The Days of the Deer (3 page)

A long way north from the Ends of the Earth, several days’ hard climb up a steep slope, lived the Desert Pastors, a tribe of llamel breeders that died out with the last oases. Still
further north, on the continent’s distant shores, was where the Zitzahay people lived. And beyond the Border Hills, the Lords of the Sun created a civilization of gold. Perhaps other peoples
lived and died in the mists of the ancient jungle, without ever emerging. And finally there were those who lived where the seas turned to ice and the sky was always dark because the sun forgot to
shine there.

At the Ends of the Earth on the morning of the day the rains would start, Dulkancellin and his family drew near to the Valley of the Ancestors.

When they were halfway there, Thungür asked his father if he could go on ahead a little. Kush and the girls were walking too slowly for him, and he did not want to waste the morning. His
wish granted, he wasted no time and was soon out of sight.

The spot where the Husihuilkes were to meet was a rough circle, completely covered in spreading grass and surrounded by patches of big white mushrooms. Trees and bushes crowded in around it as
if they wanted to see the celebrations without trespassing.

The family had almost arrived when they saw Thungür coming back along the path towards them. He was carrying something. From the way he was holding it with his arm outstretched it must be
very precious.

‘What has he brought? What can he have found?’ Kume wondered out loud. Intrigued by his elder brother’s excitement, he ran to meet him.

Piukemán and Kuy-Kuyen ran after him. As they ran, they tried to guess, their words fragmented by their leaps: an animal’s fangs... a blue stone... a shell... a luku’s claws.
Behind them, Wilkilén shouted as loud as she could in her weak little voice:

‘An orange! Thungür has brought me an orange!’

Thungür had come to a halt, the treasure hidden behind his back until they reached him.

‘Let me see!’ begged Kume.

But Thungür shook his head. Kume and Piukemán understood that this time it was not a game, and that they should not surround and jostle their brother until they forced him to show
them what he was hiding. At that moment, Kush and Dulkancellin caught up with them. Dulkancellin had no need to say anything: he stared at his eldest son and waited to find out what had made him so
agitated. Thungür slowly brought his hand from behind his back. The others could finally see what he had been concealing from them.

‘Is that all?’ Piukemán protested. ‘A black feather, and not a very big one, at that.’

For Piukemán and his two sisters, the mystery had been solved, and so they lost all further interest in the matter. The rest of the family, though, saw at once that this was a feather
from a golden oriole. Old Mother Kush, Dulkancellin, Kume and Thungür were all aware that, depending on the manner in which it had been found, a golden oriole feather could mean many things.
It was a message from the forest that could not be ignored.

‘How did you find it?’ asked Dulkancellin, taking the feather from Thungür’s trembling hand.

‘I had already skirted the marsh and was about to run down into the Valley. Then, just at the spot where the old holm oaks are, I heard someone calling my name. I covered my ears, but
still could hear it. It was coming from somewhere high up, from the top of an oak on my left. When I raised my head, I saw the feather fall. At that moment I heard the oriole sing.’

‘And what did you do, Thungür?’ This time it was Kush asking the question. She moved closer to her grandson, who was already much taller than her. Thungür knew what was
expected of him.

‘I was very quiet, and I didn’t move an inch from where I had come to a halt. I raised my hands with the palms cupped upwards.’

‘And you closed your eyes ...’ Kush whispered.

‘I closed my eyes so as not to try to catch the feather or avoid it. I waited. Time went by, and I thought it must have landed on the ground by now. But just as I was about to open my
eyes, I felt it drop into my hands.’

Kush spoke again, as if remembering:

‘The oriole sang once more ...’

That’s right,’ Thungür said. ‘Then it circled round my head, and flew off.’

The forest was placing an oriole feather in the hands of a Husihuilke male. It was telling him that soon he would have to take on the responsibility for feeding and protecting his family. From
among its many voices, this was the one the forest had chosen to warn them that somebody was about to leave his home and his duties there. And that someone else had to take them on himself. This
time, the message was for Thungür. What was going to happen to Dulkancellin? Why would he no longer be at home, as he had been ever since Thungür could remember? How could he possibly
take the place of his father? Thungür tried hard to disguise his dismay, but his arms felt very heavy, and his legs were far too weak. What was going to happen? Who was going to show him what
he had to do?

Thungür had no need to say any of this, because before he could speak he already had his answer.

‘Keep on walking towards the Valley. That is what you have to do now,’ Dulkancellin told him.

Thungür hesitated, but Dulkancellin insisted, barely raising his voice:

‘Come on, Thungür, let’s go on.’

So the family set off again towards the Valley of the Ancestors, walking as close as possible to each other. The youngest could see from their elders’ faces that something unusual was
going on, but preferred not to find out what it might be.

Yet the same forest that had caused their anxiety now came to relieve it. The smell of the approaching rain and the clear outline of the trees as the wind swept over them convinced the family
that any suffering was still remote. In no time at all, their hearts were filled with optimism once more.

Kume picked up a stone and skimmed it along the ground as far as he could. Thungür and Piukemán accepted the challenge. The three of them ran to where their stones had landed,
decided who had won, and threw them on again.

Kuy-Kuyen and Wilkilén were walking hand in hand singing a lullaby. Kush smiled tenderly, and rummaged in her belongings until she found her wooden flute. To play it more easily, she put
her bundle on her back and rolled up the sleeves of her cloak. The simple, repetitive tune added to their renewed sense of tranquillity. Old Mother Kush was so concerned about sounding the right
notes that she walked more and more slowly. Her son and her granddaughters slowed down too, because they did not want to leave her behind.

So it was to the rhythm of the flute that they finally reached the summit. At the Ends of the Earth, the land rose from the seashore through villages and trees until it became part of the
Maduinas mountain range. Often, the rising terrain was interrupted by a marsh or lake. It fell sharply for a waterfall, or sloped downwards for a while, and yet all the time it rose towards the
mountain peaks. The point where Dulkancellin and his family paused for a moment before they started out on the last stretch was where the descent into the valley began. The trees descended too,
until they were held back by the ring of white mushrooms.

People from every village were gathering. Most were coming in large groups down the three main tracks. Some families were arriving on their own because they had been late setting off, or because
their homes made it easy for them to take a short cut. This was the case for Dulkancellin’s family: they had taken a path that allowed them to reach the Valley of the Ancestors quite
quickly.

When they arrived, the Husihuilkes unloaded their bundles and started to greet their relatives. They saw some of them quite often, but others they only met up with on rare occasions. In the same
way that they had different skills and tasks, here the men and women met in separate groups.

As soon as they saw Dulkancellin appear, several warriors came forward to greet him. The women gathered round Old Mother Kush. She greeted the married ones with a kiss on each cheek, and the
single women by laying her hand on their foreheads.

The people of the Ends of the Earth loved their elders, and no one more so than Kush. All those who had grown up with her were long since dead, yet she still roamed through the forest.

‘I’ve been left forgotten here,’ Kush would explain whenever the matter was brought up. ‘It must be because I never make a sound.’

Old Mother Kush had given birth to her son at a very mature age, when nobody thought it was still possible. The other Husihuilkes saw it as a miracle.

‘It’s a reward life has given Kush for having such a soft heart and rough hands,’ was what they whispered for a long time afterwards.

The gathering was becoming more lively. The Husihuilkes were coming down from Whirlwind Pass and Partridge Hill, from The Corals and the villages to the north of the Cloudy River, even from
distant Wilú-Wilú.

Most of them made the entire journey on foot. Those who lived on the far side of the river left their canoes tied up on the bank, and walked to the Valley of the Ancestors from there. Only a
few, especially those from the high villages, came riding on llamels.

Blessed with amazingly fertile lands, the Husihuilkes were as self-suffcient as the animals of the forest. They knew the apple trees would bear fruit each year, that the animals they hunted
would have their young each season, that a single gourd contained the seeds of many more. It never occurred to any of them that there should be more than this.

The only exception was shortly before the rainy season was due to start. Then the Husihuilkes stored more than usual so that they could survive the long days of isolation, when sea and land
turned in on themselves, and the forest withheld its riches. Both men and women redoubled their efforts. They hunted or wove, made pottery, tanned hides, or made baskets. Some of them fished and
preserved their catch in salt; others dried fruits. Yet no one ever kept more than was necessary for themselves. The rest was traded in the Valley of the Ancestors. In that way, abundance in one
village helped make up for a shortage in another. And everyone benefited from each other’s skills.

The inhabitants of Wilú-Wilú gathered valuable stones from the mountainsides: small flints for lighting fires, larger ones to make axes and arrowheads with. But in exchange they
needed the salt and dried fish that the people of The Corals brought in reed baskets. These baskets were made in the villages on the banks of the Cloudy River, where the reeds grew in great
profusion. The same villages made clay pots: pitchers, bowls, and small jars that were greatly appreciated in the Sweet Herbs villages, where the beekeepers could use them to store the golden honey
from their honeycombs. The women from Whirlwind Pass, who were excellent weavers, brought the cloaks and woollen cloths that during the winter were so precious to the fishermen who lived on the
coast at The Corals.

All these goods were laid out in rows that the Husihuilkes inspected at their leisure. Since every village was aware of what the others needed, and as each one took into account any unusual
events that had changed the lives of their neighbours for good or ill, most of the exchanges were predictable and were repeated in almost the same fashion year after year.

This time Kush had brought three woollen cloaks. They were dyed green, with red and yellow borders. In exchange, she chose a bowl to grind corn in, leather to repair her menfolk’s shoes,
medicinal herbs and some dried fish.

Once the time for giving and receiving was over, Old Mother Kush joined the rest of the women in preparing the food.

Located in different parts of the valley, the musicians were visited by small groups of people who crossed each other as they made their way between the different instruments. Those who had just
come from hearing the heavy beat of the drum looked preoccupied. Others were still dancing to the rattle of the dried gourds. The sounds of the bound-together reeds died slowly away, while the
listeners remembered events from the past. Only the man with the flute did not stay in one spot, but walked round and round the valley playing his tune. The crowd following him changed each time he
appeared.

When the flute went past Kush, the old woman paused in her task to greet it.

‘Come and sing with me,’ said the flute.

‘You have plenty of people with you,’ Kush replied. ‘I need to get on with my chores.’

She raised her hand in greeting, then concentrated once more on arranging palm hearts on a piece of bark. When she was done, she called out to her elder granddaughter:

‘Kuy-Kuyen, come here!’ The girl appeared at once. Kush went on: ‘Take this tray and offer it around. When it is empty, come back here for more. But first, have one for
yourself.’

Kuy-Kuyen took one of the palm hearts and bit into it with great delight. Wilkilén stood close by, watching all this.

‘Grannie Kush! Give me something to offer around!’ the girl begged her.

‘Come here so I can straighten your clothes a bit,’ said her grandmother. She tied the straps on her little leather boots, straightened the cap with earflaps that framed her face
with strips of colour, and made sure above all that her cloak was properly done up. While she was doing this, Wilkilén stared up at the wind above the valley, imitating it by blowing out her
cheeks and stretching her arms out as though they were the branches of a tree.

‘I would be done more quickly if you kept still,’ said Kush.

Wilkilén lowered her gaze from the sky, still lost in thought.

‘I wanted to know if people grow tired of being the wind,’ she said, lowering her arms. She added: ‘Yes, they do.’

Kush looked at her granddaughter, remembering the golden oriole feather. She hugged the little girl to her, and kissed her freezing cheeks to try to calm the fears that had suddenly come rushing
back. Then she immediately set about granting her granddaughter’s wish.

‘Let’s see what I have to give you,’ she murmured, partly for her own sake, partly for Wilkilén. She hesitated, then chose a medium-sized pot in which she had made a
thick paste of nuts and herbs. Perfect for spreading on bread.