The Reindeer People Page 9

  He studied her face, then asked, ‘Pain again, new day?’

  She nodded, hoping he understood. She busied herself once more with the hare, hoping he would return to his friend. But he continued to crouch amiably at her side, looking from her to Kerlew with friendly curiosity. Cocking his head, he asked something in a casual tone.

  Tillu shrugged at him.

  ‘He asked if we live alone,’ Kerlew interpreted helpfully.

  She glared at him as Heckram nodded, clearly understanding the boy’s rewording of his question. ‘Don’t you remember that I asked you to be quiet?’ she hissed at him, speaking as rapidly as she could. To Heckram she made a vague gesture that could have signified anything and said, ‘Soon. Very soon.’

  The man looked slightly puzzled, but nodded and smiled in return. Then he transferred his attention from her to the obviously rebuked boy. ‘Come,’ he said, speaking slowly and plainly. ‘You help me.’ His gesture could not have been misunderstood even if Kerlew hadn’t known his words. He glanced at Tillu for permission. She nodded, her lips tightly pressed. Kerlew rose to move around the fire and squat at Heckram’s side.

  The man rose, to open his loosely belted tunic and take out a packet from inside it. Then he pulled off his heavy tunic of reindeer hide, revealing a woven shirt beneath. ‘What fur is this?’ Kerlew asked in amazement, instantly reaching to touch the fabric. The man smiled at his curiosity and suffered the boy to pluck at the sleeve of his shirt. After a moment he motioned at the package and took a knife from the sheath at his hip. Tillu watched from the corner of her eye. The sheath itself was woven, from sinew or something. The knife was flint, ground, not flaked, to a fine edge. Beside it, her bone knife looked like a child’s crude toy. As the man unwrapped the package, a smell at once familiar and foreign filled the tent. Kerlew wrinkled his nose at it, but Tillu could not keep herself from turning to stare. Cheese.

  A half round of yellow cheese filled the man’s hand, marked with a woven pattern on its rind. He set it down atop its wrappings and began to cut it into portions with his knife. Lasse called something to him and Heckram rose to remove a similar package from the youth’s pouch. This one contained a piece of river fish with its smoky smell. Tillu understood that they were sharing their hunting rations and nodded to indicate her thanks. At the same time, her mind was racing. A folk that knew weaving, and the making of cheese, that used ground flint tools as casually as Benu’s folk used bone. These were no stray hunters from some wandering tribe. Surely cheese meant a settled village somewhere, and woven goods meant livestock kept, crops grown, and village life such as she had once known. And where polished flint tools were known, there was usually bronze as well. She pushed down a vague hope and dropped the last piece of hare into the pot.

  Heckram was offering a piece of the cheese to Kerlew. The boy took it, sniffed it suspiciously, and glanced at Tillu in confusion. ‘Cheese,’ she told him, but had to revert to the language of her childhood to find a word for the food. ‘You eat it. Try it, it’s good.’

  The hungry boy needed no further encouragement, but crammed most of the chunk into his mouth, then made a wry face at the unfamiliar taste. Heckram burst into a roar of laughter that Lasse weakly echoed. Tillu felt her face flush, her nerves prickling as they laughed at her son. She kept her head bent over the fire so they would not see the flash of anger in her eyes. Always it was this way; adult men either made sport of the boy, or dismissed him in disgust. If did not help her spirits when she looked up to see Kerlew smiling vaguely at their laughter. He had swallowed some of the cheese in his mouth, but still looked like a squirrel with its cheeks pouched.

  ‘Eat nicely,’ she hissed at him. ‘What must they think of us?’

  He gulped to clear his mouth. ‘It tastes funny,’ he tried to explain.

  ‘Then don’t eat any more,’ she snapped, letting her anger find a target.

  ‘But I think I like it,’ he hedged, unwilling to surrender anything that resembled food.

  Tillu felt tension pull tight in her. The two strangers had noticed the exchange between her and her son. They were trying to ignore it politely, talking casually to one another as if they did not sense the unease. Tillu stirred doggedly at the stewing hare, feeling the familiar ache of the emotions Kerlew roused in her. She had to protect him, but wished there were no need. She loved him as he was, but wished he were not that way. She wanted others to accept him, to see the value in the boy as he was, and yet wished his differences were not so apparent. Everything she felt for Kerlew was a contradiction. Her mind snapped back to the old midwife putting the tiny baby into her arms. She had shaken her head, patting a soft skin around the babe, her mouth pursed. Tillu had still been amazed by the reality of this new being when the old midwife spoke. ‘Love him while you can, but don’t lose your heart to him. He has the look of the ones that don’t live long.’

  That had been the first time she had felt the now familiar anger at the unfairness. All were so quick to judge the child. She had left the wandering tribe and their midwife as soon as she was strong enough to travel. The people had watched them go, and in their eyes she saw their belief that her tiny mewling babe would be dead soon. But he had not died, she thought fiercely. He had lived and he was hers, and she would fight for him, every day of his life. The sooner these men were gone, the better. She needed to be alone with Kerlew, she told herself fervently, to teach him slowly what other children learned rapidly, to give him manners and skills so he could merge unnoticed with other folk. She would not follow them back to their village. And as soon as she had that thought, she was surprised at the poignancy of the regret she felt. Were woven cloth and cheese, the idea of a village and a settled life, such a powerful lure to her? She pushed the thought away.

  A hand plucked at her sleeve, but she rudely pulled away from him. She didn’t want to touch Kerlew just now, lest in her frustration she strike him. But it was Heckram’s voice that spoke, saying, ‘Fish,’ ‘for you,’ ‘eat,’ and other words she could not understand. His tone was the excessively polite one of the guest who had given offense. Tillu’s embarrassment deepened. She thanked him without looking at him or at the food he placed carefully beside her. Instead, she gave the stew a final stir and rose to go to the door flap and lift it. She peered anxiously out, as if awaiting someone’s return. The coolness soothed her flaming cheeks, and the necessary deception gave her a measure of control again.

  ‘What’s wrong, Tillu?’ Kerlew asked anxiously. He felt his disgrace without understanding why.

  ‘Nothing,’ she replied evenly. ‘I just thought I heard him coming.’

  ‘Carp?’ asked the boy excitedly, rushing to the door. He poked his head out under her arm and stared wildly into the darkness.

  ‘Mmm,’ she said, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. At least Kerlew was convincing in his appearance of waiting for someone. She hoped they would think her man delayed somehow on his hunt. She turned from the door to find the strangers watching her expectantly. She shrugged. Lasse lay on his side, holding a bit of fish in his good hand. His color was still not as good as it should be. She went to kneel beside him. She inspected the bandage once again, then felt the band below if. It was a little cool, but the stricture of the bandage was necessary to hold the flesh together. ‘Make a fist,’ she told him, then demonstrated. Lasse winced, but was able to obey her. She nodded her approval, but his eyes were cast down before her. His youth suddenly struck home to her. He was, at most, five years older than Kerlew, and obviously unaccustomed to a woman’s touch. He was shy. Yet she knelt by him a moment longer, savoring the fantasy that Kerlew would grow this well, would hunt like this youth did, and bear himself with a man’s dignity. ‘He’s a good boy,’ she said, more to herself than anyone, but looked up to find Heckram nodding with a vaguely paternal air.

  ‘Brothers?’ she asked aloud, to break a suddenly heavy silence.

  ‘Friends,’ Heckram explained gravely. ‘Hunt together.’

  She nodded her u
nderstanding. But for the accent, the languages seemed to share many common words. She was unprepared for his question.

  ‘Little brother?’ He nodded toward Kerlew. ‘Father comes? Mother comes?’

  Tillu snorted. ‘Son,’ she explained, then wondered if it wouldn’t have been smarter to let him think them siblings. What difference could it make anyway? But now the big man was anxious to talk. Words and questions spilled from him.

  ‘You come from … far? South?’ He added other words she did not recognize. The intensity of his interest gleamed in his eyes. It made her uneasy. Why did he want to know so much about them? She picked up snatches of his meanings, but tried not to let it show. Had her man gone to trade to the south, or was he hunting? Where were the rest of her people? She let the questions flow past her, smiling apologetically as she shrugged, and then covering her thoughts by bringing out bowls to divide up the stew. Kerlew had his in his cup, and Tillu had hers in the cooking pot, to make enough dishes. She saw the big man’s forehead wrinkle in puzzlement at this, but decided to let him think what he would. He made another slow appraisal of her tent and its contents. Tillu covered her nervousness by eating.

  The fish had been smoked into a hard slab and tasted of salt and summer fires. It had been so long since she had tasted cheese that she was not sure if the flavor had changed, or just her memory of it. She ran a fingertip lightly over the rind, feeling the woven impression where the curd had been packed into the mold. After the weeks of lean hare, it seemed unbelievably rich, and the stew tasted heartier in its company. She looked up suddenly from her empty dish to realize she had ignored everyone else while she ate. But Kerlew and Lasse seemed likewise occupied with their food, with only Heckram’s eyes wandering about the tent as he chewed.

  Their eyes met and she dared not glance away in what might be a submissive gesture among his folk. They looked at one another, while she struggled frantically to think of something to say, anything to fill this silence. But it was he who spoke.

  ‘… hard … winter … wild … herd … but … hides … payment … heal Lasse …’

  She listened carefully, trying to string the words she knew into some kind of sense, but finally had to shrug at him. He gave his hands a small toss to indicate the dilemma, and then said quite clearly, ‘Wait. Understand soon.’

  She nodded and rose to gather the various vessels and clean them. By the time she had finished, Lasse was sprawled in sleep. She knelt by him to check him. No fever, the bandage seemed comfortable, the hand below it warm. She looked up to find Heckram’s eyes upon her. ‘Thin,’ she said, spanning the boy’s wrist with the circle of her fingers.

  ‘Thin seasons,’ he agreed solemnly. He covered Lasse with one of the bedhides and then his own coat.

  ‘Kerlew,’ Tillu rebuked the dreaming boy, jerking his attention from the fire. ‘Don’t sit and watch it burn out. Put some fuel on it.’

  The boy moved slowly at her bidding, bringing in frosty wood that he heaped carelessly on the coals. ‘Are we going to carve tonight?’ he asked her.

  She had forgotten her lecture of the morning and was not inclined to do any kind of work just now. The unexpected strains of the day had tired her, and her full stomach was making her sleepy. Evenings for most hunting folk were a busy time of day, for making household items, for conversation and stories. She realized that she had let them become idle times of silence and staring, sometimes because she lacked materials to work with, but more often because she was simply too tired. Heckram was glancing about as if wondering what to do with himself. Although it was dark outside, it was still early for sleep. So Tillu nodded stiffly to Kerlew, who seemed suddenly energized.

  The boy darted to his pallet and returned to her with a great armload of sticks and chunks of wood. He rattled them down in a pile at her feet and sat expectantly. She smiled wearily at the boy. ‘I tell you to find one or two pieces, you bring me a forest.’

  He smiled proudly back at her as she began to sort through the sticks. She felt Heckram’s eyes on her, and her reluctance toward the project grew. Her skills for this were rusty; she didn’t enjoy the idea of someone being amused at her awkwardness. Even more daunting was the prospect of someone watching the painfully slow way that Kerlew learned. But to do this was better than to sit idly through the long evening, avoiding the stranger’s uneasy glances.

  Many of the sticks were plainly unfit for use, dry and brittle ones, ones so small they would be carved to nothing before anything could be made of them, some so full of knots they would defy any shaping. These she set aside, until of Kerlew’s bundle there were five pieces of wood left. She chose one at random and put it into his hands. He looked up in surprise, and she had to smile at his expression.

  ‘You thought I would do it while you watched, didn’t you? No, there has been too much of that. Now Kerlew starts to do things while I watch. There is the knife, you have the wood. Wait a moment.’ She rose to rummage through her possessions and returned with bone scrapers. They were for hides, but they would have to serve. She put them out in a row by the boy. He sat holding the wood and knife in his lap, not moving. Heckram was watching them both silently, his face mildly puzzled, but friendly. She refused to be ruffled by his scrutiny. Sitting down beside Kerlew, she said, ‘First, you strip the bark from the piece.’ He met her gaze, unhappy in his uncertainty. His anxiety wrinkled his face, pushing his lip out like a shelf. ‘Go on,’ she encouraged him, and he took up knife and wood.

  She watched the boy attentively, flinching each time the knife skipped over the bark by his fingers. He hit a stubborn knot and tried to hand the work back to her. ‘No. Keep trying,’ she told him gently. He pursed his lips, his eyes going darkly bitter, and went on picking at the stubborn bark. It would not yield to his awkwardness, and she saw his chin start to tremble. The boy knew failure all too well; even the threat of it could cripple his efforts. She forced herself to sit still and watch him struggle, believing he must learn his own way. Kerlew’s breath began to catch. He curled himself around his work, as if to hide it from her, but doggedly continued to dig at the unyielding knot.

  Then a large shadow moved between them. Heckram did not look at her, but crouched behind the boy, and when he spoke there was only interest in his voice.

  ‘What do you make?’ The meaning was plain even if the words were not.

  ‘Probably nothing,’ Kerlew replied sulkily. He was already braced for the expected blow.

  The man reached out a slow hand. Kerlew flinched slightly as the hand settled on his wrist, and Tillu readied herself to intervene. Some men thought Kerlew pretended his difficulties and tried to make him learn by cruelty. If this Heckram …

  The boy hastily tried to surrender, pushing the knife and wood into the man’s hands, but Heckram only pushed them back, then rearranged them in the boy’s hands. He shifted the boy’s small hands on the wood, and then his own large hand engulfed Kerlew’s small one on the handle of the knife. He guided it as the edge of the knife went under the stubborn knot. ‘See?’ he asked Kerlew, and, as the boy nodded nervously, he added his strength and the bit of bark went flying across the tent, to bounce off the hide wall. The man laughed easily, and after a moment Kerlew joined him. The piece of wood shone white and smooth in Kerlew’s hands. ‘What you make now?’ Heckram asked easily.

  ‘A spoon,’ Kerlew decided.

  Heckram tapped the wood gently, asking permission to take it for a moment. The boy released it, and the man took it, turning it this way and that as he perused it thoughtfully. Taking up the knife, he marked the wood with shallow cuts. ‘Here cut,’ he instructed softly. ‘Here cut. Here,’ he made a scraping motion of the knife near the knot. ‘Make strong. Hard, strong.’

  Tillu rose, feeling suddenly excluded. Kerlew didn’t even notice her departure. His head was bent over the wood as he carved with more energy than skill. She stepped outside the tent into the crisp cold of the night. The night was clear, the cold settling over the world like a blanket. She g
athered an armful of Kerlew’s wood and took it back into the tent.

  It could have been someone else’s tent, with the one youth flung wide in careless sleep, and the other crouching by the man, carving diligently as the adult worked more sedately at a piece of his own. Heckram said something to Kerlew as he tossed a handful of parings into the fire, and the boy grinned, though Tillu was sure he didn’t understand the words. She set down the firewood and felt suddenly at a loss for what to do with herself. The two muttered to each other as they carved, ignoring the language barrier. After a moment’s hesitation, she took up Lasse’s coat, covering him with another hide. She rummaged through her sewing things and then examined the ragged rents the arrow had made. She threaded her needle with a length of sinew and looked up to find Heckram’s eyes on her.

  ‘Thank you.’ The courtesy was clear and honest.

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied evenly, nodding at the intent boy.

  Heckram touched his own chest. ‘Heckram … no father. Hard learn man’s work. Understand.’

  Tillu nodded and then felt her face burn as she realized she had betrayed herself. He knew no man was coming back this night. He was smiling at her easily, but she didn’t return his smile. She sat as frozen as the hare had earlier, but felt her exposure keenly. For a long moment he watched her, and the smile faded from his face. He made a motion of his hand that seemed to indicate it was no concern of his and went back to supervising Kerlew.

  By the time she had finished mending the sleeve with tiny, tight stitches that would keep out wind and weather, Kerlew’s eyelids were drooping over his work. He was obviously sleepy, but loath to surrender Heckram’s attention and guidance. It was part of his nature to accept people at face value. If Heckram had cuffed him and pushed him away, Kerlew would have seen it, not as an offense, but simply as part of the man. That the older man accepted him and took time with him he assumed just as easily. He held up his rough spoon for inspection as he rubbed at his eyes. Heckram set down his own more finished product and took the boy’s. Turning it, he muttered approvingly at some parts, and pointed to others that needed more smoothing. But when Kerlew would have immediately gone back to work on it, Heckram made a show of yawning. He sheathed his own knife, and the boy was quick to follow his example.