Into the Stone Land (4 page)

Deep within the prickly tangle, he found the dark root he had gathered earlier. He was rounding a corner, nearly back to where Keene lay, when he remembered that he still needed light root. After all, dark and light root went hand in hand. One did not eat one without the other to balance the meal. Or did they? They did, Tall decided. Today, black root was dinner. Keene could complain about it later if he even was aware of what Tall fed him.

Tall prepared the dark root by washing it and using a sharpened stick to peel back the thick skin. A large, flat stone became his plate. Another smaller, oblong stone became a work tool that he used to mash and grind.

Movement slow and soft in the nearby weed-grass caught his attention. He knew well enough the sounds of prowling bulls and creeping slithers. This was neither. This was unexpected company for dinner.

Tall knew not to make any sudden movements. He stood slowly, raised his hands gradually. “There now,” he said softly. “Come on. I'll not harm you.”

His voice brought the curious beast closer. The muzzle emerged first, then the head and long neck.

Tall pretended not to notice the yearling. He walked back to his camp, got more of the dark root, which he washed and then mashed on a second stone plate. He gathered the tender stalks of the tall grass growing nearby, filled his container in the deep pool. He watched the yearling out of the corner of his eye as he fed Keene the mashed root.

The yearling fed, grinding the soft grass Tall had collected with its large, back teeth. Without looking up or over, Tall asked “Where's your mother, little one? She'll miss you if you don't return soon.”

The yearling snorted, long and loud, as if in answer. Tall started to say something, but stopped short. The yearling seemed about to buck and bolt. Seeing the cause of the alarm, Tall stood, stretched his arms out with his hands open and high in the air. “Easy now,” he said, “The hatchlings won't hurt you. They're friends.”

Chapter 4: The Long Goodbye

The night was long, cold, and wet. Tall spent most of it terrified, waiting for one of the circling bulls to draw close enough to attack. It was the yearling's scent that brought the bulls, and perhaps the ceaseless rains that kept the bulls at bay.

The light of the new day brought hope but no less danger. The ground, covered in suckers brought to the surface by the rains, was slick. He made his way slowly and carefully to the house's edge.

There were no buzzers or hatchlings to disturb him, only the incessant rain. He studied the deep pool, looking for shadows in the depths before he hunkered down and filled the container. As he glanced back, he saw that both Keene and the yearling were exactly where they had been when the sun sank over the horizon.

Between the suckers, the bulls, and the rain, it seemed that the land was trying to tell him he had outstayed his welcome in this sacred place. It was time for him to make a decision. He must move on and make his way in the great world beyond, or he must return to his village and speak before the elders. Both choices were distressing, for with one he was giving up all hope of redemption and with the other he was giving all hope to redemption.

A nervous whinny from the yearling brought him out of his thoughts. He made his way back. Kneeling down beside his friend, he noticed suddenly how ashen Keene's face was and yet how serene. It was as if the Great Father of the Heavens had come down, taken the affliction and given peace in its stead. That was when Tall knew with certainty that Keene had journeyed on without him, and that the bulls circled for more than just the yearling.

One time, when he was far from the village with his father, waiting motionless for a group of bulls to pass, he had dozed off while standing and had fallen over, landing on his side. The impact had startled him awake, but it was the mud at the side of the deep pool that made him panic, for it filled his mouth and nose and ears. As he lay there struggling to breathe, fighting to do anything, all he could think about were the bulls. Surely he was attracting them and surely he was going to die spitting mud and trying to stand.

That was how he felt now, trying to remember how to regain his feet, unable to do anything but spit mud as the realness of Keene's death bounced around the inside of his skull. He wished there was time to mourn properly, but bulls could smell death's approach. It had brought them as had the anticipation of feasting. Now, with the scent of death and so many gathered, a vying frenzy would begin—if it had not already.

Closing his eyes, he listened for what wind and land had to tell him. He saw the bulls then in his mind's eye. They circled; they waited; they yearned.

He sensed the roar of challenge and the returning bellow that would start the frenzy. It would be a single pairing at first, but other challenges would follow, and then this sacred place would be a battlefield.

He opened his eyes, took deep, calming breaths. Methodically, he emptied and sorted the contents of his pack. There was precious little, but he vowed to make what was at hand work.

With a rounded stone, he crushed dark root and bittersweet. With his hands, he foamed gritty. He poured a mixture of the three into the container, mixing them with a generous portion of wet, and spreading the resulting perfume over Keene by working it in by the handful. He worked with urgency, but calmly to ensure he didn't make a mistake.

Using foamed gritty, he soaped and washed Keene's hair. His tears stained his cheeks but he continued to work, folding Keene's hands one within the other and crossing Keene's legs one over the other. Tradition also demanded that he open Keene's eyes, so that Keene would know his way on his journey, but Tall couldn't bring himself to do it. So instead, he cleansed himself as was necessary to display that he was worthy of carrying his friend across the shore.

As he worked, he tried to remember the sacred words of the journey, but all he could remember was the reprise. It didn't help matters to hear and feel the circling bulls, though truly their mania lessened as the scent of death and man-flesh lessened.

Tall started softly. The words of his song, barely audible,

A journey begins, a journey begins.

The sun rises and the sun sets.

The wind blows and the wind knows.

The land tells. It does, it does.

The tree listens. It does, it does.

A journey begins, a journey begins.

The tree weeps as I weep.

Our tears are joyful, joyful.

The land speaks as I speak.

Our words are blissful, blissful.

A journey begins, a journey begins.

Tall put Keene's staff in dead hands, wrapping dead fingers around the smooth, straight wood. The fingers, stiff and cold, didn't want to cup the staff, but Tall forced them to take a firm grip. Keene needed the staff to complete his journey. Without it he would be lost and would never reach the distant land where the Great Father waited.

The journey pack was as important as the staff, and so Tall filled it with what remained of his previous gatherings. He spared nothing, saved nothing.

As Keene had no life companion, Tall retrieved the remains of the queen from her nest and laid this beside Keene. She was only skin and bones now, but she'd serve her purpose. Where a boy might lose his way on the journey, a fully grown queen would not. Tall knew this. His heart told him it was so, even if his mind doubted.

Sensing something nearby, Tall spun around, staff in hand. On an outcropping of rocks, he saw a massive bull perched with its snout raised and one clawed hand lifted. The battle scars and markings told Tall that this ancient one was a dominant alpha. The pose was both warning and challenge, not meant for Tall, rather for the other bulls in the area.

A challenging roar that Tall had been dreading came, followed by a returning bellow from the ancient bull. Defender and challenger clashed. The clap of their bodies coming together resounded across the loch like a fleeting thunder. Other challenges followed and then bedlam.

Tall had only enough time to snatch up his staff before his house was overtaken by the bulls. He fled, following the yearling, both racing as fast as they could. It was the unmistakable sound of flesh being rent from bone that froze Tall in place. The yearling stood statue still too, almost as if by instinct or, perhaps, sheer terror.

Tall's tears returned. He sank to his knees, wrapped his arms around himself. This calmed the shuddering of his body but did not quell it.

Tall did the only thing he could do at that moment. He finished his song,

A journey ends, a journey ends.

The sun sets but will return.

The wind calms but will blow once more.

The land quiets but will speak another time.

The tree slumbers but will remember.

A journey ends, a journey ends.

The tree remembers as I remember.

My sigh is heartfelt, the branches tremble.

A leaf grows, a place earned is given.

I see it, our people know it.

A journey ends, a journey ends.

The song echoed in his ears long after he finished it. The yearling felt its power too, Tall was sure of this. How long they stood stock-still together Tall would never know, but the sun was a full circle on the distant horizon when Tall turned his back to it and whispered, “Goodbye, friend. Your story is written; mine to be completed. I will tell all who will listen of you. Others will know the truth and you will not be forgotten.”

With that said, Tall clasped his staff in his right hand and started walking. The sun was to his right; the day moon, to his left. He had only taken a few steps when he heard a voice that said, “You'll need this for your journey.”

“Smoot?” Tall said. He turned around and saw the time-worn elder. “You arrive in time to see my great failure.”

“I've seen much more than you know,” the smoot said, returning Tall's pack and container to him. “Your tears are misplaced. Your heart fills with sorrow when it should fill with joy.”

“Joy?” Tall said, turning on his heel. By now the bulls had finished their work and were easing into the wet to bathe before sunning. Tension mounted. Angrily, Tall said to the smoot, “How can there be joy in this? Keene has, has—”

“—moved on to a better place,” the smoot replied. “He's found peace when he otherwise would've had none.”

“Because you cast him out of the village and made him an exile. He was but a boy who made a mistake.”

The smoot spoke no immediate response. He started walking and Tall felt obliged to follow. His long silence was worse than any rebuke. They switched to a new house, using their staffs to help them make the long jump.

The deep quivered with one final burst of activity as two alphas locked jaws. Other bulls and queens began streaming out, flowing around Tall and the smoot. Then out strolled the largest of the dominant bulls. Tall couldn't read anything in the smoot's face, but he was terrified.

Tall watched wide-eyed as the smoot reached back just as the bull was coming up from behind. It seemed the bull was about to rend the smoot's arm at the elbow, but that was not what happened at all. The bull gripped the smoot's arm in its mouth; the smoot reached out with his other hand and rubbed the side of the ancient, battle-scarred head.

In a way Tall was relieved. But then he saw the trophy the bull gripped in its clawed hand—a thigh bone still thick with Keene's bloody flesh. Tall's eyes flashed with displeasure. The smoot shot Tall his sternest look, stepping between Tall and the old bull. He said, “You forget the circle is all and everything. What do you think happens to those who journey on when we put them in the little reed boats and push them out into the quieting pools? Keene lives in that flesh no longer. What was his is no longer.”

Tall didn't reply. He felt ashamed. A boy's tears were in his eyes. He looked away from the smoot's penetrating gaze.

“He died not a boy, but a man.” The smoot turned up a hand and gripped Tall's arm at the wrist. “No shame. A man can cry as long and hard as any boy. When he's been through what you've been through, he can cry all the more and find no shame in it.”

Tall collapsed at the smoot's feet. “Cast me out now,” he blubbered, “I've no strength to return and face the other elders.”

The smoot was old and frail. He was small, with tiny feet and hands, but when he stood over Tall it seemed he was as big as the village arbor. Tall might try to climb the trunk of his legs, or he might reach for the great branches that were his arms. But either way, he'd never reach the great height of the smoot's eyes.

“You ensured his life's record was written, and because of that, he will be remembered not as an outcast, but as Keene, son of Rooter, Third Village. He earned a man's passing and the tribute he's received in this place will be spoken of until the winters of your children's children's children. You've a place in that story and I see you are no longer a boy either. You've now a man's sensibilities.”