Page 104 of Circle of Days
Han liked to hunt early. He took a drink of water from the wooden jar he had carved, then picked up his bow and arrows. When he stepped out of the shelter, there was a hint of grey in the eastern sky. He did not put his shoes on: he needed to walk softly.
He took a familiar route through the wood to a small clearing. He lay down carefully, soundlessly, beside a thorny bramble justcoming into leaf. The creatures of the wild had not yet crept out of their nighttime hideaways. He lay still and silent, his bow in his left hand and half a dozen arrows close to his right, only his eyes moving. This was the finest moment of the day: the air fresh and cold, the woods damp with dew, silence and peace.
Two pigeons appeared and did a mating dance in a tree. A squirrel scampered along a branch. A hare leaped across the clearing, too fast for him to shoot. It was time to kill.
Moving softly, he put an arrow to his bow and carefully pulled the string. If he was lucky a duck would come waddling out of the undergrowth and into the clearing, plump and slow and an easy target.
Suddenly there were three hares nibbling the grass. He took slow aim and shot one, then quickly sent off a second arrow and a third. The second found its target, but the third hare bounded away unhurt. The squirrel vanished and the pigeons flew away.
Satisfied, Han stood and picked up his two hares by the ears. He collected the arrows for reuse.
The sun rose. On his way back he scanned the ground, looking for early vegetables. He found a patch of spring onions, picked them all, and washed the earth off them in the river.
He returned to the shelter and showed Pia his harvest. She put a pot of water on the fire to boil. Han skinned the hares, then cleaned them and gave the guts to Thunder. When the water was boiling, Pia chopped the onions and put them into the pot, then Han dropped the hares in.
He scraped the skins carefully, thinking of how his mother, Ani, cleaned cattle hides. “These will make warm clothes for thebaby,” he said. “I wish I could tan them, as my mother does, but I don’t have what’s necessary.”
“We’ll keep the baby warm,” she said.
“Later I’ll go and raid some nests. The birds might be laying.” Struck by a thought, he said: “Can babies eat eggs?”
“I don’t know,” said Pia. “I wish I could ask my mother.”
The weather was warming up, and the inhabitants of West Wood were preparing to leave for the hills. Bez had again consulted Joia, the friendly Second High Priestess, and they expected the deer to migrate in two days’ time. They were making arrows for the hunt and sharpening flints for the butchering, and putting cooking pots, wooden bowls, and other necessities into leather carrying bags that could be slung over their shoulders. Excitement was in the air: people talked in loud voices and laughed a lot. The trip was an adventure, even to those who had done it many times. The dogs knew what was happening and ran around impatiently, getting under people’s feet.
Bez and Fell were in a hut, discussing the first hunt. Fell’s new dog, distinguished by a white patch on his muzzle, lay sleeping beside them. “Last year’s choice of a killing field was successful,” said Bez. “We should go to the same place this year.”
Fell shook his head. “The deer will remember and avoid it.”
“Don’t be silly. Only one deer escaped last year, and anyway, they can’t warn one another. They have no speech.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Fell. “They have ways.”
No one knew the truth, Bez thought, so there was no point in arguing. “Well, then, think of a better place,” he said.
Then they both noticed that the village had gone quiet.
“Trouble,” said Bez, and they went out.
Everyone was looking in the same direction. Bez followed their gaze and saw Stam, armed with a bow and arrows. He was alone this time. He recognized Bez and said: “You. You can speak like a human. Come here.”
Bez stayed where he was. “You are welcome, Stam, if you come in peace.”
“You know why I’m here.”
“Perhaps you’re looking for that runaway again. She wasn’t here last year, and she’s not here now.”
“She isn’t a runaway. A herder has stolen a farmer girl.” Stam became boastful. “We have discovered who he is. His name is Han. He is tall, with fair hair and big feet.”
“He’s not here, nor are his feet.”
The villagers chuckled, but Stam did not get the joke. “I believe they were here when I came looking for them last autumn—but you concealed them. You could be killed for that.”
The woodlanders shifted restively. They were being threatened, and they resented it.
Bez said emolliently: “Best not to talk of killing, Stam, when there’s a whole lot of us and only one of you.”
His response was disdainful. “I’m not afraid of you.”
