Chapter 30 - Conspiracy
Camp of Eskola, Wilds of Eagle Owl. SE Britain
I leave Su’lan delivering grim observations made south of the river, whilst I take Qan to the lodge of Zawalla. Having spoken his name that once, his tongue has retreated back behind sealed lips. The sorceress pronounces,
‘Love might cure this child of his silence’. Within her dark eyes I see a hint that Zawalla knows more than she wishes to presently share with me.
Love, Qan has since enjoyed not only from I and Su’lan but from the Mothers of Eskola who take turns in fussing him. Our wild nations are not shy of adopting strays into our clans. Yet Qan rejects any hugs made too tight, and despite the other children kindly trying to engage him in play, he prefers to fashion his own games.
I’ve taken care to construct a new den in this camp we three share as an accidental family. I’m falling deeply in love with the storyteller, and this generates a positivity we share freely with our hosts. Spring heralds and it's as I merrily decorate our new shelter with flowers that I observe the birds courting. We’re glad to be rid of wintertime, and this we intend to celebrate with a welcome feast. A hunting band has returned with the carcass of a hind. We prepare to indulge around the sacred hearth of Eskola.
The mothers have stitched a large birch bark kettle, its seams sealed with resin. They’ve filled the kettle with the fattiest choices - eyes, tongue, brain, marrow and viscera have all been finely sliced. Tubers of ransom, root of burdock and herbs of the forest contribute to its flavour. The mothers use tongs to steal hot stones from the hearth and these they add to provide cooking heat.
The days grow longer, enabling more daylight to enjoy this feast. Su’lan sits by my side with little Qan by his feet. Our stomachs rumble as we await our stew. I hear noises of excitement, when visitors arrive.
Su’lan spots them and grabs me by the arm, whispering into my private ear, ‘Tashkilla, you must remain calm’.
Strangers approach the hearths close to where we sit. I see these visitors, a big giant, a scarred exile, an older fellow with a tidy grey beard, and a small, pale-faced maiden with red ochre in her hair, the colour of flames!
My gut reaction is to rise up and smash these evil enslavers, demanding they return Ur’salla. More wisely I heed the advice of Zawalla and Su’lan to fake innocence. Memories flood my busy mind’s eye, the evidence left at the scene of abduction, the skinned bull on the prairie, our discovery of broken coracle frames. With that last thought, I become conscious. I wear Ur’salla’s moonstone around my own neck. These rogues could recognise that artefact. With prudence I slip it off and remove it from sight.
The friendship between Wa’anella and the rogue named Lanella, is confirmed when I observe that they feast together.
With a subtle deliberation, I lean to catch the ear of my man, ‘Su’lan don't fear. I shall retain my calm and deceive these kidnappers with my subterfuge’. I rise up to my feet with bowl in hand, and sally over towards the two maidens who chat. Wa’anella greets my approach with a callow smile. She makes space for me to sit between herself and her evil friend. I leave it for Wa’anella to make my introductions while I fake a simper. I am gifted at making the stupid,
‘This is Tashkilla of the Goshawk who aids our sorceress’.
Lanella tests my history, ‘The famous Goshawk folk? What brought you so far away to this wilderness?’
‘I’m a refugee. War broke out between Goshawk and our neighbours of the Lynx’ I lie. I detect her satisfaction at hearing this untruth. I see joy within her eyes and this encourages me to spin more webs of fiction, ‘I became lost during the bloody raids between the two nations, nevertheless was rescued by the wandering storyteller named Su’lan of the Arpon. He won my heart and it was during his wandering that I encountered Zawalla the Sorceress’.
Like a dizzy lovestruck girl, I jerk my head into the direction of Su’lan, and I grin stupidly. I carry on deceiving,
‘It was during the conflict between Goshawk and Lynx when I became separated from my close friend named Ur’salla the Huntress. A tall maiden with short cropped hair. I heard rumours of someone like her in these parts. I hope that like myself, she’s been dispersed here as a refugee’.
Lanella’s reaction is a little too fast and abrupt, ‘I’ve not encountered any such captive female’.
A supposition perhaps, but I never suggested Ur’salla might be a captive. While I ponder this suspicious response, Wa’anella fills the pause,
‘Tashkilla has never met the Leva people. Lanella, might you show her their marvellous pot of salt?’
‘Yes please’ I add ‘I confess I am curious to learn more about the barbarian ways and of their amazing magic’.
Lanella confers with her scarred mate, who I ascertain to be the rogue once named ‘Géza of Banat’. I want to slice open his treacherous throat but rather than this I flash my smiling teeth of deceit. Saabiaske passes to me a strange appearing container neither woven nor wooden, rather made of a baked clay.
Lanella cautions me, ‘Please Tashkilla take great care not to drop this pottery for it would shatter into many pieces’.
As I gingerly accept the vessel into my care I cannot resist a criticism of this foreign technology, ‘What use could such a container be if it's too heavy and frail to move between seasonal campsites?’
‘The Leva don't decamp with as much frequency as do our wild kind’ answers Lanella, ‘they employ these pots to catch the milk squeezed from their living beasts, or to brew their beer with fat seeds. They use them like we use bark-kettles, to cook upon the hot ashes of a fire’.
Having examined this pot, I dip a finger into its cache of minerals and put it to my tongue. We savages are no strangers to salt and its property as a preserve. Yet rarely do we glimpse such a volume of this refined quality. I’m impressed but I can gain no more advantage by sitting with rogues.
I make my excuses to return to my man, ‘I should get back to Su’lan, for I can see our foster son is tired. Thank you for sharing this delight with myself. One day I would dearly love to meet the barbarian folk for myself’.
She seems satisfied. I hand back the pot of salt resisting all temptation to throw this treasure down.
Qan is genuinely sleepy when I return. He leans a moody head against Su’lan’s chest. I scan across the hearths of Eskola to observe displeased faces on surviving elders who are not happy to have the orphans do business with their descendants. Lanella and her band of rogues play a wicked game. I overhear Saabiaske as he promises deliverance to Eagle Owl youths, ‘We can teach you the magic secrets of the barbarians. To be masters over Nature, to labour and how to feed many children’.
I ask myself, why would any free savage wish to exchange paradise for a life of drudgery? It’s all beyond my simple understanding. However I’m not among the youth of this Eagle Owl camp, who have witnessed the extinction of neighbours. I watch as these children of Eskola hand over antler, furs, and sharp flint to these orphan devils. So in return they might be gifted with seasalt and cracked corn. Equal player? Not in this game of their own demise. I need not observe more of this perversion. Su’lan carries Qan off to our nest and I join them.
Conspiracy
It’s as I enter the realm of dream-time that four conspirators meet in darkness. Lanella jovially shares my fake news of warfare stirred by their ruse. Saabiaske titters at his mischief
Lanella tells her comrades of my interest in meeting the Leva, ‘That idiot Tashkilla almost begged me to introduce her to our barbarian friends’.
Saabiaske stares pensively into the dark.
Before he can share any resolve, Lanella makes it for him, ‘She is exceptionally pretty isn’t she? Prettier than her Goshawk friend and how the Leva men like their wildborn concubines. I imagine they would give generously for such an introduction’.
Under the cover of darkness, all four faces smile at this suggestion. Eino sniggers as Farkas strokes his beard.
Saabiaske leans forward with a plan, ‘Lanella, at first light I want you to invite her to join us for a return tide. Tell her of Leva treasures and she'll follow. They always do’.
‘There is one problem’ groans Lanella, ‘I don't think she'll travel without that storyteller and that child’.
The exile sighs, ‘Our Leva friends would take the boy as a gift, and Eino can take the storyteller hunting in the woods’.
A cackle breaks from the throat of the giant, ‘Another notch in my old war club’.
The Warning
I receive a new vision in dream-time. Spirit of Bull communes, this time he takes a strange white form. It is daytime on top of an open hill. I see priests using a coarse rope to throttle Bull. His spirit releases to join my own. The barbarians don't see us, but Ur’salla is there and she turns to search for me.
I watch as alien magicians drain blood from his corpse into round bottom pots, like the one that I’d held earlier. Their priests and witches form dance circles from where they rattle the long-bones of their foreign ancestors. Spirit of Bull delivers a caution free of prophecy. I’m alerted to the intent of four conspirators. I know how they'll play their evil game.
I awaken from a dream-state trance, making an effort to embed this vision into new found consciousness, then wait for the call of a snake. I hear the hiss of her false-hearted words arrive from outside of our den. I’m ready for a hazardous journey ahead. I don’t know if we'll survive. All I do expect in the adders’ nest is that there will be bloodshed and death.