Return to Eden

like the other hunters, he was looking forward to the first bird hunt. There was more rain now, and fog some mornings. Old Fraken still had enough of his wits about him to observe that the days were indeed shorter; winter had returned to the north again. They could tell this even without Fraken's aid, because large flocks of birds were now landing in the channels and marshes. They would circle, making a great noise, then land in wave after wave. They would never stay more than a day or two, just long enough to rest and feed before they started on their way south again. The log had been hollowed out and shaped, the boat was finished and it was time to start eating some of those countless birds.
    Many hunters had worked to feed the fires that shaped the boat and each of them wanted to be first to use it. Before the quarrels broke out Kerrick decided that the four who would go must be chosen by chance, using a game the boys played. Straws were cut, all the same length, one for each hunter, and stood up in one of the newly baked pots. Four of them had their lower ends dipped in the dyesack of a hardalt and were stained purple. In turn each hunter drew one of the straws. There was much shouting, complaints from the losers and insults from the winners. In the end they all went to the boat, to load the nets and spread reeds over the four hunters so they would not be seen. They paddled out in midafternoon, disturbing the flocks already there. The hunters made no attempt to net any of these as they rose, but moved the boat into the shelter of the reeds. They would be ready when the newcomers arrived before dark.
    Herilak drew Kerrick aside and spoke in a low voice. "Come with me and see something." He led the way to his tent and brought out his hèsotsan. "You asked about the death-sticks. Was this what you meant?"
    Kerrick turned it over in his hands, felt a jab of worry when he saw the creature's foot. It was gray and dangling limply. "How long has it been like this?"
    "Some days, I don't know. What does it mean?"
    "Maybe nothing. These creatures get old, they must die some time. It might be that."
    It wasn't. The grayness on Herilak's weapon spread, slowly at first, but it did not stop. One day the creature would not fire the darts and began to stink. They buried it in the forest away from the tents.
    "I know of two more like this," Herilak said.
    "An illness of some sort," Kerrick said. "Perhaps it spreads from one to the other. We must keep them apart."
    "What if more of them die. What then?"
    "Then they die. We do not need them for hunting."
    "No, but we need them to kill murgu." Herilak looked grimly across the water to the land beyond.
    "Another of the large murgu crossed over last night. The mastodons heard the thing, or smelled it. Hanath heard their noise and he killed it before it got among them. It is twice as big as a mastodon—with teeth as long as your arm. You cannot kill a marag like that with an arrow or a spear."
    "One death-stick is dead. We have others."
    "And others have the grayness already. If they all die…"
    Kerrick could think of no easy words to say, was as worried as Herilak by this possibility. "We could trek north in the spring, go where the murgu cannot go, to the snow and the mountains."
    "We could do that—but for how long? The winter that never ends still holds the valleys. Those Tanu who still hunt there will not welcome us. Tanu have killed Tanu before—and it will happen again if we go north. We can live well here, the hunting is good. But only if we have the death-sticks."
    This fact was so obvious that they did not want to talk about it. Only when two more of the death-sticks sickened did Herilak send for the sammadars. They gathered about the fire, speaking quietly. There were few smiles, no laughter. They grew silent when Herilak rose and faced them.
    "You all know of the trouble with the death-sticks. One is dead, two more have the grayness upon them."
    "Three," Har-Havola called out. "It is upon mine today as well. If they all sicken, all die—what then?"
    "All of them are not even sick yet," Kerrick said. "Do not kill them that quickly."
    "But it could happen, what if it does happen? How will we then kill the murgu?"
    There was much cross discussion with nothing of importance said. It was Merrith, standing with the others beyond the circle of sammadars, who grew impatient and called out.
    "You cackle like birds on a nest—and do not even lay eggs. Where do the death-sticks