Chapter 44 - Wheat Father
Camp of the Pioneers’ Hall, soils of the Leva. SE Britain
Four sturdy men continue to paddle this foreign occupied river. I survey this rearranged landscape to see ugly, pale faces peek back from between banks of reedmace. Behind the margins, the wildwoods have retreated, leaving a band of clearances where barbarians dwell. Thatched mud huts group and scatter between opened up pastures frequented by cattle, and by their small square gardens of wheat.
I see the Leva kind of barbarian here. Their heavily bearded men dress in calf-skins, wearing the cone shaped hats of hide or leather on top of their heads. In build, these barbarians are shorter than most of us savages, albeit some are broadly set. Pot bellies seem to be a common feature. Their women seem sad as they labour in their long, cow-hide skirts. I see some of these bronze-skinned mothers toil, as they carry infants on their backs. I do find the long, fine hair of their girls appealing.
Children are everywhere. They run up to the banks of the river casting their toy javelins at our canoe. Then they yell out curses with strangled tongues. Out of naivety or mischief, our adopted son stands up and waves back at the Leva children. He smiles innocently, sending the little barbarians scuttling around to then throw stones at us. They’re too slow, for soon, we paddle around another bend of this stream.
We approach a timber walkway jutting over the waterway. The Tiaa chatter with excitement. A barbarian calls out from the jetty, and Vultrallão bows in response before he instructs the crew,
‘They expect their boat of many timbers to berth. We should beach at that shore’. He points to a nearby stony beach where other small boats have been dragged up from the tidal waters. The Tiaa men know when to leap from their craft, and we do the same, lest we damage the frail hull of tree bark. I lift Qan out and carry the heavy lump up to dry ground. I know he hates the cold waters on his feet.
A delegation of coneheads arrive as the Tiaa unload their cargo of gifts. Vultrallão acts as translator. I listen to the sound of their alien words. One squat barbarian fellow stares at me as though I have no spirit within. However, I heed Vultrallão’s warnings, moving closer to Su’lan, and stare down at my feet. It transpires our grinning spokesman has successfully negotiated an exchange to take place inside their long house of many timbers.
Vultrallão tells us, ‘the Leva inform me they have a concubine brought here by Saabiaske’s orphans from the wilds of the north’.
I’m excited by this news. Yet saddened to hear her described as a subsidiary wife, a breeding serf of barbarian men. I have been tormented by such thought ever since Lanella spat out her curse. Nevertheless, it's good news. The delegation of Leva coneheads beckons us to follow them to their longhouse. I feel trepidation at leaving our watercraft to venture through this occupied land. Su’lan shares my concerns, and asks of Vultrallão,
‘These barbarians freely admit to keeping our women as their captives. How do we know we’re not being led into a trap?’
Vultrallão claps a hand onto Su’lan’s shoulder, smiles at both of us, and pacifies, ‘We Tiaa visit this camp frequently to exchange. These foreigners may be dangerous, but their Pioneers’ Hall is a sacred place where no Leva man would dishonour ancestors with violence’.
We tread a trail leading through their lands. The three Tiaa men act as porters for the cargo of gifts. Aliens gawk at our presence, I clutch Qan by his little shoulders and stay close to the side of my man. Each stare from a farmer, I gaze down obediently to avoid staring back. We march past their wheat gardens inhabited only by dirt or by tall stubble. Vultrallão sees our interest, and informs,
‘Tall grasses with heavy seed heads of fat grain were propagated within these gardens. The Leva ferment the seeds to make beer, or grind them to make their bread flour.
I ask, ‘These grasses are alien to our world are they not?’
‘Yes, the farmers will soon scatter more of these seeds back into the soils, as do some wild folk with the hazel, but with vastly more determination’.
‘This determination sounds like much work’ I retort ‘why must they make their lives so hard? Is their food so much fattier? Is it sweeter than our black bee honey?’
Vultrallão grins deeply, ‘No, their diet isn't richer, and they need to strip the wilds of wellbeing. They produce much bland food, with which to feed more children’.
I express disbelief. We leave these strange gardens behind to pass through a campsite. The barbarian hovels seem uninviting to my savage eyes. I’d prefer the warm snugness of one of our own dens built of forest vegetation. Once past this camp of Leva farmhouses, I see cattle chewing the coppice growth of felled tree stumps. They noisily munch, preventing resurgence of Nature. Forthcoming all life will be extinguished from these stumps of old giants. It’s as though the beasts aid the Leva in thinning out our old woodlands.
We move alongside woodland pastures, and climb a gentle ascent to reach an escarpment. From here, at the bottom of a dry valley, the longhouse comes into view. Vultrallão sees wonder on our faces and boasts,
‘It’s an incredible house isn’t it? The Leva call it their Pioneers’ Hall. See how many flat planks they've skilfully split from tall trees. Marvel at the size of the roof. Their carpenters have great Sun-magic’.
I’m genuinely impressed by the structure. The building of split timbers is impressive. The hall has been roofed with sedge, and I’m curious to know how its weight is supported. Never before in my lifetime have I seen such a large building, and its shape and straight, transgential split planks reminds me of the longboat arks these foreigners craft. Maybe these buildings were inspired by the pioneer seaboats that brought them to our lands?
We step down to the hall, into a courtyard surrounding two large boulder stones, and a circle of tall timber posts. Vultrallão tells us,
‘Here we must be cleansed before we may enter their sacred hall’.
A barbarian priest wearing a crown of bull horns, and a calfskin kilt, emerges from the hall. This bullman curses angrily as he prances around. I think he intends to frighten away our wild and deviant spirits. Qan salutes him with his signing of the bearded bull. One at a time the Bullman hands to us a small bone cup filled with a suspicious potion. I reluctantly consume it, before he then urges us to join him in dance. I begin to feel sweaty and nauseous. We take turns in vomiting. This ritual is complete, and we're invited to enter their hall.
Inside I gaze up to better appreciate how their clever builders have erected joined timbers, strengthened by withies, to support that heavy roof. I stare at the far end, it seems so far away, notwithstanding I understand the far end is more narrow than that of the entrance. The floor space has been divided by a series of low walls of wattle, into a number of stalls. A central aisle further dissects these stalls into left and right. Some stalls appear to be the private spaces of individual clans. They’re populated by domestic artefacts. Maybe the Leva live within this hall seasonally, before they return to their houses? These folk are so strange.
We enter one stall reserved for exchange. The Tiaa men lay down their gifts to the Leva. The Bullman priest inspects the gifts as other coneheads watch on. It seems they value our red deer antler most highly. The foreigners chatter, and involve our Tiaa spokesman, who turns to Su’lan with a translation,
‘This is a most fortunate day. The Leva are happy with what we have brought them, and have sent for the concubine to be delivered’.
My heart beats fast at hearing this news. I’m excited, and cannot wait to hold my Ur’salla. I hope she isn't too broken. New silhouettes arrive at a bright entrance to enter the hall. I see a female shape, and that she carries with her a babe! I hold my breath in anticipation of our reunion. They move closer, and light falls onto their faces. Oh no. It isn't Ur’salla who carries the sleeping babe. She’s wildborn, but bears neither the mark on the moon, nor of goshawk. Rather she has the mark of the Lynx upon a shoulder.
I’m so heartbroken. In despair I turn to Su’lan,
‘This isn't my Ur’salla’.
The poor concubine mother perks up at hearing my words, and in our own tongue, she asks, ‘You’re searching for Ur’salla the Huntress? I’m Aniko of-the-Willow. Yet I know of Ur’salla, late of the Goshawk.’
I gulp, and then ask Aniko, ‘Yes, that would be my dear friend who we seek. Please Aniko, is she here with you?’
‘I’m sorry, we were together in the camp of saltpans, where Ur’salla was my friend. When I last saw her, she was given to another commune of the Leva.’
‘Would you know where this other commune of the Leva is camped? Is it near this hall? I ask.
Aniko answers, ‘She was sent to join a commune of pioneers, who dwell on the edges of the wilds, north of the Serpentine estuary’
An idea formulates within my head, and I turn to our Tiaa friend for support, ‘Vultrallão, could you ask the Leva men here, if Lanella and Saabiaske take refuge within this camp?’
He turns to address the Bullman and the coneheads. They send out for some third party. Another of their priests return, but this old fellow dons the straw robes, and he carries with him a handsome, long handled axe. I see Aniko glare at the tool, as though in some sort of horrified recognition. The strawman joins the conversation, and Vultrallão conveys to us,
‘This strawman brags that he healed the rogue named Saabiaske. They absconded in a hurry, before Lanella had fully paid their debt to him. He’s heard rumours she'd been seen talking with a respected pioneer from the northern shores. An elderman named Paaxti. The Strawman thinks they accompanied Paaxti on his return to his camp of Oma’.
I think quick. Ur’salla was taken to a pioneer camp of the Leva that lies north of the salty waters. Now Lanella and her Man flee to a camp named Oma. I think we should head back to the north side.
I ask Vultrallão, ‘You have been so kind and generous, yet I will ask if you may take us to this Leva camp called Oma?’
His smile is replaced by anguish, ‘Tashkilla, I’m sorry, for my folk are in dispute over grazing rights with the Leva of Oma. I can take you back to our own camp, and direct you there?’ He turns and waves a hand at Aniko, ‘though what of this poor woman? We have laid out our gifts in exchange’.
Aniko herself intervenes, ‘Please, I don’t wish to leave this land. I think my own folk are gone, and even if not, I couldn't bear the shame of returning’. She glances down at her babe, ‘Life here was hard at first, but it has become easier. My daughter doesn’t belong to the wild, and her father is a kind husband. This is now our home’.
I feel saddened to hear of Aniko's defeat to the barbarian culture, but it's her own decision. Nervously, we thank the priests and the Leva exchangers. To their credit, they don't permit the Tiaa to leave empty handed. Vultrallão and his men are loaded with pots full of preserves.
Safely back in the Tiaa canoe, the men paddle downstream, ignoring the taunts of petulant barbarian youths who try to pelt us with their stones. We steer course north across the estuary, back to the tents of the Tiaa.