Part Two
Chapter 9
THE MORWETRAEPPES' CABIN
T he sceadutreow leaves were ever so slowly beginning to curl as dusk fell suddenly on the slopes. It was a cloudless evening, and the sunlight was suddenly snuffed out by the long shadows of the mountains like a candle flame by a raindrop. The warm air flooded the new morwetraeppe with a dizzying blend of scents and tastes as he made his way back to the cabin, and the night-songs of the treowdwellan rose in a throbbing swell. He broke into a loping trot.
The shadows had disappeared, engulfed in the shade of the mountains, and that irritating intermediate light resulted: too dim to leave the inner lids closed but still too bright to open them comfortably. He opened his anyway, and tried to shade his eyes with his hand as he jogged along. He was eager to get back.
Suddenly a good-sized grunddwellan came out of nowhere to cross the path right under his running feet, apparently as oblivious to his approach as he was of it. Before either could react, the morwetraeppe tripped over the grunddwellan, kicking it with some force and himself falling down on the trail. He picked himself up and turned to see just what had tripped him.
On the path behind him lay the grunddwellan, stunned, the breath knocked out of it, struggling for air. He suddenly pitied the small creature, and went to it on his knees.
"Not see you! Sorry, I not mean to hurt you," he said to the creature in an effort to soothe it. He stroked the soft skin on its back and the short fur on its head. "You be better soon."
The grunddwellan lifted its terrified eyes, and something in them affected the morwetraeppe. Those eyes were so intense, so expressive, so alive, they spoke to him clearly and directly. It was almost as if he shared the creature's pain and fear; but only momentarily, for that pain soon melted away, and that fear proved unfounded. The grunddwellan breathed more easily, but made no effort to look away, or to escape.
"See! You better!" exclaimed the apprentice hunter. He set the creature down. "You go on down mountain now."
The little thing again looked directly into his eyes. Such is that fleeting image that never pales. Turning away, it scurried off the trail into the weodasur and was gone.
The morwetraeppe had never before held a living thing in his hands. It gave him a strange feeling. Even as he realized that he could easily have broken it in half to be thrown into the pot at the cabin, at that passing moment of eye contact he had the weird sensation that it just as easily could have been himself, somehow, instead of this grunddwellan, in the grasp of a much more powerful enemy. What could he have done? It was with great relief and satisfaction that he watched it disappear into the undergrowth.
Two hands' seasons had passed since the Great Oxagrete Feast. The reign of the Yldras was measured by the celebrations of the great events, and the lives of the Traeppedelferes by the products of their toils. But to the young morwetraeppe, time could only be understood as the wait remaining to be made a hunter.
His whole life had consisted of talk of hunting, and play at hunting, and boasting of future kills, and practice, practice, practice at snare-setting, fire-lighting, knife-sharpening, scent-tasting, tracking, stalking, silent running, foraging... the many subtle skills crucial to the successful hunter. Now, at the end of his first "run" as a morwetraeppe (a jaunt of three days) he was ready, he thought, to shoulder a pack and strap on a knife and head for the high country. Even though he had only just been named morwetraeppe, he felt like a hunter, he would soon be a hunter; for all practical purposes he was a hunter! and that's all there was to it.
These last three days and two nights had done nothing to diminish his confidence. It had been exhilarating. He had been sent out with nothing but a water-bladder and a set of spearcastans, and instructions to retrieve three shaped stones placed at key points along the trail, and not to return before sunset on the third day. He had seen older morwetraeppes return from their first runs scratched and bruised, exhausted, and famished. For hand-days before his departure he had been brow-beaten with the message that this would be a sore test of his skills, that this run was something to dread, a never-ending torturous nightmare of starvation, exposure, and exhaustion. Everyone at the cabin said so. This was the morwetraeppes' rite of passage, after which everything came easy.
But for Monwyrt it had been nothing at all. He was swift and sure-footed, and had covered the ground between the guidestones quickly, and by the second noon had collected all three and was wondering if there weren't others that they had forgotten to tell him about. He tore up the weodthuf as he passed and ate it on the trot, pausing only to refill his water-skin whenever he crossed a spring or stream. The tinder was dry and leaped into flame at the touch of his spearcastan, and he stayed warm at night while he studied the unnumbered multicolored stars. He fell asleep mesmerized by the throbbing evening lullaby of the treowdwellan, and arose to their rousing dawn alarm. The solitude which had destroyed many a budding morwetraeppe held no terror for him; indeed, he was struck by the almost incessant noise of the forest as he heard it seemingly for the first time, after living in it all his life, and after hearing so many Traeppedelferes complain about its eerie silence.
No, Monwyrt had no trouble at all making his first run. The time had been filled with a knife-edge sweetness, an altogether fresh and bracing blend of anticipation, exploration, uncertainty, independence, and confidence. From the moment he turned his back on the cabin three days ago he had been thrilled with this feeling that he could not explain; it made no sense to him, he had not expected it and had never heard another describe anything like it. It was a sense of belonging in the forest, of being a part of it somehow, and not a raider sent to plunder it. Alone on the slopes Monwyrt had been responsible for his own movements, and this powerful feeling of freedom somehow managed to combine with the sense of being only a small part of a limitless whole, to result in an exciting and intoxicating headiness unprecedented in Monwyrt's experience.
But then, a great many things could be said to be outside Monwyrt's experience.
He was, after all, a mere cild, only two hands seasons old, and cognizant of only the immediate components of his life. What had happened yesterday was gone, and what would happen tomorrow would happen tomorrow; therefore look out for now. Monwyrt could rivet his attention on a sceadutreow bole that he was trying to hit with stones, for example, in a way that totally excluded everything else from his mind until he tired of it and turned to something else. Even during the last minutes of the most important event of his life to that point, his first run, he could completely forget it for a while to pick up a grunddwellan which crossed his path by chance. This was not because of any lack of conviction or determination on his part, but only, perhaps, evidence of the carpe diem of youth.
Monwyrt watched the rustle of the leaves marking the progress of the grunddwellan down the slope. Suddenly he remembered what he was about, and noticed that the shadows were rapidly deepening. He resumed his loping pace through the forest.
The morwetraeppes' cabin was originally built as a simple one-room structure on the side of the mountain. When the decision had been made that the morwetraeppes should remain outside the caves as long as their training lasted, the small cabin had to be enlarged. Rather than add to the structure, the Traeppedelferes enlarged it in the way most natural to them: by carving into the side of the mountain directly behind the cabin. Thus it was that the cabin appeared to be no more than a hut built against the wall of a cliff, but was actually a large hall, all on one level, cut into the mountainside.
Inside, pandemonium reigned. The morwetraeppes and the cilds too young to be morwetraeppes were at play (hunting one another), dodging, racing, and shouting at each other in gleeful abandon. Their lessons done, their chores finished, and their meal eaten, they used the last failing daylight to boisterous advantage, until the cabin became altogether too dark even for Traeppedelferes to be able to see well enough to confidently run full tilt across a floor surrounded by stone walls.
In the front, near the door, under the old roof of the original cabin, at a table illuminated by a fyrstan lamp, sat the three older hunters charged with the task of instructing these future hunters. Fearthabraegen, the old master, looked back at the rowdy youngsters and sighed. Such a riot! Still, there was nothing for it; they would run off their excitement a little, and sleep better for it later, which meant that he would also sleep better for it later.
Galan, the new master, rubbed his leg. He had been an excellent hunter before his leg had been broken in a rockslide, and it pained him yet from time to time, even a season later. It had been a blow to him to give up hunting, but he had to: he was quite lame and had to use a staff to support himself as he hobbled about the cabin.
The third was Ceappraett, an antunge recently named hunter, but staying on to help Galan (oh, um - and Fearthabraegan). Not so long ago she had been one of the cavorting crew in the back, as impossible as that seemed to her now. Some of the older morwetraeppes remembered well her days there. Consequently she had great difficulty imposing her authority over them now as an instructor, and constantly had to call Galan over to pull them back into line. Galan held the respect of all the youths, his lameness notwithstanding. He brooked no back-talk, and his punishment was swift and memorable (he could use that staff for more than a crutch!), but he also treated the morwetraeppes with fairness and kindness, which in the spartan environment of the young Traeppedelferes were rare and appreciated qualities.
Despite the noise in the cabin, the three instructors jumped in alarm and whirled in their seats when the door slammed down behind them. There appeared Monwyrt, returning in triumph. He sauntered across the threshold, tossed the three guidestones onto the table with a flourish of his hand, and stood there as if awaiting accolades.
"Sunset," observed Galan, glancing outside through the open door. "Good. Sit." He directed Ceappraett to get the youngsters quieted for the evening, then turned to question Monwyrt.
"You hunger now? We get food."
"No, not hunger. Eat three days long!" answered Monwyrt, exaggerating somewhat. Galan and Fearthabraegen exchanged surprised glances. Not hungry after his first run! Galan, who knew Monwyrt to be a good student, smiled. Fearthabraegen immediately suspected cheating.
"What you eat?" Fearthabraegen asked sharply. "Who help?"
"No one help!" Monwyrt jumped to his feet in indignation. He had expected praise, not indictment. "Eat weodthuf, drink water, eat berries, drink water. No help!"
"Sit," said Galan again, in his authoritative but soothing voice. "Now, when you find guidestones? Where? You taste thriddahype? Where? Treowdwellan? Grunddwellan? Where?" Galan patiently went through the long list of questions and listened to the enthusiastic (sometimes heated) answers without comment, occasionally looking over to check Fearthabraegen's face for signs of any reaction. Monwyrt felt he was being not debriefed but browbeaten, and was getting more irritated and frustrated all the time.
"Did you feel drygeslaep on your run?" Galan was referring to the hunter's bane; loneliness, homesickness for the mines, the race's instinctive dread of solitude. More morwetraeppes failed to be named hunter for this reason than for all the other reasons combined, and he had purposely saved this question for last.
"Drygeslaep! drygeslaep! no such thing!" Monwyrt declared contemptuously. "Run is joy, run is - ." He vainly groped for words to express some rough approximation of the sense of release he had felt. "Run is - oh! Hair curl and blow, legs run, eyes see, ears hear, tongue taste! When hunger, eat; when thirst, drink. Day warm, night cool, want nothing. No drygeslaep in forest! Never alone in forest; voice of forest now loud, now soft, but always call, always there. More voices in forest always than in cabin now!"
Fearthabraegen incredulously raised his eyebrows at this claim. As an old hunter, he was of course familiar with the sounds of the forest, but it was difficult to imagine there being any place noisier than the inside of the cabin just then. The morwetraeppes and cilds were mercilessly taunting poor Ceappraett and her efforts to bring them into control, and had brought her nearly to her breaking point.
Two or more of the bolder miscreants would sneeringly deride her to her face (making sure they stayed just out of her reach) while another would sneak up behind and pinch her backside viciously then quickly jump away. Infuriated, Ceappraett would whirl to accost her attacker, and the roles would change, and someone else would sneak up behind and pinch her again. Then they would all laugh gaily, and point, and laugh some more, and Ceappraett would steam in her own juices, to their further delight.
Eventually the level of anger and frustration they had been trying to drive her to would be achieved, and she couldn't stand it another moment. Clenching her fists at her sides, she would throw her head back and call Galan to come and rescue her. In a long plaintive desperate howl she would cry out, "Galan!" Her tormentors would go completely silent (for effect) just until the echoes of that wail had died, and then in unison mimic her cry right down to the same facial expression in one deafening roar, "GALAN!" and erupt in convulsions of laughter.
Ceappraett endured this humiliation night after night. She hated having to rely on Galan all the time, and didn't like to interrupt him when he was busy, but she was helpless against the heartless brats, and they knew it. This evening, she told herself, it would be different. She wasn't going to let them get the upper hand, she would refuse to cave in and call for help, they would listen to her or live to regret it...
Galan looked across the table and noted Fearthabraegen's eyebrows, and turned back to Monwyrt. "Good," he said simply. "No drygeslaep." Another thought occurred to him. "Give me spearcastans."
Puzzled by this request, Monwyrt untied the small pouch dangling on his water-thong and put it on the table. Galan dumped its contents into his hand and began to inspect and smell the striking stones. Raising his voice a little to make himself heard, he asked Monwyrt suddenly, "How many fires?"
"Two," he answered, still puzzled. Naturally, two! One each night. Why was he asking that? Galan looked to Fearthabraegen again; and then all three of them had their attention suddenly stolen away.
"Galan!"
"GALAN!"
Galan looked out the open door. It was by now completely dark outside. "She do better tonight," he said to Fearthabraegen, picking up his staff and getting up with a pained grimace. "Ugh! Sit too long!" He hobbled back toward Ceappraett.
The urchins had had their sport, and they knew that the fun was over. On Galan's approach they quickly quieted down as much from the realization that they could do no further damage as from the fear of chastisement from him, but in any case, the result was the same, and order was restored. The guilty were assigned extra cabin chores for the next day (some knew they were next in line for this duty anyway, and that had influenced their participation in the frolic), and the rest were roundly scolded. Galan's voice was exceptionally commanding and resonant, especially there in the cave, and the little buggers were chided into remorse in spite of themselves, even if it was only a remorse that, unfortunately for Ceappraett, was almost certain to die an unmourned death with the next sunrise.
Monwyrt turned to Fearthabraegen. "What you think?" he asked under his breath (the new calm in the cabin was almost oppressive). "I do well on run, um? I named hunter soon, um?" His eyes were wide and shining, so sure was he of his success. Fearthabraegen eyed him coolly beneath lowered lids.
"Why have morwetraeppes?" he asked Monwyrt, out of the blue.
"To train to be hunters," Monwyrt answered matter-of-factly.
"Um. I thought you give that answer," said the old master. "Why Galan ask about spearcastans?"
Monwyrt was silent. He didn't know. He had assumed that the speacastans had been issued him for him to strike campfires for warmth and protection at night, and that is what he had used them for. They had given him no special instructions for their use, and it hadn't occurred to him that part of the reason for the run was to test his initiative as well as his endurance and skill. Galan limped back to the table with Ceappraett, as the students prepared for sleep.
"Galan," Monwyrt said, "I am ready to be named hunter. How long must I be morwetraeppe?"
Galan chuckled at Monwyrt's cheek and winced at the ache in his leg as he sat, all at the same time. "I think," he said to Fearthabraegen, "rain tomorrow." He settled himself in the the seat and addressed Monwyrt. "Um. You ready to be named hunter, but not ready to be hunter. No. You have no skill with knife, you have little skill with snare. And most important thing you need to be hunter you also have not. Many, many days alone in forest. No. Not named hunter soon."
Monwyrt was crushed. He knew, of course, that all hunters first trained long, sometimes many seasons, as morwetraeppes. But his first run had been easy, and once he got the idea in his head that he was so exceptional he deserved immediate promotion he couldn't shake it out, and didn't want to, until now. Galan went on.
"Don't feel bad. You do well for first run. Remember hunters need good morwetraeppes, and you will make good morwetraeppe."
"Will make?" Monwyrt jumped up again. "Will make? Am good morwetraeppe now!"
Fearthabraegen said, "You say morwetraeppes train to be hunters. You forget reason for morwetraeppe run is to help hunter."
"Sit," Galan said to Monwyrt again. "You leave cabin on run with only two things. What two?"
"Spearcastans and water-bladder."
"Why spearcastans?"
"Set fire."
"Um, set fire. Why water-bladder?"
"So not thirst."
"Um, not thirst, but another reason. You know?"
Monwyrt thought a moment, then remembered. "Put out fire."
"Um, good!" said Galan. "Spearcastan start fire, water-bladder stop fire. Duty of morwetraeppe is chase game to hunter. How chase game?"
"Smoke," answered Monwyrt sullenly.
"Um, smoke. How get smoke?"
"Set fire."
"Um. How set fire?"
Monwyrt was getting irritated with these infantile questions. "Spearcastan!" he spat, "Why you ask!"
Galan remained calm. "I say why. You say you taste game on run. You say you find guidestones soon, have whole day. But spearcastan come back new, you set only two fires, only for camp! No hunter will kill with your help! You make no smoke. So, I say to you, someday you make good morwetraeppe. Someday, when really ready, you make good hunter. Not now."
Monwyrt sat quietly. There was truth in what Galan said. He looked up at Fearthabraegen, then over at Galan. "So," he asked meekly, "when next run?"
Galan laughed. "Not know. Talk tomorrow. You prepare for sleep now. Oh, um," he added, pointing, as Monwyrt stood up, "shut door."
"No smoke! Ha, ha, good run, mocsaec!" Geoluscite reclined on his cot near the back of the cabin as Monwyrt set up his own nearby. "Even Fearthabraegen know that! Even little Hunigceace know that! Not Monwyrt! Ha, ha, ha."
Without speaking, Monwyrt turned and grabbed the side of Geoluscite's cot and unceremoniously dumped that flotasaec onto the hard floor, to the approval of all those nearby.
"No play!" boomed Galan, peering into the darkness toward the source of the racket. Fearthabraegen dragged his stool away from the table closer to the first row of cots, and sat down facing them.
This was Fearthabraegen's moment. He was irascible and gruff towards the cilds all day long, while he dictatorially supervised their drills. Although they tormented Ceappraett, she could forgive and joke with them, but Fearthabraegen's face remained cold and stony at all times, except sleep-time. It seemed that the old (to the youngsters) twatunge melted into a form more reassuring and less forbidding whenever he would pull that stool out and prepare to talk. To Fearthabraegen himself it was a relief of the soul, an excuse to drop the disciplinarian mantle and reach out to these youths, whom he had taught for seasons almost out of remembrance, and whose respect he daily demanded, and for whose affection (though he would never admit it even to himself) he genuinely yearned.
"What tale?" he asked, sitting upon the stool. The many ready replies returned at once. "Cnawannawiht Maciantol!" "Flotasaec Became Sun!" "Fisccild Yldra!" "Knife With Eyes!" and so on, simultaneously. They each had a favorite, and nothing like a concensus was reached until one of the morwetraeppes (the older cilds slept in the back) called out, "new tale!" and that request was immediately taken up by enough of the others that Fearthabraegen nodded his head and waved off all further suggestions. They pulled their pelts around themselves (Galan and Ceapraett checked on the very youngest ones) and settled into comfortable positions quietly, giving Fearthabraegen a little time to compose the beginning of his tale. In the hushed, dimly lit cabin, cozy in their snug pelts, some of the cilds fell asleep before he even began the tale. No matter; the good tales were always told again. He hit upon an idea he thought might amuse them, and paused to look around the cabin before he began.
Fearthabraegen smiled. This was just right: cots arranged in orderly rank and file according to age and advancement; and, above all, silence. Sighing a contented sigh, he began his tale.
The little ears drank in every word.
Fearthabraegen invented a character, an antunge, one hand seasons old ("That my age!" little Hunigceace exclaimed breathlessly), who had no name. She always knew when she was wanted, because no one would call, and she was the only Traeppedelfere with no name. The tiny ones wrinkled their brows at this absurd puzzle, but the morwetraeppes laughed, so then the little ones laughed, too.
This nameless wencel one day made her way into the forest, where she met all the forest creatures.
"Thriddahype?" blurted Hunigceace, who had tasted the scent of one, although she hadn't actually seen a live one yet.
"Hhss, quiet!" the others instantly scolded her.
Fearthabraegen knew he had their attention. "Um," he told her, "how you know? Very first one she meet was thriddahype!" Hunigceace's eyes glowed with pleasure, and her hair curled with excitement, and her little heart was thrilled with the attention and with her participation in the story. She held her breath and waited for it to go on.
The thriddahype asked the antunge who she was, and she replied that she had no name. Well, said the thriddahype ("Thriddahype talk! Ha!" scoffed Geoluscite. "Hhss!" he was warned), you must have a name, so I can tell my friends about you. I will call you Green Shoot!
The newly named Green Shoot picked up her new name and found it not too heavy, and took it with her through the forest, where soon she met a grunddwellan. The grunddwellan asked her her name, and she said she had no name, but the thriddahype had named her Green Shoot.
"Grunddwellan talk! Ha!"
"Hhsss!"
That name may be good enough for thriddahypes, said the creature, but it is not a polite name for us grunddwellans! I will call you Beautiful Blowantreow Blossom!
Hunigceace was really trying to be quiet, but the poetry of this name was just too much for her, and she dreamily sighed aloud without thinking, "Ooooh! Beautiful Blowantreow Blossom! Ooh!" Some of the listeners giggled at her "ooh"-ing, but she had expressed what many of them were feeling.
The little antunge with no name went on through the forest, and every creature she would meet would bestow her with a different name. Finally, she crossed a brook, and met the largest of all the forest creatures, the oxagrete, on the other side.
The listeners, to a body, shuddered under their pelts.
Of course the antunge was afraid, and worried that she might say the wrong thing.
The oxagrete snorted, and asked who she was. She trembled, and thought that it would not be wise to tell him she had no name, as he might think she was lying and take offense, and she was wise enough to know that one should never offend an oxagrete. So instead, she told him all of the new names given to her by the creatures of the forest, but she was so nervous that she ran them all together, and it sounded like one long name, and it took what seemed like half the day to say it, and she was out of breath when she finished.
Now, everyone knows that oxagretes are fierce, and strong, and fast. Not everyone knows that oxagretes are pretty stupid, too, though, and the oxagretes don't like for others to find out, either! So, when the antunge had finally finished telling him her name, he knew it was too complicated to pronounce himself, and too long to remember. In fact, he had forgotten the beginning of it even before she had reached the end. His eyes went red, and he snorted again, and he said she was trying to shame him, and he would wear her on his horns as punishment for that long name!
The poor little antunge fell to the ground, tears bulging out her inner lids, and begged the oxagrete to give her a new name, any name he liked, and she would always be known by that name forever, if only he would let her go. This appealed to the beast, it flattered him, and besides, it was awkward to go about with bodies on his horns, but for the life of him he couldn't force his slow brain to come up with a good name. He was getting angry again, and his eyes were getting reddish, when in frustration he shouted out that no name at all would be better than the one she had now!
Well, nothing could please the little antunge more! She had started the day with no name, it would be no trouble to finish it that way, too. Oh wise oxagrete, she said to the beast's complete shock, you are wise as no other creature!
No one had ever called the oxagrete wise before, and he suddenly listened to her with keen interest and pleasure. I will live by your order, she promised, and have no name forever, as punishment for arousing your wrath.
The oxagrete was immensely pleased with this, as you can imagine, and thundering, "So be it!" ran off to brag to his herd.
The antunge, as you can no doubt also imagine, decided it was time to leave the forest and return to the cabin, and she started to wade back across the brook. In the middle of the brook, the only creature in the forest she had not yet met, the wise truhthalig, rose to the surface of the water.
I heard everything, said the truhthalig to the little antunge. Do you really intend to go about without a name forever? Um, said the antunge, why not? I had no name my whole life until today. Well, said the wise truhthalig, that may be all well and good amongst your Traeppedelferes, but what will happen the next time you go into the forest, where the creatures all want you to have a name? And what will happen if you again meet the oxagrete? No, the truhthalig went on, you should have a name.
But I promised the oxagrete to use no name! the antunge argued. I do not wish to anger him above all! The wise truhthalig replied that that was of no concern. The oxagrete is strong in body but feeble in mind, she said, and by the time he reaches his herd he will have forgotten what it was he wanted to tell them, and probably why he even came.
The antunge then said that the truhthalig, who was so wise, should choose a name for her, and she replied that the antunge, being the one who must be pleased with it, and carry it, and remember it, should herself choose the name, and without waiting to learn what it would be, disappeared back beneath the water.
"So ends tale," Fearthabraegen teased the listeners.
An immediate chorus of protest rang out. "What name she choose?" cried out two hands voices (the loudest of which was Geoluscite's).
"Oh, um, what name?" Fearthabraegen mused. "She think of many names, but not like, until she think of one she like very much. What name? Hunigceace!"
From beneath a pelt in the middle of the cabin came a delighted squeal of joy, and everyone in the cabin smiled to themselves, thinking of that small thrilled antunge, now with a tale named exclusively after her.
Near the back, a very tired twatunge, who had recently been named morwetraeppe, and had just that evening finished his first run, did not hear the end of the tale, having fallen asleep upon lying down on his cot.
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