Tsuga's Children (17 page)

“Don’t you think I know you, my little ones?” Ganonoot said, looking quickly with his bright little berry eyes at each child in turn. “I know what you want to hear and do! And some will get their wishes and some won’t; that is the way it is in the world. Bren wants to grow up too fast and be a great hunter, Arel wants to hear all the small thoughts of meadow and forest, Fannu is vain of his running and jumping, Dona wants to dress in ermine and wolverine, Jen and Arn are sad for their home, and search for the answer to a question they don’t know how to ask. Now, can I give each of you what you desire? What story would you like to hear?”

Fannu, who was tall for his age, and thin, just the opposite of his grandmother, said, “Tell about the boy who rode the deer.”

Ganonoot said, “Ah, that was a smooth ride with a big bump at the end, for he’s still flying toward the morning star.”

“Tell about the Queen of the West,” Dona said.

“When she grew too beautiful she turned into wind,” Ganonoot said, “and the snow is her ermine cloak.”

“Tell about the white-footed mouse who spoke to Ah-neeah,” Arel said.

“He was the only mouse who dared complain of the weasels,” Ganonoot said, “and the only thing Ahneeah granted was that the weasel kill swiftly, with one clean bite.”

They looked to Bren, who was silent, staring at the embers. Ganonoot said, “Come, Bren. What story would you choose?”

“That my father return,” Bren said. He looked up, his face closed and stern against showing his feelings. “But that’s not a story.” He looked down again.

“There is a story that is old and sad, but noble in places. I will tell you the tale of Ahneeah and the People Who Left the World.” Ganonoot’s voice changed as he began the story; it grew deeper and clearer.

“Long ago, so long ago the Great Tree was a sprout no higher than a rabbit’s eyes, the People lived among orchards and meadows and gardens, groves of sugar maples, hills and valleys of the trees who give of their meat—hickory, beech, butternut, chestnut and oak. Each plant had a purpose—to live and grow. Each animal had a purpose—to live and grow, and the People knew this, deep beyond all questions, for they knew their own purpose and saw that it was the same. They ate only plants, and the plants they ate could not feel pain because plants have no need of pain, and the People knew this without asking. But we ask, ‘Why do the plants have no need of pain?’ It is because they cannot run away, and pain is to tell you to run away, and after you have run away, to rest and heal.

“Ahneeah is of the sun and moon, fire and ice; her voice is the wind and thunder, her glance is the lightning, her tears are the rain. But the earth is older even than Ahneeah, and we are all made of the earth we till and walk upon and sweep from the floors of our hogans.

“Now, of the animals who were not men, certain of them chased and killed and ate each other. Certain of them ate only the plants, who felt no pain, but others killed the creatures who could run, and be hurt, and cry out in agony as they died. The men saw this, and being hungry for flesh they invented the sling, the spear, the snare, the trap and the bow. Ahneeah said to them in her voices, ‘All right, you have chosen to give death to those who swim and fly and run from it. But when you kill you must be present in order to see death, and hear its cry; therefore you may not use the snare, the poison, the toothed trap or the trap which holds a prisoner. It is the right of all prey to be free to escape if they can, and if a kill is made, the red blood of your prey must flow over your hands, as your own red blood flows through your hands, and every man and woman who would eat meat must kill and clean the body of the kill. No one who has not killed, or helped to kill, may eat flesh, for knowledge of the agony of death is the price of flesh.’

“But there were men who could not hear Ahneeah’s voices, or would not hear them, or who were mistaken and confused. They thought that what they could do justified the doing of it. And now I will tell you how this confusion led to the murder of prisoners and finally to the killing of men by men. It is a story of heroes lost, of brave children and men and women, and of the sad people who, with Ahneeah’s guidance, left the world for alien lands, only to yearn through generations for Ahneeah’s justice, though they had long forgotten from whence it came, or from whence they came.”

As Ganonoot spoke the formal words of the story he seemed to them less and less the childish old man he had been. He was just a voice saying words that rang in the air solemn and clear.

“Ahneeah planted the Great Tree when the People first came into the world, but that tree was destroyed during the time of greed and war. The second tree grew in the shade of the first. The second tree is the Great Tree we know, but it was a sprout no higher than a rabbit’s eye when Ahneeah …”

At this moment the bearskin across the hogan door was pulled violently aside, so that its skin side slapped against the doorpost like a whip. Everyone looked and saw a tall, thickset man who stood with his legs apart, his hands on his hips. His dark hair was ruffled as if he had been running, and his eyes gleamed with red flashes in the firelight. “It’s Bren’s father,” Arel whispered.

“Bren!” the man said. “So you are wasting your time listening to the old idiot tell children’s tales!”

Bren got up, apprehensive about his father’s anger, yet there was relief and joy in his face.

“Andaru, my brother,” Amu said. “Bren has been here with us.”

“Yes, listening to the whimsy of this dodderer!”

“While you’ve been who knows where?” Runa said, matching Andaru’s anger.

Andaru turned to Amu. “Brother, tell your woman to speak more softly!” His face was strained with his anger; like Bren’s, his brows came low over his eyes.

Then the old woman, Aguma, stepped out of the shadows to face Andaru. “Andaru, where have you learned such manners? And why do you bring your sourceless anger to my hogan?”

Andaru looked at her steadily for a moment, then shrugged as if she and her hogan were not important. “I’ll take my anger with me, then,” he said in a calmer voice. “Come, Bren.” He turned and went past the bearskin into the darkness. Bren seemed embarrassed, and kept his eyes away from them all as he followed his father from the hogan.

Ganonoot said, “The story was for Bren, the hunter, and now it will have to wait.” He said the words solemnly, but then, with his silly cackling laughter, he rose to his feet and scuttled like an insect to the doorway. “Goodnight, goodnight, goodnight, children! We will have to wait and see! Goodnight!” And with that he turned and glided swiftly past the bearskin into the night.

The people murmured among themselves, giving their opinions of Andaru’s behavior. Arel said to Jen and Am, “Some people say that my uncle Andaru has been with the Chigai.” She whispered the last word.

Jen and Arn looked at each other, feeling the uneasiness all around them. Because of all the things they didn’t know, they seemed to be among strangers, though earlier they had begun to feel almost at home with the people of the winter camp. Arel took Jen’s hand, and put her other hand on Arn’s arm. “You’ll stay with us tonight, in our hogan,” she said. “My mother has made up beds for you.”

That night they slept on shelf beds in Amu and Runa’s hogan, on mattresses of aromatic balsam covered with supple skins. They went to sleep hearing the muted voices of the adults around the fire.

In the morning Bren and Arel woke them shortly after dawn. “The net men say the shandeh have stopped running,” Bren said, “so we can do what we want today.” He said nothing about what had happened the night before.

“And tomorrow we go to the council fire,” Arel said.

For breakfast they had cornbread and honey, and tea brewed from a dark ground powder like the powder Arn carried in his pack. After breakfast Fannu came in, tall and lanky for his age, and Dona, dressed in her bead-decorated parka trimmed with the fur of fox, rabbit and squirrel.

“Dona doesn’t want to, but we’ve decided to show you how to play our game with the ball,” Fannu said. “You have to run. Do you like to run?”

“Arn runs pretty well,” Bren said.

“You’ll get your clothes all dirty,” Dona said. But when they went out on the meadow to the place where they played the game, Dona put her parka carefully to the side on the grass and played with them.

The ball was sewn leather, as big as an acorn squash, stuffed with leather scraps. At each end of the grassy space a bent hoop made of a thin sapling had been placed in the ground, forming an arch about five feet high. The object was to kick the ball through the other team’s hoop. Fannu and Bren chose sides and agreed that Bren’s team would be Dona and Arel, and Fannu’s, Jen and Arn. The ground was still frozen from the night’s frost, and the sun was rising at a flat angle that just brought it over the southeastern mountains.

Fannu was very good; he could run and turn while still playing the ball between his flickering feet. He passed it over to Jen, who kicked it by accident to Arel, who kicked it to Dona, who kicked it ahead of her as she ran until Bren could get into position by Fannu’s hoop. She passed it to him and he quickly kicked it through for a point. Arel, who looked sickly and pale, could still run as well as anyone.

The hard ground and frosty grass passed beneath their feet as they played. Jen and Am were beginning to understand the game, and how to keep the ball rolling as they ran. Fannu made the next point, after a pass from Arn. They were all breathing hard in the cold air, their breaths white plumes, their feet dashing and dancing through the worn grass, their voices calling happily yet seriously across the meadow.

When the score was three for Fannu’s team and two for Bren’s, Arn got the ball near Bren’s hoop and dribbled it forward to give it its final kick. Bren was between him and the hoop, and he was about to sidestep Bren when suddenly the sky whirled above him and he was on the ground, numb, unable to breathe. Bren had run right over him and taken the ball. At first all Arn could do was try to get his wind back, to make air come into his lungs. His chest was paralyzed by the blow he had taken; he couldn’t understand the hardness, the violence of Bren’s action. It was as if Bren wanted to hurt him very badly, as if Bren really hated him. He lay there in the icy dust struggling for breath.

Jen and Arel stood over him. “Are you all right?” Jen asked. “Arn! Are you all right?”

He couldn’t get enough breath to speak, but as the moments passed he began to get more air. He was perplexed. Anger flirted around the edge of his feelings, and also a sadness that hinted at tears. But he didn’t cry. Finally he could breathe again, and got to his feet. Fannu, Bren and Dona were playing out the point near the opposite hoop. When Bren made the point they came back.

“Did you mean to hurt him?” Jen said to Bren, anger in her voice.

“That’s part of the game,” Fannu said. “If there’s only you between the hoop and the player with the ball, you can hit him as hard as you want to.”

“Bren wanted to hurt him, then,” Jen said. “Did you, Bren?”

“Can he take it?” was all Bren said.

“I can take it,” Arn said. He looked at Bren, feeling cold and calm now. Bren’s look was as cool as his own.

They played the game for a while longer, but the exhilaration they had felt was gone. The coolness between Arn and Bren remained, as though everyone couldn’t help thinking about it.

As they walked back toward the hogans, Fannu told Arn and Jen that they would make good players, and that they had done very well at a game they had never played before. Both Jen and Arn were pleased by this, and by Arel’s and Dona’s saying the same thing. In spite of the small cloud caused by Bren’s silence—he walked ahead of them, not speaking—they were so pleased, Jen felt herself blushing. Arn thought, This was just a game. Why should it have pleased him so much? He was still sore in places. That was real, and the game was real, as real as anything he had ever done.

That day they took a long hike through the western woods—Bren, Arel, Fannu and Dona, Arn and Jen. Their lunches in their packs or pockets, they walked westward toward a knob of stone from which they would get a view of most of the valley. They walked through the quiet green woods on an easy trail of moss and evergreen needles, dead winter ferns and the leaves of the summer before. After a mile or two they came to the rising slopes of the lookout knob, then climbed around and around the knob itself, always going upward, until they came out into the sunlight and the wind upon the rounded stone, with the valley spread out below them. To the east was the meadow, where the hogans were just little dark or green squares. The hot lake was to the north of the meadow, its rainbow shores dimmed by the distance. Nearer, the tops of the forest trees pushed up below them, a green depth that changed and became more solid in the distance. Far away in every direction rose the sharp mountain walls of the valley.

They found comfortable places in the sun and got out their lunches of smoked boar ham slices, cucumber pickles, bread and dried apples. Bren had brought a skin bag of water in his pack, and the brook water was clear and good.

Arel saw that Jen was looking to the far north, where she and Arn had entered the valley. “Tsuga will be back tomorrow, for the council fire,” she said. “Maybe you can ask him how to get home again.”

“Can you talk to him?” Jen asked. “Who is Tsuga? What’s he like?”

“He’s older than the mountains,” Fannu said. “At least that’s what they told us when we were little.”

“Bren’s talked to him,” Arel said. “What do you think, Bren?”

Bren was quiet and sad, unsmiling. He glanced at Arel and away, as if he were not going to answer. Then he said in a low voice, “My father says he is only a man. He’s old and maybe he does know a lot, but he’s just a man.”

“He’s the oldest of all,” Dona said. “They say he remembers when he could raise his arm higher than the top of the Great Tree.”

“He smiled at me once,” Arel said. “He looked right at me and smiled.”

Bren was watching Jen, his eyes more alive than they had been all day, as if he were looking out of his head rather than at some dark problem within it. Then he said, “Are you homesick, Jen?”