The Horsemasters (12 page)

Rilik raised an ironic eyebrow. “I am thinking Ronan would find it somewhat chancy to turn his back upon that bunch of outlaws for any length of time. He sent someone else in the autumn, and he will probably do the same this spring.”

Silence fell as Rilik continued to draw with a graver. After a while Thorn asked, “How many men do you think have joined with Ronan, Father?”

Rilik shrugged. “Who knows? That valley of his has become a refuge for every piece of scum who finds himself thrown out of his own tribe.” Rilik looked up from his work, a slight frown puckering his brown-skinned forehead. “My concern is how much success someone as young as Ronan will have controlling them. He is not chief by right of blood, as Haras is. He is only chief because he was the first to find this hidden place of refuge he calls the Valley of the Wolf.”

Rilik bent once more to his work. Thorn watched the delicate strokes his father was making to indicate the heavy winter coat of the horse. “There are not so many horses in our hunting territory these days,” the boy murmured.

Rilik grunted in agreement.

“Father…”—Thorn leaned a little forward—”may I come with you to the Spring Gathering this year?”

Rilik nodded. “I have been thinking that perhaps I would take you, Thorn. It will be well for you to see some of the work that is offered there. There was a spearthrower up for trade last year that was one of the finest pieces of carving I have ever seen.”

Thorn’s pointed, fawnlike face lit as if from within. “Is it true?” he said excitedly. “I can go?”

“If it is all right with your mother.”

Thorn sighed with sheer pleasure. Both of them knew it would be all right with his mother. It would never occur to Thorn’s mother to gainsay Rilik.

Thorn propped his chin upon his knees. “What tribes are likely to be there, Father?” he asked eagerly.

Rilik put down his carving. “Tribes come from all over to the Great Cave for the Spring Gathering,” he answered. “Even more people than you find in the autumn. There are people of the Kindred from the valley of the Snake River and from the valley of the River of Gold. There are always some people from the tribes on the morning side of the mountains, and from the tribes that dwell by the sea. These are like the Tribe of the Red Deer in that they still follow the Way of the Mother.” Rilik solemnly nodded his head. “Truly, you will never see such a number of people from so many different tribes as you will see in the Great Cave in the spring.”

“And there is trading?” Thorn prompted.

“There is trading: shells from the shores of the sea, the skins of reindeer and buffalo and white fox, and mammoth ivory and musk ox horn from the north. There are needles to be had, and spears and spearthrowers, beautifully carved. The carvers will even make one especially for you, if you tell them exactly what it is you want. There are all kinds of different burins and gravers to be had, and clay pots for the storing of food. You can get engraved armlets and pendants and headbands and belts.” Rilik smiled at his son’s entranced face. “The commodities of news and gossip are as readily available as goods, and of course one of the main businesses of any gathering is the transacting of marriage contracts.”

Thorn heaved a great shivery sigh. “What shall our tribe take to trade, Father?”

“The knapper will take his tools, the hunters will take their skins, and I will take my engravings.” Rilik once more picked up the reindeer bone. “There are not many artists among the Kindred who can draw as well as I,” he said matter-of-factly. “Only those from the Tribe of the Horse can match my work, and most of the time they do not come as far south as the Great Cave.” Rilik picked up his graver and squinted thoughtfully at his bone. He etched a line and regarded it again. After a few minutes, Thorn rose quietly and slipped away.

* * * *

It was a blowy, chilly spring morning, when the traders from the Buffalo tribe moved off northward along the Atata River, beginning the two-day journey that would bring them to the gathering at the Great Cave. The Atata was one of the great north-south valleys that cut through the mountains, and centuries of migrating animals had pounded out tracks which subsequent human use had etched even more solidly into the earth and stone of the hills. Steep cliffs lined the Atata valley on either side, but the tracks of passage lay mainly on the low ground along the river.

“What is the Great Cave like?” Thorn had asked his father weeks before.

“Wait and see with your own eyes,” Rilik had replied. It was the same reply he had given his son when as a child Thorn had once questioned him about the sacred cave. The wait to see the cave had been excruciating, but in the end Thorn had been forced to admit that he was glad he had not known what to expect. “It will be the same with the Great Cave,” promised his father, “You will see.”

Thorn’s waiting came to an end late in the second afternoon of their journey. The Buffalo party was following the track along the Pebble River by then, when all of a sudden the steep heights of a cliff rose up before them, seeming to block the road completely. Thorn checked his steps. There must have been a track, however, for the men in the forefront of the party veered abruptly left. Thorn followed, and there before him was the cave.

It was great indeed, an enormous archway of rosy-colored stone that rose at least a hundred feet above the river. In fact, the Great Cave was more a tunnel than a cave, a huge tunnel cut right through the rock of the cliff from one side to the other. The river roared through it in an uninhibited torrent of white foam. People were encamped all over the gravel before the cave’s mouth, and Thorn saw a group of children shrieking with delight as they kicked around an inflated horse’s stomach. Several of the children were wet from the spray of water that rose up from the racing river.

In all his life Thorn had met but a handful of people who were not of his own tribe. His eyes widened and his heart began to beat with excitement. The load of engraved bones he carried on his back seemed suddenly lighter. He straightened, looked again at the shrieking children, and smiled.

Chapter Nine

The trading party threaded its way in and out among the tents and the people until it had passed under the soaring rocky arch. Thorn stared about in wonder. Never had he thought it possible for a cave to have ceilings as high as this one! Daylight poured in from the large tunnel opening, and further light came from the small scattered fires around which groups of men were sitting, surrounded by their wares. One group immediately caught Thorn’s eye; stacked high against the stone wall behind them was an immense pile of reindeer antlers.

“What are those men doing with all those antlers, Father?” he asked Rilik in a low voice.

Rilik glanced at the men. “They make digging sticks with them, Thorn.”

The Buffalo party had halted while Rilik was speaking, and Thorn watched Haras take a lamp over to the men with the antlers. One of them courteously lit it for him from their fire. Haras stayed speaking for a few moments, then led the way toward an opening in the rock that Thorn supposed led to the interior galleries. He turned to follow, tripped, and was righted by his father’s strong hand on his arm. “Watch where you are walking,” Rilik said.

Haras had disappeared, and obediently Thorn followed him into the darkness, “We always camp in the same chamber,” Rilik said from behind Thorn, “It is not far.”

Thorn stood quietly while the men went about the business of building a fire. As soon as the fire caught and there was light enough to see, Thorn wandered over to inspect the chamber’s walls. He saw no paintings.

“Come,” Rilik said, “there is time enough for us to take a look around.”

Eagerly, Thorn followed his father along the passage and back into the main tunnel of the cave.

The sound of the rushing river was ever-present, magnified by the great stone walls and roof. Rilik and Thorn walked up the steep path beside the booming water, and Thorn could see that every level surface of the tunnel floor was occupied by groups of men with wares to trade. A number of the men wore the long braid that denoted they came from tribes that followed the Way of the Mother, and Thorn’s brown eyes were wide with wonder as he trailed along behind his father, his head swiveling from group to group.

Rilik knew many of the men from previous gatherings and paused often to exchange greetings and news. Even those who came from a distance seemed to know a rough form of the language spoken by the tribes of the Kindred. Thorn, however, was more interested in the items offered for barter than in talk, and the wares he found most wonderful were the shells. The Buffalo tribe had shells that had been made into ornaments for both men and women, but never had Thorn seen such an array of beautiful, unset shells. There were golden shells, black shells, and pearly textured shells of pink and white and gray. There was one in particular, a fan-shaped, pure white shell that Thorn coveted. He would try to trade some of his own engravings for it, he decided, and he would make it into a pendant for his mother.

Thorn turned away from the shells and saw that Rilik had sat down on his heels in front of the feather man. Rilik could spend hours choosing feathers. “May I go outside for a little, Father?” Thorn murmured in Rilik’s ear.

“Mmmm,” Rilik replied absentmindedly, picking up a fine partridge feather and regarding the width of its spread intently. Thorn went.

It was growing dark outside and Thorn was disappointed to see that the children had stopped their play. Only one little boy was left, desultorily kicking the horse-stomach ball back and forth between his moccasined feet. Thorn regarded his face with interest.

All the lines of the child’s face went upward except the eyes, which drooped in an intriguing fold at the corners. The nose was particularly delightful, long and thin and outrageously tip-tilted. The mouth was thin-lipped, too, but its irresistible upward quirk made it look both joyous and generous. The hazy blue eyes drooped sleepily, but their expression was not sleepy at all. Thorn smiled. It was impossible not to smile at such a face.

The child noticed him, hesitated, and then approached. “Would you like to play kick hall?” he asked.

Thorn grinned. “Sa,” he said. “I would.”

The two youngsters played together happily until the dark set in and their annoyed parents came to fetch them. The boy was the son of the shaman of the Tribe of the Leopard, and the shaman and Rilik thought their sons should have had enough sense to return to their campfires at darkfall. Thorn and Kenje exchanged unrepentant grins and trailed off after their respective parents.

* * * *

Thorn awoke in the middle of the night, sweating heavily. He felt wretched. His nose was so stuffed he couldn’t breathe, and his throat hurt. He sat up and strained to find his father by the light of the single lamp, but all he could see of Rilik was a lump under his sleeping skins.

The only sound in the chamber was the sound of snoring. No one stirred. Rilik was a heavy sleeper, and if Thorn tried to wake his father he would wake the others as well. They would think he was a baby, crying over a sore throat. Tears stung his eyes and he blinked them back. He wished fiercely that he had not left his mother. He lay back down and steeled himself to endure the remainder of the night.

Thorn fell back to sleep just before dawn, and he awoke again with the stir of activity around the fire. “I don’t feel well,” he croaked to his father. “My throat hurts.”

Rilik frowned and put a hand upon his forehead. “Your skin is hot.”

Haras saw the gesture and approached them. “What is the matter here?” He sat on his heels beside Rilik, and both men frowned at Thorn.

The chief of the Tribe of the Buffalo was an impressive-looking man: tall and broad-shouldered with sand-colored hair and blue-gray eyes. Those eyes were looking at Thorn with a mixture of concern and irritation. Haras did not want a sick boy on his hands during the gathering.

“The boy seems to have a throat sickness,” Rilik said. “His skin is hot, too. I will give him some sage tea, and he can stay in his sleeping skin this day.”

Thorn groaned in protest.

“That is what the shaman would prescribe,” Haras said authoritatively. “If your skin is hot, you must stay quiet and let the angry spirit within become calm. Go back to sleep. Perhaps you will feel better when you awaken.” The chief turned to Rilik. “If his skin does not grow cooler, we shall have to find a shaman to take some of his blood to let out the angry spirit.”

Rilik brought Thorn the promised tea, and the hot sage-flavored liquid felt good on his swollen throat. Then the men of the tribe hoisted their wares upon their shoulders and went off to bargain for what they needed, leaving Thorn alone. His throat felt a little better from the tea and he went back to sleep.

He had no idea how long he had been asleep when he awoke again. The gallery was still deserted. To his profound relief, he felt much better. He hated having blood drawn, and with their own shaman not here, it would have to be done by a stranger. Thorn lit the fire from the lamp the others had left burning for him and heated himself some more tea. He drank it thirstily, and when he had finished, he picked up the lamp and went to finish exploring the stone walls of the room.

The gallery was largely undecorated, but along one wall Thorn found that someone had once scratched two very poor engravings of buffalo. Thorn examined them and curled his lip in contempt at the ineptitude of the work. He went to his pack, took out a graver, and set about engraving a proper buffalo next to the other drawings. Once that was done, he engraved the figure of a horse. Then, without any volition on the part of his brain, seemingly entirely on their own, his fingers began to draw the profile of a face.

It was a simple sketch, but the long, up-tilted nose and drooping eyelids made perfectly clear whose face it was: Kenje, the son of the shaman of the Tribe of the Leopard.

Thorn looked at the picture when he had finished, his face bright with pleasure in his own creation. Then he realized what he had done.