Fantasy Novel - Prologue
Here is the first instalment of my current work in progress 'Return of the Burning Man' I hope you enjoy. There's more to come. Please let me know what you think. Chapter One tomorrow.
Prologue
He could see the
village but he dare not go there. He pulled his bear-skin cloak tightly around
him and squatted down again making himself as comfortable as anyone could in a
shallow ditch. He lifted his tunic trying
to view the wounds that the arrows had made.
He did not know for certain how many had hit him but he felt it was
about five. Only two were tipped with barbed
iron heads; these were still inside him, the shafts having been broken off soon
after he escaped his mystery attackers.
The others were simple, sharpened sticks which he lost count of as he fled
the scene of his ambush. He also knew
that the arrows were almost certainly tipped with poison. This was almost always made by the women
using a paste made by pounding a certain type of tree bark until it made a red
coloured juice and then mixing it with human excrement. The arrow tips were them dipped in the paste
and left to dry.
He turned and could see
some of the poison oozing from the wounds on his side but he could not see
those on his back and those were the ones that were killing him. He looked down at the eye tattoos on the back
of his hands and he knew that Gurn’iti could see him so close to death.
He was sure that the
villagers would not treat him with absolute hostility but he was also sure that
they might not take so much care of his Numa once he was dead and it was his Numa
that he was most concerned about just now.
He had no intention of being rounded up by Thetant’iti and taken down to
his frozen underworld home of Aner’dul.
No, Thetant’iti must go without his spirit today because today was
surely the day when he would die.
He had decided,
therefore, that if he should die out here, in the open landscape where all the
Gods have jurisdiction, then, whoever found him would know that Berant’iti watched
him die and that because of this they will have no choice but to return him to
his people or Berant’iti will be angry.
It was a gamble but he had no choice.
He turned to the wound
in his stomach, which was heavily infected with an evil smelling pus, and
touched it lightly with trembling hands.
It was red and swollen all around so it would be a great relief to die
and join his ancestors in the spirit village.
But that all depended on the people of this village taking his bones
back to Anken’dul, many, many days travel from where he was now.
He reached round to the
smaller of the soft leather bags he carried and from it produced a little
food. A small piece of bread, a smaller
piece of cheese and some berries and nuts that he had gathered days back. He chewed a few morsels and, cupping his hand
drank some water from the ditch. He felt
a little better for the small meal and, as if Berant’iti had noticed him at
last, the sun had come out from behind the grey scudding clouds and had warmed
him a little.
But it was all to no
avail. Death was close and soon he would
find out what would be the destination of his spirit being. He hoped that the people of this unknown
village would help him back to his people although he must be realistic and
prepare for his Numa to descend to Thetant’iti’s frozen home.
His final act would be
to save the precious item that he had been carrying for the whole of his
journey. He had been sent by his people
on a mission of great importance. He was
to carry out this mission on his own as he was to carry an item of great value
and to travel in a large group of priests, warriors and attendants would attract
attention from the bands of outlaws and brigands that roamed the open countryside
between the larger villages.
He was to carry, to the
chief of the tribe of the Broken Axe, a golden circlet, made from a collection of
gold carried out over many years, as a gift to the daughter of the chief and as
an offer of marriage from the chief of the tribe of the Burning Man. This offer was being made in an effort to end
the hostilities that had been going one between the two tribes for as long as
anyone could remember. It was an offer
born of desperation on the part of the tribe of the Burning Man because the
tribe simply could not withstand any more fighting. The tribes warrior caste was depleted to the
point of using old men and boys. They
were putting all their hope on this man and his mission.
He opened the larger of
the felted wool bags and pulled out the item, wrapped in a fine doe skin
pocket. He opened it and looked at the
beautiful circlet. He was desperately
unhappy that he was not able to complete his journey but he must somehow ensure
that the item made it’s way to the Broken Axe tribe and, despite his death, for
the mission to be successful.
He wondered what he
should do to ensure the success of his mission.
He must ensure that someone knew the story and then he must hope that
somehow, someone from this tribe would take up his task.
He mustered all the
strength he had and, using his spear as a prop, raised himself up to his full height. He scanned the horizon. There, across the next set of ditches was a
small group of children playing. He took
a deep breath.
‘Whooooooop,
Whooooooop. Whooooooop.’ he yelped as loudly as his injuries would
allow.
The children stopped
and started to look around. He waved his
arms around and shouted again.
‘Hey, Over here, here,
here, over here.’
The children all
stopped and looked in his direction.
Some of them pointed and others put their heads together and peered
along their outstretched arms. Suddenly
they all started to walk in his direction, then they stopped and they gathered in
a small circle. It looked like they were
discussing the merits or otherwise of going towards a stranger. Some of them were in favour of heading back
to the village and bringing adults while others were in favour of just carrying
on. Then they made up their minds, some
headed for the village while a few carried on towards him.
‘Thanks to the Gods’ said the stranger. He felt sure now that he could weave a story
that the children would repeat to the adults that he hoped would convince them
to carry on with his mission rather than chop up the circlet and distribute it
amongst its Elders.
Three of the children
arrived and stood twenty feet away from him. The oldest of the three spoke up.
‘You are not from our
village. Who are you?’
‘My name is not
important but I have a task for you that is.
Are you a cleaver boy?’
‘Of course, I’m ten
summers old, nearly a man. Whatever it
is that you need me to do, I am capable, old man.’
He ignored the boys
disrespect and continued.
‘I have a task for you
that involves the sun god Berant’iti himself.
It is a serious matter and just the kind of thing for someone who is
nearly a man.’
Then his strength left
him and he slowly slid down the spear-shaft, crumpling back into the small
ditch. At this obvious sign of weakness
the boys moved closer, the oldest closer still.
He knelt down beside the injured man and lifted his head.
‘You will need to tell
me what it is you want me to do or how will I be able to help you?’
The stranger turned his
head and looked directly into the boy’s eyes.
‘Pass to me the larger
of the felted wool bags that I have.’
The boy did as he was
bid and crouched near to him. The other
boys stood off, staring intently.
‘I’m going to tell you
a story and I want you to remember it. I
want you to repeat it to the chief of your tribe and I want you to hand him
this felted wool bag. You must not look
into this bag as it is under the protection of Berant’iti himself, you must
tell that to the chief as well.’
Then the injured man
told the youth the story of the two tribes and the constant war and the effort
to end it by the marriage. He told him
about the precious item but did not show him it and then asked him to repeat
what he had said. When he had done so
the injured man sighed and sagged into the ditch.
‘Go now, go and do as I
have bid. Berant’iti will look down on
you will pride, nearly man.’
The boy took the bag
and slung it around his shoulder and motioned to his companions to come with
him. They climbed out of the ditches and
at the top stopped and turned, looking, for a final time perhaps, at the dying
stranger . Then they were gone.
He took a deep breath
and silently preyed to all the gods he could remember. Then he fell silent. His breathing became laboured and slow and
after a long while it stopped.
Now he would find out what
the gods had in store for his Numa.
And now with the help
of the gods and these boys the fate of his tribe would be decided.
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