Kalik (8 page)

The canoe ran silent. I looked at the mountains south. Several notches that looked promising on the way up the lake now had blue ranges piled behind. None offered escape.

Getting up Lake Ka to the Western Mountains would be difficult not just because of the guards at the logging camp. I had learned slave will betray slave rather than see them escape. Besides, how could the Children survive that climb? And for those who did, life on the Western Coast? Dried riverbeds, desert, the insane sun spinning across a brazen sky….

The Salt Men had come from the north, down the valley under Grave Mountain. Kalik would search there first. Even if we escaped successfully, life amongst the Salt People? Exchange one bloody society for another?

Grave Mountain cut off escape to the east. Kalik had talked about the Cold Hills to the south-east. Grim country. Whichever way we went, the Children must have a chance of surviving.

“We’ll have a look at Lake Weah,” Kalik said. “Where the swans went.”

We crossed our lake to its northern side, climbed the cliffs on to the shoulder of a spur. Lake Weah lay below, surprisingly close. Mountains crammed its upper length. It was too near Lake Ka.

We descended and paddled on. There were Chak, Kimi, and the smaller children to consider. Two older girls, Kitimah and Sheenah, were pregnant. Then there were the sick. Far easier to take only the fit…. As well escape on my own! Was that what I wanted? Survival without the Children would be a mean, pinched thing. Escape meant taking them all. Again I looked at the mountains south.

Kalik shook a trickle of water off his arm. “You’re thinking of mountains,” he said.

I looked over his shoulder toward Grave Mountain. “There’s a lot of smoke rising.”

“After rain, you’ll often see steam or smoke along the top.” More smoke rose, cupped white against the perpetual black cloud walling the sky. “You told Lutha there was no way across the mountains from the Land of the White Bear. But from this side there must be a way up to the crater.”

I grunted, “What makes you think that?”

“An old story of a shaman,” said Kalik, “who climbed Grave Mountain. Food and sex were forbidden on the sacred mountain but, once on the summit, he ate meat and lay with one of his slaves. White stuff fell out of the sky, covered the ground, and froze. The shaman must die of the cold. He cut the slave’s throat, prayed for warmth. His god sent fire under the sea from the North Land. It burst out of the mountain. The white stuff melted to a pool of hot water in which the shaman recovered his strength. He climbed down the mountain, but the roar of the fire had left him deaf.”

“What about the other slaves?”

“The white stuff froze them; the fire ate their bodies.” Kalik laughed. “Isn’t it interesting, Ish? The story says ‘white stuff’. He turned, looked at me. “Whoever first told that story couldn’t have known what snow was.”

I mumbled agreement but was seeing the people perish on top of Grave Mountain.

“Lutha’s old women know that story,” said Kalik, “but she says Hekkat forbids anyone to set foot on the mountain top. I have heard of men who tried to get up.”

“Yes?”

“The stories always say the mountain opened and swallowed them.” He chuckled. Kalik’s laugh was joyous, made me want to join in, but too often he was laughing at something cruel. Evil was deep in his nature. He would not change – perhaps
could not. Yet I still found him attractive.

“Opened and swallowed them!” Kalik chuckled again. “More likely they fell. Whatever happened, the cold would kill them, if the fires on top didn’t. Look!”

Six black swans swept past, necks straight as spears tipped with red beaks. The creak of wings, the white flash as they wheeled a great broken ring above the lake. I kept seeing the flash as their wingbeat carried them south.

The white flash became confused in my mind with the snow that fell on Grave Mountain. And another image came to mind: the story of a young man who sailed home with a black sail. His father saw it, and threw himself off a cliff. The young man had forgotten he had promised to hoist a white sail if he came home alive.

“Black and white,” said Kalik. “They build huge untidy nests. The eggs are good eating. And the flappers.”

“Flappers?”

“Fat young birds without their full feathers. All they can do is flap across the water. Fast, but you can catch them. Like the geese when they’re moulting.” And he laughed again.

“If they only come here occasionally, do they spend the rest of their time on Lake Weah?”

“There might be another lake to the south,” Kalik said. “But if there is, it must be a long way off. That’s what one of the old stories says. ‘A long hard journey over mountains. Down a long valley, by a savage river.’ I can’t remember how it goes now. You know what those stories are like. Somebody looking for a place of their own.”

“A place of their own!”

“What’s that?”

“I’ve heard stories like that.”

“They’re all the same.” Kalik laughed. I thought you’d had enough of journeying, Ish? Besides, Lutha wouldn’t let you go. You’re her good luck sign – returning under the mountain, bringing her father back.”

“I’ve done enough travelling,” I said. “Deserts, mountains, ice, snow. The sea. But nowhere as beautiful as Lake Ka. And food! The vegetables you’ve got here! And fruit! In the Whykatto there were a couple of green-leaved plants we could eat, but the sun shrivelled and killed them. And I remember an apple tree on an island. Getting enough to eat was always a problem.

“In the Land of the White Bear, there was meat. A few green leaves in spring. Berries in autumn. Then just meat again all winter. Meat and fish.” I thought of the feasts. The rare meats we ate, frozen, boiled, raw. The sweetness of seal liver hot and running blood. There was no point in telling Kalik about it. I wanted him to believe me when I said Lake Ka was a place of rich abundance, that I was happy there.

And paddling down it that day, light meshing the ripples in a shimmering net, it looked a paradise. Kalik laughed and sang old songs of war and love. Killing and betrayal. Life around the charmed lake.

“That old story,” he said, “about a southern lake, it says the track to it goes through the hills there.” He raised his paddle and pointed. A trickle ran down the handle, down his arm, shoulder, back. He wriggled at its touch, and his muscles separated from each other a moment, then relaxed smooth. His body was beautiful, like the lake. And, like the lake, there was a darker Kalik below the skin.

“I thought that was the way your track goes, to the Cold Hills and the Iron People?”

“It swings more that way,” he pointed again. “South then east. But, if there was a track to a southern lake, somebody would have seen it. Somebody hunting. You can be sure of that!”

“Look at the smoke! It’s coming up thick now!” I drew Kalik’s attention away. “I noticed while we were up at the timber workings, there’s another range higher than the one where the smoke’s rising. Further back again. Where the black cloud rises.”

“Yes?”

“Well, from the other side, from the Land of the White Bear, I saw range after range of mountain tops like that. We can only see the first from here. Just Grave Mountain and that bit of the range behind. There must be rows and rows of mountains you’d have to cross.”

“I’ve thought about that,” said Kalik. “How to carry enough food and keep warm. You’d have to take enough slaves. Kill and eat them as you go. Meat on the hoof!” He chuckled.

Nothing was beyond Kalik’s idea of the possible. Not even using people as pack animals, the way the Salt Men of the North Land used their slaves. But even they did not use them as food for the journey.

Back at the Headland, the basket of red tote chips we carried was taken by the Maidens who sang, danced, and carried them up to the Roundhouse. Lutha just nodded at sight of us. We were in the way. Kalik grinned, amused, but I remembered what Lutha had done to Raka.

When at last Lutha sent for me, Kalik was already with her beside the Roundhouse. The Maidens glowering.

“What did you think of the timber workings?” Lutha was brisk.

“I was surprised to see the hills cleared.”

“We use much timber.”

“Shouldn’t you replant?”

“Why?”

“For the future.”

Lutha laughed scornfully. “There will always be more trees than we need.”

“Think of another generation,” I said. “How about planting some of the hills nearer the Headland. Where the trees can be slid down into the lake. Easier and handier. And trees are your best protection if the sun gets hotter here.”

Kalik smiled. “You’re obsessed with deserts, Ish,” Lutha said. She signalled. Two of the Maidens led Kalik and me away.

“Don’t look back,” Kalik said. “Best avoid the Roundhouse
the next few days.”

I wanted to ask why, but he was busy examining the work done in his absence. Alterations to the fighting platforms over the gates. Rebuilding of a collapsed hut. The daily bow and spear practice. Kalik was everywhere, praising, encouraging. A sense of vigour went with him. Just his presence made difficult jobs seem easier. People worked harder, joined in his gay laughter.

The Children welcomed, drew me inside their hut. Excited, several stood by the walls with bits of charcoal. “Are you watching? Watch me? Look, Ish!” And they wrote the names of the five friends beside their drawings on the walls. They had memorised the written words – from the times I had written them. But they understood the need for secrecy. They rubbed them off again.

They had cooked their food, looked after each other, done their work around the Headland. They had managed so well, I felt a twinge like jealousy but knew, in the end, the Children must make their own way.

That evening, they wanted to hear their favourite story again. I did not mention the deaths of the two Salt Men on the skids. Already the Children carried too great a burden. Chak and Kimi crawled on to my lap as I began. The others surrounded us, leaning against each other, the smallest in the middle. And there on the edge of the group – still not touching anyone else, but drawn in with the others – were Tama and Puli, the boy and girl I had given up.

They listened to the story, leaning against each other for support. Great dark eyes staring out of pale faces. Emaciated. But alive! I had stumbled on a way to help them, something so obvious I might have worked it out before.

The timber rafts arrived some days afterwards. The Maidens carried the other baskets of chips up to the Roundhouse, surrounded the tote log, and sang it songs of welcome. The whole settlement helped drag it up the beach.

Fresh guards were chosen. Without warning, Kalik inspected the Salt Children and selected several older boys. Some I hadn’t got to know so well, but one of them was Wirrem, the gardener. I had to watch with Kalik as the guards slashed the tendons in one leg of each boy and threw him in a canoe with the older Salt Men. I still remember Wirrem’s look as they drew out from the shore.

“Never forget they are only slaves,” Kalik laughed merrily. The canoe headed up Lake Ka to where the wind and the sun and the rain were drying and rotting what was left on the skids.

“They're going to get wet,” I said. “Look at the rain coming down the valley under Grave Mountain.” Kalik lost interest – as always when there was no response to his cruelty.

I had been counting on Wirrem's knowledge of gardening, but there was no way of rescuing him. He would live out his life in the logging camp until some day when he was too slow getting out of the way of a falling tree, a skidding log.

The other children were upset. That night, I lay awake and went over those left.

The four little ones. Two boys, two girls. Chak, always in trouble, wanting to do the things the older ones were doing. Hurk, another boy, a little taller. Lively, curly-haired Kimi, and another little girl, Tupu. She tired easily, was often feverish, high-coloured, and coughed. Her breathing was uneasy and, when I tappped her chest and back, I could hear damp spots. Tuberculosis. All four were young enough to adapt – if I could only help Tupu shake off the wasting disease.

Pretty Maka, of course, and her friend, Tulu, the two oldest girls. Tulu laughed often, was strong in mind and body. Maka was sweet-natured, but I noticed how she hid behind the others when Kalik appeared, how she was sometimes withdrawn. She and Tulu were always helping the little ones. Finding them treats. Good-tempered, intelligent, reliable, both.

Tama and Puli – boy and girl – recovering, but slowly, illness of mind reflected in weak bodies. I worked at cheering them, made sure they ate well, encouraged the others to help them.

Kitimah and Sheenah, two more older girls, both pregnant from rape.

Paku and his mate, Tepulka, older boys still unsure about
me. Cruelty had made both suspicious, but they were beginning to give me their confidence. Tepulka, good with his hands, carved the posts for the graves of the Salt Children who died. Paku, I hoped, would make a leader.

Twelve left out of over thirty. Wirrem and the other older boys would have given us strength. “Limit your plans to the possible,” I told myself. “Do the best you can with what you've got.” I tried to see them separately, their faces, voices. I must get to know each one.

Chak was one of the most cheerful not just because he was so young. He had it in him to survive. How could Tama and Puli learn that? Kimi, the youngest girl, was another with the will to live. And Kitimah and Sheenah, concerning themselves now with the babies they were going to have.

How to escape? When? And to where? What would we take? How would I feed the Children, keep them warm, keep them going long enough? Was it actually better to live as a slave? Had I the right to risk their lives?

Then things began to change as Kalik had warned me. The Maidens set aside their usual long robes and wore short tunics, hunting costume, their hair plaited. Each day, their sacred rituals and praise of Hekkat began earlier and finished later.

The ordinary people only saw Lutha in the distance. Kalik was everywhere, joking, helping, encouraging. While Lutha and the Maidens chanted, he organised the hunting parties that acted as patrols. He led the daily bow and spear exercises, making sure everyone took part – everyone but Lutha and the Maidens.

I enjoyed the exercises, Kalik beside me. He was a fine shot with a bow. We tumbled and thrust in mock knife and spear fights. And Kalik laughed – he was always laughing. He used praise, was quick to honour a good shot. He was patient with the youngsters, showing them how to release the bowstring without losing aim, how to trim the flights to send the arrow straighter.

One moment dancing in a spear practice, the next he would remind everyone who he was. Standing like stone. Thinking. People were impressed.

While Lutha and the Maidens were so busy, everybody still needed to be fed. “We really need more hunters,” Kalik said, “at this time of year.”

“Use the Salt Children,” I suggested.

“Beasts of burden. Only good for carrying home the meat.” I grimaced at Kalik, so he tossed his curly head and laughed. Trying to hide my feelings for the Salt Children was pointless. What I could conceal was how strongly I felt the Children were the family I had always wanted.

My deception only worked because Kalik saw the Salt People as animals which could perform a few useful tricks. Kalik had no idea of them as being like himself, no sense of morality towards them. Lutha had accepted my argument about the Salt Children's usefulness. And since that was her attitude, and Kalik's, the rest of the Headland People adopted it, too.

One day Maka appeared wearing another tunic, still shabby but warmer than her old one. A gift for looking after a sick baby. I had recognised the symptoms Maka described, made up a simple herbal remedy, and she gave it to the child. Perhaps some people were beginning to realise the Salt Children were human after all.

Then Kalik warned me the time was coming when men must keep out of sight. “It is part of the moon-worship,” he said. “The Headland People's worship of the Triple-Hekkat.”

“Avoid the Roundhouse, do you mean?”

“More than that!” Kalik was amused, then the usual bland poise descended upon him. He stretched. I noticed again his litheness, the muscles of his legs and arms moving clear-cut and distinct. He slumped back down beside me.

Beneath, the Salt Children were filing across the causeway carrying baskets of vegetables. The goats followed Chak and Kimi. I averted my gaze as I felt Kalik's look.

“More than that?”

“During the Festival of the Moon, Lutha and the Maidens will drink the wine, and neither men nor wild animals will be safe. On the third night, the moon will be at its fullest, and the Maidens will kill any man they come across – with their bare hands. Eating his flesh, drinking his blood. After that we'll be safe for another year.”

“What about Lutha?”

“She will lead the madness. On the night of the full moon.”

“What about children, boys?”

“There is an old story of a priestess tearing her own son to pieces.”

“Then how does any boy live to be a man?”

“They are put in a safe place. The goddess makes sure the Maidens respect her buildings. Keep inside, you'll be quite all right.”

“I can't believe it!”

“It has always been done.”

I wondered at Kalik's serenity. So often he spoke of some terrible thing as if it were quite usual. Behind his smooth face there was some twist of thinking. I sometimes wondered if he was sane. Like the way he had sent Wirrem and the older boys to the timber workings – apparently to try me since he could not understand my thinking. His response to uncertainty was to hurt someone. Kalik was a natural torturer.

“What about the rest of the men?”

“They know it is necessary to placate the Goddess.”

“But your people – before you joined Lutha?”

Kalik laughed. “We worshipped Hekkat, too. The men keep out of the way, inside the buildings. Only three nights, and it's over for another year. Hekkat is satisfied.”

“By what?”

“The flesh and blood of the man killed for her.” Kalik smiled. “Hekkat lives in Lutha and the Maidens those three days, eats and drinks through them.”

“Why don't the men don't fight back?”

“They have been brought up to it. Besides, the food for certain men is already being drugged. That is why one of them will lose his wits, wander outside, and get caught.

“Until the night after the full moon, Ish, eat nothing offered you. Cook your own food. Draw your own water. But Lutha will have taken steps to protect you. She can never repay you for bringing back her father.

“Your first arrival at the lake was the signal for Lutha to overthrow the old priestesses, on the Floating Village. You were seen as the Stranger in the story I told you. You are under the protection of the Moon Goddess herself. Still, the wine makes the Maidens mad. Keep inside.”

“But why are those men picked out? What have they done wrong?”

“Nothing!” Kalik doubled up as if at a great joke. “Sometimes it's a man with a crooked eye, a weak arm, lame.” He glanced at me and smiled. I tried always to hide my limp, but knew Kalik would have noticed. “A coward who ran away in a bear hunt. Somebody with a stammer. Or cross eyes. That's all it takes.

“You'll be surprised,” Kalik smiled. “Everyone will feel better afterwards. You, too.”

“Me! Why?”

“Because it works. With the death of the scapegoat, the sins of the old year are driven out. We feel clean. Ready to start the new year!”

“It's murder!”

“It works!” That was always Kalik's test, no matter how wrong something was. Face alight, he drew me up.

“Come on, we'll see how the canoe's going!” And we walked down, talking about the tote log. But in the back of my mind I was thinking about the killing of the scapegoat, Kalik's cold judgement. Calculation.

The great tote was being hollowed out. It rang with the
blows of the metal adzes. The carvers were intent. Satisfying work, I thought, then found myself remembering two Salt Men who died to launch it.

I came to myself like waking from a dream. Their work finished for the day, the carvers were looking at me curiously. Several Maidens were collecting the chips of red wood in baskets to be taken to the Roundhouse.

I heard Kalik say, “We'd better go hunting again. We still haven't got that bear. Besides, you can keep some of the meat for yourself.” And he reminded me: “Don't take food from anyone else's hand until after the full moon.”

My face gave me away. “Ish,” said Kalik and he smiled, “my people used to tell a very old story about a time when the priestess was a priest. When we worshipped a god instead of a goddess. When the sacred wine was drunk, and the priest led a maddened pack of men. When they sacrificed a woman. And everyone felt better afterwards. Ready to face another year. It's what works.”

“It still doesn't make sense.”

“It works!” Kalik smiled his remote smile. Distant, objective, amused.

Would my own idea work?