The Days of the Deer (12 page)

Death, condemned not to give birth to mortal or immortal creature, wandered through eternity demanding progeny. She sobbed and begged, but the prohibition was absolute. A refusal that would
never be reversed. So Death rebelled. She moulded an egg from her own saliva, then produced it from her mouth. She secreted juices and fertilized it with them. And so from this revolting substance
her son was born, protected by the solitude of a forgotten mountain in the Ancient Lands.

This being, born from Disobedience, brought horror with him; and horror was not merely a part of him, but his essence. The son brought with him evil such as not even his mother could imagine.
That is what the Northmen told us. This happened because the Great Laws were broken – that is what they said.

When this happened, a wound was opened. And Eternal Hatred, lurking beyond the edges of the world, found this opening. Eternal Hatred found its way in through this wound of Disobedience. It was
formed inside the egg, and came into being. Thanks to the son of Death, Eternal Hatred took shape and found its voice in this world. This is what the Northmen told us. Its lizard soul came crawling
out. The Evil One.

Then Death saw what she had done. She saw her progeny was the flesh of Eternal Hatred, and sought to rip it to pieces with her teeth. The first day, she did not succeed. Nor could she destroy it
the following day. On the third day she felt proud of the beast, and called him Misáianes. On that third day a new era began, an era of mourning. But nobody knew.

Misáianes grew. He became master over a multitude of Creatures and extended his empire. You should know that the son of Death will never show his face. So the Northmen told us. It is
written that his features will be concealed until the last days. So they said.

What Misáianes, the son of Death, says is like the truth, and confuses anyone who stops to listen. He knows how to praise the powerful and seduce the weak; he knows how to whisper and set
brother against brother. The danger is great. He can seem to us like a glorious master, our new teacher. He can seem like the counsellor of the sun. So the Northmen told us. The danger is great;
this they said. Many will run in whichever direction he points. Many in this world will worship him.

Hear this and remember. Misáianes came to destroy the time of mankind, of animals, of water, of living green and of the moon, the time of Time. Many will be intoxicated by his poison;
many more will fall in battle. Better to fall in battle. So spoke the Northmen. Do not forget this, they warned us.

Misáianes, the Ferocious One, is the end of all light. Misáianes is the beginning of inbred pain. If we are defeated in this war, Life will fall with us. If we are defeated, light
will be condemned to drag itself over ashes. And Eternal Hatred will stride through the twilight of Creation.

This much we have written of what the Northmen told us. We will keep the sacred books as they asked us to. The day will come when someone speaks the name of Misáianes once more. They will
name Misáianes and ask where he comes from. And whoever asks shall find an answer.

11

It was the morning of their departure. During the night the rain had eased until
it had almost ceased, but with the dawn it began to fall heavily once more.

Everything needed for the long journey had been ready since the previous day. Despite this, Dulkancellin carefully checked every item again. When he was sure everything was there, he turned to
face his family. He wanted to speak to them, but his throat was dry, and so many confused thoughts were running through his mind he could barely order them.

‘This is the moment of departure. You know I have no choice but to leave you and undertake this narrow path. Take care of yourselves, and wait for Kupuka. He will bring you
news.’

The moment for them to leave had come. Dulkancellin, who did not know how to shed tears, went up to his daughters. To avoid crying, Kuy-Kuyen tried desperately not to blink. Wilkilén
dried her tears noisily. Their father leant down and kissed them both on the forehead.

‘Farewell.’

Then he hugged Piukemán. The boy would have liked to prolong the embrace, to confess he was afraid. But his father’s eyes prevented him.

‘Son, you must help Thungür in his tasks, and obey him.’

‘Yes, Father,’ replied Piukemán.

Thungür and Dulkancellin said goodbye clasping each other’s forearms, in the manner of warriors.

‘The golden oriole’s prediction has come true. As you can see, my son, the forest is never wrong. As soon as I cross that threshold, you will be the head of this family.’

‘Against my wishes,’ said Thungür.

‘Hunting and fishing, decision-making, the life of the village; all of that will continue while I am away. So should all of you.’

‘What are we to say when people ask after you, Father?’

‘Tell them I have gone on a journey. Nothing more. Kupuka will explain the rest when he judges the time to be right.’

Dulkancellin gazed at his mother. She came over and took his hands in hers. Old Mother Kush was thinking of Kume.

‘Dulkancellin, do not leave this house without embracing another of your sons. Do not increase the pain.’

‘Old Mother Kush,’ the warrior replied, ‘it seems as though the years are clouding your mind. I have four children, and have said a sad goodbye to each of them.’

They all stared at Kume, who sat apart from the group, threading leather thongs. The boy did not raise his eyes from his task, but Kush could see him clench his teeth.
He is the most handsome
of them all
, the old woman thought, trying to find consolation in the thought.

‘Hurry up, Zitzahay,’ said Dulkancellin. ‘We need to be going.’

‘Wait a moment,’ was Cucub’s reply. ‘I have to repair a hurt.’

It was plain the Zitzahay was referring to Kume, and so Dulkancellin tried to stop him.

‘We don’t have time, Cucub. We have to go—’

‘Husihuilke, I have respected the laws you live by,’ Cucub said firmly. ‘Now you should respect mine. We should be as close to one another as are grains of sand. Any discord
will be used against us. That is what I think, and I will behave accordingly.’

He went over to Kume, who had risen to his feet.

‘There will be so great a distance between us that we are unlikely to meet again. I am not to blame for what is happening; I had no wish to burst into your forest. I would have preferred
to stay singing my songs under the sky I am familiar with, but that was not to be. I salute you, and offer you my friendship.’

Kume’s black scowl became moist. The wetness around his eyes sprang from somewhere deep inside him, a place where he was always sad. All of a sudden, he stiffened once more. Smiling
disdainfully at Cucub, he left the room without a word.

‘Let’s go,’ said Dulkancellin.

‘Whenever you wish,’ Cucub replied, glancing down at his empty, extended hand.

At the door the two men gathered up their bags and drew their cloaks tight. Dulkancellin knew everyone was waiting for him to say a single phrase: I will return. But Dulkancellin, who did not
know how to shed tears, did not know how to lie either.

‘Farewell!’ was all he said.

They had only gone a few steps before the pouring rain rendered them invisible. Five pairs of eyes sought them out: they all wanted to see them one more time. To smile at them and keep back the
grief.

‘Farewell, Dulkancellin,’ said Old Mother Kush, knowing this was the last time she would see him.

It was Cucub’s song that led their way through the labyrinths of rain. The Zitzahay was singing:

12

The two men set off from Whirlwind Pass heading for Beleram, the city where
Cucub lived. This was also where the House of the Stars, excavated into the side of a
mountain, concentrated its Magic. They knew the points of departure and of arrival, but the path between was uncertain. The two travellers had to invent it each time water destroyed the usual
tracks, fallen trees blocked the way, or marshy ground meant they had to make long detours.

They also had to seek shelter each night. Dulkancellin was expert in finding the protection the forest offered hunters and the lost. Protection which marked the rhythm of the first days of their
journey. One day, shelter appeared too early, when they still had the strength to go further. The next day, it would be far off, and the distance they had to cover would test the limits of their
endurance.

When they first started out, they spoke of unimportant matters. Neither of them wished to mention the reasons for their journey, or to speculate about what might happen. The warrior was
interested in knowing what life was like in the Remote Realm. Cucub was happy to respond to all his questions, raising his voice so as to be heard over the noise of the rain in the forest. When
Dulkancellin had no more queries, the Zitzahay sang.

The following day, the Husihuilke spoke no more than was necessary. And the Zitzahay’s song sounded weary.

On the third day, they began to feel irritated. Their swollen feet in muddy leather boots, their constantly soaked clothes, and the sweaty smell of their bodies made them ill at ease. Because of
this they were sure that anything they said would be misinterpreted, and so said nothing at all. A long time later, Cucub recalled that part of the journey as a prolonged silence in the rain.

The very same cave where Shampalwe had cut her last flowers gave them some respite. It was there, thanks to the Zitzahay’s insistence, that they stopped for their first meal. They had not
brought an abundance of food with them, but it had been chosen to help them resist the arduous climate and their difficult march. Properly rationed, it would see them through the period when the
pouring rain made hunting difficult, if not impossible.

Cucub separated two portions of dried figs, and offered Dulkancellin his share. The warrior rejected them without even looking.

‘You should not refuse to eat,’ said Cucub. ‘Have some, even if you are not hungry.’

‘I’ll do so later,’ Dulkancellin replied. ‘But don’t try to copy me! Eat until you’re licking your fingers. You need it more than me.’

Cucub, who had no wish to copy behaviour that would make life harder for him, went inside the cave to enjoy his meal. Since this was the first day of their march and he was still singing, he
hummed between every mouthful.

Seated at the entrance, Dulkancellin watched the rain fall on Butterfly Lake. He knew that before long its waters would rise to the foot of the rocky outcrops that bounded the lake to the west.
And that to the east, it would become a dangerous muddy swamp.

The warrior did not have the gift of imagination. He did not know how to daydream; still less how to invent things. But on that dark noonday, so close to where Shampalwe had cut her last bunch
of flowers, he saw his wife more clearly than the landscape around him. The slopes running down to the lake were covered with the fresh green of summer. The summer when Wilkilén was born and
her mother came here to fulfil the rite of motherhood. Dulkancellin saw Shampalwe dancing by the lake shore as the ceremony demanded. He saw her turn first one way, then the other: one hand at her
waist, the other cupped by the side of her head. ‘Turning with the steps of a partridge,’ she would tell Kuy-Kuyen, to teach her the dance of the Husihuilke women. Shampalwe greeted the
warrior with a smile that shaped her eyebrows into a single black line. From the mouth of the cave, her husband returned her greeting with a wave of the hand. Fortunately Cucub was so intent on
devouring the last figs that he did not notice: if he had seen the warrior waving at empty space, he would have thought he had caught a fever.

‘Cucub!’ called the warrior, drifting back to the reality of the rain. ‘Let’s walk on. This is a region of caves. We will soon find another one where we can
sleep.’

Although Dulkancellin knew every inch of the forest, he had to pay attention to their progress. He stopped every now and then to consider which was the best, or least risky, route to take.
Whenever he did this, Cucub would look up at him like a child to his father. And when the Husihuilke set off again, the Zitzahay would follow him without a moment’s hesitation.