West of Eden

Amahast rose slowly and rubbed the sand from his bare knees. “I will look for you in the sky,” he said, his expressionless voice so low that only the dying man could hear it.

“You were always my brother,” Diken said. When Amahast left he turned his face away and closed his eyes so he would not see the others leave and perhaps give some sign to him. The boat was already in the water when Amahast reached it, bobbing slightly in the gentle swell. It was a good, solid craft that had been made from the hollowed-out trunk of a large cedar tree. Kerrick was in the bow, blowing on the small fire that rested on the rocks there. It crackled and flamed up as he added more bits of wood to it. The men had already slipped their oars between the thole pins, ready to depart. Amahast pulled himself in over the side and fitted his steering oar into place. He saw the men’s eyes move from him to the hunter who remained behind upon the beach, but nothing was said. As was proper. A hunter did not show pain — or show pity. Each man has the right to choose when he will release his tharm to rise up to erman, the night sky, to be welcomed by Ermanpadar, the sky-father who ruled there. There the tharm of the hunter would join the other tharms among the stars. Each hunter had this right and no other could speak about it or bar his way. Even Kerrick knew that and was as silent as the others. “Pull,” Amahast ordered. “To the island.”

The low, grass-covered island lay close offshore and sheltered the beach here from the strength of the ocean waves. Further to the south it rose higher, above the salt spray of the sea, and there the trees began. With grass and shelter there was the promise of good hunting. Unless the murgu were here as well.

“Look, in the water!” Kerrick called out, pointing down at the sea. An immense school of hardalt was passing beneath them, tentacles trailing, their seemingly numberless, boneless bodies protected by their shells. Hastila seized up his spear by the butt end and poised it over the water. He was a big man, taller even than Amahast, yet very quick for all of that. He waited a moment — then plunged the spear down into the sea, deep down until his arm was in the water, then heaved upward.

His point had struck true, into the soft body behind the shell, and the hardalt was pulled from the water and dumped into the bottom of the boat where it lay, tentacles writhing feebly, black dye oozing from its punctured sac. They all laughed at that. He was truly named, Hastila, spear-in-hand. A spear that did not miss.

“Good eating,” Hastila said, putting his foot on the shell and pulling his spear free of the body.

Kerrick was excited. How easy it looked. A single quick thrust — and there was a great hardalt, enough food to feed them all for a day. He took his own spear by the butt, just as Hastila had done. It was only half the length of the hunter’s spear but the point was just as sharp. The hardalt were still there, thicker than ever, one of them roiling the surface just below the bow.

Kerrick thrust down, hard. Feeling the point sink into flesh. Seizing the haft with both hands and pulling up. The wooden shaft shook and tore at his hands but he held on grimly, tugging with all of his strength.

There was a great thrashing of foam in the water as the wet-shining head rose up beside the boat. His spear tore free of the thing’s flesh and Kerrick fell backwards as the jaws opened, rows of teeth before him, a screeching roar so close the stinking breath of the creature washed over him. Sharp claws scratched at the boat, tore pieces from the wood.

Then Hastila was there, his spear plunging between those terrible jaws, once, twice. The marag screamed louder and a gush of blood spattered the boy. Then the jaws closed and, for an instant, Kerrick looked into that round unblinking eye poised before his face.

A moment later it was gone, sinking beneath the surface in a flurry of bloody foam.

“Pull for the island,” Amahast ordered. “There will be more of these beasts, bigger ones, following after the hardalt. Is the boy hurt?”

Ogatyr splashed a handful of water on Kerrick’s face and rubbed it clean. “Just frightened,” he said looking at the drawn face.

“He is lucky,” Amahast said grimly. “Luck comes only once. He will never thrust a spear into darkness again.”

Never! Kerrick thought, almost shouting the word aloud, looking at the torn wood where the thing’s claws had raked deep. He had heard about the murgu, seen their claws on a necklace, even touched a smooth and multicolored pouch made from the skin of one of them. But the stories had never really frightened him; tall as the sky, teeth like spears, eyes like stones, claws like knives. But he was frightened now. He turned to face the shore, sure that there were tears in his eyes and not wanting the others to see them, biting his lips as they slowly approached the land. The boat was suddenly a thin shell above a sea of monsters and he desperately wanted to be on solid ground again. He almost cried aloud when the prow grated against the sand. While the others pulled the boat out of the water he washed away all traces of the marag’s blood.

Amahast made a low hissing sound between his teeth, a hunter’s signal, and they all froze, silent and motionless. He lay in the grass above them, peering over the rise. He motioned them flat with his, hand, then signaled them forward to join him. Kerrick did as the others did, not rising above the grass, but carefully parting the blades with his fingers so he could look between them.

Deer. A herd of the small creatures was grazing just an arrow-shot away. Plump with the rich grass of the island, moving slowly, long ears twitching at the flies that buzzed about them. Kerrick sniffed through widened nostrils and could smell the sweetness of their hides.

“Go silently along the shore,” Amahast said. “The wind is blowing from them towards us, they will not smell us. We will get close.” He led the way, crouching as he ran, and the others followed, Kerrick bringing up the rear.

They notched their arrows while still bent low behind the bank, drew their bows, then stood and let fly together.

The flight of arrows struck true; two of the creatures were down and a third wounded. The small buck was able to stagger some distance with the arrow in its body. Amahast ran swiftly after it and closed on the creature. It turned at bay, its tiny span of horns lowered menacingly, and he laughed and jumped towards it, seized the horns in his hands and twisted. The creature snorted and swayed, then bleated as it fell. Amahast arched its neck back as Kerrick ran up.

“Use your spear, your first kill. In the throat — to one side, stab deep and twist.”

Kerrick did as he was bid and the buck bellowed in agony as the red blood burst out, drenching Kerrick’s hands and arms. Blood to be proud of. He pushed the spear deeper into the wound until the creature shuddered and died.

“A good kill,” Amahast said proudly. The way that he spoke made Kerrick hope that the marag in the boat would not be talked about again.

The hunters laughed with pleasure as they opened and gutted the carcasses. Amahast pointed south towards the higher part of the island. “Take them to the trees where we can hang them to drain.”

“Will we hunt again?” Hastila asked. Amahast shook his head.

“Not if we are to return tomorrow. It will take the day and the night to butcher and smoke what we have here.”

“And to eat,” Ogatyr said, smacking his lips loudly. “Eat our fill. The more we put into our stomachs the less we will have to carry on our backs!”

Though it was cooler under the trees they were soon crawling with biting flies. They could only beat at them and plead with Amahast for the smoke to keep them at bay.

“Skin the carcasses,” he ordered, then kicked a fallen log with his toe: it fell to pieces. “Too damp. The wood here under the trees is too wet to burn. Ogatyr, bring the fire from the boat and feed it with dry grass until we return. I will take the boy and get some driftwood from the beach.”