Read The Days of the Deer Online
Authors: Liliana Bodoc
The Days of the Deer
Liliana Bodoc was born in Santa Fe in 1958. She took a Modern Literature degree at the National University of Cuyo. Her narrative works, including the fantasy trilogy
Los
Saga de los Confines
, were published by Grupo Editorial Norma and became bestsellers in Latin America. The first volume of her most recent saga,
Memorias Impuras
, was published in 2007
by Planeta/Argentina.
Published in trade paperback in Great Britain in 2013 by Corvus,
an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.
Originally published in Spanish by Grupo Editorial Norma as
Los Días del Venado
.
Copyright © Liliana Bodoc, 2000
Translation copyright © Nick Caistor, Lucia Caistor Arendar 2013
The moral right of Liliana Bodoc to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
The moral right of Nick Caistor and Lucia Caistor Arendar to be identified as the translators of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Trade paperback ISBN: 978 1 84887 027 7
E-book ISBN: 978 1 78239 016 9
Printed in Great Britain.
Corvus
An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd
Ormond House
26–27 Boswell Street
London
WC1N 3JZ
7 ‘I Can Still Hear the Rain Before You!’
17 The Meeting of the Great Council
21 The Mark of Their Footsteps
22 Along the Paths of the Fertile Lands
28 The Brotherhood of the Open Air
It all took place so many Ages ago that not even the echo of a memory of the echo of a memory remains. No trace of these events has survived. Even if archaeologists dug deep
down inside caves buried beneath new civilizations, they would find nothing.
It took place in the most remote of times, when the continents had a different shape and the rivers ran a different course. In those days, the hours passed slowly for the Creatures; the Earth
Wizards roamed the Maduinas Mountains in search of medicinal plants, and on the long nights in the southern islands it was still common to see the lukus dancing round their tails.
I have come to bear witness to a great and terrible battle. Possibly one of the greatest and most dreadful ever fought against the forces of Eternal Hatred. All this happened as one Age was
drawing to a close, and another fearful one was spreading to the most distant places.
Eternal Hatred was prowling around the edges of the Real World in search of a shape, a tangible form to allow it to gain entrance to the Creatures’ world. It lay in wait for a wound it
could crawl inside, but none of the Creatures’ faults was large enough for it to gain a footing.
Yet since everything can happen in Eternity, an act of disobedience became a wound, a scar that created enough space for hatred to come into being.
Everything began when Death, disobeying the law not to create any other beings, made a creature out of her own substance. This was her son, whom she loved. It was thanks to this ferocious
offspring, born in violation of the Great Laws, that Eternal Hatred found its voice and a presence in this world.
Stealthily, on the summit of a forgotten mountain in the Ancient Lands, Death brought forth a son she called Misáianes. At first he was no more than a puff of air his mother incubated
between her teeth. Soon he became a viscous heartbeat. Then he cawed and howled. When he laughed, even Death trembled with fear. Afterwards, he sprouted feathers, and flew against the light.
Misáianes’ vassals were numerous beyond counting. Beings of all kinds bowed before him, obeyed his every word. Yet every kind of being also fought against him. In this way, war
spread to every forest, river, and village.
When Misáianes’ forces crossed the sea that lay between them and the Fertile Lands, Magic and the Creatures united to confront them. These are the events I will now recount in human
tongue.
1
‘It will be tomorrow,’ Old Mother Kush said softly when she heard the first peals
of thunder. She laid down the yarn she was spinning and went to the window
to look out into the forest. She was not worried, because in her house everything had been properly prepared.
A few days earlier, her son and grandsons had finished sealing the roof with pine resin. The house was stocked with sweet and savoury four, and with huge mountains of squashes. The baskets were
filled with dried fruits and seeds. There were enough logs in the woodshed to burn through a whole winter. She and the girls had also woven thick woollen blankets that were now heaped, a colourful
labour of love, in a corner of the hut.
As had happened every winter in living memory, another long season of rains was returning to the land of the Husihuilkes. The storms came from the southern seas, brought by a wind that spread
heavy clouds over the Ends of the Earth and left them there until they had exhausted themselves.
The season began with showers that the birds watched from the mouths of their nests, the hares from their burrow entrances, and the Husihuilkes from their low houses. By the time the downpours
began in earnest, no being was outside its refuge. The lairs of puma and vixen, nests in the trees or on the mountain tops, underground caves, dens hidden in the bushes, even worm holes were
protected. So too were the Husihuilkes’ houses, thanks to a store of knowledge that taught them how to make the best use of all the forest and the sea could offer. Here at the Ends of the
Earth, the Creatures faced the wind and rain with strategies almost as old as the elements themselves.
‘The rains will start tomorrow,’ Kush repeated. She began to hum a farewell song. Kuy-Kuyen and Wilkilén crept closer to the old woman’s warmth.
‘Start again so that we can join in,’ the eldest of her granddaughters begged her.
Kush hugged the girls, pulling them towards her. Together they began to sing again the song the Husihuilkes chanted whenever the rainy season returned. This was the warm, broken voice of the
southern people; a voice unaware that soon the ones who were to bring these bountiful years to an end would be putting to sea.
The women sang as they waited for the men to appear along the path from the forest, loaded with the last provisions. Old Mother Kush and Kuy-Kuyen sang as one, never making a mistake.
Wilkilén, who had only lived through five rainy seasons, had trouble keeping up with the words. She looked gravely at her grandmother, as though promising to do better the next time. The
Husihuilke women sang:
Until we meet again, deer of the forest.
Until then, run and hide!
Fly far away, bumblebee, rain is on its way.
Father Hawk, make sure
That you protect your young.
Friends, beloved forest,
We will meet again when the sun
Shines on our house once more.
The three faces peering out of the hut had dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes.
The Husihuilke people had been forged in battle. That was why their men were so tough; and the long periods of waiting had made their women caring and patient. The only decoration they wore was
sea coral threaded into their plaits and headbands, or fashioned into arm-bands and necklaces. Their garments were light-coloured tunics reaching below the knee, sandals, and cotton or warm woollen
shawls depending on the season. This was how the grandmother and her two granddaughters looked now, generous with the beauty of their people.
‘The lukus! There are the lukus!’ shouted Wilkilén. ‘Old Mother Kush, look at the lukus!’
‘Where can you see them, Wilkilén?’ her grandmother asked.
‘There, over there!’ she said, pointing straight at a huge walnut tree growing halfway between their house and the forest.
Kush followed her gaze. It was true: two bright tails were curling and uncurling round the tree trunk, as if seeking attention. One was red, the other a faint yellow. Their colour was a sign of
their age: the older they became, the whiter their tails shone.
Kush was not surprised. The lukus were coming for honey and squash cakes, just as they had done every evening during the dry season since the day of Shampalwe’s death. Kush put two fresh
cakes in a basket, left the hut and headed for the walnut tree to leave them their cakes and then return. The lukus never spoke to her; they had never done so in all the five years they had been
visiting.
They never made friends with mankind, and whenever possible avoided them. They would sink down onto their four legs and run away as fast as they could. But if they were caught by surprise deep
inside the forest, they would remain completely still, heads tucked down and claws gripping the earth, until the human being passed by. Yet despite this reluctance, it was the lukus who had brought
Shampalwe back to the house, already close to death from the snake bite, and it was they who had laid her gently under the walnut tree. That was the first time Kush had seen a luku’s eyes
from close to. ‘There was nothing we could do for her,’ the eyes had told her. Now Old Mother Kush was about to see a similar expression on their faces.
The old woman had put the basket down on the ground and was about to go back to the girls when a whisper from one of the lukus kept her there. Recovering from her astonishment, she whirled
round, thinking she was being ambushed. Instead, she found herself staring into the eyes of the yellow-tailed luku, who was gazing at her in exactly the same way as the other one had the day
Shampalwe died. Realizing that sorrow was on its way to them once more, she faced it with the calmness learnt from her people.