The Days of the Deer (11 page)

‘You are mistaken if you think I have lost interest in telling you more about my journey. I’m not ending here because I have no wish to continue . . . but I am stopping because of
Piukemán. For a long time, the lad resisted falling asleep, pinching his hands and changing position on his rug. But now he is sleeping. I look round and consider what I see. Who is still
awake? Kush, Dulkancellin, Thungür, and of course, the Zitzahay here.

‘I have learnt that nothing happens by chance these days. That is why I interpret their falling asleep not as an insult to my art but as a valuable opportunity I have no wish to squander.
If I had any doubts about revealing certain secrets whispered to me in the House of the Stars, this has removed them. The little ones are sleeping. The three who are still awake are those who can
and should know about ancient events, which are the origin of what will happen both today and tomorrow.

‘Dulkancellin will learn of them the moment we arrive at the House of the Stars. But the sooner he hears about these events, the longer he will have to reflect on them. As for Kush and
Thungür ... I imagine Kupuka intends to inform them of everything when he returns. My question is: what if Kupuka is not able to return? Let us not forget for a moment that we are living in
uncertain times. In every part of the Fertile Lands there is talk of inexplicable occurrences. Among them, several disappearances. Will the Earth Wizard return? If he does not, and if Dulkancellin
and Cucub do not come back either, at least two people among the Husihuilkes will know the facts and be able to decide what to do next. This is what I think, and I trust I am not wrong.

‘Before I begin, though, I think it would be better to carry the children to their beds; I imagine they are quite clever at waking up without anyone noticing. If you will allow it, I think
I am strong enough to carry Wilkilén.

‘Oh! and Old Mother Kush, perhaps you could bring us some warm milk and some corn bread.’

10

When Dulkancellin, Thungür and Cucub returned to sit by the fire, the bread
and milk were already laid out for them.

‘Drink while it’s hot,’ Kush told the Zitzahay. ‘Your voice will thank you for it.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Cucub, with a slight bow.

There was no sign of the storm abating. If anything, the freezing wind grew even stronger, and the sky fell into the marshes.

Cucub had learnt to trust the roof above his head. When he had first arrived, he thought it would not be long before that wooden hut, with its straw and tar roof, let in the rain. He had
recalled with nostalgia the stone walls of the Zitzahay people. But now, dry and sheltered, sniffing the sweet smell of herbs from the chimney, he told himself that Old Mother Kush’s house
was the best place in the world in which to listen to the rain.

‘Zitzahay, we will go on listening to you because you have promised to tell us valuable things,’ said Dulkancellin. ‘But night will soon be turning to dawn, and we all need to
rest a little. Tomorrow is the day before we set off, and there still is much to do. I beg you not to say more than you have to.’

‘I will not waste a word. But let me warn you, whether there are few or many words, you will hear and forget them unless you see the need to remember them.’ The story-teller paused
for effect. ‘On the day I arrived, I spoke as if in passing of something that is essential to know in order to understand how murky are the events we face. At that time, Kupuka was the only
one who understood the importance of my comment. I could tell that from the troubled look he gave me. This time I will be more explicit, not to trouble you but to alert you. The coming events have
succeeded in confusing our Magic. Trying to understand the strangers’ real reason for travelling to our shores, and of course the decision to be made as to whether we should receive them with
bread or battle, has drawn a line. On either side of it, our Magic interprets the same signs in different ways. Everything is confused. Where some read night, others read day; no one can remember
anything of this kind happening before. To my humble way of thinking, I predict that if this does not change we are running a very great risk. If the Council is mistaken in its conclusion, if our
actions are not well directed from the start, something terrible will happen to us.’

‘How is it that you can understand that, and even I can understand that, but the Magic cannot?’ asked Dulkancellin.

‘Of course it can!’ Cucub replied. ‘But it cannot find a way to deal with it, nor to arrive at a definite conclusion. I trust that there is no pettiness or arrogance in our
Magic. Nor betrayals. There is Wisdom that has not yet been attained. That, and only that, is what I pin my hopes on. Perhaps by the time we reach the Remote Realm we will find that the movement of
the stars in the heavens, the prophecies, the sacred dreams, the calendars, the visions of the initiated and the messages from the earth will all have been interpreted in a single
fashion.’

Dulkancellin waved his hand to show he had understood. Then he encouraged the Zitzahay to get on to the important matters.

‘Zitzahay, you have been brief. But now tell us if you can exactly where this line you speak of is drawn.’

‘Your question anticipates what I was about to tell you,’ said Cucub, annoyed at the warrior’s impatience. ‘Since you so desire, I will convey this to you in a few words.
Some believe it is the Northmen who are coming. Or rather, who are coming back. Others fear – may the stars align in our protection! – that it is the shadows of Misáianes who are
on their way, as our ancestors were warned long ago.’

Cucub paused, sure that the Husihuilkes would ask him to explain further. To his astonishment, Old Mother Kush said:

‘The first name you mentioned is not unknown to me. Northmen ... I heard about them when I was as small as Wilkilén. It was from the mouth of one of my grandparents, on a night very
like this one.’

‘That is possible,’ Cucub admitted. ‘Many people heard talk of the Northmen. And some elders can dig deep into their memories and bring back what they were told. You, Old
Mother Kush, must have heard of their red hair and colourless skin. But it is more difficult for you to know what they did when they were among us.’

‘You are right. I close my eyes and hear the voice of my grandfather describing those men. I also remember he told us they had never before reached the Ends of the Earth. But that is all I
can remember.’

‘Sister Kush, there is no way you can recall what you do not know,’ said the Zitzahay. ‘We would have to go back not to one grandfather but seven of them, if we wanted to reach
back to the time when the Northmen visited us. And their coming was as secret as it was remote in time. The truth about those events was preserved in sacred books that only a few could read. And so
it remained, awaiting the right time to be revealed. That time is now upon us, and we are the first to be aware of it. Is this destiny of ours a good or bad thing? I am not sure.’

‘Tell us what we need to know,’ insisted Dulkancellin.

By now, Cucub felt completely at ease. He went on:

‘One day in the far distant past, the Northmen disembarked in the Remote Realm. At that time, very little was known ... or I should say, very little was remembered about them: we knew they
lived in the Ancient Lands, on the far side of the ocean. And that they were the direct descendants of a timeless, noble race of men. The expedition of the Northmen brought bad news. Worse than
anything that had ever been heard in our lands. Our leaders listened to them. And as I said before, everything the Northmen related was written in hermetic language on folded bark parchments that
were placed in lacquered cases, then stored in a stone chest, which was hidden in a private place, and ...’

‘Wait a moment, Zitzahay!’ Dulkancellin objected. ‘Try to get to the essential! Please tell us why you said “bad news”.’

‘Who said “bad”?’

‘You did!’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you!’ the warrior insisted, obviously annoyed.

‘In that case I did not succeed in expressing my real thoughts,’ said Cucub. ‘I should have said “terrifying news”. Or in other words, news that would turn the
world upside down. Glimpses of the end.’

‘Zitzahay, in honour of the gravity of what you are talking about, forget your artistry for a moment and tell me clearly: what are you referring to? What news are you talking
about?’

Dulkancellin’s manner brooked no contradiction.

Cucub blushed with silent embarrassment. And the Husihuilkes waited in silence for him to recover from his feeling of shame.

‘I was working up to that,’ muttered the Zitzahay, as if excusing himself. Then he began his answer, with the sincere intention of not letting his tongue run away with him any more.
‘A war was beginning in the Ancient Lands; a war so absolute, so different from any that had gone before that the Northmen crossed the ocean to bring us news of it. From the Ancient Lands to
the Fertile Lands. No one would run such a risk simply to inform us about a war like all the others. Our ancestors were warned by those Northmen: “Brothers of the Fertile Lands, the motive
for us coming here could not be another battle between Creatures, however important that might be. We have come to tell you that in the Ancient Lands the final war is about to be fought. We are
facing someone whom his own mother baptized Misáianes, which in distant languages has the meaning “Eternal Hatred”. The Northmen said Misáianes had been created in the
bowels of Death itself. Created and trained to unleash the power of fierce cruelty against our world.’

When Old Mother Kush, Thungür and Dulkancellin heard these words from the Zitzahay, they sensed that Misáianes was a name capable of dividing Time. A shudder ran through the room,
fluttered and settled on their souls like a bird of prey.

‘The books I referred to,’ Cucub went on, ‘faithfully reflect what the Northmen told us. I can remember some of the fragments most frequently repeated by Zabralkán
during the time I spent in the House of the Stars, and I can think of no better way to conclude what I have to say: “It is for us, the inhabitants of the Ancient Lands, to undertake the first
battles against Misáianes. That is as it should be, because Misáianes was born and grew on a mountain in our continent. And that is where he is concentrating his forces. We will fight
to the last drop of blood of the last noble Creature, but that may not be enough. For now, this part of the world is still safe. We and the ocean are a shield for you. Preserve this place and this
life of yours! Protect yourselves, and protect the children we will leave among you! It is in them that we are depositing our hopes for the future, even if the Ancient Lands should fall. If we are
victorious, we will return to search for our descendants. You will see us come back over the sea. And then we will pass bread from hand to hand round the ceremonial pyre. But if we are defeated, it
will be They who appear. Misáianes will gather strength in the Ancient Lands. Then he will dispatch his armies to devastate this continent, because that is his intention: not to leave a
single tree in blossom, not a single bird singing. We know that when this moment comes you will fight as we are doing now. But that moment, if it does come, will only arrive after many, many years.
This war will stretch beyond the span of human life: that is why you must ensure you keep the memory of these words alive and protected. No matter how many years go by ... When the arrival of a new
fleet is prophesied, there must be some of you who can remember all this in order to decide whether it is the Northmen who are on board, or if it is Misáianes who is drawing near. Them or
us. Life or Death. That is all. And make sure that our children multiply!’

The Husihuilkes were beginning to understand.

‘I can see you are starting to understand,’ said Cucub. ‘Is it the Northmen who are coming, or Misáianes? Instead of illuminating us, the signs only make the question
more obscure. Everything presenting itself to the eyes of Magic can be read in two different ways, and the result is uncertainty.’

‘We have never heard anyone spoken of in the way you described Misáianes,’ said Dulkancellin. ‘Tell us, Cucub, who is he?’

The Husihuilke warrior’s question had its reply in the sacred books. Testimonies written in a holy tongue. Tales of a war as yet unfinished, that cast its shadow over the present.

Many years earlier, the ages of seven grandfathers, the Astronomers of the Remote Realm had asked the Northmen the same question that Dulkancellin did of Cucub.

And when we, the Astronomers, asked about Misáianes, the Northmen replied in the way we have transcribed here. We took down the words exactly as they spoke them, without adding or
omitting anything. These are sacred books that we will keep safe until the new arrival of the ships.

The Northmen named Misáianes. They called him the Ferocious One, the one who should never have been born. That is what the Northmen said. We fear Misáianes, the one who saw the
light of this world because his mother went against the Great Laws: that is what they told us.