Page 42 of Circle of Days

That winter was the happiest time of Pia’s life.

She had Han, and they loved each other more every day.

She was free: no one could tell her what to do, and every morning she had the delicious independence to decide how to spend the day.

They had enough to eat: they had butchered the cow in the autumn, when the wild creatures hid away and many of the birds flew south.

They had smoked most of the meat, hanging it under the roof where the fumes from the fire gathered.

They were warm and dry, even when it snowed.

Han had built the shelter well, and covered the roof with many layers of ferns from the riverside.

They slept close together, covered by their shearling coats, blissfully comfortable.

She missed her mother, but she believed they would be reunited one day.

Han was unsentimental. He did not seem to miss his family.

He showed no sadness about being separated from his mother or his two sisters, Joia and Neen.

He spoke lovingly of Neen’s children, two nieces and a nephew, but he did not say that he longed to see them and talk to them. He did not express regrets.

When the beef ran low, it was spring. The trees were in bud and soon there would be new sources of food, young hares and squirrels, birds’ eggs, and fresh leaves.

Pia’s baby was coming soon. Her belly was huge, the skin taut, and often now she felt movement.

As she lay awake, there was a sudden bulge in the dome of her belly as the baby stretched its legs, pushing against its confinement.

She wanted it to come now. She was tired all the time, and just standing up in the morning was an effort.

Soon she would no longer be pregnant—she would have her baby in her arms.

Life was wonderful, but in her heart she knew it was unreal, like a dream, or a story.

Summer would be fine, but beyond that the future was uncertain.

She did not know how they would live through next winter.

They would not get another cow. Hungry mothers produced weak milk, everyone knew that; and weak milk made for a sickly child.

One thing at a time, she told herself. First, the birth. Then, the summer. And after that they would have to think again.

She felt Han stir beside her. It must be first light. He kissed her, then got up.

Han liked to hunt early. He took a drink of water from the wooden jar he had carved, then picked up his bow and arrows. When he stepped out of the shelter, there was a hint of grey in the eastern sky. He did not put his shoes on: he needed to walk softly.

He took a familiar route through the wood to a small clearing.

He lay down carefully, soundlessly, beside a thorny bramble just coming into leaf.

The creatures of the wild had not yet crept out of their nighttime hideaways.

He lay still and silent, his bow in his left hand and half a dozen arrows close to his right, only his eyes moving.

This was the finest moment of the day: the air fresh and cold, the woods damp with dew, silence and peace.

Two pigeons appeared and did a mating dance in a tree. A squirrel scampered along a branch. A hare leaped across the clearing, too fast for him to shoot. It was time to kill.

Moving softly, he put an arrow to his bow and carefully pulled the string. If he was lucky a duck would come waddling out of the undergrowth and into the clearing, plump and slow and an easy target.

Suddenly there were three hares nibbling the grass. He took slow aim and shot one, then quickly sent off a second arrow and a third. The second found its target, but the third hare bounded away unhurt. The squirrel vanished and the pigeons flew away.

Satisfied, Han stood and picked up his two hares by the ears. He collected the arrows for reuse.

The sun rose. On his way back he scanned the ground, looking for early vegetables. He found a patch of spring onions, picked them all, and washed the earth off them in the river.

He returned to the shelter and showed Pia his harvest. She put a pot of water on the fire to boil. Han skinned the hares, then cleaned them and gave the guts to Thunder. When the water was boiling, Pia chopped the onions and put them into the pot, then Han dropped the hares in.

He scraped the skins carefully, thinking of how his mother, Ani, cleaned cattle hides. “These will make warm clothes for the baby,” he said. “I wish I could tan them, as my mother does, but I don’t have what’s necessary.”

“We’ll keep the baby warm,” she said.

“Later I’ll go and raid some nests. The birds might be laying.” Struck by a thought, he said: “Can babies eat eggs?”

“I don’t know,” said Pia. “I wish I could ask my mother.”

The weather was warming up, and the inhabitants of West Wood were preparing to leave for the hills.

Bez had again consulted Joia, the friendly Second High Priestess, and they expected the deer to migrate in two days’ time.

They were making arrows for the hunt and sharpening flints for the butchering, and putting cooking pots, wooden bowls, and other necessities into leather carrying bags that could be slung over their shoulders.

Excitement was in the air: people talked in loud voices and laughed a lot.

The trip was an adventure, even to those who had done it many times.

The dogs knew what was happening and ran around impatiently, getting under people’s feet.

Bez and Fell were in a hut, discussing the first hunt. Fell’s new dog, distinguished by a white patch on his muzzle, lay sleeping beside them. “Last year’s choice of a killing field was successful,” said Bez. “We should go to the same place this year.”

Fell shook his head. “The deer will remember and avoid it.”

“Don’t be silly. Only one deer escaped last year, and anyway, they can’t warn one another. They have no speech.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Fell. “They have ways.”

No one knew the truth, Bez thought, so there was no point in arguing. “Well, then, think of a better place,” he said.

Then they both noticed that the village had gone quiet.

“Trouble,” said Bez, and they went out.

Everyone was looking in the same direction. Bez followed their gaze and saw Stam, armed with a bow and arrows. He was alone this time. He recognized Bez and said: “You. You can speak like a human. Come here.”

Bez stayed where he was. “You are welcome, Stam, if you come in peace.”

“You know why I’m here.”

“Perhaps you’re looking for that runaway again. She wasn’t here last year, and she’s not here now.”

“She isn’t a runaway. A herder has stolen a farmer girl.” Stam became boastful. “We have discovered who he is. His name is Han. He is tall, with fair hair and big feet.”

“He’s not here, nor are his feet.”

The villagers chuckled, but Stam did not get the joke. “I believe they were here when I came looking for them last autumn—but you concealed them. You could be killed for that.”

The woodlanders shifted restively. They were being threatened, and they resented it.

Bez said emolliently: “Best not to talk of killing, Stam, when there’s a whole lot of us and only one of you.”

His response was disdainful. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“You have nothing to be afraid of, as long as you don’t speak of killing. And now I think you should leave, before you talk yourself into serious trouble.”

“I’m going,” said Stam. “But remember this: when I find out who’s hiding here, it won’t be mere talk of killing.”

Han cocked his head and said: “What’s that sound?”

Pia listened and said: “It’s like a crowd of people walking and talking.”

“It’s coming from the north side of the river,” said Han. “I’m going to look.”

“I’ll come.” She struggled to her feet. She was fearful. People meant danger.

They went to the shore and peeped through the vegetation, staying out of sight. Thunder joined them.

On the north shore were woodlanders, too many to count, walking past the derelict house and the muddy beach, taking no notice of the stone circle on the hill. Some carried small children, most had shoulder bags. They walked at the moderate pace of people who have a long way to go.

Thunder growled at their dogs, and Han said sharply: “Silent!” Thunder hushed.

Pia said: “This is their migration. They’re following the deer. But you and I didn’t notice the deer passing.”

“Deer move silently. I could have shot one if we’d heard them. Which is probably why they’re so quiet. Which the woodlanders are not. They can be silent when they want, but now they’re noisy.”

“It’s because they’re enjoying themselves. I’ve noticed that. When people go on a journey in a large group, they have a good time, see strange places, maybe fall in love.”

They watched the procession for a while, then returned to the shelter. Han said the woodlanders posed no threat, but Pia remained concerned.

Han had shot three fat pigeons, and a mouthwatering fragrance was coming from the boiling pot.

He lifted a pigeon breast from the water, using a pointed stick.

“Almost cooked,” he said. He was always hungry, but he divided everything in half, even though he was bigger, because Pia was eating for the baby too.

Suddenly Thunder barked.

“Hush!” said Han.

The dog’s ears were up and he was staring north, in the direction of the migrating woodlanders.

Han stood up and headed the way Thunder’s nose pointed, and Pia followed.

When they came to the shore, they saw two men in the river.

Woodlanders were not great swimmers, and they were holding on to a log and kicking their legs behind them.

Following them, swimming effortlessly, was a dog with a white patch on its nose.

Pia said: “Oh, no! They’ve found us.”

“It’s all right,” Han said. “They’re friends.”

Pia looked harder and said: “So they are—Bez and Fell!”