Chapter 37 - Glade of Death
Camp of Oma, Leva soils. SE Britain
Mazde the strawman calls on Torixe’s turf-walled hovel. Paaxti stands at its doorway, while Amaia tends to her sickened husband. Torixe groans in great pain. Several days prior he had first sickened with nausea, and had then recovered. Now he lays here in agony. His eyes yellowed with jaundice. Amaia moves away to allow the strawman priest to examine his patient.
Torixe screams to ghosts, then convulses, shaking his rustic bed. Mazde is such a poor healer, and this is well known across Oma. Paaxti stares at him with contempt. Amaia moves back forward to comfort her fitting husband. Just briefly, Mazde thinks he smells butterfat and ash. He knows little of witchcraft. Confused by Torixe’s symptoms, he declares his misdiagnosis,
‘This isn't of Raspu’s doing but the evil magic of the dark forest. This is the work of savages in the wilds. There is nothing I can do for Torixe for this evil is foreign to our kind’.
Paaxti staggers, choking on Mazde’s incompetence. Angrily he barks at the part-time priest, ‘Mazde you fool. Are you suggesting this evil of ignorant savages is greater than Daghnu’s?’
Mazde reels back defensively, ‘I'll need a calf, and a live swan to purge Torixe of the evil spirits. Only with such sacrifices may I persuade the wheat father to intervene’.
Paaxti continues to stare at the strawman with contempt. He doesn’t regard Mazde as fit for office. The elder stomps off to commission a calf and the capture of a swan for the rituals of healing. In the absence of his father, Torixe’s convulsions subside, allowing his young wife to wipe at his brow. Amaia faces Mazde, her eyes yearning for her husband to recover.
She suggests to the priest, ‘Mazde, my broth might make my husband better’. Amaia props Torixe up, and spoons soup to his lips.
With a misplaced empathy, Mazde tells her, ‘Torixe is lucky to have such a caring young wife’.
He adds a suggestion, ‘Amaia, I fear this savage evil could be more local than the dark woods’.
She pauses from nursing and eyes the strawman. He continues with his accusation, ‘The concubine your husband keeps in the yard. She could be its host’.
Amaia knows how Ur’salla has suffered. She measures her response in defence of her, ‘Ur’salla our serf? Why would you think such a thing?’
‘She was born to the dark forest, and bears Ilua’s mark upon her forehead. I heard Torixe punished her severely for desertion, now he lays here sickened in his cot’.
‘No!’ Amaia protests, ‘only last moontime, my husband spilled the blood of two lambs as sacrifice to Ilua. That Ur’salla is signed by the bull father should disclude her from suspicion. Though she is a wildborn, I trust her’.
‘Watch her’ insists Mazde, ‘watch your concubine closely’.
‘I will. Though I am sure of her innocence’.
They both hear the return of men, Aarva is among them. He bravely carries a hissing swan by its neck, its wings bound. Paaxti leads a calf. Mazde puts on his strawman’s mask, and produces a flint blade.
Tilbury, SE Britain
I assist Lanella with the blanching of roots foraged from riverside margins. Qan crawls around on all fours chasing some small creature in a game. My own mind is busy with concern over the safety of my man. He has gone hunting with three would-be assassins. How best will I be able to defend Qan should Su’lan fail to return?
I hear heavy footsteps crash through undergrowth, accompanied by pained, heavy breathing. Saabiaske bursts out. His body is grey, and streaked with his own blood. The broken shaft of a javelin protrudes horribly from a shoulder. In response to his plight, Lanella drops down our dinner and rushes to him. He strains a stiff neck staring at me, and barks to his lover,
‘We must leave now. Take her boy to the boats’.
Lanella retorts, ‘What of our brothers Farkas and Eino?’
‘Just go to the boats. We must leave quickly’.
I drop down my own labours and move rapidly to defend Qan, who sits there gaping at Saabiaske. Lanella is closer to Qan and she lurches at him. I leap after to catch her by an ankle. She collapses to the ground with a thump and I shout out to our boy,
‘Qan! Quick run now to the woods and hide’.
Lanella climbs back up and reaches. Qan backs away snarling in his voiceless way. I see this brave little boy refuses to desert me. Lanella leans down and digs with fingertips to lever up a heavy stone. I know she intends to use it on me. I stumble back up to my own feet hoping to better arrest my opponent. Momentarily I am distracted when I spot Saabiaske uses his left arm to slash the skins of the coracles.
Lanella exploits my loss of attention, by throwing her stone. It strikes me hard in my face and I fall back to the ground. I’m still conscious enough to hear Qan hissing with vigour. He punches, when she grabs hold of his arm. I lay defeated, coming to terms with my injury. The skin of a cheek stings painfully, I hold up a hand to feel my hurt jaw. A tooth wobbles loose. My eyesight restores. I resurrect so I may save Qan from enslavers.
Staggering back up to unsteady feet. I see Qan resisting Lanella. He signs the Bearded Bull, stroking his smooth chin. Lanella is bemused by his brave stance, but persists in shuffling him towards the dugout. Saabiaske has launched it, gliding between reeds. Clearly struggling to retain consciousness, the rogue climbs in and collapses.
I sense a sudden rumbling in the soil beneath my feet. A strange sensation as though a herd of heavy bovines stampede across a plain. This empowers me and I sprint towards Qan’s kidnapper, launching a high kick to strike her. She loses hold of my boy and topples forward to land in the black mud of watery margins with a splat. Qan runs to my side, while Lanella peels herself back up and screams,
‘You’ll never find your precious friend, for we made her a pathetic breeding beast for the barbarian men to enjoy. I vow I'll rip off your pretty face and feed your brains to the pigs of the Leva’.
This curse sends a shiver down my spine. She scarpers through shallow waters to reach her impaled man in the floating dugout. Lanella, covered in black mud, pushes the craft out before boarding. As the black mud being picks up paddle she turns to repeat,
‘Tashkilla, I’ll feed your brains to the pigs’.
Qan snorts at this, picks up a pebble and does his best to throw it at her. It plonks short in the waters. The rogues disappear into the creek. I pick up my boy and hold him in my arms. Too grown to be a babe, I hug him as my hero.
A thought returns and I blurt out with grave concern, ‘What of Su’lan? Is my brave man somewhere in those woods injured or worse?’
Only Saabiaske returned alive. I descend into a state of panic, not knowing what to do first, and where I should stagger to. My broken face turns sticky with blood. As he recognises this thought, Qan holds up a hand to gently touch the wounds of my spoiled face. I search around for tracks left where Saabiaske emerged from the forest. I tread them, still holding Qan, as I shout from a numb mouth,
‘Su’lan where are you?’ I repeat my plea, each time with more urgency as I step further into the wilds, ‘Su’lan, Su’lan please!’
Then, I see his familiar shape ahead. The storyteller waves the trophy of a war club at me.
When we are closer, he calls out with cheer, ‘Woman I’m on a pig hunt. Your shrieks will frighten away our dinner’. He sees my broken face and winces before issuing one of his boyish taunts, ‘Tashkilla, you'll need a new title!’
My tears release not in response to his teasing, but with relief to find him alive. I let Qan down. Su’lan rushes up. I can see he has sustained injuries which he masks. His breathing is pained by sharp ribs. We three hug as well as we're able.
We’ve returned to our temporary camp and inspected the coracles left behind in exchange for our dugout. That crafty rogue had savagely slashed their skins, and smashed their wicker. They’re beyond repair.
Nevertheless, we still live and breathe. The grave danger of being slaughtered by the orphans has passed.
Sulan assures, ‘The ghosts of their friends will be unable to cross over, and remain here to haunt these wilds’.
I know Ur’salla still lives, although her existence must be horrid. Her moonstone appears more bright. I sense we're getting closer to her.
The Wilds of Goshawk. SE Britain
Three cattle herders with two floppy-eared dogs guide tamed beasts through a stolen forest. The youngest invader points to the brown stained bones of a savage who died in this forest. Some of these bones, scattered by animals, are charred. A fresh layer of crisp leaf will soon cover the remains of Sharlla and Talidan. Nature will suck them into the rot of forest soils. The barbarians make a crude joke about the remains, then prod their longhorns to move forward.
The herd reaches the generous clearing of a wide glade. Towards one side of this paradise stands a loan oak tree. High in its branches is the evidence of an old hide. If you looked closer, you might imagine a pair of blue eyes staring back. These farmers are poor naturalists, they see none of these artefacts of an earlier culture. They don’t care who created this hunting glade, now fruitful with young saplings of hazel. They’re only interested in the pasture here. Their dun-coloured bovines wander into the glade.
One herder shares another joke with his friends, who lean hard onto their long sticks to feign interest, before forcing laughter. These invaders are relaxed because they feel safe in my wilds. They are the smug conquerors of Nature.
Did we only imagine those blue eyes staring back out of the old tree hide? They couldn't be those of Ur’salla, for she’s being held captive far away. Let’s stare again into the lofty heights of that mossy old oak.
An arrow tipped with a flint microlith protrudes from the tree-hide. This one isn't aimed at stags, but at the herdsmen. One invader strolls over to the edge of the clearing. He lifts his loincloth aside to piss up a tree. The arrow isn't aimed at him, for he’s now out of its deadly range. The other two barbarians remain near the oak. One of them is a toothless, pot bellied old fellow. Grey stains his long beard, while a cone shaped of leather crowns his balding head. The other is the youth who had pointed at Sharlla’s grave. No more than a teen, but coneheaded and probably already a father.
The dark skin of Durran Now-a-Man stretches over youthful muscles mended from battle injuries. He has scars marking the martyrdom of Mikko. Durran draws tight the tension of a bow string. The scalp of a snake once named Shelfanga, decorates his quiver. Durran chooses his target with care. It matters not who is first to be dispatched. Their spirits will be denied entry to the other place, because he intends to dip his spoon into their opened up heads. He makes his choice to release his dart, it flashes across the glade. Thump!
The arrow passes through the neck of the barbarian youth. If he had children, then they need a new father. Blood spurts from his throat, as the teen collapses to the ground. His corpse will feed the saplings. The nearby Leva elderman screams out in horror. His words are unintelligible, but Durran guesses that he might be calling out, ‘Savages, savage attack, run!’ As for the pisser by the edges of the forest, he turns around to gawk at the commotion. As he does so, two savages show themselves from out of the woods. Their faces have been smudged green. It’s Belthan who reaches the pisser first. He swipes the barbarian with his war club. The sound of the man’s neck breaking is horribly audible across the glade.
A floppy-eared dog howls when it's executed by Watalão’s spear. The other is swiftly executed by another arrow of Durran, who then drops down from the lowest bough to join his brethren as they gang up on the old man. This sole survivor holds out his barbarian’s axe, falls down to his knees and pathetically begs. In response, the three Goshawk warriors drop down their own spears, bow and war club. Momentarily, the old Leva man thinks they grant mercy, but groans when he sees them pull out their cruel knives of flint.
Glade of Death
That the tamed longhorns had so little spirit, made it easy for the three Goshawk warriors to slaughter so many. Free of remorse, they've made the hunting glade into a killing field of cattle, dogs, and herdsmen. It was Watalão who had encouraged this awful massacre,
‘We must deprive the invaders of their precious cattle. If they don’t profit they'll move to other wilds’.
ilds’. One bovine they butcher as food for their folk, hiding further upstream in the ashwoods. The heads of the three Leva men are cracked open. Durran dips his spoon to feed upon their brain matter. Then the three savages vacate the glade of death. Flies soon buzz.
Nearby, the dark brown stained skull of an old woman cackles as it protrudes from the leaf moulds of her forest grave.