Part One
Chapter 6
THE GREAT BANQUET
I f Smaelaer had a reputation as a great hunter before, it was as nothing compared with his fame now, as he led the oxagretes toward the mines.
Every Traeppedelfere who could possibly sneak off from chores on the day of Smaelaer's return was gathered on the slopes of the mountain outside the main entrances to the mines, not far from the banquet hall. A few young morwetraeppes, not content to wait, ran off to scout for his approach; and many stancippians, widucippians, and maciantols, who had obviously not been outside the caves for long seasons, blinked uncomfortably in the wide light and anxiously started when the wind gusted in their faces.
Fleotanfot, the morwetraeppe who had brought the news, willingly retold the story to eager ears, but at the same time nervously squinted through the forest for signs of Smaelaer's arrival. In the fresh light of day, after an uneasy, restless night, Fleotanfot almost doubted his own eyes of two days ago. With his own skin on the line he had more at stake in the appearance of the hunter (and the oxagretes) than anyone.
Those fears of his were soon dispelled, to be replaced with fear of a different kind in some of the other spectators. Two morwetraeppes appeared on the road around the bend in the distance, running at top speed. The gathering of the curious craned their necks to watch them approach, and to look for any movement behind them; the morwetraeppes were racing perilously fast, reckless, considering the steepness of the slope on their side; and they were soon heard to be screaming, shrieking as wildly as their belabored breathing would allow. The group could hardly calm them down when at last they hurtled into their midst, struggling in an effort to continue on through the crowd toward the entrance to the mines. It was several moments before any coherent message could be wrung out of them, and then it was obvious that these morwetraeppes had been absolutely unstrung with terror at the sighting of their first oxagretes.
Upon hearing their animated (and somewhat exaggerated) accounts of the monsters, a few of the other Traeppedelferes became more than a little uneasy, and several left to return to their tasks and the safety of the mines.
"I wait to see oxagrete," commented Smerian, to the amusement and general agreement of those leaving with him, "on banquet table!"
Penigsaec viewed the rabble with a frown: flatfoots who could hardly stand on the slopes, and who shielded their tender eyes from the sunlight with pallid hands. She had seen oxagretes more than once on her hunts, and knew their strength and waywardness; and she was afraid that this kindergarten would become so much fodder should the beasts somehow awaken from the mysterious control that Smaelaer reportedly had over them. Under her gentle persuasion perhaps half of those on the slopes agreed to retire to a vantage nearer the entrance, ready to duck inside at the first hint of trouble. Goffe, who was himself present to welcome the returning hero, misinterpreted Penigsaec's wise caution as a display of cowardice, and mentally notched up another mark against her.
Soon two figures could be seen in the distance; the crowd grew tense - then relaxed as these proved to be the other morwetraeppes that had run ahead to look for Smaelaer. Having been somewhat older than the first two, and more experienced, and mindful of their reputations (such as they were), they had mastered their shock at the sight of the oxagretes, although neither of them had ever actually seen one before, either. They approached, sucking their teeth and licking the roofs of their mouths, as if to rid themselves of a lingering savor, and reported that the hunter would soon be coming into sight. All turned to watch.
The huge beasts lumbered into view, followed by Smaelaer. Many of those still outside were apparently satisfied by this first sighting, and immediately withdrew into the mines, some of them shaking visibly, though the oxagretes were still quite far off. Goffe found his resolve to be the first to greet Smaelaer melting; what had at first promised to be a grand gesture (sure to be popular and widely reported) now began to take on the appearance, he rationalized, of an empty and hollow effort. After all, what right had he, Goffe, to steal the glory rightly due Smaelaer by clouding his triumphant return in the shadow cast by the presence of a Maegenyldra? He decided, instead, that it would be more meet and appropriate to laud Smaelaer from the dais at the Great Banquet, and he hastily withdrew to the mines.
The oxagretes slowly neared the entrance, and the welcoming party slowly dwindled, until, when Smaelaer at last had the beasts kneel and doze before the mines only a handful of hunters, and a few others, remained. Penigsaec was there, and Fleotanfot, and Snecchen. Stanstrang, a burly stancippian, admittedly unused to his surroundings, nevertheless had doggedly remained, correctly guessing that the slaughter and subsequent butchering of the oxagretes would require a fair amount of strength, which he volunteered himself to provide. The lone cook who was left lingered nervously by the entrance, hoping that he would not be called on to do the killing (which was always done by the hunters, anyway), and wondering how best to begin dividing the huge carcasses.
Smaelaer, noticing Snecchen, remembered their shared secret, and questioningly raised his finger to his lips. She understood, and nodded reassurance. The others, though, thought Smaelaer was calling for silence, and they became afraid that the oxagretes might suddenly awaken at some accidental cough or gos. A couple of them went so far as to hold their breaths, and everyone (save Smaelaer) was edgy. Smaelaer silently commanded the beasts to fall into a deep sleep: indeed, if he had realized it, he could have commanded them simply to die on the spot, and they would have expired effortlessly. As the huge animals lost consciousness, Smaelaer, wondering at the stony reception, asked the onlookers suddenly, "Why are you all so quiet? What's wrong, anyway? It's almost as though no one is surprised at what I have done."
The unexpected sound of his voice, cutting into the strained silence, came to their ears with the shock of a door opening right behind them. Fleotanfot let his pent-up breath out in a whistle as he jumped, and Stanstrang involuntarily shouted an exclamation of shock, and then another as he realized the noise he had made, and all cast wary eyes toward the oxagretes which, however, remained still. Then, as they thought of Smaelaer's speech, they all looked at him in wonder. For his part, this welcome was becoming harder and harder to comprehend.
Finally Snecchen spoke up. "Smaelaer, what say? Traeppedelfere hear, but not know. How know beasts? Say to Snecchen."
It was Smaelaer's turn to be shocked. Her speech sounded foreign to his ears: crude, harsh, ignorant; exactly like that young morwetraeppe he had come across two days ago whom he had taken to be scared out of his wits by the oxagretes, or else revoltingly stupid. But he knew Snecchen was neither afraid nor stupid, and this communication gap puzzled and concerned him. Still, he could understand her, if she could not understand him; her language was once his language, not so long ago, though he hadn't realized until this moment that his had changed. Slowly, carefully, he formed his response.
"Snecchen," he said, "others, I thank for help. Not worry, oxagrete not hear, not taste, not feel. I kill now." Taking his knife from the sheath on his leg, he placed the sharp point at the base of the nearest animal's skull, and suddenly plunged it in up to the handle, into the oxagrete's brain. The beast shivered, opened its eyes(!) and, even as Smaelaer withdrew the blade, slumped to its side, dead.
Smaelaer's stomachs came to his throat in an unexpected wave of revulsion. The oxagrete had been so utterly defenseless, so trusting, so obedient! There was none of the glory of the hunt in this kill for Smaelaer, and suddenly he felt a remorse that he had never experienced before; a mourning that no sense of duty, or accomplishment, or pride could justify. Without a word, he turned to Snecchen and offered her the handle of his knife. Her eyes shone with a gratitude that sickened him, as she accepted it and cautiously approached the next oxagrete. Imitating his actions, she succesfully dispatched that brute and, thrilled, literally ran with glee to the last and repeated her feat. Penigsaec burned with envy, and Stanstrang doubted the necessity of his errand; Smaelaer took his knife back from Snecchen, turned his back, and walked into the tunnel, leaving the details of the butchering to the eager volunteers and the directions of the cook.
Smaelaer was aggrieved with a sudden and stunning uncertainty. All this long trek - in fact, all his life - he had been anticipating with an almost evil lust the consumation of the hunt. To kill an oxagrete; whose vast hide, succulent flesh, solid, carvable bones and horns, and tough innards made it a highly valued prize, in addition to the challenge its ferocity, speed, and strength added to the hunt - to kill an oxagrete was the ultimate fantasy of every Traepedelferean hunter. It had never, as far as any Traeppedelfere knew, been done. Smaelaer was the first. But that was not a comforting thought to him, now.
The slow walk back from the Haunted Lands had given Smaelaer much opportunity for reflection. He had discovered that although the oxagretes seemed to understand and obey his every command, he could not easily read their thoughts. Whether it was because he was only a novice in this art, or because the thoughts of the oxagretes were rather dim in and of themselves, or for some other reason, he could not tell. But gradually he came to realize that he could feel, more than exactly read, their thoughts; or, more accurately, their needs. He could feel when they were hungry, and will them to eat; he would feel their weariness (though they did not tire easily), and will them to rest. He became responsible for them: while he controled them they could not provide for themselves. A bond grew between himself and the oxagretes of which he was unaware, until the time came for their slaughter, and now he did not understand this sense of betrayal and guilt that he felt.
That odd circumstance of the tribe not understanding his speech was troubling him, too. They sounded so backward, so simple to him. He realized that he would have to take pains, now, to talk down to them. Why? He hated self-righteous condescension, but... He kept hearing in his head the phrase, "You are not of your time." What did that mean? He felt sometimes that he was on the verge of understanding, but its meaning narrowly eluded him, somehow.
Many of those who had awaited him outside but had gone in before his arrival were now gathering around him as he walked through the corridor. He forced himself to smile at their warm congratulations and greetings. Telling them that the oxagretes were now dead and being quartered, perhaps they could help? he excused himself as being tired (which, he discovered, he really was), and turned to find his neglected den. Lifting the door into place, he put his back to it with a sigh of relief. All he wanted to do now was sleep. He dropped his gear on the floor and slapped the dust from his cot and, lowering himself down, almost immediately fell into a deep sleep.
He was awakened by a loud and persistant knocking. A voice was calling, "Smaelaer! Smaelaer, you flotasaec! Open door, mocsaec! Smaelaer!"
Smaelaer recognized Smerian's voice at once, and smiled. He would be truly glad to see the maciantol. Smerian never failed to get him into a good mood, to amuse him, and Smaelaer felt that it had been seasons since he had laughed. "Open door," he shouted back, "come."
The door came crashing down, Smerian leaning against it all the way, pretending to have accidentally fallen with it. Smerian rolled onto his stomachs, looked up at Smaelaer on the cot, rubbed his shoulder in mock injury, and comically raised and lowered his bushy eyebrows in his trademark gesture of greeting, breaking into a wide grin. "Let's get saelig!" he chirped happily, tossing Smaelaer a bulging water-bladder. Standing and raising the heavy door back into place with one hand, he pulled another bladder from behind his back, and without prelude or invitation squeezed a long hissing squirt into his gaping mouth. Suddenly, Smaelaer was rushed home. It had been a long, long time.
"Smerian, drygebunge!" Smaelaer lapsed into obscenity. "Get saelig! Get tungebunge saelig!" Smaelaer was suddenly ready to unwind, and felt himself long overdue for it. He raised the bladder to his mouth and took a quick mouthful. With a surprised epithet (moc!) he spat it out again on Smerian's feet. "Water?" shouted Smaelaer. "Saelig with water? You mocetan flotasaec!"
Smerian was enjoying his jest immensely. "Great Smaelaer," he mocked, "saelig with water. Tungebunge saelig! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!" He shook with laughter.
"Give that bladder!" demanded Smaelaer, pointing to Smerian's.
"No good," Smerian shook his head, still laughing. "Water, also. All water. Cider in storeroom, in banquet hall full of flotasaecs. Goffe say, no wine, await Banquet. Little cook, mocetan! say go, Smerian, or I say to Goffe! I say, smaec hind, mocsaec!" Smerian puckered his lips and stuck out his rear to illustrate. "Smerian dryge! Hate, but true. Not long, though." He animated his eyebrows again.
"Um," said Smaelaer, "next day, Great Banquet! all saelig!"
"No, no, no! not next day," said Smerian. ``Smaelaer sleep long! Great Banquet today! Now! I come get you. Come!"
"Now?"
"Now! What say?"
"Get saelig!" cried Smaelaer merrily.
Hordes of Traeppedelferes were pouring into the Great Hall impatiently, excitedly, noisily. There were four large doorways into the cavernous hall, each the end of a major corridor coming from a different section of the mines. All four doorways were now jammed with eager faces, issuing forth in a crush, and dispersing in the vastness once inside.
The Great Banquet was the focal point of the Traeppedelferean season: a sort of election, affirmation of faith, harvest feast, bacchanalian bender, and mass satyric-nymphomanic frolic rolled into one. Calling the Great Banquet a celebration of life would be an inspired piece of understatement. To the Traeppedelferes the Great Banquet was life itself: the gratification of every spiritual, emotional, societal, and physical desire. Of course, certain of these desires carried more weight than others in the hair-waving heads of the folk filing into the Hall.
Smaelaer and Smerian waited in the stifling press of the corridor. It was possible to talk, if not to move, and nearly everybody was talking, the noise of which rendered it almost impossible to hear, which in turn had the ironic effect of impelling the talkers to raise their voices, until the din was quite oppressive and, under the circumstances, pleasant. They were moving forward, though, however slowly, and at last the walls and ceiling of the claustrophobic corridor gave way to the relative emptiness of the Great Hall. The dais had been raised, a large stage in the very center of the Hall at the crossroads of the four major ingresses, and the Traeppedelferes were seating themselves on the floor all around, after picking up a soft pelt or skin for a cushion from one of the many stacks left by Pipasefte, and taking a large trencher from another pile. They mingled and wandered, free to sit anywhere, provided only that the aisles to the dais were kept clear. It was noisy in the Hall, but seemed almost solemn after the riot in the corridors, and those inside spoke in hushed voices, and watched as the entire adult population of the race slowly filled the place.
The dwindling lines eventually died out altogether, and as the last were sitting the guide-lights and torches were extinguished, except those on the dais. The Yldras now ostentatiously proceeded from a single entrance to their places of honor on the stage, seating themselves in a circle on waiting pads, facing out towards the already quiet gathering. Then from the three other entrances the three Maegenyldras came in, pacing with grave and measured tread the aisles to the dais. Passing by the Yldras, the Maegenyldras sat in chairs, also facing out, arranged evenly about a raised platform in the center of the dais.
Smerian leaned close to Smaelaer. "Hate this part!" he confided in a whisper.
Goffe, the Maegenyldra in charge of the Great Banquet, stood and raised his arms, palms out. The Hall suddenly became very quiet, except for a clatter from the kitchens, which soon ceased. "Traeppedelferes!" he asonorously squawked, "Great Banquet start!" Thunderous cheers rang through the Hall. Goffe raised his arms again. "But first," he added, to muffled groans, "first hear Yldras." He nodded to the Yldra seated directly before him, who stood, and bowed ceremoniously to Goffe, who then sat down. The Yldra introduced himself to the throng, and proceeded to relate his report on the past season: the Traeppedelferes he oversaw, their accomplishments and production, any advancements in rank or skill, and so on. When he was finished, he nodded to the Yldra seated on his left, who rose and bowed to the first, who then seated himself, and the second Yldra related his account. This continued all the way around the circle of Yldras. Although there occasionally was a flash of wit amongst them (old Waetanswefn was a corker), the speeches were for the most part stultifyingly dull. Smerian's dread was well-founded.
As the last Yldra turned and nodded back to Goffe, the Maegenyldra rose again. "Now hear Giestranweard. Come, Leornian."
An old, old twatunge rose to his feet with an effort, aided by two helpers, from the first row of Traeppedelferes in front of the dais. The Yldras waited patiently as the feeble figure gained the stage and made his way to the platform at the center, upon which he was raised and provided with a chair. The circle of lights around the dais was now dimmed even further, leaving only those near Leornian shining with any brightness. An eerie effect was produced of the old loremaster floating freely above a dark mass of heads. Leornian raised his arms, palms out; but there was no need to, the dark Hall was silent: and he began to speak in a clear, treble voice.
"Look about, Traeppedelferes! Great number, many, many hands and feet. Great mines! Mines far, deep, long. Many young Traeppedelfere faces, first Great Banquet, maybe." He sighed. "Leornian old now. See many, many Great Banquets. But I remember my first, um, I still see.
"Leornian morwecippian, new hair, many seasons past. Eyes wide, hair curl, like you, may be!" He pointed to an obvious neophyte near the dais. "Mines great, but not as now. No lower level, no far pool, no deep forges! All made while Leornian see.
"Before Leornian see, long lifetime, no middle level. No knife for hunters, use only snare. No water in mine, must carry from forest. Still Traeppedelferes live in mine.
"Another long lifetime back, Traeppedelferes live in forest, near low entrance. No high entrance, no high level mine. Live in forest, work in mine. Great number Traeppedelferes, but not as now. Many named cnawannawiht, many, many. Three long lifetimes, many seasons. Traeppedelfere not happy.
"Before, a long lifetime, Traeppedelfere gemaed, Traeppedelfere cnawannawiht, Yldras hate, tribe hate Yldras, also. Yldras kill many, tribe grow small, mine little fyrstan. Mocwalwians not honor bazaar, many seasons, Traeppedelferes hunger." At this bit of history Goffe blanched. "Morwemodors grow wise, see reason. Traeppedelferes begin to go to Wrencanmodor, begin to grow strong again. That long ago; one hands-and-feet of hands-and-feet seasons past, now." The audience gasped. They could not do the arithmetic, of course, but knew that such a figure represented a remote age: one hands-and-feet generations, or four long lifetimes.
Leornian continued back in time. "Back two more long lifetimes, Great Banquet, Great Bazaar already very, very old. Traeppedelferes live on slopes near low entrance on far side of mountains, closer lowland, closer bazaar. Great Banquet held at Bazaar, on Traeppedelfere side of river." Many of the listeners who had forgotten the lore were surprised to hear that the Great Banquet had once been held outside. "Stancippian cut long, far from low entrance. One hand long lifetimes past, stancippians find great cave." He spread his arms out in a sweeping gesture. "The Great Hall!" The listeners (and not all were listening: some had long since dozed off in the low light, risking the wrath of the Yldras) now thought about the Hall in which they sat with new wonder; they had always assumed it had been carved out in the process of mining, which they understood, and couldn't imagine how it might have come to be there naturally.
"But before Great Hall, when Great Banquet under stars, before, as now, Traeppedelferes feast and becumanfisc," - he picked up quite a few listeners at the mention of that activity - "They do as I do now, tell of old days. Very old days to us, um, very old. Very old then, also: one hand and more long lifetimes past. The old days, before Traeppedelferes work in mines, before Mocwalwians work in moc," - scattered tittering -"all hands and feet in Great Hall now, maybe, and more seasons ago.
"Traeppedelferes hunt with hands. No snares, no sticks. No fire, eat thriddahypes with teeth. No talk, no words, no signs. Traeppedelferes die young, no long lifetimes then, so long past. Not many in tribe; two, three hands-and-feet. Soon, no Traeppedelferes.
"One night, strange dream come. All Traeppedelferes dream same! all same. See much in dream: see snare, see stick, see weodthuf, see blowanslaep; they not know before dream, but know after. See also shape, not Traeppedelfere, not Mocwalwian. Shape not talk, but they hear. 'I Waeccelang,' say shape. 'You not see, you not hear, but I with you,' say shape. 'Traeppedelfere not all die, Mocwalwian not all die, thriddahype, flotasaec, oxagrete, treowdwellan - nothing all die now,' say shape.
"Traeppedelfere wake, think of dream, talk for first time! say old tales. Hunt with snare and club, tribe grow, become strong. Even now, here in Great Hall, at Great Banquet, as great race, we remember gift of Waeccelang many, many long seasons past. Waeccelang save Traeppedelferes, and take nothing in return." Leornian slowly rose to his feet, and raised his arms dramatically, looking up into the distance. The Traeppedelferes rose with him, on cue. "Oh Waeccelang!" the old twatunge began, and the others joined in unison:
"Guardians, keepers of life,
Never sleep for Traeppedelferes.
Give, not take; sleep not, wake
To hear Traeppedelfere call:
We call Waeccelang one day again,
To return old gift of life."
Smaelaer, along with nearly every other Traeppedelfere, chanted with Leornian the old pledge to the Waeccelang. For the rest of the race it was a ritual signifying only the end of the Giestranweard's dull history lesson and no more, a mechanical recitation forgotten the moment it left their mouths. In past Banquets it had been the same to Smaelaer, but this time he heard it as if for the first time, and it brought tears to his eyes. The subliminal images of the Libbannawiht in the void; the vague references to his "mission," - "fulfilling your promise..." - then, "return old gift of life." It was as though he was picking up a few more pieces of the puzzle, but still didn't know, just didn't know...
The thrill of the chant gave way to a chill down the back of his neck. There was that feeling again! the one that he had felt back in the ravine in the Haunted Lands, that presentiment of being watched. He whirled around instinctively and looked directly into the eyes of a comely young antunge standing right behind him. She smiled. He looked past her, searching the faces, searching the dim Hall; for what, exactly, he could not tell. But the eerie feeling was gone, and he looked to her again. She smiled again, and reached out, touching his face with her fingertips. "Smaelaer," he introduced himself.
"Um, I know!" she replied. "Niwesliefe."
Smaelaer was reaching out to touch her cheek in return, when Smerian brought his attention back to the proceedings with a sharp blow to the ribs. "Tungebunge later!" he admonished. "But soon!" he added, waving his eyebrows.
The lights in the Hall were being rekindled, and Goffe was standing with his arms raised again. When Leornian had been helped back to his place, Goffe motioned for everyone to sit. "Feast start now!" he cried, and the roar of approval was deafening.
First came the casks of wine, the blowantreow fruit cider, rolled out of the warehouse at the end of the Hall and from storage alcoves just outside the two entrances at the other end. Empty water-bladders were filled at the taps and passed out to eager hands, and as soon as one cask was dryge another was tapped to replace it. Smerian filled both his skins (having had the foresight to drain the water out before entering the Hall) and Smaelaer had not forgotten his great hunter's bladder, which probably held as much as Smerian's two. In the confusion of the good-natured jostling for position around the casks, Smaelaer felt two soft hands slide around his waist and a warm, soft pressure on his back as Niwesliefe provocatively hugged him from behind.
"Share blowanslaep?" she asked, as Smaelaer turned in her embrace to face her. It seemed to him an outstanding suggestion.
As soon as the throngs around the various casks in the Hall began to thin out, serving carts were wheeled down the aisles, laden with weodthuf, berries, and all foods to be found and gathered in the forest and prepared in every imaginable way. These were momentarily attacked by a few, but most of the Traeppedelfere were saving their appetites for what they had heard was yet to come. More serving carts appeared, direct from the firepits of the kitchens, piled with steaming slabs of thriddahype meat, only to be met with a similar unenthusiastic response. The word was out, of course, that there would be oxagrete at this Great Banquet, and the Traeppedelferes were slavering in anticipation.
Oxagretes, wild, strong and wayward, were considered not as game, but as a hazard by the hunters. The wise ones shunned them (Penigsaec); attempts to intentionally kill them invariably ended in disaster (Hefighon). Nevertheless on exceedingly rare occasions one would be found accidentally killed in a landslide, or starved with its horns hopelessly caught in the branches of a blowantreow. Once, the tales told, one had been caught in a particularly well-laid snare, and had broken its own neck in its frenzied attempts to free itself. But these instances were few and far between, and there were only a few in the Great Hall at this banquet who had tasted oxagrete in their lives. Leornian, certainly, and the three Maegenyldras, and perhaps Waetanswefn, and Haegtesse. There may have been a few others; the point is: roast oxagrete was a once-in-a-lifetime meal.
But its rarity was not its only attraction: oxagrete meat was exceptionally delicious. Sweet, juicy, tender, and plentiful, it put the somewhat sinewy roast thriddahype to shame. The oxagretes were long-lived, having virtually no natural enemies, and grazed for long seasons on the ripe blowanslaep. Whatever intoxicating effects that fruit had on others were unvisited upon the huge beasts, but the Traeppedelferes had discovered that they felt those effects upon eating the meat. So not only did the meat satisfy their hunger, but it made them saelig as well.
The crowd was impatient, now, for a taste of this promised treat, among other things, and was getting a little rowdy as well as a little randy. Someone started heckling; somewhere else an antunge started a chant, soon joined by many loud voices and growing to a thunderous roar: "OX-agrete, OX-agrete, OX-agrete, OX-agrete..." The cooks and their helpers knew there was nothing else for it but to serve what they had hoped to make their triumphant final course a few courses early, and unloaded the thriddahype steaks to make room for the oxagrete meat.
The savor of the new dish was immediately noticed by the keen senses of the Traeppedelferes the moment it was wheeled out, and a great cheer rang out. The tumult was instantaneous and, while not exactly violent, strenuous. Goffe, attempting to preserve for the Yldras their perquisite of being served first, stood and raised his arms in token of silence. He was utterly and totally ignored, much to his ire, and much to the amusement of Cwidu and Bicce. The first carts were emptied before they had got very far from the kitchens; the trenchers were loaded greedily and hoarded over miserly. The next wave of serving carts advanced a little further; the next, a little further still, until finally the entire populace had been fed, including the disgruntled Yldras, and there was still oxagrete meat to be had.
The agitation of the revelers subsided as their stomachs were filled and the wine took its toll, and the (at least partially) satisfied hedonists looked up from their trenchers. Smaelaer and Niwesliefe (under the amused but approving eye of Smerian) sat facing each other, legs intertwined, feeding each other the last few bits from their plates with their fingers (which is what everyone used), sucking in and licking up the last remnants of broth with more enthusiasm than the flavor alone called for. Empty carts were cleared away, even the thriddahype roast was slowly disappearing, the wine casks were still in immoderate use, and the tribe to a Traeppedelfere was queuing up and settling down to a long night (or so) of debauchery.
Things were getting fuzzy.
Somewhere across the Hall a grateful and artificially emboldened twatunge stood and cheered: "Smaelaer, Smaelaer, Smaelaer, Smaelaer!" The croud was siezed by the idea; they suddenly had to see their hero, to hear him, to thank him. Some began spreading the idea that the oxagrete feast would become an everyday event, now that they had got such a great hunter, and to them, in their more than slightly saelig state, nothing seemed impossible for the mighty Smaelaer. Goffe rose again and, spying Smaelaer where he sat, motioned for him to come to the dais. Smaelaer, for his part, was acutely embarrassed, and suddenly afraid. Niwesliefe, though, was genuinely thrilled and not at all hesitant to share the attention focused on Smaelaer. She stood, pulling him by the arm toward the dais, and he reluctantly followed, to the delight of the chanting Traeppedelferes.
Goffe signalled for Smaelaer to climb the stage, and as he did so (a little unsteadily, and followed closely by Niwesliefe) Goffe said to him in a low voice, "Say nothing of me. Say few words. Speak with care." The Yldras were all suffering varying degrees of irritation: none of them (the leaders of the race!) had ever received such an ovation. The Traeppedelferes did not notice the Yldras, though; all eyes were riveted on Smaelaer as he stepped up onto the center platform, glancing around nervously at the huge gathering, wondering what to say. What did Goffe mean, speak with care? The crowd hushed to hear; those who had stood reseated themselves. Smaelaer was sweating; Niwesliefe, beaming, squeezed his hand; the hair on the nape of his neck stood with a sudden chill.
An awkward silence blanketed the Hall. Smaelaer felt like he had been stricken deaf. What could he say? Goffe did not want to be mentioned, for some reason. He heard in his mind: "Reveal to no one in spoken words..." The Hall was swirling before his eyes.
At last he spoke. "Traeppedelfere great race!" The deafness was lifted; universal approbation shook the mountain. "I thank antunges, thank twatunges, for cheers." The riotous ovation rattled the dais. The Yldras glanced nervously at each other. "Smaelaer glad to bring oxagretes to Great Banquet," he lied, remembering how nauseated he had been at the butchering. The crowd, though, went absolutely berserk with glee, and their applause and hurrahs reflected the mood. Smaelaer was becoming more and more uncomfortable, along with the Yldras. The reaction of the drunken crowd was all out of proportion to anything he had said, and he felt the weight of impending disaster in the air. "Smaelaer not deserve this honor." More cheers, but a few in the audience good-naturedly disagreed. "Smaelaer not great as you think!" Some of the listeners actually hooted their disbelief of this contention, but most of the crowd stood with slightly puzzled looks. Humility was not a wide-spread Traeppedelferean trait.
Smaelaer began to breathe hard. This was impossible. He blinked his eyes, trying to clear his blurred vision, and when he reopened them he saw a familiar shape in the back against the wall of the great Hall, behind the seated audience. He couldn't believe his eyes. He blinked again, and shook his head. Niwesliefe looked up at his face curiously. Old Waetanswefn stood and made a rolling motion to the crowd with his hand, to indicate that perhaps Smaelaer had had a little wine, and they laughed. Goffe turned to Smaelaer and he, with Waetanswefn, reached up to help the tongue-tied hunter step down. But Smaelaer kept his eyes trained on the figure standing against the wall. "What is it?" asked Niwesliefe, squinting in that direction. "What you see?"
A voice in his head said, "Don't say a word! They can't understand!" and Smaelaer answered in thought, "But they believe in you! Why can't I tell them?"
The voice responded, "Don't do it! At your peril, don't say a word!"
The onlookers had become strangely quiet while they witnessed Smaelaer's odd behavior. Many were trying to follow his line of sight to the back wall, without any satisfaction. Goffe was pulling Smaelaer's hand, Niwesliefe was pulling the other as they tried to coax him down, and Waetanswefn asked him again, "What you see?" The lights danced in his eyes; his limbs had a strange, but somehow familiar elastic bloated feeling about them; he swallowed hard, twice, and spoke without taking his eyes away from their target.
"Waeccelang! Waeccelang from Haunted Lands, in Hall! Look, look; Waeccelang there, near wall. Look!" Smaelaer pulled his hand away from Goffe and pointed. Goffe, Waetanswefn, Niwesliefe, all the Yldras, and all who heard this startling speech looked in amazement at the place Smaelaer was pointing to.
They could see nothing but the wall.
"They can not hear me," said the voice, "they can not see me. You are the first. You alone can see me; you can hear me, but you do not listen. I am sorry, but you are not ready. We must wait."
Smaelaer's head spun endlessly as they led him from the dais. What was the Waeccelang doing there? Why didn't anyone believe him? Waetanswefn was saying something to Niwesliefe, "Make him forget, um? He great hunter, um? Stay with him."
The entire Hall was humming with debate over Smaelaer's unconventional address. The general concensus was that he had taken too much of what he should have had less. A few remarked on the well-known quirks of hunters as a group, while the majority pressed to get on with the Banquet. This opinion quickly prevailed: it was time to bepraise the Wrencanmodor. The Yldras, and particularly Goffe, were highly troubled by Smaelaer's ravings. Such wild claims could not pass undebated, especially when made by such a popular, and thus potentially powerful, figure as Smaelaer had become in such a short time. There was sure to be discussion of this at the upcoming Yldramot.
For the moment, though, other matters prevailed. Goffe stood, raising his arms, and this time the Traeppedelferes, in anticipation, obeyed his call for silence. The lights were again dimmed, the pelts and skins were laid out on the floor until the entire Hall was carpeted with fur and soft leather.
"Now!" squawked Goffe. "Hail Wrencanmodor!"
The din which greeted the commencement of the feast, and even the riot caused by Smaelaer, was insignificant compared to the uproarious celebration which now shook the place. Pairs of Traeppedelferes danced and leaped; hands waved in the air, hair waved on heads. What little covering the antunges and twatunges had worn to begin with was removed and tossed about like so much detritus, and through all the mad cavorting marched the stately procession of the high priestess of this event, the Wrencanmodor, Haegtesse, led by her assistants, the morwemodors. They slowly mounted the dais and, replacing the Yldras, who had joined the throng to take part in the celebration, the morwemodors sat in a circle around the platform, on which they had placed a chair. Haegtesse, last, stepped with difficulty (but disdainfully refusing any help) up onto the raised platform.
She haughtily surveyed her domain. A lusty rabble they now appeared, and no mistake - those who had already paired off were pushing their way to the front to try to catch the Wrencanmodor's attention as soon as possible. Others, perhaps leaving becumanfisc to a later time when Haegtesse would be less occupied, were already making use of their pelts and every description of appendage. The whole floor of the Hall was covered with writhing forms in all manner of combination, oblivious to critics and admirers alike. Every imaginable application of digits was already tuning up this orchestra when the conductor, Haegtesse, raised her metal-tipped baton.
"Becumanfisc!" she barked, and immediately began to scan the forest of faces before her.
Haegtesse weilded her baton with consumate skill, pointing to a couple and affirming their choice with a nod of her head, or denying it by shaking her stick quickly from side to side. Smaelaer and Niwesliefe received a nod, and soon Smaelaer forgot the troubles of his celebrity as his attentions collapsed to a more intense focus. Niwesliefe, also, slid out from under her disappointment in Smaelaer's awkward moment, and their beings merged smoothly in the sweet oblivion of becumanfisc.
The Great Hall steamed with the lingering scents of the feast, with the uneven breathing of the entranced sensualists, with the smoke of the dying lamps and flares; all swirling together in the murky atmosphere. Casks of wine were still occasionally being tapped; Smerian, for one, had an unquenchable thirst, and he was not alone; and re-stocked food carts were brought out from time to time - but for the most part the Great Banquet was over for another season. The becumanfisc would continue for some time, however, until pair by pair the couples would gasp in a sudden convulsion, and pass out in each others' arms, exhausted, to sleep for a day, or longer.
The Waeccelang stood against the wall far into the night, watching, before walking to the door, and then out away from the mines, unnoticed.
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