The Days of the Deer (9 page)

‘Dulkancellin, don’t take the Zitzahay to the forest. Let him live, and go with him on your journey to the north. You will meet Kupuka before you have left the paths you know. Let
Kupuka decide the fate of this person who says he is called Cucub!’

‘You know I cannot do that,’ replied Dulkancellin, failing to realize his mother was not begging a favour from him.

‘I am exercising my right,’ the old woman said gently. ‘I still hear the rain coming before you do. And I say, regretfully, that the moment has come for me to go against your
decision.’

‘You are going against our laws,’ murmured her son.

‘But it is our laws which also give me the power I am calling upon. I was the first person in this house to hear the rain on the leaves.’

Every season since Dulkancellin could remember, Old Mother Kush had won this right. Yet never before had she used it. The warrior was confused. Why did his mother want to get mixed up in such
serious matters?

‘Old woman, you are also going against justice.’

‘Has this old woman said you should not make sure justice is done?’ Kush responded sharply. ‘I did not say that, simply that you should wait until Kupuka learns what has
happened and approves the sentence. Our justice is not in the hands of any one person. And the person who has decreed Cucub’s death is not the Council, although he has acted as if he
were.’

‘I can think of no better way to act,’ said Dulkancellin.

‘Do as you say: observe the laws,’ his mother replied. ‘For once, I am imposing my will on yours. I have this right. Do you understand how rarely we Husihuilkes use it? Do you
understand that I have never done so? Yet I am doing so now, because that is what the voice inside me is telling me.’

Dulkancellin still hesitated between his own sense of right and his mother’s.

‘Be careful, my son. It is not good that a man and his laws are at odds with each other.’

‘I will respect your right,’ said the warrior.

All this time the Zitzahay had been standing with his eyes closed, and seemed to have distanced himself from the discussion. So much so that Dulkancellin now shook him roughly.

‘Listen to me! I don’t know what charms you used to cloud this woman’s understanding. But neither they nor any others will succeed in fooling Kupuka. You will leave here as my
prisoner.’

Dulkancellin took some of the clothes Cucub was wearing from him, as well as most of his possessions.

‘Sit over there!’ he ordered. ‘We will leave when the sun has risen three times. And remember, you may still be alive, but you are not free.’

The Zitzahay’s expression at his reprieve was far from joyful. He walked slowly over to the corner where Dulkancellin had pointed, and slumped down.

‘Come on, daughters!’ said Old Mother Kush. ‘We have a journey to prepare for.’

The old woman was beginning to feel the pangs of doubt. She realized her decision had changed the course of great events, and was afraid she might be wrong. For his part, Dulkancellin hardly
dared ask himself whether the need he felt to take a deep breath of the damp night into his lungs was due to a sense of relief.

8

The following day was spent in preparations for their imminent departure.
The whole family took part, so that by nightfall nearly everything was complete. Dulkancellin
and the three boys were polishing the last arrow-heads. Old Mother Kush, Kuy-Kuyen and Wilkilén were smearing grease onto all the leather gear. The quiver, cape and boots had all to be
carefully polished so that they would not let in water or split.

‘Tomorrow the Zitzahay can gather together his things,’ said Dulkancellin to no one in particular.

Still sitting there, hands tied, Cucub watched them hard at work. The previous night he had been given a good meal and a bed close to where Dulkancellin slept. The Husihuilke warrior trusted in
the sharpness of his hearing. The Zitzahay was no longer thinking of trying to escape. Yet both of them spent the entire night awake, until at last dawn came. The sky at the Ends of the Earth
barely grew light, changing from black to dark grey. The household was up very early: they had much to do, and very little time. Dulkancellin realized he could not keep a proper watch on the
Zitzahay, and so had decided to tie him more securely. Taking a leather thong, he had skilfully wrapped it round his hands several times until he could not move them. He was about to do the same
with his feet, but thought it over for a moment and decided not to. It was not necessary.

Cucub had spent most of the day tied up like this, thinking it would have been good to be able to play his pan-pipes. The rain came lashing down all the time. The morning went by. Midday
arrived, but brought with it no more than a faint glow in the sky. Then the afternoon slowly dragged by: so slowly for the Zitzahay! No one had spoken to him the whole day: they had scarcely
exchanged a few words with each other. If only the beautiful one with long tresses would speak to him!

By now evening was drawing in. Cucub was beginning to feel tired. He tried to rouse himself by watching what the Husihuilke family was doing, but achieved only the opposite: the repeated
polishing of the arrow-heads and the leather acted on him like a sleeping potion. The more he watched, the heavier his head felt, the more his eyes smarted. Why not sleep? thought Cucub, close to
dozing off. If he fell asleep, he might dream of Mother Neén and his distant jungle. Slumped over, in his dreams the prisoner saw himself back in his own hammock. It was so good to be there!
Lying in it, rocked by the fragrant night breeze, Cucub was folding tobacco leaves as he watched the moon glide through the palm trees. He was out in the jungle once more, thinking that at first
light he would go to the market to eat some spicy fish. But this happy sensation soon deserted him when his uncomfortable position woke him with a start. He slowly stretched his aching neck. He
could not stay awake without wanting to cry. Everything he could see made him sad: the walls, the oil lamps, and these people he could have been friends with. Cucub decided it was better not to
fall asleep again.
I’ll sing instead
, he thought.

Just as he was finishing his song, Kuy-Kuyen and Wilkilén also completed their task. They both stared at the Zitzahay.

‘Your hands!’ their grandmother reminded them. They took a handful of ashes out of a pot by the fire and rubbed their forearms to remove all the grease. Then they went out to rinse
their arms, and finally spread some oil on them.

‘Hmm... that smells good even from here,’ said Cucub, trying to engage them in conversation. His previous attempts that afternoon had proved fruitless. This time was different,
however. Kuy-Kuyen and Wilkilén came over and sat on either side of him.

‘Who taught you that song you were singing?’ Kuy-Kuyen asked.

‘No one,’ replied Cucub. ‘It’s my song, I made it up. Up there in the Remote Realm everyone has their own song. We invent them the day we become adults, and then they go
with us for the rest of our lives.’

‘Sing it again,’ Kuy-Kuyen begged him.

The Zitzahay did not hesitate. He cleared his throat and began:

‘That’s not the same song!’ Kuy-Kuyen protested. ‘It’s not the same as the one you just sang!’

‘Yes and no. That’s how our songs are. The words don’t change, but their order does. We like it that way, because it means they can accompany us when we are sad, but also when
we are happy. On days without sun and moonlit nights, when we return and when we leave.’

Cucub had recovered his spirits. After all, all he had to do was wait: he had no doubt Kupuka would be more reasonable than Dulkancellin. And besides, the two girls were keeping him company, and
he could smell a good meal being prepared on Kush’s fire.

All of a sudden, the eight people in the hut raised their heads. The noise was followed by a movement ... a dull, harsh sound. The roof beams shook, the oil lamps swayed, the earth seemed to
change shape beneath their feet. The ground moved at the Ends of the Earth so that no one would forget it was a living creature. When the shaking finally finished, all their hearts had turned
pale.

Dulkancellin wrapped himself in his cloak to leave the hut, just as all the other heads of family were doing. The Husihuilke men listened through the wind and rain to discover whether the voice
of a drum could be heard from any village calling for help. They listened intently for a long while, but no request came.

‘Nothing serious has happened,’ said the warrior, coming back inside.

Kuy-Kuyen and Wilkilén were still clinging to Kush.

‘It’s not good to stay still like that,’ the old woman told them. ‘It’s better to be doing something to recover your calm. Come on, girls, give me a hand! There are
many things we need to put back where they belong.’

‘Look!’ shouted Thungür. The urgency of his voice was mirrored by the way he was jabbing his arm towards the ceiling.

Several baskets piled on some bundles of reeds, together with some rolled-up hides, had come crashing down, revealing the green tip of a bird’s feather.

‘How is it possible?’ said Cucub, in a delayed reaction to what he could see. ‘That’s the sign! Warrior, there’s the sign you were demanding! Please get
it!’

Dulkancellin did as he was asked. He carefully removed the feather from in among the baskets and held it up for them all to see. It was shiny, and about two handspans long. Its green colour was
completely unlike any of the greens that the Husihuilkes had ever seen.

Dulkancellin quickly forgot what the feather looked like to ask himself – as the Zitzahay was also doing – how it could have got where it did. Someone must have hidden it there on
purpose. But ... who? And why? The only possible answer was no consolation: it must have been one of the family. One of them, or Kupuka.

The warrior untied the Zitzahay’s hands. Then he spoke for all of them:

‘Gather round. We need to know what happened.’

Dulkancellin sat on the floor. One by one, the others did the same.

‘We all saw the same thing, and at the same time,’ said the warrior. ‘The earth uncovered the Kukul feather. It also uncovered someone’s evil intention. This feather is
the sign of the messenger, the proof of his loyalty, the difference between his life and his death. Somebody wanted to hide it ... Does anyone here know something they wish to tell us?’

Several of them shook their heads.

‘Confusion added to confusion,’ Dulkancellin growled. ‘I am reluctant to ask myself, as I must, who among us is not telling the whole truth. I don’t want to think it was
Kupuka, because—’

‘I have a question to ask,’ Cucub butted in. ‘Listen to me, Kume. When your father and I were about to go to the forest, you were going to say something .. . Kush interrupted
you, so you kept silent. What were you going to say but didn’t? Perhaps you would like to tell us now.’

Kume turned scarlet.

‘Speak, my son!’ Dulkancellin could sense the note of desperation in his own voice.

Visibly uncomfortable, Kume could not find any words.

‘Reply to the Zitzahay’s question!’ his father managed to add, before the desperation reached his soul.

‘I don’t remember very well ...’ the boy began.

Dulkancellin stood up, and so did Kume. Father and son confronted each other in a ring of astonished faces.

‘I did it.’ Kume’s voice was a faint whisper. ‘I hid the feather.’

‘Go on,’ said Dulkancellin.

‘I took advantage . . . I did it when you were all looking at Kupuka’s shadow.’

‘Continue.’

‘I was not going to let you ... to let him die. But Kush got in before me, and invoked the right of rain. So the Zitzahay’s life was saved.’

‘Only just in time.’

‘I didn’t want to ...’

‘Continue.’

‘I was only waiting for the right moment to slip the feather back into his bag. I was going to make sure you found it before you set out.’

‘Why did you do it?’ his father insisted.

‘I didn’t ... I don’t trust the Zitzahay, even if he did bring the Kukul feather with him. That’s why I thought of hiding it. If he could not find the sign... I was
wrong. I thought you would ask him to leave, that’s all. And that you would stay with us.’

‘You have no further explanation?’

‘No.’