Hi everyone. I just finished this story and thought I should share it with you. While it is a part of a greater setting, it works as a stand alone story. I will post more chapters once I edit them. All feedback is welcome.
Against the Tribe
In the early years, the Alvor built no cities, lived in scarcity, with limited food supply, burdened by a retrictive religious system. Condemned to a hunter-gatherer way of life, they were hesitant to try a different approach. This is the story of Niomir, a hunter who came at odds with his own tribe...
Chapter 1: the Hunt
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
The deer’s head snapped up, ears twitching, the meal forgotten. Its head turned, seeking source of the peculiar noise. A nearby shrub rustled in a suspicious manner.
The spear came from a different direction, the very one the deer just turned away from.
The missile pierced the animal through the chest and brought it down before it could make another step.
A nearby thicket stirred and Niomir emerged from it. His face was sprayed with mud and sweat. Long hair was tied behind his back. He made straight for the writhing deer. Before he reached it, the shivers had abated and it lay still. He knelt beside the fallen animal and placed his throwing hand flat on the deer’s breast.
Niomir raised a solemn face to the sky. “I thank you, spirits of the Earth and Sky, for this bounty.” He lowered his face and gazed in the deer’s eye. “I thank you, brother, for granting me your flesh that I may eat of it. I will drink the sunlight in your name so that you may join with our Sky-kin.”
He touched the copper bead, dangling on the slender braid at his ear, while he turned his face skyward again. The trees whispered their sage song. The sun’s rays caressed his face. Birds began to chime. Niomir felt that the deer’s spirit has successfully fled. What lay before him in the dirt was no longer a spirit brother. It was but meat and they were free to eat of it.
By now, Nimmian had dislodged himself from the shrub and approached.
“Good distraction,” said Niomir without looking up. He wrenched the spear free and pulled a pair of leather straps from his belt.
“It’s nice to be good for something,” Nimmian said. He carried a thick pole.
Niomir shook his head. “I had the better position this time.” He used one leather strap to bind the deer’s front legs. “Next time we will switch.”
“You are a better thrower than I,” Nimmian said. “No point pretending otherwise.”
“Concealment is more important than throwing,” Niomir said. The deer’s hind legs were tied together now as well. “Tracking too. You are good at that.”
“I will never be as good as you,” Nimmian said. He handed the pole to Niomir. “None of us will.”
Niomir took the pole and shook his head. “Sometimes I forget we share a bloodline. You fail before you even try.” He slid the pole between both pairs of tied hooves. Together, they lifted the carcass and carried it away, its head dangling with each step.
Despite the load, their step was quickened. Sweat poured over their naked backs. It was close to noon in the middle of summer. With the deer’s spirit no longer guarding the flesh, the carcass would fall victim to vermin and corruption quickly. If they wanted to share it with the others, they would have to make haste.
As they labored with the carcass, a thought began to gnaw on Niomir’s mind
Once, Nimmian had been able to keep up with Niomir. But then Niomir had begun to surpass him at every turn. It wasn’t long before Niomir could outthrow, outswim and outrun him. Nimmian could not hide his frustration but he refused to talk openly about it.
There was another reason for tension. The day of the Winnow was approaching. Nimmian had been having nightmares about being singled out as the weakest member of the tribe and proclaimed with the dreaded acronym – a Runt.
They crossed a shallow but swift stream, tumbling from the highlands. They raised the carcass high over their heads and proceeded to cross. The frigid water numbed their feet, forcing them to stop and wait until circulation returned. As they continued, the deer seemed to have grown heavy as a stone. Niomir’s mind, however, had grown heavier.
He knew that Nimmian had been falling behind in every race for a good long while. Not only could he not keep with Niomir himself, he could not keep up with most others of the tribe. Those few that were slower got picked off and had already been proclaimed as Runts, their hunting rights denied, their movement restricted to the lowlands. Nimmian had been watching his Runt status slowly creep up on him.
I should do something, Niomir thought. The deer’s head dangled between them with each stride. But what could I do? If he’s Runted, he’s beyond my aid. Once declared, there is no chance of undoing it.
The encampment was perched off a bluff overlooking the valley a thousand feet below. Eight crude tents built of hides surrounded a hastily dug fire pit. It wasn’t a permanent dwelling place. The tribesmen were constantly on the move across their local hunting grounds.
A group of them had scattered this morning in search of game. They had all pretended it was for sport but no one could deny that larger beasts had grown scarcer with each season. Niomir made a quick count as they approached: six. He and Niomir were the last to arrive. From the look of things, they were the only ones who brought in a kill.
With a groan, Niomir unloaded the carcass and stretched his back. A couple of tribesmen came forward and congratulated him on the successful kill. Niomir didn’t mind sharing the meat with the others. The remaining four remained as they were. Niomir was used to the cold stares they threw his way.
The tribesmen of Winter Boar tribe were scattered into a myriad of smaller hunting groups. Each group had an unofficial leader, one that others would look up to, one whose word was more influential than that of others. The leader of this particular group was Setimika, a large man with a permanent scowl. Though Niomir never officially challenged him for the title, Setimika nevertheless saw him as a potential rival. The fact that Niomir could outhunt him only served to augment the friction between the two of them.
“Thought you went boar hunting,” Setimika muttered in his direction. Niomir seemed not to hear it. He took a meticulously sharpened flint knife and proceeded to skin the deer.
There were stories of Alvor once being so strong and swift they were able to go after boars. These days, one would have to be utterly foolish or desperate to go up against a boar. The danger was simply too great. The hunter would only chose to risk a boar hunt if he was vain and loved approval of others more than his own life. Proud hunters were said to have tried their luck going after a boar… and were never seen again.
Accuse me all you like, Niomir thought as he skinned and cleaned the kill. It is nothing but your own envy, reflected back at you.
A successful kill was a reason to rejoice. The deer would feed them for a week, two if they were cautious, enough to give them time to rest and prepare for the Winnow.
As soon as the meat was distributed, the camp descended into silence. The men huddled in small groups, each hoarding his worries, occasionally glancing Niomir’s way as if he were the topic of their hushed conversation. Niomir felt the distance between him and them grow larger. It seemed he was the only one not concerned about the results of the Winnow.
As custom dictated, Niomir got the heart of the kill. He planned to share the prize with Nimmian but his brother took the most meager portion and turned away from him. It felt like a slap in the face but Niomir chose to ignore it.
Chewing slowly, savouring every bite, Niomir gazed into the valley below. The lowlands were draped in swaths of grass. Within two moons, they would be turning from green to gold.
The verdant plain was speckled with brown areas. Tendrils of smoke rose from them. Niomir’s nose instinctively wrinkled. Those were the permanent Runt settlements. He could only make out five from his vantage though he knew there were eight of them.
He could not imagine being forbidden to range and hunt as he pleased and to be restricted to those foul places, labouring in the dirt. After all this time, he could not understand why the elders have decreed this be done in the first place, just that it was the will of the spirits they were listening to.
Why would the spirits condemn men to this pathetic form of existence?
He caught pieces of other people’s hushed conversations.
“I suppose I would consider it,” Setimika said, trying to sound bold. “If I were Runted, I wouldn’t last trundling down there. I would risk it.”
“And you think Flat Face would let you leave?”
Niomir knew what they were talking about. Until quite recently, trade with the neighbouring tribes was still open. Though tribesmen continually suspected one another of poaching, they exchanged what little they could dispense with. With trade came rumours. A particular bit of gossip caught on and refused to die down.
It was said that all over the western ranges, Runts have been disappearing overnight. They were supposedly fleeing to the vast swamps further in the westlands. None ever returned. Some tribesmen believed that Runts turned mad and gave their flesh to the bogs while demons that dwelt there devoured their spirits.
But there were also those who whispered of a whole tribe of runaway Runts, forming hidden from sight. They were even supposed to have a leader, a man by the name of Isurion. No one knew which tribe he’d come from, just that he ranged across territorial boundaries with no concern of the ire of native tribesmen, not to mention the wrath of the spirits for his impudence. All this danger and blasphemy just to deprive the tribes of their Runts. To Niomir, it made no sense.
The elders across the tribes had unanimously dismissed the existence of such a man as idle talk, which was precisely why the rumour gathered merit. Judging from the hushed conversation Niomir overheard, the rumour was still very much alive.
Life in the swamps would be nothing but hardship. If we have difficulty finding food here, what could they possibly eat there? Slugs? He nearly gagged with the thought.
It was this very rumour that had caused Flat Face, the elder of Niomir’s tribe, to suspend all trade with other tribes indefinitely. He believed these rumors were nothing but a way of attacking their tribe’s way of life by planting treasonous ideas in the mind of the Runts. An idea that abandoning the tribe was a viable option and not a horrid sacrilege upon the will of the spirits.
Niomir could well remember the words Flat Face would drill in the heads of each of the new Runts. “The Runt serves the tribe. Abandoning the tribe is a crime great and heinous in the sight of the spirits. Such a man would be put down by them, his flesh devoured by beasts, his spirit scattered in the wind.”
All the men were tired from hunting and went to sleep as soon as the sun touched the faraway peaks. Each slept beneath a canopy of crude hide, his cloak under his head. With his belly full of meat and weary from the hunt, Niomir should’ve slept soundly through the night. Close by, Nimmian tossed and turned which kept him awake and caused him to think.
Nimmian dreaded the idea of becoming a Runt. He’d managed to avoid it so far but now he’d run out of time. The only choice left to him was to flee for the swamps to the west. The trouble was even if he did, Nimmian wouldn’t be able to get there by himself. As clumsy as he was, he would be tracked and found before he left Winter Boar tribe’s territory. If the horrid fate Flat Face had promised wasn’t enough, everyone knew the threats some of the more aggressive tribesmen murmured for the Runts to hear when Flat Face wasn’t around. No, should Nimmian dare to dry to escape, he would most certainly fail.
Unless he had help.
Niomir sat up and climbed from beneath his canopy. The moon was up by now, casting the silver light upon the Woodland. He walked all the way to the edge of the bluff. The night wind greeted him there. Crickets sang in the swaying grass around him.
What would happen if Niomir led Nimmian to the swamps where the runaway Runts were said to be gathering? Would Niomir himself return here? Would Setimika and the other tribesmen even let him return? If both Niomir and Nimmian disappeared at the same time, they would know Niomir helped his brother escape. Flat Face would not like the idea of a tribesman helping a Runt make away.
If he helped Nimmian escape, Niomir himself would certainly be punished upon return. They might even declare him a Runt for it and make sure he would not be able to flee.
If I do this, I would have to stay in the swamps as well. Could I do that? Give up my life and stay with the Runts even though I was not Runted?
Niomir gazed up at the moon, his mind unable to flow anymore. It was not an easy decision to make.
Chapter 2: the Winnow
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
Niomir was going down a slight slope, leaving the favourable heights behind him. He didn’t need to take this route. He was already ahead of most of the men. The only thing that was important was to finish the Race. But it would feel wrong not to take this advantage since it posed no trouble to him.
After all, that’s what the Winnow was all about. It was not designed to separate the strong from the weak but the gifted from the unfortunate. That’s why the path was designed this way. A man could prove his endurance by going around the long way or prove his courage, wit and balance to risk the dangerous path.
His lungs heaved in a regular rhythm. Sweat poured from him in torrents but there was no need to reach for the water gourd that was slapping against his thigh just yet. The ache in his muscles was a delicious melody. His eyes scanned continuously for treacherous roots. Branches swiped at him. He dodged them gracefully without braking his stride.
One more treeline slipped past him and there was the chasm, right in front of him. A single felled tree led across it, its lower branches cut clean to present a likely path. The successor sapling grew next to it.
[Whenever Alvor deliberately fell a tree, they will plant a successor sapling in the same spot. The sapling is a direct clone of the felled tree so in essence it is the same tree. Alvor never cut down the entire tree – their tools are not good enough. They will dig it out, usually if the tree is already damaged.]
Most of the Winter Boar tribesmen relied on speed and endurance and took the long way around. Niomir trusted his superior balance to take him across a shorter, more dangerous path.
This is too easy, Niomir thought as he danced across the tree. The water rustled beneath him but it was not enough to make him hesitate. A few more steps and he was across and on solid ground. While most others were tromping around the gorge, adding at least 10 leagues to the their path, he had but one more league to go.
He was about to spring into motion when a thought made him hesitate. Nimmian would no doubt take the same route. It was his only chance to come up ahead, even if it meant risking the rickety path across the chasm. But unlike Niomir, Nimmian’s balance was far from perfect.
Niomir turned to face the chasm he’d crossed so effortlessly. Someone was approaching but there were too many trees in between to see who it was yet.
Maybe it’s Nimmian.
A part of him wanted to turn and race for the finish line. The other part of him knew that he could not move on without making certain if it was indeed his brother or not who approached.
And if it’s not him? I’m allowing someone to get ahead of me.
A moment later Niomir ducked into the shrubbery close by and concealed his presence.
There are others who are still between me and the last place. I can afford to wait for a bit.
Finally, the tribesman appeared among the trees. It’s not Nimmian. Niomir’s muscles coiled to spring out of the shrub before the tribesman reached solid ground and make for the finish. A thought stopped him.
He would see me. In this one’s eyes, what reason would I have for concealing myself and then fleeing as he appeared? If this man reports my behavior to Flat Face, I might be suspected of foul play.
The thought was enough for Niomir to lay still while the tribesman jumped off the tree and gasped his way past.
Silence once more enveloped him. I should head out. I will not achieve anything by sitting here. Nimmian’s fate is in his own hands.
And yet the plan to take Nimmian to the Runt tribe returned to his thoughts. It wasn’t a perfect plan, but the only thing that could be done.
And what will Flat Face do when I come back? He will ask me where have I gone and why I disappeared on the same day as Nimmian. I could hide Nimmian somewhere and then move him out once the tribesmen had stopped hunting him. Won’t work either. As soon as he vanishes, I shall be suspect. They will keep an eye on me to make sure I’m not hiding him anywhere.
The more he tried to think it through, the more it was obvious that if he tried to help his brother, he would suffer for it.
I’m over-thinking this. There are still others to come. He might yet be in front of someone and not be Runted after all.
Another tribesman came stumbling into the clearing. This one nearly lost his balance twice as he inched along the tree but managed to catch himself both times. Niomir watched him from his vantage and nearly ripped his nerves into shreds. Why did he even choose this path if he does not possess the balance to cross it? But the answer was obvious. Because this is his only chance.
After that, more tribesmen came stumbling out of the woods and crabbed across the felled tree. Each time another ran past him, Niomir cringed inside at the thought of allowing someone to get ahead of him. They came so close one to another that he couldn’t break out unseen.
What if Nimmian chose to go around the long way with the bulk of the tribesmen? No, that wouldn’t make sense. He couldn’t possibly keep up with all the fastest runners of the tribe. What I need to do is be gone from here or I will end up being the tribesman stupid enough to give up his hunting rights willingly.
As soon as the last tribesman crossed the chasm and vanished from sight, Niomir sprung to his feet and yanked the branches of the shrub aside. That was when another tribesman appeared on the opposite side of the chasm. Niomir froze midstep. Nimmian. He could’ve easily seen him if he were paying attention to what was in front of him. Yet his head was turned halfway back, glancing behind him. Before his looked ahead again, Niomir quickly retreated back into the brush, making sure the branches of the shrub did not make too much of a sound.
Another tribesman came gasping out of the treeline, trying hard to keep up with Nimmian’s pace. Niomir saw that this one had a distinct limp on his right leg. He could see the man’s grim face and the veins of his neck were apparent. He looked to be in pain. He was probably ahead of his competition until his misfortune.
If I wait until both are gone ahead, I can still overcome the limper and avoid being declared a Runt this way. What will I tell Nimmian when he asks why I’m behind him?
Nimmian reached the felled tree without allowing the limper to close in on him. He mounted the fallen trunk and began to proceed timidly across the chasm. The limper reached the tree a few moments later. He had difficulties maintaining balance with his damaged leg but grim determination propelled him on.
Nimmian kept glancing back at his competitor which made his progress riskier. It’s not his balance that’s suffering. He’s grown clumsy from fear alone.
It seemed to take an eternity for Nimmian to cross the chasm. At last, with solid ground just barely beneath him, he jumped off the trunk… and his foot slipped just over the edge of the chasm. He yelled out and grabbed for the successor sapling just in time. Wide-eyed, Niomir dashed out of cover but he stopped himself before he revealed himself completely. The limper was still there, crawling across the tree on all fours. If he should see him…
Niomir nearly tore himself in two as his brother dangled by his fingers across the lip of the chasm. The sapling was not tough enough to last for much longer. The tiny tree’s roots were being ripped out by every moment.
At last, the limper was across. He threw himself off the tree awkwardly with his good leg, rolled on the ground and slowly got up. For a moment, he turned towards Nimmian as if contemplating to help him. He turned away and limped out of sight.
Niomir ripped through the brush that concealed him and dashed for Nimmian. He threw himself on the ground belly first, used his right arm to grab on the root of the felled trunk and reached down for Nimmian’s exhausted fingers with his left.
“What are you doing here?” Nimmian rasped.
“Shut up and grab on!”
Nimmian grasped his hand and both pulled. Pain shot through Niomir’s shoulders. His gut nearly tore in two but he managed to lift Nimmian up. As soon as Nimmian’s shoulders were over the lip of the chasm, he could grab on the roots as well and lighten the load.
Finally, both collapsed on the bank of the chasm, struggling for air.
“Are we the last ones?” Niomir asked, his air wheezing.
“Yes,” Nimmian said, defeat plain in his voice. He turned to Niomir. “Why did you come back for me?”
“Because we are brothers and we will always be brothers, declaration of spirits be damned.”
“That man wasn’t going very fast. We still have a chance to overcome him if we…”
Niomir cut him off. “If you are not Runted now, you will be in a few seasons when Flat Face decides the tribe needs more Runts. No. We shall walk across the finish line together. We shall both be turned to Runts, wait out the winter and in the spring we shall leave this place behind and join the tribe of Runts.”
Nimmian got up to his feet, leaned on his knees and breathed heavily. “You mean Isurion’s mongrels?”
“Better that than to give up my hunting spear, don’t you think?” Niomir chuckled. He reached up. Nimmian took his hand and grabbed it firmly. Niomir put his weight on one foot and made to rise. He expected that Nimmian’s hand would pull him up. Instead, it shoved him down and back. Caught off guard, Niomir lost his balance and stumbled backwards. The chasm yawned behind him. He lost footing and fell, legs first. In the last moment, he grabbed that same sapling that Nimmian nearly tore out moments before.
Niomir’s legs dangled in open air, unable to grab purchase on anything. He tried to grab on the felled tree’s root but it was out of his reach. Each time he lunged to grab the root, the sapling shuddered in his hand.
Niomir looked up at Nimmian, his face a mask of shock. Nimmian looked down on him. There were tears in his eyes but he made no move to help him up.
“I don’t want to be a Runt, brother,” Nimmian said. “But you seem to be looking forward to it.”
And Nimmian turned his back on him and ran for the finish line. He disappeared in the treeline before Niomir could blink.
The sound of ripping, a jerk in his clenched fist and suddenly he was weightless. The felled tree flew upward. His vision was swallowed by the twilight of the chasm.
Chapter 3: False Judgement
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
Each step meant another jolt of pain. Scratches and lacerations crisscrossed his flesh but he was astonished he could still walk. The water broke most of his fall but it was also water that pulled him across the surface of sharp rocks that cut him until his whole body felt like one huge wound.
The water had carried him wildly off course, which meant more distance he had to walk across when he finally managed to pull himself out of the current. By the time the finish line was in sight, the sun had set and he walked through murky blackness of the forest.
The fire pits were lit. Men sat around them. Wind brought the scent of roasted meat. His stomach roiled violently – the last meal he’d eaten was at dawn. He forced himself not to care about it and turned his mind blank, nothing but a queer form of pride pushing him on. The finish line had to be reached no matter what.
He didn’t see who spotted him first. Men turned his way, stood up, walked to him. Soon they stood shoulder to shoulder like a wall. How many times did Niomir stand inside that wall, looking on as the loser of the race faced his judgement? He’d stopped counting long ago. At that point, the man who was to be Runted was not a tribesman in his eyes anymore. The outcome of the race caused the transformation. The elder’s declaration was just a formality.
This was the look Niomir now saw in their eyes. That blank, neutral stare he used to wear to shield his soul from feeling the desperation of the man he faced. It was not anger in their eyes, or revulsion. He simply didn’t have a place among them anymore. It was as if his flesh had perished and he’d become a formless spirit.
One of them stepped forward. Niomir expected the frigid glare of Flat Face, the elder of the tribe, but it was Flat Face’s aide who approached him.
Why isn’t Flat Face here? This is his ceremony, he’d always performed it himself.
Whatever the cause, the absence of the elder brought Niomir’s mind back to life. He could never contradict Flat Face directly, but now…
“Just a moment,” Niomir said with a firm voice that caught Flat Face’s aide off guard. “I reject your judgement. I only failed the Winnow because I was attacked.”
The aide froze. This is not how it was supposed to go. “Sabotaging a fellow tribesman is a severe offense,” he said. “Who did this?”
Niomir turned his eye to the wall of men. They did not move but there was confusion on their faces. His eye found Setimika whose smirk spoke for itself. He of all people would relish Niomir’s fall.
Nimmian’s face wasn’t among them but no doubt he was still close. “My brother did this,” Niomir said loudly.
A wave of murmurs swept across the tribesmen. They turned, looking for Nimmian among themselves.
“Can you prove this?” the aide asked.
Niomir turned to the tribesmen. “You all saw me going ahead of you. You know I was faster than you.”
No one spoke for him. Not that Niomir expected it. None of them would deny the fact either, not even Setimika. It would be a lie and no one was reckless enough to commit to a cause he had no stake in.
“If you were ahead of us,” Setimika spoke up, “how come you ended up behind us?”
Niomir could not allow himself to show hesitation. “I hid and waited for my brother.”
“For what purpose?” the aide asked.
Despite his best efforts, Niomir’s resolve faltered for a moment. “I… I couldn’t go on without knowing if he’d made it across the chasm. I waited in case he needed my help.”
“So you hid and let other get ahead of you,” said the aide. “Once you’ve helped him across, what would you have done?”
Niomir refused to hesitate. “I would walk across the line with him at my shoulder.”
The silence was deafening. It seemed to last for hours before the aide spoke again. “You would willingly choose the life of a Runt? Why?”
The wall of men stirred. Slowly, Nimmian emerged through them. His face was weighed with shame but it was curiosity that brought him to the front.
Why did I want to turn myself into a Runt with him? Niomir turned to the aide. “He is the offspring of my mother. We are family.”
The aide’s face twitched. “If you truly share the bond you claim you do, how would he be capable of betraying you as you claim?”
Niomir found himself dangling on the edge of the chasm once again, looking up at Nimmian. Anger erupted inside him. His gaze wandered to where Nimmian stood among the others. Nimmian’s face was a blank mask and he refused to look at him. Sweat poured down his face.
Why would he do this? The anger that bloomed in his heart made him want to accuse Nimmian of being the most profound villain but even as he thought of doing it, he knew it wasn’t true. His brother was a man whose actions were dictated by fear. Where did that fear come from?
“Because some people are driven to desperate measures by desperate circumstances.” He could not believe what was coming out of his mouth. “It is wrong to make men of a tribe compete against each other in such hideous circumstances.” The men stared at him. They knew what was coming and could not believe one of them would speak openly of this.
“This is not a contest. It is a crime.”
The aide finally understood what was happening. He bristled and faced the tribesmen.
“The Runts are a condition required from us by the spirits. We are of the Forest and live by the spirits’ decree.” He was clearly reciting from lore, trying to get on top of the situation. “In their wisdom, the spirits had decreed that only a third part of the tribe is to carry weapons and hunt. The rest are required to perform other tasks, important to our survival.” He turned back to Niomir, confident. “There is no shame in becoming a Runt.”
Niomir refused to back down. “Then why did my brother rather betray me than become one?” He looked at the men. “My brother is not the villain here. He’s a victim, just like every one of us here. Just like everyone who has already been proclaimed a Runt and forced into submission.”
More silence. They could hear the distant squeak of an owl.
“This isn’t going to end,” Niomir told them, standing boldly before them. “More and more of us will be Runted and fewer of us will be allowed to hunt. Our numbers do not change. It will not be long before all of us are rutting in the dirt and ranging the Forest is nothing but a distant memory.”
With each word he uttered, Niomir felt his anger dissolve. The men that listened fell more raptly under his spell. It seemed the entire tribe was there, listening to him, ready to discard the wretched Runt status.
That was when the men parted in haste. In the empty space between them, a single gaunt figure appeared and stepped forward. A cowl covered his head, casting the face into shadow. A staff in his hand ended in a large bulge. Niomir felt his resolve shatter like a fallen icicle.
Flat Face.
“Your words betray your anger for the spirits,” said the elder of Winter Boar tribe with his notorious monotone voice. “You believed yourself above their judgment. Now the spirits have shown you your error. In your arrogance, you will attempt anything to turn our decision. But it is not our decision. It is the decision of the spirits. They’ve seen through your pride and deemed you unworthy to carry a spear.”
With tremendous effort, Niomir turned and addressed the elder of his tribe directly. “If the spirits want me Runted, why do they not strike me down for speaking falsehood?”
Flat Face extended a long thin finger and pointed it at Niomir’s chest. “But they have struck you down. You are cut and bleeding as you speak. They have made you fall for hearing the arrogance of your mind. They could have easily taken your life for such blasphemous thoughts. The only reason you still live is that you might atone for your impurity and serve the tribe. If they’d killed you now, they would only grant you your wish. No, your place is determined.”
Niomir looked to the men for silent supplication. The spell he cast over them was already broken by Flat Face’s icy resolve. They were once more a solid front of blank faces, unyielding and alien. Nimmian stood among them, his face betraying not a single shred of remorse.
As in a dream, Niomir watched Flat Face approach him. The elder raised the bulge of his totem staff in front of Niomir’s face. By this, he blocked Niomir’s view of the rest of the men. Nothing seemed to exist but the dour face of the totem spirit that was carved on it.
“You will join the others of your class, Runt.”
Chapter 4: the Grower
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
“No, not like that!”
Niomir turned with a handful of grass in his hand. The juvenile came running at him with a frightened look. He grabbed Niomir’s hands with urgency. “Don’t rip the grass out of the ground. You must cut off only the seed, like this.” The juvenile used a knife - it was the most crudely crafted flint knife Niomir had ever seen - to snip off the seed head. He left the rest of the plant untouched. Niomir gave him a queer look. “This is far too slow. It’s a waste of time.” He grabbed another handful and made to rip them from the ground. “This would be much fas-”
“No!” The juvenile grabbed his hands again. He stared at Niomir wide-eyed as if he were about to rip someone's head off instead. It could be considered comical if Niomir were in the mood for laughter.
“Why not?” Niomir's voice dropped to a menacing tone. Earlier in the day, he’d been shown how he was to use his flint knife. It was midday now and Niomir was exhausted. The work was progressing far too slowly for his taste and there was still a whole hillside to harvest. True, there were other Runts not far away, sharing the work load, but the swath of meadow that was his to harvest was immense. Unlike the trees of the woodland, the grass offered no protection from the sun. He could wear a skin but then the heat would kill him.
“We do not murder the grass,” the juvenile said in apologetic tones. Niomir’s hostile tone shook him. “The grass must stay in the ground and only the seeds are to be removed.”
Niomir fought hard to keep his voice in neutral tones. “There are only two of us here. Who will know?”
“The spirits will,” the juvenile said almost in a whisper. “We do not eat the grass, only the seeds. Tearing the grass would be an affront to the spirits and they would punish us for wrongdoing.”
Niomir stood, his face blank with disbelief. “I used to pull grass by the handful and stuffed it into my cloak for the night. No spirit took offense.”
“But you are no longer a hunter, stalking about in the hills.”
Niomir knew who it was before he turned. That voice was more recognizable than the face it belonged to.
Grower.
As each of the hunting groups had their own leader, so did the Runts of this particular settlement. Niomir had met him on the first day of his exile.
The memory of his arrival into the Runt village was blurred, though only days had passed since then. The hovels he’d seen only as specks from afar had loomed close by.
It struck him that he was not alone here. Men stood around him, looking at him.
He was vaguely aware that someone was talking to him. Niomir was unable to focus his mind enough to understand what they said. He sensed that the words were meant for others as well, not just him. All he knew was that he was cold, hungry and exhausted.
The world spun around him. Once more, he saw the tree that spanned the chasm from below. It flew away from him and the darkness closed in from both sides. His legs failed him at that point and he collapsed to the ground. He was vaguely aware of hands lifting him up, carrying him into one of the hovels.
There was darkness, dry straw underneath him. And the voice. “I will let you rest for a few days,” it said. “Give yourself time. And do not fret about the future.”
They’d given him no meat to eat, only a thick soup that tasted unlike anything he’d ever eaten. It was barely edible. It took him days to get used to the new diet without his bowels rebelling on him.
“Why would tearing grass be different for a tribesman?” Niomir asked as Grower approached through the sea of grass. The juvenile that was plaguing him stepped away.
“Because tribesmen don’t make beds with lowland grass,” said Grower.
Niomir hesitated. It was true, highland grass remained green until the snow covered it, its blades lean and long, its seed stalks small. Lowland grass, the one they stood in now, had shorter blades, huge seed stalks and it turned brown in the summer as if the sun had scorched it.
“Can you make the highland grass grow seeds as large as this?” Grower asked. Niomir shook his head, feeling strangely chastened by Grower’s voice. “Then do as you’re told and don’t rip them out.” It was said without menace but with a certain charge that suggested if Niomir continued with his headstrong approach, there would be repercussions.
He found himself obediently turning to the task at hand.
By the time the sun took cover behind the distant hills, his fingers were numb and his back was a blazing torch. Never knew how long a day could be. I could spend half a day tracking a single animal and never know it until I’d made the kill and looked up for the sun.
What concerned him most were his eyes. He could not see clearly, not even after squeezing his eyes a few times.
And this was only the first day, he thought as he stumbled into the hovel he shared with some of the Runts. Will I go blind before the winter comes? Are these Runts already blind? No, the juvenile did look at me when we spoke. Do they all see nothing but what’s in reach of their hands?
It was a terrible thought, one that was sure to keep him awake all night. Or so he thought. The instant he lay down onto his mouldy mattress he was dead asleep.
The hustle of other Runts woke him early the next morning. Niomir sat up and winced. His back was killing him no matter how much he stretched and straightened up.
The insides of the hut were dark. It felt familiar, reminded him of the caves where he used to winter with his hunting group. The entrance was the only source of painfully potent light. Niomir closed his eyes and felt his way out in the open. The light hurt him through closed lids. He rubbed his eyes again, afraid his eyesight would still be wounded when he finally looked into the world.
“Problems with your eyes?” a familiar voice said. Niomir nodded. “It happens if you focus on what is front of you for too long,” he said. “Learn to use your hands more and you won’t need to keep a close eye on the work.”
Niomir nodded, still not opening them.
Finally, he risked it. The world slowly focused into shape. With relief, he noticed his eyesight was still sharp.
The hovels marred his vision, a mess of dead wood and dead grass. Beyond these, the brown grass swayed and beckoned him for another day of grinding labour. He cringed at the thought. In the distance, another group of hovels. The adjacent settlement.
He turned westward with longing. In the distance, the green hills towered above the lowlands. He could recall the fragrant moisture of the forest as he stalked his prey. The smell of mud that squished beneath his tread. He could see before him the twitching ears of a deer and hear the call of the elk, fearless in his strength until the very moment his spear impaled him. The muscles of Niomir’s throwing arm coiled, his fingers flexed and gripped a phantom spear that was taken from him.
Grower led him to a large stone bowl. It was big enough to fit a grown man’s head, its walls two fingers thick. It was empty save a single long stone with a flat end, perfectly fitted for gripping. “Today, you will crush the seeds you’ve gathered yesterday. Grind each handful into the finest powder and then pour it into this jar here.”
Niomir found the idea preposterous. “How will we eat the seeds if there are ground into powder?” He tried to imagine gulping down a powder as fine as ash.
“We will mix the powder with water and put the paste over heated stones. I take it you’ve seen these before.” Grower offered him a piece of flat dark bread. Niomir’s face puckered. So this is where the blasted bread comes from. He'd eaten these before but never knew what it was made of. They were hard and bitter things though he was forced to admit they did fill the stomach.
The bowl was thick enough to withstand the assault of the long stone. He quickly learned the best way to hold it and how to apply strength to grind the seeds into the finest powder. There was hardly any husk to remove. Soon he was sweating but this kind of labour was preferable to yesterday’s. At least, he could unleash his pent up emotions.
“You look like you’re blaming someone for what happened to you.” Niomir looked up. Grower watched him. “You’re crushing those those seeds with hate as much as with a stone.”
“Do I look like an average Runt?” Niomir spilled a batch of powder into the jar and reached for more uncrushed seeds.
“You are stronger than the others we get,” Grower said. “Usually, men are Runted once they can’t keep up with the rest. You, on the other hand, came to us because you were a gambler. I hear you risked the dangerous path and fell into the chasm. A gamble that didn’t pay off.”
“I fell because I trusted the wrong man.” Niomir brought the pestle down with a resounding thud.
Grower stood by in silence. “I believe you,” he finally said. Niomir’s stone wavered for a moment. He continued to punish the seeds without looking up. “Not everyone is here because they were feeble,” Grower said. “This world is many things but fair is not one of them.”
“Is that how you got here?” Niomir nodded towards Grower’s leg. He’d seen him limping before.
“That was part of the reason,” Grower said. “The other part is I volunteered to be Runted.”
This time Niomir did look up, unmasked astonishment on his face.
“Being aware of your strengths and weaknesses is an important trait in life,” Grower said. “I was good with herbs and plants even before the leg went bad. I saw Runts trying to survive on grass, struggle to make it edible. I knew this was something I was more suited for than going about in the forest, snaring squirrels and the like.”
“I am a lot like you,” said Niomir. He removed the few filaments of grass fibers and poured a new handful of powder into the jar. “Except that I’m a natural hunter. This,” he pointed at the stone bowl, “is not what I’m good at.”
Grower eyed him for a time. Niomir believed the conversation was over and continued beating the seeds into nothing. “You are new among us,” Grower said at last. “Some things are unclear to you. Permit me to enlighten you.” He leaned in, looking straight at Niomir. “The fact that you are no longer permitted to carry weapons changes nothing. You are still a part of this tribe and you still do everything in your power to ensure its survival. Hunters are out there to protect it from without. We are here to protect it from within.”
Niomir found that last part odd. “Tribesmen protect it from without?” he said. “Against what? They bring no meat down here.”
“There are other tribes out there,” Grower said. “Other tribes without fertile lowlands to fall back on if game should grow scarce.”
Niomir stared. “They are our cousins. We are all offspring of the same spirits. Why would they come against us?”
“Because the flesh we embody doesn’t care about us being cousins. All it cares about is eating enough so that it doesn't die.” Grower twitched an eyebrow. “What do you think our cousins would do if they were starving and they would stumble upon our grassland?”
Niomir was speechless. He’d been a hunter all his life and not once he heard or even thought about any such things. “All we’ve been told about other tribes was to keep them from hunting in our territory if they should venture across the border by accident.”
“By accident,” Grower said pointedly, turned and walked away. Niomir caught his meaning and realized he had no more words.
Chapter 5: the Blame
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
Niomir looked out into the sunset. The grass was aglow with sunlight. The wind brushed ripples across the swaying surface, made it seem like a golden lake, spreading towards the horizon.
It was finally done. The Runts collected and stored every single seed that grew out there. Some of it was already crushed in the big stone bowls and baked into bitter bread.
With the days of labour behind him, Niomir could finally look at his new home. He missed the life in the highlands, naturally. He missed the thrill of the track and the hunt. His hand ached for the spear that was taken from him. Even so, there was beauty in the lowlands if one was willing to see it. He could watch the endless flocks of birds, flying overhead, chasing the evening sun. He’d never thrown a spear after birds, they were too small a target and they would never allow a hunter to come close enough to make a successful throw. He thought about tossing a stone at them but they were too high up. He was content on watching their wings sail across the sky.
The aches in his back and legs were so familiar now they failed to bother him anymore. And with the seeds all stored for the coming winter, there was an unmistakable feeling of satisfaction at the thought what labours he accomplished together with the other Runts.
Sounds of commotion interrupted his thoughts. He turned. A single figure was approaching the settlement through the harvested grass. He knew who it was. Only one member of the tribe carried that bulged staff.
Niomir joined the other Runts as they gathered in the center of the settlement. He kept himself in the background. There was something about Flat Face’s gaze that made him feel cold inside. From the looks of things, the others shared the sentiment.
Flat Face walked past the grain cisterns and reached in the center of the settlement. He seemed to pay no attention to the swarm of Runt that had gathered around him. His demeanour suggested they weren’t there at all. No one dared to approach him to ask why he was here.
The entire situation began to grow awkward. That’s when Grower appeared, dusting himself off in haste. Flat Face immediately turned to him.
“Tomorrow,” he began, “you will begin working on the new houses.” Hushed whispers spread across the entire congregation. Flat Face didn’t hear them or he didn’t care. “You will build eight new houses in the next two moons.”
Now the whisper that circled among the Runts turned into a groan of desperation. It quickly subsided as they realized it was loud enough to be heard. Niomir looked to Grower. He refused to look away from Flat Face but Niomir could see his jaw tighten.
This was a mighty undertaking. Houses took several days to be built and were prone to collapse should the foundation be rushed.
Flat Face, ignoring everyone and their anguish, used the butt of his staff to sketch the rough outline of the settlement in the dirt as a bird overhead might see it. He added the new houses. They encircled the settlement from all directions, leaving only small space between them. The view that Niomir had enjoyed just moments before would be the thing of the past.
The Runts maintained silence as long as Flat Face was still in sight of them. Finally, as he took leave, the pent up tension exploded.
“Two moons! We can barely build five in such time!”
“If we hurry, we might make them unstable. They would collapse by winter.”
“We can do it,” Grower said firmly as if the mere fact of him saying it was enough to make it so. Niomir could not help but admire him. This was a leader the Runts needed to meet their insane elder’s orders.
“Did the other settlements get the same order?”
“We can assume so,” Grower said.
“But why? Why do we need new houses?”
“New tenants,” one of them suggested.
“Eight new houses mean our numbers here would double.”
“Does Flat Face plan to Runt the entire tribe?”
“They will winter with us,” Niomir said. He wasn’t loud but his words caused everyone to turn his way. Niomir fought the urge to look away from them. Until now, he had hardly exchanged words with anyone but Grower. Even though he lived among them, Niomir had kept himself apart from them.
“Tribesmen do not winter down here. They have caves for that.”
“Perhaps the caves are flooded.”
After a time, the conversation died down. The Runts stood around the sketch Flat Face had made and eyed the proposed expansion of the settlement.
“Look how they mean to encircle us,” one of them said.
“To make sure we remember our place,” another murmured.
Niomir did not share the opinion. The conversation he’d had with Grower kept gnawing on his mind. Because of this, he reached a completely different conclusion.
If hunters serve as a defense against incursions of other tribes, bringing them to the Runt settlement means abandoning the uplands and concentrate their defence here, around their winter stores.
What if diminishing game was a problem all tribes shared?
What if other tribes were already on the verge of desperation?
Niomir swallowed. He glanced at Grower. He was looking his way. As he caught Niomir’s gaze, Grower made a slight nod.
What if summoning the tribesmen to the lowlands and surrounding Runt settlements was the last line of defense against their starving neighbours?
*****Niomir dragged the crude sled in his trail. His arms were coils of strained muscle. Sweat came down his face in rivulets. This was how he used to drag heavy game after he’d made the kill. His body remembered it so well it was almost enough to trick his mind as well.
A clanking sound came from behind. It’s not a pile of dead wood, he urged his imagination. Antler banged against a root. But it was too late to preserve the illusion.
The air was heavy with moisture and saturated with familiar smells. Sunlight came in occasional streams through the canopy. Birds darted through the underbrush. In the grassland, the birds flew in great flocks, too high to be reached with spear or stone. Here, they were small and solitary things, too fast and nimble to hunt.
It felt good to be in the woods again. He had Grower to thank for this. He could’ve picked anyone else to do this but he chose Niomir.
He also put the juvenile to watch over me. Niomir wasn’t sure if that should’ve been taken as an insult or not. The juvenile walked behind him, picked up the branches that fell from the sled and placed it back on the moving pile. He could not hope to stop Niomir if he decided to flee. However, Niomir knew that whoever was with him would suffer punishment for not stopping him. The juvenile was the weakest of the Runts and that was precisely why Niomir could not bring himself to put him into trouble.
Everytime he thought Grower had slipped in his cautiousness, he was actually thinking ahead of Niomir.
The tree line came far too soon. Branches opened up and he was once again in the open, the grasslands spread before him. The Runt settlement was a group of mounds in the distance. At the sight of them, the aches in his arms and back turned into pain. Niomir wiped the sweat off his brow, sighed and continued on.
He was still a spear toss from the away from the settlement when he heard the commotion. The juvenile caught up. They exchanged a glance.
“Tribesmen,” Niomir said. “They’re finally here.”
The first contingent of tribesmen had arrived days ago but they were settled in one of the neighbouring settlements. The group that just walked into the settlement from the opposite side was here to stay. Their arrival turned the settlement buzzing like a hive of bees. Runts scurried everywhere, excitement and fear mixing freely between them. With the juvenile’s help, Niomir dragged the sled through the gap between the walls of the new houses.
It was a group large enough to fill the entire settlement. Roughly the same number as the Runts if not more.
It’s been several moons since he’d seen tribesmen last. They were ragged looking and not very well fed. The hunting must not have been good since he’d been gone. They were ladden with their hunting equipment and every possible utensil. Each one had his spear even though there was no game in the lowlands. They brought everything they could carry.
The tribesmen were visibly uncomfortable among the Runts. It was as if they had all been condemned to Runt status and had been forced to descend from the uplands.
Only one of them did not act squeamishly. Niomir noticed how all of them revolved around him without knowing it consciously. The man’s back was to Niomir but soon he turned around.
Niomir’s hands clenched. The corners of his eyes tightened.
It was Setimika.
Niomir could still remember his smug grin on the day he’d been Runted. He didn’t seem to be grinning much lately. His face was narrow, his jaw tight, a permanent scowl resting upon his features.
Setimika’s gaze grazed Niomir’s face and moved on.
He did not recognize me.
Setimika turned to one of the nearby Runts but failed to make eye contact. “Food,” he said.
The Runts scrambled for the food stores. Anticipating this, Grower had a large amount of bread freshly baked that very morning. Every day, the Runts baked a new batch so it didn’t go stale.
The tribesmen sat on their cloaks, tired after the march. The Runts brought the flatbread in wicker baskets. Niomir saw the tribesmen’s faces grow long as they realized they will not be fed meat. A few of them bit into the flatbread. Their faces puckered but they kept chewing.
Too hungry to complain, thought Niomir.
One of the Runts approached Setimika timidly and offered him the basket. Setimika took a flatbread, bit into it and spat it out with revulsion. “This tastes like dirt!” He threw the remainder of the bread into the Runt’s face who yelped and scampered away.
Niomir felt anger boil up inside him. “Savage!” he snapped quietly.
What followed was a long moment of silence. All the tribesmen turned to him, their gazes boring into him. Niomir realized he wasn’t as quiet as he'd thought.
Setimika zeroed in on him. “Who are you talking to, maggot?” he growled.
It was no doubt meant to sow fear into him. It certainly worked on other Runts who retreated slowly from Setimika’s gaze even though it wasn’t directed at them. Niomir, however, found himself quite empty of fear. What he found instead was fortitude. “We laboured for weeks so that you could now eat," he said. “Show gratitude.”
Setimika stared at him as if he could not believe he was spoken to in this manner. He made a beeline for Niomir, seething with rage.
The world shrunk. The huts were gone, the Runts no longer stood around him and he could not feel the angry stare of the other tribesmen any longer. All that remained was his foe, advancing at him. Setimika was tall and muscular. It was natural that he would rely on brute strength. In this, he was no different than the more dangerous animals Niomir had hunted.
With a quick move of his hand, Niomir slapped away the fist that came hurtling towards his face. He made a fist of his own and slammed it into the attacker's side. It connected just beneath Setimika's armpit where no muscles protected the ribs. Niomir’s knuckles roared with pain but so did Setimika. Niomir’s punch threw him off balance. Setimika fell to the ground, clutching his side.
The world expanded. Niomir could register the surroundings again and found that the world had stopped moving. The entire congregation seemed to have turned to stone. The eyes of the tribesmen and Runts darted to all sides, eyeing one another, uncertain of what to make of the situation.
Into this strode Flat Face. The press of men parted before him like grass before the wind. Even Niomir made a few retreatign steps.
Flat Face walked to the center of the scene. “What is all this?” His voice droned into Niomir’s ears like a hornet's buzz.
Niomir glanced at Setimika who threw him a sideways glance. “I slipped and fell,” Setimika said non-chalantly. Despite the effort, he could not hide the wince on his face. “It was a stupid move on my part, nothing more.”
“What did you slip on?” Flat Face demanded.
It seemed such a trivial question. “A pebble, most likely,” Setimika said. “It rolled underneath my foot.”
Niomir felt relieved. Setimika agreed the situation had turned pointlessly absurd. To accuse anyone in front of Flat Face would be taking it too far.
Flat Face turned to Grower who stood among the other Runts. “I thought I told you to keep the site clean and orderly.”
Grower remained composed but Niomir could see a bead of sweat coming down his neck. “My men were busy preparing the settlement. They couldn’t keep an eye on every pebble.”
Flat Face’s features remained cold like stone. “Then the whole effort was for nothing. I told you to make this place safe and comfortable for the arrival of the tribesmen. You failed.”
The Runts and tribesmen looked about, unsure of where this was going. Niomir stared at Grower whose face was rigid.
The silence stretched for what seemed like hours. Then Flat Face said: “You must be punished.”
Flat Face’s hand flicked a minute gesture. Three tribesmen stepped in and laid hands on Grower. Instinctively, Niomir’s limbs coiled, ready to spring. Grower noticed this and fixed him with a stare. There were words in that stare. *Do not intervene now. You will only make matters worse.*
Flat Face raised his totem staff and untied a slim rod that was tied to it. Niomir noticed the rod when Flat Face had proclaimed him a Runt but failed to grasp its significance at the time.
Grower refused to be held by the tribesmen. He turned his back to Flat Face and placed his palms on the wall of the nearest house. Niomir noticed old scars on Grower’s exposed back. He'd seen them when they'd been working in the fields but took them for mundane working injuries, scratches from a low-hanging tree branch perhaps. Now he could see these weren't scratches. They were bruises, permanently etched into Grower’s flesh.
With the first blow, the man vanished and turned to meat before Niomir’s very eyes. The transformation was so sudden his stomach heaved and threatened to bring forth his last meal.
The skin did not break. Where the blows landed, it grew thicker as if it tried to fight the assault. Long welts sprouted across the flesh like the longest of worms, the color of bleeding meat yet no blood was spilled. The meat cringed with each blow but gave off no sound. Each blow hammered at Niomir’s ears and made him flinch. Forces awoke in his limbs and roared at him to make it stop, to offer his own flesh in stead. But Niomir found himself paralyzed. He could do nothing but watch and endure.
The beating seemed to be going on forever. “Eight,” Flat Face’s voice eventually droned. Niomir gasped - he was holding his breath throughout the ordeal. Flat Face lowered the rod, snatched his totem staff from the hands of a nearby tribesman and walked away. As he was tirning away to leave, his eyes flicked at Niomir. It only lasted a moment but Niomir felt a wash of cold coming over him.
The meat made a sound. Niomir turned back and just like that, a man knelt there instead of meat, clutching a wall for support. Niomir stared at the ghastly transition.
The spirit could not endure what was happening to the flesh and fled until it was over.
Two Runts took Grower below the arms and carried him carefully to the nearest of the huts. The rest of the Runts came to life. Their faces were pale, exhaustion visible in their every feature. Even so, they continued to distribute flatbread among the tribesmen. The day was not done and neither were their labours.
Chapter 6: an Old Story
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
Niomir sat in darkness, the walls of the hut closing around him. Distant voices seeped through the small opening in the hut’s wall. Close by, Grower’s breathing was slow and even. The tribe scavenged their entire supply of the precious herb that could smother a man’s pain and gave it to Grower to ingest.
They were alone in the hut. The others were still labouring for the comfort of the newly arrived tribesmen.
“He knew,” Niomir said. His voice was raw. “Flat Face. He knew I started it.”
“Of course he knew,” Grower muttered in the gloom.
“Then why punish you?”
“Because he was punishing you.” Besides dulling pain, the herb had other effects as well. In his peculiar state, Grower was barely able to form words. “You had to stand there… and watch someone taking it in your stead.”
Niomir could not speak. Eventually words came trickling out of him. “I… refuse… to live… in a tribe… that treats its people this way.”
“Sometimes,” Grower murmured, “we do not get the choice.”
“There is always a choice,” Niomir said very quietly.
A moment of silence passed between them.
“No.” Grower’s voice was low and surprisingly strong.
“There are rumours…” Niomir began.
“I know all about the rumours,” Grower spat.
“Joining with Isurion…”
“Do not mention that name!” Grower hissed. He tried to rise. “You will be beaten or worse!”
Strength failed him. Grower collapsed back on the mat with a thud, panting.
“What could be worse than… this?” said Niomir.
Grower sighed. “Going to live with his band of outcasts is not a solution. Isurion gave up on his tribe.”
“Do not be naďve,” said Niomir.
“He abandoned everyone who depended on him. I will not abandon these men.”
Niomir said nothing. Grower’s regular breathing was the only sound in the night. For some strange reason, Niomir’s thoughts went to the oldest bits of tribal lore. “The Alvor are descendants of the spirits who chose to embody imperfect flesh rather than exist in perfect but immaterial form. But when I look at you, I see nothing but a piece of abused meat.” There was no disgust in his voice, only pity. “You are even less than the beasts I used to hunt.” Tears glimmered in his eyes. “This is not a life worthy of a spirit descended onto earth.”
He heard Grower snicker. “You still believe that story?” His words were slurred. “Perhaps you are the naďve one.” After that, Grower said no more. The effect of the herbs pulled him into blessed unconsciousness.
That night, Niomir could not sleep. The brutal punishment Grower received had shook him to the core. Even more so, he was struck by the words Grower had uttered just before he passed out.
Is it true? Am I really naive for believing the old stories? They’ve always been a part of his life, ever since he was a juvenile. He had no cause to doubt them. But now…
We used to live off the hunt. Now we squabble in the dirt. Are we slowly turning into the beasts that we used to hunt? Are we nothing but meat? Panic rose in him like a wall. Sweat poured over him. His heart hammered against the ribcage and refused to slow down. He leapt to his feet and dashed outside, unable to breathe.
He caught his breath only when the huts were nothing but tiny mounds in the distance. He begged his mind to relent but it mercilessly ploughed ahead with the terrifying thought.
What if this is actually happening? What if there are no more spirits? What if this meat is all we shall ever be?
What if all of THIS is for nothing?
Chapter 7: A daring request (Niomir)
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
In fits and starts, Niomir dragged a broken beech, thick as his arm, through the forest. It was only twice his height while it still lived but it was still heavy enough to force him into regular pauses. I should have tried to bring one that was closer, he thought a hundredth time this day. But there are no more dead trees close to the settlement.
It turned out he was as good a hunter of dead trees as he was once a hunter of live game. Naked branches of the beech brushed across the path, the path itself gouged through the underbrush by his previous ‘kills’.
Grower had proclaimed him the 'main procurer of firewood'. At first, Niomir failed to understand why. “It’s important that you manage through the first year,” Grower had explained. “It gets easier after.”
Niomir snorted. I don't want it to become easier.
His hunter's instincts came to life every time the trees closed around him. It was painful to not act on those urges but at least he still possessed them. He feared the day when they would not awaken.
The sun smiled coldly from behind a coat of clouds. The days had grown shorter and would grow shorter still. The canopies above were already empty of leaves. Naked branches swayed in the wind, dry wood creaked and groaned. The woods were not a pleasant place anymore.
He passed through the tree line out onto the plain. The lake of grass looked as if a herd of game had trampled it. The wind had grown stronger and more savage. More often than not it would turn into a howling monster that would rage across the plain all night. Now Niomir saw the sense of building huts out of clay. A structure of straw or wood would have been blown to bits by the first gust. But the wind blew around the clay houses, leaving them standing though it still worn them down with time.
A sound made him look up from his path. A group of tribesmen was coming his way. He knew them all. Setimika eyed him as they passed each other but said nothing. Niomir glanced at the spears in their hands. Hunting.
The rest of them gave him is a look he could not make sense of. It almost seemed as if they regretted that he wouldn't be coming with them.
It was easy once you could tag along and take the credit for my kills. Half the time you ate because of my scouting and my spear throw.
It was a proud thought but it gave him no pleasure. It wasn't just the tribesmen's bellies that needed filling. There were plenty of Runts who were in dire need of some genuine meat.
The juvenile was one of them. He usually accompanied Niomir to his wood fetching ventures. Today he'd remained behind, too weak to get up from his matress.
By the time Niomir dragged the broken tree to the nearest hut, the hunting party had vanished in the tree line. He made for the smallest hut where they kept the tools. He walked around to the entrance, about to enter, fetch the heaviest stone axe the tribe possessed and chop up his prize. That's when he heard voices coming from inside the hut. At first, he saw no reason not to disturb the conversation. It wasn't his concern who gets interrupted or why. His resolve faltered when he recognized the voices. One was Grower's.
The other voice belonged to Flat Face.
“This is your fault,” Flat Face droned.
“Tribesmen are wasting food,” Grower spat. “If they didn’t, we would’ve had more.”
Niomir was rooted to the spot. He knew he shouldn’t be listening but he also knew they might hear him if he moved now.
“Do not try to weasel your way out.” Flat Face’s voice contained much more emotion than what Niomir was used to. “Your incompetence has led us to this situation.”
Grower snorted. “If you think beating me with that rod of yours will fix the situation, go ahead. Otherwise, don't waste time lecturing me on something not in my control.”
Niomir was rigid - no one had dared to speak to Flat Face like this before, not in his presence.
“What do you suggest?” Flat Face’s voice was tight with self-control.
“We start rationing the remaining food,” Grower offered.
“Not an option.” Flat Face’s retort was immediate. “Tribesmen need to be well fed if they are to repulse a raid.”
“You don't even know if a raid is coming.”
“Are you willing to wager the future of the tribe on me being wrong?”
“The future of the tribe will be bleak indeed if we are all starving by the next moon's turn.”
The silence inside the hut stretched on. If the conversation was at an end, Niomir needed to move away from the hut entrance. Instinctively, he fell into his stalking stride. He prowled away from the hut but slowly enough that he was still close enough to hear the rest.
“We will put the Runts on rations,” Flat Face spoke. “That will prolong your food stores.”
“If all the tribesmen eat as before,” Grower said, “Runts will be forced to starve.”
“If that's what it takes," Flat Face said, his voice flat as a lake and just as cold.
Niomir heard the door flap move, saw Flat Face walk away. He moved behind the closest hut just in time before Grower emerged as well. He walked past Niomir’s tree without taking notice.
*****Niomir’s mind was awash with what he’d heard. How could Grower talk so harshly to Flat Face and yet allow himself be beaten for a trifle? Did they have an arrangement of some kind? What did Flat Face offer to Grower in return for obedience?
Or offered not to do?
The two of them had discussed the food shortages. The situation had been growing more desperate with each day. As winter approached, wind and rain had damaged huts. The Runts labored incessantly to patch the damages but there were now twice as many huts to maintain. Instead of spending the winter safe in their shelters, they were forced to labour outside. Exposure to the elements was terrible on them but lack of food was worse.
With malnutrition came disease. Many Runts and even some tribesmen had fallen ill, the juvenile among them. Work on hut maintenance began to fall behind. Huts remained in permanent disrepair. With everyone working on the shelters, filth and mould accumulated inside. This caused shortening of tempers which have not helped the situation at all.
Niomir did not find it strange that Flat Face had decided to send out hunting parties even though chances of them making meat were close to nothing. Only truly desperate animals would dare to venture close to the settlements at this time of year. There were beasts further into the forest but Flat Face would not allow any hunting party to leave for more than a day. And even if he did, none of the tribesmen possessed the tracking and hunting skills to come near enough to a beast to manage a successful spear throw.
Except me.
No. The thought alone was preposterous. Flat Face would never allow it. He would beat Niomir with that rod of his just for suggesting it.
Unless…
What if Flat Face was not so impervious to other people’s opinions as he made it seem?
What if Niomir talked to Flat Face alone, with no one around to witness the exchange?
Only one way to find out.
He'd already noticed that Flat Face made a regular patrol of the other Runt settlements to quell arguments and kept the situation from getting out of control. He was so regular that Niomir could predict him coming and so far made a point to be absent when Flat Face completed his round and returned to this particular settlement. He did not know if Grower or Flat Face had noticed this particularity.
If he could time it correctly, Niomir could casually meet Flat Face out on the plain without anyone around to see or hear them.
*****
Niomir spent several nights tossing in his sleep, thinking about his plan. He might have chosen not to do it at all if the juvenile’s health had not deteriorated. His cough become drier and coarser and his fever increased. Niomir could not bear seeing the young one suffer, knowing there was something he could do about it.
On the eighth day after he accidentally eavesdropped on the conversation between Flat Face and Norgilam, Niomir stood at the edge of the treeline, hidden from sight. He stood far away from the edge of the grass lake so that the steam of his breath would not betray his presence. The sky was dark. Occasional snowflakes drifted past his face. He’d dragged in another young tree, broken by the winds, and was now waiting for the right moment to stage an ‘accidental’ meeting.
He saw Flat Face approach from the direction of the adjacent settlement. He grabbed the tree and dragged it out in the open. Without looking up, he heaved his load through the tall grass, now dry and crackling underneath his tread. The fangs of late autumn wind cut through his furs. His hair caught an occasional snowflake.
He reached the path that connected his settlement with the adjacent one, barely visible in the distance, and turned to approach his home. Flat Face was far behind him but the going was slow and before Niomir got any nearer, Flat Face caught up to him, walked around him, began to move onward.
“I saw a hunting party go out today,” Niomir said out loud.
Flat Face stopped and turned. His expression was bland as always.
“Not hunting,” Flat Face droned. “They went to scout the wintering caves.” He began to turn away.
“You don't fight a cave flooding with a spear,” Niomir said a tinge too loudly. “They went hunting and brought nothing back. As the day before and the day before that.”
Flat Face faced him. This time, Niomir saw a shade of anger on his face. Careful.
“Your point?” Flat Face murmured.
“Send me out to hunt instead,” Niomir said.
“Runts are not allowed to hunt.” Flat Face's voice thundered in Niomir’s ears no matter that he wasn’t shouting. He couldn't help noticing a few snowflakes, caught in Flat Face’s hair. They did not melt. He’s too cold a person for that.
“You could allow it personally,” Niomir said. “Put a spear in my hand and I will bring you meat. All I ask is that you feed the heart to those Runts who are ill. You can give the rest of it to the tribesmen.”
A strange look passed across Flat Face's features. “Why would you go through all the trouble of hunting and not demand a piece for yourself?”
“Because if the tribesmen eat meat,” Niomir said, “there will be more bread for the Runts.”
Flat Face's face remained an unblinking stone for more than a few moments. Niomir realized this was utter astonishment for him.
“The laws of the spirits are clear,” Flat Face finally said but there was a tinge of hesitation in his voice. “You are a Runt. Runts are forbidden to carry weapons.”
“I have more skill in tracking than anyone else in this tribe,” Niomir said. “Do the right decision and feed the tribe through my hands.”
Niomir saw Flat Face’s eyebrow twitch. There was emotion there, bubbling just underneath the surface! It was as if his mind had become a battle ground, several thoughts fighting for supremacy. Niomir even noticed the snowflakes on Flat Face’s face were slowly but noticeably melting. Instinctively, Niomir held his breath.
But then the bubbling vanished from Flat Face's features. Once more, Niomir stared at a blank mask. Once more, the snowflakes began to gather on Flat Face’s forehead. “What will happen with the tribe if I start to make exceptions with rules?” he asked, placing words like stones. “Rules are here for a purpose. If I allow you to carry weapons, you will want something else from me tomorrow. Or someone else will.”
Before he could control himself, Niomir sneered with barely contained fury. “So you will let your tribe starve.”
“I will keep my tribe’s traditions and preserve my people through hardships they occasionally face.” Flat Face glanced at the totem staff in his hand. The rod with which he’d beaten Grower was still fastened to it. “And I will keep the occasional malcontents in line by any means necessary.” He turned away, continuing his stride.
Niomir returned to the hut, frustration tearing at him. He peeled off the working furs, hung them to dry. He sat on his mat and chewed on his meagre portion of the flat bread.
His eye drifted to the juvenile lying close by. His face was pale, making him seem even younger than he was. The young one shuddered and coughed. It was the sound of stone scraping against stone. He won’t last a moon if he doesn’t get any real food.
The ragged breathing of the juvenile kept him awake all night. He saw Grower come and check on him but there was nothing that could be done.