West of Eden

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It was Harl’s first bow and he was immensely proud of it. He had gone with his uncle, Nadris, to the forest to search for the right kind of tree that they would need, the thin-barked one with the tough and springy wood. Nadris had selected the thin sapling, but Harl had chopped it down himself, sawing at the resilient, green trunk until it had been cut through. Then, under Nadris’s careful direction, he had scraped off the bark to uncover the white heart of the wood within. But then he had had to wait, and waiting had been the worst part. Nadris had hung the length of wood high inside his tent to dry and had left it there, day after day, until it was ready. When the shaping began Harl had sat and watched while Nadris methodically scraped it with a stone blade. The ends of the bow were carefully tapered, then nocked to take the bowstring that had been woven from the long, strong hairs of the niastodon’s tail. Even with the bowstring in place Nadris had not been satisfied, but had tested the pull, then removed the string and shaped the wood again. But in the end even this was finished. This was to be Harl’s bow, so it was his right to shoot the first arrow from it. He had done so, bending the bow as far as he could, then releasing the arrow. It flew straight and true, sinking into the tree trunk with a satisfactory thud.

This had been the longest and happiest day in Harl’s life. He had a bow now, would learn to shoot it well, would be allowed on the hunt soon. This was the first and most important step that put him on the path from childhood, the path that would one day lead him into the world of hunters.

Although his arm was sore, his fingertips blistered, he would not stop. It was his bow, his day. He wanted to be alone with it and had slipped away from the other boys and gone to the small copse close to the camp. All day he had crept between the trees, stalked bushes, sunk his arrows into i

When it grew dark he reluctantly put up the bow and turned back towards the tents. He was hungry and looked forward to the meat that would be waiting. One day he would hunt and kill his own meat. Nock arrow, draw, zumm, hit, dead. One day.

There was a rustle in the tree above him and he stopped, silent and unmoving. There was something there, a dark form outlined against the gray of the sky. It moved and its claws rustled again. A large bird.

It was too tempting a target to resist. He might lose the arrow in the darkness, but he had made it himself and could make more. But if he hit the bird it would be his first kill. The first day of the bow, the first kill that same day. The other boys would look at him very differently when he walked between the tents with his trophy.

Slowly and silently he put an arrow to the string, bent the bow, sighted along the arrow at the dark shape above. Then let fly.

There was a squawk of pain — then the bird was tumbling down from the branch. It landed in the bough above Harl’s head, hung there, unmoving, caught by the thin branches. He stood on tiptoe and could just reach it with the end of his bow, prodding and pushing until it fell to the ground at his feet. His arrow stuck out from the bird’s body and the creature’s round, sightless eyes looked up at him. Harl stepped back, gasping with fright.

An owl. He had killed an owl.

Why hadn’t he stopped to think? He moaned aloud at the terror within him. He should have known, no other bird would be about in the dark. A forbidden bird and he had killed it. Just the night before old Fraken had unrolled the ball of fur disgorged by an owl, had poked his fingers through the tiny bones inside, had seen the future and the success of the hunting from the ma

An owl must never be killed.

And Harl had killed one.

Maybe if he buried it, no one would know. He began to dig wildly at the ground with his hands, then stopped. It was no good. The owl knew, and the other owls would know. They would remember. And one day his own tharm would have no owl for a guide because animals never forgot. Never. There were tears in his eyes when he bent over the dead bird, pulled his arrow free. He bent and looked more closely at it in the gathering darkness.

Armun was sitting by the fire when the boy came ru

“What is it?” she asked, trying to be stern but smiling in spite of herself, too filled with happiness to pretend otherwise.

“This is the tent of the margalus,” Harl said, and his voice trembled when he spoke. “Will he talk to me?”

Kerrick had heard their voices. He climbed slowly to his feet, although his broken leg had set well it was still sore when he rested his weight on it, and emerged from the tent. Harl turned to face him. The boy’s face was drawn and pale and there were smears upon his cheeks as though tears had been rubbed away.

“You are the margalus and know all about murgu, that is what I have been told.”

“What do you want?”

“Come with me, please, it is important. There is something I must show you.”

There were strange beasts of all kinds here, Kerrick knew. The boy must have found something that he didn’t recognize. He started to turn him away, then thought better of it. It might be something dangerous; he had better look at it. Kerrick nodded then followed the boy away from the fire. As soon as they were far enough distant so that Armun could not overhear him the boy stopped.

“I have killed an owl,” he said, his voice trembling. Kerrick wondered at this, then remembered the stories that Fraken told about the owls and knew why the boy was so frightened. He must find some way to reassure him without violating Fraken’s teachings and beliefs.

“It is not good to kill an owl,” he said. “But you should not let it bother you too much…”

“That is not it. There is something else.”

Harl bent and dragged the owl out from under a bush by the end of one long wing, then held it up so that the light of the nearest fires fell upon it.

“This is why I came to you,” Harl said, pointing to the black lump on the owl’s leg.

Kerrick bent close to look. The light from the fire reflected back a quick spark as the creature’s eye opened and closed again.

Kerrick straightened up slowly, then reached out and took the bird from the boy’s hands. “You did the right thing,” he said. “It is wrong to shoot owls, but this is not an owl that we know. This is a marag owl. You were right to kill it, right to come to me. Now run quickly, find the hunter Herilak, tell him to come to my tent at once. Tell him what we have seen on the owl’s leg.”

Har-Havola came as well when he heard what the boy had found, and Sorli who now was sammadar in Ulfadan’s place. They looked at the dead bird and the live marag with its black claws clamped about the owl’s leg. Sorli shuddered when the large eye opened and stared at him, then slowly closed again.

“What is the meaning of this?” Herilak asked.

“It means that the murgu know that we are here,” Kerrick said. “They no longer send the raptors to spy us out for too many did not return. The owl can fly at night, can see in the dark.” He poked the black creature with his fingertip and its cool skin twitched, then was still. “This marag can see in the darkness too. It has seen us and told the murgu. It may have seen us many times.”