Chapter 21

On the wrong side of the river on an unknown planet.

In the end, Ureeblay touched up his utility flint twice before he finished severing the thick connective material that reminded him of the toughest, gristly toenails he'd ever encountered. The material connected the great-great-great grandsire snapping turtle's top shell and belly plate together along either side. Another problem he'd faced was that even though he had worked the raised ridge of the top shell down into the sand, the shell still rocked and tipped as he sawed with the single serrated edge of his flint hand tool.

The young wolf had sniffed at everything to start with and got in the way at times. She soon lost interest in his labor and headed across the beach sand. Ureeblay watched her trot toward the wide opening in the brush and trees to the Morn of their camp where there was a deep cove of sand in front of the canyon rising up into the boulders of the stone ridge. As he got back to work, Ureeblay wondered what attracted her up in the talus canyon. This was at least the second time he'd seen her head off that way by herself.

Once he separated the two shells, he scraped off the inside of the wide belly plate first, dumping the recovered fatty tissue into the huge, upturned dorsal shell with the remaining mess of turtle the scavenger fish hadn't eaten. Ureeblay figured the small fish had reduced the carcass by half. He might have done better to find a big hill of ants, he thought.

However, Ureeblay knew that ants presented a completely different clean up problem. Suddenly he realized he hadn't seen any ants around his camp. None on his stretching hides, no thin line of ants going to either of the severed babbit heads up in the cool stone nook out of the sun. That was another sign to him, along with the piles of driftwood, that the height of this lake must rise quite a bit and often. Ureeblay remembered that Achinay once told him of seeing those little red ants that bite floating down a flooded creek, all in a big bobbing, dry lump. It was a good thing Ureeblay hadn't seen any of those pests that bite like fire on this side of the Toolie.

He looked at the driftwood bundle he'd brought from camp to heat this upturned shell and render out the remaining fat. Thank goodness, Ureeblay thought to himself, he had found cooking the carcass before staking it to the lake bottom got rid of the smell of rotting meat. Now, at least, what was left of the body in the shell didn't reek to the sky. It didn't smell good, but it didn't reek anymore. He made himself slowly run his fingers through the greasy mess to extract the bones and gristle and clean them with his fingers before putting them all on the belly plate.

Suddenly he wondered how much turtle fat he'd lost by cooking the carcass before staking it to the lake bottom—he sighed at that disheartening thought. However, there was still the remaining fat from the babbit carcass that would add to anything he could render from the turtle remains. He wanted fat to treat at least the bison hair cordage on the two slings he planned to make.

As he studied the huge, upturned top shell of the snapping turtle, the image of how the lift poles of his drag had floated somewhat, even with the weight of the shells and carcass on the bed at the other end, occupied part of his mind's eye. He had a very good idea of the weight of that load. However, the lift poles floated up and broke the lake surface while the drag-end of both poles and the turtle carcass slowly sank toward the sandy bottom of the lake. At the time, he didn't think to check if the drag-ends dropped all the way to the bottom. Thinking about it, he decided the way the travel-drag handled in the water, they hadn't until he was in shallow water.

As Ureeblay noticed a downward curve in the shell at the back that had accommodated the top of the thick tail of the giant turtle, part of his mind pictured some of the stones he'd tossed into creeks, puddles, and lakes as a child. Those rocks were smaller than his fist back then and weighed so much less than his travel-drag poles did now, but every piece of gravel and each rock had sunk right out of sight. He knew that heavy logs floated; logs heavier than all the stones he'd ever tossed into the water. Why was that?

As part of his mind also considered the tail curve that formed a distended lip in the back of the upturned top shell, Ureeblay found he was wondering how big that giant tree had been that floated him down and across the Toolie.

"Why did wood float when lighter rocks sank?"—he put the question into words this time. For that matter, why did little red ants float when some other ants would drown? He felt sure the camp shaman would have some explanation. Ureeblay could imagine hearing the shaman now, sharing his beliefs in a low, soft voice that would sound a little eerie and dramatic around the communal campfire at night—

"The spirit nature of trees and brush is in kinship with the sky spirits, and that is why they reach up into the heavens as they grow, lifting up to join the rays of Father Sun. In their pure form, the spirits of wood are allies with the sky spirits and the rays of Father Sun. That is why we can persuade wood to burn. When wood burns, bits of its spirit lift up into the sky as bright and as hot as the rays of Father Sun. You now see, Ureeblay, why fire is sacred on many levels, as the worlds of our lives exist together on many levels—this, our first life; our second life in dreams; and our third life with the spirits as that part of each one of us which continues on ... prepares for rebirth.

"The spirits of rock and stones are in kinship with the body of the World Mother," Ureeblay could hear the shaman drone on in his head. "When you toss them into the sky, their small spirits wish to return to the great spirit of the World Mother and so fall back to Her body. When the element of water is between the body of World Mother and the sky, stones sink through it down to the breast of the World Mother and wood floats in the water as both the wood and the rock try to be closer to their kindred spirits."

Why then, Ureeblay wondered, didn't wood float up into the sky to be with its kindred spirits if rocks dropped to the World Mother to be near Her spirit? The shaman would say that World Mother was the strongest spirit by far, and Father Sun was second, the great sky above was third amongst the spirits—or some such argument.

He knew that the kindred spirit relationships was why some hunters carved sun rays, or bird wings, or a lightning bolt on their spears and decorated their spear-casters with images of prey animals. Placing those images on their weapons was each hunter's attempt to focus the powers of their second life and the third life, here in their first life. If they were successful, that manifest power would call to the spirits of those special prey animals so they might come closer to the hunter's caster. Once the animal was close enough for the hunter to cast his spear, the spear shaft would fly true through the air to the target like a ray of light, or fly swift like a bird and strike down the prey like lightning.

Ureeblay had no decorations on his weapons. Only a man in body and a man in deed could reach into the second life, and perhaps with great bravery and courage, into the third life for powers offered by their spirit animal. Only those men knew what images would be potent for their weapons or other tools. Power dreams in the second life along with a man's spirit animal would guide his hands to carve those images and signs to bind what power his inner spirit was able to garner into his weapons.

Ureeblay had no spirit animal to be the base of his spirit totem. He should be terrified that he had become a man in deed without a spirit animal assigned to him by the camp shaman soon after he became a man in body. However, he was not frightened. Some of the people in the Welow Swongli would say that without a proper spirit animal assigned to him at the proper time by a camp shaman, Ureeblay would never be able to reach into his second life, let alone attempt to go beyond into the third life to attain power. If that was true, the growing young man thought, he should not have had his sister and Tanjeara visit him in his dreams, and the information about hunting the cold stream would have come to nothing; and he would not have been able to kill the babbit as he did. However, it was true, and he had—accompanied by the honey-colored wolf with the sky-blue eyes.

What of the appearance of the great bird of the sun, the sunagle? Ureeblay wondered. Ureeblay knew no tales of any other boy having a mighty bird of the sun attend his first true manhood kill. What will the Welow Swongli say about that? Many will not believe, he figured. However, many will at least listen when they see the young wolf of the honey-colored fur and striking blue eyes. He also had the claws of the giant babbit, and he would be wearing its fur as his cold-weather cover. Seeing those trophies, as well as his new water carrier made from the stomach, they would have to believe he'd taken the animal with his spear.

Shaking his head to clear those ideas and images from his mind, and with an amused grin on his face at thinking about driftwood floating in the sky, Ureeblay came back to the job at hand, as well as the sandy beach he was on and the lakeshore around him.

He decided he would pour the liquid fat from that point of the top shell where it dipped down in back. The young man realized while digging a hole in the sand with his bone shovel so he could dump the grandsire's bones back into the sand of the great turtle's birth beach that he needed a way to lift and guide the huge shell when it was time to pour off the rendered fat. The shell would be very hot as well and he would burn his hands and forearms if he touched the shell while doing that.

In addition, he became aware that he would not even be able to see where he was pouring the fat as he lifted the front part of the shell up. He definitely needed to make a hide funnel or find something else that would be easy to hit with the stream of hot fat and that would guide the burning-hot liquid into the wet intestine. In addition, he would have the remains of the fire to deal with, too, unless he moved the shell away from the fire to pour off the fat.

"How in all the World Mother's gifts," he asked out loud, feeling disgust rising up inside his heart, "do my mother and the women of the Welow Swongli ever get fat into lengths of intestines?"

There was no answer from the cooling air around him. He knew the women did recover rendered fat on a regular basis because he'd seen the solidified, sausage-like fingers of white grease ever since he was old enough to pay attention to how his mother prepared food. To take his mind off that growing problem, Ureeblay looked up into the sky and saw another developing problem.

The ugly, bluish-gray clouds that overcast the morning were getting darker. He took a few steps upwind across the beach sand, away from the shell and he sniffed the breeze. There was a hint of moisture in the slightly cooling air and Ureeblay decided he needed to address the coming rain right now—the work of rendering fat could wait. He had to think about the process more anyway and solve the problems facing him concerning the hot shell, pouring fat into intestines that he wouldn't be able to see and that needed to soak first, not getting his fingers or palms burned ... He could feel his frustration building.

"No wonder," he said aloud, in what sounded to his ears to be a gruff voice, "men leave the women's work to the women."

Crossing his arms over his bare chest and frowning as he ground his right heel into the sand, it came to him that right now, if she were here, his sister would be whacking him on the back of his head and calling him a clod—or worse, a petulant child. Well, the next time he had her down beneath him in his sleeping furs, he'd show her this petulant child had become a man in body on this unintended journey of his! He would have her squealing out her pet name for him—"Blay-blay! Blay-blay,"—as a woman calls to her lover in the darkness of the night.

Yes, that was what he would do all right.

As his traitorous young man part started to stiffen in his clout at the rich images in his mind's eye, Ureeblay realized he truly thought of his sister, as well as Tanjeara that way now. He decided that now, if he was claiming to be a man in body and in deed, then he was going to act like a man and not tell false tales to himself about his feelings anymore. With a sigh, he dropped his arms to his sides.

"Only some children and foolish people lie to themselves about their true desires," Ureeblay remembered his sire once telling him as they'd studied the night sky full of Swongli together on a treeless hilltop that was out away from Sweet Water camp. "A man admits the truth about his wants and desires to himself. That way," his sire had said, "a man is sure of his motivations and does not waste time in pursuit of things he really does not want—things that could not bring a man satisfaction if he did attain them after all that wasted effort. Such things cannot make a man proud."

At the time, Ureeblay had no idea what his sire was talking about, but now, he was starting to understand. He wished his sire were here right now to talk with him, to give him advice, and to be proud of his son's accomplishments on this treacherous journey into manhood.

At least, Ureeblay told himself, he could make the spirit of his sire proud with his accomplishments—and that was what he would do, accomplish. Feeling his resolve growing, the young man told himself he would find a way to accomplish this gathering of fat. Women of the clans had been gathering fat for ages, and he was just as smart as any woman was, perhaps smarter.

He could hear his sire chuckle at that thought.

Then he considered all the knowledge and skills required to do the women's labors he was struggling with now. Skills that his mother had, and that her friend the camp healer had, and that so many other of the women, and even girls in his camp and in all the clans of the Welow Swongli used regularly. Skills and knowledge that he right now wished he possessed. With a shrug of his shoulders he admitted, he was as just as smart as some of the women who had done these things before. If they'd figured out how to do these things, he should be able to do so, too.

The image of Tanjeara giggling at him filled his mind's eye.

Turning back to the turtle shell in the sand and the firewood, bone shovel, his travel pouch, all of it—the first thing Ureeblay did was gather his flint edges, put them back into his travel pouch and attach it to his woven belt. Then he went back to his camp carrying only his spear-caster and his two spears down in his rawhide quiver. Behind him were the separated shells, the firewood stack, as well as the remains of the babbit carcass he'd cut into pieces that would fit inside the shell and he'd rewrapped in the quickly woven, crude mat. He left all of it behind with his travel-drag on the beach by the pit he'd dug.

He sat by his teepee-wrapped drying racks with wisps of white smoke coming out of the top weaves. Ureeblay pondered all he needed to accomplish before the rain arrived as he started to weave the first of three more large, tight mats using the technique his, well, possibly wonderful sister had revealed to him in his second life.

Ureeblay wanted to get his gear under shelter. A dry, stone shelter would be best. He knew there had to be many places in the boulders of the ridge or up the canyon that ought to provide him with that kind shelter. He just hadn't gone looking for those places with everything else he'd been doing, and the recent days and nights had been wonderful for sleeping in the sand. However, with the approaching rain, his sleeping wallow might become a sodden pool.

The growing young man knew the best place to search would be up the canyon of stones. From his climb to the top of the ridge, he was aware of small side passages and gaps between the boulders that he'd not given more than a glance, and which could end in a sheltered talus cave similar to his grotto back by the falls.

As his nimble fingers first folded over the long edges and then worked the sturdy grass blades into tight overlapping patterns, he formed a plan of action. Once he finished these three mats, he would get his supplies down from the tallow tree and cover them with one of the mats. He would stack and cover his hides with the second. He'd put the third one over his pile of firewood here in camp should it start to rain before he returned. His mat teepee surrounding his drying racks would protect the meat still hanging from the skewers, unless the rain became a downpour.

He hoped he could find a sheltered spot and start shifting camp before it started to rain. From the scents in the air, Ureeblay's growing weather sense told him it would possibly be mid-to-late afternoon before the rain began. As he completed the first good-sized mat, also finishing off what had been left of the smallest sheaf of weaving grass, he decided he would take his weapons and search out a stone shelter once he finished weaving the remaining two mats he wanted, and covered his gear.

He took a deep breath to relax, and then started taking the long, wide blades of grass out of one of his two remaining bundles here in camp. He still had grass bundles staked out in the lake, and plenty of patches of living grass he could harvest when he had the time if he needed more.

He could see this coming rain would extend his stay here at the lake. Part of him worried that Hurstmon might have found his trail through the desolated landscape created by the stampede; his tracks would be easy to follow. Part of him chuckled at what the Hurstmon might conclude on seeing the way his footprints mingled with those of a certain small wolf. However, the humor of that situation disappeared. If the Hurstmon found his footprints along the destroyed stream, then the stream that had been his wonderful traveling companion would lead any scouts right here to his lake.

The Hurstmon—he pondered them as his fingers worked the long blades of grass. Recalling his stunned response at his first sighting of the two brightly dressed warriors carefully moving up through the scattered pine trees down at the bottom of that small valley. That valley was far back in the foothills to the Eve now. He remembered how two Hurstmon became three, seen through the intervening pine boughs and dark trunks, until finally there was a hand of warriors strung out below him and moving up the valley as Ureeblay lay hidden at the crest of the steep, rocky ridge among the pines. He finally crept over the ridge and fled.

He'd always been amazed at the stories told about the Hurstmon around the community campfire. He'd listened to every one of them avidly as a child, imagining just how the big Hurstmon looked. Now, he also recalled how different people in Sweet Water camp claimed that it was the distance across the great Toolie that caused the wild reports of the hunters and why the old tales described the Hurstmon as they did. Sightings happened so infrequently that each one, from the very first, had become fodder for the storytellers of the clans, as well as notoriety for the few living hunters who did catch a glimpse of Hurstmon on the Eve bank of the wide river.

Brightly dressed they were, the hand of warriors he'd seen tracking him, with colorful feathers in their long hair that went down behind them and was held behind their ears with colorful headbands. Two warriors had hair the color of mahogany, one had black hair the color of his own; and to Ureeblay's surprise, one had sandy-colored hair; and the last, the smallest Hurstmon, had hair that was almost white. Remembering the sight of them sent a shudder through his body.

Of the feathers, Ureeblay saw reds, blues, and a few feathers of yellow. The smallest warrior, whom he'd seen first, had worn only one yellow feather in his almost white mane; the largest wore a mix of all three colors. Ureeblay didn't know if the feathers were from birds he'd never seen before, or if the Hurstmon had dyed the feathers in some manner that rendered such brilliant colors. Now that he thought about what he'd seen, Ureeblay realized the smallest warrior did have a good-sized pack slung across his long, lower back.

Each warrior wore a well-tanned leather vest with beads or quills worked into simple, striking patterns of rays on the fronts. Ureeblay had observed those Hurstmon on several occasions now, and from the various distances that he'd watched them, the details of any more elaborate decorations on their vests would have been lost. As it happened, most of the beads were white which contrasted with the dark-blue-stained leather of their vests. They all had a black and a red feather fluttering from just behind the long, deadly flint points of each of their lances.

He'd seen a round wooden disc slung on the upper backs of each one, too. Ureelay didn't recognize the device as any weapon he knew about. Those were colored black, with each one having a different image placed on their disc in red. From what he could see of the images, they all appeared different. Ureeblay had recognized one as the likeness of some bird as the warriors moved up through the pines on the valley floor below him. Now that he thought about it, those wooden discs did shield part of their upper backs. It seemed to Ureeblay that the leather slings that held the rounds of wood in place would allow each warrior to swing the discs about their upper body to protect their chests, too.

The stories were true about the size of the Hurstmon. The boy hadn't been able to believe what he was seeing at first; but as unbelievable as those tales were, what the stories said—well, it was all true. The biggest of the warriors would have been able to carry Crosof and Ureeblay on the brute's huge lower back, the young man still thought. He shuddered again, the reality of the Hurstmon almost overwhelming him, and the young man managed to push the images of their bodies out of his mind. The young man got back to his weaving.

That first time Ureeblay saw the Hurstmon, just two of them at first, and after watching them as long as he could he slipped over a ridge and hurried away from their line of advance. Ureeblay remembered thinking the warriors must be close to their camp, because he saw only one carrying a pack. Granted, it was a big pack; but it didn't seem to Ureeblay to be large enough to carry provisions to provide for the entire hand of warriors.

Each warrior had two different, colorful pouches slung from around their necks and over one or the other shoulder, and each Hurstmon carried a big water bag. With their size and all, Ureeblay could tell they would be able to run him down if they caught him in the open—Ureeblay didn't even want to put that into words, let alone imagine what it could be like. They were obviously children of the World Mother—and being one of hers also, Ureeblay rebuked himself for his initial surprise on seeing the fabled Hurstmon. Since the World Mother brought the Hurstmon forth on this good earth, how could he question their seemliness, or that of any of her other creations.

In case Hurstmon did show up, Ureeblay knew he'd need to find a shelter that wasn't a trap. If he found what he was looking for somewhere up the steep talus canyon and if he did happen to be in his shelter should they tracked him to this lake, then he could flee along the ridgeline, if it came to that. The size of their big bodies might work against them on steep rocks. He needed more spears, he told himself. That was something he could work on during rainy weather.

While cured, straight, dry shafts would be what he could wish he had available to use, he told himself as his fingers folded edges and bent one blade of grass under the next, having a hand of green, straight spears to add to his quiver would certainly do. In addition, he still needed a source of good-sized feathers for fletching the spears.

He had seen some young men bind a thin strip of fluttering fur to the back of their shafts. Once in the air, the strip would flap behind the spear butt and provide some stability at the cost of decreased distance, striking power, and less accuracy. However, when making your own weapons, you used what you could find or trade for; else you went without.

Ureeblay wondered if a strip or two of woven grasses might work on the back of his new shafts until he could find the correct feathers. Under the right circumstances, a useful, greenwood spear with a sharp flint head and a woven tail instead of fletched feathers should threaten, wound, or kill a Hurstmon as well as the most carefully crafted shaft made of the finest materials.

Suddenly Ureeblay could see that a steady, pounding rain that washed away his back trail would be a good thing after all.

It was now early afternoon. The air was cooler—the clouds were darker and seemed lower in the sky. His backpack of terrace bog apples, with his emergency firewood bundle tied to the bottom, and his supplies of dried, smoked meats in their woven grass carriers were down, out of the tallow tree and wrapped inside one of his fine, big mats, and leaning against the tallow trunk. His big pile of dry driftwood close to his cooking fire was partially covered, the ends of that mat weighed down with good-sized hunks of wood. Ureeblay had removed the lengths of babbit intestine he put in the pile, and those he rolled around a stick and put inside his travel pouch, which he'd nearly filled with his necessities. He'd stacked his hides next to his pack and woven meat carriers, under his third big mat.

Ureeblay put his old water carrier over his left shoulder and his new water carrier over his right shoulder, adjusting the slightly damp stomachs against both his sides. Tightly rolling his two sleeping mats together, he carefully managed to stuff the end down into his quiver beside his best spear. He was watchful of the two half-feathers fletched onto the butt and angling up in the air in front of his left hip. He retrieved his second best shaft from the boulder to the right of the opening in the wall of stones where he'd also placed the smallest bog apple he'd taken from the top of his pack earlier.

Still chewing on his first bite, Ureeblay nocked his second best spear into his caster and rested the shaft in the crook of his right arm. With his left hand going back up to the top of the boulder, Ureeblay claimed the rest of the delicacy that would be his midday meal. He swallowed and then took another bite of the crispy, almost hard flesh of the raw terrace bog apple.

Uncooked, the initial crisp tang of the bog apple seemed more pronounced. The secondary flavor was not as sweet or as creamy, and when he swallowed, the spiciness was not as satisfying as that of a once, twice, or thrice cooked terrace bog apple. He'd never heard of anyone eating raw bog apple before, now that he considered what he was doing.

Still, as he started out of his beach camp and turned to the Morn, the meat of the apple caused saliva to flood into his chomping mouth, giving the growing young man reason to grin as the mixed juice seeped out of the left corner of his mouth.

Not only was he hungry, but Ureeblay wanted the sharpening of his senses that he'd noticed before when he'd eaten any of the terrace bog apples he'd collected. He hoped that affect didn't require cooking the tuber first. From listening to his mother and the camp healer talking about foods and remedies, the tall young man knew some times the spirits of certain ingredients needed special treatment to mix correctly. Sometimes it was just a very certain amount of heating, sometimes the sought for results required soaking in cool water, other times—crushing and grinding into a paste with a mortar and pestle.

The honey-colored wolf came bounding over the sand toward him from the direction of the stone canyon. It seemed to Ureeblay she was overly excited as she pranced and wiggled around him with her tail wagging and her tongue flapping around the right side of her muzzle. Her enthusiasm lightened the boy's heart in Ureeblay and he found he was grinning at her rambunctiousness. The young man in him was amazed that a wild animal could be so friendly and playful with a person.

He and the prancing wolf followed the curving outside wall of rocks guarding the Morn side of their camp and then started across the upper beach toward the mouth of the steep canyon a short spear cast away. Ureeblay studied the few clumps of high bushes near the entrance. The cavorting wolf woofed twice and suddenly sprinted back in that direction, sand flying from under her big, fleet paws.

As he approached the mouth of the canyon rising up into the ridge, he realized the sand was becoming firmer under his footsteps. Looking down at his moving feet he also saw the tight roll of sleeping mats jutting up from his quiver on his left side along with his best spear. He smiled at the sight of his new, bigger, cleaned water carrier there too. His pig-stomach water carrier was in the right side of his vision and close to his spear-caster and the shaft resting in the crook of his arm as his big feet moved through the sand.