Heron. by hennethgalad

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Chapter 1

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                    Heron.

 

 

 

 

      There were two fires. The strong men sat around the largest fire, as close to the flame as they could endure, keeping at bay the cold of night, and the darkness. 

  They would skewer their kill on their spears, roasting the haunches over the open flames, while the sparse fat of deer or boar melted and dropped, hissing, onto the glowing wood. They jealously guarded their places by the fire, for in the bitter depths of winter, a place at the hearth could be all that kept life in the flesh. 

 

  At the other fire, the women made food, and the children, and the weaker men gathered, huddling together for warmth. The women worked endlessly, gathering herb and berry, nut and root, grinding the mush for the infants and mixing it into small flat cakes for those with teeth. When the cakes were formed, the woman of the strongest man, which was my mother, would cautiously approach my father, holding the wooden shovel, kept always in water, in one trembling hand.

   For she knew well the true cause of the flight of our kindred over the mountains, which we have never told to the Fair Ones who came to us here in the Land of Rivers.    

   

   It was in the time before my birth, when even Beor the Old was young, that his mother became enraged with his father. But the tradition of our people had ever been that the deeds of the strong were true deeds, and only greater strength could challenge them. Thus, my father watched, a helpless child, as his father, insulted by the rage of his woman, thrust her into the fire. The strong men had pointed their spears inwards as she struggled, screaming, in the flames, until she finally threw herself onto the spear of my grandfather, who pinned her down in the flame and watched her die in agony. 

  No word of rebuke was offered to my grandfather, his deed was true, the men had ever guarded their seats at the fire with violence, and the warnings sung by the women, and the men of the small fire, burned into the mind of my father with new truth, and silenced the words he had been wont to share with his father. 

 

  But the spirit of my father was strong, and he grew swift and tall, and was young indeed when first he slew his hart, and dragged the lolling carcass back to the fire, to be greeted with cheers, and welcomed to the side of the hearth. The old man who lost his seat, limping already from the gnarling hands of time, came slowly across the clearing to where the women and children waited with narrowed eyes. 

  But my father, sitting proudly at the hearth, watched my grandfather across the flames in silence.

 

   And so, the woman of the strongest man, her courage a matter of song, would wait behind him, until grudgingly he moved aside, and let her use the shovel, scooping up the hearthstone, hot as the mans fire, and carefully carrying it across to the small fire, where the women waited, with their cakes piled on leaves, to cook them on the hot stone, making the outsides crisp and golden, turning the dull food of infancy into the delicious meals we love today. The hot hearts of burning embers were placed on the hearthstone, then scraped off, to keep the surface hot, and lend a smoky, ashy flavour to the cakes, that cannot be found in those foods we cook in the metal 'stones' that the Fair Folk gave to us. Indeed, I sometimes miss the time of fires, if only for the taste of my youth.

 

  But my father watched at the fire, watched children cuffed away, and the old who froze to death at the remains of the small fire, when the women slept, huddled around their children. My father watched the women bringing great bundles of wood for the men, who would laugh and toss them the bones and parts of the beasts that they chose not to eat. And the women would strip the scraps of flesh from the bones, and skewer them on wet sticks, to make treats for us children, roasting the scraps on our own small fire, gathered by the hands of those who were not yet permitted to gather food. For the gathering of food was a serious business, and I myself spent much of my childhood in merely learning the songs of the herbs, gathering up fallen branches and twigs, while the careful hands of my mother picked the mushrooms, leaves and herbs that could be eaten, or used by healers to treat sickness, or wounds. But my father brooded as he watched, remembering the screams of his mother, as his father laughed, and took another woman to be his mate.

 

  Yet even my father cannot say what he would have done, as the delight of the warmth of the hearth, and the approval of the strong men eased the pain of his grief. His standing among the people was changed forever, and the young women, some far older than him, began to turn their eyes sideways to him, with secret smiles. But she whom now we call Snake was of an age with my father, and she is tall, and strong, her pale-blue eyes like the sky with thin white clouds scattered high on its face. Snake is swift, and cunning, but her voice is loud, and in her heart she has the courage of a strong man. 

 

  It happened that Snake, gathering fruit in the branches of a tree, came upon a great serpent, as long as a man is tall, and as thick as a leg. The women and children climbed into the trees, screaming with fear, and Snake took her sharp digging stick, and held it steadily in her hand, watching the flickering tongue of the serpent taste the air as it quested for prey. To the horror of all, an infant crawled out from under a bramble and cooed at the serpent, which turned its smooth pointed head, the black eyes gleaming like wet charcoal. Snake felt cold fear and black horror, the thought of the serpent, crushing and swallowing the child, was more than she could bear. She leaped down from the tree and pounced on the serpent, which turned to meet her, wrapping the great coils of its body around her arm and legs, finding her an even tastier meal than the infant, who fled, screaming, until its mother scooped it up and scrambled back up the tree where she had hidden.

  But none came to the aid of Snake, thinking her mad, and they watched in silence as she struggled to breathe in the choking clasp of the powerful serpent. But Snake was strong, and cunning, and wrested free her arm, and stabbed the serpent behind its eyes, grinding the digging stick deep into the small, patterned head, until the serpent went still, and hung limp in her arms. She shouted then, Snake, a great howl of triumph and life, and the people poured out of the trees, and gathered around her, and reached out their hands to touch her for luck. And Snake she became ever after, and to the dismay of many of the men, Snake took a seat at the hearth, close to the flame.

 

 It was the presence of Snake by the fire that caused the trouble. Angry words were spoken, back and forth, for years, until at last my father, who admired the courage and swiftness of Snake, and knew her wisdom, felt strong enough to challenge the will of his father. They fought, in the end, and it was close, but my father was defeated, for my grandfather is a giant among men, mighty beyond all hope of defeat, unless by death itself. 

 And Snake came to my father as his wounds were treated, and she spoke to him.

   "I would cross the mountains, Bear. I would follow you, and cross the mountains, and it may be that there we can find new lands, and new lives, and make a home for ourselves. Far from..."

   "Far from my father ?" 

   Snake nodded, looking knowingly into the eyes of my father, as they remembered the death of my grandmother. "There are many among the younger folk, those without children yet, who would follow you. Your mother was loved, Bear, by kin and friend alike, and I shared my secrets with her when I was younger, and she was ever kind to me." She sighed, and from her pouch took out a belt, made from the hide of the serpent she had slain. She offered it to my father, as proof of her support for him. He wears it still, even among the Fair Folk, to whom he has given his heart.

 

   So it was that we crossed the mountains. And here, in the Land of Rivers, I had my own small adventure, in the time before the Fair One came, whom they name Finrod, whose yellow hair shines by sun and moon, and whose bright eyes scorch the unwary. 

 

   I was in quest of my first kill, still kicking my heels among the children at the small fire, bringing in rabbits but little more, and watching Baran, my brother, feasting on deer with the other strong men. It was galling, and my mouth watered as the scent, but little else, came over the clearing. My heart was bitter that the crossing of the mountains had made so little difference to our lives, but Snake smiled her knowing smile and said she had seen visions of the future as the serpent choked her, and that the visions had given her hope and purpose. She had known, in an instant, that if she slew the serpent, a very different future could be had, and the hope rose in her of a life free from the tyranny of the cold.

 

  But her words meant little to me as I lay alone in the dark by the cooling embers, and roamed ever further afield in search of wood to burn. 

  I came, then, upon the shores of the mightiest river I had ever seen, though the old ones sing of a greater river, back beyond the mountains. I stood on the shore of the wide, swift water, watching the birds feed, and the beasts drink, and I thought of fish, and stepped forth into the cold water. The fish played about my ankles, shoals of small, sleek creatures, speckled brown and grey like the pebbles underfoot. But I waded past them, til the water thrust against my thighs, and I stood, still as the heron, my spear poised like her beak, and I waited.

 

  The first fish slipped away, but the second seemed eager to see what manner of creature I was, for it nosed about my legs as though to eat me. I stabbed down, and caught the fish on my spear, but its great strength wrested the stick from my hands, and I lost my balance and fell, face-down, into the cold water.

  The shock of the cold was stunning, I lost my breath, though it may be that this saved me, for I would have screamed in fear, and swallowed half the river. But I came thrashing to the surface, and looked around in horror. The swift current of the river had borne me in its hastening arms, far beyond the reckoning of our people, in only the few moments I had been under the water, or fighting for breath. And though some of our folk can swim, moving through the water like sad mockeries of the grace of the fish, I myself have never learned the skill. But I struggled to master the current, and though I could not reach the shore, I yet found myself able to hold my head above the water, and hoped that shallows, or an overhanging branch, would save me.

   And after a time a voice called to me, and in a tree hanging far out over the stream, a lad as young as I lay along a branch, holding his own spear down into the water for me. I struggled towards it, and gripped the spear of the stranger with tears of joy in my eyes, it was the first thing I had touched but water since the wounded fish took my own spear from my hand. The stranger moved carefully along the branch, shuffling backwards, his knees gripping the rough mossy bark, both hands clutching the spear that held me, dragging me with him to the pebbles of the shallows. We could not speak at first, but fell to the shore, gasping for breath.

   I was as wet as a fish, and his hands were blistered and bleeding, his thighs torn by the rough branch, and breathless both, we merely grinned at each other. I could not help but stare as I marvelled at his strangeness. For his eyes were so different, folded as one pleading, or in sorrow for another, and his hair was dark, not the brown dark of our own people, but the black of the night sky, with a sheen of blue, like the wing of a bird. I rose, when my trembling limbs would hold me, and greeted him.

 

   "I am Belen, my father is The Bear, of The People of the Pine. You have saved my life, my friend. If ever you need my help, I will come."

    "I am Heron, my father was The Wolf, but he was slain, and all my kin." He sighed, and bowed his head, and I was silent, remembering the dead. He sighed again, and straightened his back, and looked so steadily at me that I knew his words would pain him to speak, and I to hear. He clenched his teeth, and snarled a little, silently, then spoke again. "I was taken by The Bear of The People of the Hawk, and raised as one of them. But I fled the cruel hands of The Bear, and now I travel alone, far, far from my own people in the lands where the morning sun is born each day." 

 

   His voice was strange, his tones musical, but the words were the words of our people, and the scars of beatings marked his lovely face, which, as my eyes became used to, I saw was older than I had thought, though his beard was as sparse as my own. He saw my eyes and touched his chin with a smile.

  "You think that I am young for my beard does not grow ? Yet it is the nature of my own folk, to have little or no hair on the face. The Bear was thus deceived about my years, as you are, and used me as a woman for many years, until at last I had the courage to flee him. I did not dare to slay him, for his own people loved him, though they hated me, and would have hunted me down. Indeed, he himself tracked me for days, but I doubled back at a stream, and now I am free of him."

 

 I sighed and shook my head, thinking of Snake, and her dream of making the folk kinder to each other. At such times, it seemed mere fancy. Yet this stranger has saved my life, his kindness had dragged me from the swift deadly water of the river, and perhaps, while deeds like his, and folk like him, walk the forest... Perhaps the Snake was wiser than I knew, and hope did indeed remain to us all. But I owed the stranger my life, and my heart swelled within me, for shame at his misery and for joy at his presence. I smiled then, and spoke to him warmly.

  "Will you tell me of the lands beyond the mountains, my friend, where the sun rises and the shadows are long ? Will you tell me of your people ?"

   "Gladly, my friend, but first, we must have the flame, I shall prepare the hearth, do you gather small sticks ? You must keep the cold from your limbs, or the shivering will take you to death."

 

  His words were true. I stood, and hurried among the trees, gathering wood as he cleared a space and laid flat stones. He built the fire, and struck the sacred stones together, stones he must have stolen from The Bear, for our folk had yet to find their cradle on this side of the mountains. Soon the flame played eagerly between us, and his dark brown eyes with their folded lids looked warmly at me as I sat steaming in the heat. 

  "Come then, Heron, tell me your tale. Tell me of your folk."

  He smiled with closed lips, as though his news were not all good, and he could foresee that I would be moved by his tale.

   "There were two fires" he said.