Chapter Text
Spring Child practically danced in place, her eagerness to be moving warring with her intent - sincere, if poorly expressed - to show respect for the elder. The young wolver went over her gear for the dozenth time, her flint spear and knife, her bedroll, the handful of supplies packed in her small knapsack. They would only be gone from the tribe for a few days, a week at most; there was no need for more.
After all, she reminded herself proudly, she was a skilled hunter. She could find food, shelter, clean water, even medicinal herbs for herself and the elder if needed. She fancied there was no hunter in the tribe more skilled than she, save perhaps Eagle Talon, the oldest of the elders. Her skills were legendary, but she was so old, having passed at least fifty winters.
Spring Child's necklace of deer hooves clattered against her furry chest. She closed her yellow eyes and took a deep breath, schooling herself. On the hunt she was night itself, able to fold her lean, tawny length into the most unlikely hiding spots and wait with the patience of a stone. But this was different!
The wolver girl steadied herself, pressing her paws firmly into the dirt and forcing her tail to stillness. Her ears refused to obey her, twitching this way and that at the slightest sound. She glanced toward the rising sun, already a handspan above the horizon. She had been ready to depart since false dawn, but the elder would not be hurried. She took another deep breath, letting it out slowly. Elders were to be obeyed and respected, even when they -
The door-hanging was pulled aside and Teller emerged from their hut. “Come along, pup,” the elder said in their melodious voice, as if Spring Child had been the one keeping them waiting. Teller was young for an elder, certainly no older than forty winters, with gray fur, green-gold eyes and a slim build. Today they wore men's clothing: a knee-length breechcloth with black and blue patterns and a fringed, sleeveless deerskin shirt. They carried no weapon, only a small iron eating knife and a sturdy cedar walking staff.
Spring Child's ears burned as she recalled when, as a pup, she had innocently asked whether Teller was male or female. Teller, not yet an elder at the time, had simply asked what she thought they were, and when Spring Child had guessed male, Teller had declared “Then that is what I shall be for now.”
Frowning at the back of Teller's head, Spring Child trotted after them, but her bad mood did not last long. She was traveling at last, alone save for a single elder. No parents or older pakh-mates, no senior hunters. Even with Teller's presence, the girl savored the sense of freedom and responsibility. She was practically on her own, as if she was a named adult.
And most exciting, she was going to see Ma'an.
The Dark Shadows saw a few Ma’an traders every so often, merchants driving great wooden wagons, but meetings with the traders were rare and irregular. Spring Child had never gone; the meetings were only for adults. She found the description of Ma’an strange, these furless, flat-faced creatures with their iron weapons and their alien ways and their Eem-pyar. Teller, who had seen Ma’an before, said they had many strange songs and tales. The elder knew some of their barbaric language and had taught a few words and phrases to the curious girl. She ran over them in her mind, eager to try them out.
Teller made the time pass quickly with their seemingly endless store of tales and songs, some of ancient Hrulv’an heroes, some of Ma’an and their peculiar ways, some of lands and creatures even more alien. The two passed out of the forest and into the rolling, scrubby hills to the south, leaving behind the well-known game trails and the comforting shadows of the woods. Spring Child blinked her eyes against the sun and pressed on. The elder continued walking at a brisk pace, and she was not about to be found lacking.
They came to a road, a broad, flat stretch of ground, like the widest trail Spring Child had ever seen. Teller explained that it flowed like a river away to the west, near Red Claw territory, and beyond that to yet more distant places: great cities of Ma’an and the lands of the far western wolvers, fierce and grim. Their path lay in the other direction, to the south, where a Ma’an-town lay relatively close. The people there knew of wolvers, but saw them rarely.
The farmlands came next: great fields filled with neat rows of crops, far larger and more orderly than the wolvers’ gardens. Spring Child’s eyes widened as she saw movement in the middle of one field: a large animal like a massive, fat deer with small, curved horns, followed by a smaller, bipedal figure. She slowed her steps, staring, and Teller chuckled.
“Yes, that is a Ma’an. The animal before it is called an ox. Ma’an use them to haul burdens.”
“Awks,” Spring Child repeated. “It’s so big. How did they ever tame it?”
She peered at the huge, square building that Teller called a barn, and a little way past it saw the first Ma’an house. It looked similar to the wolver huts, but more square and somehow rougher, less inviting. Instead of a proper smoke-hole in the center, a square tube of stones arose from one end. Spring Child sniffed and passed on.
They began to encounter Ma’an, some working in their fields, others walking up and down the road. Most stopped and stared at the wolvers; some quickly hid themselves inside their houses. Teller offered a friendly wave to those who were close, which Spring Child dutifully mimicked. A few of the Ma’an waved back. Most just stared.
She found them both fascinating and repellent, with their all-concealing clothes and their furless skin, pink or tan. They stood upright, straighter than a wolver, and seemed forever on the verge of falling over backwards. They had no tails, no proper ears, and in place of a muzzle they had tiny noses. She thought they looked unfinished.
“Why did the Gods Who Watch Us make them that way?” she asked. Teller laughed.
They drew near a Ma’an house built not far from the road, with a large “barn” beside it. Teller and Spring Child watched as a Ma’an - Spring Child thought they must be female, noting the swell of breasts under her blue dress - emerged from the house, walked to a circular stone wall a few feet across, and hauled up a bucket of water. The female noticed them then, and to Spring Child’s surprise, walked over to them, speaking in her strange language. She bared her teeth, causing the young wolver to tense, but Teller laughed and responded in the Ma’an tongue. Spring Child caught her own name spoken, and Teller’s.
“This is Hilla,” Teller told her. “Her father knew some of our people. She asks if we would like a drink of water.”
“Yez pleez,” Spring Child said politely in Eem-peer-yaal.
They sat in the shade of the ring-shaped pool - Hilla called it a well - and talked for a time. Hilla and Teller talked; Spring Child mostly listened, staring about with interest, taking in the smells and the sounds. Hilla smelled of ground wheat and wood ash and children - the human was a mother, Spring Child guessed. There was a strong animal scent about the place, mostly emanating from the barn.
Despite the language barrier, Teller soon had Hilla laughing; the elder was gifted with words in whatever language. Spring Child understood little, but knew that Hilla was friendly; she guessed that Teller was explaining who they were and why they came to the Ma’an town. There was some gesturing toward the barn, and a deal of pantomime.
Heavy, thudding footsteps reached Spring Child’s ears - some four-footed animal. Hilla turned and walked toward the barn and Teller followed, Spring Child trailing after. A Ma’an came around the barn, riding atop a new animal: a massive thing, chestnut brown, with a long head and legs that ended in a single hoof each. Wide-eyed, Spring Child wondered if this was a horz from Teller’s descriptions.
Hilla approached the rider, and Teller followed. In a moment the horz went wild, rearing and lashing out with its great forehooves. The rider shouted, Hilla screamed, and Teller fell down with a cry of pain. Rational thought left Spring Child’s mind; she drew her flint knife and leaped for Teller, standing over the elder’s prone form and slashing left and right at the terrible horz.
The beast backed up, snorting and tossing its head as the rider - a male Ma’an with scraggly fur covering the lower half of his face - pulled on the strings tied to its head. Spring Child glanced down. Teller lay clutching their left leg, making sounds of agony. A glance showed that their leg was broken, bent at an impossible angle just above the ankle. Spring Child’s eyes went wide and her ears flattened against her skull; she stared from Teller to the horz, panic clawing at her mind.
When Hilla dropped to her knees beside Teller, Spring Child almost slashed the Ma’an’s face before stopping herself. Hilla’s expression was concerned; she spoke softly to Teller, who responded with pained words. The rider tied the horz to an upright post and dismounted, watching warily. Hilla yelled some order at him, and he dashed into the house.
“My fault,” Teller said to Spring Child. “The horse scented me…knew me for a hunter. Should have been careful.”
“Elder, what do I do?”
“Remain calm…the Ma’an are not our enemies,” Teller said. Hilla said something to them, her tone businesslike, and they responded.
“Hilla is going to set my leg,” Teller told Spring Child. “Put your knife away, pup. And hold me still.”
As Spring Child hovered nervously - casting occasional wary glances at the evil horz - Hilla straightened Teller’s leg. The male returned from the house with some sticks and strips of cloth, and before long the wolver’s leg was braced and wrapped. Working together, the two Ma’an carried Teller into the barn, a cavernous building full of shadows and tools, smelling of hay and horz, and laid them on a heap of dry straw.
Hilla and the other spoke with Teller, and Spring Child recognized the word saree, an Eem-peer-yaal expression denoting regret and responsibility. Teller’s tone was light, but Spring Child could sense the strain in it. Even when crippled and in pain, the elder remained diplomatic.
“They apologize for the actions of the horse,” Teller reported. “They say they will tend me here until my leg is well. They ask if we are hungry; I of course said yes.” The elder seemed oddly pleased, despite their state.
“We are fortunate,” Teller elaborated. “These Ma’an seem to be kind and responsible. Not all are. Some are as cruel as the Red Claws, or as aloof as the Rock Jumpers. The male’s name is Jimeon, and they have three pups who are out seeking food.”
“Elder, what are we going to do?” Spring Child said quietly. Teller’s ears pricked up.
“Do? I am going to lie here until I am better. I cannot go home until I can walk; even if the Ma’an were willing, even if we wanted to show them the way to our village, there are no paths their horse can travel. So I must be able to walk, which means we will be here for several weeks.”
They patted Spring Child’s arm comfortingly. “As for you, I think you should learn their language. Offer to help them. They show taa: their horse hurt me and they are taking us in. It looks like our trip will take longer than expected.”
“As you say,” Spring Child answered dubiously. She was reluctant to leave Teller alone, and so spent some time exploring the barn. It was a vast place, bigger than any hut and full of smells: straw and horz and pigeon droppings, dried mud and sacks of grain. The odor of rust drew Spring Child to a row of tools hanging from pegs on the wall: a shovel, an ax, two gardening hoes, a toothy woodsaw. She marveled at the wealth of metal, touching the saw carefully, and wondered if this was a particularly rich Ma’an family.
Someone entered the barn and Spring Child returned to Teller's side; the elder was resting with their eyes closed. It was another male Ma'an, thinner and darker than Jimeon. He smelled of dirt and sweat and something savory, and carried two bowls of food, a pitcher, and a suspicious look.
The male said something - Spring Child recognized Hilla's name - and set the bowls of food on the ground nearby, departing with a scowl. Investigating, she found that the bowls were full of a sort of hot porridge with bits of meat. She and Teller devoured them, licking the bowls clean. The pitcher was made of copper, a fabulous luxury, and full of cold water.
“Was that another member of Hilla's pakh?” Spring Child wondered. Teller shook their head in the circular motion that meant no.
“Ma’an do not have pakh,” they said, their tone as casual as if they had not just denied a fundamental truth of the universe. Spring Child gaped, eyes wide, and Teller laughed.
“It is true! Ma'an pups remain with their parents until they are adults, then they set out on their own to find a mate and a place to live. Some wander forever. Some take many mates; some never take a single one.”
“How can they live without pakh?” the girl asked incredulously. “Even the Little Brothers have pakh.”
“Yes, the wolves have pakh, but they do not have language or tools,” Teller agreed. “While Ma'an have language and tools, but no pakh. So you can see, we are distant kin to both of them.”
“Very distant,” Spring Child allowed.
Growing bored with the barn, yet reluctant to leave Teller alone, Spring Child went to the large wooden door and peered out. The sun was a few hours from setting, but the shadow of the barn loomed across the road. She saw Hilla hauling water from the well, the scowling male who was not part of her pakh chopping firewood. Walking to the corner of the barn she gazed across the huge field, the endless rows of unknown crops, and tried to determine how the Ma’an had planted so many. Surely this small pakh - this small family, she corrected herself - could not need so much food, even if it was used to make the rather tasteless porridge. Was this a communal field? And how did the awks help with the planting?
She spotted movement. Shading her eyes against the sunlight, she saw yet another Ma’an approaching through the field. As it drew nearer she saw that it was a male, smaller and thinner than Jimeon; his hair was the same brown as the older Ma'an's, though this one lacked the facial fur. Perhaps this was Jimeon's son? He moved slowly, and Spring Child realized he was walking with a limp.
She drifted nearer, curious, until she was at the edge of the field. The Ma'an - he was younger than she, Spring Child realized, only a child - spotted her finally and shouted something. She waved politely.
The boy limped closer, still yelling. Answering yells came from the house as Hilla, Jimeon, and the other male came running. The scowling male glared at Spring Child and she stared back, doing her best to make her expression stony; she had done nothing to earn his anger. The other two rushed into the field, heedless of the crops, and were soon half-supporting, half-carrying the boy back toward the house.
Spring Child trailed after. Whatever the boy said, it upset his parents: Hilla in particular began making wailing sounds. Though she remained at a respectful distance, the young wolver heard their words clearly and understood a few of them.
Saree, repeated over and over. Lost. Hurt. Two words that seemed to be names: Torin and Cassa. The boy had twisted his ankle. He kept gesturing to the field or beyond.
They have three pups who are out seeking food, Teller had said.
Spring Child felt the fur of her ruff prickle.
“Pleez,” she said, interrupting the discussion and trying to remember every Eem-peer-yaal word Teller had ever taught her. “You…pups? Gone?” She pointed away over the fields, cocking her head questioningly.
It took several minutes, some miscommunication, and a lot of gesturing, but Spring Child confirmed what she suspected. The boy, Daric, had two younger siblings. They had been collecting berries - Daric's fingers were stained purple - and had gotten separated and lost in the tangle of berry bushes. Trying to find the younger ones, Daric had twisted his ankle but finally managed to make his way home. The place where the berries grew seemed to be on the edge of a dangerous wilderness.
“I will find them!” Spring Child declared. She pointed to herself, then her nose, and carefully sounded out the names Torin and Cassa. These Ma'an had no sense of smell; she was sure she could follow the trail easily. The two adult males looked dubious, but Hilla's eyes widened with hope.
Spring Child darted back into the barn. “Elder! Elder! The Ma'an-pups are missing, and I'm going to find them!”
“Softly,” Teller said, opening their eyes. “What is this?”
She explained in a rush, taking her waterskin, leaving everything else but her flint knife. Teller frowned consideringly.
“Why risk yourself?” the elder asked finally. “You do not know where the pups are. They may not even still be alive. And they are not Hrulv’an, only Ma'an.” They shook their head.
Spring Child could hardly believe her ears. “They are pups!” she cried. “You said yourself, these are kind and responsible people, even if they are Ma'an. I can't leave their pups in danger!”
“You are little more than a pup yourself,” Teller said kindly.
Spring Child stiffened. If Teller ordered her not to hunt the Ma'an-pups…could she really disobey an elder?
Footsteps approached. Hilla entered the barn, clutching some rags in her hands. She spoke to Teller; the elder answered with a few words and a sharp nod. The woman turned to Spring Child and held out the rags, saying something of which the wolver only understood the word pleez.
“Clothing her children have worn,” Teller explained. “She thought you might take the scent. I told her you are one of our best hunters, and will surely bring her pups home safely.”
Spring Child's eyes widened and Teller smiled. “I would never restrain your heart. Go. Find the pups. I smell a storm brewing.”
The girl's chest swelled with pride as she took the clothing, held it to her nose, and inhaled deeply. Boy. Young. Girl. Even younger. Handing it back, she met the woman's - the mother's - scared brown eyes.
“May the Gods Who Watch Us witness,” Spring Child said, uncaring that the Ma'an could not understand her words, “I will bring your children home safe.”