Strawberries are not the only fruit. Part Two

[bebunny]

The sun was past its highest point when Bob returned to the tent. Ray and Frank had already set up their bedrolls, leaving a neat space for him near Frank at the back. Frank was sat at the centre, coaxing the small stubborn fire into life.

“Ray’s gone to beg a meal from his parents.” He said conversationally “I think it’s cheating, since we asked Gerard to come, but I
guess it makes sense.”

Bob placed his belongings on the fur covered floor and sat to tug his boots off. “Cheating?” He asked.

Frank nodded. “I didn’t think we’d get anything cooked until the fire had been going a while, and Ray was getting really hungry. I suppose hunting rations doesn’t make for a great first meal.” He looked forlornly at the little dish of ground grains and mashed potatoes that he’d formed into patties. “I’d prefer something hot anyway.”

Bob quite liked Frank’s rations; they had been the first thing he’d eaten after waking after his collapse. It had taken all of Joe’s gesticulating and mime to convince Bob they were food. Frank had persisted by sitting obstinately in front of him and eating two or three to make Bob try one. Bob had not eaten anything solid in many days and it was such a relief to eat something that afterwards he had developed something of a taste for Frank’s eccentric cuisine. Frank had then taught him to speak their language through weeks of patient direction and encouragement. Many people had reassured him then that the tiny tattooed hunter didn’t mind. There wasn’t much else to do in winter and if the truth be told the clan were happy to give Frank something to do, lest he get some wild notion into his head about tracking wolves in the biting cold of the hills.

“I think they make a great first meal.” He said quietly, rolling out the furs from his hearth in the cave and setting his small collection of packs at the head. Frank only giggled in response and poked the fire again, he handed Bob a potato cake anyway.

Bob had only been carrying meagre supplies when he had been found by the clan. Among the items that were familiar to any that had spent time with him since were his travelling bedroll, now augmented by a shaggy bison fur he had one gambling with Joe, and a small carved statue of the Mother. He placed this carefully by the head of his bedroll.

Knowing then that he would be staying with the clan for at least the foreseeable future, Bob dismantled his largest pack. He tugged the rawhide outer apart, sliding the flat shape under the floor for support, then shook out the inner lining, which elicited a gasp from Frank.“Is that a bearskin!?”

Bob chuckled, and dragged his palm over the fur, running it against the grain. “It was my father’s.” He said, “I am told he killed the bear when it threatened my mother while she was gathering near the salmon run.” He tilted the dark fur towards Frank and pushed his fingers through a small slit near the neck end. “It only took one spear.”

His father had given Bob the skin for luck when he had left to journey his way across the plains. Out of respect for the warrior bear his father had never made garments from the skin, but had used it only as decoration, a trophy. Bob laid it across his bed, and smiled fondly. “They were mated soon after.” Seeing it spread out reminded Bob sharply of his family and he was struck with a sudden pang of homesickness. “Your father must be some warrior!” Frank drew in his breath through his teeth in a whistle

Bob ducked his head, shy of the sudden rush of emotions, “My tribe is very proud of him.”

“Well,” Frank replied cheerily, “now we know where you get it from.”

~**~

Endless potential stretched out in front of Mikey leaving him breathless. He could see the shifting spirit-paths, the routes those-who-walked-above took. Nothing seemed familiar except the ever present sensation of kneeling as his mind-self connected with his body-self. If he concentrated he could even feel the impressions the reed weavings were making in his knees as he held his position. He resolved to try dream-walking laying down next time, despite Malik’s warnings that if he ever became too comfortable he would become lost.

Without a clear purpose he began casting about for some sort of clue, something had drawn him here, something powerful enough to reach him in waking. There was something out here that wanted to tell him something.

Shapes were forming around him, images of the tents and hearths of his clan. He felt as though he stood alone in their camp, wreathed in fog. He made his way between the trees, amongst the debris of life, the abandoned tents and cold fires.

He approached the edge of the tree line, where a breeze he could not feel brushed the branches back and forth gently. There was laughter, soft at first, then sharper as he moved closer. He realised with a sudden rush of trepidation that a figure stood shaded under the nearest fir, its back to the shaman.

It spoke, and seemed male where it spoke in Mikey’s mind.

“You came, I’m so glad.”

“You called me.” Mikey’s reply was more of a statement than a question. Whatever the spirit wanted, Mikey must never let it think he was anything but in control.

“I did.” The spirit turned to face Mikey. Dark straight hair fell into a round face, its features fine and attractive. It smiled disarmingly, and spread its hands in welcome. Its smile reminded Mikey of a jackal; too many teeth.

“I came.” Mikey said. It was an invitation, he would need the spirit to reveal its intentions, Malik had always said they enjoyed puzzles and games. At a clan meet one summer a younger, more naive Mikey had sat in rapturous awe as the shamans told stories of the verbal mazes the spirits weaved for even the greatest among them. They were kin to spiders it was said, never struggle, their nets would trap you.

The spirit’s eyes were like amber, they gazed unblinkingly at Mikey’s face. It was that gaze that kept Mikey constantly aware that he was not speaking to a human, though it might currently wear that form.

“I waited for you.” It said. “You were the first to hear me.”

“You called others.” Mikey said the realisation was a piece of the puzzle. Something he could use.

Mikey’s surprise must have been evident to the spirit because it laughed again, melodically.

The spirit nodded, its expression shifted to express sadness. “The music died.” It said.

“Music is important.” Mikey suggested cautiously, trying to get a handle on what the spirit wanted.

The spirit seemed to become agitated, it wrung its hands fitfully and its eyes darted back and forth. “Another discouraged.”  It replied fervently. “But it is gone now and we do not know how to make them sing once more.”

Mikey was at a loss, he had no idea what the spirit was referring to.

The spirit’s gaze returned to Mikey. “You can bring it home.”

“What home?” The reply was instinctive and Mikey cursed inwardly, he had asked a question of the spirit and now it had the right to ask a question or a boon in return

“Will you return?” It said slyly.

Mikey backed away, growing wary of the situation.

“Wait!” the spirit called, a little desperately.

“Tell me your name and I will consider it.” Mikey said, hoping that he sounded more authoritative than he felt.

The spirit seemed to twist a little, agonising over the decision. Calling to Mikey across the divide in the waking world must have been no small task which meant it had no small power but giving its name away could potentially leave it vulnerable to the Shaman.

It seemed to shrink a little as it relented. “Pete.” It said finally.

Mikey nodded. “I will return then.” He said. He knew he would keep his word, if nothing else he wanted answers and he knew it would not be the last time he felt the itch under his skin, the desire to return here. He wasn’t sure if he had the will to resist.

He could feel his inexperience; remaining here so far from the edges of his conscious space was stretching him thin, becoming painful. He knew with practice that it would become easier but for now It was a relief to follow the thin line of consciousness back into the world of warmth and waking, albeit to aching knees and a serious crick in his neck. There would be time enough to discover what the enigmatic spirit wanted of him, and for all its apparent lack of malice how he might help without losing his soul.

~**~

Bob’s eyes flicked open. The winds outside had whipped up into what must have been approaching a gale. The tent was dark except for the low glow of the embers from Frank’s ever reluctant fire. Across from him he could hear Ray’s familiar low snores over the intermittent whistling of the wind. The tent flap was not entirely secure and it snapped back and forth. Bob realised it must have been the sound that awakened him. He rose quietly stepping carefully past Ray’s prone silhouette and caught the tying strap, lashing it against the post in the ground. Outside the warmth of the tent the air felt muggy and damp, as though rain was on its way.

As he made his way back to his bed he was a little startled to realise Frank was awake, watching him pick his way back across the floor. He murmured an apology for waking him.

“It’s ok,” Frank whispered, “I was really just dozing.”

The first big raindrops arrived sooner than Bob expected, just as he reached his bed. They pattered into the hides above them. Then in a rush the noise was all around them, sheets of rain driven into the tent by the wind. It was a sound Bob hadn’t heard since leaving his tribe and he breathed in deep, nostalgia and homesickness welling up inside him. Ray turned over restlessly, but settled back into snoring almost immediately.

When the first flash of lightning light the edges of the entrance up and thunder boomed around them through the rain Bob was surprised to see Frank visibly tense up in the dim light.

“Are you ok?” He hissed. He could hear Frank’s breathing quicken, and the tiny hunter was balled up in his furs.

Frank’s reply was a non committal grunt, but an audible gasp gave his fear away as a second flash of lightning lit up the walls, the thunder a heartbeat behind.

“Frank,” Bob whispered urgently “Frank, come here!”

Frank turned his face to Bob, and seemed indecisive until a sudden gust of wind blew a violent sheet of rain against the tent, and Frank threw off his furs in a single motion, he kicked them free and scuttled over to Bob’s bed.

Bob lifted the edge of his furs to welcome Frank’s shaking form beside him, for a moment he regretted his nakedness but his desire to comfort his friend overwhelmed his modesty. Frank’s skin was warm against his own and he murmured soft encouragements to Frank as they lay together.

Slowly Frank began to relax, his breathing becoming more even. He rolled to lie on his back beside Bob, only flinching when thunder cracked overhead. Bob fought the urge to stroke Frank’s hair from his face, or to tangle their fingers together as Frank told him in a low murmur the story of how, as a child he had become lost along the river in a thunderstorm and had to endure it alone, until his father had found him the next morning, huddling inside the hollow of a fallen tree.  When Frank’s word were coming whole seconds apart and he finally fell asleep Bob watched his face for a long while before shifting onto his back beside his friend, half hard and incredibly confused.

~**~

Frank woke to birdsong. He was alone in the tent and for a few moments he was disoriented until he recalled the storm, and diving like a terrified child into Bob’s furs. The bottom dropped out of his stomach and he was overwhelmed with shame. By now the whole clan probably knew what an idiot he had been.

He crawled back to his bed, and shook his clothes from the pile he had left them in; reluctantly he pulled on the pants and tunic and ran his fingers through the tangle of his hair. He busied himself by raking the ashes over the long dead fire and set a new one, then reorganised his belongings twice. He couldn’t deny the truth however; sooner or later he was going to have to leave the tent.

It was well into midmorning by the time he emerged, his eyes screwed shut involuntarily against the glare of the sun. The storm had done much to clear the air above the valley and the cloudless sky was stunningly beautiful. Two clansmen walked by the tent, deep in conversation, one looked up at Frank as they passed, and he could have sworn a smirk crept across his face before he turned back to his companion.

Feeling pitiful Frank grabbed a shoulder sling from the collection of supplies inside the tent’s entrance and headed away from the camp, into the forest. His face flushed hot and red with embarrassment.

~**~

The sun was high by the time Gerard poked his head around the entrance flap of the deserted tent. There was no sign of Bob, Frank or Ray. Gerard could see a new fire laid, and Frank’s unusually tidy sleeping space probably meant they weren’t due back until the evening. He shrugged and entered, dropping his pack on the floor.

He started slow, building up a pattern of interlocking shapes. Painting on to the interior of the tent was a challenge when it sloped up and over your head, by the time he stopped to replenish the dyes in the shallow wooden dish his face was peppered with tiny splashes and dots of dye. He could feel them drying on his skin. Idly he wondered if they would permanently stain like an artist’s version of the hunter’s tattoos. He could live with that, he was never going to earn any the traditional way, which was something else he could live with. He remembered the blood last time Frank had earned one and shuddered.

By way of apology for thinking disrespectfully about Frank’s markings he incorporated some of the ones Frank bore on his back and arms into the design. The end result was quite attractive, especially when he added an overlaid pattern of red ochre sworls over the borders and edges.

It was a long while before Gerard finally decided to stop, his stomach had been rumbling for a while, and he suspected his face was going to look more like a war-mask than anything else, he took in the blues and reds on his palette, or possibly a long dead beaten up corpse. Some part of him thought that aesthetically that would actually be pretty awesome, but he decided against the gamble, especially without Frank’s input.

A decorative band ran around the interior of the tent, with the sunlight behind it Gerard couldn’t see the colours very clearly. He couldn’t wait to see it by firelight.

Feeling a lot better about his immediate future Gerard headed down to the stream with his brushes and palettes. He figured he should probably scrub his face while he was down there as well. He glanced down at his hands and grinned, they did actually look like a corpse’s.

~**~

The spring, if temperamental, was always mild in the hills. The face of the steepest hill was basked in sun nearly all day where it spread down from the forests into the plains. It meant that everything bloomed sooner this far up, and it was a good place to find all sorts of hidden treasures.

It was a haven for Frank, who liked to take advantage of alternative food sources as soon as the clan’s reliance on meat was eased.

Picking his way carefully through young brambles was only the start. Frank spent the morning grappling with the spreading vines and tree roots that choked the floor at the rim of the forest.  It was hard work, and satisfying and helped to take his mind off his shame. Every so often he was lucky and found one of the small crops of wild strawberries that the birds had not yet raided. He had a sizable harvest too, even if the early berries were smaller and tarter than their later blooming cousins it had been months since he’d had one and almost as many made it into his mouth as made it into the sling across his waist.

Frank began to feel a little better about himself, this far away from the rest of the clan, he valued privacy, perhaps more than anyone else he knew, with the exception of Mikey and Gerard. He figured Shamans and artists were special cases however, so much of their work relied on concentration; something that had never been Frank’s strongest feature.

A short way ahead of the strawberry patches Frank knew there was a clearing that would offer him the chance to rest. If he was as lucky as last year the beets that grew along the ridge there would have been safe from the rooting of wild boar and would be ready to harvest. If not he could always make a trip back this way after the full moon.

It took him relatively little time to get to the clearing, and since the forest was fairly clear back down the hillside he knew he could get back to the camp in much less time than it took to climb up through the undergrowth. He wasn’t in a rush however, and to his satisfaction the long leafy stems of the beets were abundant around the open edge of the clearing. He unhooked his spear from his back and set to digging up the treasure. There were enough to pass on to some of the other hearths. He knew his mother in particular would be delighted.

It was no small task digging up the beets. The undergrowth was thick and he had to avoid the thorns on every plant that had any means of defending itself. The earth at least was yielding and when he did manage to clear the space around the base of a plant the beet was revealed with just a little pressure from the butt of his spear.

There was little wind, despite how high up the slope he had come, and the weather was positively summery, it wasn’t long before sweat was stinging Frank’s eyes from the work. He wiped the back of his hand across his face and took stock of his results. It wasn’t anything to be sniffed at; the sling was now almost full of strawberries and beets. He chuckled to himself, the sound echoing a little around the small clearing.

If it hadn’t been for his breather Frank might not have heard the twig snap. His head turned suddenly to the clearing, and every one of his muscles tensed. He turned the spear around noiselessly in his hand so the wickedly sharp stone tip was between him and whatever had made the sound. He began to cycle through possibilities. Bear; possibly although it was early for them the air was uncharacteristically warm. Mountain lion; more likely, they liked to stalk, invisible in the undergrowth and all Frank could see was a wall of leaves. Wild boar; more likely still since they were so common, and not necessarily a danger if he didn’t threaten it first. He crept forwards, his footfalls almost silent on the dense grass of the clearing. He crouched low, trying to present less of a target. As he neared the forest edge of the clearing he could make out a shape, something bigger than him and shifting from side to side restlessly.

His eyes narrowed, he didn’t think whatever it was had spotted him. There was a chance he could make a great kill; a mountain lion pelt was all kinds of valuable. He tried to get a better view, but all he could see was pale shadows and movements beyond the leaves. He drew back his spear arm and prepared to throw his weapon, at the very least; if he didn’t down the thing then it would be too wounded to chase him.

Since it hadn’t noticed him he lined up to get the best shot possible, aiming for where he estimated the middle of the beast was. He steadied his arm and let the spear loose. His aim was off, it struck the tree next to the creature and Frank heard a gasp. In an instant he was rushing to the spot where his spear had landed, crashing through the foliage. The spear was embedded in the trunk of an elm, Bob’s face inches from the shaft. The hunter was staring wide eyed in shock at Frank.

~**~

Mikey sat his bowl empty down; his brother had rushed in to drop off his pack and ran straight out again without so much as a greeting. Little was surprising to Mikey these days but he had rarely seen Gerard so energetic. It was encouraging, a sign that perhaps the apathy was wearing off a little.

He could see nearly every other hearth from where he sat. Families with small children were at the back of the cave where it was warmer, unmated and strong hunters near the entrance where they could defend the dwelling if any animal came looking for shelter. There were few left inside now, the tents were nearly all up. A few small children were racing up and down the length of the cleft, tripping adults up as they packed to move out.

Joe caught his eye from a few paces away.

“I hear Gerard is staying with your parents.” He said, as Mikey gestured for him to join him.

Mikey nodded, Gerard had not found a mate over the winter and while he might have shared with Frank and Ray the tent was likely to get too crowded with Bob as well. Their family was smaller than both Frank’s and Ray’s, better that Gerard stay with their parents when Bob had no family here.

“How much do you know about dream walking Joe?” he asked.

The healer shrugged. “I’m no Shaman, you know that, but I do know it can be dangerous.”

“It can be, but I’m not worried as much as confused.”

Joe leaned back against the rock and drew a small pipe from his tunic, lighting it from the remains of Mikey’s cooking fire. “You wanna share?” He asked and then chuckled when Mikey waved the pipe off. “No I mean, why ask?”

“You’re the closest other thing to a Shaman this tribe has.” Mikey paused, it was a heavy silence, but Joe let him tell it in his own time. Healers learned quickly when to speak and when to be patient.

“I miss Malik.” Mikey said, then after another pause, “and Elena.” He breathed deeply as the blue smoke from Joe’s pipe curled around him. “They’d sure as day know what I’d be supposed to do.”

A group of children scattered nearby as a clanswomen swore at them to get out from under her feet, her basket heavy with belongings. Joe tipped his pipe towards them and scratched his beard.

“Are you putting the tribe in danger?” He asked mildly.

“No!” Mikey insisted, “No, I just still know so little about talking to spirits, what I’m supposed to say...how I’m supposed to help.”

Joe’s face was impassive and his tone held no element of judgement. He simply tapped Mikey on the knee and used it to push himself upright. He stopped before he left the hearth turning back to the Shaman. “Dude, if you want to know whether the water conceals rocks, you have to float the canoe down the river.” He said, and walked away.

Mikey shook his head, the advice wasn’t all that far from his brother’s. It seemed the only way to find out what he should do was to give in to the itching he now felt almost constantly and return to the dream paths, to seek out Pete.

~**~

It was not Gerard’s finest moment. He had nearly fallen face first into the stream. His toe caught a stray chunk of chalkstone on the path and it made him step forward at an awkward angle. He managed to right himself just before he fell, but he had to laugh out loud at his own clumsiness. It took him a moment to realise he was not the only one laughing.

Slightly downstream Lindsey was perched on a rock overhanging the stream; her dark hair framed her face perfectly, falling rebelliously in front of her eyes. She was kicking her feet in the water, waiting for the clothes she was washing to dry on a nearby stone.

Gerard’s face flushed, he could feel the heat rising. He ducked his head shyly and knelt more comfortably to scrub the dye from his hands. He tried very hard not to notice the Lindsey’s shadow fall across him and didn’t look up when he crouched beside him.

“What did you do?” She asked, she was looking at his hands with concern as the dye swirled away from his skin downstream. He realised suddenly that it looked like blood.

“Oh! Oh no, nothing.” He gasped. He pulled his hands out of the water suddenly and held them out to her. They dripped with blue and red dye, mingling to become purple. If anything, wetting his skin had only made the dye sink further into his hands, they were now blotched with deep patches of colour.

Lindsey only looked more confused.

“It’s dye!” Gerard said, a little too loudly. “I was painting. I should probably be more careful with my hands in future; they look like I’ve had an accident.” He laughed at himself.

Lindsey smirked. “It looks kinda cool.” She replied. “Like you’ve been stealing blackberries.” She turned his hands over, looking at Gerard’s purpling fingernails. “Or, like a corpse.”

Gerard couldn’t help mirroring her grin. He felt a little lightheaded. He sat quietly watching as Lindsey used a little of the soaproot from her laundry to gently scrub the dye from his hands.

~**~

Frank was speechless. Also angry, very very angry.

“You fucking followed me!?” He spat. Bob looked taken aback; he frowned and reached down to pull his boot back onto his foot.

“Followed you?” He said, “I had no idea you were up here, the hunters said wild boar could be found up here, I thought...”

“You thought what, that you’d come up here to rub it in my face?” Frank was trying unsuccessfully to gouge his spear out of the tree. The bark was soft, as was the trunk, but there was little movement from the spearhead when he wiggled the shaft. He jabbed at the wood with a pointed rock angrily, trying to dislodge it.

Bob drew back as if stung by Frank’s words; he rubbed his face with his hands, and tried several times to start a sentence.

“What you can’t think of anything to say?” Frank said sulkily. He knew he was being irrational now, but there was no way to hide the shame he felt from behaving like a terrified child. There was every chance Bob was telling the truth.

Bob’s posture seemed to shrink; he sank down to sit against the tree and turned his face away from Frank. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to offend you.” He said quietly.

“I’m sure you have...what?” Frank looked down at his friend, huddled as he was against the bark. “Offend me?”

“My friendship with you, and Ray, is important to me.” Bob said. It seemed rehearsed, like Bob had been waiting to say it. Frank realised with a stab of shame that Bob would have no more spread rumours about him than he would about Ray or Gerard. He swallowed, trying to stop his voice breaking. “I’m sorry I nearly took your head off.” He said, the last of his anger evaporating in the face of Bob’s vulnerability. “I don’t know what you think offended me though, I managed to dive into your bed like some terrified man-child because of a thunderstorm, then assumed you...I should apologise to you really.” Frank’s tone was anything but apologetic, and it managed to raise a smile on Bob’s face.

“I was...” Bob shook his head, like he didn’t know how to finish the sentence, as he often did when his grasp on the language of the clan grew shaky. Frank sat down beside him.

“It’s ok,” he said reassuringly, “I was just angry at myself.”

Bob looked surprised, he reached out a hand to Frank, and when Frank didn’t pull away he seemed a little bolder, curling his fingers around Frank’s berry-stained palm. “You have nothing to feel anger about.” He said.

“Hey,” Frank said, hauling himself to his feet and turning towards the path that would lead back down towards the camp. “You like strawberries?”

~**~

Part One | Part Three