Slow Turns The World Read online

  “Then tell me,” said Casan, “when she calls you 'Nagul the swift', is it the speed of your feet she speaks of?”

  Nagul's face flushed as the men roared out their laughter.

  “Aye, you can laugh,” said Casan sweeping her eyes slowly over them, “but do not forget that it is to me that women come when potions are needed; potions for all afflictions…”

  Several of the men lowered their gaze while the others laughed louder still.

  The moon Kanu, small and swift, sank into the east, becoming blood red as the horizon consumed it. It marked the beginning of the sleeping time, and Torrin lay with Varna within their tent. There were storms on the distant plain, great towers of cloud that hid the sun, which flickered and rumbled. The air was thick and warm within the leather dome.

  “Husband, do you sleep?”

  “My body would sleep, but my mind is restless…”

  “What troubles you?”

  “Perrith's father is old,” said Torrin, “as old as any man I have known. Some say he has nearly walked full circle around the world and that he may come again to the place of his birth.”

  “But now his legs are pained,” said Varna, “and to walk becomes a torment.”

  “I believe his journey is over Varna; that it shall end here, and this Perrith knows too.”

  “Perrith bonds deeply with his father.”

  “So do we all. He was father to every one of us before he passed the pendant to Perrith. To walk on without him will be a greater burden than if we were to carry the old man upon our backs.”

  “And knowing this, Perrith lingers….”

  “As might any of us….”

  “No, husband, if you led us it would be otherwise.”

  “Varna. I have walked alone on the plain and listened to the quietest voice within me, according to our way. It was Perrith that pulled me from beneath the hooves of the barak that killed my father. It was Perrith that became both my father and my brother. I know no wiser nor better man and I shall serve him.”

  They lay quietly for a while before Torrin turned towards her and gently pulled away the hide that covered them. He looked at her naked body, at her lean strong limbs, at the breasts that had grown fuller and firmer as the dome of flesh beneath had swelled. He ran his palms over the silk smooth skin and she smiled back at him.

  “What would you do hunter?” she whispered. “Is there something you seek?”

  “Aye. There is a trophy I would have…”

  “Then…” she said, stroking his body, from shoulder, chest to belly, and then lower still, with a feather-light fingertip, “you will need a straighter stronger spear than this…”

  She rolled upon him and her lips left tiny moist spots of warmth upon his neck while her gently teasing fingers moved upon him.

  “Now hunter…. Are you ready… to make your thrust?”

  “Aye…”

  “Good, for the beast springs upon you.” She pinned his hands down and sat astride him. With the gentlest movement of her hips she slid onto him and took him deep inside.

  “And…” she whispered, eyes closing, “is not quickly tamed.”

  They slept at last but then Torrin sat up suddenly.

  “Listen,” he said, “do you hear?”

  There was a faint and distant sound amongst the growling thunder.

  “A horn,” said Varna, “sounded three times.”

  Torrin leapt to his feet, pulled on his leather jerkin and left the tent with spear and bow. Outside, many of the men had emerged and had already put arrows to their bowstrings. The repeated three calls of the horn became louder. In the distance, across the gentle hillocks of the plain two running figures could be seen.

  “It is Valhad,” said one of the men, lowering his bow.

  “Aye, and Turnal.”

  Valhad and Turnal were son and daughter of Perrith. Babes who had shared the womb and grown from a common seed, though none would guess it. Turnal was in every way Casan's daughter; tall, slender, beautiful and fierce. She hunted with the men; drank with them, joked with them. She would even wrestle by the fireside and never lacked a challenger, for how else might a man embrace her? But Valhad? Some said Turnal had stolen his courage in the womb for he had never killed any beast with spear or blade. But he was the chieftain's son and when Perrith's journey ended it was to Valhad that the pendant should pass. It would be Valhad that stood before the Vasagi to offer his service as chieftain. But his ascendancy was not assured, for many preferred Turnal. The barak taught the Vasagi many lessons; they knew that it was not always a bull that the herd followed and gave submission to. Turnal, if she was chosen, would not be the first woman to lead the tribe.

  Torrin knew there was more to Valhad than the others guessed. Some moons before there had been a great bull barak that was made lame and mad with pain. Torrin had watched unseen as Valhad came and sang to the beast as the women do when drawing milk. Valhad had soothed it, stroked its head between the deadly horns and then reached down to pull a jagged flint from the cloven hoof. Then Torrin knew then that the courage of Valhad was of another kind, and that he might be like no other chieftain the tribe had known.

  Perrith went out to meet them. They stopped before him panting and sweating. Turnal spoke first.

  “The Ummakil…”

  “Where? How far? What have you seen?”

  “We saw smoke, my father,” said Valhad, “from the hilltop yonder, we saw it in the east, by the forest's edge.”

  Perrith turned to the gathered tribe.

  “Pathfinder!” he commanded and Rasgan hurried forward.

  “Pathfinder, what other tribes might pass by here?”

  “None that we have ever known. None save one, and I fear it is them.”

  The lightning flashed again and several heartbeats passed before the rumble came. Perrith looked at the many faces turned towards him in expectant silence and spoke again.

  “We shall move. Torrin, take who you will and drive the barak west. Let all others prepare to walk.”

  The Ummakil followed much the same pathway as the Vasagi, but lived most times in the chill twilight that follows sunset. They lived in a cruel land, perpetually at the end of autumn. It was a place where all things died and withered, where no birds sang from the branches that reached upwards with naked twig fingers to a cold and purple sky. They hunted with dogs and ate the meat of the beasts that had lost their way, or did not have the inner voice that urged them on towards a warmer brighter land. The Ummakil lived in the cold dark margin of the living world and had themselves become cold of heart. To them all that lived was to be hacked, burnt, hunted and consumed; be it tree, beast, or other tribe. Most times the Ummakil were a distant menace; but once or twice in a man’s life, they would move into the east, into the brighter lands and set their dogs upon all who dwelt there.

  As Kanu rose again, its dark orb creeping across the disc of the setting sun, Torrin led a band of fifty hunters across the plain towards the grazing barak. The thousand animals that made the herd were already restless and skittish because of the approaching storms. To drive them on would be a perilous task. The Vasagi fanned out across the plain crouching low. Here and there stood the rianna trees; great slender towers breaking into spidery meshes high above. Their bark was black and gnarled like stone, for they stood many lifetimes and journeyed through the great darkness, then through the warmer fertile days of light, through the time of searing heat and back again into the long sunset. Their last crown of leaves was falling and none would sprout again for half a lifetime, until the world made half a turn.

  Torrin heard light foot falls approaching as Turnal and Valhad joined him.

  “Father sent us to join you,” whispered Turnal as she knelt beside him. “That you should show us the way of the task.”

  “The task is simple enough,” replied Torrin, “to make the herd run, in the direction we choose, without any of us being killed or trampled. We must be careful for if they see our number too so
on they will move away, but not far or fast enough. And the bulls may attack.”

  Torrin stood slowly and looked along the line of hunters.

  “Turnal,” he said “Go to the end of the line and make it longer. Try to keep them from running back behind us. Valhad, stay here with me.”

  Turnal sped off between the scattered trees, her dark locks bobbing.

  “What shall I do, Torrin?” Asked Valhad.

  “Stay close to me.”

  “Should I not take a place in the line with the others?”

  Torrin turned to look at the young man beside him. He had the blue eyes of Perrith, but bluer still, as blue as any flower that ever grew, and hair as golden as Varna's. There was an earnest enquiring smile surrounded by a short wispy beard. It was the eyes that had some special quality, that pierced deep and seemed to speak as if words were in them.

  “I would bring at least one of you home alive, Valhad.”

  “This is how your father died?”

  Torrin looked into those blue eyes for a silent moment, then nodded, for it was so, and the old pictures in his mind of a falling, rolling body under trampling hooves troubled him much. It was as though Valhad knew that, as if he could look through the mask of Torrin’s eyes and read the private words within.

  “Will they run or fight today, Torrin?”

  “The thunder makes them strange and I would not guess how it will be. Stay close and do not chase them far beyond the trees for they might turn. And if you cannot escape hold your spear well; you know where the point must go.”

  Valhad looked uneasily at the carved bone forming the point of the weapon.

  “You know I have never killed any beast, Torrin.”

  “You never needed to. That may soon change.”

  Torrin jumped up and led the line of hunters forward. They ran towards the herd, shouting, slapping their hands together and waving tasseled spears above them. As one the startled barak turned their heads. Many took off, cantered a little and then stopped to see what threatened them. Several of the bulls darted from side to side and bellowed defiance. The hunters ran on towards the milling animals, still shouting and waving. Torrin glanced to the right and saw that part of the herd already galloping in flight. He turned to the left and watched as a lone bull charged at the line of advancing figures. He saw one hunter scooped and tossed into the air; the man landed heavily, rolled through the grass but quickly sprang upright. The bull spun ready to attack again but a swift darting figure diverted its attention and drew it away. Although the scene was distant Torrin recognised Turnal weaving through the grass, leading the bull towards a broad rianna tree. She hid behind the trunk and began a deadly game as the enraged animal chased her in circles, butting and gouging the ancient timber.

  Torrin’s pace had slowed as he watched the drama but now he focused again on the herd ahead. Valhad had run onwards many paces and there were few trees now; he was fast approaching a group of animals that had stopped and stood their ground. Before them a bull roared and waved its head warningly. Valhad sped on towards it shouting loud, spear held high and waving. Torrin knew the barak would charge. It pawed the ground, head down, the curled horns poised to break and crush whatever bone and sinew stood before them; with a snort it bounded forward, its huge bulk gaining speed with every cloven footfall, its eye fixed on Valhad.

  “Valhad!” Torrin shouted above the cries and thunderous footfalls. “Turn! Turn! Save yourself!”

  Valhad stopped but did not turn. Time seemed to lose its pace, as he slowly lowered the spear and set its point towards the charging beast. It was a huge dominant bull that no single thrust, from even the strongest of hunters, would easily slay. Torrin watched as the mountain of hide, horn and muscle bore down on the solitary figure of the young man, knowing that a moment of death must come. But then, in the instant before the horns struck, Valhad turned the spear, grasped it by the point and brought the shaft crashing down upon the animal’s head. And as he struck he leapt aside, rolled upon the grass, and then sprang up. The stunned beast skidded to a halt and turned with blinking eyes, but Valhad was upon it, striking with the spear shaft again and again. The animal pulled away and cantered a few paces. It turned, snorting, and with an eye already half closed by bruising, it watched uncertainly as Valhad paced towards it. He screamed and raised the spear shaft to strike once more and the barak bolted away across the plain. The shouts of the hunters ceased and were replaced by the galloping of four thousand hooves, already growing distant.

  Placing a hand upon Valhad's shoulder, Torrin said,

  “I have never seen any hunter do what you have done. No spear thrust could have saved you.”

  “Yes, but that was not the reason. I cannot kill, Torrin, even to save myself. There is a feeling inside me…sometimes almost a voice that speaks...this is not my path…I am not made to hold a spear. And I shall not be chieftain.”

  “You will not take the birthright?”

  “Turnal is born to it, not me. There is some other path. That is what the quietest voice whispers to me. There is some other purpose. I feel it, Torrin. I feel it, like knowing that the rain will come.”

  Then he seemed to gaze into some distance that was of the mind, not of the eyes.

  “You are young, Valhad,” said Torrin, “and perhaps you yearn for more than our life provides. You look to me, to the other hunters, and to the elders, and you see the pattern of your life already woven. I too once wanted to wander from our path and to fill in the spaces on our maps. But enough now, the barak run and we must follow.”

  There had been no serious injuries; the hunter tossed by the bull had cracked some ribs, but Turnal's intervention had prevented something much worse. They returned to the camp where every leather dome had been taken down, the skins folded and packed ready for travel. The time of walking had nearly come and all but the very youngest and oldest prepared to shoulder their loads. Thunder still sounded and had crept closer so that now their path would take them straight towards the flickering towers of smoke-grey cloud. Another cloud, of dust, rising from the plain ahead marked the onward gallop of the barak herd. Torrin watched as the mist drifted on a thin breeze and he wondered how far the animals would run, and if there might be a time of hunger, soon to come.

  He saw Perrith standing with both hands upon the shoulders of a stooped old man. Perrith's father would not walk with the tribe and he knew that when they departed the old man would chew the special herb that brought an end to all pain. For how else could it be while the world turned? Chew the herb or let the Ummakil chew upon you. And, if they pass by, then there is only creeping darkness and cold. So it was for the old, the lame, and the weak. There were others who should also have ended their journey; a crippled child who grew beyond the size of carrying and an old woman who was lifted by her sons upon a litter. There was a custom that no person was ever made to chew the herb, but also that the tribe would never slow the pace of travelling or return to find those who had lagged behind.

  And so the Vasagi walked, three hundred figures, each bearing their load, some with the youngest children perched upon their pack. The sun filled their eyes and darkness brooded behind them. The sunset was their beacon, their compass, like an elusive rainbow that might ever be pursued but never reached. At the head of the column went Perrith and Rasgan. Rasgan, the Pathfinder, was keeper of the old maps and maker of the new. He knew every tale of every land they crossed that had been passed down between the generations. Sometimes he would scout ahead seeking the mark carved upon rock and tree by his father’s fathers; men who had in their turn held the maps and guided the tribe on their endless girdle of the world. The great moon Azex slipped into the east and would not return until Kanu made its circle around them twelve times; twelve cycles of walking resting, and sleeping.

  The tribe walked on, under the shroud of the storms and the rains drenched them. Kanu, hidden behind the clouds, gave no measure of the passing time. When weariness told them the time to sleep had come they curl
ed and crouched beneath the leather hides with the drumming rain sounding in their ears. In the far distance, at the edge of the Plain of Ashank, loomed a mass of mountain peaks that grew a little with every march. They chewed upon meat and fruit that were dried and stored ready for the walking times. They walked, slept, chewed, and the moon spun twice in its cycle that was the measure of their lives. Varna grew bigger as the babe within kicked ever harder. Then the storms passed away, revealing once again the reddening sun hanging barely higher than the nearing mountains, with Azex rising in its glare, and little Kanu riding high above.

  Another walk, another rest, another walk. Now the great plain rippled with gentle hills and the sun became a blazing crescent as the mountain ridge eclipsed it. With each march it became a thinner arc, as they walked into the mountain's shadow. Then it was gone and they journeyed in a darker, cooler land while above them drifted streams of crimson, pink and ochre cloud. Perrith sent scouts both ahead and behind; some to seek the barak herd and others to watch for signs of the Ummakil. When news passed back it was what they most dreaded, for there was no sighting of the barak, but on the plain behind them smoke rose again. The tribe walked on, growing weary, with the nagging clutching of empty bellies. The land was changing, becoming strewn with boulders and they reached a great finger of rock taller than a dozen men that was carved with many symbols. Rasgan, Torrin and Perrith examined it closely.

  “Here is the mark of our people,” said Rasgan, unrolling a faded skin, “and here upon the map the stone is shown.”

  Torrin traced his fingers upon ancient weathered surface.

  “There are many markings that I do not know,” he said.

  “Aye,” agreed Perrith. “For many are the tribes who have walked this way, each according to their place upon the world. Is this where our path must leave the way of the barak, Rasgan?”

  “It is, Perrith. The herds have gone yonder, into the forests and then the winding valley that leads to the sea. Now our way lies there…” He pointed up to the dark bulk of the mountains whose upper ridges and peaks were highlighted with an aura of crimson sunlight.