The Bone House (41 page)

Kit repeated the word to himself, then pointed to Big Hunter and said, “Dar-dok.” Then, with the same gesture, he indicated himself and said his own name once more.

Big Hunter drew himself up and with evident pride said,
“Kit.”

The fact that it came out more like
Ghidt
was easily overlooked in the moment as Dardok’s success brought coos of amazed delight all around. The rest of the clan began chanting his name. Kit revelled in the fact that he had successfully crossed a communication divide; he could teach them, as well as learn.

To be sure, they were only getting started. A forthright young female shoved in, made the chest-pointing gesture, and repeated Kit’s name. Then placing a hand to herself, uttered with remarkable enunciation, “Ne-ek.”

Kit swiftly mastered this name and was instantly inundated by the entire clan who pressed forward all together, each one speaking a name and demanding Kit’s repeated reply. In the days that followed, alongside his study of the green book, some portion of each day was devoted to learning new words; and when Kit was not adding to his word store, he was practising the ones he had already learned. In this way, he gradually built up a working vocabulary and, with it, a sense of how the River City Clan saw the world.

Among themselves, they still did not speak all that much. But around him they became regular chatterboxes. The difference was stark, and Kit wondered about it—until the obvious explanation occurred to him: they needed very little speech because they had this strange telepathy, or whatever it was that allowed them to know what others were thinking. Among clan members, they communicated just fine without any speech at all. It was only Kit who was forced to vocalise to make himself understood.

Confirmation of this fact was conclusively demonstrated by the arrival of visitors a few days later.

The weather had been growing steadily colder and wetter, the days shorter. More often than not they awoke in the morning to frost on the ground. Nestled in their rock-ledge fortress, however, they remained dry and reasonably warm. Kit was sewing a handsome new suit of fur—deer and rabbit, mostly—which with patience and dogged perseverance he was patching together using the flint knife, bone needle, and hemp thread they had given him. He was putting the finishing touches on a feature of which he was inordinately proud: a roomy inner pocket designed to hold Mina’s ley lamp and Sir Henry’s book and keep them safe. The clan was lolling around the fire at the rim of the ledge, when suddenly Dardok stood up and gazed off into the foggy treetops along the river.

Instantly, four others joined his survey of the valley below. The rest of the clansmen dropped what they were doing and fell absolutely silent. An atmosphere of intense anxiety descended over the camp. Again, not a word or sign passed among them, but all were wary, the tension swirling around them like the sinewy coils of a serpent. Kit stood too and quietly crept to the rim of the ledge to see if he could discover what had alerted the others. A minute or two eked by, and then he heard a sound he had heard every day since coming to the winter quarters: heavy feet on the rocky trail leading to the ledge.

Someone was coming.

Kit waited, every sense prickling, bracing himself for a fight. Who was it? Were they under attack? He cast a hasty glance around for the nearest weapon.

Then, as one, the clan relaxed. Although Dardok still stood watching the path below, the palpable sense of imminent danger simply melted away. Something had changed. But what?

Before Kit could determine what had happened to alter the mood, he saw movement on the path leading up to the ledge, and a moment later their visitors arrived: a group of fifteen—seven females, five males, and the rest young ones of various ages and sizes. From the enthusiastic welcome that commenced, Kit reckoned the group was well known to the River City folk. In fact, seeing how naturally the newcomers were accepted and how easily they insinuated themselves into the life of the group, Kit began to think that perhaps they were not merely visitors but part of the same extended valley clan.

Then the newcomers saw Kit, and he was subjected to the inevitable examination with much murmuring, touching, and rubbing of his skin and scruffy beard. They appeared fascinated by the colour and texture of his pale skin and fine curly hair; and were amused by his thin frame, short arms, narrow shoulders, and curious upright posture.

The round of buffeting had no sooner concluded than a second group of visitors arrived—four sturdy males bearing a fifth on a litter made of birch poles and skins. This fifth male was the oldest Kit had seen so far, with wispy grey hair and a long white beard and a face so ancient and wrinkled that, wrapped chin to ankles in hides and furs, he looked positively mummified. The bearers carefully lowered the bier to the ground, and several of the nearer clan members helped him to his feet. As soon as he was upright, he waved off his aides and shuffled forward with unsteady steps to meet Kit.

At his approach, Kit became aware of a tingling sensation at the base of his skull. Time seemed to slow—the ordinary flow dwindled down to a mere trickle and pooled around them. Moreover, Kit was aware of a very strange and powerful emotion—one he had only ever felt once before in his life. As a youngster, Kit had been introduced to what was reputed to be the oldest tree in England—a massive, gnarled, tangle-rooted thing called the Marton Oak, which had survived almost 1,300 years of earthly life. Kit remembered standing there beneath the twilight canopy of its enormous spreading boughs among roots that were as big as he was, and feeling an almost supernatural force that gave him to know that he was in the presence of a living entity of such peace and gentleness and strength of spirit that it inhabited a whole other plane of existence, and beside which he was as small and notional as a clod of dirt.

In the presence of the old one, Kit felt that way again, dwarfed by a spirit not only far older and wiser but also far larger and more powerful than any he had ever encountered. And like that ancient oak, the old man was unutterably regal: a king of his kind. Once more Kit was that young boy standing in the shadow of a vastly superior entity and knowing to his very pith and core how very insignificant he was.

Yet he felt no fear. A boundless and placid acceptance seemed to emanate from the aged being before him, and Kit understood that despite the yawning abyss between them he had nothing to fear.

The Ancient One examined Kit slowly head to toe, and Kit saw that while one of the old one’s eyes was bright and piercing keen, the other was clouded and almost opaque. Upon concluding his examination, the aged chieftain raised his head and fixed Kit with an ardent, determined look, and Kit was aware that this was an attempt at communication; he could feel it as a physical force of considerable intensity. Kit, beguiled by the power and directness of the approach, simply opened himself to it.

The result was staggering.

What kind of creature are you?

The question struck him like a closed fist, and Kit instinctively took a quick backwards step to recover his equilibrium. It took a second before Kit realised that the question had not been spoken aloud. Moreover, it had not, in fact, used words at all.

“I am a man,” Kit blurted, even though he knew this would not be understood.

But he was wrong in this assumption.

Ma-an
, echoed the disembodied voice in his head.

Clear as a bell and distinct from his own thought, with its own timbre and texture and cadence, the unspoken voice of the Ancient One took shape, and the unprecedented interview commenced.

Ma-an
. . . Kit’s word for himself was then combined with the idea of being, or existing . . .
is
. . . then Kit got a sense of growing things, action, breathing, change . . .
living
. . . life inextricably entwined with something tangible, yet amorphous, an animating fire, present yet hidden within . . .
living soul
.

The question, as it entered Kit’s mind, was:
Are you, Man, a living soul?

“Oh, yes! Yes, indeed. I am—I have a soul,” Kit assured him, speaking aloud. He suspected it was probably unnecessary, but it was just easier to vocalise his thoughts.

Goodness
. . . the feeling of fullness and rightness . . .
satisfaction
, flowed from the Ancient One, along with an awareness of a soul’s unique value and place in the world. Kit’s instant interpretation of these interconnected conceptual traces came out as:
That is good. Creatures with souls are rare
.

“Rare, yes.”

The chief gave a grunt of satisfaction. The next thought that formed in Kit’s consciousness was the recognition of a long and varied experience allied with surprise at a sudden and startling uniqueness. The sense Kit made of it was:
We have seen many things, but never one like you
.

“I have not seen any like you,” Kit replied.

Next Kit received what he interpreted as a sort of formal introduction. Into his mind poured a complicated and much mingled concept, an association of metaphors: pure animal strength and courage allied with majestic dominance—a lion, perhaps?—and this was combined with a sense of longevity—like a yew tree or a mountain—and lastly, the concept of serenity as applied to a calm, deep, freshwater lake of immense size and limitless depths. All this, then, was somehow combined and united in an affirmation of individual personhood—the being standing right in front of him, in fact: the Ancient One.

Then, with a delicacy of gesture that Kit found endearing, the old chieftain placed a thick hand over his heart and said aloud, “En-Ul.”

There was no question but that this was the Ancient One’s name, and Kit repeated it at once, saying, “I am pleased to meet you, En-Ul.” He lowered his head in a little bow—an automatic response, but one Kit felt appropriate to the situation—and received a grunt of satisfaction in reply. The next question flowed into Kit’s mind already formed:
Where is your home?

“My home is far from here,” was how Kit chose to answer. To say more would have been unnecessary, and probably impossible anyway.

The next two questions followed so quickly in succession they formed a single inquiry:
Why are you alone? Are you cast out from your clan?

“No, no—I am not an outcast,” Kit hastened to assure him. “I am alone because I am . . . lost. I was travelling and became lost.” He did not know if the concept of travelling would translate. “My clan—my people do not know I am here.”

A feeling of sympathetic sorrow flowed in inundating waves to Kit—empathetic commiseration, mingled with a sense of the wrongness of such a state as Kit described:
That is bad. You
. . . possessive . . .
fellow beings
—
your people
, Kit decided . . . strong imperative . . .
must
. . . outpouring of grief and anxiety . . .
mourn
. . . an empty place . . .
absence
. . .

Your people must mourn your absence
.

“Some of them do, I suppose,” admitted Kit lamely.

The Ancient One gave another grunt of satisfaction, and then, peering deep into Kit’s eyes, expressed a largess of generosity and inclusive fellowship Kit could only describe as a feeling of welcome to a long lost and much loved son; it felt as if he was being adopted into the clan. It felt as if he was coming home.

The intensity of the emotion so directly conveyed took his breath away. Kit could not speak for the sudden stirring of his own long-suppressed feelings. Tears welled in his eyes, and he began to weep. They were tears of grief for his own inadequacy, his frailty, his shrunken and limited intelligence, his woeful dependency.

He wept hot, miserable tears, and with the weeping came a kind of solace, a comfort like that of a friendly hand reached out to steady a tottering child. As if in response to his misery, he sensed an empathy and understanding. There was nothing superior in it, or condemning. Into his soul flowed, simply, acceptance.

When Kit found his voice again, all he could say was, “Thank you.”

CHAPTER 34
In Which the Future Is a Dream

R
iver City Clan remained encamped on the stone ledge as winter deepened across the valley. A few days after the arrival of the new clan members, Kit noticed that at daybreak each morning all the younger males left the warmth and shelter of the rock ledge and disappeared into the wood. They returned an hour or so before sunset, but try as he might, he received no answer to his admittedly clumsy attempts to find out what they were doing.

Very obviously, they were not hunting—Dardok and two of the women continued their hunting and scavenging forays on suitable days, as they had since coming to the winter shelter. Whatever they were up to, it was not about providing food for the tribe. Finally, when Kit had become absolutely eaten up with curiosity, he went to En-Ul, who since his arrival had hived himself up in robes and furs at the far side of the ledge, where he spent his days overlooking the fog-bound river far below.

“I am sorry to bother you, En-Ul,” Kit said, announcing his presence with a polite cough. He was learning, when speaking to clansmen, to try to make simple declarations while holding the images or concepts at issue forcefully in his mind.

The old one stirred and turned a bright eye on Kit.
Be welcome here
,
Ghidt
, came into Kit’s consciousness.