The First Book of the Pure (6 page)

An’Kahar, still running, stopped at Luntar
and accused him of the hunting disaster. “You missed and you put
our lives at risk!”

“You’re fine An’Kahar, just back off!”
answered his angry brother.

“We could have lost the prey, all because of
you!” An’Kahar wouldn’t let it go. Being both arrogant and now
defensive, Luntar struck An’Kahar’s face, holding his knife in his
other hand. With no hesitation and with great skill An’Kahar
retaliated by smoothly slipping his own knife into his brother’s
side, deeply enough to open an artery that even that healthy young
body couldn’t survive. Luntar dropped, the snow around him turning
bright red. As he toppled face forward, he died with a confused,
still not sure what had happened.

An’Kahar knelt by his now dead brother and
cleaned his knife on the edge of his brother’s coat. He silently
waited for his father to do whatever it was he would do. Against
him An’Kahar knew he had no chance. So he waited, his anger at his
brother fading and being replaced with a bit of horror at what he’d
done.

Gheret stepped to him, lifted him to his
feet, and struck him a blow that An’Kahar would never forget, no
matter how long he lived. He spun across the snow, bleeding from
his mouth, sure that his teeth were coming out, almost blind from
the force of the blow. Yet he came to his knees with knife in hand,
prepared to sell his life dearly, even if that price was his
father. Gheret came to him, knelt before him, and said in a quiet
voice, “My son, was your brother no more than the animals we
killed, that you’d take his life so quickly? Answer me!”

An’Kahar considered his answer before he
spoke, knowing his life would be forfeit if that was what his
father chose. His words were those of a defensive boy, sorry for
what he’d done but refusing to admit it. “Father, he was weak,
missed his mark, and then attacked me. It was my right to do as I
did. I’ll miss my brother, but I don’t regret the choice I
made.”

“An’Kahar, don’t fear me. What you have done,
you’ve done. If Luntar had been more of a man, he could have killed
you. Had he been more aware of what he was doing, he would at least
still be alive now. But he was not, and you acted as he acted. I
assign no blame here; there is only hurt. I grieve at his loss, but
am proud of your prowess. We’ll care for his body, and we will have
to haul his part of the hunt with us now.” With an extended hand,
he took his youngest son’s hand and lifted him to his feet.

As they prepared Luntar for his crossing to
the next life, or so his mother believed, Gheret gave thought to
his sons. He thought about his surviving two sons: they must be
hard and determined to deserve life, and the two he had left were
all of that. After they were done preparing Luntar’s body, they had
to prepare the caribou meat and hides for the journey home. Then
they camped and turned in. A troubled young An’Kahar tossed and
turned, but never fell asleep.

It was a sad homecoming. Gheret had to tell
his wife, Annu’e, of Luntar’s death, and she took it hard. Life
went on, however, and they adjusted. In this frozen land, life was
more often hard than not. She was made of firm stuff, this little
woman he loved, and would be fine. He hadn’t told her of An’Kahar’s
actions, only that Luntar had fallen in the hunt. It was not
unusual for a young man, or one of any age actually, to fall to the
prey. He didn’t want her to hate An’Kahar, who was a product of
this harsh place.

Gheret’s Fall

Gheret found himself growing closer to his
sons. Losing one made the others more precious in his eyes. Achar
was a bit distant, and closed off. By nature he was independent and
tended to be a loner. An’Kahar however, ironically the one who cost
Gheret his other son, was warmly affectionate and soaked up his
father’s love at every opportunity.

Gheret liked his life in this cold, barren
wilderness. He liked the challenge, the struggle to show that he
deserved to live. His sons had grown into fine men, taken wives,
and had children of their own now. Gheret doubted they’d live as he
had, evidenced by Luntar’s death. Since one was already dead, it
was likely they were all normal, and would live a few decades and
then die. His wife Annu’e was well up in years, as the tribe
reckoned years, and he knew that soon he must do something about
that. Yet he still hunted like a young man, and was the most
respected and feared man in not just the tribe, but in all of the
people when the tribes gathered. He still went on the great hunt
for many days, and many miles. He could still pull a sled with a
caribou carcass in it for days to return home. And because he
could, he continued to go on his wolf hunt, alone, every couple of
years. As he left the last time, he gave his aging wife a hug and
assurances of his love as he had so many times before. He spoke of
their sons and how proud they had made him. He knew that when he
returned he must arrange for a new life for himself in another
tribe, or elsewhere. He couldn’t live and longer among his adopted
people, always the same age. Though the idea of watching his wife’s
life slowly end was distasteful to him, he knew he wanted to stay
with her, but could not. He would still be himself, unaged, and
known by the oldest of the tribe for too long.

He took a long route to his hunt, stopping by
the homes of Achar and An’Kahar. He said his farewells to Achar and
his family, and the visit was as he expected. It was just a
visit.

At his youngest son’s home, however, An’Kahar
grabbed Gheret in a hug and didn’t seem to want to let go. Though
sometimes misplaced, An’Kahar had great passion.

After leaving An’Kahar’s family, Gheret hiked
many, many miles, enjoying the solitude of the mountains and the
snow. Ever since he had emerged from his long sleep he’d noticed
that his interest, his zeal for life, was strong. He could barely
recall why he’d gone off to die. On this long and arduous hunt an
occasional great cat would track him, but he was too skilled to be
taken: he was the hunter, not the prey. The cold was more intense
than he’d ever experienced before. He laughed when he relieved
himself, for his water went from a steaming stream to hitting the
ground as a solid and hard ice a moment later. As impervious as he
seemed to be to weather, this chill settled into his bones.

The wolves hunted in packs, but he hunted
alone. He knew that they could take his life and divide his body
between them as the spoils of the fight, but only if he weren’t
sharp. It was that kind of challenge that helped him savor life. So
he tracked the pack for days, finding remains of their kills,
eating little himself, and being very, very careful.

Finally he found them across a large
crevasse. He knew he’d lost the almost necessary element of
surprise, because they eyed him as he studied them. They howled
their ferocious challenge at him, and he knew he he’d have to bring
down their pack leader fast if he wanted to survive this hunt. He
flashed a savage grin as he saw the torn ear and scarred right
shoulder of the pack leader. Gheret had given him that scar two
years before, but the mighty beast had gotten away and healed. The
great wolf had injured Gheret that time as well, and both had
healed. This prey was worthy of his skills.

The pack started around the long crevasse,
since it was far too wide and deep to cross. He thought through his
position, and decided that staying near it would give him an edge;
literally an edge to death, which could save his life. He’d sent
other predators into such places, having only to unbalance them
enough to start them down the edge. Then he could concentrate on
the others. In this case he might need that edge to survive.

Even as the pack leader snarled his
challenge, close enough now for Gheret to more clearly see the
scars along the beast’s right shoulder, confirming that it was the
wolf he’d confronted in that previous hunt, Gheret sensed that
something was wrong. The beast was so close that Gheret could smell
the fetid stench of the brute’s predatory breath as it growled at
him. As they sized each other up the roar began. Gheret looked up
and watched as the mountain seemed to come crashing down. There was
no way to avoid it. The avalanche was far too wide, and the wave
was coming too fast. He hunkered down, as wild eyed as the
crouching wolves nearby. All of them watched the descending snow,
mesmerized by it for a moment. The wolves peeled off as a group,
racing for their lives. Just before it hit, Gheret slid over the
edge of the crevasse, frantically grasping for handholds as he
fell. He was pushed further down, caught himself, and as the snow
began to fill the crevasse, he slipped into a natural shelf on the
side of it, gripping the rock and ice with his fingertips for a
better grip, and waited to see if he would live. The sound was
crushingly loud, so loud that it numbed his senses, leaving him
deaf and blind as he clung to rock, ice and life.

When the avalanche had ended he tried to dig
out, but realized that he could not. There was simply too much snow
above him. He wouldn’t live long enough to reach the surface, and
his own motions would very probably send him deeper into the
crevasse, like struggling in quicksand. He lay on the narrow rock
shelf, shaking from the cold, but realized that he might have just
one chance. He forced his breathing to become shallow, and his
heart to slow. It took some time due to the bitter cold, but slowly
he did it, and his heart no longer beat. He lay still and alone
under sixty feet of ice and snow, a veritable mountain of ice above
him now. His last, fading thought was that perhaps his decision to
move to this cold place was not the best he had ever made.

The Return of Maximus

Maximus left the caves weak, but strong in
his resolve to sort out this new time. It was quickly obvious to
him that it had been long that he lay there. His clothing had
rotted away. He left his armor, but wore what rags his clothing had
become, and kept his sword and knife, though the leather parts of
the scabbards were brittle and cracked, and of course he kept his
pouch of jewels and precious metals. Long he walked, seeking a
town, until he spotted one far ahead. “
How long has it
been?”
And he started the last leg of his journey to find
out.

He approached the town with caution,
uncertain what reception a former Roman warrior would receive from
these people. Perhaps Rome was still the greatest force in the
world, and perhaps Rome was gone. He had to know. When he came to a
sturdy house of sawn wood there was a line outside with clothing on
it, no doubt to dry after being washed, or perhaps just to air out.
He took what he needed, put it on, and crept back to the dirt road,
turning again toward the town, brown robe tight over his stocky
frame. His weapons were wrapped in more clothing, tied to his back.
He hoped it would pass for a normal burden.

He went to the older men at the gate of the
large town and asked if there was a teacher he could learn from
nearby. “Which teacher?” one man asked somewhat acerbically.

“I don’t know any, sir, but I desire to
learn. I’m new to these parts, and there is much I don’t know
about. Any good teacher will do.”

Another man was less sarcastic than the
first. “Well, there aren’t many teachers in our area, but you may
want to speak with Mu’dar. He’s a good man, though perhaps not as
keen a mind as some other teachers. He’s older, and I don’t think
he has a student now. Most won’t take on an unknown student like
you, nor one your age. You look what, twenty five?”

“Less, but I do look that age. Where may I
meet him, kind sir?” Maximus seemed to be very subservient in his
manner.

The man pointed down the narrow street,
building pushing in on either side. “He’s next to the stables just
there, ten or twelve buildings down.”

A third man laughed outright. “Can you count
to ten or twelve?” The others joined his laughter.

Maximus wasn’t a patient man when it came to
such things, and had long been a soldier with well honed battle
reflexes. Their laughter, and the remarks, were really annoying to
him after having just weathered what should have been his death.
With a speed none of them could follow, even had they been
expecting it, he grasped the man who started the laughter by his
robe front, hoisted him and his enormous belly a foot off the
ground, and said to him quietly, “Am I a man to be laughed at, sir?
Or should I show you what my last job was?” The man turned white,
and with some attempt at saving face, demanded in a quivering voice
to be put down. Almost in a whisper, heard only by the man he held,
Max said, “Give me grief and I’ll slice your gut open. Understood?”
A second man stepped up and gripped his arm, but Maximus kicked him
away with one foot, while balancing on his other foot and still
keeping his heavy victim in the air.

The man nodded, not trusting himself to
speak. No one else moved, so Max lowered the man heavily enough
that he almost fell in front of his friends. With a wave of his
hand Max called out a jovial thanks to them, and walked on toward
whatever his destiny in this place might be.

When he’d gone far enough, he asked for the
teacher they had described, Mu’dar, who in turn asked his
business.

Max was as straightforward as usual. “You’ve
been recommended as a teacher, and there is much I would
learn.”

With a gentle smile, the tall, thin Mu’dar
rubbed a hand over his shaved pate as he thought. “Do you ask to be
my student? It’s most unusual, for a teacher normally chooses his
own students from those who come to hear him in his public
teaching.” He pulled his robes more closely around him as he
awaited an answer.

“I don’t know your ways here, sir,” Max
replied in his archaic Italian. “But, yes, I am asking.”