Skillful Death (10 page)

He was looking past a carpet of foxberry to a grove of birch trees. A layer of mist surrounded the trunks of the birch. With that detail, Constantine knew where he was. He ducked under the flap of the tent and ran towards the trees.

“Stop!” a woman cried after him, but Constantine kept running.

The woodlarks dipped and dived at him as he ran through their nesting grounds. He’d hunted here before, relishing the tiny eggs to be found in their earthbound nests. These birds held a grudge, and gave away his position with their angry chirps.

“Cheevo chree,” the birds said as he ran past. “Cheevio cheat chee.”

“Wait, Forestling. Stop!” He heard the command as he disappeared in the mist.

Constantine knew what to expect, but even so, he almost broke his neck. Where the mist was thickest and deepest, swirling in the wake of his pumping legs and rising almost to the level of his chest, the ground dropped off to a bubbling creek. When the ground fell away from Constantine’s feet, for a moment he thought the woodlarks had somehow lifted him away from the ground. Instead, his feet touched down on the soft, barren soil at the side of the creek bed. His feet hit the hot water of the creek and he scrambled backwards. The water smelled of rotten eggs and the air wasn’t fit to breathe for long. Constantine edged away from creek until the air smelled clean and then picked his way northeast. Following the bank upstream, he kept his head out of the mist. The mist was so thick around the creek that Constantine couldn’t even see his feet as they found their way across the warm soil.

Where this creek first emerged from the bamboo it wasn’t yet tainted by the rotten egg smell and the water was actually cool and potable. After traveling through a pass lined with black, porous rocks, the water was hot and smelly. It gave off the mysterious mist.

Constantine decided to follow the creek up to its clean source, where he could cross it easily. He was certain none of the women from the tent would follow him. None of the people from his town ever ventured close to the creek.
 

The mist ended and the birch trees gave way to dense fir trees with brittle lower branches. Constantine stayed near the edge of the creek, even though it meant he had to step carefully over the sharp black rocks. Some of the rocks had jagged edges and others were so smooth and black that they reflected iridescent colors. The sharp rocks were like razors, but were too brittle to use as a knife, and they couldn’t be used to start a fire.

Back when he used to spend the evenings listening at the window of the pub, Constantine had heard men talking about these rocks. One man claimed that the rocks were the source of the entire town’s heat. He said that if a man dug down beneath the dirt of the forest floor, he would find these same black rocks, and that’s what gave the town its warmth. He continued, claiming that if a man could travel out of their sheltered world, past the bamboo, a man would find that half the year it was so cold that all the trees would die and the animals would sleep for months at a time. Nobody believed this man.

Constantine had listened closely to this conversation, since none of it sounded any more preposterous than anything else these men talked about when they drank their yellow frothy drinks.
 

“Nonsense!” another man had shouted. “For rocks to burn they need air, and they leave ash. You can’t burn rocks without taking air and leaving ash. There are no rocks burning under this ground.”
 

Constantine wondered. Most of the drinking men had never bothered to spend any time looking at the black rocks, and they certainly didn’t know what Constantine could easily observe. These rocks were indeed warm to the bottoms of his feet. Something, maybe the rocks, heated the little creek.

He thought about all of this as he knelt and held one of the rocks in his hand. It looked as shiny as coal, but it was too light to be coal. It didn’t look like it would burn. He decided he didn’t care if the rocks were what heated up the town, and he certainly didn’t want to see a place where it grew so cold that all the trees died.

Up ahead, he saw the lean-to of the old blind man. The old man was the only one either brave or foolhardy enough to live near the source of the misty creek. Constantine heard about the blind man long before he ever saw him. You couldn’t mistake him for a sighted man. His eyes were completely gone; just two empty red holes in his skull. The town children claimed that rats came out of the bamboo at night and stole pieces of the old man’s body. Apparently, the eyes were the first tasty morsel taken. The old man didn’t seem to be around. Constantine crept closer. Suspended from branch, the old man kept a bag of provisions away from the hungry mouths of the rats.
 

Constantine climbed the tree and inched his way along the branch. He sat on the branch, dangling his legs into space, and pulled the bag up into his lap to loosen the drawstring. Inside the bag, Constantine found assorted nuts and smoked meat. He stuffed handfuls into his mouth. Except for some crusty bread stolen from the Midwife, he hadn’t eaten in days.

“That sounds like an awfully big rat eating up all my food,” a voice said from the ground. The air whistled through the old man’s scattered teeth.

Constantine froze and considered dropping to the ground so he could run. He spun and saw the old man leaning against the trunk of the tree.
 

“You’re pretty frightened for a rat. I’ll cut off your tail if you come a little closer,” the old man said. He held the last note of his sentence, letting his tooth-whistle ring out.

Constantine worked the knot on the bag with his quick fingers and formulated a plan. He would toss the bag of food at the old man. Then, he would drop to the ground and run while the old man was preoccupied.
 

“I’m only teasing about cutting off your tail. Are you the boy who fought the lion?” the old man asked.

“What’s a lion?” Constantine asked. He formed the words slowly, stumbling on the last one. From the context, he thought the old man might be talking about the big cat. Constantine was hungry for more information about that. He wasn’t accustomed to losing a good pelt once he’d made up his mind to get it.

“So you speak,” the man said. He leaned back against the trunk of the tree and pointed his voice up to where Constantine sat on the branch. “I was beginning to think you didn’t.”

“Lion,” Constantine repeated.

“The villagers think that the other boy scared the lion off, but not me. Aren’t you curious how I know about you fighting the lion?” the old man asked.

Constantine heard the way the old man’s mouth formed the words which came out, and understood that his own attempt was lacking. Perhaps the old man didn’t understand him. He couldn’t seem to torture out the beginning of the word the same way the old man did. It would take practice to strangle his own tongue into making that sound.

“Lion,” Constantine tried again.

“Yes,” the old man said, “I’ll tell you all about lions. Why don’t you come down from that tree branch first? You make me nervous dangling up there like a monkey.”

“No,” Constantine said.

“Okay, suit yourself.” The old man lowered himself to the ground at the base of the tree and pulled out a disgusting old rag. Constantine thought he could almost smell that rag all the way up in the tree. The old man straightened the rag out and then folded it carefully. He used a folded corner to dab at moist eye-holes as they leaked slime onto his cheek. “A lion is a giant cat who generally lives in woodlands or grassy plains. They never live in a forest, like this. Nobody has seen a lion around here in more than twenty years.”

The old man paused and dabbed his face again.
 

Constantine wanted to ask where the lion had come from, and where it had run to. None of the other animals ran into the bamboo when they were injured. Dogs, and wolves, and deer, and even bears, would run along the edge of the bamboo. They’d never plunge into it and disappear like the lion. The animals seemed even more superstitious about the bamboo than the townspeople.

But Constantine didn’t ask his question because he didn’t think he could make himself understood. He’d never strung more than three or four words together, and his tongue seemed ready to betray him at any moment.

“Where?” Constantine asked. He hoped that somehow the old man would discern his question from the single word.

“Where, indeed,” the old man said. “So if you’re the boy who attacked the lion, then you’re also the boy who lives with the herb monger out on the Masty Road.”

“Midwife,” Constantine said.

“Yes, Midwife, I suppose.” The old man let his words whistle again, and the menace returned to his voice with the whistle. “But you weren’t born to the Midwife, were you?”

“No,” Constantine said. The boy had never given the subject much thought, but he’d always known that he wasn’t pulled from the flesh of the Midwife any more than a mushroom was pulled from the flesh of a tree root upon which it grew. He’d seen a cat giving birth to kittens and firmly held the conviction that the Midwife hadn’t birthed him in that way.

“No, not to the Midwife,” the old man decided.

“Lion. Where?” Constantine said, trying to prompt the old man back onto the subject.

“Where is he now? Where is the graceful and deadly lion? I suppose he’s fled back to the bamboo to lick his wounds. Would you like to know how to catch that crafty cat?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s a good thing you wandered here. I happen to be somewhat of an expert on catching dangerous prey. Why don’t you help me gather some shoots and nuts for a snack and I’ll tell you all about lions.”

Constantine didn’t reply. Instead, he slid further down the branch, bending it towards the ground and putting more distance between himself and the old man. He dropped the bag of provisions to the ground and watched the old man’s head turn towards the sound of it hitting the ground.

“It’s the least you can do since you’ve already helped yourself to my supplies.”

Constantine turned himself around and hung from the branch before dropping to the forest floor. He landed and turned to face the old man. This was the closest he’d been to the old hermit. Constantine plucked the bag from where it landed.

The man sat at the base of the tree with his arms wrapped around his folded legs and his hands clutching his disgusting rag. The red craters where his eyes should be were shiny with moisture and caught the ambient light, making them almost glow. It looked like the old man had something stuck to the side of his nose, but when he reached up with a wrinkled talon to scratch it, Constantine realized that the old man’s nose had a hole in the side. Constantine watched the hand retreat and realized that between his two hands, the old man only had a half-dozen fingers remaining. He was an inventory of missing or incomplete parts.

“Be careful not to trip this net.” The old man moved a bare foot out from under his robe and worked his toe under the carpet of leaves. When he raised his foot, it brought up a loose web of rope. Constantine dropped his eyes and saw it all at once. All around him, disguised by the leaves and twigs, a mesh of netting covered the ground under the cache of supplies. At the corners, gathering ropes stretched vertically like saplings and then joined to a counterweight suspended from a stout branch on the other side of a big trunk.

If triggered, this net would sweep Constantine up and to the side, possibly bashing his body against the trunk of the nearby tree. Leaning up against that tree a sharpened stick stood at the ready for the old man to skewer his prey.

Constantine moved his left foot towards the closest edge of the net. He eased his weight onto the foot, wary of the net. He was moving silently now, only his steady breathing gave away his position.

“It’s a good thing I told you about the net. But now that you’re being careful, you’re going to make it off safely. I can see your future quite clearly. You’ve finished one of three of your proving trials. You’ll head off to the east until you meet your partner, and then the two of you will hunt big prey. You’ll give up everything when you’re eventually betrayed by love. You’ll seek your fortune with your hands, but find it with your feet. Nothing will draw you like the mystery that started it all.”

As the old man spoke his nonsense, Constantine moved, foot over foot until he stood with both feet planted beyond the reach of the trap. He’d flanked the old man, who still spoke to the spot where Constantine had first dropped from the limb. Constantine held the bag of food at his side, trying to decide if he would take it.

Constantine set the bag down on the ground and the old man’s head snapped around at the noise. Constantine took a step back and then ran at full speed. He ran away from the man, and the tree, and the little lean-to by the edge of the bamboo. Once he’d cleared some distance, Constantine ran in a big circle, crossing the stream again and tracing the edge of the smelly mist. He doubled back on his flight just so he could head west, in the opposite direction than the old man predicted.

I
N
THE
WESTERN
WOODS
, Constantine felt naked, literally and figuratively. All his furs, and skins, and tools were back east, hidden in trees and caves. Without access to his traps and foraging locations, he lived hand to mouth. He ate whatever he stumbled upon, and covered himself with leaves at night.