Chapter 9 - Feast of the Pig
Camp of Shurak, Wilds of Goshawk. SE Britain.
Fallen leaves carpet the forest floors of Shurak. Ur’salla lays alone within the den she shares with myself. Consciously, she sulks listening to the rustling of crisp leaves as squirrels disturb the camp edge. Our huntress brews over arguments both with her mother and my mortal self. We’d urged her to join us in attending a social gathering with our cousins of Na’im, a nearby Ishi of close cousins.
Deer hunters had during summer followed the browse line of leaves to a district of woods shared by both of our camps, and reported to the mothers these woods will be rich in produce. A bonus to our already fat caches of more local hazel, pine nuts, and acorns. There are many ash trees within that district. In addition many of our favoured mushrooms are said to be plentiful there this autumn.
Oh, I should tell you that nuts, fungi and pork will not be the only pleasures to be shared. The mothers of both Ishi will be keen to parade their maidens and suitors. It permits young folk the opportunity to flirt and to mingle before the summer festival. It’ll not only be we youths who engage in frollocking, for Ur’salla’s predatory mother will be attending and not just to pick the caps. Personally I’m not so horrified as is Ur’salla of lying with a boy. That’s a nut already well cracked. No, Ur’salla sulks because she fears that men and motherhood will break our friendship and prevent her from hunting. I suggested to her that we camp together in the ashwoods and take a pretty Na’im boy into our den as a share. Would you believe that stoked her rage into an inferno?
She sulks alone as she licks at her self inflicted wounds. I know my best friend well enough. Soon she’ll pick herself up. Because the Feast of the Fat Pig looms tonight. The draw of celebration will be too much for Ur’salla to resist.
My prediction is proven when she ceases to dwell on dark thoughts, and readies to join a party. Ur’salla pins a pair of buzzard feathers to her ears, rifling among our maiden artefacts, to fetch out dyes and oils. The Huntress emerges from the den of depression and she sniffs at the odour of boar fat dripping onto hot stones.
Past untidy rows of Goshawk shelters she joins my mortal self by the sacred hearth. I’ve already laid down furs, along with our deerhide dancing robes. Several are present with me, little children run amok chasing camp puppies, mothers laugh and chat by the cooking fires, and a small group of young men with daring eyes, huddle with their animal skin drums, as they share a bull horn filled with a fermented delight.
We two maidens greet one another with gleeful hugs suggesting no disagreement as having ever existed between us. We decorate each other using oils and dyes. Ur’salla prepares my waves of hair combing them fine, before weaving them around a dainty frame of thorn stem. To this masterpiece she pins a beautiful rosette of waxy blue feathers from the wings of a jay.
The sun declines beneath the tree-line, and deeper still. The sacred fire is stoked to produce magical heat to warm our skins on this dark, chilly evening. We bathe in the radiance of a fantastical hearth. Around its sacred flames we become Ishi. Here we come together as one, to tell stories, recite our poetry, sing chants, feast and dance like savages. Up above, with the death of the sun, a magnificent night sky has formed. The Milky Way glistens in celestial perfection against a jet black canvas. Often on such clear nights, we savages shift back from the hearth lying on our backs to marvel at this cosmic wonder. With the stars above, we're enchanted by stories and legends. Freya, our wild lives are most magical by the Nature of our Universe.
Tonight we refrain from moving away from our sacred fireplace. Rather, I and Ur’salla remove our clothes before wrapping our graceful nakedness inside our dance robes. Our preparations haven’t gone unnoticed by the drummer boys, who strike up a hearty dance beat to encourage our performance. The dance steps of Mother Goshawk mimic the courtship flight of our noble totem ancestor. We swirl in circles, ducking and diving with our dance robes held out as hawk wings. I should confess I take fair opportunity to tease the musicians, opening up my wings and jiggling my oiled curves on each pass by. They cheer me on, and erect their bull horn of berry mead as my trophy.
Our dance routine completed, we disappointed our merry fans by returning to our pile of furs. We laugh, we're truly happy and are warm. Uncle Watalão is here, holding out a drinking skin of what Ur’salla mistakes for water. The sweet, alcoholic bite of the birch sap hits her senses, and she pours more of it down her throat! I express a faked indignation at her greed, snatching it away from her mitts. Together, we laugh more, warmed by the apricity of early intoxication.
Watalão is a handsome older man much respected across all of our folk, especially by the mothers. I think he’s some close relationship to Ur’salla, or is he a former lover of Ja’ankilla?
Nevertheless to myself this hot older man is fair game. After squeezing the last drop of fermented sap I return the empty skin, stare into his gorgeous blue eyes, and wear my most mischievous grin. My fingers examine a bear tooth Watalão has pinned to an ear. Rolling this denture between tips, I’ve this poor man at my mercy. I sense Watalão’s blushes, so taunt him further,
‘They tell me a man’s prowess may be measured by the size of the trophy teeth he wears. Tell me Watalão, is that true?’
Blushes explode across his face, and for a moment he loses the ability to respond. Saving him from further torture, the short, stocky figure of Jamilan waddles up to our small party, and I release Watalão from my ear lobe grip. Jamilan boldly bears a large drinking horn of the aurochs whilst his own fat ears are pierced and stretched by the long tusks of a boar. He stands flabbergasted as we three drunks stare at him before breaking out into dirty laughter.
A fine feast follows with lashings of autumn fat pig to feed our faces prior to the onset of a mean winter season. Served alongside a tasty bread cake baked from the flour of hazelnut. This washed down with more birch sap, mead, and spirit teas brewed with our enchanted mushrooms of the woods. Our party heats to a crescendo of joy and sound, free of any trouble from boisterous boys. The beat of drums, whistle of bone flutes, the chanting. All dance with our magical fire until we become one. Many spirits were invited to attend our celebration of the fat pig. Which spirits do you ask? That would depend on whom you were to ask over the following days. Some will tell you they danced with Daqalan, the half sorcerer - half stag of old. For others, the little people of the birch woods were there. One elder will testify Mother Goshawk herself, arrived to carry him up into the stars above. A crone will insist she fornicated with a great bear.
Myself, well my skin will tingle just thinking of it. I stare out from the throng of revellers to the dark edge of the woods. I see the silhouette of an enormous bull aurochs. As I goggle, this figure steps forward and enters our camp. Starlight illuminates its form and I recognise this not to be of our world. The spellbound creature approaches and all sounds of music and chanting dissolve away. Movement other than Bull and I, ceases. He stands towering above myself. I’m enveloped by the warm and visible vapours of Bull’s breath. I’m not afraid because I feel his presence is beneficial. Even though his wide span of horn threatens with menace, I stretch out a hand and stroke his furry forehead. He feels so real but I know this not to be true.
I stare into the dark orbs of this spirit bull’s eyes and see something stir within. I’m drawn to goggle closer and closer again, until I submerge into that darkness. Inside the orb I see shapes take form. A strong and muscular man in hunting garb lies injured in tall grasses. A stranger who is crumpled and broken. I fear that he may be dead. The vision blurs and shapes shift. Now I see a monstrous feline predator, more ferocious than any lynx. I see a strange hazel-eyed girl with this cat and I see Ur’salla. The visions release, I feel my essence ripped back out of spirit orbs into a vacuum of nothingness. New noises inspire me to glance over my shoulder to once more find my noisy clan moving fluidly. I turn back to face Bull but find he is no longer with me.
The Great Hangover
Oh I dream and then dream again of Bull. In the world of Dreamtime my experience repeats with surreal vividness. The spirit has a prophecy or warning I fail to comprehend. Something is coming into my life, some change. Again these visions repeat as dreams, yet I cannot understand their meaning. I become distraught, and beg for explanation, come back, I don't understand! I scream out loudly.
With that scream I awaken. Droplets of cold water have fallen from a chilly sky onto my face. Evidently last night I made it back to our den, but failed to close the hatch. Rain has arrived carried by gusts to land upon my cheeks. Ur’salla’s long limbs are wrapped around my own, as we two sisterly drunks tangle together on an untidy nest of furs. My head throbs and I stick out a furred tongue to catch a few drops of rainwater. I’m so parched.