Chapter 27 - Qan
The Serpentine River. SE Britain
I and Su’lan awaken at sunrise, and together launch a dugout into the smaller river close to the camp of Eskola. We both take to paddle and follow the flow into the confluence with the famous Serpentine itself. Never before have I witnessed such an impressive waterway. I see that the Sheonni side consists of many marshes and mouths of creeks.
Su’lan informs me, ‘Wild folk camped on the south side of this river until recent times. The Sheonni persecuted them because the savages competed for the natural resources of the forests, and endangered their precious cattle’.
‘I’m interested in what you can tell me of barbarians because I fear Ur’salla might be kept captive in one of their camps’.
He pauses from his paddling and I follow suit. While we drift, Su’lan turns to face me and suggests,
‘Here along these margins we see nothing of Sheonni presence. How would you like to trespass across their occupied wilds?’
I cannot resist such a challenge! I hope such dangerous mischief could inspire my spirit guide and I’m hungry for adventure.
I reply positively, ‘That I would gladly wish to do’
Sulan grins, ‘Then let us go wildfowling by foot’. His happy face tells me he is pleased I thirst for this adventure. Together we paddle to steer our dugout into a tall cover of winter deadened reeds on the Sheonni side.
Sheonni lands
Here and now, for the first time I see barbarian folk. They’re not the giant super-people I had expected. Contrary, those that I gaze upon are short, stout fellows. Smaller in stature than the majority of savages. Their skin tones and hair types are more heterogeneous than those of us wild people. This suggestive of ancient history steeped in migration and concubinism. Some of the bearded cattlemen have phenotypes not dissimilar to our own. Others have more alien features. I see individuals who pale as though they are ill.
Regardless of physical type, they dress in similar hides to our own, although how they are arranged is different. The words I hear them yelling sounds extremely foreign to my ears. We observe them covertly from the scrub, as Sheonni cattlemen shout at their cattle and dogs. The men disrespectfully tap the hindquarters of bovines with the harsh tips of their sticks. We savages could never associate among the aurochs in such a manner. Either the herd would stampede and trample our weak corpses, or their bull would dispatch us by his horns.
These tame cattle we spy upon, although gathered in unnaturally large numbers, are individually much smaller than their wild and indigenous cousins. The tolerance of these cattle to the barbarians and their dogs is a mystery to my savage mind. The foreigners stride through the herd with no obvious fear, waving sticks to move compliant subjects along. It’s as though the spirits of beasts are diminished if not extinct. How could Nature permit such an acute disturbance? Some of the dun-coloured cows I see as having bloated udders yet no calves in tow.
This I remark upon to my companion, who informs, ‘These calves the Sheonni take from their mothers to be eaten. This so they can profit by stealing the milk to make a food for their own bellies’.
By accident or in desperation we hunters sometimes kill a hind or wild cow. We enjoy eating the mammary glands, a rare treat although too much of this milky meal would upset our tender stomachs. We would never make it a practice to kill calves simply in order to steal its share of mothers milk.
With rising indignation I ask the Storyteller, ‘How can the spirits of these subjugated creatures forgive such dishonour?’
He exhales before his whisper, ‘Perhaps it's these barbarians who have the crippled spirits?’
I watch on as floppy-eared dogs assist invaders, running between legs to bark rough demands. Our own savage dog-kind doesn’t bark. They only howl in excitement for the game. I see these Sheonni herders are well armed with spears and bows. While boys whistle to dogs, more brutal men visibly scan the scrub where we're concealed. These stocky Sun-warriors wear the turbans of rope I have heard accredited to them as twineheads. I recognise the threat on their stern features and I make the mistake of imagining our fate should we be found here. With a shudder I dismiss that thought.
Driven by curiosity we venture deeper into deserted wildwoods until we sense a cry of spirits echoing between the sturdy trunks of tall trees. With our desire to explore now piqued we trek into the direction of an undefined distress. First we encounter the small clearance left from a burnt out camp of an extinct ishi. Ash marks the scooped out hollows where the shelters of cousins once stood. The ghosts of a recent genocide are noisy here. I kneel down to kiss the brow of a stained skull protruding from ferns. I place flowers of wild snowdrop onto these sad graves and make my prayers urging spirits to move on. Yet this glade isn't the only source of spiritual distress luring us deeper into the rainforest, and further from our hidden dugout.
We move from this cemetery trespassing further into occupied lands, conscious that by doing so we'll not be able to return to the camp of Eskola before nightfall. We step on in silence.
With savage stealth I and Su’lan reach another valley where sounds of barbarian men and of their cattle resonate out across the local forest. We’re careful to select a spy post, and we monitor the workings of these invaders. Not only do these foreign men labour, but they've enslaved their beasts. They wrap harnesses around their cattle, and force them as oxen to haul heavy timbers. We see that the Sheonni select long straight knot free trunks of oak as their raw material. These they mount on trestles. Men wielding heavy wooden hammers strike wedges until trunks split into planks. Others finish off this product, shaving them with sharp stone headed adzes.
Never before have I witnessed people forcing beasts into work, but neither have I previously seen men labouring with such industrial purpose.
In a whispered breath I express this wonder to Su’lan, ‘What could inspire folk to labour so?’
He has no clever answer to give me. Together in silence we gawp at this Sun-magic of the foreigners. I see oxen drag finished planks of timber from the trestles and down towards the valley bottom. I sign this discovery to my pal, and we employ the furtiveness of our kind to move closer to their destination.
We follow the ox-team until we see the banks of a deep river. Close by, sturdier trestles support the skeleton of a longboat in construction.
Su’lan stutters out, ‘An extraordinary vessel of the timber kind that will soon be capable of floating many twineheads around our coasts’.
Negatively I modify his suggestion, ‘Or perhaps this stream is a tributary of the Serpentine, and this boat is intended to carry more invaders across that wide river into the wilderness of the Eagle Owl?’
We’ve seen enough to trouble our dreams. It’s time to retreat from our spying on aliens. In a sombre mood we slide back into deeper woods. There were so many of these carpenters, as though wood ants in a colony. How will the Children of the Eagle Owl resist their invasion? How can any savages halt their incursions across our wilds?
Together we hiked back northwards towards our hidden dugout. As we expected, the sun fell from the sky and we were forced to make an overnight camp in this land of ghosts and ant-people. By consuming a few early buds we tried to stave off hunger.
We dare not alert our alien hosts by lighting a fire. Instead we erect a temporary den deep into stolen woods, and lie down close to one another in our temporary furs. We peer out above the treeline to the canvas of the night sky, and read incredible stories of bull hunters and moon maidens in the stars.
It’s cold and we react by moving closer to one another, as is the cooperative way of the savage. Su’lan wraps a big warm arm around my waist and this I don't object to. He nuzzles his tickly beard into my neck. Yes I like that. I cannot help but purr like a wildcat. This encourages the rogue to move his lips down onto my shoulders. I release a groan of desire. His kisses move onto my face and our tongues meet with an eagerness. I reach out my hands to touch and stroke him. Our skins both demand to touch.
The recent deaths of cousins permeates this cold forest, but we make our own beautiful warmth. Our union we offer to the spirits of these woods. We offer it again and again. When we wake up from our slumber to the rise of a new warming sun, we have been transformed from travel companions into lovers.
We make our way back to our dugout hidden by the Serpentine, when our calm is disturbed by the barking of sun-dogs and by the shrill call of a Sheonni horn. Our curiosity aroused, we sprint to high ground where we may once again spy on twineheads. We watch as turbaned warriors rush across the scrub of a lower ground which curves around this hillock. Their trio of leashed hounds bark in the direction of some undefined quarry I expect to be swine.
From our high vantage point I spot the prey of these twineheads. It desperately ducks and dives between thickets following the course of lower ground. Oh no! It is neither boar nor is it a roe buck these Sun-devils angrily chase with dogs. Rather it's a child. We cannot idle by and watch such outrage. Su’lan takes the lead to sprint across the hillock through dense vegetation hoping to save the poor waif. My new lover runs much faster than I. Rather than risk slowing him down, I run until I can claim a position to load my bow.
Crazed sun-dogs have been released to race ahead of dastardly masters. Their clever canine noses pick up on the scent of more savages joining their game. I release my first dart striking deep into the neck of the lead hound. Her sisters are momentarily confused at witnessing their mate dispatched. While they stall, I manage to load another arrow from my quiver. The dogs charge up the hill at me. I release tension from the bow and my second arrow pierces one hound in its hind quarters. She whelps horribly causing fresh confusion to the remaining dog.
Angry voices of barbarian masters demand the surviving hound resume the attack. With this, I feel the need to abandon my position. This dog comes for me, snarling with angry teeth bared. I’m not ready to defend myself and I am sorely done for. The dog launches his pounce.
Swoosh! The arrow of some other archer strikes deep into the dog’s chest and with a violent tumble it collapses at my feet. I turn to stare through a maze of tree trunks to trace the source of this mystery arrow. There I see my Lover with an emptied bow. A small boy holds onto Su’lan’s breeches. I can see the child wears nought but a soiled fur around his midriff. His curly black hair is matted and unkept. Su’lan squats down and talks gently to the child. His request becomes apparent when the little one climbs up onto the Storyteller’s shoulders who rises back up. Su’lan beckons me,
‘Tashkilla we must hurry. Follow us this way to the river’.
We break into our agile sprint through an arboreal wilderness as we were born to do. I hear the angry voices of foreigners, prompting me to peek over my shoulder to see enraged faces beneath coils of rope. A sharp javelin flies through the air insanely off course. I cannot help but laugh at their incompetence. We run like wolves through these dense woods. I sense local spirits issue to us their support. My feet bounce from spongy moss to propel my gait further. Su’lan runs ahead with his passenger. My man is so strong. In this green and natural environment it's we wildborn savages who have advantage of ancient adaptation. I swerve to avoid more pathetic missiles, and once safely out of their sight, I copy the movements of my man. Ducking and diving low branches and saplings so that we might leave confused tracks.
Close to the famous river, we have to break from cover. It’s as we move across an open alder scrub that more twineheads see us. Thereupon we scarper as fast as our limbs will carry us to reach the thin cover of last year's reedmace. I feel my feet sucked down into black deposits beneath cold waters. My pace of escape is frustrating. I hear more foreign insults, fresh dogs bark in the distance. A fresh arrow slices dangerously close. It missed and I chuckle,
‘These twineheads make poor hunters’.
Sluggishly I wade in deeper waters. Su’lan carries our rescued child within his arms. I am so relieved when we reach our disguised watercraft. I hastily undecorate it and then climb aboard. Su’lan passes the boy but he is frit and reluctant to let go of his saviour. I use soft words to encourage him to join me in our boat.
It breaks my heart that this poor little innocent is so afraid. His tear stained eyes of blue wide open with fear. Bloodshot laces their edges. His little face is caked with filthy dirt. I imagine him to be no more than five festivals old. Su’lan launches our craft out into a creek. The muds of the marsh pull back on his lower limbs, before releasing them coated with black slime. I daren’t let go of the distressed child, and leave Su’lan to take the paddle. We move silently along the winding creek fully aware that we're being hunted in the reedbeds by barbarian hosts.
Wading birds stun us as they take to the wing from a mudflat. Our position has been betrayed to enemies by these treacherous birds. Yet it matters little as we're liberated from the marshes and into the openness of the river itself. More missiles are launched to fall short into the Serpentine. I grin back at angered faces of angry aliens staring out from reeds. They cheated of their evil sport of murdering a helpless child. With his strong arm, Su’lan traverses the river to reach the more friendly reedbeds of the Eagle Owl. Here we pause to rest as we drift beneath alders.
The boy clings tight to myself and I gently probe for his name. He appears to be a wild child of our own savage kind. His skin is dark, his hair wavy, and his eyes blue.
With confidence I use common gestures of our indigenous folk, ‘Where is your mother? Who are your people?’
No response from him. I am confident he comprehends my questions. I think him too anxious to reply. The scrap of fur he wears stinks foul. I worry this little refugee has been nurtured solely by his wilderness when it has so little to offer. Our dugout continues to bob up and down. Su’lan watches as I try to coax the babe. The Storyteller offers me a drinking skin, its contents sweetened with sap. I use it to wet the lips of the child who in greedy response snatches the bone mouthpiece to guzzle like a striped piglet at his mother’s tits.
Su’lan now ventures, ‘Maybe a man’s voice?’
The boy pauses from his thirst, and peeks at my man. Su’lan taps at his own broad chest and pronounces with care, ‘Soot-laan’.
In return a nervous young voice breaks as the boy taps at his own pigeon chest, ‘Q… Qa… Qan!’
I don’t know what cruelties of the genocide this damaged little boy may have witnessed. I pull him tight to my breasts and gently I repeat Qan’s name as I offer him a sweet lullaby of the Goshawk. I don’t let him see the tears that flow from my eyes on his behalf.