Читать книгу The Gathering Night - Margaret Elphinstone - Страница 9

My son Bakar went out alone at the end of Yellow Leaf Moon. He wanted to train the young dog, so he left the other dogs behind. He had his bow and nine arrows. No spear. His spear had been broken the day Bakar and Amets killed the boar by the High Lochan. Though he’d started to make a new one, he still had to finish the barbs. That last hunt had been worth breaking a spear for! We were very happy that evening when Bakar and Amets came back to River Mouth Camp with the dead boar slung on a pole. We had the cooking pit ready, so they singed the skin at once, butchered the meat by firelight and gave it to us to cook right away.

After that it rained for three days. We cut up the rest of the boar and hung the strips of meat to dry in the shelter. Bakar and Amets cleaned the boar’s skull and wedged it into the crook of River Mouth Hazel. We all stopped what we were doing while they told the Boar how we’d eaten his meat, and now we were happy because we were his children. Then Alaia and Haizea went back to tending the fire of rotten birch logs that smoked under the drying meat. Bakar walked over Breast Hill to collect pine branches. We have to walk a long way from River Mouth Camp to get pine. He was soaked through when he came back; I hung his leggings and tunic to dry in the meat shelter.

Bakar propped up the tent flap to make himself a shelter, and squatted under it, wearing nothing but his loincloth while his clothes dried. Raindrops dripped off the door flap and ran down his back. The marks of Auk and Wolf and Bear written across his shoulders gleamed as if they were alive, prowling in the secret hunting lands of a man’s dreams. Bakar untied the bundle of pine lengths, chose the straightest, and stripped off the bark. He took a flint core from his pouch and chipped off a new blade. My son nearly always got just the blade he wanted at the first strike – nothing wasted. He flicked out the knife blade he’d used for cutting the boar meat, and carefully glued in a new blade. Then he shaved his pine lengths into supple wands; at the tip of each he carved rounded heads. As he finished each bird arrow he balanced it on his finger, testing the weight. He fletched each one with crows’ feathers. He looked up when Haizea came back, dripping wet, lugging a big eel in a basket.

‘Is that my dinner? It looks as if it’s been in a fight!’

‘It has. I had to bash its head right in to get it out of the trap. Are you making new arrows? What will you do with the old ones?’

Bakar was always teasing his little sister. But he was kind to her as well, in his way. ‘Now why would you be asking me that? Surely you don’t want any? All right’ – Bakar shook three old arrows out of his quiver – ‘here! You can try to mend them if you like.’

‘My bow isn’t big enough for these arrows.’

‘Your bow? What’s wrong with a sling?’

‘Babies use slings and pebbles! I want a proper bow!’

‘The finest hunters test their skill on slings! Don’t let the spirits hear you getting above yourself, Haizea!’ But Bakar was always soft-hearted. When Haizea trailed away, looking upset – as well she might – he called her back. ‘Here, take the arrows, stupid. You can cut them down to fit your bow.’

When he had made his arrows and re-strung his bow, Bakar went back to mending his broken spear. While he cut the barbs and smoothed them with pumice, I used the rest of the pinewood to make the fire hot, and smothered the eel in the ashes. When it was roasted I pulled it out of the fire and cut it into juicy slices of delicious white meat.

‘Eat now while it’s hot! You can finish binding that afterwards, Bakar. It won’t run away!’

Bakar propped his half-mended spear against the Hollow Oak, and laid the leftover piece of antler next to the tent. As soon as the Sun came out Bakar went out with his bow, his six new bird arrows and three flint-tipped arrows. He meant to teach the young dog to retrieve birds. He had his knife at his belt. He was wearing his deerskin tunic and leggings – without any cloak, because the Sun was hot. I filled his pouch with roasted hazelnuts. That was all he had with him.

He never came back.

The dog didn’t come back either. Yellow Leaf Moon passed, and Swan Moon. The days grew shorter. Day after day I searched for my son. I walked the shores of River Mouth country, and wandered among the marshes. I followed the deer paths through the oaks, and climbed high among birch and juniper. I often climbed our Look-out Hill. I scanned the marshes, and the open water of the estuary beyond. I searched the ridges of the protecting hills that surround our River Mouth. I walked over the hills until I saw the snow-covered cone of Mother Mountain far-off under the High Sun Sky.

Day after day I, who had always provided so well for my family, brought nothing home. Alaia and Haizea gathered roots, hazelnuts, acorns and mushrooms until Swan Moon. It was they who set the bird traps, collected shellfish and speared flatfish, and dug for roots among the reeds. They cooked the food and roasted the nuts, and fed the men when they got home. My man and Amets hunted small game, and sometimes went after the deer who come down to graze in the marshes when the days grow shorter. No one needed me. Never before had I taken more than I gave.

Day after day I searched for my son. I slept alone under the stars, and in the mornings my cloak was stiff with frost. I didn’t stop to find food, but I felt no hunger. I journeyed far from River Mouth Camp. I followed the shores that faced the Evening Sun Sky. I borrowed a boat and crossed to Cave Island; my sister Hilargi’s family hadn’t seen my son. I followed the shore of Mother Mountain Loch and asked at every Camp I came to. No one had word of my son. I crossed Mother Mountain Island to the shore that faces the Morning Sun Sky, and I walked the coast of Long Strait. None of our kin at any of the winter Camps had seen my son. The tides had washed the sands clean, and I found no trace of him. I turned inland towards the Long Loch. As I wandered among the oaks I found the tracks of deer and pig, bear and beaver, fox, lynx, marten, cat and wolf. But there were no human tracks among them. I never found a trace of Bakar.

Swan Moon came and went. Now it was Dark Moon. The snow came. The days were too short for travel. I was forced to go back to River Mouth Camp.

I heard the ring of stone on stone long before I reached our clearing, and when I got there I found Amets using a wedge to split birch logs from the tree the beavers felled, and Alaia, with her big belly, stacking firewood under the shelter. A fresh deer hide, a seal hide and two beaver pelts were stretched on frames to dry. My husband and Haizea were sitting together on a log by the door, their heads bent over some work.

They all stopped what they were doing when they saw me. My man smiled at me kindly; Amets and Alaia seemed subdued. Only my younger daughter jumped up and hugged me. No one asked about my journey. Haizea has never been able to give her mind to more than one thing at once. She dragged me over to where my man was sitting: ‘Mother, look! See my new bow! I made it! Actually Father helped me make it. We went upriver to find juniper yesterday, and we carved it and greased it with ochre – see! And today we strung it. Now we’re making arrows – we’re just gluing the arrowheads. I made the glue myself – look!’

It was warm and dry inside the winter house. While I’d been gone they’d stripped the walls back to the bark during a dry spell, and built fresh turfs over it. Amets and Alaia had laid new birchbark round the smoke hole, and lined the inside walls with hides. Haizea had cleared out the old pine twigs and strewn new ones across the floor. She and Alaia had climbed into the hills and brought back juniper to lay under the birch boughs in our sleeping places. The beds on both sides of the hearth were covered with winter furs. Firewood was stacked almost to the roof, and there was even more under the shelter between the oaks outside. Haunches of deer and beaver meat hung from the roof, and a string of saithe dangled in the smoke above the fire. Baskets of reed-roots, lily-roots, roasted hazelnuts and orange earth-mushrooms were lashed to the walls. I saw Alaia’s hand everywhere. I wanted to praise her, but somehow the words came out wrong. She seemed angry that I should mention her work at all.

It was the season when an old woman should make herself comfortable by the hearth. I had the promise of Alaia’s child to rock in my arms before the winter was out. But I cared for none of these things. I was starved with cold and hunger from my long wanderings. You’d think I’d be glad of food and shelter and the warmth of the fire.

But it was all ashes in my mouth, because Bakar was lost, and I’d found no trace of him.

Young men must die.

When we meet at Gathering Camp there’s always news that young men have died. They die at sea when they fish far out; they die hunting bear or boar or a stag in rut; they die in spring when they climb the sea cliffs; they die killing one another. When they kill each other it’s either because of a woman, or in a brawl at the Gathering. But when Bakar was lost the Gathering was long over and we were all in our winter Camps. There were no women to be had when we were alone at River Mouth Camp, and no groups of young men to goad one another into foolishness. Bakar wouldn’t have strayed into another family’s hunting grounds from River Mouth Camp. Why should he? There were plenty of Animals where we were, and if he had gone further, why then he’d have had to carry the meat all the way back home, and what would have been the point of that? And if others had come into our winter grounds, then surely I’d have found signs of them in my wanderings.

Young men must die.

But not my son! Every mother thinks that: ‘not my son!’ Some mothers have sons to spare. My sister Sorné has five sons, and never lost one. I had only one, and he’d gone.

If young men didn’t die there’d be too many. If some didn’t die People would grow dangerous, subject to the violent spirit of youth. Young men must die, just as young Animals must die when we hunt them. If there weren’t so much death we’d all perish, and not be able to come back. I’d always known that young men must die. But not my son!

In Dark Moon, after Bakar was lost, the world grew strange around me. I began to see things that had been hidden – small movements out of the corner of my eye, shadows of other presences. Sometimes I stretched my hand out into the dark, full of longing – for what I didn’t know – but whatever it was slipped from under my touch. In every breath I took I heard an echo. The more I strained to hear, the faster it faded away. The chat and clatter of my family grated on me. I couldn’t listen – I couldn’t watch – I couldn’t answer the call I heard so clearly in my dreams. I had to get away from other People. Something new was happening to me. But I never thought – I was only an old woman – the wife of my husband – the mother of my children – what was I, after all? I never – not yet – not then – I never thought, ‘Go-Between’.