The darkening forest was
full of sounds. The flap of wings and restless twitters as chaffs, finches and
sparrows roosted in the treetops. The rustle of leaves as squirrels and mice
settled into their burrows. The faint, stealthy movements of the night hunters—fox,
wildcat and wolf prowling with soundless footsteps among the deadwood. An owl
glided from branch to branch in the treetops overhead, like a pale shadow of
death, and Bryn thought about how terrified a child would be to find themselves
alone here. But he wasn’t a child. He was a man, or at least he would be soon,
after he made his first kill.
He forced himself to ignore
the anxiety squeezing his stomach. By dawn, he must have his weapon made and be
in position in the alder bushes by the stream. It was no easy thing to get
close enough to bring down a deer with a spear, especially the great stag he
had chosen as his quarry.
At the thought of it,
nervousness gave way to excitement and anticipation. He had no intention of
settling for some modest beast for his first kill. Nay, he would bring back a
spectacular quarry, something that would make his family and the whole tribe
take notice. They must see him as so brave and valiant and cunning that they
would know what an absurd waste it was for him to train as a Learned One,
spending his days in study and quiet contemplation in the oak grove, his nights
calling down the gods in boring rituals. He had so much more to offer the
tribe, and his father, Tarbelinus, would finally realize that. He would have
to.
Bryn allowed himself to
savor the image of his triumph, to picture the stunned amazement on his
father's face as he presented him with the massive antlered head of the forest
king. It would be sweet, so sweet. In that moment, all of the Tarisllwyth clan
would know him as a man, a warrior and someday, their future chieftain.
He exhaled deeply, then
forced himself to push aside thoughts of glory. There was much to do yet. He
still hadn’t found the right size ash branch for making his spear. Once he
found the proper bough, he must whittle and shape it, using his small eating
knife, the only weapon a boy was allowed to take when he went off into the
woods for his man-making trial.
Bryn started walking again,
taking long, man-length strides. The gods had favored him and given him the
tall, broad-shouldered build of a warrior. He felt sorry for Cruthin, who was
still small and slight, even though he had passed fourteen winters, two more
than Bryn. As he reached the stand of ash trees and began searching for a straight,
narrow branch to make into a spear, Bryn wondered what Cruthin was doing right
now. Cruthin had boasted he meant to bring down not a prey animal, but a wolf
or a wildcat. He would skin the animal and make their hide into a cloak, he
said, so all the tribe would know his skill and prowess as a hunter.
Bryn's mouth twitched in
amusement at the memory of his fellow student's bold words. Cruthin was clever,
but there was more to hunting than cleverness. Bryn doubted Cruthin knew a
thing about making a spear, how to choose the right wood, the proper length of
the shaft, any of those things. Unlike Bryn, who stayed and listened to the men
as they gathered around the hearth and talked of weapons and hunting strategy,
Cruthin always left after the evening meal in the chieftain's hall was
finished.
Nay, Cruthin didn't know anything
about bringing down a predator. Besides, even the men of the tribe didn’t hunt
such animals without dogs. It would be futile. Cruthin might manage to kill
something, but it would be nothing compared to Bryn’s own prize. He would be
the hero, the champion. Even Sirona would take notice of him.
He exhaled a sigh of
longing. Beautiful Sirona, with her butter-colored hair and soft blue eyes, her
flower-like face and fine, slim body. She hadn’t had her woman-making ceremony
yet, but it must come soon. To him, she already seemed a woman, full of mystery
and beguilement. He'd been trying to gain her attention and regard for almost a
year, but she hardly seemed to notice. He needed to find a way to win her
admiration, and making his first kill a magnificent one seemed the perfect
means.
It all came down to this
night, he thought as excitement and apprehension suffused his body. With sweaty
hands, he began to examine ash branches, searching for the perfect, magic bough
that would yield to him all his dreams.
*
* *
The wolf was close. Cruthin
could sense its spirit in the darkness. Lying in a thicket, his eyes closed and
his body rigid with concentration, he reached out with his thoughts and sought
to merge his own spirit with the wolf's.
He could feel its aloneness.
No longer did it run with a pack, but struggled to find food on its own. There
were vague memories of its former life—the comfort of other furry bodies
rubbing against its own, shared smells, the joyous cries of the pack's voice
echoing through the forest. But that was gone now. All that was remained was
hunger, the raw, desperate urge to survive.
And pain. A throbbing ache
moved up the animal's front leg, making each step agony. The injured limb
emitted an odor that made the wolf uneasy, reminding it of carrion. But hunger
drove it on, the instinct to hunt overriding everything.
Cruthin used that instinct
to draw the animal towards him. He could hear it now, limping through the forest,
gaining speed despite its damaged leg. He willed the wolf to smell meat, fresh
and warm, oozing with blood. His spirit touched the wolf's and his thoughts
entered its animal mind, tantalizing it with the scent of food. Saliva filled
its mouth in anticipation and it increased its pace to a rapid, stealthy lope.
Lying in a trance in the
thicket, Cruthin remained motionless. In the part of his mind not connected
with the wolf's, he was aware of the danger he had evoked. He must draw the
wolf close enough to kill it. If he came out of his trance too soon, the animal
would realize it had been tricked and run away. But if he waited too long, he
would become the wolf's victim. The power he felt in drawing the wolf must be
balanced by an awareness of his own vulnerability.
Intoxicating to be part of
an animal's world. The night forest a blur of grays. Innumerable odors and
sounds everywhere. Dizzying speed. The wolf's spirit and his own as one. He was the wolf, chasing down its prey.
Every muscle, every nerve poised. Panting, dripping jaws ready to snap shut
upon the victim. Thick neck muscles ready to jerk and tear. Keen nose already
smelling the sweet nectar of blood. Lolling tongue tasting the ecstasy of meat.
A thin thread connected
Cruthin to his body lying in the thicket. He was barely aware of his own self,
that he was the focus of the savage sensations that filled his consciousness.
And then the wolf smelled
the true scent of his prey, instead of the phantom odors Cruthin had sent it. Man.
In that moment, the spell
was broken and Cruthin was back in his body. He could smell the wolf, its sharp,
wild dog-scent. It circled the thicket, whining softly. Cruthin struggled to
make his limbs move. His spirit seemed trapped in the trance.
The beast thrust its face
into the thicket and growled. Cruthin tried to open his eyes, to jerk away.
Hot, reeking breath covered him. Fear innervated Cruthin's body and his eyes
fluttered open. In the near darkness he could barely make out the animal's
form. The beast was inches away from him, panting heavily. In a pack, it would
follow the lead of the others. But now it was uncertain. Fear or hunger—which
instinct to obey?
Hunger was stronger. The
wolf lunged, mouth open, fangs flexed.
Instinct also guided
Cruthin's hand as it thrust upward with the knife. The knife blade grazed the
wolf's head as huge teeth sank into the flesh of his upper arm. Screaming with
pain and dread, Cruthin twisted and broke the animal's hold, then rolled farther
away. His heart raced, his breath pumped like a smith's bellows. He fumbled for
the knife he had dropped, fearing he had only seconds until the beast attacked
again. The wolf had tasted blood. It would not give up now. At last he located
the knife and picked it up. Blood poured down his arm and made his grip
slippery. He stood and began to shout at the wolf, trying to scare it off.
It would not leave. Next it
would go for his throat. The animal was quicker, stronger, had every advantage.
All he had were his wits. But he dare not try to merge his thoughts with
wolf's. The concentration required would make him slow and clumsy if the animal
decided to attack. Sorcery could not help him. He was no better off than the
other boys now. Alone in the forest with only a small knife for protection.
Only a slim, puny blade between him and brutal, agonizing death. For a fleeting
moment, the irony of his situation struck him. He might well have conjured his
own end.
*
* *
Bryn sighed with relief as
he spotted his spear. He bent down and picked up the weapon, then held it out
and admired its fine, deadly tip. If his hunt hadn’t been interrupted to rescue
Cruthin, he might even now be using the weapon to carry the head of the great
stag back to the dun.
Cruthin. What a fool. How
could he have thought he could take on a full-grown wolf and prevail? He would
be lucky to survive his injury. Even if he did, his arm might be permanently
damaged. Cruthin’s whole future now depended upon the healing skills of Nesta,
Sirona’s grandmother.
But in one way Cruthin had
been fortunate. If Bryn hadn’t almost literally stumbled upon him, Cruthin
would have a bled to death right here. Bryn grimaced as he glanced down at the
blood-stained, trampled area where he'd found the other youth. Cruthin had
still been conscious, but only barely. He'd moaned something and used his good
hand to point in the direction of a large thorn bush. Bryn had been too concerned
with getting Cruthin to the dun to investigate. But now that he was back here,
he might as see what Cruthin had been pointing to.
Behind the thornbush, Bryn
discovered a pool of blood. He followed the trail of blood until he found the
body of a wolf about twenty paces into the bushes. A knife protruded from one
of the animal's eye sockets. Bryn stared at the dead beast in amazement.
"Cruthin, you did it," he whispered. The animal was extremely thin,
its fur dull and mange-ridden. But it was a full-grown beast and a worthy prize
for any hunter.
A sudden thought came to
Bryn. He could pretend he had made the kill. It was more than possible Cruthin
would die. He had lost a lot of blood and the wound would likely turn putrid
and weaken him even more. If Cruthin never roused, no one would ever know he
had succeeded in killing the wolf. Even if Cruthin did survive, Bryn could
claim Cruthin had only injured the wolf and he’d tracked the animal and
finished it off.
For a moment he tantalized
himself with the thought of returning to the dun with the wolf's pelt draped
over his shoulders. Then he pushed the idea away. No matter what anyone else
believed, he would know he hadn’t killed the wolf. The idea of living with that
secret weighing upon his spirit seemed much worse than having to spend another
night in the forest, or even having to settle for a less impressive kill.
He dipped his fingers in the
wolf's blood and scattered the sticky droplets on the ground. As he did so, he
said a prayer to Cernunnos: "Thank you, great lord of the animals, for
this kill. And favor me in my own hunt. Send the stag king into my pathway. If
you do so, I will accord you a portion of every kill I make for the rest of my
life."
Bryn sighed and wiped his
hands on his tunic. Then, leaving the wolf where it lay, he took his spear and
started down the path to the river. He was so tired, his legs didn't seem
connected to his body and his eyes felt as if they had sand in them. But he
stumbled on. If he could reach the river, he could wait there in his hiding
spot as he had the morning before. It might be hours before any game came down
to drink. In the meantime, he could sleep and try to regain his strength.
*
* *
Bryn woke and came instantly
alert. Something was moving around near the hazel thicket where he lay. He
prayed it was the stag, come down to drink at the river. Stealthily, he picked
up the spear lying beside him and rose to a crouching position.
Nay, it was not the stag. The
animal moving along the riverbank was much smaller than the king of the forest.
But it didn’t really matter what sort of prey was out there. This might be his
only chance to make a kill. He'd have to burst out of the thicket ready to
thrust his spear into the first target he encountered.
Bide your time. Be patient. See if the animal will come any closer. Bryn told himself these
things even as his muscles throbbed with tension and his breathing quickened. It
was agony to wait like this. For all he knew, the animal might be moving away
from him. He might have lost his chance—again.
But he could still hear
shuffling sounds. He strained his ears, trying to pinpoint the exact direction
the noise was coming from. It seemed to be behind him. Impossible to turn
around in this cramped space. He'd have to keep waiting.
He glanced up at the sky,
visible through the green gold foliage of the hazel bushes, and tried to gauge
what how early it was. There were still streaks of pink in the overcast sky. Not
much past dawn, but most animals sought water early, before it was truly light.
He might have only a few moments before all the potential prey returned to the
forest.
Despair washed over him. He
could scarcely bear the thought of another day here, without food, futilely
following a game trail into the deep woods, where in the deceptive realm of
shadows and dappled sunlight, the animals had every advantage.
But if he had to, he had to.
He could no more go back to the dun empty-handed than he would settle for some
puny, insignificant kill. Somehow he must bring down a substantial, respectable
animal. Either that, or he would starve in the woods!
Once again, he thought of
claiming Cruthin's wolf as his kill. But it was too late now. It would be
obvious to anyone the animal had been dead a while. He'd have to come up with
some story to explain why he hadn’t brought it back the day before. Another lie
weighing on his spirit.
What was that? The animal
was coming back. He could hear it. It sounded low to the ground, relatively
small. But not some scurrying, pathetic little rodent. It made too much noise
for that.
He waited as long as he
could, then tightened his grip on the spear. With one smooth movement, he
jumped up and sprang out of the thicket. The small boar had no chance to turn
and run before the spear rammed into its body. It gave a shrieking squeal and
writhed wildly. In seconds it was dead.
Bryn gazed down at his kill.
A half-grown piglet. Old enough to be on its own and feed away from its mother,
but hardly the dazzling prize he'd longed to bring home. Yet, a boar was
respectable enough prey. If he hadn’t killed it, this small beast might someday
have grown large enough to be dangerous. It wasn’t unheard of for men to be
killed by boars.
Consoling himself with those
thoughts, he bent over and braced his foot on the animal's body and yanked his
spear out. There was a little gush of blood. Gazing into the boar's dark,
sightless eye, Bryn felt pity mingled with a sense of power. He had taken this
animal's life, turned it from a living, breathing creature into a carcass that
would quickly be consumed. It was an awesome and rather terrifying thing he had
done. Although the tribe hunted, butchered cattle and sacrificed a yearling
bullock several times a year, this was the first time Bryn himself had killed
anything with his own hands.
He dropped the spear and
dipped his fingers in the pool of blood, then made a prayer to Cernunnos. "Let
me be worthy of this kill," he told the god as he sprinkled the blood upon
the ground. "And bequeath upon me its spirit, so that I might be as
fearless in life and someday die as bravely."
Satisfied that he had shown
proper respect, both to his prey and to the god of the beasts, Bryn slit the
boar's belly and cleaned the carcass before spitting it on his spear to carry
back to the dun.
It was a long walk back. He
had to stop and shift the spear several times so it didn't press so deeply into
his shoulder. The boar carcass felt like a great sack of rocks. By the time he reached
the dun, sweat was dripping down his body and each step was an act of will.
Somehow he made it to the feast
hall, where his mother and her women were gathered. Rhyell rushed to greet him.
"Thank the gods you are safe." She looked at the carcass slung over
his shoulder. "And you've killed a boar! By Anu, you might have been
hurt"
Bryn made a face. She was
treating him like a child.
"Put it down and come
to the hearth. I have some stew simmering. I'm certain you are hungry…and tired
as well. As soon as you've eaten, you should rest until it is time for the
ceremony and feast."
"I must take the boar
to my father and show him what I have done,” Bryn responded.
At that moment Tarbelinus
entered the hall. With a huge sigh of relief, Bryn approached Tarbelinus. Sliding
the boar from his shoulders, he inclined head to his father and said, "I
bring the tribe my first kill. I offer its meat to feed my kin and clansmen, but
I ask the use of its hide to make myself a shield to use in defending Tarisllwyth
territory against invaders."
Tarbelinus glanced at the
hide. "You may have the hide," his father answered, "But I would
suggest you have Dergo make it into a ceremonial satchel. As a drui you will
have no use for a shield."
Bryn stared at his father,
almost faint with despair. All that effort and struggle and still his father
would not relent! If he had been able to bring back the great stag, then
Tarbelinus would have been unable refuse him. It was Cruthin's fault he had
failed.
But no, he told himself as he sank down on one of
the benches. He would not blame Cruthin. That would be weak and unmanly, almost
as bad as taking credit for the other youth’s kill. He would find some other
way to convince his father he was meant to be a warrior. He would not
relinquish his dream.
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