Chapter 16

On the wrong side of the river on an unknown planet

With his two legs crossed in front of him and the butt of his clout comfortable in the sand, Ureeblay leaned back against the warm face of the granite boulder that formed just part of the rear wall of his fine campsite. The boy craned his head backward as best as he could and looked up. The rugged cliff of massive, jumbled boulders behind him blocked the Warm section of dark sky. However, around him high above the sounds of crickets and frogs somewhere out near the shore of the lake, Ureeblay could see the major Swongli of many constellations glittering up in the blue-black depths of the bowl of night.

The boy could see those bright, colorful points in the heavens in spite of the orangish-yellow light from his two, low campfires. The large, waxing crescent of Weepai hung in the night sky to the Morn just above the dark horizon that was the highlands on the other side of the Toolie. Ureeblay gazed across the hip- and chest-high stones that created a protective wall around the lakeside of his large campsite. He enjoyed this view of the moon shedding a soft light on the deep, night shadowed landscape. He wondered if his mother or perhaps his sister beyond the far side of the Toolie might be looking up at Weepai this very moment, and wondering where he was, how he was getting by, and when he would return.

Three steps away and slightly to his right, the fire in his cooking ring crackled. From time to time, the three nearly burned through logs released glowing orange sparks up into the night where each glowing mote danced a short instant below the seemingly stationary, twinkling Swongli all around the deepest blue-black bowl of the heavens.

The various scents brought to him on the gently shifting night breeze were wonderful. Ureeblay enjoyed the comforting aroma of wood smoke, and when the air currents shifted, the spicy tang of frenal leaf, along with hints of mellow coarse-sage came to him from the low fire under his smoking racks. Under those smells were the persistent odors of the beach and the refreshing moist fragrance of the lake.

Ureeblay was certain it would be a good night to observe the Seven Sentinels up in the sky. He would study their relative positions in relationship with themselves and the rest of the constellations of Swongli in the heavens. Soon he would have a very good idea of just how far he would need to travel in the direction of the Warm to find the exact location where he had come ashore on this bank of the great Toolie at the start of this adventure.

Now as he sat back and digested, he felt a big grin breakout on his face. Yes, his roasted fish supper had been a joy, he proudly admitted as he licked his slightly greasy fingers clean again. The fine white meat had been hot, moist, flakey—the flavor of the fish almost perfect. If he had only had a good pinch of salt, enough for three twists of his fingertips and thumb pad to disperse the amazing fine crystals along the cooked flesh before he started eating, the boy mused.

Salt—how he missed salt. No matter how dirty it might be, salt was a sign of a successful Camp. Well, that was what his mother always said.

However, along with his evening meal of fresh fish Ureeblay did have ripe, sweet berries as well as thrice-cooked bog apple. He discovered the combination of berries and bog tasted so amazing together that remembering the mixed flavors on his tongue ... well, now the experience seemed almost indecent to the boy.

Ureeblay had never heard of bog apple served before with any other food. The boy always paid attention and remembered whenever anyone in his camp had discussed food. He also was very attentive during every summer congregation when members of other camps had talked about different food combinations, cooking methods, and recipes. Wiggling his bottom into the dry sand for more comfort, Ureeblay realized he now even remembered specific recipes for some of his favorite meals he had not been aware of memorizing at the time. Well actually, he was finding it was a matter of just letting each memory come back to him in full without trying to think about it, the boy told himself.

Ureeblay knew bog apples were such a special delicacy of his people that every camp held a festival at some point the end of the summer harvest. The women of each scattered camp would trek out to all the known bushes in their territory. The Bog Blessing Festival in Sweet Water camp, his camp, always occurred some time after they returned from the midsummer congregation. The Festival was a one-day event that culminated in the late afternoon sharing of the harvest with all the members of the camp. Each year the bog apples were prepared in one of the five forms: mud-baked, steamed, fried, boiled, or roasted. At the sharing meal, bog apples were always the only food served.

There was fermented drink available for those adults who might want to partake, after they finished their portion of the Bog Blessing, however it was prepared for that festival.

At that thought, a small idea formed in his mind. When he finally did discover a way to cross over the Toolie and return to his people, why not use that means to travel back across the river on purpose later on? Possibly after his mother had traded the last of the riches in his backpack for the benefit of his family—and of course, a little benefit for just his own? Say two or three large nodules of old Rutiny's finest flint.

Ureeblay got up from his place of warmth and comfort against the rock face. His standing up caused the young wolf on her natural mat of living grass to look up at him from the other side of his cooking fire. The honey-colored animal had been sniffing at the remaining meat on her gnawed and partially eaten haunch of immature verge-deer. The youngster had been resting down on her full belly and her back haunches with the remains of her joint of raw venison between her spread front paws. Now Ureeblay was aware she watched as he walked over to his drying and smoking racks and he checked the fire and bed of coals there.

Ureeblay knew he could retrace his path back up to the bog-apple terraces—without a doubt, he told himself as he next inspected the hands of bison meat skewered in three layers above the low smoking flames. He put a few more of the thick, spicy frenal leaves on the coals and watched the white smoke slowly curl up around the meat slices. This first batch was hanging in rows on his new rack over the sacred fire depression close to a stomach-high boulder making up part of left arm of the granite and limestone wall protecting the campsite.

"Too much smoke and heat is escaping," he muttered to himself as he considered the progress of the hands of hanging bison meat. He decided to switch the skewered meat on the bottom rack with the skewers of meat on the top. The hands of bison suspended from the middle rack would stay where they were. With that decision made, Ureeblay started the slow process of swapping a bottom skewer of meat with a top skewer of meat, careful not to unbalance each skewer and possibly have a few cuts of bison slip off and drop to the sand, or into the coals of his fire.

As he worked to make the swap starting at the left end of the top and bottom racks, the boy could see this plan of returning for terrace bog apples beginning to bloom in his mind's eye now. Once he found a safe way across the Toolie to his home, he could return later. He could travel back where he had planted the flat-pig's head in offering to the spirits. The severed head he'd offered on the pike that he pushed down in the seared main root of the vine-of-passing on the banks of his friend, the creek. On his return he would make certain the widow-snare had not begun to grow anew. Then he could harvest the tubers from the two main-direction roots he had not disturbed under the first bog apple bush. With one morning of undemanding work, Ureeblay could easily equal the load of riches he now had stashed in the basket of his backpack.

The boy chuckled, and licked the thumb, index, and middle finger of his right hand. He enjoyed the rich, smoky flavor of the bison grease his fingers picked up from the bottom skewer he'd just moved to the top rack. Licking his lips, the growing boy got back to work as he considered what he'd accomplished so far today.

To protect his meat carrier and his riches-filled basket on the pack frame, Ureeblay had suspended them up in a sturdy, tall tallow tree that grew close to the towering cliff face of stacked boulders protecting the back of his campsite. He had plaited three of his longest remaining rawhide strands and used the cordage to secure his supplies, hanging down from an isolated branch up in the tree and twice his height off the ground. There was one perfectly placed branch, lower than all the rest, which provided easy climbing. Let the invisible moccasin raider attempt to steal from him again, Ureeblay told himself. He had even smoothed over the sand surrounding the tree, using his frenal bush as a broom so any tracks would show up distinctly.

That tallow tree was very handy, Ureeblay thought, watching a few sparks shoot up in the hot air between the hands of bison on the bottom hang of meat before hitting cuts of meat in the second or third row. Those tiny bits of ash would only add flavor, he found himself thinking as he placed a skewer on the top rack. The tallow tree was easy enough for him to climb, with a low limb that allowed him to pull his supplies up into to the tree and tie the packframe off on that well-situated, higher branch. The tallow was also located inside the groupings of large stones encircling what he considered the front half of his campsite. That is, if he included the boulder cliff as the back half of camp, he chuckled to himself as he continued swapping skewers.

When he and the wolf found the spot for their lakeside camp, Ureeblay had been gawking up at the cliff face. First he had noticed all the different sizes and shapes of the boulders—some were easily twice the size of the full canopy of the tallow tree he saw growing close to the cliff and inside a half ring of rocks enclosing a good section of sand. Studying this closest part of the boulder ridge, Ureeblay saw stones in every shape he had words for, and most he would have trouble describing. There were small gaps and crevices, a few with bushes or some small tree growing up from what looked like bare rock.

On the top side of a long, tilted, white-and-gray limestone block three time his height, he saw a somewhat rounded, pinkish granite giant. Tight against the other side of the limestone was a fractured dusty-green boulder. From the base of the cliff up beyond about twice his height, Ureeblay could see lots of small mixed stones crowding in between the larger rocks.

As the growing boy carefully lifted another skewer near the middle of the bottom rack, he thought back to the groups of huge buttonwoods he had noticed earlier today in the tree line along the shore. Up in the high limbs through the leaves, he had noticed some of those trees still displayed a good number of dangle, rusty-tan seed balls remaining from last autumn. There were places along the shore where uncountable numbers of the fluffy white bolls had floated way and had eddied together. The accumulated piles looked like insubstantial, finger-deep snow drifts here and there on the beach sand. In other places, they had gathered up against the sandy embankment where the shoreline transitioned to the grasses, brush, and trees.

Ureeblay felt fortunate the tallow tree was not a buttonwood. The limbs of those trees started so far off the ground he would never have been able to climb up into one to secure his supplies. Also, he'd not have been able to sleep easy if he couldn't secure his supplies off the ground for the night, and additionally, if the tallow had been a buttonwood, those bothersome, white seed bolls would be all over his camp, sticking to everything, they would be in his food, on the meat he was smoking, out in the water at the edge of the shore, in his supply of bog apples—just everywhere.

This time, when he licked the fingers of his left hand, he enjoyed the slightly less rich flavor of grease from a top skewer. He knew the flavor would improve with time with the heat on the bottom rack. Then he imaged how a well-smoked hand of bison was going to taste with several well-cooked slices of his bog apple.

Yes, his bog apples, Ureeblay thought to himself as excitement filled him—his terrace bog apples! He smiled at that thought as a small, burned-through limb broke, settling on the coals and releasing several more tiny sparks that danced up and caught on different hands of bison hanging down from the first or second racks this time.

This growing idea of returning for more terrace bog apples easily supplanted his musings about defeating clever night raiders bent on stealing his supplies, as well as not having that particular kind of bothersome tree inside the boundaries of his campsite. Yes, Ureeblay told himself, if he could find a way to get back to this side of the Toolie once he retuned to his people, he would not even have to disturb the bounty growing down in the peat around the second or the third bog apple bushes to become rich again. That third terrace bog-apple bush had been the largest of the three by far, and Ureeblay knew it would have the most apples growing out from each of the plant's four directional roots.

Digging up just half of the tubers from one of those two undisturbed bushes on his return trip would ensure an ongoing trading crop of the highest quality bog apples known to any of the camps of his people, the growing boy realized. Considering this plan, as part of his mind concentrated on carefully swapping skewers of bison meat, he figured by harvesting just half a bush per trip, the rest of the bushes would have at least four more full cycles of the seasons—no, five—to develop an abundance of new bog apples before Ureeblay harvested half of each bush again. He was beginning to see his future success was here on this side of the Toolie, just waiting for him to find a way to return and dig it up from the good bog soil of sweet World Mother.

He needed to find the proper peat soil to plant the three smallest bog apples as he'd vowed to do, Ureeblay reminded himself as he absentmindedly licked the fingers on his right hand again.

Of course, in his mind Ureeblay already planned on providing the whole of Sweet Water camp with his own Bog Blessing meal once he returned. Well, those meals before his discovery were really just tastings he now had to admit to himself. No one had ever eaten his or her fill of bog apple that he knew of, or that he had heard of before. Even when his mother and sister had brought home their boon find and his mother had cooked the delicacy for just the four of them in their shelter, Ureeblay found his true heart still wishing for more of the once-a-season treat.

As he finished swapping the bottom rack of skewered meat with those from the top rack, he was only somewhat happy with the progress of this first batch of meat, the boy turned back to his cooking fire and put three good-sized pieces of driftwood on the fire to build it up. Thinking a large fire and the smell of it would keep away any predators that might otherwise come around to investigate the scent of his bison as it smoked on his racks.

Ureeblay grabbed up just his second-best light spear and his caster. With only his knife on his belt, he started his travel-toughened bare feet over the sand and went out the opening facing the lake. The gap was between the two curving walls of a natural stone stockade that protected his camp.

With her tail wagging and a short ruff to get his attention, the young wolf bounded up off of her grassy spot and loped in circles around Ureeblay. As the two moved out of the fire light toward the beach, the boy could sense the juvenile animal's eagerness to explore the mysteries of the welcoming night. And he came to the realization that she had just been waiting to do so in his company.

His intention was to wash his hands and gather weaving grasses. He needed a good mat to wrap around his smoking racks and he would not be at ease until he had one in place. Low in the Eve sky to Ureeblay's left was the waxing, bright silver crescent of Jaypai, the small contrary one; to his right and just above the horizon was the quarter disc of Weepai, whose light was not as penetrating as that cast by the smaller Jaypai.

Jaypai was less than a quarter of the way up the wild starry, starry climb of the arcing-trail, which that bright, smaller sliver of moon followed this time of the season. The soft lights from the swirls and wide-cast swathes of colorful Swongli far above and all around to the circular horizons, plus the sharper beams cast down by Jaypai closer at hand would be plenty of illumination for the boy's young eyes. As often as his sire and he had studied the night sky together, Ureeblay still marveled at the vast array of colors twinkling overhead, with some seemingly closer while others must be further away.

Very soon, Ureeblay knew, it would be the sky season of the Tailed Swongli. Those faster moving members of the heavenly community sporting colorfully glowing, long tails of what seemed to be shimmering sparks always delighted him and gave him the shivers. They were similar, but different from their brethren who fell to this sweet world after being evicted from the heavens by the other Swongli in the night sky. These Tailed Swongli never streaked down to the ground. The Tailed Swongli also seemed larger some how than those falling Swongli, at least to Ureeblay, even though he was sure they followed their predictable paths much farther out in the deep blue-black bowl of the night heavens.

Ureeblay felt expectation and excitement tickle up his spine as his feet padded over the sand. There was a freshening light breeze coming from his left that brought an interesting mix of smells off the lake, the beach, and from the earth. The gentle air tickled over the bare skin of his chest, shoulders, back and thighs. His long tail of hair added to the sensations he felt as it lightly swayed over the skin down the center of his back with his determined steps.

The only notion that lurked at the back of his mind and disturbed his otherwise perfect evening walk was that the water from his pig-stomach water carrier was starting to taste ... well he didn't want to think how it tasted—and, the stomach was small. He even emptied and replaced the water once a day. He'd find a way to solve the problem, he was certain, feeling a growing confidence in his abilities to do more than just fend for himself. He thought about the abundance of meat he'd cured, the packframe he'd constructed, the unbelievable number of huge bog apples he had stored in that packframe of his.

"Yes—" Ureeblay said in a low voice, just to hear the words, the darker surface of the lake a spear-cast away and half-his-height lower than the slight crest of sand he now walked across, "—my bog apples."

His voice seemed to attract the young wolf. She appeared out of the dim evening shadows on his right—her head erect, her eyes looking at his, her ears up.

"Just because there has never been such a thing as a bog apple trader before," he told his four-legged traveling companion, with a smile, "does not mean there cannot be such a thing in the times ahead."

Ureeblay immediately felt that talking about this new idea, even if only to the small wolf, helped move the possibility he could become a bog apple trader from the extraordinary, toward the ordinary.

"I just wonder," he said, looking down at the wolf as they walked through the sand toward the lake, "what the members of Sweet Water camp are going to think of my plan. You see, every camp of every clan of the Welow Swongli, they are my, ah—pack—well, the bog apple bushes growing in each camp's territory are communal property. Always have been ... It's ... well, a Welow Swongli tradition."

What would my sire think? Ureeblay suddenly thought, almost chuckling when he realized what he was doing—talking to a wolf about his plans to become a bog apple trader! Just as suddenly, he knew his sire would not only see the humor in this situation, but he would also have been just a thrilled as Ureeblay was to have the honey-colored animal walking along beside him as a trusted traveling companion.

Ureeblay wasn't sure how the members of Sweet Water camp were going to deal with each of the shocking developments he brought back with him from this growing adventure.

However, he smiled—was he not learning to deal positively with shock on this adventure of his? So he welcomed this bog apple plan as it came back to him, taking shape in his young mind. He was willing to follow along this developing new idea, just as he followed his feet now, down toward the edge of the lake across the length of beach from his camp.

He could envision this growing plan unfold in his mind's eye. Once he returned across the Toolie, he would easily provide a camp-wide bog blessing meal with just three of his largest bog apples, he judged. Maybe four of the largest tubers—to show the members of his camp just what they, and his home had come to mean during his forced absence. Then, depending on how long it would take his mother to get the best barters for the rest of his treasure—for her bartering skills were unmatched in their camp—Ureeblay could start planning on making a return trip. He wondered if he should plan on a trip in mid-spring so he might return with his bounty in time to go to the summer congregation. That would assure his mother could drive the best barters with all the trade-goods rich clans who showed up.

Also, Ureeblay reminded himself as he stuck the butt of his light spear down into the sand a few steps from the lapping water's edge—careful of the fletching—and put his caster through his belt ... the complex taste of the terrace bog apple he had eaten so far was superior to any mouthfuls he had enjoyed on the other side of the Toolie. Surprisingly, he was finding, there was definitely an energetic spring to his step and an increased sharpness to his vision and other senses each time he ate terrace bog apple. That was something he'd never noticed after eating bog apples from his side of the Toolie.

The boy sighed happily, and with five steps into the cold water Ureeblay waded calf-deep and stopped. Farther out the breeze was disturbing the surface of the lake, causing sparkling reflections of the Swongli overhead to dance lazily backwards across the living water. While enjoying that sight, under the surface of the water around him, the boy tested the sand bottom with his toes for the possibility of mussels, or clams, or other shellfish that might be harvested.

He had never acquired a taste for sand eel and that passing thought sent a shiver up his back as he remembered he had actually considered eating one of the creatures or its cousins if he had been able to catch one earlier in his journey.

He heard a splash further out in the water that must be a fish. Then he heard the light slosh, slosh, slosh as the young wolf actually minced her way into the lake a few strides to his right. She looked over at him and then put her muzzle down and lapped up water with her almost clumsy-looking tongue.

Ureeblay wrapped his tail of hair around his neck twice and then bent over at his hips. He slowly washed his hands, even taking up a handful of bottom sand and scrubbed it between his palms and fingers. He found he liked the abrasive action and feel of it as some of the grains sluiced out from between his hands and fingers when he rubbed his skin clean of any remaining bison grease.

As he scrubbed, he thought of his trip into this valley of the Toolie. Since he had passed through the treacherous swale-bogs on the downs, he had not seen a sign of the Hurstmon. Well, other than hearing the sounds of their bullroarers in the far distance. So, Ureeblay told himself, as he rinsed the remaining sand off his skin in the lake, he did not think the Hurstmon would pose a threat with his bog apple scheme, being this close to the Toolie.

And, the Toolie valley he told himself was the true boundary between his tribe and the tribe of the Hurstmon. In addition, the terraces where he'd come upon the bog apple bushes, and his new traveling companion, were almost on the valley floor. Maybe he could even approach the Hurstmon somehow about setting up trade between them and his people.

Well, the boy reminded himself as he stood back up and put his wet hands on his hips, he could do that if a Hurstmon warrior didn't use one of those long lances on his skinny body before the two of them could take the time to communicate with each other.

What am I thinking? Ureeblay snorted, and almost laughed out loud. He shook his head and shoulders in two lazy slow circles, freeing his hair from his neck as he turned back for the shore and his light spear. If he saw a Hurstmon up close, the boy admitted, he would probably shit his clout. The cold water pulled at his ankles as he moved to the beach.

The young wolf high-stepped quickly out of the lake and moved up the sand. She got into a wide-legged stance and shook herself. Since only her spindly legs had gotten wet, very little water sprayed off her honey-colored coat. Ureeblay noticed just how big her paws were as she stood there looking at him with an almost, what's-next air about her.

Retrieving his light spear with a jerk upward, the boy stepped to the edge of the lake and swished the butt of the shaft around in the water to get the sand off it. Then taking his sturdy caster out of his belt, Ureeblay notched the two parts of his deadly weapon together as he headed in the direction of the Morn along the beach. With his finger and thumb through the grip thongs of his armed caster and the shaft of his light spear resting over the crook of his right elbow, the boy felt confident he could defend himself.

The stark night shadows cast by Jaypai across the sand to his right beneath the clumps of brush and trees drew his attention. The soft light cast from the other direction by the waxing crescent of Weepai actually deepened the shadows, he realized. Ureeblay remembered seeing a very likely, good-sized patch of long, wide grasses further down the lake when he'd collected firewood. From near his side, the juvenile wolf silently loped up the beach to a silver-and-dark, knee-high grassy-topped bank that the boy knew ran along this whole section of the shore.

As the light and shadowy form of the young animal bounded up into the grasses and disappeared under the brush line and into the trees, Ureeblay thought again of his possible terrace bog-apple trade. He reasoned it would be good to have at least another person along with him on such a return journey. That person would increase their security by adding a second pair of eyes, ears, and senses. In addition, he told himself as he looked into the shadows where the young wolf had disappeared – he would then have someone to talk to who could actually talk back to him.

The boy also figured by dividing the terrace bog-apple load between the other person and himself along with their other needed supplies on the return leg of the journey, the two of them would be able to move faster and with less chance that a fall might occur climbing down one of the two palisades.

Around him, as he walked over the sand, the sounds of the night settled in. To his right he heard the rhythmic calls of nocturnal insects, mostly crickets, sounding almost like a heartbeat, slow and at ease with their surroundings. To his left he heard the lapping water sounds, the call of frogs starting up again, and once he distinctly heard the violent rustle and crash of brush that must have originated on the far shore. And over and above him the Swongli were a mute but multi-colored multitude gently lighting and adding deep dimensions to the blue-black bowl of the heavens. It heartened Ureeblay further that the sharper light of Jaypai came down over his shoulders so he knew the small contrary one was looking out for what might be behind his back. He didn't pay much attention to the crescent of Weepai.

Up ahead in the silver and black shadows above the now calf-high bank, Ureeblay could just make-out the start of the long grasses he would claim in abundance over the next few days.

He was down on his knees in the sandy loam with the Swongli overhead. Having started at the edge of the wide, deep, night-silvered patch of chest-high grasses, Ureeblay was using his knife held just tight enough with his left palm and fingers to cut a hand of the high blades off at the base. He gripped the gathered tough blades next to the sand as he worked his fine flint edge to slice through the fibrous vegetation. He knew if he gripped the elkan-horn handle of his flint knife too tight, he would have blisters before he finished.

This was not exacting work, and it was not all that difficult—now. But Ureeblay knew, as he cut more and more of the grasses off that his bare knees and shins would suffer from the stubble. His shoulder muscles and arm muscles, his neck muscles, and lower back muscles would all feel the strain sometime before he finished. With all that done, he was going to be faced with gathering his grasses into sheaves and binding them with a quick weave of grass for cordage, and then lugging them back to his camp. From experience, Ureeblay knew he would be a little stiff when he woke in the morning for having done this night's work.