Western Shore

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The old woman was inexpressibly relieved when she finally saw dusk sweeping swiftly across the sky. After keeping the whole encampment busy all day, the strangers had finally gone back to the painted man's hut. The old woman accepted a piece of peeled vine from a shyly smiling child and spared the little girl a brief smile of her own. As the child scampered back to her mother, the old woman chewed on the sweetness coating the fibrous core, mindful of her sparse teeth. It soothed the qualms in her belly.

Was something wrong? The strangers had been harsh and curt as they spoke to each other ever since they had come back from defeating the men from across the river. Then the golden stranger and the red-faced one with the powers of painted ones had spent long periods just talking to each other, sitting in the hut, heads close together, murmuring like brooding birds. The tall stranger had been stirring all the men to action, making himself understood with wordless gestures and a frown that brooked no dissent. His woman had offered her helping hands to the women setting everything to rights again after their abortive flight to the uncertain safety of the thorn scrub.

People were still busy about their huts and enclosures. One or two smiled at her as they passed by. The old woman nodded obsequiously to acknowledge the mother of a healthy brood who'd earlier offered her shelter for the night. She knew why they were being so solicitous.

They wanted answers to their questions. How would they react when she finally had to admit that she had precious few answers? Would they still be as kind?

At least it still looked as if she didn't have to fear being tied up, to be kept barely alive with meagre scraps and water until some painted man demanded food for his beast. Everyone was still talking about the tale that the men had brought back from the battle. Neither the golden stranger nor the ruddy one had waited to woo a beast with the carrion. Instead they had shown the bodies of friend and foe alike the courtesy of fire. Of painted fire, at that.

She realised she had sucked the purple vine tasteless and her stomach growled with hunger. Welcome as it was, the sweetness hadn't filled her empty belly. She noted that the few men and women of her own age were sitting by the embers of the fire so they might warm their bones against the encroaching chill of the night. Perhaps they would be willing to share whatever softer food there might be, as long as she could conceal the full extent of her ignorance about the strangers.

As the old woman skirted the hearth, she watched some of the men of the village adroitly gutting and skinning a pair of the great grassland lizards with well-made blades of black stone. Emboldened by their victory over those who'd come from across the river, the hunters had ventured out to return with the scaly hissing creatures slain and slung on their spears. They were still boasting to each other of their prowess as they worked. Two men grasped the creature's clawed feet and lifted the naked carcass while another pulled the loosened hide down and slashed at the last webs of tissue along the lizard's backbone.

The village women were hacking the succulent meat from the first lizard. Dark lumps were already skewered on branches wedged with stones and propped with sticks

to hold the meat safely above the flickering flames. Dripping juices spat in the embers while the hunters gnawed freshly flensed ribs and discussed whose valour had won the choicest pieces of the lizards' hides.

As she approached the elders, the old woman noted a young girl still with maiden hips kneeling where the hunters had carefully spilled the lizard's guts onto a length of bloodstained hide. The girl cut the convoluted bowel into slippery, pungent rings and dropped hand-fuls into a series of gourds. As she chopped up lungs and stomach, one of the hunters sat with a stone in his fist and obligingly smashed open the lizard's long bones so the maiden could scoop out the marrow and add it to the gourds. Topping each one up with water, she pushed them carefully into the embers around the edge of the fire, smiling at the grandmothers sitting a short distance away who querulously warned her not to let them burn instead of merely seething in the fire's heat.

The old woman sat slowly down, careful not to infringe on the elders' gathering. One old man and a couple of grandmothers, wizened as berries at the end of the dry season, eyed her keenly.

There were always more old women than old men. There were fewer ways a woman could die, as long as she survived childbirth. Men risked their lives every time they went out to hunt. Even a bite from a spotted scurrier cub could suppurate and kill the strongest spearman. So many men were lost in the painted men's battles. Women inevitably found themselves the playthings of the victors but they seldom died of it, even if they might wish it, at first. By the time the bruises and torn flesh had healed, most decided life was still better than walking out into the night to meet whatever death lurked in the darkness.

The old man and the grandmothers decided to notice the newly arrived old woman. The old man closest to her

shuffled backwards and two women drew aside a little. Now she was more or less included in their erratic gathering. The old woman blinked away tears and nodded her gratitude.

As she sat quietly, she realised many of the elders were cherishing discreet excitement and not just because there was more than enough food for everyone to eat their fill tonight. The painted man who had worn the mountain-climber's skull was dead. These new painted strangers had shown no interest in offering up the dead of the battle to his blue beast. Indeed, the blue beast hadn't returned since it had flown away in pursuit of the white beast that none of them had seen before. Nor had the white beast come back. These painted strangers hadn't fed it with the dead of the battle against the men from across the river. What did all this mean?

Dark eyes shining bright in the firelight slid towards the old woman. She shook her head regretfully. She couldn't say where the white beast had come from, or where it had gone. She couldn't say, and she would keep her suspicions to herself.

The two wrinkled grandmothers who had made room for her, similar enough in features and mannerisms to be sisters, dismissed the question of the white beast with flapping hands. The blue beast was what they had feared and now it was gone. It hadn't even returned when the painted man's women were fighting with the red stranger.

Which was not to say it wasn't going to return. A wizened old man rubbed a swollen-knuckled hand thoughtfully over his ash-white hair. It could come back the very next morning. Or the black beast from across the river would be back. They knew that black beast of old and it had only been the blue beast and the painted man that had protected them from it. He saw no reason to celebrate.

A grandsire further around the circle was more optimistic, though his mumbled words were difficult to

understand. Perhaps these strangers were going to challenge the painted man who summoned the black beast next. At least two of these newcomers had the powers of painted ones. His son had been in the battle against those from across the river and he had seen fire and wind bend to fulfil the strangers' desires.

The white-haired old man wondered with some asperity just how these strangers could be doing such things without winning a beast's favour by feeding it carrion or captives. The mumbling man had no answer to that and stared into the hearth, sucking on his toothless gums.

Another old man with clouded eyes soon rallied. If they had no answers to their questions, they had the evidence of their own eyes. The red stranger with the mysterious leg had turned his face against the feathered women, there was no doubt about that. He had driven them out to take their chances against the clubs and spears of the village hunters. He had even driven off the black beast after it had appeared to claim the second woman for its own. He had used his powers to turn attackers to dust in the battle. He was plainly set on defending the village.

The white-haired old man wasn't convinced there was any such reason for optimism. How did they know the breaking and burning of the land and the strange white water that had fallen from the sky was the red stranger's doing? And he had taken the painted man's hut, even if he hadn't taken his women. Perhaps he had driven the woman out to be eaten by the beast, knowing it would be waiting for her. Perhaps that was the fate he had intended for the first one, and why he had been so furious when she had been slain. Perhaps that was what these people did, in whatever strange land they came from. He turned to look at the old woman.

She considered her reply carefully before explaining how she had seen them floating along the coast on a strange raft.

They had been coming along the sunrise coast and then turned the headland to continue along the sunset shore. Presumably they had dragged their raft ashore somewhere but she didn't know where that might be. She admitted she had simply seen them walking as she had been coming along the cliff tops herself and followed. The village elders gaped at her. Voluble, the sisters searched their joint memories for any tales of such things that might ever have been brought to the village. The white-haired old man hushed them, openly disbelieving. Piqued, the old woman told of the waterspout that had appeared out of an empty sky to draw away the water beast. That silenced him.

Then the old woman braced herself for someone asking just where she had come from, but no one did. The conversation faltered once again as all the elders wondered what to make of the mystery of the strangers' origins.

One of the sisters heaved a sigh and opined that there was nothing to be done but wait and see, so they might as well enjoy going to sleep on full bellies for a change. All eyes gazed greedily at the gourds now steaming copiously. The circle sat in silence for a while, the old woman wondering if she might expect an equal share.

The old man with the clouded eyes cleared his throat. What precisely was it that the tall stranger had sent the men and boys of the village to gather that afternoon? He explained that he had been occupied with other things. The old woman noted the other elders accepting this readily enough. Of course they would. No one would draw unwelcome attention to their own infirmities by mentioning another's failing sight or trembling hands. No one wanted the hunters or the matrons turning their thoughts to just what the elders offered the village in return for their usual meagre food.

The white-haired old man told him, his wrinkled face animated. First it had been sticks. Not firewood, he

explained, but those rare tree limbs long and straight enough to be turned into spears. But he had stopped any of them sharpening the ends or hardening them in the hearth. The other old men looked at one another, shrugging bony shoulders in incomprehension.

That was not all, one of the sisters added unexpectedly. He had wanted grass. All the elders looked doubtfully at her. The tall stranger had wanted grass, she insisted, and not just for sleeping on. He had piled it inside the painted man's hut beside the sticks. Curious glances turned to the old woman once again. She had no choice but to admit her utter ignorance. Disappointment clouded various faces and she quailed inside.

The toothless old man sat up straight and pointed across the broad stone ring of the hearth as the tallest stranger came out of the painted man's hut, his woman at his side. The hunters of the village hastened to offer him both of the freshly killed lizard hides. The old men all agreed that was wise; any man carrying those knives like splinters of lightning should be placated even at such a cost.

The old woman watched the tall stranger lift up the first heavy lizard skin, turning it this way and that. He was frowning, but more in thought than in displeasure, unless she missed her guess. What was he going to do?

The tall stranger laid the skin carefully down and set the second next to it. He stood up, rubbing a hand across his beard. Snapping his fingers, he attracted the attention of one of the village's most revered hunters, who had been sitting close by the fire and waiting for first choice of the best of the meat, as was his right.

The old woman heard the white-haired old man whisper to his neighbour that the stranger had plainly recognised his son's merits. He had lent him one of his lightning knives during the battle with the men from across the river. The old woman thought privately that the white-haired

man's son couldn't have been so clever in his youth, not if he'd so nearly fallen victim to whatever had dug its claws into his side.

The tall stranger was still deep in thought. Handing his two bright knives hidden in their wrappings to his woman, he untied the long strip of hide he wore doubled around his waist. The scarred hunter watched him closely. The stranger proffered the long strip of unknown hide and the hunter took it from him, bemused. Drawing his smallest blade, the stranger crouched and pretended to slice an equal length from the softer belly skin of the lizard hide. Standing up again, he pretended to pass the strip of lizard skin to the hunter, taking the unknown hide back in return. The hunter looked at him, baffled. Visibly trying to curb his exasperation, the stranger repeated his actions.

Several people around the hearth understood in the same moment and called out to the scarred hunter. The white-haired elder wondered aloud what the stranger could possibly want with strips of hide. The old woman saw younger women hurrying to bring old, worn hides from their huts. They weren't concerned with what he might want them for; they were just happy to exchange them for some claim on the highly prized lizard skin. The wrinkled sisters voiced their tart opinion that the tall stranger must be some kind of fool, to trade at such a disadvantage.

Was he a fool? the old woman wondered silently. She didn't think so. But he had had no idea how to find water roots and could have stood underneath the green-nut trees till he had starved before he had thought to eat them. She kept that recollection to herself.

The toothless old man was arguing with the wrinkled sisters. All of the village hunters had admired the tall stranger's bravery in the fight against the enemy from across the river. He had seen through their painted man's

deceptions somehow, and led them on that courageous attack up the ravine. The other old men concurred. The tall stranger was definitely a man to have on your side in a fight, and not just because he carried those remarkable blades.

All conversation around the hearth circle died abruptly as the two pale strangers appeared, the ones with the painted men's powers. The golden-haired one exchanged a few words with the tall stranger before bending down to gather up an armful of the pieces of hide. As the tall man spoke briefly to the red stranger with the curious leg, the golden-haired one jerked her head back towards the painted man's hut and the two of them walked away. The tall stranger watched them go, exchanging a few words with his woman. She bent to help him sort through the remaining hides, her face drawn and tired.

The white-haired old man ventured his opinion that the tall stranger must also have the powers of a painted man, for the red stranger and the golden one both deferred to him. When did a painted man bow his head to anyone but a more powerful rival?

All eyes turned to the old woman again, so she told them she had seen no sign of the tall stranger using any painted man's powers. Yet, she freely admitted, he certainly seemed to be the leader of the four strangers.

The white-haired old man spoke over her, still insisting that the tall stranger must be a painted man. And his woman had such powers too, most likely. Apprehension deepened the creases in his aged face. Painted men only ever cooperated with each other. No wonder none of the strangers had shown any fear of the black beast. If they were going to attack the painted man across the river, perhaps it was so they could feed him to the black beast, like the feathered woman, and win its favour that way.

Everyone fell silent. As the maiden returned and

carried the gourds from the edge of the fire with hide-draped hands, no one spoke apart from offering the briefest thanks. She looked around the circle, concerned, but knew better than to ask. The wrinkled sisters and the white-haired old man let the old woman dip her hand into the gourd they were sharing between them. She fished out a hot slippery piece of intestine and ate it hungrily, waiting humbly to be offered the gourd again before taking another piece. Once all the offal was eaten, the white-haired old man seized the gourd and slurped at the ripe-smelling broth of the lizard's innards, stomach contents and bone marrow.

On the far side of the hearth, the scarred hunter was smiling ingratiatingly at the tall stranger, gesturing to the lizard meat cooking over the fire. The tall stranger took a whole branch heavy with meat away from the flames and drew his smallest lightning blade. The village women shared glances to reassure themselves there would still be plenty of meat for their children, even if the stranger was claiming such an unexpectedly large share.

The white-haired old man started saying something but then fell silent, his broth-stained mouth hanging open. The tall stranger wasn't keeping all the meat for himself. Instead he sliced it with his lightning knife and offered it all around, first to his woman and then to the other pale strangers who had now returned empty-handed from the painted man's hut. The white-haired man recovered himself sufficiently to argue this made his point for him. A painted man would only share his meat with others of his kind. Painted men would certainly only take orders to fetch and carry from another painted man.

Then the tall stranger took another lump of meat and cut a portion, which he offered to the scarred hunter on the point of his blade. The hunter squared his shoulders and took the meat with a shaking hand. As he stepped

back to tear into it with his white teeth, the tall stranger offered a portion to the next hunter. The others promptly stepped forward. The circle of elders watched, mystified, as the tall stranger proceeded to cut up and apportion all the lizard meat. He continued until everyone had been fed. Even the smallest and weakest of the children got a share.

From the wonder on some of their little faces, the old woman guessed it was the first time they had tasted anything but offal. She almost wished she still had the teeth to manage meat like that. But at least she had a full belly. The second of the wrinkled sisters handed her the gourd and she drained the remaining pungent broth.

The scarred hunter walked around the hearth and sat down beside the white-haired old man. The old woman enviously noted the family resemblance that so safeguarded the old man. The hunter was watching the tall stranger, who was now sitting with his woman and the two pale strangers. The white-haired old man began telling his son her tale of seeing them on their strange raft on the sunrise coast.

The scarred hunter asked her bluntly what else she knew of these strangers. She repeated her tale of the waterspout that had lured away the water beast. The white-haired old man barely let her finish before insisting once again that all four strangers must be painted men, his voice rising.

The old woman looked down at the empty gourd. Well, if she was to die tonight, it would be with a full belly and warmth in her weary bones. So she told them about the painted cave. She slid over the dangerous truth that it was she who had led them to it, saying instead that they had seemingly stumbled upon it while she was merely following them. Though she admitted they had deliberately raised a path across the river for her. She assured the scarred hunter that the strangers had insisted she go inside the

painted cave, mutely beseeching him not to kill her out of hand for profaning it.

He nodded reassurance. After all, who among them would dare refuse a painted man's order?

After that, it cost her nothing to admit she had been following the strangers out of fear of being captured and handed over to the local painted man, whoever he might be. Every wrinkled, toothless face showed that these elders understood such fears. What mystified them all was the old woman's insistence that the strangers had known nothing of such caves, that they had first marvelled at the paintings and then simply ignored them.

The hunter turned to his white-haired father and pointed out that none of the strangers were in fact painted in any way. For all their strange garb, none wore feathers or shells or bones or any of the signifiers anyone with the least pretensions to power adopted. The tall stranger's demeanour in the battle and now around the fire had convinced him that the man was a hunter among his own people, and one of great stature if he was accustomed to sharing meat so lavishly.

The white-haired old man shook his head, his face oddly troubled as he reminded them all that the tallest stranger wore something wrought of the same stuff as his knives and some kind of scale or shell around his neck. However strange their customs in whatever strange land they had come from, these were all still painted men as far as he could see. Only painted men could protect the unpainted from the beasts. He restated his conviction that it was simply the custom of these strangers only to feed their less powerful rivals to the beasts.

The scarred hunter had no answer to this. He stared into the fire, eloquent in his frustration at being unable to understand a word the tall stranger said.

The old man with the clouded eyes spoke up with a new

concern. Surely they were all agreed that these strangers offered more protection for the village at less cost in lives and even in lizard meat than the painted man with the skull mask and his feather-crowned women. That could only be a good thing. But there were those among them who had not yet dared to claim paint or feathers as earnest of their abilities. They would see the tall stranger's forbearance as weakness, and sooner or later would contemplate challenging the red stranger or the golden one. If these strangers were taken unawares by some attack, if their customs for such challenges were different, disaster might befall them and thus the rest of the village. None of those who wished them well would be able to warn them, not given that no one knew any common tongue with them.

The toothless man was similarly perturbed. Word of the death of the painted man who had worn the skull was soon going to spread among all the villages that he had ruled with the blue beast's connivance. Who knew how far beyond the river the news would reach? Sooner or later, some painted one who coveted this land and its people's blood and sweat would come to challenge the red stranger with the curious leg, or the golden-headed one. How could they stop such a thing happening, however much they might want to?

If any such challengers came, they would go to the painted cave first of all, the scarred spearman said slowly, whoever they were and wherever they came from. He fell silent and sat staring into the fire, unblinking even when a passing youth threw on a fresh bundle of twigs to strike bright sparks from the embers. Finally he got up and walked away without even a word to his father. The old woman watched him go to join a group of hunters sitting some distance from the strangers. After a short while, the men got up and one by one retreated into the darkness.