Page 45 of Circle of Days

The woodlanders were hunting in the Northwest Hills. It was better than the last two summers, which had been dire. The winter snow had refreshed the springs in the hills. There had been new grass when they arrived and, although it was mostly gone now, they had killed some deer and eaten well.

Bez, Gida, Lali, and their companions were flat on their bellies, upwind of a herd of red deer, big and meaty.

The red deer had an extra attraction: spreading antlers that made invaluable tools.

It was a hot day, so the women were naked, and the men wore only their leather loincloths.

They crawled forward, needing to get close enough to deploy bows and arrows without spooking the beasts.

They kept a disciplined silence: deer had good hearing.

Bez thought they were almost there when the whole herd suddenly became nervous.

Some looked up, some stepped sideways, some gave a little jump.

Had they scented something? Then he saw a dog trotting across the hill.

The deer moved away, getting ready to run.

The hunters stood up, and some shot arrows, but they were too far away, and the herd fled.

The dog that had caused the trouble looked weary and dispirited. Some of the woodlanders yelled at it angrily for ruining the hunt, but it seemed too tired to care. Lali, who had a youngster’s keen eyesight, said: “That’s Fell’s dog.”

Bez saw the white patch on its muzzle. Lali was right.

The dog spotted Bez, gave a pleased bark, and ran to him. He patted it, but he had a cold feeling in his heart.

Gida said: “What’s it doing here, without its master?”

“That’s what I’m wondering,” said Bez grimly.

“Something bad has happened.”

Bez nodded. He had the same foreboding. He said: “Yesterday Fell went to take a roe deer to Han and Pia, as a present.”

“So the first place to look for him is probably that island.”

“Yes.”

“I’m coming with you,” Gida said, in a firm tone that discouraged argument.

Bez looked at the sky. “We can’t get there before dark. Let’s start at first light.”

Next day at noon they reached the derelict house on the riverbank. They found a log and put it in the water, then Fell’s dog began to behave strangely. It whined, lay down and got up again, approached the water and backed off, all as if scared of something.

Bez and Gida decided to leave it there. If it changed its mind it could swim across and find them.

Bez was full of apprehension as they crossed, but he was not sure exactly what he feared. The woodlanders had no enemies here in the hills. The area was thinly populated, mostly by shepherds with small flocks. Was it possible that one of them had killed Fell for the venison he was carrying?

They clambered out of the river onto dry land. No one appeared to greet them, and Bez had a premonition of tragedy.

They made their way through the vegetation to the little shelter. All was quiet and still. Bez concluded there was no one there.

The carcass of the deer lay on the ground, much nibbled by birds and little carnivores. So Fell had been here. But the gift lay on the ground as if spurned, and there was no sign of the giver or the recipients.

Then he looked into the shelter.

Bez gave an involuntary sob as he recognized his brother. At the same moment, Gida wailed: “Oh, Fell, my Fell, my lovely Fell!”

At first they looked peaceful, two men lying on their backs, their hands folded on their chests, with a dog alongside them. Then Bez was struck by the early signs of decay: the skin grey, with purplish patches; the bellies swollen; and a faint odor of rot.

A moment later he was horrified to notice that the wild creatures had already been at the bodies. The eyes had been pecked out, the lips eaten, the hands bitten.

He turned away, and Gida did the same. Facing each other, they embraced, both weeping, for a long moment. At last Gida spoke through her tears. “Pia’s not here.”

“Perhaps she got away.”

Gida shook her head. “She’s either heavily pregnant or carrying a baby. Either way, it’s unlikely she escaped when Han and Fell couldn’t. I think the murderer took her.”

“Then it’s Stam.”

“It must be.”

They gathered firewood together, and the physical effort relieved the intolerable pressure of grief. They made a double-wide pyre. By the time they had finished they were no longer boiling with grief and rage, but simply tired and desperately sad.

Bez took the band of bear’s teeth from around Fell’s neck. He wanted to show it to the tribe when he told them that Fell was dead.

They picked up the body, Bez lifting the shoulders and Gida the thighs. They carried him carefully to the pyre and laid him down on one side of it.

Next Bez took off Han’s distinctive shoes.

They bore patches of dark-red stain, undoubtedly blood.

Like the necklace, they would serve as proof of what Bez had seen.

Han was bigger and heavier than Fell, and they struggled to lift him, but they managed to get him to the pyre and lay him down beside Fell.

Finally Bez picked up the corpse of Han’s dog and laid it at its master’s feet.

They stood up and lit the fire, and Gida sang a woodlander song of sadness and loss.

As it burned, they sat together beside the pyre and talked about Fell.

Gida recalled Fell making the necklace, painstakingly drilling the holes for the string with a narrow flint bradawl.

“And when it was finished he was so proud! He walked around with it on, waiting for people to notice and comment.”

Bez remembered when he was born. His mother had said: “A little brother for you—you must look after him.” Now Bez said to Gida: “I tried, I really did, but I failed.”

As the bodies turned to ashes, Bez said: “We both loved him.”

Gida nodded. “Yes, we both loved him.”

Leaving the smoldering remains behind, they left the island.

The dog was waiting patiently outside the derelict house. Bez said: “I suppose you’ll be my dog now.” As they set off, heading back to the camp, the dog walked close to Bez’s heels.

They arrived back as people were finishing the evening meal. The woodlanders all stopped what they were doing and gathered around Bez and Gida to find out what had happened. Gida told the story while Bez showed Fell’s necklace and Han’s shoes.

They were angry. Fell had been born into the tribe and Han was an honorary member.

Two of their own had been murdered. “And we know who did it!” said one of the men, Omun, an accomplished hunter.

“We know that Stam was looking for Pia and Han, and we heard him say he would kill anyone who hid them. It’s obvious.

He came to kidnap Pia and now he’s taken her home. ”

Bez was not so sure. He would have liked proof. But this was not the moment to say so.

Bez said to Gida: “Would you wear Fell’s necklace?”

“No,” she said. “You must wear it.”

Bez hesitated. Then he realized he would always have a part of his brother with him. “Yes,” he said. “I want to wear it.”

She stood behind him and put the necklace over his head. The bear’s teeth felt cold against his skin. Gida stroked them with her fingertips, and a tear ran down her cheek.

Bez turned to the crowd. “We will always remember Fell. Always.”

Several people repeated the word: “Always!”

Omun shouted: “There must be a balance!”

There were shouts of agreement.

“Oh, yes,” said Bez. “The gods demand a balance. A blow must be returned. That which is stolen must be replaced. A lie demands a truth. And a murder requires a death. There will be a balance. There will.”

Pia was back at Farmplace, on her mother’s farm, carrying water from the river to the fields all day, every day, just as she had done before, only now she had Olin on her hip all the time. Her back ached and her shoulder hurt and she was utterly miserable.

She felt she could not put Olin down while she worked. It was too dangerous. The creatures of the wild were hungry. A farmer baby had been attacked by a boar only days ago, and much of the poor mite’s thigh had been eaten before its mother came running in response to its screams.

Olin was the bright spot in her life. He was a quarter of a year old now.

He smiled a lot and even laughed sometimes.

He would turn his head to look at the source of a new voice.

He grabbed at everything in reach: a spoon, a flower, his mother’s hair—although he often missed.

She wished she had more time to simply play with him, sing to him, and kiss his soft skin.

Yana was thrilled with her first grandchild. She held him every chance she got. She pulled funny faces that made him chuckle. She, too, wished she could spend more time with him.

But the drought continued. Since the winter snow there had been nothing more than a few brief showers. Green shoots were appearing in the fields, but only because the farmers irrigated the land with river water. So they had to continue.

One evening after supper, when Stam had gone out and Yana and Pia were playing with Olin, they were visited by Katch, Stam’s mother.

Pia was never sure how to react to her. Her man, Troon, was evil, and her son, Stam, was a monster.

But that might not be her fault. And Katch was also Pia’s aunt, so perhaps she had some loyalty to her niece.

Yana offered water from the jar, and Katch accepted it and sat down. She always seemed timid, but Yana said there was strength behind that. Perhaps she had to be strong, to endure life with Troon.

Olin was on the mat, lying on his tummy, waving his arms and legs.

He lifted his head and looked uncertainly at Katch, knowing she was unfamiliar.

She leaned forward and stroked him under his chin.

She said: “You know I’m a stranger, don’t you?

But I’m a nice stranger, so don’t worry. ” He was not much reassured.

She sat back, sipped her water, and said: “You must have noticed that Stam is spending more nights at my house.”