Return to Eden

carefully down to the spring, dropped his spear and bow onto the cool moss, knelt beside them and splashed water onto the scratches in his skin. There was a crackling in the brush and he seized up his spear.
    "I am Tanu, not murgu," Hanath said when he saw the pointed spear. "Spare my life, brave sammadar, and I will respond with great kindness."
    Kerrick growled in answer and drank from his cupped hands. Normally he enjoyed Hanath's good spirits—but not this day. He watched as the hunter lowered the large clay pot into the water to fill it.
    "Women carry water, hunters bring meat," he said, ill-temperedly.
    "They do," Hanath said, rinsing out the pot, cheerfully immune to any insult. "And this hunter brought plenty of meat to little Malagen before she baked this pot. Only she can make them this big, this strong."
    "A hunter has no need of pots."
    "This hunter does. A good pot to this hunter is worth a herd of deer."
    Kerrick's ill-humor was forgotten as he considered this novel thought. "Why?"
    "Why? You who have drunk with the Sasku manduktos and have tasted their porro, you ask me why?
    Porro that tastes better than a young deer's liver, better than having a woman, is far better than eating deer liver while having a woman…"
    "I remember—Herilak told me. You and Morgil had trouble with the manduktos in the valley. He said that you stole and drank their porro."
    "Never!" Hanath drew himself up, slapped his chest a mighty blow. "We are not thieves in the night who steal from others. Yes, we tasted some of theirs, a very little bit. Then we watched, saw how they made it.
    It is a very small secret. After that we made our own, drank that."
    "And were quite sick?"
    "We were." Hanath sat down on the bank, bent and drank deep from the full water pot at the memory. "It is a small secret, making porro, but it holds a big secret to get the mixture just right. We are still learning that secret."
    "Still? Is that what the pot is for? More porro?"
    "It is and it isn't. The manduktos make their porro from tagaso, but all that we brought with us has been used up. So now we must try other ways of making it. This is a very difficult thing to do."
    "It is even more difficult to understand what you are talking about."
    "I will tell you. You drank porro, you know how good it is!" Hanath's enthusiasm died. He sighed. "It can be very bad, too, when you get the making wrong. So simple. We put the dried porro grains into water to soak, just like making mush, stir them around. Add the moss, cover the pot, keep it warm—and in a few days, porro! Sometimes." He sighed again.
    "What does the moss do?"
    "We don't know—but nothing happens if it is not stirred in. Without it there is just old sour mush. But with it the mixture seethes, makes noise as if it were alive, sends up bubbles just like a swamp—"
    "That sounds terrible."
    "No, it is something excellent. The bubbles in swamp water stink, but porro bubbles tickle the nose, are very good. But they were better with the tagaso. Some of the seeds we use made us very sick." His frown vanished as he seized the filled pot and rose. "But today there is a new one. I think it is ready. You must come and try it."
    "Only after you do," Kerrick said wisely. He picked up his weapons and went with the other hunter whose enthusiasm had returned with the memory of their new mixture.
    "Here is how we thought, what we did. The mush from tagaso, it looks like the mush we make from other seeds. A seed is a seed—isn't that right? This time we have cut the tops off the grass that women make mush from. Then winnowed the grain. We soaked it and covered it, used the right moss, kept it in the sun.
    This morning when I put my ear to the pot I could hear no more happy bubbling. That pot has rested in the shade all day, Morgil has poured water over it to cool it. Now we try it!"
    Kerrick had not been here before, had not realized the great effort that the two hunters had put into their new enthusiasm. They had raised their tent in an open vale away from the other sammads, where they could have sun and shade as needed for their bubbling labors. Large pots sat in the sun, cooled in the shade, lay broken and discarded where pot or mixture had brought tragedy. Morgil lay on his side, his arms about a pot, his head pressed against it.
    "Not a sound," he cried cheerfully, then tipped some more water over the still-damp clay. "Shall we try it now?"
    "Kerrick is here to help."
    "He is a brave hunter—he shall