The Days of the Deer (26 page)

The paths through the jungle were twisting and narrow, difficult to follow because they soon disappeared behind trees and undergrowth. Cucub soon lost sight of the Pastor. If he wanted to follow
him, he would have to make up his mind quickly. It was not an easy task: the Zitzahay would have not to get too close, in case he gave himself away, nor stay too far off, in case he lost
Illán-che-ñe at a crossroads or some turn in the path.

For the moment, the Pastor seemed content to stay on what was known as the Long Road, which Cucub knew by heart. This road in fact started in the centre of the city of Beleram. It began as a
narrow but busy alleyway where stalls dedicated to selling leather goods were lined up. It went on and on, leaving the city as a bridge over a stream providing fresh water. The paving stones went
as far as here; afterwards, it turned into a wide track of beaten earth. Shortly beyond, it split into two smaller paths. One of these turned west and reached as far as a range of mountains the
Zitzahay called the Jaguar’s Teeth. The other carried on northwards on the outskirts of the jungle. This fork in the Long Road linked Beleram with Red of the Gourds, the first Offspring
village. From there it joined village after village until it ended up in Distant Red, the furthest of all the settlements of the Offspring of the Northmen. Shortly after the path divided, the
northern one crossed a field of giant orchids. Then it bordered a lake of dark waters, where alligators and turtles lived. Beyond the lake, even though it was still on the edge of the jungle, the
path became harder to follow.

This was the point where Cucub first saw Illán-che-ñe and began to follow him. When they had gone a little less than half the distance between Beleram and Red of the Gourds, the
Pastor came to a halt. Without hesitation. Not like someone who has found a good place to rest, but someone who is taking up position.

Cucub did not move, his face pressed against the sharp smell of the bushes behind which he had quickly hidden to keep an eye on the Pastor. The little Zitzahay did not have much choice, because
while Illán-che-ñe stayed where he was, he could not think of returning to Beleram. Not without the Pastor seeing him. The rest of the morning passed, and the sun moved across the
centre of the sky. Cucub’s limbs began to feel the strain of hiding without being able to move. The poor Zitzahay was starting to regret having followed the Pastor if it was only to witness
what he was beginning to think was simply a harmless quirk of his race.

Cucub was still wondering about this when a new sound that had nothing to do with the jungle came to his ears. And, of course, to those of the Pastor. It was obviously not someone who was afraid
of being heard. Someone who was running towards them. Or at least, trying to do so. A golden-haired youth suddenly appeared through the undergrowth. His eyes were fixed on the ground, trying to
avoid any projecting roots, so that he almost collided with Illán-che-ñe. His first reaction when he saw the stranger was to run away, but the Pastor took him by the shoulders and
tried to calm him.

‘Be still ... Tell me who you are.’

He was a young boy from the Offspring of the Stalkers of the Sea. By the look of him, he was exhausted from running, and terrified. His face was wild, his clothes torn. His sandals had been
ripped almost to shreds, and his feet were so cut and raw they must have caused him terrible pain.

‘I have to get to the House of the Stars,’ the youngster managed to stammer, trying again to wriggle free from the Pastor’s grasp.

‘I am a friend of theirs ... guarding this path on the orders of Zabralkán. If you don’t tell me what news you are bringing, I cannot let you pass,’ said
Illán-che-ñe. ‘Many strange people are roaming around the Fertile Lands. Most of them not from here, so we have to be on our guard.’

The flame-haired youth looked relieved.

‘So you know then ...’ he murmured.

‘Yes, we know,’ replied the Pastor. ‘But you know more. You have seen something, and must tell me. Then I will allow you to continue on your way.’

Cucub was expert at picking up whispers. Even so he found it hard to follow what they were saying, especially Illán-che-ñe, who had his back to him. The Zitzahay concentrated on
trying to make out the faint, halting words of the Offspring boy:

‘Some of us were sleeping on the beach last night. We have been doing this recently, waiting to see who it was that would arrive from the sea. I was on the shore with my younger brothers
and sisters, but our parents were asleep in their hammocks,’ said the youngster, his voice fading further and further as he remembered. Eventually he fell to his knees, so that
Illán-che-ñe had to kneel down to keep hold of him. ‘At first light we went back into the village because we knew they would be looking for us to start the day’s
work.’

The Offspring youth spoke slowly, delaying as long as possible the moment when he had to talk of death. But there was not much more he could say, and the look in his eyes showed he was now
confronting the image of what he had found when he returned to the family hut. He described all he had seen in the only way possible: as if it had happened to someone else, a long time ago. As if
he had dreamt it.

He told the story in the hope he would be told it was not true. But Illán-che-ñe could not tell him that.

‘What happened to the rest of your people?’ the Pastor asked instead. ‘The ones saved from the death you speak of because they spent the night on the beach. Where are
they?’

‘People from all our villages got together and realized that the same thing had happened everywhere. When we saw none of the older generation had survived, the eldest among us took charge.
No one knew what to do ... the girls were shrieking in panic, we boys were afraid of another attack.’

Behind his bush, Cucub was trembling from head to foot like a dying young pigeon.

‘Tell me this and I’ll lead you to Zabralkán,’ insisted the Pastor. ‘Where are the rest of your people?’

‘They stayed behind to bury our dead. Meanwhile someone had to go on ahead to warn the House of the Stars. I volunteered to do so. Everyone agreed, because I have been the fastest runner
since I was a little boy. The rest of my people are following on behind; they must already be on their way.’

No one will ever know what the boy remembered next. Perhaps it was a day in his childhood when his parents were watching him run along the Yentru Sea coast. Perhaps it was a summer night ... No
one will ever know. Whatever it was, it drained the last of his strength, and he collapsed against Illán-che-ñe, sobbing.

Cucub began to think he should leave his hiding place. He was no longer bothered about Illán-che-ñe’s strange behaviour, or what he was doing out here in the jungle. Cucub
had heard enough to completely forget his distrust of the Pastor and understand that he should join him to work out what to do for the best.

The Zitzahay gave himself the time to take a deep breath before he emerged, still staring at the slumped figure and hearing his sobs. That was how he knew that what happened next took place in
the space of a single breath. Illán-che-ñe seized a large rock from the ground and smashed it against the skull of the young boy slumped in his arms. The first blow was not enough;
the second left the rock covered in blood. The remaining blows were the work of Misáianes, whose evil cruelty had reached the Fertile Lands long before his ships.

Never in his life had Cucub witnessed such ferocity. Sometimes he had seen the instinctive fierceness of the puma seeking the throat of its prey. But never anything like this. Recalling this
moment many years later, Cucub still felt a lump in his throat and found it hard to draw breath. Years later, the tiny Zitzahay would go to his death without ever finding the words to describe the
feeling that had paralysed him there in the jungle. Whenever someone asked about the event, all he could do was repeat what his greatest wish had been:
If only Dulkancellin were here, if only
Dulkancellin were here
. Cucub was not a Husihuilke warrior. He was someone who knew how to sing; faced with a crime, he found he could not move.

Illán-che-ñe turned and peered into the undergrowth. It seemed he had noticed something ... Cucub squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself not to see what was coming. He was
convinced the Pastor had discovered him; but even though he knew he was about to die, he still could not move. The only thing Cucub wished at that moment was not to see the Pastor arrive carrying
that rock, with that smile on his face. Simply not to see him. His arms wrapped round his head, he waited for the blow. But none came. Slowly opening his eyes, feeling a mixture of relief and
shame, Cucub saw the Pastor was dragging the boy’s dead body off the path. Illán-che-ñe disappeared, and for some time all Cucub could hear was him forcing his way through the
undergrowth. A few moments later, the Pastor reappeared, wiping his hands on some wet leaves, which he dropped behind him. Then he set out back along the path to Beleram.

Cucub waited until he was sure he had gone before emerging from his hiding place.

A trail of blood made it easy for him to find the boy’s body. He was lying on his back not far from the path. Cucub could hardly bear to look, frightened he might recognize him as one of
the children who ran after him along the sandy streets and formed a ring round him whenever he took his songs to the Offspring’s villages. When the Zitzahay tried to speak, a hoarse,
unintelligible sound came from his lips:

‘May your little white soul play in the sea you so loved ...’

This was the second time in one day that he was saying goodbye to a dead loved one.

‘And forgive me for not giving you a proper burial,’ Cucub ended. ‘There is no time. May Mother Neén protect your bones!’

Cucub finished his prayer and bowed his head in respect. Then, as if the dead boy had lent him his flying feet, the Zitzahay ran off far more swiftly than his short legs would usually allow.
Sometimes he took short cuts he knew of, elsewhere he forced his way through the undergrowth, scratching and cutting hands and feet. He ran despairingly, the image of the crime he had just seen
imprinted on his mind. Worse still, Cucub accused himself, it was a crime he had allowed to happen. He sped out of the jungle, and along the streets of Beleram. All those who saw him thought he
must have gone mad, his face looked so wild and terrible.

Many years later, when he told the story, he assured his listeners he had no idea where he had found the strength needed to run as fast as he had, reach the House of the Stars, bound up the
innumerable stairs, bang on the door with his fists and demand he be taken at once before the Supreme Astronomers. He had no idea. Nor did he care how he had done it. The Supreme Astronomers were
not alone. Nakín of the Owl Clan, Elek and Dulkancellin were with them.

Cucub did not need to be very astute to see that something very serious was going on there too. Zabralkán looked exhausted from his concerns. All the others showed signs of torment. And
these must have been hard to bear, because when Cucub appeared before them, they all fell silent.

‘Tell us,’ said Zabralkán. The Supreme Astronomer knew Cucub was somehow about to confirm all that he himself was afraid of, alerted by the voice of an ancient Wizard who had
spoken to him in his deepest dreams.

Cucub felt he ought to address himself to Elek: after all, it was the villages of his people which had suffered the massacres.

Cucub used few words to tell him the news. Far fewer than he would have wished. By the time he finished, he was staring at the floor, and because of this could not see that the others were
overcome with a similar sense of shame. Zabralkán finally understood what had been troubling him so much for the past few days; so did the others. Now Illán-che-ñe’s
absence was explained. Now Dulkancellin understood it had been Kupuka who had spoken in Zabralkán’s dream. Now they understood about the cane-sugar honey, the death of the lukus, the
constantly changing sky, the eagle’s sacrifice. Now, when it was already too late.

‘It is not too late for the Deer. The Deer will defend his blood and his territory,’ said Zabralkán. And his will was unshakable.

Whenever over the course of the years Cucub was asked about that moment, he always spoke of five wills united as one to take decisions. He remembered and gave detailed descriptions of the orders
dispatched in every direction, the plan for simultaneous, precise movements. But above all he liked to talk of a column of warriors which headed for the grey pyramid in search of the strangers.
‘I was almost at the front, alongside Dulkancellin,’ he used to boast. And he added that the Husihuilke had allowed him to go, to let him recover at least a little from his sense of
guilt.

Even though the warriors were organized and set off as quickly as they could, they found the pyramid empty, strewn with dead guards. The only living beings they could discover were the animals
the strangers had brought as gifts for the Supreme Astronomers, which they found tied up inside the walls. The men looked towards Dulkancellin, expecting him to order them to kill the beasts, but
he had a different idea.

The strangers must have gone back to the coast, where their ships are
, he told himself. Speaking out loud, he added: ‘They are fleeing on the backs of their animals. We will never
catch them unless we do the same. I will mount the one with patches. Whoever is willing can take the white animal. If the strangers can make these beasts gallop, we should be able to do the same.
Anyone who has ridden a llamel should know where to start.’

Hearing this, Cucub quickly offered himself.

‘Not you,’ the Husihuilke replied.

Not all the Zitzahay had ever had the opportunity to see a llamel, much less ride one. Fortunately, several of the warriors present swore they had done so. In the end, after giving the necessary
orders, Dulkancellin and one of his men galloped out towards the port.

They rode out, and a wind blew in. A dirty wind that darkened the night in the Remote Realm. Dulkancellin and his companion had to ride in the face of a gale that grew stronger and stronger as
they neared the coast. This, together with the fact that the horses were nervous and they themselves only novice riders, slowed their journey. Even so, this was far better than to travel on foot,
in such a gale.