West of Eden

Kerrick heard it too and the color drained from his face. “They have found us. I am dead.”

Herilak waved him to silence as he took up the spear, stood and faced downstream. There was more splashing, the sound of the bushes being pushed aside just around the bend. He raised the spear as the hunter appeared.

“It is Ortnar,” he said, then called out.

Ortnar recoiled at the sound, then straightened and waved back. He was close to exhaustion, leaning on his spear as he came forward. Only when he was closer did he see Inlènu*. He seized up the spear to hurl it at her, was stopped only by Herilak’s command.

“Stop. The marag is a prisoner. Are you alone?”

“Yes, now.” He dropped heavily to the ground. He laid his bow and empty quiver aside, but kept his spear in his hand and looked angrily at Inlènu*. “Tellges was with me, we had been hunting when the murgu attacked, we were just returning to the sammad. We fought until our arrows were gone. They came at us with the death-sticks. There was nothing more we could do. All behind us were dead. I made him leave, but he hung back, did not run fast enough. They followed and he turned to fight. He fell. I came on alone. Now tell me — what are these creatures?”

“I am no creature, I am Tanu,” Kerrick said angrily.

“Like no Tanu I have ever seen. No hair, no spear, tied to that marag…”

“Silence,” Herilak ordered. “This is Kerrick, son of Amahast. His mother was my sister. He has been a prisoner of the murgu.”

Ortnar rubbed his mouth with his fist. “I spoke in haste. This has been a day of death. I am Ortnar and I welcome you.” His face twisted with an expression of grim humor. “Welcome to the sammad of Herilak, much reduced in numbers.” He glanced up at the darkening sky. “There will be many new stars there tonight.”

The sun was low now and the air was cool at this altitude. Inlènu* laid aside the well-gnawed bone and looked in Kerrick’s direction.

“Humbly ask, low to high, where are the cloaks?”

“There are no cloaks, Inlènu*.”

“I am cold.”

Kerrick shivered as well, but not from the cold. “There is nothing I can do, Inlènu*, nothing at all.”

CHAPTER TWO

Inlènu* died during the night. Kerrick woke at dawn, shivering with cold. There was a beading of dew on the grass and mist was rising from the stream. When he turned towards Inlènu* he saw that her mouth was gaping open, her eyes staring sightlessly.

The cold, he thought. She died in the night of the cold.

Then he saw the pool of blood under her head. A spearpoint had been thrust into her throat, silencing her and killing her. Who had done this cruel thing? Herilak was still asleep but Ortnar’s eyes were open, staring coldly at him.

“You did this!” Kerrick cried out, jumping to his feet. “Murdered this harmless creature in her sleep.”

“I killed a marag.” His voice was insolent. “It is always a good thing to kill murgu.”

Shaking with rage, Kerrick reached out and seized Herilak’s spear. But he could not lift it; the big hunter held fast to the haft.

“The creature is dead,” Herilak said. “That is the end of it. She would have died soon of the cold in any case.”

Kerrick stopped tugging at the spear and sprang suddenly at Ortnar, seizing him by the throat with both hands, his thumbs digging deep into the hunter’s windpipe. His own throat hurt where the collar cut in; he had dragged Inlènu*’s dead weight after him, but he paid it no heed. Ortnar writhed in his grasp and groped for his spear, but Kerrick jammed the man’s arm against the ground with his knee, grinding down hard. Ortnar thrashed feebly, tearing at Kerrick’s back with the nails of his free hand, but Kerrick felt nothing in his rage.

Ortnar would have been dead had not Herilak intervened. He seized Kerrick’s wrists in his great hands and pulled them wide. Ortnar hoarsely gasped in breath after breath, then moaned and rubbed at the bruised flesh of his throat. Kerrick’s blind anger faded and, as soon as he stopped struggling, Herilak released him.

“Tanu does not kill Tanu,” he said.

Kerrick started to protest, then grew silent. It was done. Inlènu* was dead. Killing her murderer would accomplish nothing. And Herilak was right; the winter would have killed her in any case. Kerrick sat down by her still form and looked out into the sunrise. What did she matter to him anyway? Just a stupid fargi who was always in his way. With her death his last link with Alpèasak was severed. So be it. He was Tanu now. He could forget that he had ever been Yilanè.

Then he realized that he was holding the flexible lead that joined him to Inlènu*. He was not free yet. And this lead could not be cut, he knew that. With that came the realization that there was only one way that he could be freed. He looked up, horrified, into Herilak’s face. The sammadar nodded with understanding.

“I will do what must be done. Turn away for you will not enjoy the sight.”

Kerrick faced the stream, but he could clearly hear what was happening behind his back. Ortnar stumbled to the water to bathe his face and neck and Kerrick shouted insults at him, trying to drown out the sounds.

It was over quickly. Herilak wiped the neck-ring on the grass before handing it to Kerrick. Kerrick went swiftly to the stream and washed it over and over in the ru

When he heard the hunters approaching he turned quickly to face them; he had no desire to be killed from behind.

“This one has something to say,” Herilak said pushing Ortnar forward. There was hatred in the small hunter’s face and he touched his bruised throat when he spoke. His voice was hoarse.

“I was perhaps mistaken to kill the marag — but I am not sorry that I did it. The sammadar ordered me to say this. What is done is done. But you attempted to kill me, strange one, and that is something that is not easy to forget. But your bond to that marag was stronger than I knew — nor do I want to know more about it. So I say of my own free will that your back is safe from my spearpoint. How say you?”

The two hunters watched Kerrick in stern silence and he knew that he had to decide. Now. Inlènu* was dead and nothing could restore her life. And he could understand Ortnar’s cold hatred after the destruction of his sammad. He, of all people, should be able to understand that.

“Your back is safe from my spear, Ortnar,” he said.

“That is the end of the matter,” Herilak said, and it was a command. “We shall talk of it no more. Ortnar, you will carry the deer’s carcass. We will have a fire tonight and will eat well. Go with Kerrick, you know the path. Stop at midday . I will join you then. There is cover among those trees. If we are being followed by the murgu I will know it soon enough.”

The two men walked in silence for some time. The track was easy to follow, the ground deeply scored by the poles of the travois, leading up the valley almost to its end, then over the ridge to the next valley. Ortnar was gasping for breath under the weight of his burden and called out when they came to the slow-moving stream on the valley’s floor.

“Some water, strange-one, then we will go on.”

He threw the deer down and buried his face in the stream, came up gasping.

“My name is Kerrick, son of Amahast,” Kerrick said. “Do you find that too hard to remember?”

“Peace, Kerrick. My throat is still sore from our last encounter. I meant no insult, but you do look strange. You have just stubble instead of a beard or hair.”

“It will grow in time.” Kerrick rubbed at the bristles on his face.

“Yes, I imagine so. It just looks strange now. But that ring on your neck. Why do you wear it? Why not cut it off?”