Simian
Geezenstack
- Joined
- Jan 29, 2008
- Messages
- 80
The first couple of pages of a short story / novella idea I'm working on. Still very much a work in progress, so any pointers or observations would be greatfully received.
Felix
A fresh sun rose on the Red Eyes tribe as it had done for a thousand years. As first light broke over the winter camp it pushed dark talons of shadow from the tall, peaked tents, clawing away the last remnants of the previous night's gelid mist. Chickens awoke in their wicker pens and began the habitual search for kernels overlooked in the evening feeding, strutting and scratching at the frozen soil, clucking softly among themselves. Lean, mottled hunting dogs slunk through the gauzy light on silent paws, heads slung low, sniffing the new day's scent. The heart of the camp consisted of two dozen triangular structures, slender wooden poles from the forests which bordered the plain far to the east, bound at the apex with animal gut, their summer coverings of stitched leather augmented with heavy furs as autumn faded and the first snowstorms rolled across the Great Plain. The tents were scattered around a large communal fire-pit, where the tribe would gather at day’s end to petition the Chieftain and receive the wisdom of the elders. On days of good omen, joints of meat were roasted on spits over the wide circle of burning dung, songs were sung and sacrifices were made to the gods in exchange for favourable hunting, long life or strong sons and daughters. At the edge of the village the stocky, stout-limbed horses favoured by the Red Eyes huddled close together in their corrals, steam rising from their flanks, heads jerking to shake the night frost from thick, matted manes. Beyond the shivering horses, gently undulating grasslands stretched to the horizon in every direction under a vast, slowly lighting sky.
On this morning, as on countless others in the tribes long history, dawn’s murmur was suddenly interrupted by a thin, wavering cry emanating from one structure, larger than most, close to the central fire-pit. As one the animals of the Red Eyes fell silent, every head turned in the direction of this new sound, every ear attentive. Then, again as one, the beasts gave reply. Dogs settled onto their haunches, threw back heads and howled in unison. Horses whinnied and snorted, stamping hooves throwing up puffs of dust from the thin layer of top-soil which covered the stone-hard ground beneath. Confined within the pens, chickens beat their wings against the wicker bars in an agitated tattoo. Hardy, short-horned milk goats, the only creatures which had hitherto slumbered, roused themselves and lent bleating voice to the cacophony. Moments passed before a figure emerged from the lodge, breath frosting as it muttered dark imprecations at the strange dawn chorus. The woman straightened and gathered her furs tightly around her before making way across the village, entering an abode set slightly apart from the others. Some minutes later she re-emerged, followed by a man bent nearly double with age. Setting his weight against a short, gnarled staff gripped tightly in both hands, the man followed his companion back across the compound. When they reached the larger tent the woman ducked back beneath the flap, quickly swallowed by the darkness within. Behind her the elder paused at the threshold, casting his eyes about the camp, as if only now becoming aware of the noise around him. A puzzled frown rippled across his wizened features, before he too disappeared into the gloom.
Khor Hoppa sat cross-legged before the fire pit, his lanky frame swathed in thick furs to ward against the biting cold which crept unbidden through the walls of his tent. Coal black eyes glowed beneath a prominent brow and a tangle of unruly brown hair, shaved to a close stubble at the sides, the rest falling down his back in long, tapering dreadlocks. One hand reached absently to scratch behind the ears of Rollo, the large black vessel-dog which slumbered at his side. With the other he searched methodically for a blood-tick hidden amongst the thick ropes of hair atop his head as he stared into the softly glowing hearth fire, lost in silent contemplation. An interesting day, for a certainty. Aye, and perhaps a troubling one to follow. Still, no sense in breaking the horse before it has to be ridden, and I would know more of this matter before that moment arrives. As if in answer to his thoughts the tent mouth twitched and shivered before being drawn back by unseen hands. A black shape loomed out of the dusk, briefly filling the entrance before dropping to its knees and crawling inside. The figure seemed to coalesce from the darkness as it entered. An ancient, impossibly wrinkled face framed by gossamer threads of thin white hair preceded a wiry body almost completely hidden beneath furs adorned with countless fetishes of carved bone, wood and feathers bound with twine. The old man's spindly legs were bare, ending in deerskin-wrapped feet, and tendrils of fog snaked around his bony ankles as if trying to haul him bodily back into the night without. As his visitor settled himself into a seated position on the other side of the hearth, Khor Hoppa’s probing fingers finally closed around the parasite which had made his scalp its home. He studied the tiny creature for a moment in the light of the hearth, then crushed it between thumb and forefinger, wiping the smear of it’s life-blood on one of the horse hide coverings scattered across the floor of his abode. Sensing stillness from his companion, the beastman raised his eyes to meet those of the other, acknowledging him with a slight nod.
‘Day’s greetings, Bek Unger Bek. I had hoped you might call on me this night.’
The elder considered this for a moment, then bobbed his head sharply as if in affirmation of an unspoken question.
‘Day’s greetings to you Hoppa. I would hear your council, if you would give it. A matter weighs...heavy with me, and I am uncertain how best to proceed’
That statement gave Khor Hoppa pause. Bek Unger Bek had been shaman of the Red Eyes since long before Khor was born, and he had never before seen the other man look so perturbed. Troubling indeed, and worse than I had thought.
‘Such council is freely given, old friend. There is gulji in that pot by your side. If you care for some, it should still be warm.’
He watched the old shaman pour a cupful of the fermented goats milk flavoured with honeyroot and sweetgrass, lift the steaming brew to his lips and drink deeply. Only when his guest set the empty cup down beside him did the beastman speak.
‘The child of Olic, it is born then?’ he asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
‘It is.’ The statement hung in the air between them for a heartbeat before the other man continued in equally cautious tones.
‘Your kin answered the babe’s birth-cry this morning. In my experience this is...unusual. Have you spoken with them?.’
The Hoppa winced, remembering his shock at being woken by Rollo’s frenzied barking, the difficulty he had encountered when he attempted to subsume the vessel-hounds consciousness back into his own. He took a breath before speaking;
‘I will throw my lance straight if you will do the same, Bek. My beastkin sensed the child’s coming, and were...compelled to greet it. What compelled them I could not say, for in truth they do not know themselves, but there is power at work here, of that I am sure.’
As he spoke Khor could see the impact of his words on the old man's withered visage. He already knew thought the beastman glumly. All that I have told him, he already knew. Yet if the bones have spoken, why is he here? Why is he so uncertain? ‘The bones told me nothing, Khor.’ And how does he always know what I’m thinking? The shaman refilled his cup from the gulji pot, then continued.
‘It was not a difficult birthing, or so the goodwomen tell me. The babe was swiftly from the womb, and for the most part is seeming hale.’
Seeing the beastman’s expression change, Bek Unger Bek gave a wry smile.
‘Aye, for the most part. The least part may be the bit that kills him though. Six fingers on the right hand, Khor. Some have already...suggested that I name the child unnatural. Six fingers, it is true, but such a tiny hand.’
The old man's voice trailed off, suddenly thick with emotion. The beastman gave his companion pause to collect himself, then asked the question which had sprung unwelcome to his tongue.
‘What of the ancestors, Bek? What guidance do they give?’
For long moments the shaman gave no reply, silence stretching taut between them across the fire-pit, then he answered in little more than a whisper.
‘They will not speak to me Hoppa. After the goodwomen bade me to inspect the child with mine own eyes I returned to my tent and made the spirit journey. I stood in the circle of ancestors and asked, nay, begged them to show me the path. Instead they turned their backs and looked away. Seventy summers I have served them, and now, in this, they will not speak to me.’
The bitterness in his voice took Khor aback. He did not want to press Bek Unger Bek on this sudden abandonment by the spirits of the Red Eye dead, so confined his next question to the Red Eye living.
‘Do we know the mind of Olic Rul Arlic? Much will depend on what he has to say. If he could be persuaded to accept the child..’ A derisive snort cut the beastman short.
‘The mind of Olic Rul Arlic? Hah! Olic has ever let Mok Semel Mul do most of his thinking for him, and a harder ******* than the Ironsword I have yet to meet, if such a man exists. No, Mok will see the child burned as gods-cursed and call it a nights work well done, and Olic will be the first to agree. We will find no help in that direction I fear.’
The beastman shifted uncomfortably, suddenly much colder than he had been a few seconds previously.
‘Then naught can be done. The child is lost.’ He paused in mid sentence, struck by a new thought. ‘Unless...’
Through the thin smoke rising from the hearth fire Khor Hoppa saw the shaman lean forward, eyes sparkling as if lit by fever, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
‘Aye, ‘unless’. Gods bless you for ‘unless’, lad. This old man thanks you for ‘unless’. Will you do this thing?’
Khor Hoppa met the man’s gaze, matching the smile with one of his own.
‘I will, old friend.’ Something flickered behind the young beastman's eyes, prompting a bark of feral laughter.
‘Who knows, it may even turn out to be the truth.’
