Herilak nodded solemn agreement. “There is no need. I shall look for you in the stars.”
“We all follow in Kadair’s path. If Kerrick is alive, and you find him, tell him that Sanone of the Sasku thanks him for our lives.”
“I shall,” Herilak said, turned and left without another word, nor did he look back at the valley or the Sasku with whom so much had been shared.
He trotted along the path beside the river, caught up with the slow-moving sammads, passed them. The sammadar Kellimans had only one mastodon and his sammad was small. But it was larger now by one Herilak saw as he started by. There was Merrith leading her mastodon, striding out as strongly as any warrior.
“I see here among the Tanu someone who chose to stay in the valley of the Sasku,” Herilak said.
Merrith marched on, chewing strongly on a mouthful of smoked meat. She extracted all of the nourishment and spat out the gristle before she spoke.
“Does the sammadar Herilak say I am not welcome here?”
“You are Tanu.”
“Of course I am. Which is the reason why I could not stay in that cave of a valley and work in the fields and talk nonsense with the women. A Tanu cannot live without the forest, without the freedom to go anywhere.”
Herilak was puzzled. “Then why all the talk of staying? I see no reason…” He hesitated and saw that she was looking at him out of the corners of her eyes, smiling. His eyes opened wide, then he began laughing. And struck her on the shoulder with appreciation.
“You act like a hunter but think like a woman. You knew that Sanone did not want that Sasku woman, Malagen, to leave the valley. So you took away his arguments even before he made them. You never intended to stay in that valley!”
“You said that, brave Herilak, not I. A weak woman must use her mind to survive in this world of strong men.”
As she said that she struck him on the back such a blow that he staggered forward. But did not stop laughing.
Herilak wondered if Sanone knew that he had been bested in argument. He may have suspected it last night — would surely know it today when he discovered that Merrith had not stayed behind after all. It was good to be on the trail again. He touched Kerrick’s skymetal knife where it hung about his neck, wondered if he were out there somewhere, still alive. If he were — he would find him.
Their path took them north along the riverbank to the place where the mastodons could cross. Hanath and Morgil, banished from the valley for their theft of the holy porro, had put up their tent here, close to the water. Hanath waved and called out as they passed, but Morgil lay stretched out on the ground and did not move. Herilak was concerned. Had there been an accident — or murgu about? He carried both death-stick and spear when he ran down the bank.
Hanath waved again when he saw him coming then sat down heavily next to his companion.
“What is wrong?” Herilak asked, looking for wounds or blood and seeing none.
“Porro,” Hanath said hoarsely, pointing to the clay pot standing inside the opening of their tent. “Not too good.”
“You should have thought of that before you stole it.”
“Stolen porro was very good,” he said, smacking his lips dryly. “It is when we make it that something happens. It tastes right, but makes a hunter feel very sick next day.”
“You have been making it? How?” Herilak looked into the pot and twitched his nose at the smell.
“Easy enough to do. We watched how they did it, many times at night. They aren’t good hunters, we crawled right on top of them. It is easy to make, you just take the ground up things they grow, the tagaso. Put it in water, put it in the sun, put in the moss, that is all there is to it.”
Morgil stirred and opened one bloodshot eye and groaned. “It must have been the moss. I think we used too much moss.”
Herilak had enough of their foolishness. “The sammads are leaving.”
“We’ll follow. Maybe tomorrow. We will be all right.”
“Not if you drink any more of this,” Herilak said and kicked over the pot so the porro poured out and soaked into the ground. It smelled awful.
“It could only have been the moss,” Morgil said weakly.
Kerrick looked at the baby and was worried.
“Has she a sickness? Her eyes are open at last but they roll around and around and I don’t think that she can see.”
Armun laughed loudly at that, a clear and happy sound. “You do not remember when Arnwheet’s eyes were just like this? It is the same for all babies. Ysel will see very well. It just takes time.”
“And you, are you ready to walk?”
“I have been telling you for days now that I am strong. And I want to leave this lake.” She did not look across at the other encampment but he knew what she was thinking. He knew that he had been putting off their departure, but could do so no longer. Everything that they were taking was rolled into bundles and secured to the two travois. It was a small portion of a mastodon’s load — but they had no mastodon. What they took was limited to the amount he and Harl could pull. Armun and Darras would take care of the baby. Arnwheet would carry spear and bow. If Ortnar carried himself that was burden enough. The time had come to leave.
Flies swarmed on the hindquarters of a freshly butchered deer that was too much for them to take. The males would appreciate it. He brushed off the flies, seized it up and swung it onto his shoulder.
“We won’t leave this to rot. As soon as I get back we will go.”
When he started across the clearing Arnwheet called out and ran after him, walked at his side.
“I don’t want to leave our friends,” he said in Yilanè when he knew that his mother could not hear him. He had never been told to do this, but instructions can be delivered in many ways. Armun made no secret of her hatred of the two Yilanè males.
“Neither do I. But many times in life we take actions that we don’t want to do.”
“Why?”
“Because sometimes things just have to be done. We must leave here before more of the hunters come and find us. We must do that as soon as possible. Imehei cannot come now — and Nadaske will not leave him alone.”
“Is Imehei sick? Nadaske will not tell me.”
“It is a sickness of a kind. When it is over, then I hope he will be able to travel.”
“They will both come and find us. Then we can talk again.”
“Then we will talk again,” Kerrick said, concealing any reservations that he might have had.
Nadaske sat at the water’s edge, at his unconscious friend’s side. He looked up but did not move when they approached. He grew more alert when Arnwheet went into great detail about their preparations for the trip, how well he could shoot his new bow, and here, feel at the sharpness of his speartip. Kerrick looked on with pleasure for the boy was Yilanè indeed. But would he remember all this when they left the lake and his Yilanè friends were not there to talk to?
“Wet-from-sea is a mighty hunter,” Nadaske said. “After he has gone we will miss all the meat that he has killed/brought.”
Arnwheet arched his back proudly, not catching the sophisticated overtones of size of meat and quantity brought. In truth he had only managed to impale one small lizard since he began shooting his bow. Kerrick appreciated the effort Nadaske was making, for there were also undertones of unhappiness and despair hidden behind his surface meanings.
“All will be well,” Kerrick said, “With you, with us.”
“All will be well,” Nadaske repeated but there was only darkness in his modifiers. In the lake Imehei burbled in his perpetual sleep and his hand drifted slowly under the water in unconscious parody of farewell.