People of the Sea(22)
Oxbalm couldn’t see very much of Catchstraw’s face, but what he could see didn’t look to be especially happy. The Dreamer had been mumbling unpleasantly to himself all afternoon. Oxbalm had tried talking to him for the first few hands of time but had given up when Catchstraw started using that authoritative tone of voice that made his words sound as though they came from Above-Old-Man himself.
Since then, Oxbalm had turned his attention to more pleasing things. Children’s voices rose and fell against the rhythmic murmur of the surf. The gulls continued to shriek and brawl over the feast. His people laughed contentedly, and the wind had turned warm. Such serenity came along rarely; he wanted to enjoy the day.
Sumac and their little granddaughter, Mountain Lake, sat cross-legged in the bottom of the mammoth, covered with blood. They laughed joyously while they sliced the tenderloin into strips. Mountain Lake had gobbled down so much raw meat that her pretty little face bore a crust that looked like thick red paint. This was the first such feast in her six summers.
Up and down the beach, people Sang as they butchered and skinned. Dogs lay happily in the sun, their bellies bloated. Above them all, insects hovered in clouds of glittering membranous wings.
A ring of guards stood along the perimeter of the butchering ground, their sharp eyes alert for the big cats. Sunlight glinted on polished dart shafts where they rested ready in the hooked atlatls. Beyond the guards, hidden in the screen of forest, saber-toothed cats watched from the shadows, wary of the humans and their deadly darts. When the deep-throated growls carried against the wind, the guards would brandish their darts and the cats would hiss and paw the air threateningly.
“Growl,” Oxbalm murmured softly. “One day your voices will be stilled.” Even these cats, now so wary, would be dead within the week. Drawn to the carcasses, they would remain to prowl for other prey. Despite precautions, good dogs would begin to disappear, and a child, lost in play, would step too close to the trees, or an old man like Oxbalm wouldn’t run fast enough in the twilight.
“What do you mean, ‘stilled’?” Catchstraw asked, his eyes narrowing.
“The cats have Power. All silent killers do. But not even that will save them.” Oxbalm nodded, remembering a dream he’d once had as a boy. In it, a cat had walked into the camp, crossed the plaza and stood over his bed. Petrified, Oxbalm had stared into those golden eyes, wondering what the silent stalker wished to tell him. If only his ears had been open instead of closed. Or had the great cat judged him-and found him wanting? “Our young men have atlatls and finely crafted darts. I have heard of Blowing Seed, a hunter in the Seal Fat Clan north of here. In his lodge, the walls are covered with skulls of the saber-toothed cat. Over ten-tens of them. Filling an entire wall.”
“I’ve heard of him. He claims to have great Power because he has killed so many of the big cats. The fool.”
Oxbalm glanced sideways at Catchstraw and cut the strip of meat totally loose from the ribs, grunting as he caught
the weight. He staggered to the gaping opening behind the floating ribs and handed the strip to three young boys who fought for the honor of carrying it. “Be careful! Don’t drop that in the sand—or everyone will yell at you for getting grit in their teeth.” He grinned, exposing his toothless gums. “Everyone but me!”
Oxbalm went back into the mammoth, using a blood encrusted thumb to rub some of the gore from his big quartzite flake. “Those cats out there in the trees, they’re hungry. Their stomachs will overcome their caution, and young Two Toes, or one of the others, will drive a dart through them. Men are smarter hunters than cats.”
Catchstraw halfheartedly pressed his thumb against his obsidian blade. “Time to resharpen this,” he muttered unpleasantly and then raised smoky eyes to Oxbalm. “Do not underestimate Power, Oxbalm. It is greater than any hunter, no matter how skilled he is in the ways of animals. Someday Power may come hunting you, and no dart of yours will kill it.”
Oxbalm’s bushy gray brows lifted. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know a great deal, old man.”
Oxbalm held his tongue and went back to his work, forcing himself to think about the big cats. Yes, now they kept to the shadows, unwilling to show themselves. But Oxbalm knew that when darkness fell, they would fight all night over the butchered carcasses. Was that the image Catchstraw wanted to conjure with his talk of Power? That of a cat hiding in the shadows by day, prowling ferociously at night? He’d better be careful not to say that aloud to many people. Somebody might suspect him of being a witch and sneak up and bash his brains out. The idea tickled a chuckle from Oxbalm’s breast. Catchstraw, a witch! Ha!