Tsuga's Children (27 page)

He gave a long cry as he dropped his ax and turned to see where the arrow had come from, then saw Bren, who stood with the long bow, and Arel, Arn and Jen, whose pale young faces shone in the firelight. “The
children!
” he cried in despair. “Gods of the Chigai, are you defeated by children?” and fell dead.

Three of the guards bent to Mori, while the other two came after the children. They got halfway before a whisk of angry arrows swept them down. On the ledges figures in brown buckskin appeared, bows drawn.

“Surrender!” they called to the three guards around Mori’s body. The confused guards, who thought their side triumphant, tried to stand and draw their bows, but all three went down with several arrows in their bodies.

“Jen and Arel, Arn and Bren!” came a woman’s voice, and the children ran to the ledges to find Runa and the young man with the weathered face, several of the councillors and others. Bren had gone to his father’s side, where the big man lay beside the fire.

Arel’s arms were around her mother. “But we thought they had killed you!” Arel cried.

“There will be a reckoning at daybreak,” Runa said. “But no; we led them into the darkness, where our hunters’ eyes knew better how to see.”

The council fire was kept fueled with wood throughout the night as the badly wounded, Chigai as well as those in brown buckskin, were brought in and placed near its warmth. Aguma, Runa and others tended them. Most of the people rolled up in their sleeping-skins and slept, exhausted by the fighting. Bren sat unsleeping near his father, who woke toward morning and called out for Tsuga.

In the cold light of pre-dawn the thin old man made his way down the ledges and stood, leaning on his long bow, over Andaru.

“Forgive me if you can, Tsuga. If not, I can’t blame you,” Andaru said.

“Your son has forgiven you,” Tsuga said.

Andaru could hardly look at Bren. “I am proud and ashamed,” he said. “I was bitter toward life and chose the powers of death; I do not deserve such a son.”

“You did not serve death that obediently,” Tsuga said. “You saved old Ganonoot from a soldier’s ax—an act of mercy, no matter how little you thought it at the time.”

“Tell Runa,” Andaru said, his voice fading. “Tell Runa that I didn’t know Mori would have them kill Amu, or sacrifice her daughter. I was told other things.”

“Amu and Arel are alive,” Tsuga said.

“Thank Ahneeah, then,” Andaru said, and died.

Though Bren’s face was wet, he made no sound. He looked once at the dead face of his father, the face so much like his own with its dark, overshadowing brows, then sat until full dawn staring into the moving embers of the fire.

At dawn the people gathered at the council fire. The dead were moved to a place on the meadow within sight of the Tree and the Cave of Forgetfulness, where they would be buried.

Most of the people of the Chigai had left during the night, in their confusion and panic, but a hundred or more had stayed. From this group a delegation had come to Aguma and Tsuga. Their leader, an old white-haired man, was the last of the former councillors, the rest having been imprisoned and killed by Mori and his guards.

“It will be hard for our people to go back to freedom,” he said. “But we have been sad and lethargic under Mori’s rule, frightened by the death-fear of the animals. We have yearned for Ahneeah’s justice.”

“We are all one people,” Tsuga said. “May we remember that we do not own the world or its creatures.” He looked over at the four children, Bren and Arel still wearing their sacrificial clothing. “This night may well have had a sadder ending—though it is sad enough for many.

“Now we will bury our dead, and may their spirits enter the Cave of Forgetfulness.”

Later in the day, after the burial of the dead and a meal for the living, the people gathered again at the council fire. It was time to tell of the battle, and of the deeds of those who were no longer there.

Twenty men and women of the people had fallen. There would be empty hogans in the winter camp, orphans, old people with two families, but the people would take care of this.

The stories were told. The old councillor whose face had long ago been clawed into deep red furrows and his right arm taken by a bear swore that three times in the battle, when Chigai came at his armless side and would have killed him, a great black bear had suddenly appeared out of the darkness and with a swipe of a paw killed his attacker and saved his life. “I swear it!” he said. “Their axes were no match for him!”

Jen found Tsuga’s eyes upon her when the old councillor said that. Tsuga nodded, with almost a trace of a smile—or at least a brighter gleam in his somber old eyes.

Bren said, “It was Jen who set the wild leaders free—the wolf, the boar and the bear.”

Runa told of the fight in the pine forest, and how Am had shot the half-wolf before he could leap upon her, and how Amu had not died; he rested now in his hogan at the winter camp.

The councillor in goat skins and the councillor of the reasonable gestures sat quietly and said nothing. The people knew they had both run away during the fighting. Some of those who had been most in favor of the Chigai, however, had changed at the sight of the living children on the altar, and the news of Amu’s being shot in the back, and Mori’s arrogance. And aside from the guards, few of the people of the Chigai had fought for Mori.

All knew how Bren had taken a man’s heavy bow and shot the arrow that ended Mori’s life. No longer would they laugh at him for wanting to grow up too soon and be a great hunter.

Aguma said, “Now we will carry our wounded back to the winter camp, where there is food, shelter and medicine for them. We will remember this night as the Battle at the Tree, and when all of the story is known, it will be told at the evening fires.”

As the people prepared to go to the winter camp, Tsuga came to Jen and Am. “I know how much you want to return to your home, but first go to the winter camp. Arn’s wound, though it may seem slight, must be treated with medicines, and there you may rest and prepare for your journey.”

“Are you coming with us?” Jen asked.

“I must go to the village of the Chigai,” Tsuga said. “Jen and Arn, I have not helped you, and I cannot help you. All I can give you is knowledge, but of that you have already gained much. I can tell you to begin your journey when you have rested, that you must go alone, as you came, and that you may come upon companions who may help you.” He placed his old hands on their heads. “Now go with your grateful friends, and rest for your journey.”

Carrying their wounded on stretchers of saplings and skins, the people began the long walk back to the winter camp. They rested that night in the forest and arrived the next afternoon. The four children went immediately to Amu, who lay propped up on a bough bed in his hogan. Runa hadn’t stopped to rest in the night, so she was already there.

Amu put his hand on Bren’s shoulder. “I have heard nearly everything,” he said. “I am sorry for my brother Andaru, and proud of his son.” Arel put her head in his lap. “And my daughter, who went with Arn into danger when I thought she was going to safety in the west!” He looked at Jen. “And Jen, who hears strange thoughts, and acts upon them.”

He and Arn compared their wounds. The cut on Arn’s shoulder, though shallow, was two inches long—a scar he would bear for the rest of his life. Amu’s wounds, healing now, were raised dark welts on his back and chest, each a slashed circle.

For three days Jen and Arn rested, repaired their clothing and spent their time with their friends. Arn’s wound was treated twice a day with medicine. On the second day he and Arel walked upriver to the crossing and retrieved their packs, sleeping-skins, Arn’s bow and quiver, and their knives, finding the slightly rusty knives just where the patrol leader had made them throw them down. Arn had been afraid that Gort’s body might be there by the ashes of the fire, and was relieved to find no sign of him. He still felt badly about how he hurt Gort with his knife, even though he’d had to do it.

He was grateful to Arel for having saved his life that morning. He said, “It wasn’t told at the council fire, Arel, but I know how you saved my life, and I’ll never forget it.”

On the way back Arel took his hand as they walked along the riverbank. “Warm Arn,” she said. “I’ll never forget you.”

He looked down at her pale face, her narrow shoulders that seemed so weak, yet were strong.

The morning of the fourth day was clear and cold; it was time to leave. More and more, thoughts of their mother and father, who would think them dead, came to both Jen and Arn. They saw the sorrowing faces, the cabin cold without wood or food.

The people were sad when they said they had to go. There were offers of gifts, much too many for them to carry. They told Runa and Aguma what Tsuga had said to them, that they must go alone but might meet help along the way. The thought of the bat cave and the dank black passages through the mountain made them cold, but the thoughts of home were stronger.

Bren and Arel, Fannu and Dona wanted to go with them as far as the northern mountains, but Aguma told them that Tsuga’s words must be followed. Without a doubt, she said, Jen and Arn had been sent to them by Ahneeah, and only Tsuga would know her purposes.

All of the people of the winter camp came to the place in front of Aguma’s hogan to say goodby. The councillors spoke, even Goatskins and Reasonable Gestures, though the people would never take them seriously again. The old councillor with the furrowed face and no right arm gave Jen a necklace made of the fangs and claws of bears, his own magic against night-fear. The bowyer had made an arrow to replace the one with which Arn had shot the half-wolf in the pine forest, its steel blade the silhouette of a wolfs head. Others gave them the seeds of squash, corn and beans, all known to grow large and fast. For food for the journey they were given shelled beechnuts, butternuts and hickory nuts, smoked shandeh, venison jerky, bannock and dried fruits and berries—all light and full of nourishment.

Finally Bren and Arel came up to them, carrying the parkas decorated with beadwork in black and white, made of the softest skins and trimmed with the fur of the white winter weasel. “This one was made for you, anyway,” Bren said, smiling—a rare expression for him.

Jen said immediately, “We’ll trade, Arel,” took off her parka with the red fox fur border and exchanged with Arel.

Arn said, taking the decorated parka, “Then you must have my knife, Bren. I remember you said it was
yodehna.
I want you to have it.”

Bren took a step backwards, his face stiff with surprise. “No,” he said. “You don’t want to give it away. It’s too beautiful.”

Arn took the sheathed knife from his belt. “You took my place in the sacrifice, Bren. Look, we’ll trade knives; yours has cleaned a deer.”

Slowly, still perplexed by the gift, Bren took off his plain sheathed knife and handed it to Arn, taking Arn’s knife at the same time. “I’ll always carry it,” he said. “I’ll always call it ‘Arn’s knife.’”

Then it was time to put on their new parkas, their packs, and turn to go. Fannu and Dona wanted to know when they would return. Runa embraced them both. They stood looking into the eyes of Arel and Bren, wondering if they would ever again see these friends with whom they had been through so much, whose bravery and loyalty had never wavered.

There were tears at the parting, stinging eyes as Jen and Arn turned to cross the field. At the top of the field they turned once to wave, the hogans and the people small now, the river blue beside the racks of drying shandeh. Many arms waved back at them; then they entered the woods trail to the north and left the winter camp, its fields, its river and its people far behind.

At noon, when the sun was in the south, they stopped by a small brook to drink and have something to eat. Jen said, “Do you think we can find our way back through the mountain?”

“I don’t know,” Arn said. “Tsuga said we might have help, but then he said he couldn’t help us. I don’t know.”

“We’ve just got to go on anyway,” Jen said. “But do you remember Ganonoot’s story? He said there were many passages and only Ahneeah knows the way.”

“Oh, Ganonoot,” Arn said in disgust.

Just then came a spidery, scrabbling sound behind him in the brush, and a high cackle. “He he he! And did someone call my name?” Ganonoot scurried lightly out onto the trail, bent over like a crab or a table, and sat down before them. “Why, now,” he said, his long fang pressing into his chin with each word. “It’s Jen and Arn! We’ve met before, I can’t remember when! But kind Jen and Arn, generous Arn and Jen, poor old Ganonoot is hungry, hungry! And I see you’ve been having a nice lunch of bannock and jerky!”

“Oh, Ganonoot,” Jen said, “you’re always hungry.” She gave him bannock and jerky from her pack and he began to worry the food with his fang and lips.

Arn got up. “We’ve got to go, Ganonoot. We’ve a long way to go.”

Ganonoot jumped spryly to his feet, his tilted head still on Arn’s level. He held his bannock and jerky in one hand and his warped old bow in the other. “The thing about a … story,” he said, his tongue cleaning his fang between the words, “is that it always changes when it happens again.” Then he couldn’t resist the bannock and shoved it into his mouth, still mumbling words as it soaked in there.

Arn and Jen put on their packs and began to walk on. They didn’t want to be rude, but Ganonoot never quite seemed to hear anything they said anyway. Evidently he felt that he hadn’t finished what he wanted to say, because he followed them, scuffing and tripping and running along behind in his scuttling way.

Near dusk they came upon a small field with a bog at one end of it where a kind of heavy grass grew and was green even in the winter. Then they saw the wolves lying on the field, their bellies distended with food. Nearby was the carcase of a cow, its red and ivory ribs arching over its hollow body. Its coat lay torn and bloody, partly inside out. The wolves saw Arn and Jen and Ganonoot, but merely raised their heads, ears upright, to look at them with lazy curiosity.

At the edge of the bog, several black shaggy-haired cattle grazed on the winter grass, not bothered by the sated wolves.