The Reindeer People Page 16

  Beating him did no good. When they were both much younger, she would strike him for such failures, believing him lazy or simply disobedient. She was girlishly envious of other women’s handsome, bright-eyed children. She had wanted desperately for Kerlew to be quick-witted, or agile, or sweetly obedient. She had longed to feel proud of him.

  Instead she heard the mockery of other children when the little boy spoke his halting words, and the commiserating words of other women for her misfortune that her only child was a half-wit. She would angrily deny it and set him to some task. He would fail. Shamed and angered, she would strike him. Then he would weep helplessly, baffled by the punishment, for he could not remember having done wrong.

  The sight of his small frightened face, running tears, would shame her. And her own soul would rise to smite her when she reached to comfort him and he cringed from the hands that had so recently brought him pain, or else stiffened and struggled against her repentant embrace. Eventually she had stopped slapping him or pushing him down to sprawl in the dirt; it did neither of them any good. Folk only laughed at both of them, or turned aside with embarrassed faces. She had grown out of being a child with a damaged doll. Instead she had begun to accept that he did not learn as other children did. But learn he must, and so a new way must be found.

  So now she crouched by the dead calf, her chilled feet going numb in the snow, and watched patiently as he mangled the hide away from the body. The luck that had brought them this calf, alone and bawling for its mother, would not be likely to bring them another. It had been exhausted, staggering through the snow. Tillu surmised that its mother had been killed by a glutton. The clever wolverine would wait until the reindeer had its head deep in the hole it had pawed in the snow, nipping up the buried reindeer moss. The deeper the snow, the easier it was for the glutton to rush in and sink its teeth into the tender throat of the grazing animal. Tillu had come across the traces of several such kills in recent days. She had brought home a trove of red-rimed bones from such scenes, to stew into broth and crack for the marrow within. This calf, smaller than most she had seen, had probably fled from such a slaughter. Only to stumble into Tillu as she hunted, to be stunned with a broken branch and have its throat cut. She didn’t regret it. Whatever gods or spirits reigned over these forested hills, they made no distinction between Kerlew and the orphaned calf. So Tillu had chosen for them which creature would survive the winter. And fetched the boy to help with the skinning and packing.

  Kerlew paused in his skinning, to scratch busily at his cheek. His fingers left red streaks on his face. He had bloodied the knees of his trousers and the cuffs of his coat.

  ‘I’ll take a turn now,’ Tillu offered. After a moment’s frowning pause, the boy nodded. He stood up, his face set seriously. It was so conscious an expression of maturity that she had to smile at him. He was a good boy, and she did love him so. There were moments, times when he tried and things were well between them, when her heart swelled with love for him. At those moments the future seemed bright and their troubles behind them. She nodded at him now and said, ‘You did very good work, for your first time at skinning.’

  ‘I know,’ he replied. He touched the hilt of his knife proudly, ‘I can do many things. I can carve spoons and make a fire. I can kill rabbits and skin animals. I am more of a man than you know.’

  ‘Men don’t boast,’ Tillu observed shortly.

  Kerlew merely stroked the hilt of his knife, unabashed by her rebuke. She sighed.

  ‘While I skin,’ she suggested, ‘you carry home the basket. Be careful with it.’ She nodded to a dripping basket that had melted deep in the snow beside them. It was heavy with the liver, tongue, heart, and kidneys of the small calf. ‘When you get to the tent,’ she went on, ‘add wood to the fire, so it won’t go out before we get back. Then be sure to come right back here, to help me carry the meat home. Can you remember all that?’

  The boy nodded vigorously. ‘What do you think, that I’m a baby still?’ He frowned suddenly, his close-set eyes worried beneath his knit brows. But he slowly repeated, ‘I’ll take the meat home, build up the fire again, and come right back.’

  ‘Go, then.’ Tillu smiled. ‘Hurry, but do not spill the meat.’

  She watched him trudge away, the pack basket leaving a dripping red trail behind him. The boy was growing fast and well now. Perhaps this was what he had always needed; a chance to be alone with her, for her to concentrate on teaching him. And a chance to learn a man’s skills from a man like Heckram. She shook her head. Kerlew could learn from anyone who took time with him. That was all that proved. Now that Heckram was taking a woman, they would see less of the man. But she didn’t care. She could take care of herself and her son, teach him all he needed to know. Kerlew was going to be fine, just fine. She smiled to herself. Her son. Soon he would be the man he claimed to be. He would make his own decisions, take his own actions, live his own life. And then? And then could she live her own life as well? She snorted with derision at the thought. She did well enough on her own. She bent back over the animal, pulling firmly on the hide as she carefully sliced it free.

  When the hide was clear, she rolled it up, skin side out, and set it aside. She set about dividing the calf up into manageable parts. It would have been more difficult with a larger animal. But even her poor knife could work through the calf’s flesh and muscles. She dislocated the legs at the major joints and cut between the ball and socket to break the animal down into four quarters, along with torso and head.

  By the time she was finished with the heaviest work, the sun was skimming the horizon. She was sweating inside her tunic, but knew the foolishness of setting it aside. The sweat would chill on her body, and she would start shivering her way into a deadly chill. Better to sweat and keep moving than risk that. She stared a long moment down the trail, expecting Kerlew. But there was no sign of him yet. Perhaps it hadn’t really been as long as it seemed. Perhaps he had stopped to eat something at the tent before coming back. The basket was heavy. He would stop to rest, so it would take him a long time to lug it home. She stooped to cut a fine slice of red meat from the calf. She bit off a piece of it, feeling the fresh blood tingle deliciously on her tongue. She finished it quickly, and another slice more slowly. Where was the boy? Well, she wouldn’t waste time waiting for him.

  With a sigh she turned to the gut sac. She separated the intestines and stripped the dung from them with her fingers. Cleaned, they had a hundred uses. She sorted out gobs of suet and set them in a pile. A slash of her knife separated the stomach, and she emptied its contents into the snow. It became a container for the tallow bits. She would leave little for the ravens to clean up. She straightened a moment, rubbing at her aching back, and then returned to her task. By the time Kerlew got back, she would be finished.

  Later, when the shadows of evening had changed from blue to black on the snow, and she could no longer see the colors of the forest, she wedged most of the meat into the crotch of a nearby tree. She hoped no scavengers would find it before she could return. She rolled one hindquarter into the hide that was now stiff with frost and hefted it slowly to her shoulders. Her back ached from bending over her work, her feet ached with the cold, and the skin of her face stung with night’s rising wind. She ignored the ache in her heart and the sting of tears that threatened her eyes. Once more she buried her knowledge that Kerlew would never be all right, would never be a fine and laughing young man proudly bringing home a kill. The snow dragged at her feet as she trudged home under her burden.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The questing tongues of fire popped the sap pocket under the hark of the pine log and crackled suddenly into reaching flames. Heckram opened his eyes to the new light. It felt earlier than their usual rising time, but Ristin was already up, sitting beside the hearth, a cup of tea in her hands. His eyes met hers, and hers suddenly brightened with moisture before she could turn away from him. He rubbed at his face, self-conscious at having caught her watching him sleep.‘Is something
wrong?’ he asked, his voice still thick with drowsiness.

  ‘No. No, everything is right. I was just thinking it was the last morning that my son would wake up in my home. Tomorrow I will wake up alone. And every day after that.’ Her voice tightened as she spoke, and she didn’t look at him.

  Heckram rubbed at his face wearily, feeling the new stubble scratchy against his palms. He didn’t release the sigh coiled inside his chest. Mastering his own reluctance had been difficult enough. He didn’t think he could contend with Ristin’s new doubts as well, isn’t that what you wanted? It seems to me that I’ve been told any number of times that I should be in my own home, fathering grandchildren for your entertainment. So I finally take your advice, and wake up to find you weeping at me.’

  Ristin gave a short, high laugh and then sobbed. She turned to him, her smile showing between the tears that damped her cheeks, ‘I am glad for you. So glad, and so pleased that it is Elsa with you. I don’t weep for your joining. Only for the changes it will bring. We old people always weep for the change times: for births, and deaths, for joinings and sunderings. They are the proper times for these tears.’

  ‘Old people!’ Heckram scoffed at her. He threw back the coverings and rose from his pallet. ‘Tell that to the foxes you brought down yesterday!’

  ‘It’s not the things you can do that mark your age. It’s the things you find you can’t do any longer.’

  Heckram looked at her sharply, weighing the regrets in her voice. He tried to see her as a stranger, but could not. Ristin was Ristin. A little thinner perhaps, the lines around her eyes more numerous, the joints and knuckles of her hands more apparent, but still capable Ristin. He refused to indulge her melancholy.

  ‘Are you saying you’re too old to help build a talvsit hut for Elsa and me?’ he asked innocently, ‘I suppose I could ask Lasse’s grandmother to fill in for you …’

  ‘What do you … ? You puppy! Don’t make mock of your mother’s years. I’m not as old as that yet. Get out of bed now. I’ve cooked for you this morning; maybe the last time I ever shall - not that I regret that! You get up and eat, and pack in water to wash yourself. The least I can do for Elsa is see that she finds you clean, though why she’d want you at all is more than I can understand. Out of there now, you great lout! You’ve a sod house to build today, and a woman to claim.’

  She took down her tunic from its hook as she spoke and dragged it on. She smiled at him as she left the hut, and Heckram found himself grinning in reply. But after she was gone, he found the smile fading from his face. A heaviness weighed on his heart as he clambered to his feet and went over to the cookfire. Today, in the construction of a sod hut, he would be laying a formal claim on Elsa. They would begin their life together today, even if the joining was not formally recognized until they had announced it before the gathering of all the herdfolk at the Cataclysm. He glanced about the smoke-darkened walls of his mother’s hut, suddenly sharing her recognition that he would no longer wake up here, no longer share her fire and food. Changes. She would be living alone, and he would live with Elsa.

  Resisting the temptation to burrow back into his bedskins, he stretched and then inspected the cooking pots. A porridge of meat and grain was bubbling thickly at the edge of the hearth. Set away from the embers to steep was a pot of herb tea. He dipped a mug carved from knurled birch into the pot and then sipped noisily at the steaming tea. The hot liquid cut the night thickness from his throat and cleared his head of useless regrets.

  He ate quickly and as he dressed he tried to recover his acceptance of the situation. Yesterday he had borrowed his mother’s young harke on the excuse it needed further training, and had harnessed it to his pulkor and driven off into the forest. The sledge moved well over the snow, the young animal pulled almost willingly, and his head was free of the chatter of the other herdfolk. He had pondered, his eyes unseeing as he guided the pulkor around and between obstacles. He had thought of Elsa, mostly. His knees did not quake with lust at the thought of her; she did not fill his chest with sighs. He had always felt a satisfaction in their friendship, a comfort in her steadiness. He wondered if it would be enough for her. Or for him. He could think of no other herdwoman he found more attractive. She lacked no skills that a woman should have. She was not dull-witted, nor subservient. She had spirit, spirit he admired. And she had courage; not only the courage to resist Joboam’s advances, but also to come to him and speak plainly. And she wanted him. Surely that should count for something. He’d heard of women wedded and bedded reluctantly. She would not come to him grudgingly. She could have had a wealthy man, rich in reindeer and bronze tools, a man who would have decked her in amber and bronze and ivory. She had preferred him.

  He realized belatedly that three times he had approached and then turned aside from the path that led to the healer’s tent. He wanted to go see Kerlew, wanted to see the boy’s face light with excitement, wanted to take him driving in a pulkor. He was sure the boy had never seen one. Nor his mother. But Tillu would not light up as the boy did at the sight of him. Tillu would be like the fox watching her cub play. Watchful, ever watchful of harm to her young. So fierce a little woman she was; how she had scolded him for taking Kerlew that day. And when she realized her error, how her face had softened and filled with her love for her son. Ristin was like that over me, he mused to himself. She’s a fine mother to the boy. They can take care of themselves; she’s right about that. He turned his mind and his harke away from them.

  He returned from his long drive as the sun was setting. He was still not in love, but he was not unappreciative of the woman who was giving herself to him. Nor could he deny the stirrings of desire in the base of his belly when he thought of her. He had set his doubts and reluctance aside, resolving to face his obligations. His dreams of the trading villages to the south and the strange lands beyond them were but fancies for a child. Something he had used to soften the harsh realities when he was too young to do anything else about them. Now he was a man, about to take Elsa to wife. He would have other things to think about.

  As he dragged on his boots and laced them, he thought again of his decision not to invite the healer and her son. He would have liked them to come. He would have enjoyed watching Tillu watch the people, enjoyed letting Kerlew eat until he was filled. And perhaps she would have spoken to him of the folk she had traveled among. She looked like no people he had ever met. Her appearance was almost as outlandish as his own. But he did not think Elsa would share his enthusiasm for tales of far places, or enjoy the healer taking the attention of the herdfolk away from her betrothal ceremony. Another time, he mentally promised Kerlew and himself. Another time.

  Taking up the buckets, he left the hut and went to the spring. Early as it was, the herdfolk were up and about, the talvsit humming with suppressed energy. Heckram was greeted with smiles and knowing nods on his way to the spring. The morning was clear and, though cold, there was a softness in the air that was the early breath of spring. He went down on one knee to fill the buckets, then starred back to the hut. He stopped once by Lasse’s hut, to get a fresh grip on the wet handles and to incidentally inspect an area beyond the hut that had been swept clear of snow. Yesterday he and Lasse had paced it off. The youth had helped him sweep the snow from the ground with pine boughs and then scrape away a layer of frozen moss and turf. The circle of bare brown earth waited now, looking empty amid the snowy clearing. Stina would be a good neighbor, they were not far from the spring, and there would be good grazing for a pack harke or two behind the hut. It was a good site for a home.

  He lifted the buckets again and set out for Ristin’s hut. Bror was standing before his own hut, yawning and stretching in the thin daylight. He grinned when he saw Heckram.

  ‘You’ve a bit of work before you today, young man.’

  ‘A bit,’ Heckram conceded with a smile.

  ‘Just remember not to weary yourself too much, if you take my meaning. Stout walls alone won’t warm a new hut properly. What’s the water f
or?’

  ‘Bath. And shave my face. I’ve never minded my grandfather’s height, but did he have to pass on his whiskers as well?’

  Bror, like most of the herdfolk, was smooth-faced, save for a few fine black hairs on his upper lip. These he stroked as he nodded again at Heckram. if it were me, I wouldn’t take a bath this time of year, woman or no. A man can get his death-sickness from wet skin in winter. Wait until spring, when the water runs noisy in the streams. That’s the time for bathing. A bit of steam, a little oil on your skin to smooth it; that should be enough for any girl. You don’t want to spoil her, do you?’ Bror scratched energetically at the back of his neck.

  Ibba poked her head from the hut to make a wry face at both men. ‘Spoil her, Heckram, spoil her. Or you’ll be sitting still, as Bror must now, while your poor wife picks the nits from your scalp. Get in here, you old gossip. Heckram has no time to stand and work his mouth today. He’s a hut to build and a woman to claim. Get along, Heckram. And scrub the back of your neck well!’

  He grinned his farewells as Ibba seized Bror’s hand and tugged the old man, protesting, into his hut. He continued to smile as he made his way up the trail between the huts of the herdfolk to Ristin’s hut. The mood was infectious. He was beginning to feel as a man should on the day he built his talvsit hut. Anticipatory and glad. He found he was singing softly, one of the long, almost wordless joiks of his people, timing his words to the squeak-crunch of the packed snow beneath his boots. The deep timbre of his voice made it little more than a pleasant rumble under his breath.