Chapter 13 - Storyteller
Camp of Shurak, Wilds of Goshawk. SE Britain.
Paddling downstream is always easier, and I soon beach at Shurak camp’s home waterfront. Few other watercraft are present, most I left behind with the gathering in the ashwoods.
Yes I’d left that event early, even though the deer hunters’ prediction of a bumper harvest had been correct. I’ve returned with two baskets full of foraging produce, but when the main flotilla returns, they'll be towing a coracle laden with the fruits of hunting and gathering. We shall not need to stave off cravings next springtime, by desperately chewing tree bark and buds. The crones will have plenty of hazel and acorn to grind and add to our caches of nut flour.
I lift out my baskets, and roll over the dugout to keep out the weather. Baskets in hand, I head up a narrow trail to where our Ishi is camped. I’d enjoyed my time with cousins of Na’im, but I struggled to relax while Ur’salla remained here in Shurak in her great sulk. Her irksome behaviour left me restless to make peace.
Why, Ur’salla is nowhere to be found! I’ve searched all over our campsite. Her bow and backpack are absent from our shared shelter. I’m forced to return to a circle of crones who had accepted the task of sorting and processing the contents of my baskets. I ask these grandmothers if they know the whereabouts of my best mate? One wrinkled grandmother, wearing an oversized hat of beaver fur nods,
‘I last saw young Ur’salla heading out alone with her bow and nets up the northwest trail. That girl is always chasing squirrels or pigeons.’ Old Sharlla titters as the other crones nod with agreement. Another old lady who sports the whiskers of a moustache, adds,
‘Her poor mother is never going to take the totem of the grandmothers, bless her’ Again, the other women nod and murmur in agreement. A third crone offers her thoughts,
‘Maybe she’s set out with nets and snares to camp out? Sharlla, when did you see Ur’salla leave this camp?’
The first grandmother pushes the big beaver hat back, and strokes at a long, grey eyebrow, ‘Let me think… It wasn’t yesterday. Maybe two or more days have passed?’ A pause, then a flash of recollection in her eyes, ‘Yes, it would have been three days ago, after the last rainfall. Everyone had left for the ashwoods. Jamilan was in conference with that messenger who spooked him’.
Another squatting granny who had been quietly sorting through roasted hazelnuts, offers a fresh statement. She leans forward to retrieve more nuts and reveals, ‘That's right Sharlla. I didn’t see her go walking, but I did overhear her asking Hungalla about birch parchment. The midwife asked her to forage the spotted caps of the egg. Silly, because all of their kind would be gone by now’.
This makes sense to me. We’d recently discussed refurbishing a damp floor in our den. I know exactly why Ur’salla would head out northwest. She’d be hiking to the woods where the birch sings. It happens to be her favourite quiet place. Somewhere she finds her peace. Nevertheless, Ur’salla would have informed a few people if she intended to wild camp out alone. This evidently she didn’t do, and those woods are not so distant she couldn't have returned later that day. Something is wrong.
Soon the Ishi of Shurak is buzzing with the news of a missing maiden. Word reaches Jamilan, and he calls a meeting, albeit in the absence of many at the ashwoods, or enforcing a camp watch, the numbers present are sparse. Nonetheless, a search party is formed to investigate my hypothesis of the woods where the birch sings. Jamilan will lead, and we have two skilled trackers available in the forms of Mikko and Watalão. With my personal knowledge of Ur’salla’s habits I'll partake in the search.
Jamilan registers the deep worry expressed on my frowning forehead, and tries to calm my fears, ‘I’m sure Ur’salla wandered off in a sulk. We’ll box her ears and have her shelling nuts until it snows when we catch up with her’.
I manage a smile at the suggestion of her chastisement, but feel guilty for thinking ill of Ur’salla when she could lay maimed by a boar. She can be so stubborn, but without her I’m lost.
We set off from camp, following the northwestern trails. We pick up on Ur’salla’s tell-tale bare footprints made in damp earths. These shimmers confirm my hypothesis. Another hour of tracking, and I overhear Watalão beckoning Jamilan aside. He crouches down, and uses a stick to point out evidence. He concludes,
‘Ur’salla came this way but she was being followed by others. There, you see where a man’s moccasin imprints on top of Ur’salla’s footprint. And that grass there. I can see where someone has made an effort to conceal tracks’.
I’ve just heard enough to feel tension gripping in my abdomen.
It's mid afternoon when we reach the woods where the birch sings. We don't have to search far. A sign has been left for our eyes. Two nets full of parchment, swing gently in a breeze hung up from the limb of a mother tree. On closer inspection we find an arrow embedded in its trunk, and blood smeared beneath the dart. A totem whittled roughly into its bark. Understory has been disturbed, and the red cap of some fungus has been smashed and trampled. I put my hand to my mouth, as if to stop my heart leaping out.
Jamilan leads the investigation of this crime scene. He touches the smear of blood, examines the disturbed undergrowth, and pronounces,
‘These shimmers are a few days old.’ The scar cut into the mother tree he declares as, ‘the mark of the Lynx’ our traditional rivals immediately to the south. The arrow, ‘the type the Lynx men like to hunt deer with’.
With these disclosures stated, Mikko abruptly curses, ‘Lynx scum! They’ve stolen Ja’ankilla’s precious daughter out of her own wilds’
Meanwhile, Watalão forces his own personal attachment aside to read the shimmers of spirits, ‘Following the assault, they raised Ur’salla back up to her feet here. They bound her but she struggled’. Watalão leans back to low hanging branches and points to a fresh breakage, ‘They snapped off a perch from there to act as a rod to beat her into submission’.
These details only distress me further.
Watalão continues with his reading, ‘Ur’salla dragged her feet. Tried to resist her captors before they marched her that way. South towards the nearby stream’.
Jamilan asks Watalão a question, ‘Who were these captors?’
Watalão proposes, ‘A small band. I think four of them. One is a big man, another only a child, or a small female. All wear moccasins’. Intrigue is expressed on the tracker’s face, before he adds, ‘I’ve seen shimmers before which resemble their tracks. They weren't of a Lynx war party, but the sly tracks of the nameless poachers.’
Mikko didn’t seem to hear that last suggestion, when he releases more anger, ‘The Lynx will rue this day. Those filthy southern pigs will soon be feeling my spear up their arse’.
Jamilan holds up his elder’s hand to stifle more of the wrestler's rage, and expresses, ‘Nameless poachers? That is an interesting observation. I suspect we're being played as fools’. Jamilan sees disbelief form on Mikko’s face, so further explains, ‘the recommendation by the council of all Goshawk, was to repel any attempt of invasion, not by the Lynx folk, but by the foreign barbarians.
We all nod to indicate we’re all aware of the tribal recommendation. Jamilan sighs, then reveals horrific news to us,
‘A few days ago, I received a message from cousins of the Eastern Rivers, that a long boat of the Sun attempted to beach after venturing the Estuary of the Osprey’.
I confess my jaw drops at this shocking report. We hear chatter during festival-time, that barbarian sea-going arks have been seen passing our shores. This news that alien barbarians dare to enter our eastern waterways is a severe concern.
Jamilan continues to enlighten, ‘There’s a need to prepare for war, not with our southern neighbours but against the barbarians’.
My own curiosity is piqued and I venture a question of Jamilan, ‘What of the invasion in the Estuary of the Osprey? Have our cousins all been eaten?’
In response, Jamilan gives a smug front, ‘Only a few of our cousins perished, but many trespassers were despatched from this mortal world. A few barbarians were permitted to escape back to their long boat. So they could return to their lair full of woe at Goshawk resolve. Of those that weren't permitted to escape, their brains and hearts were served at a feast’.
I smirk at that cheery news. So proud of my eastern cousins.
Mikko stubbornly continues to frown, ‘But Jamilan this insult is none of the barbarians'. It's clearly the work of Lynx scum’. The hammerstone needs more convincing.
Jamilan tries once more, ‘Mikko, it would be a folly for us to now war with the folk of the Lynx, when our shores are threatened by more terrifying magic. We know the barbarians already encroach onto the wilds of the Lynx. I suspect malice and mischief behind these signs left behind on the scene of Ur’salla’s abduction. I’d like to engage in a conference with the elders of the Lynx. Should you return to camp with speed, I'll visit their camp. If I fail to return within four nights, then you can have a war’.
I know I'll not return to our camp absent of Ur’salla, and this I express to Jamilan, ‘Elderman, I would like to accompany you on this diplomatic mission. I wish to continue in pursuit of my friend’.
He sighs in response, ‘Tashkilla, I’d expect nothing else of you. I am sure if I did object, then you’d still follow me’.
Watalão and Mikko are both in agreement with the proposal. They can shore up Shurak’s defences, prepare weapons, and comfort Ja’ankilla on her return from the ashwoods. Both men turn home and break into a jog. I and Jamilan waste no more time in following the shimmers of Ur’salla and her assailants.
The Prairie of Banat
The shimmers lead us to the nearby rivervale serving as a boundary between the wilds of Goshawk and Lynx. At the top of the vale, we glimpse the sky over the opposite uplands beyond. Jamilan points out the buzzards which soar. I fear they could be feasting upon the corpse of my friend. Despite my weary gait, we follow tracks down to a babbling stream. It's here, my elderman spots willow once coppiced by beaver, supporting evidence of more recent clippings. Not by beaver kind, but by our own. Jamilan concludes that in recent days, someone here has fashioned the frames of a coracle or two.
This theory spooks me into asking, ‘Does this mean her abductors have taken to these waters, with Ur’salla as their captive?’.
His face softens as he delivers unwelcomed news, ‘Perhaps, but it's strange. For if these rogues are local Lynx folk, then their camp isn't far from here across land’. He expresses sympathy,
‘Whoever has taken her, we’re unable to pursue by waterway because this stream spills into a myriad of slow, dark waters flowing northwards to The sands of lost wives’. The elderman is earnest when he tells me, ‘My priority must be preventing war between tribes. I’m sorry, but I have to cross this stream. Come with me Tashkilla. In Banat we might gain insight on her abduction?’
It rips at my heart not to leap into this stream, and follow its waters. I respect the wisdom of Jamilan, and asides, I’m morbidly curious to see what’s attracting the buzzards. We move our packs high, and wade across this stream, exiting our own wilderness as trespassers in the wilds of the Lynx. Little daylight remains and we must hurry. We follow animal trails through woods, and up higher ground. The woods diminish in density, then fade to open countryside. We stand on the edge of a plain.
Jamilan informs me, ‘The Lynx people call this open space, the Prairie of Banat’.
Not all of our temperate world is afforested. Open plains of heath, scrub, and grassland, form on dry soils further from rivers. Here, both red and roe kinds of deer herd in large numbers to avoid predation. These deer rub shoulders on these plains with small herds of aurochsen, the enormous wild long horned cattle of our paradise. Each Ishi of savages is acquainted with the magnificent black and tan bulls frequenting these hunting grounds. I’ve always felt drawn to the plains, especially during springtime, when the fat bird, the bustard parades with pomp between orchids and the many legs of grazing ungulates, while the cuckoo calls.
It's dusk and we tired travellers follow a well stomped trail to find out what earlier attracted the scavengers. I’m relieved to discover it wasn’t the mangled corpse of a best friend, but the diminishing carcass of a bull aurochs. Jamilan resolves that it was killed, roughly skinned, and dehorned by two legged murderers. These remains were wastefully left to rot on this plain. Two crime scenes in one afternoon Jamilan surmises,
‘The works of more nameless poachers? Unlikely to be coincidental to Ur’salla’s abduction. This carcass has been so poorly butchered as if to dishonour the spirit’.
Nevertheless we're both famished and tired. We make our prayers before scavenging some remaining meaty ribs, along with bones still heavy with marrow. It's as we complete our opportunistic butchery, a wolf pack dares to threaten us. They snarl and warn us off the treasure using their canine eyes. We retreat a short distance to the edge of some oak woodlands, where we're forced to camp overnight. I do my duty by gathering deadwood and den building materials, while Jamilan expertly ignites our campfire using his bow and drill.
I return, cradling firewood within my arms, and I spot the distinct figure of a lone human crossing the twilight plain. I see the stranger pass close by the bull carcass. Zealous wolves there threaten him with fangs. A tall, muscular man who responds to the insults by waving a defiant spear at the pack. Showing no fear he continues to pass them, and he strolls in our direction. Jamilan has caught the interest in my face, and is alerted to the stranger’s approach.
The elder thinks how best to react, ‘Quick, Tashkilla. Hide with your bow in the undergrowth over there. Hopefully he hasn’t yet spotted us both. I’ll greet him when he nears’.
For once I do as I am told. I crouch with my dart aimed ready. When the stranger approaches, I see he is a dark, broad shouldered man, wearing a sealskin parka coat over his deer hides. He has dark, wavy hair, a broad and strong face, with dimples expressed in his rosy cheeks. His beard, as with many savages, is scraggy and partial, yet not unattractive. I fear this man could be one of the rogues who have stolen away my Ur’salla. Alternatively he could be a warrior of the Lynx, here to accuse us of poaching. He wears a twine around his neck, and hanging on it is the almost phallic-shaped skull of some large, beaky bird. I take it to be a totemic trophy, perhaps similar to the moonstone Ur’salla proudly wears? As the flames of our fledgling campfire illuminate his features, I think this man isn't here to harm us, his face appears too kind. I persist to side in the shadows, Jamilan greets him,
‘Welcome stranger. I’d apologise for any trespass, but I can see from old marks of totem upon your face, you weren't born to the Lynx. Are you a visitor to these wilds?’
The man waggles his right hand, as a common indication Jamilan is correct in his assumption. The elderman continues to smile, as he offers his own self introduction,
‘My name is Jamilan of-the-Sett. An elder of the Ishi of Shurak, the Children of the Goshawk. My folk dwell in the forests beyond the stream in yonder vale. I travel as a diplomat to visit the elders of the Lynx who dwell nearby. I happened upon that sad carcass over there, and prior to the arrival of our wolf kin, I scavenged a few morsels I gladly share with you’.
The stranger breaks his silence. He has a strong accent from some distant parts. He isn't local, but speaks the common language employed between nations across this region and he delivers it well,
‘And of your friend hiding in the thicket with his dart aimed at my heart, is he a diplomat and agreeable to my sharing the meal?’
Ah he'd seen me. My elder blushes with genuine embarrassment,
‘Stranger please forgive us. I hope that in all circumstances you'll forgive our precaution. Our nation is no old friend of the local hosts, and we’re fearful of being accused of murdering that once fine bull in their wilds’.
The stranger smiles. it's a nice smile I think,
‘Elderman, please ask your kinsman to lay down his weapon. For I intend no harm upon you. I’m a wandering storyteller from far to the north. My name is Su’lan, and I’d be glad to join you at this fine hearth’.
‘Su’lan, from the far north?’ asks Jamilan, as he waves into my direction.
‘Yes Jamilan, from the Children of the Arpon. Jamilan seems unsure, and in reaction to this confusion, Su’lan holds out the strange bird skull pendant. It has a long bill like a spear, which still wears an aukish black, ribbed shield. It must have belonged to an impressive fowl. Su’lan continues, ‘By chance, I left the camp of our local hosts today, where I’d stayed with them as their guest’.
Jamilan raises a hairy brow at that information, and I stumble out of the bushes into the light of the campfire, a guilty bow held in my hand. The storyteller gapes as he sees my gender and demeanour. He utters as his limp apology,
‘Yes Jamilan, I would have taken the same precautions in all circumstances’.
I feel slightly insulted by this piggish comment.
We three travellers erected a simple overnight shelter, dressed well in dead leaf to stave off the chill. This bivvy opens up a safe distance in front of our campfire. The sun has expired with a totality to leave us bathing in a lunar world. I take charge of roasting the wolf gnarled bones next to our fire. I heat them, before cracking them open with a hammer-stone. Then we enjoy fat, nutritious marrow for our supper. With this warm nourishment inside satisfied bellies, we chat by the extraordinary light and warmth of our fire. Proper, more complete introductions are exchanged. I can tell from his banter, that Su’lan has many years of experience in the art of patronising hosts,
‘The famous Children of Goshawk! I’ve heard your reputation far and wide across all wilds and seas’
I find his dialect interesting. He’s clever at using words and expressions that are shared across our region of the world. I confess to finding his mastery of language, and his exotic accent, quite attractive.
I ask him, ‘Su’lan, why do you wander the wilds of others as a lonely storyteller?’
He seems embarrassed before he briefs us, ‘I wear the skull of Arpon, in honour of the woman who I loved and lost. it's the shame I must bear. it's since her passing to the spirit forests, that I’ve paddled the waterways of many wildernesses, to exchange my tales and songs for a place at plenty of hearths’.
My instincts tell me with regards to his personal loss, he’s earnest. I could see the pain in his big face when he spoke of his lost love. I think her spirit remains to haunt him. A storyteller of our world, doesn’t only serve the savages with entertainment and folklore. They share the news of the world. This, Jamilan now exploits, when he presses Su’lan,
‘Storyteller, in our encounter, you mentioned camping as a guest with the Lynx folk of Banat. What can you tell us of their recent mood?
‘Elderman, my own entry into these wilds was hazardous. The locals of Banat had suffered a bloody night raid by others. Their watch was on alert when they detected my approach. I was lucky not to be slain as a suspect. Rather the Lynx warriors accepted my request to be judged in their camp. There I was lucky to be recognised by delegates of a festival where I’d attended. They vouched for my good character, and I was welcomed’.
I understand Jamilan’s mission. I don’t believe tribal war will bring back my Ur’salla to me. Just the same, I’ve had a long, tiring day of much travel, and I’m upset. Impatiently I blurt out,
‘Did you encounter any captive females named Ur’salla? A tall maiden of the Goshawk with cropped hair? Did you overhear any rumours of raids made into the wilderness of the Goshawk? Did you see readiness for war?’ You see, I’m too tired to be a subtle diplomat. I simply need to know if this storyteller knows anything about Ur’salla’s abduction. Unfortunately, it transpires he doesn’t,
‘No. I witnessed no such foul business. I only saw the damage committed against them by others>. I never once heard the locals proportion any blame on those north of the stream. I saw no sign of war’.
Doubts return to my thoughts. I fear I’ve made a mistake by accompanying Jamilan, and not following the stream. I don’t wish to share my tears with these two clacking men. Subsequently I roll into the furs of my nest in order to surrender to rebellious eyelids. I leave the two men to chatter the business of a wider world around our overnight hearth.
Resurrection
I wake up or perhaps I dream I do so. For a savage, a dreamplace may be quite real. Two men snore by my side. With the glow of our hearth reduced to generate just enough energy to ward away sinful spirits. The moon is full and huge in a clear night sky. This prairie has been transformed by its lunatic madness. I rise up in this alternative universe, and step with a slumber as though in a trance. I glide away from our shelter, and through tall moonlit grasses towards the carcass of a wild bull.
I see the shining eyes of wolves, parked around the remainders of their feast. I hear them gnash with genuine threat. Something feels oddly safe about my trespass and I experience no fear. Only certainty that a sacred power draws me to this spot. Moonlight concentrates before me and pours down into spectral bones, as I witness the ghost of Bull rise up to scatter frightened wolves away. Broken horns, eye sockets pecked clean by buzzards. The spirit of a resurrected bull stands before me. Still, I feel no dread of this supernature. Instead I stare deep into the dark nothingness of empty sockets.
It's there I see enchanted shapes. Visions of Ur’salla’s moonstone suspended in the dangling branches of a willow. It gently swings within a breeze on this still night. I see my friend herself. Her hands have been cruelly bound up from behind. She stoops and staggers forward, as she’s being forced to carry a heavy burden upon her back. This load I know to be the rotting hide of this murdered bull. Finally, I see long trails and waterways of many forests ahead.
My spirit breaks free of these visions. The spectre of the bull turns slowly away from where I stand. He turns not to face the stream we crossed, but inland to the south. I weep with understanding. Ur’salla remains alive and she breathes. Nevertheless she endures immense cruelty as a captive and needs my help. By following Jamilan and the storyteller, I follow the right path. Spirit of Bull has served as my guide. Sleep returns.