Robert Silverberg - At Winter's End

While Sachkor carefully slipped into the shrine of the Provider, Salaman stood to one side, thinking still of the Going Forth and its perils and discomforts and strangenesses, thinking once more of the sun against his face, the snow, the sand. It was an awesome thing to undertake, yes. But somehow it began to seem less terrible, the longer he thought of it. Going outside had its risks, yes — it was all risk, it was nothing but risk — but what was the alternative? To live out your life in this tangled warren of dark, musty caverns? No! No! They were going to make the Going Forth, and it was glorious to contemplate. All the world stood before them. His heart began to race. His fears fell away from him.

Sachkor emerged from the tiny alcove, clutching the ikon of Emakkis. He was trembling and his face looked strange.

“What is it?” Salaman asked.

“Ice-eaters,” said Sachkor. “No, not another stream this time. The real thing. I heard them chewing on the rock just beyond the inner wall.”

“No,” Thhrouk said. “That can’t be.”

“Go in and listen for yourself, then,” Sachkor said.

“But I don’t fit.”

“Then don’t go in. Whatever pleases you. I heard ice-eaters.”

“Come along,” said Anijang.

“Wait,” said Salaman. “Let me go in. I want to hear what Sachkor heard.”

But he was too husky to enter; and after a moment of trying to slide his shoulders past the narrow opening he gave up, and they moved along, wondering what it was, in truth, that Sachkor had heard in there. Just around the bend Salaman had the answer. The cavern wall here was throbbing with a deep, heavy vibration. He put his hand to it and it seemed as though something were shaking the entire world. Cautiously he lifted his sensing-organ and extended his second sight. What he felt was bulk, mass, power, movement.

“Ice-eaters, yes,” Salaman said. “Just back of this wall. Eating the stone.”

“Yissou!” Thhrouk whispered, making a cluster of holy signs. “Dawinno! Friit! They’ll destroy us!”

“They won’t get the chance,” said Salaman. He smiled. “We’re leaving the cocoon, remember? We’ll be halfway across the world before they even get close to the dwelling-chamber level.”

Minbain woke quickly, as she always did. About her she heard the morning sounds of the cocoon, the familiar clatterings and clamorings, the laughter, the buzz of talk, the slap of running feet against the stone floor of the dwelling-chamber. Rising from her sleeping-furs, she made her morning prayer to Mueri and said the words that were due the soul of her departed mate Samnibolon.

Then she fell about her tasks. There were so many things to do, a million things to do, before the People could actually leave the cocoon.

Hresh was already awake. She saw him grinning at her from the sleeping-alcove down the way where the young ones stayed. He was always up before anyone else, even before Torlyri arose to make the sunrise offering. Minbain wondered sometimes if he ever slept at all.

He came scampering over, skinny arms and legs flailing, sensing-organ jutting out behind him in a strange awkward way. They embraced. He is all bones, she thought. He eats, but nothing sticks: he burns himself up by thinking too much.

“What do you say, Mother? Will today be the day?”

Minbain laughed gently. “Today? No, Hresh, no, not yet, Not today, Hresh.”

When he heard Koshmar declare, “This is the day we go outside,” Hresh had assumed that they really were going to set out that very day. But of course that could not be. The death-rites for the old Dream-Dreamer had had to be performed first, an event of great pomp and mystery. No one knew what the proper rite for the burial of a Dream-Dreamer should be — it seemed wrong simply to take him outside and dump him among the bones on the slope — but finally Thaggoran had found something in the chronicles, or had pretended to find something, that involved much singing and chanting and a torchlight procession through the lower caverns to the Chamber of Yissou, where his body was laid to rest beneath a cairn of blue rock. All that had taken several days to prepare and execute. Then the rituals of deconsecration of the cocoon had had to be carried out, so that they would not leave their souls behind on the long march to come. And then the packing of all the sacred objects; and then the slaughtering of most of the tribe’s meat-animals, and the curing of the meat; and after that would come the gathering-up of all useful possessions into bundles light enough to be carried, and then — and then — this rite and that, this task and that, everything according to instructions that were thousands of years old. Oh, it would be many days more, Minbain knew, before the Going Forth actually happened. And you could already hear the ice-eaters champing on the rock just below the dwelling-chamber, a dull ugly rasping sound that went on night and day, night and day. But the ice-eaters could have the place now, for whatever good it was to them. The tribe would never return to the cocoon. It was this time of waiting that was the difficult part, and for no one was it more difficult than Hresh. To Hresh a day was like a month, a month was like a year. Impatience chattered through him like a fire rushing through dry sticks.

“Will they be killing more animals today?” he asked.

“That’s all done now,” Minbain told him.

“Good. Good. I hated it when they were doing that.”

“Yes, it was hard,” Minbain said. “But necessary.” Ordinarily one of the beasts was butchered every week or two for the use of the tribe, but this time Harruel and Konya had taken their blades and gone into the pen for hours, until blood ran down the sloping drainage channel and out into the dwelling-chamber itself. Only a few could be taken along as breeding stock; the rest must be slaughtered, and their meat cured and packed to sustain the tribe on the march. Hresh had gone to watch them at work at the butchering. Minbain had warned him not to go, but he had insisted, and he had stood there solemnly staring as Harruel seized the animals and lifted their heads to Konya’s knife. And afterward he had trembled in terror for hours; but the next day he was back, watching the killings. Nothing Minbain could say would keep him from it. Hresh baffled her, always had, always would.

“Will you be packing the meat again today?” he asked.

“Probably. Unless Koshmar’s got some other job for me today. What she tells me to do is what I do.”

“And if she told you to walk upside down on the ceiling?”

“Don’t be foolish, Hresh.”

“Koshmar tells everyone what to do.”

“She is the chieftain,” Minbain said. “Are we supposed to rule ourselves? Someone must give the commands.”

“Suppose you did instead. Or Torlyri, or Thaggoran.”

“The body has only one head. The People have one chieftain.”

Hresh pondered that a moment. “Harruel’s stronger than anybody else. Why isn’t he chieftain?”

“Hresh-full-of-questions!”

“Why isn’t he, though?”

With a patient smile Minbain said, “Because he’s a man, and the chieftain must be a woman. And because being big and strong isn’t the most important thing a chieftain needs. Harruel’s a fine warrior. He’ll drive off our enemies when we’re outside. But you know that his mind is slow. Koshmar thinks quickly.”

“Harruel thinks more quickly than you’d imagine,” said Hresh. “I’ve talked to him. He thinks like a warrior, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t think. Anyway, I think more quickly than Koshmar. Maybe I ought to be chieftain.”

“Hresh!”

“Hold me, Mother,” he said suddenly.

The swift change in his mood startled her. He was shivering. One moment babbling in his Hreshlike way, the next huddling up against her, a small frightened bundle seeking comfort. She stroked his thin shoulders. “Minbain loves you,” she murmured. “Mueri watches over you. It’s all right, Hresh. Everything’s all right.”