back of the wagon and stood for a moment, peering inside.
“I saw some tasty mushrooms back up the trail,” Scandal suggested. “Shall we have them for dinner?”
Wisteria said, “That sounds good,” and Scandal went to the wagon and got a sack, then headed back up the trail alone.
Tirilee went to sit in the shelter of the barrel, while Short Tail unharnessed his mammoth up front. Wisteria stood with Tull and Ayuvah.
“Do you feel it?” Ayuvah asked Tull.
“Feel what?” Tull said.
“The presence of Adjonai. I can feel him behind those mountains, and he is waiting. For the past ten days we have had rain. All our plans are dark, and I have not seen sign of my Animal Guide. There should be wolves here. With the snow in the mountains, the deer should have moved down to the flats, and the wolves should follow. But my Animal Guide is not present. It is a bad sign. It is because we are nearing Craal. I feel Adjonai reaching out from behind the mountains.”
Wisteria listened but had no idea what to do when Pwi talked like this.
Tull thought for a moment. “I feel his presence too. But Phylomon would say he does not exist. He would say that Adjonai is only our childhood fears of Craal, the kwea left from a thousand stories of evil slavers, all bound together to create the illusion of a god.”
“And our father would say to trust what we feel,” Ayuvah countered.
“Either way,” Tull said, “I don’t have an Animal Guide, yet I feel this emptiness, too.”
“Reach out with your mind, Spirit Walker,” Ayuvah said, closing his eyes, inhaling a deep breath. “Don’t you feel his presence? How can you deny that Adjonai is real?”
Tull closed his eyes. For a long moment, Tull held his eyes gently shut, and the raindrops gathered on his upturned face. Then his nostrils flared and he pushed at Wisteria. “Down!” Tull shouted, throwing Wisteria to the ground, pushing at Ayuvah.
Short Tail was forty feet away, unhitching his mammoth from the wagon. He had just stood up straight, when he barked and spun. Wisteria saw a streak of red blood on the white fur of his shoulder.
The Hukm swatted at the blood as if he’d been bitten by a horsefly, but his eyes rolled back in fear and he pitched forward. Tull held Wisteria to the ground protectively, and she could feel his heart pounding.
To the south, a shot thundered out, and the mammoth charged forward into the brush under the shadowy trees by the creek, weaving his head from side to side and thrashing the brush with his trunk, tasting the air. From farther up the creek, Born-in-Snow’s mammoth trumpeted.
Wisteria searched for the source of the gunfire at the tree line south, but could see no movement. The grass was oat straw, tall enough to hide her if she didn’t make a target of her head by looking around too much.
Ayuvah belly-crawled through the grass to the far side of the wagon, then climbed up to the swivel gun. Wisteria began crawling for shelter under the wagon.
“No!” Tull shouted to Ayuvah. “You fire, and they’ll hear it for ten miles.” Short Tail howled a cry for help not fifty feet from Wisteria.
She changed directions, crawled to the big white Hukm, began trying to pull him toward the safety of the brush by the creek. The Hukm turned and inched after her, its mouth wide with panic, its breath coming short and quick.
“Do you see him?” Tull called out. Wisteria didn’t dare look up. It seemed like a good way to get her head blown off.
Ayuvah called, “He’s in the willows, about two hundred yards south.” Ayuvah was still on the wagon. “He just ran up a few feet, then dropped for cover.”
Wisteria shot a glance behind her. Ayuvah crawled under the tarp, used the wagon and barrel to hide behind. Tull crouched beneath a wheel, searching uphill. She could not see Tirilee.
“Get my weapons. Drop them over the back,” Tull called to Ayuvah.
“Your sword is no match for a gun,” Ayuvah countered.
“It is better than my teeth,” Tull said. Wisteria reached the bole of a large tree, sat up with her back against it, peered twenty yards back to the wagon.
Ayuvah grunted, then Tull’s shield dropped out the back of the wagon, followed by his leather armor and kutow. A shot drilled into side of the wagon above Tull, directly over his head where Ayuvah should be. Wisteria stopped, held her breath. Ayuvah began kicking the bottom of the wagon.
“Ayuvah?” Wisteria shouted, filled with rage.
“Help!” Ayuvah cried.
“Where are you hit?” Tull asked.
“I … I don’t know,” Ayuvah said groggily. “Blood.”
The ground was muddy and cold.
Tull wriggled on the leather armor, strapped it at the sides, then grabbed his weapons and crawled toward Wisteria. Wisteria knew that Ayuvah might be bleeding to death, but there was no way to help him now.
Tull crawled over to where Short Tail had fallen, seemed surprised by the pool of blood there. Beside her, Short Tail still crawled toward the creek where his mammoth stood. Tull inched up to Wisteria, patted her foot. Wisteria smelled blood upon the oat straw.
Brush cracked on the other side of the creek, and Short Tail weakly stepped on the tusk of his mammoth, trying to get footing up to the beast’s head. The mammoth, upset by the scent of blood, weaved its head back and forth and nervously twitched its trunk over Short Tail, smelling him. Then the mammoth picked the Hukm up and placed him atop his neck. Short Tail unslung his great war club from the mammoth’s shoulder, rested it painfully on his wounded shoulder and urged the mammoth south through the brush.
Wisteria realized then what Short Tail intended to do, and Tull must have seen it too, for he got up and ran past Wisteria, crouching low, heading for the mammoth. But Short Tail gouged his heels into the mammoth’s neck, and the great beast jerked forward at a run.
Tull raced just behind, and the mammoth thundered through the dark trees at the creek’s edge. It was a suicide charge. Short Tail slumped forward, clinging to the mammoth’s shaggy head with one fist.
And Tull sprinted behind. Wisteria realized that the sniper would be forced to shoot, but didn’t know if the gun would bring down the woolly mammoth. The sniper would have to wait until the great beast was upon him to fire, hoping that one close shot would bring it down. And if the mammoth went down, Tull would be behind, so that he could charge the gunman before he had a chance to reload.
They ran toward the copse, jumping fallen trees, ripping through the heavy fern. Wisteria heard a shot—and the bull mammoth trumpeted in rage, tore at a small alder with its trunk as it passed an uprooted the tree. Wisteria could no longer tell if Short Tail guided the mammoth or if the bull saw their attacker on its own, but when it pulled even with the sniper, the mammoth bolted from the cover along the creek and headed straight for the gunman. Tull followed the mammoth, where the sniper would not see him behind the vast hill of flesh.
The gunman stood and his rifle thundered. The mammoth shuddered, stopped its charge, and stood straight, fanned his small ears forward and staggered drunkenly. Wisteria could tell it had taken a mortal wound.
It leaned to the right, and its rear legs buckled. Tull dashed out from behind. The gunman cracked the gun and was fingering a shell into the chamber, when he spotted Tull.
Tull shouted, and the gunman dropped a shell into the chamber, raised the rifle.
Wisteria screamed and waved her arms, hoping to distract the gunman, for she saw that Tull would die.
And then a flash of white seemingly erupted from the ground beneath the sniper and his head jerked backward and a slash of red appeared at his throat. His gun fired into the air, and the gunman stood, his gray otter-skin cape blowing in the wind behind him, and fell to his knees. It took Wisteria a moment before she realized what had happened: Tirilee stood there, naked and smeared with mud, a bloody knife in her hand. Her pale skin, white as aspen bark and mottled with dark splotches, was the color of oat straw burned by the summer heat. Naked, she had eeled through the grass in her natural camouflage, right under the man’s nose, and slit his throat.
Wisteria began running forward, feeling a great sense of relief.
Tirilee stood, looking Tull in the eye. Tull’s gaze drifted down from Tirilee’s bare shoulders, to the nubs of breasts budding out with dark brown, almost black, nipples. In the past few weeks she had almost become a woman, and the transformation was marvelous to behold.
Wisteria could see the woman Tirilee was becoming, and her features would be beautiful. Tirilee was wet with sweat or rainwater, and she wiped the moisture from her forehead, touched her finger to her lips, and then touched the same finger to Tull’s lips.
Wisteria reached them, and stopped short.
Tull and Tirilee were so intent upon each other, it was as if Wisteria had become a child again, an invisible child in her father’s house, a leaf blowing through town. Neither of them seemed aware of her.
“Remember this,” Tirilee said sadly. Her voice was soft and melodic. “You owe me your life.”
Touch a Dryad, and she will destroy you, Wisteria thought, remembering the Pwi proverb.
Sweat stood out on Tull’s forehead, and he jerked as if he would run but stood rooted to the spot. “I know,” he said weakly. “I owe you my life.”
And Wisteria realized then that the Dryad planned to take him.
Tirilee dropped her knife, stepped forward and kissed Tull on the lips. Tull pushed her back, then fell to the ground as if struck by a mallet.
“I’m not cruel,” Tirilee said. “I don’t want to hurt you.” Tirilee looked at Wisteria, and Wisteria knew that the Dryad was speaking to both of them.
Tull twisted at the Dryad’s feet.
“Get away from him!” Wisteria said, suddenly outraged. “Get away or I’ll kill you!”
The Dryad stood peering down at Tull. Wisteria could not think what to do. She shouted at the girl, rushed forward and knocked her to the ground. The Dryad was such a small thing that she was flung a dozen feet in the wet grass.
Wisteria ran for the gun, picked it up, checked the dead man’s hand for a bullet and found one, but she did not know how to put a bullet in the contraption, and after a moment she shouted in frustration and looked up.
The Dryad had gone.
“Wisteria, help me!” Tull said, still writhing in the grass. “Help me!”
Wisteria ran to him. Tull’s eyes were open but he looked past her.
“I can’t see!” he shouted. She’d heard that a Dryad’s aphrodisiac kiss could blind a man for a time.
She looked away from Tull in disgust, held him close, and peered at the mammoth. The great beast lay on its side, its trunk twisted and kinked at an unnatural angle. The sniper’s gun had opened a hole between its eyes large enough to stick a fist into. Short Tail lay on his side by his mammoth’s head, breathing quick and shallow. The Hukm was trying to stroke the mammoth’s lips, the way he did when feeding the beast. Wisteria got up, pulled Tull with her as she went to the big Hukm, looked at the creature’s shoulder. The wound was bad—the entry wound in the back of his chest was small, but there were a dozen holes in the front where pieces of shrapnel had exited, ripping the Hukm’s right lung. Short Tail wheezed.
Wisteria petted Short Tail’s neck, and he turned to look at her as if she were some strange bird that had landed on his shoulder. He raised a hand and dropped it slowly, wiggling his fingers. Wisteria had no idea what the Hukm said, but she watched his hands, mesmerized by the movement. He raised his hands again, repeating his words. Short Tail arched his neck and howled—a long plaintive noise not unlike the cry of a wolf. From the woods, another howl came—Born-in-Snow making his answer. But Short Tail began coughing blood, and he died long before his brother could reach him.
Wisteria took Tull back to the wagon and checked on Ayuvah. Ayuvah lay in the wagon, blood pouring from a wound to his face and the back of his arm. Wisteria checked the wounds, found several large slivers of wood in Ayuvah’s arm and two others in his temple. He was still stunned. The bullet had shattered a two-inch hole in the wagon, sending fragments of wood flying, and some of the chips had hit Ayuvah.
“You are lucky,” Wisteria told him. “Luckier than Short Tail.” Wisteria put a clean linen on his forehead. “Lie down until the bleeding stops,” she said.
Tull sat on the back of the wagon, blinking tears from his eyes. He gazed around experimentally, as if they stung.
Tirilee came back, dressed in her green smock, and got some dry tinder from the wagon and began to set a fire. Tull watched the Dryad for a moment, then looked back to Wisteria, cowering.
“You had better leave!” Wisteria warned Tirilee.
Tirilee dropped her wood as if in weariness. She stared at Wisteria for a minute, then dropped into a crouch in the wet grass and began crying. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I can’t stop this. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to leave. I don’t want to hurt you. Any of you. Am I so wrong for wanting someone like him? Someone who will love me the way he loves you?”
Wisteria felt shaken. She was angry, and sorry, and frightened. She did not know what to say. Tirilee was such a child. But she was dangerous.
God, her skin was so clear, Wisteria imagined that she could almost see the dryad’s aura shining through. Now that Tull had seen her naked, how could Wisteria ever hope to erase that image from his mind? What would a man do for a creature like her?
“Stay away from me,” Tull told Tirilee, yet he watched her with longing.
***