Harry Harrison - West of Eden

Stallan turned slowly to face Hèksei. “You always laugh when I speak of this matter about which you know nothing. The time has come to stop that laughing.” There was a coldness in her voice that allowed no answer. They stood in silence as she went out the entrance, to return a moment later with a large, wrapped bundle.

“There are ustuzou in this land, fur-bearing creatures that are larger than the mice beneath the floor that you laugh at. Because that is the only kind of ustuzou we knew of before coming to this new shore we still think that all ustuzou must be tiny vermin. The time has now come to abandon ourselves of this idea. Things are different here. There is this nameless beast, for instance.”

She snapped the bundle open and spread it across the floor. It was the skin of an animal, a fur-animal, and it reached from wall to wall. There was only shocked silence as Stallan took up one of its limbs and pointed to the foot on its end, to the claws there, each one as long as her hand.

“I answered yes and no to your question, Eistaa, and this is why. There are five claws here. Many of the larger and most dangerous fur-creatures have five toes. I believe that the killers on the beach were ustuzou of some kind, of a species never encountered before.”

“I think you are right,” Vaintè said, kicking a corner of the thick fur aside and trying not to shudder at its soft and loathsome touch. “Do you think you can find these beasts?”

“I will track them. North. The only way they could have gone.”

“Find them. Quickly. Report to me. Then we will destroy them. You will leave at dawn?”

“With your permission — I will leave now.”

Vaintè permitted herself an expression of slight incredulity, enough to be enquiring yet not derisive or insulting. “It will be dark soon. Can you travel at night?” she asked. “How can a thing like that be possible?”

“I can only do it near the city where the coastline is most regular. There are large cloaks and I have a boat that is nocturnal. It will follow the shoreline so that by dawn we will be well on our way.”

“You are indeed a hunter. But I do not wish you to venture out alone, to face these dangers by yourself. You will need aid. Hèksei here has told me that she helps others. She will go with you, help you.”

“It will be a strenuous voyage, Eistaa,” Stallan said, her voice flat and expressionless.

“I am sure she will profit from the experience,” Vaintè said, turning away, ignoring Hèksei’s unhappiness and frantic signals for attention. “May your voyage be a successful one.”

Lightning flickered, low on the horizon, briefly lighting the banks of dark clouds. Long moments passed before it was followed by the distant, deep rumble of thunder. The storm was retreating, moving out to sea, taking the streaming rain and the torrential wind with it. But the high seas still broke heavily on the beach, running far up the sands and into the salt grass beyond, almost as far as the beached boat. Just beyond the boat was a small copse where a temporary shelter of skins had been lashed to oars between the trees. Smoke drifted from beneath it and hung low under the branches. Old Ogatyr leaned out from the shelter and blinked at the first rays of afternoon sunlight that pierced the receding clouds. Then he sniffed, the air.

“The storm is over,” he announced. “We can go on.”

“Not in those seas,” Amahast said, poking at the fire until it flared up. The chunks of venison smoked in the heat and dripped sizzling meat juices into the flame. “The boat would be swamped and you know it. Perhaps in the morning.”

“We are late, very late—”

“There is nothing we can do about it, old one. Ermanpadar sends his storms without worrying too much whether it suits us or not.”

He turned from the fire to the remaining deer. The hunt had been a good one with herds of deer roaming the grassy scrublands of the coast. When this last beast was butchered and smoked the boat would be full. He spread the deer’s front legs and hacked at its skin with the sharp flake of stone — but it was no longer sharp. Amahast threw it aside and called out to Ogatyr.

“This is what you can do, old one, you can make me a new blade.”

Grunting with the effort, Ogatyr pushed himself to his feet. The continual dampness made his bones ache. He walked stiffly to the boat and rooted about inside it, then returned with a stone in each hand.

“Now, boy, you will learn something,” he said, squatting down slowly onto his haunches. He held out the stones towards Kerrick. “Look. What do you see?”

“Two stones.”

“Of course. But what of these stones? What can you tell me about them?” He turned them over and over in his hands so the boy could examine them closely. Kerrick poked at them and shrugged.

“I see only stones.”

“That is because you are young and you have never been taught. You will never learn this from the women, for this is a man’s skill only. To be a hunter you must have a spear. A spear must have a point. Therefore you must learn to know one stone from another, to see the spearpoint or the blade where it hides inside the stone, learn to open the stone and find that which is hidden inside. Now your lesson begins.” He gave the rounded, water-worn rock to Kerrick. “This is the hammerstone. See how smooth it is? Feel its weight. It is a stone that will break other stones. It will open this one which is named a bladestone.”

Kerrick turned the pebble over and over in his hands, staring at it with fierce concentration, noting its rough surface and shining angles. Ogatyr sat patiently until he was done, then took it back.

“There is no spearhead trapped in here,” he said. “It is the wrong size, the wrong shape. But there are blades here, one here, see it? Feel it? I now release it.”

Ogatyr carefully placed the bladestone on the ground and struck it with the hammerstone. A sharp chip cracked off the side.

“There is the blade,” he said. “Sharp, but not sharp enough. Now watch closely and see what I do.”

He took a bit of deer antler from his bag, then placed the chip of stone on his thigh and pressed the edge carefully with the tip of the antler. Each time he did this a tiny chip was flaked off. When he had worked the length of it, the blade was sharp and true. He handed it to Amahast who had patiently watched the entire operation. Amahast bounced it in his palm and nodded with appreciation. With practiced skill he slashed an opening in the deer’s hide and cut it from neck to groin.

“No one in our sammad can make the stone yield up its blades as this one can,” Amahast said. “Let him teach you, my son, for a hunter without a blade is no hunter at all.”

Kerrick seized the stones eagerly and cracked them together. Nothing happened. He tried again, with as little success. Only when Ogatyr took hold of his hands and put them in the right position did he succeed in breaking free a ragged chip. But he was quite proud of this first effort and labored to shape it with the bit of deer horn until his fingers were sore.

Big Hastila had been gloomily watching his efforts. Now he crawled out from under the shelter, yawning and stretching, sniffing the air as Ogatyr had done, then plodded up the embankment behind them. The storm was gone, the wind growing gusty as it died down, the sun just beginning to break through. Only the white-topped waves stretching to the horizon still bore witness to the past day’s fury. On the landward side the embankment fell away again down to a grassy marsh. He saw dark forms picking their way through it; he slowly crouched and moved back to the shelter.