The Chronicles of the Pale Books 1-3

Chapter 14

Chapter Six

Kilimanjara, huntmistress of the Storm, had little confidence that the Settlement would assist the tribes. Settlers tended to be preoccupied with their own lives. Settlers believed that living inside their walls was the best fortune any mortal could desire. In their minds, anyone who chose another path was deluded and deserved all the ill fortune that came their way. For generations, they had thought this. Yes, generations—or, as the settlers said, ‘since the beginning’.

Kilimanjara growled. ‘The beginning!’

Huntmaster Afon of the Rainbow, walking beside her, coughed into his hand. ‘What are you grumbling about now?’

‘The settlers. They won’t help. They never do.’

Afon sighed, lifting a hand in greeting as they passed one of the repair sites. Here tribesfolk of all colours were busy improvising, mending, making, and doing their best to stretch the scarce foodstuffs to feed the crowd. Two elders were fashioning beakers, bowls and spoons from the plentiful woodfall, while a handful of young matrons were weaving ill-dried reeds into rough fabric, the best that could be managed this time of year. One woman was hand-spinning hanks of hair, fur and lichen into a kind of wool that could be used for children’s clothing.

Afon turned his head, speaking out of the side of his mouth to Kilimanjara. ‘As to that, Feather is an excellent envoy. Have faith, my dear!’

‘Huh!’ responded Kilimanjara, but she took a breath and reminded herself to present a calm, confident aspect to the tribesfolk clustered throughout the camp. An excited youngling, playing catch-me-who-can with some other children, briefly found a hiding place in the shelter of her flapping cloak before running off shrieking. Afon let out a rusty laugh.

‘At least you’re good for games!’

‘Huh!’ said Kilimanjara again, but she took his arm as they headed into the heart of the Storm’s camp, where the other three huntleaders awaited them in her tent. Since the aftershock, they met daily to discuss plans and report on progress. ‘But I am worried. Nobody knows how difficult the ways between here and the Settlement have become. He may be lost, injured even. He may not have reached the Settlement at all.’

‘Kilimanjara, old friend! This is not like you,’ chided Afon. ‘You should have faith in Feather. He will make the best speed he can, speak eloquently, and return with help. I’m sure of it.’

They stepped into her tent, casting a glance at the other huntmasters gathered there, crowded into the little space. The air inside the shelter steamed with their breath and the rising vapour from the sodden clothing on their warm bodies. At least they would be cosy.

Kilimanjara pulled off her hat and shrugged herself out of the long cloak, depositing both on the floor of the hut, just inside the entrance. Tehuano looked up and smiled at her.

‘So, Huntmistress of the Storm, what news?’

Kilimanjara coaxed herself to her more usual cheery attitude. ‘It is wet, Huntmaster of the Terran,’ she said to a couple of answering chuckles.

‘Very funny,’ said Hadar of the River tribe. ‘We know that. What we don’t know is how we are to survive through to spring.’

‘Hadar, stop moaning,’ said Afon, reaching to pat the old man’s hand as he sat next to him. ‘Being miserable doesn’t put food in the children’s mouths. Have you brought along any new ideas?’

Hadar grunted. ‘I know, I know. I’m sorry. I don’t like to see the children go hungry, and the injured fading away. I’m sure nobody here blames me, if I get to be grouchy. I am a sick and worried old man.’

They murmured their concern and assent. Kilimanjara sat at Hadar’s other side.

‘Well, I have walked the boundaries and I am heartened,’ she reported. ‘We have constructed a shelter for every family, and the hunting improves. As you may know, the Rainbow hunters have brought in a large crocodyl, washed downriver during the shock.’

‘Crocodylli? Here?’ squeaked Hadar. ‘We must move! Crocodylli will eat our children!’

‘Peace, Hadar,’ said Afon. ‘I was about to tell you of this. The animal was drowned in the floods, and the battering of its body shows it has been washed a long way from wherever it entered the waters. Our hunters cut it into pieces and brought it in for the pots. There was no sign of fresh tracks or dung anywhere.’

‘I do not like it,’ said Hadar. ‘It is dangerous here. We should not stay.’ He paused as a racking cough shook him. ‘I do not feel safe.’

‘Indeed, we will move on,’ offered Kilimanjara. ‘But not yet. Come spring, when we can travel more easily and the earth is kinder to us, we will seek new places. We will not prosper forever, sitting atop one another.’

‘That is months away! We must be safe during the winter, I tell you. We have all of winter’s snow and ice and gales to be lived through. We will likely freeze inside these flimsy huts. We have run away without our skin covers, our woven blankets, our down sleeping mats!’ Again, Hadar was interrupted by a spasm of coughing.

The others did not point out that there had been good reason for them to leave their old campsites, or that they had not ‘run away’. Hadar knew it well enough. He was just ill and anxious. No wonder his temper got the better of him.

‘If I might, I would like to make a suggestion, huntmasters,’ said the young leader of the Green. Although he was quite new to the mastership, they all recognised Tierre as a strong and clever hunter, who had raised the Green to the status of major tribe in a scant five years. Of them all, he was the only one with a partner and young children. All the other huntmasters had several generations of offspring behind them.

‘What it is, Tierre?’ asked Kilimanjara.

‘I think we should make some changes before the snow sets in. We have organised ourselves into family shelters. I propose that we combine two or three families in the one shelter.’

‘They won’t fit!’ objected Hadar. ‘These miserable hovels have no space at all! We will only spread illness this way.’

‘No, I mean, choose the biggest shelter of the two or three, or more if you will. Then take down the others and use the material to make the one shelter bigger, more weatherproof. Double or triple the strength of every wall and every roof. If we cramp ourselves up, we will be warmer and able to bear the cold better. And there is less illness when we are warm.’

There was murmuring around Kilimanjara’s hut. Afon spoke first. ‘It is a sound idea. Thank you, Tierre.’ Tehuano and Kilimanjara nodded their agreement. Even Hadar seemed impressed.

The Storm’s huntmistress called their attention again. ‘So, we have the flesh of the crocodyl to share, and a plan to help shelter us through the colder months. We are plentifully supplied with fresh water, kindling, and logs. Green stuff is beginning to grow along the river’s edge. We have enough cooking pots and weapons to go around. The wise ones of every tribe work on our stocks of medicines. We have enough hunters to keep us from the worst of want, and we are numerous enough to frighten away any ferals. But for all this, my friends, we are much poorer than we were before the aftershock. It will be a very hungry winter.’

‘Well, that is only to be expected,’ said Afon. ‘It was a disaster. That takes some getting over.’

‘I know, I know,’ answered Kilimanjara. ‘We are mortal, and our life is subject to chance. Still, I for one do not want my descendants to live a life of difficulty and hardship. I wish security and comfort for them. I want them to live as well as I have lived. Better. I wish we could mend this disaster.’

Hadar grunted. ‘So do I. But wishing will not fill the woods with game, nor the river with fish, nor the trees with fruit, nor the plains with crops. It is their fortune to be born into comfort but to inherit hardship. It is the way of this mortal world.’ He nodded to himself, rocking back on his heels and closing his eyes. In truth, he looked more than old; he looked all in, done for. The others watched him in sadness.

‘Hadar is right,’ agreed Tehuano. ‘Nothing is forever, and the idea of plenty was destroyed long ago, by our foolish forebears who brought the Great Conflagration down upon us all.’ He shook his head, contemplating the inevitable ill-fortune of all latter-day humans.

Kilimanjara bit her lip. Though much of what the two old men said was true—in fact, there was little she could dispute—she for one had no wish to sit on her hands, complaining about the lot that had been bequeathed by the idiotic short-sightedness of the ancestors. And she had no wish for her descendants to say the same of her—that Huntmistress Kilimanjara had capitulated in the months following the aftershock, that she had made no attempt to bring matters to a better state before she died. The least the older generation could do was provide the younger with the tools it needed to make improvements for itself. This she was determined to achieve. All the same, she was surprised when Afon spoke out.

‘I hear what you say, huntmasters. But I cannot agree with you. The Conflagrationists destroyed our civilisation, yes. But not totally. If they wanted to bring about the end of the world, they went about it the wrong way. They left survivors. Here we stand in proof that life has not ended in this land. And I refuse to acknowledge their power.’

‘Refuse!’ snapped Hadar. ‘Lad, you cannot refuse! What, will you bring the ancestors back to life and make them undo the Conflagration?’

‘I am not yet so stupid,’ answered Afon with a quirk of his thin lips. ‘Nor am I any longer a lad, Hadar my friend. Listen to what I say, I beg you.’

‘Please, go on,’ said youthful Tierre. ‘I would wish to offer a better future to my children.’

‘It may not be possible, but I wish to try. Now, Feather of the Storm is on an errand to the Settlement, as you know. They may be able to offer us help; they may not. Whatever the case, I think we should consider a closer alliance with the settlers.’

What followed could only be called restrained uproar. Tribesfolk passing Kilimanjara’s shelter looked askance at it. It was many minutes until the huntmasters’ voices sank again into ordinary discussion.