The Days of the Deer (5 page)

The first part of his journey was back along the way he had come a few days earlier. He crossed the market and the games court. He walked along the street leading to the market, then out past
the orange groves and the outlying dwellings. ‘Farewell, Beleram!’ he said, without looking back. ‘I’ll make use of my long journey to compose a song to you!’

He crossed the bridge over the river, and went on to Centipede Yellow. From there he climbed towards the Ceremonial Mountains, which he crossed by a steep short cut. At the top, he praised the
countryside around him out loud. ‘I’ve reached the most beautiful valley in the world!’ The valley was called Thirteen Times Seven Thousand Birds. ‘Perfumed like few others,
and more musical than any of all the many I have heard.’ The traveller would have liked to spend several days in the valley, but knew this was impossible. Instead, he continued on his way
towards the sea. One fine day he slid down the sand-dunes of the beach.

The Astronomers had ordered him to wait on the shore for the arrival of the fish-women. They came at first light, bringing with them a small boat that they left close to the shore. The traveller
had no difficulty reaching it. A wind from behind blew their hair over their faces. When they left at dusk, it streamed out over their shoulders.

The craft was no different from one any Zitzahay could make out of bundles of reeds and a few secrets. Inside it was a pair of oars and a generous amount of food. The sun shone once more, and
although the wind had died down, the Zitzahay prepared to set off. ‘Farewell, my Remote Realm. I shall be further away from your stars than I have ever been.’

He sailed across the Mansa Lalafke because the sea there was calm, sheltered between two shores. Crossing the sea saved him many days, because the path along the land here was very long, and
grew steep where it met the foothills of the Maduinas Mountains.

From the morning when he disembarked, things changed for him. From that moment on, his journey had to become stealthy and silent so that he did not give away his secret. No one was to see a
Zitzahay in this part of the continent. That was why the traveller was so thankful for the boat that had brought him, even though he destroyed every last trace of it.

Anybody wanting to reach the Ends of the Earth from the north had to cross the country of the Pastors of the Desert. The Astronomers had instructed him to stay close by the shore of the Lalafke.
If he did that, no one would see him, because the Pastors never went near the sea. ‘Of course I did as I was told. I went where the Astronomers said I should, and, as far as I know, not a
single human being laid eyes on me.’

This was what he said long afterwards, each of the many times he told his story.

He said ‘human being’ because from the moment he arrived in the Land Without Shadow an eagle circled above him. Occasionally it disappeared – once for a whole day – and
yet it always returned. The man was pleased to see it back, flying high in the sky above his head. ‘It made me happy the way one feels when you see your home again in the middle of a
lightning storm.’ And of course he had reason to be pleased with the bird. Travelling on one’s own through foreign lands it is easy to lose one’s way, mistake a landmark, become
disoriented on the plains or to go wrong at a crossroads. Whenever that happened, the bird swooped down with a loud screech. Then it flew back and forth between the bewildered traveller and the
right path, showing him the right way to go. In addition, the eagle often carried fleshy leaves in its beak that were filled with a comforting juice. These helped augment the traveller’s
scarce supply of water, which he could only replenish in the rare oases he came across near the coast.

So they travelled together for countless days. ‘She in the sky, me in the sands; never the other way round.’

The desert seemed endless. Days of scorching heat; icy nights. Days and nights, nights and days, the landscape always the same. Every so often, the figure on his own in the desert threw a pebble
in front of him just to convince himself he was advancing. ‘You’ve caught up with the pebble you threw. Calm down, you are moving. And with any luck, you’re moving in the right
direction,’ he told himself in consolation.

The Supreme Astronomers had instructed him how to plan his time: when to make an effort, and when to rest, so that he would survive the desert. While he was in the Land Without Shadow, he had to
start walking at sunset. ‘To wrap myself in my cloak and walk. To make progress at night and in the early hours of the morning, because as soon as the sun rose in the sky I had to set up my
tent in the meagre shade of the thorn bushes, drink my water, and get some sleep. Sleep and then wake at the red sunset, bathe in the sea, and then go on with my journey.’

Often at night a sandstorm arose, stinging his body. Then there was no chance of going on. His eyes tight shut, his mouth set in a taut line while he sheltered under his cloak waiting for the
wind to drop, his mind went back to the smell of that tortilla he had eaten when he left Beleram. The wind took a long time to drop, but gradually the grains hurt less; the sand returned to the
sand. It was only then that he could set off again.

‘The Land Without Shadow is a strange place! The sea and the desert meet at the coast, but there is no telling which of them is dying and which is doing the killing!’

Then one dawn, a day before his belt had a hundred and forty knots on it, he reached the Marshy River. The traveller knew that once he had crossed it he would be entering the Ends of the Earth,
the lands where the Husihuilkes lived. The air here was different, and the first few clumps of vegetation started to appear.

In order to cross the Marshy River he had to leave the coastline, because the river estuary was one huge swamp. If he did not do so, he would be bound to sink in the mud. His map showed he
should head inland. And even though this held its risks as well, they were not as deadly or as unavoidable as the ones he faced in the swamp. Leaving the coast meant he might be spotted by the
Pastors of the Desert, who often came down to the estuary for their flocks to drink and graze. They also crossed the river to trade. Their llamels were greatly sought after in Husihuilke villages,
and the Pastors exchanged them for four, medicinal herbs, and other things they could not obtain in their oases. This meant there was a greater chance the traveller would be discovered, as he had
to use the same bridge as they did.

He had just set out across the river when the eagle started to circle round his head, screeching loudly. What was it trying to tell him? He could not be going the wrong way this time. The river
was the river. The bridge was the bridge, and only offered two possibilities: to the south lay his final destination, to the north was the way back. ‘My friend, you can’t want me to
return to the desert, can you?’ He peered in the direction of the eagle’s flapping wings, and soon understood why the bird was making such a fuss. A big flock of llamels was heading for
the river. He could only make out the nearest animals; the rest of the flock was an indistinct blur. But where there are llamels, there are Pastors. And since there were no bushes near by, let
alone trees he could hide behind, the man decided he had to get as far away from them as he could. He walked on as fast as his stumpy legs would allow.

So as not to think about how tired he was, he started to think about the llamels. He soon found himself wondering what those enormous red-haired beasts would do in the jungles of the Remote
Realm. How could they possibly get through the undergrowth with their splayed feet and heavy bodies? They could not climb or fly; nor could they make themselves thin the way jaguars did, or crawl
like snakes. He imagined them hopelessly stuck, longing to be roaming again through their vast deserts. At that point he suddenly realized that he too was stuck, longing for his home. ‘What
about you, Zitzahay? Isn’t the jungle your home, and despite that, haven’t you just crossed the desert?’

Yes, he had crossed that vast expanse safely! As he took his first step beyond the bridge, he looked up to find the eagle. He wanted to ask her to laugh with him, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Eventually he felt so happy he laughed on his own.

Behind him lay the empty wastes, the Marshy River, and the flocks of llamels. The forest was close at hand, and with it came the promise of an easier journey.

He walked on. He soon realized that the eagle had not followed him, but was not concerned: he had learnt by now that it was the bird’s habit to disappear. When he reached the first
well-defined shadows he looked for her again. He stared so hard into the sky that he confused her with other birds. And because he was looking up so much, he stumbled over everything he met in his
way. He called out ‘Eagle’ softly, because he could not shout. ‘My friend,’ he said. He looked and looked, until finally he realized the eagle had stayed in the desert.
‘And there I was, thinking only of the llamels!’ Despite the welcoming forest, he could not forget her. ‘And as you can see, I still haven’t,’ he told his
listeners.

Nothing was sent to replace the bird to help him on his way. At least, he was not aware of anything. Although he would have liked to have someone to talk to, the fact was that once he had
crossed the river, the journey became so easy that he had no need of help. The path he had been told to follow kept him well away from the villages of the southern warriors. Added to that, his
hearing, his sense of smell and his ability to walk silently kept him safe. ‘I have no idea if the stars were on my side too!’

In order to avoid the Husihuilke villages he had to take a winding path full of detours. He often had to double back, and yet he never got lost. The landmarks he had to follow were unmistakable:
quite the opposite to the Land Without Shadow. There all he could see were the Maduinas Mountains in the east, the Lalafke to the west, and sand all around him. In these forests at the Ends of the
Earth, a waterfall or pool never failed to point him in the right direction. Impossible to get lost somewhere where everything seemed to be a signpost for the way he should take. Rivers flowing
west, a huge cypress wood charred by fire from a lightning strike, twin lakes, springs, lava flows, caves ... ‘The landscape was such a good guide that I walked along singing to myself, as I
did in my own land,’ he told people in later days.

5

‘Why are you scratching your legs like that?’ Kume asked his brother and sister.

Thinking they had successfully disguised the persistent itch and pain the ant bites had caused them, the pair looked at each other, not knowing what to reply. They did not dare tell the truth,
but neither of them had the courage to invent an excuse either. So they carried on walking, without acknowledging they had even heard their brother’s question. Kume shrugged his shoulders and
forgot about it.

If it had been Thungür or Kuy-Kuyen who had seen them scratching in this way, either would have pestered them until they gave an answer. Kume, though, was naturally taciturn. He spent many
hours on his own, observing the world from his solitary lair with a mixture of melancholy and hostility. It was not surprising therefore that he left them alone without repeating his question. Now
he soon fell into one of those self-absorbed moods they all knew so well, but did nothing to try to change. He walked in silence a little way back from the others until they reached home.

‘Here we are at last!’ exclaimed Old Mother Kush. ‘Take off your cloaks and sit by the fire. I’ll make some mint tea with honey to ward off the cold.’

Dulkancellin was hanging up his cloak when he saw the carved wooden chest that appeared together with the rain and disappeared as soon as the sun shone again. He smiled to himself, and shouted
to Kush, who was busy with the fire:

‘What will you choose from your chest this time?’

‘Who knows?’ his mother replied.

‘I hope it’s Shampalwe’s comb,’ said Kuy-Kuyen. ‘Then you can tell us again what her wedding was like.’

‘No,’ Thungür objected, warming his hands at the fire. ‘I’d like it better if you took out the red rock from the volcano and told us about the day the earth opened
and the lakes were bubbling with heat.’

‘All I can promise is that I will tell you a story.’

Every Husihuilke family kept a chest that was passed down through the generations. Even though it was less than two hands high, and could be carried by a young child, in it were keepsakes of
everything important that had happened to the family throughout time. When the nights for story-telling arrived, the chest was turned over four times: first forwards, then backwards, and finally to
each of its two sides. Afterwards, the oldest member of the family would plunge a hand into the chest and pull out the first thing it touched, without hesitating or choosing. That object was a
token of the story that would be told that year. Sometimes this referred to events none of them had witnessed, because they had happened many years before. Yet the story-teller talked of them as
surely as if they had indeed been there. In this way too the tales became rooted in the minds of those who would have to tell them again years later.