Chapter 17 - Moonstone
The wild waterways of Southern Britain
Sunrise in the small Lynx camp of Banat, and I weep to see Jamilan and Gisella as they hike into woodlands on return to Shurak. Oh, my own home wilderness, all that I have ever known. I’ve cast myself out of my own paradise with this quest to rescue Ur’salla. Goodbye I wave not only to my elderman, but to all normality.
The storyteller who now serves as my guide had been among the earliest to rise. Already he’s sweated our dugout over the smoke of Banat’s sacred hearth. I join him in prayer, and soon it's our turn to say our farewells to hosts. We launch the vessel into the flow of the small river, and follow its flow. A few sturdy beaver lodges cause slight delays, but we travel with velocity. This stream is typical of our natural waterways. It cuts a free course through a bed of chalk. Upper stretches of this stream are each summer, thick with tasty watercress.
Here in its mid stretches, the stream spreads into a wide, fast channel, bordered as often by stony beaches as by naturally cut banks. Its crystal clear waters wiggle unrestrained towards the sea flats. Where banks do form, they’re buttressed by roots of great alder trees, permitting small fish to dance between their waterlogged limbs. Muddy gaps churned by heavy hooves mark watering spots favoured by deer and aurochs. Hairy black boar occasionally bolt away from their wallows, alerted by our presence upon the waters. A roe buck barks to warn others as we catch him swimming across our path. Willow trees dangle their fingers over the surface of our route. We brush these curtains aside. People, we don’t see. Folk are almost a rarity in our paradise. Our ishis camp far apart to exploit a limitation of natural resources.
Fair distance is achieved by us, and before the sun reaches its high point we reach the confluence where these clear waters pour into the slower waters more subject to the whim of the moon. These rivers we join, cut along the edges of a vast, marshy delta stretching out to the west as a wide wetland. I’ve heard these marshland rivers may change their course overnight. Nonetheless they always flow lazily with the to and fro of tides, ending up in the muddy estuary further north. Today we don’t wish to follow the waters there.
As my guide explains, ‘Tashkilla, we could take the marine route and travel around coasts, but it’d be better to turn southwards here. These rogues we pursue would most likely have taken that route. I know which channels to turn into, but I must warn that our travel will become slower and laborious. Often we shall need to paddle against flows’.
I soon know he tells the truth, for our pace becomes more arduous. We need to take rest breaks from tiring endeavours. It's during an afternoon stop that I explore the riverside to find the high vantage point of a knoll. From here I cast my scan over the strange wetlands of the western marshes. I’ve been told they’re inhabited by the strange Black Stork folk. I see none of these inhabitants, but rather I see wide stretches of sedge and reed bordering swamp islands of aldercarr. I know this wilderness to be the favoured home of the tall and elegant crane-bird, along with the booming bittern. Of its folk I know little but I’m not prepared to admit this ignorance to my more worldly travel companion. On returning to our beached dugout I brazenly announce,
‘I’ve heard the Black Stork folk of these parts sport gills on their necks, and grow webs across their feet’.
This companion of mine responds rudely by rolling over with loud laughter.
I feel the rise of indignation, as he boasts, ‘That is nought but a myth and I can report that I myself have spent many a night sleeping with the marsh folk in their tree dens’.
I’m more than a little put out by his inconsiderate mockery, and subsequently I charge him, ‘Boorish prig!’ Eh, would you believe the man-child openly sniggers before he retaliates,
‘Trust me. You shall see for yourself for I intend for us to visit a hearth of the Black Stork this evening’.
My hackles raised, I protest, ‘I don’t have time to waste with your prattling of tales. We need to catch up with Ur’salla’.
‘In these dark times’ he replies once his chortling has shrunk to a smirk. ‘It's wise for travellers to seek the alms of any friendly hosts than to risk wild camping alone’.
‘Dark times?’ I enquire with a raised voice. ‘Storyteller, what do you mean by that?’
He sighs before answering, and his demeanour transforms from one of smirking, to one of sombreness,
‘Tashkilla, you've been too sheltered in your own wilderness though I fear not for much longer. The new folk who your cousins call the Barbarians, covet the light soils beneath your ancient forests. Soon they'll arrive to take them’.
I feign disbelief at his pessimistic prophecy, yet know in my heart and head that he only echoes the concerns of my own elders. Su’lan sees only my mask of stubborn denial,
‘I tell you these eyes of mine have witnessed their crafty colonisations. The barbarians are favoured by powerful and ancestral spirits who possess the features of the world. Fantastic magic blesses their nations with many children to replace the savage’.
I admit to you his pessimism chills me to the core. I think this storyteller wishes to test my resilience. I'll not deter from my quest to find my friend. I allow him to continue with his horror tale,
‘They’ll arrive during the lean season when wild children huddle naturally close to the warmth of our hearth. Sustained by the blood, cheese, and salted flesh of their captive beasts, the foreigners will steal the wilds’. He frightens me further, ‘There’ll be many hazards in the south such as the scourge of sickness, treacherous rogues, and the colonisation of our river valleys. These are the darkest of times, and perhaps the beginning of the ending-time’.
With his outburst exhausted we’re both left silent and vacuous. No more words are shared as together we push our dugout back into the waters. I hope my resilience will soon pass his test.
Isle of the Black Stork
The sun threatens to expire when we paddle between islets of aldercarr to reach the tiny jetty of a Black Stork camp. I soon learn their numbers have been tragically reduced by illnesses ascribed to the Sun-magic. Nonetheless these wetland dwellers recognise my travel companion as a renowned storyteller and warmly welcome us. Such an odd nation. They nest high up in trees. Su’lan informs me they do so to safeguard against flooding of their islands.
I’m humiliated and forced to concede these marsh savages are free of both gills and webbed feet. Yes, this embarrassment has been freely shared by Su’lan as we waited to dine on a feast of eel fish, served alongside the roots of the cat-tail. He is quite the joker.
Using common gestures I express my gratitude to these kind people. We savages prefer to speak in the language of our own clan, but share many words and gestures across a wider region. As a travelling storyteller, Su’lan is particularly well versed in the languages of the world. Su’lan paces and hops around the sacred hearth of the Black Stork. Its magical flames dance with shadows across his form, as he gives a lively performance, entertaining our hosts,
‘There was one tongue, and there were no nations. Our free ancestors camped in tents of Bearded Bull’s skin. On endless prairies the first hunters freely followed Bearded Bull. From South to North and from East to West. The bellies of hunters were always full. All loved Bearded Bull’.
I relax as Su’lan continues to spin this old yarn, he tells the legend well. It explains how Daqualan the sorcerer drove away the herds, how the forests sprouted, and how the sorcerer was cursed to remain as the dark stag.
Southwards bound
Another morning of travel and we continue to paddle snaking curves to the south. The flow of this stream resists our progress, but we persist to see the wetlands of the Black Stork, replaced by sturdier rolling chalklands on which a tall forest grows. Su’lan educates me,
‘This is the wilderness of the Eagle Owl and of its children’. Next he teases me, ‘When we next feast with hosts, I'll join our benefactors in the audience while you sing us a song of the Goshawk’.
‘No!’ I yell out in protest. ‘But no, I have no songs to sing, no stories to share, no prose to preach. I don't have your gift with verse’.
Outrageously the villain mocks me with his mimicry in some high pitched voice supposed to be mine, ‘But no, but nooo!’ Pleased with his feeble taunts, Su’lan sniggers.
I’ve had enough of his childishness and therefore now act. I lift up my paddle and cast cold waters across the back of his neck. Ugh! This encourages him to laugh even louder.
With his prophet’s tongue he declares, ‘Soon Tashkilla. Soon you'll have many tales to spin for our hosts’.
Night camp
At nightfall we need to wild camp close to our stream. Both know the duties of our genders. While I gather deadwood and fashion an overnight den of stick and leaf, Su’lan’s throwing sticks strike down a brace of woodcock. These birds, still dizzy with migration from spirit forests. While Su’lan uses his bow and drill to ignite our campfire, I forage a handful of hazel along with the thin flesh of hawthorn berries. Too soon the wilds have little in their larders.
We settle to cook over our small fire. Spirits flicker brightly within its flames. These provide warm shades which illuminate the strong dimpled face of my companion. Freya, I'll quietly confide in you that I find myself averting his handsome gaze. As we feast, he encourages me to share a sacred story of my own nation. I share with him the fable of the men of my nation, and how they arrived in the wilderness of Mother Goshawk, the jealous sea spirits who engulfed the lands, how old wives transformed into seals. I blush as I complete my seasonal folklore. Su’lan sees this and smiles with gratitude. Content we both nestle down in our own furs. Our stomachs are barely sated by birds and hazel. Sleep welcomes us to the world of dreamtime.
This morning the paddling is tougher with waters more set against our progress. I’m glad when the Storyteller guides then steers us towards a wide riverine beach. He finds signs left by other travellers. I don’t comprehend them, but Su’lan reads to me,
‘Southbound travellers abandon their watercraft here and take to foot so they may reach the Serpentine waterways in the south’.
He registers doubt on my face and puts me at ease, ‘The land trail will meander alongside this stream before it departs the vale. Then it crosses rolling chalk hills of tall forest. The trail is well established and it leads to another stream which feeds into the Serpentine waterways’.
I’m aware trekking through the wilds can be tough. Many of our forest floors consist of deep mosses and ferns, littered by much deadwood. In addition, some of our rainforests may be waterlogged and marshy.
This prompts me to raise my question, ‘Su’lan, how long will it take to reach the other stream?’
‘Perhaps three full days of hiking, with two nights of wild camping. This trek will be hard on our feet, and food resources are scarce. We’ll need to rest to gather food, while horrible weather threatens the sky with snow. We can’t risk becoming too degraded by the ordeal, because we'll need strength to paddle the Serpentine’. He smiles and then cheerfully adds,
‘I do know of an Ishi of the Eagle Owl who habitually camp within reach of this trail. I’m sure they would welcome my tales’.
Ugh, he plans on further delaying my quest! I shall press on regardless of his lame wish to beg alms.
I’m forced to concede we cannot carry our dugout as far as the Serpentine waterway. Here on this riverside we must abandon it as a gift for northbound travellers. Together we drag our vessel to dry ground. Su’lan then places his sticks and stones as signs for others that this watercraft is now free for others in need. I think this travellers’ code is a clever invention.
While Su’lan completes this polite task, I wander nearby and it's in undergrowth that I find the discarded wicker of two coracle frames. Su’lan sees my interest and joins me in the investigation. He makes his proposal,
‘This wicker has recently been cut and fashioned with little use upon the waters. Their passengers must have taken the trail to the south, and have carried away the coracle skins’.
It's at this moment that my heart beat pauses before drumming with excitement. I see it! I reach over the top of one of the coracle frames to untangle a familiar lace of leather dangling from a branch of willow. A pearl white, naturally perforated pebble slides down its length. It’s Ur’salla’s own moonstone! She recently stood upon this spot and placed that sign for me to find. My best friend lives and we’re on her trail. Ur’salla knows I would follow and not give up on her.
The Wilds of the Eagle Owl
I’ve recovered from the shock of realising the vision from the Prairie of Banat. The moonstone and lace I’ve placed around my own neck. I've got my birchbark backpack strapped and we’re ready to tackle a long hike. Would you believe the storyteller has the audacity to slap a thigh of mine before he rudely pronounces,
‘These puny legs will soon grow’ How much longer must I endure his brazen cheekiness?
A wildwood stripped of winter leaf grows tall on well drained soils. The canopy is bare to afford plenty of daylight with which to see our trail. We tramp through layers of autumn fall densely carpeting the forest floor. I see patches of open ground where diseased trees of wych elm lay rotting. Yet we pass by many mother trees heavy with mistletoe and ivy. Their deep engraved bark demands my prayers.
Just as my travel companion warned, it's a lean time of the year to hike through deep woodlands. My legs grow heavy and my feet sore from dragging reluctant toes through the leaf fall. I appreciate why Su’lan insisted we'll need to seek the alms of hosts. I collect wood and make a temporary den. But local spirits don’t favour Su’lan’s throwing sticks, and all I manage to forage are a few edible caps of fungi. Yet we're so tired out and famished.
I awaken to a crisp morning of frost and yet I feel comfort. In my sleep I had snuggled up to the broad chest of the storyteller. Rather than push me away, Su’lan had held me in his strong arms. Immediately on gaining awareness, I jumped out from his clutches! My tormentor laughs out loudly at my embarrassment. When will the spirits stop mocking me for my tricks played on young Durran?
Frost has struck this ancient woodland, to transform it into an altered world. Spider webs glisten with ice crystals stretched out between the fonds and twigs. Branches of trees are coated white with the haw. My breath condenses and I breathe deep to make clouds. On empty bellies, we pack and prepare to leave our temporary den as one more marker amongst many abandoned shelters delineating this route between waterways. I want to step over and crack the ice of each frozen puddle but Su’lan the boring old man suggests I should refrain,
‘The waters will enter your bark boots to rot your feet sorely on this long day’s hike’.
I respond of course with my predictable rebelliousness. I jump onto another delicious sheet of ice…Kerrack, splosh. ‘Boring groaner’ I protest.
By afternoon our bellies don’t only growl but pain us. My heavy legs are slow to move and ache badly, while my poor feet are sore and blistered. Each step forward I wince with their sting. I’ve by now totally surrendered intent of pushing on without restoration. I don’t protest when Su’lan reads the signs of travellers, to lead us away from the main trail.
I’m stunned when a young man, clasping a pike, steps out in front of us with his face painted blue. We’ve seen so few folk the past few days of travel.
Su’lan whispers to me, ‘Watch of an Eagle Owl camp. He’ll not be alone, just do as I’.
He throws himself to the ground in submission, I follow his lead. Su’lan issues our introduction, ‘I’m Su’lan of the Arpon from the far north, and this is my travel companion, Tashkilla of the Goshawk. We beg for the protection of the mighty Eagle Owl so I might share my stories and songs’.
A voice sounds out from our flank and I see another warrior emerge. This one beams at us in some sort of recognition of Su’lan. He speaks to his friend, and although his dialect is troublesome to my interpretation, I think he says to him,
‘They’re friends of our people. I know the man, it's the big storyteller from far away, and he has in his company, a most lovely maiden’.
The first watchman uses common gestures to invite us back up to our feet. Su’lan offers me no assistance and I find my legs too cramped and painful to stand back up. The two Eagle Owl boys rush to help me, as I then limp around trying to relieve the cramp, with tears rolling from my eyes. Su’lan the Oaf stands there laughing out loud at my predicament. He leaves me to rub sore muscles as he reminds me of his caution,
‘Now who is the groaner?’.
Before I can strike him, the two Eagle Owl boys introduce themselves to me,
‘I am Nabulan’ says the one from the flanks, and he tells us, ‘this is Varranu’. Clearly this pair of locals are familiar with Su’lan and they take turns in hugging the idiot. Why should I be surprised to find his foolish stories are welcome at another hearth?
As guests we are escorted into the winter encampment of the Ishi of Halko. I’m exhausted and I need to limp on sore feet. Once we’ve been introduced to all, Su’lan is wise enough not to press me for another story. I think he finally acknowledges that tonight I’m possessed by the spirit of the grumpy bear.
By their sacred hearth we are welcomed, and kindly served with an acorn bread flavoured with much elderberry. I slouch as the Bear, satiated by the food and by the flames of another magical fire. Su’lan is left to earn our hearty meal. Using his mastery of language he shares another of his tales. Spinning a tragedy about a mariner named Gathalon. I see many similarities in this character and Su’lan himself. It's a story of adventure, remorse and of hope. The Storyteller is more than the oaf I perceived him to be. Perhaps I should learn to value his company more, though I fear that in my heart I already do.
We’re billetted to share a shelter with several eldermen. I’ve been instructed by our thoughtful hosts that tomorrow I should rest. They invited me to attend the den of their midwife in the morning. A famous sorceress of the Eagle Owl no less. I’m told she'll quickly heal my blisters.
Su’lan has been invited to attend an important hunt. A well known bull of the aurochs has returned to this wilderness following a long absence. The old bull has served his time well but tomorrow these local hunters intend to ask him to join their game. Su’lan is greatly honoured to be asked to participate in a prestigious hunt. Since the telling of his personal tale, he’s been quiet and withdrawn. I think by its telling, that he lives his own grief. I find myself wanting to reach out but don’t know how.
This den is smoky. Our frail hosts otherwise suffer from the chill of a crisp frost. They sing to us a healing lullaby. My heavy eyelids are eager to fall.