The Forlorn(27)

Keilin's mouth was watering. "It smells very good, sir."

The old fellow expanded like a peony in the sun. Keilin realized he was probably unused to feeding anyone but himself, and had indeed been nervous about the reaction of his surprise guest. "Bless you, son. Don't you be calling old Marou Skyann `sir.' Dig in, lad. It's prime tucker this. No sense in lettin' it get cold." He scuffled among the rocks and produced a leather wineskin. "Ain't eggsactly wine . . . but it's a rare vintage. Near on two weeks old." He cackled at his own joke, and handed Keilin the skin. The brew inside it was sour, and vaguely alcoholic . . . and wet.

With his throat lubricated, a drumstick in one hand, a piece of goanna in the other, grease on his chin, and the fire warmth licking at him, the boy relaxed for the first time in days.

While Keilin ate with hungry greed, he retained enough common sense to be loudly appreciative of the food. The old man drank the praise in like thirsty ground, and was soon telling him the best way to trap goanna, and where to look for sand grouse in the mornings, which banks the sand martens nested in, and how to steal their eggs without being mobbed by the entire nesting colony. Keilin was warm, he had a full belly and he was unused to alcohol, even a mild brew like this. It was hardly surprising that, when Marou finally said, "Now son, time for that story," his answer was a snore.

The old man looked across at him, and sat silent for a while. Finally he spoke quietly, more to himself than the sleeper. "Don't look much like a claim jumper to me. You're lucky, boy. Five year ago I'd'a killed you just in case. In th' morning I'll feed you th' antidote." Burrowing among the rocks he pulled out a mangy old rug of rabbit pelts, and tossed it over the boy. "Sleep easy, son," he said, a wry smile teasing the wrinkles.

It was just before gray dawn when Keilin found himself poked sharply in the ribs. Opening his eyes he saw the old man prodding him with his spear butt. "On your feet, boyo. Cain't sleep all day. Move your tail if you want to eat."

Keilin staggered up, rubbing his wide eyes. "I . . . I'm sorry . . . I must have fallen asleep."

The old man cackled. "If you hadn't been snorin' I'd'a thought you was dead, kid. Sleep like that and you will be. Here . . . drink this." He handed Keilin a small mug full of bitter hot brew. The boy gagged at the first mouthful. He found the spear was against his chest. "Drink it!" The voice was deadly. Keilin swallowed.

The old fellow relaxed. The spear point dropped. "All right, boy. Let's go. We've got to get the traps set before it gets light."

Keilin's jaw dropped. "But . . . why? Why did I have to drink that foul stuff first?"

The old man looked discomforted. "You needed it." He set his mouth in a hard, thin line. "Now come on. Let's move. We want to get the traps set."

They were simple drop traps: a wire cage with a door which fell shut behind the bird. At the back of each cage was a mirror. Marou carefully scattered a few seeds outside the cage. Inside it, in front of the mirror, he put a generous pile of seed. "Ol' sand grouse, he's a mighty suspeecious feller. Put the biggest trail o' seed into that cage, an' 'e still won't go in. But when 'e sees that other fowl in there a-pecking away at a big pile o' seed while he's getting mighty thin pickin's . . .

"Now, let's get breakfast. There's a good slope that hasn't bin worked for a good while."

Keilin's stomach rumbled in agreement. He was somewhat less keen when he discovered that breakfast was to be caught by turning over stones on the hillside. "If they've got small claws an' fat stings, leave 'em, son," said his mentor, catching a large-clawed two-inch gleaming bronzy carapaced monster with his old deft hands. He plucked the stinger off, and crunched the beast between strong teeth. Keilin turned pale. As a street brat he'd eaten damn near anything he could scavenge. Fried rat was perfectly acceptable . . . in fact, quite tasty, but . . . raw live scorpion! Gingerly he turned over the next rock. It was still cold, and thus the snake that struck at his foot was a fraction too slow. He dropped the rock with a startled yell. His erstwhile instructor dived behind some rocks and disappeared. Keilin simply couldn't find him. After a few moments, the white head peered out from behind a boulder. "What'n hell was that, son? Mohocks?"

"S-s-snake, under that rock . . ." With shaking hand Keilin pointed.

The old chap bobbed up with glee, rubbing his wrinkled belly. "Great! Why'd ya yell! Y'might frighten it!" He rapidly hobbled over to the rock.

"Watch out! It's a bad one!" said Keilin fearfully.

"Ain't no such animal! Snake's good. Skin's useful too. But him'll be good'n mad after you pissing about with him. You jump away sharpish when you pull the rock over, see."