The Death of Attila, page 21
In the dark, Tox called him over, and he stood with them while they raised the corpses up and heaped what was left of the family’s possessions around the platform. Clearly they needed some minimum number of people to bury their dead, and it did not matter if the witnesses were Hun or not. Afterward, the three walked back to the monk’s little fire and sat down around it. The shaman put his forehead down on his raised knee and was silent.
Tox put more wood on the fire and hurried around, pulling open his packs and arranging equipment for cooking beside the fire. The monk looked around them. After a lifetime in cities he could not adjust himself to sitting about outside. He missed the snug close feeling of a roof and walls. Most of all, the darkness and emptiness behind him made the back of his neck creep and kept his ears stretched for the sounds of the night. It occurred to him that their fire surely could be seen from far off on the plain. The Germans who had bound a living man so that a fire would consume him bit by bit could be watching them even now.
He tried to pray and again could not. The vision of the dead woman, of the bloody trampled mess beside her, hung lurid before his eyes. He stared into the fire and tried to empty his mind. The weight of the dead he had seen pressed against his imagination.
Opposite him, the shaman raised his head and spoke to Tox, who answered him with a word. The shaman turned his eyes on Aurelius. At that moment Aurelius was so burdened with a leaden despair that he could not summon the energy to look politely away. He and the shaman stared straight into each other’s eyes.
Almost at once, Aurelius began to feel better, and the shaman smiled. He spoke to Tox, who was pouring water into an iron pot. By the look Tox gave him, the monk knew that the younger man did not approve of the question. Tox said, “He asks why you are—why you became a monk.”
“Ah.”
Aurelius hitched himself closer to the fire. His stomach was cramped with hunger. Holding his hands out to the warmth of the flames, he considered how he had first recognized his vocation.
“I feel very close to Christ. I want other people to feel what I feel when I think of Christ, and I want other people to find salvation.”
Translating, Tox with two long sticks rolled hot stones out of the fire and dumped them with a splash into the iron pot. Clouds of steam rose into the firelight. The shaman hunched his thin shoulders. Tox got up and went into the darkness, and the shaman spoke directly to Aurelius. Ghostlike, the translation came out of the dark behind him, and Tox appeared with a coat that shimmered in the light from the fire. The shaman put it on; Aurelius saw that it was made of snakeskin.
“But you monks—I am told—are not healers?”
“Christ was a healer,” Aurelius said. “We heal souls.”
Tox gave each of them a bowl of steaming hot grain soup. The shaman dipped one bony finger in, tasted it, and put it aside to cool.
“Let me say a blessing,” Aurelius said. “For us all.”
“Do what you want,” Tox said. He got himself a bowl. Aurelius saw that he was not going to translate: an assertion of power. Aurelius looked at the shaman.
The shaman spoke to Tox in a mild voice; Tox answered sullenly, and the shaman’s voice became chiding and paternal. Surly as a child, Tox turned to the monk and said, “He says you may say it and I am to tell him what you say.”
“Thank you.” The monk kept his voice polite. He cleared his throat and said the Pater Noster, pausing every phrase for Tox’s translation. He wondered if this were the first time the prayer had been voiced in Hunnish; it sounded like a pagan incantation. When he had finished, his gruel was cool enough to eat.
The shaman said nothing. He ate his soup slowly, wiping his lips now and then. Occasionally he would stare at Aurelius, full of curiosity. At first the shaman’s bold, condescending arrogance had unsettled the monk and made him resentful, but now he was used to it; he even respected it. Putting aside his bowl, he said, “And how did you become a shaman?”
Of course he had used the German word, and the man opposite him obviously recognized it; before Tox had finished translating, he was answering. His voice was suddenly light and almost joking. “I used to be convinced that all the shamans were frauds. I thought they only pretended to be wise and powerful so that people would be afraid of them and in awe of them. I saw how rich they all were and how other people treated them. So I took to keeping company with the shamans, so that I could find out how they committed their frauds. Finally they approached me to become their student. So I am now a shaman.”
Tox, translating, kept his eyes on the shaman’s face; finished, he asked some question, and the other man laughed and nodded and told him to be quiet.
“Well, then,” Aurelius said. “Are you frauds?”
The shaman turned his hands palms up. “I cannot say. There lies the joke of it. I am a fraud, perhaps, but I am not sure.”
“Come, now, you must know if you are a fraud.”
“I think I am. I have made up a trick that I do with a bit of thread. I pretend to suck out the demon that makes a man sick; I hide the thread in my mouth and cover it with spit and blood and that I appear to suck out of the sick person.”
Enthralled, the monk studied him a moment. The shaman smiled. “Do you see the joke?”
“No. I am fascinated, though, by the—”
“The joke is that when I play my trick on them, usually the people get well.”
That Aurelius could not believe, but before he had a chance to doubt, Tox spoke to the shaman. While he and the shaman talked, Aurelius got himself more soup. The feeling of being mercilessly exposed on the vast plain returned to him. He ate quickly; the gruel was almost tasteless, and although it filled his stomach he could not satisfy his tongue.
Tox broke off angrily in the middle of a sentence and pouted at the fire. The shaman spoke to him and Tox refused to answer. Again the shaman spoke, his voice this time edged with contempt, and he gave Tox a push on the shoulder.
Like a dog snapping, Tox whirled himself away from the other man’s touch. Aurelius jumped. The two Huns faced each other, their eyes black in the firelight. Tox’s body was rigid with anger. When the shaman spoke to him Tox burst out with a cascade of words.
When he had ranted for a little while, the shaman cut him off and gave him some command, gesturing to him. Tox glared at him. The shaman repeated it and made the same gesture, with more force, and muttering Tox turned around and began to clean up the cooking gear.
Aurelius’ body slumped. It was alarming to see the power that the shaman held over Tox. Yet the little Hun hardly seemed to resent it or to chafe under it. Already he was happy at his work again, scraping the iron pot with his fingers and licking them clean.
The shaman said, “My friend, I am sorry to tell you this. We shall have to ride on tonight. I know you are tired but we cannot be here tonight. Also we must get away from the Germans. We will ride slowly so that you can rest, perhaps.”
“I understand,” Aurelius said. “I will try to keep up.”
AT MIDNIGHT THE BLACK mare’s filly lay down and would not go farther. Tacs dismounted and tried to push the foal up onto her feet, but the black mare thrust herself between them and nearly bit him. The filly was already as tall as Tacs; she climbed up onto her long legs and stuck her nose under her dam’s flank to nurse.
The Fluteplayer rode over and watched a moment. After a while, he looked up and swept the horizon with his eyes. Behind him, the monk sat slumped on his horse. The Fluteplayer said, “We can’t stop here. We are still too near the river.”
Tacs said, “You go on. I will come after you in the morning.” He thought, If I can get away I will hunt down the Germans.
“No,” The Fluteplayer said, as if he had heard what Tacs was thinking. “We can leave the horses. The mare can do for herself, and the filly is almost big enough to wean.”
“She is my best mare,” Tacs said. “Let me stay here with her, I can catch you when the filly is rested.”
“I do not wish it so,” The Fluteplayer said.
Tacs looked down at his hands, furious. Everybody seemed to be winding shackles around him. He thought of abandoning The Fluteplayer and the monk to themselves. Without him they would be almost helpless, unable even to talk to each other. An instant later he pictured himself alone on the wide plain.
“She is an old mare, anyway. And this filly isn’t so good.” Turning to the black pony, he vaulted up onto its back. “Let’s go.”
They rode off toward the south. The sorrel mare’s colt was a little older and kept up without difficulty. In the moonlight the horses seemed to lose their color: they all looked to be black. The Fluteplayer picked up his flute and made tentative notes on it, hunting for a song.
Overhead, the moon rode steadily across the sky. There were no clouds and the wind had died. In all directions the plain ran off to the horizon, without feature, confusing to the eye. Twice the monk and The Fluteplayer talked, asking and answering their incomprehensible questions; Tacs translated almost without listening. His muscles were cramped and aching and his leg joints hurt. Once, when the other men had been long silent, he dozed off.
The moon set; the darkness lifted. A flock of birds flew overhead, calling out in shrill voices. On the horizon streaks of white appeared. The air was growing warmer against his cheek. He reined in, almost without thinking, and stared into the eastern sky.
The other two also stopped. Slumped on the sorrel mare’s back, the monk had fallen asleep. His gown was crumpled loose around him like a half-shed skin. The Fluteplayer dismounted and walked around, stretching his legs out like a crane; his knees crackled with each step. Tacs watched him a moment, unable to find any of his usual love for him. When he looked back at the horizon, the sun was rising.
Against the white of the sky there was a sudden flash of green. Beneath it the light turned too bright to watch. Tacs put up his hand to shade his eyes. A west wind sprang up, rustling the grass, and raced off busily toward the sun. Brilliant, implacable, the sun lifted into the sky. All around them, the plain burst awake, teeming with small animals and birds.
“We can stop, if you wish,” The Fluteplayer said. He stood at Tacs’ knee. “Find us a place to camp.”
Tacs licked his lips. The sunrise had left him exhilarated. He searched the plain around them for a ravine or dimple that might mark a spring. His eyes came to the monk, fast asleep on the mare; the colt had come up for something to eat, and the mare was also dozing, her lower lip sagging.
“Why don’t we wait here?” Tacs said. “Until he wakes up, at least.”
“Good.” The Fluteplayer sank down where he stood and began to play on his flute. Dismounting, Tacs searched for something to make a fire, so that he could toast some grain to eat.
AT NOON THE BLACK MARE caught up with them, walking along their track, with her filly behind her. Tacs was so glad to see her that he gave her a handful of parched wheat. The Fluteplayer had decided that they should stay where they were until dark. Wrapped in his clothes, the monk slept on the ground; Tacs had noticed that he preferred to have something solid behind him, and he heaped his saddle and the packs up against the monk’s back. It amazed him that the monk could sleep so soundly, with the shaman playing his flute and the horses moving around and the wind running in the grass.
In the afternoon, Tacs slept, waking every once in a while to turn over and look around him. At sundown he got up and checked the waterskins. Although the water was brackish and tasted like dirt, there was enough for two days more—by then, he was sure, they would have found a spring or a stream. He packed the bay gelding, saddled up his black pony, and went to wake the monk.
The Fluteplayer was sitting on the ground shredding blades of grass with his teeth. While Tacs put the bridles on the horses, the shaman and the monk sat together and tried to talk with their hands. But of course they could say nothing to each other. At last The Fluteplayer called to Tacs.
“Ask him why he believes that all men have the same Ancestor when there are so many different kinds of men.”
Tacs led over the horses. When he had translated it, he said, “We have to go now. I think tomorrow maybe we will see the mountains.”
The two men rose and came to their horses. Tacs cupped his hand to boost the monk up onto the mare’s back. The monk picked up his reins.
“I don’t mean that God the Father is actually my ancestor and yours—not as your father is your ancestor. I mean that God is our spiritual father, having created us all from nothing, as He created the world.”
The Fluteplayer mounted the bay gelding, sitting on the packs. To Tacs, who was circling them to go to the black pony, he said, “You have translated it wrong.”
“No,” Tacs said. It had occurred to him before that the monk believed his Ancestor and the Demon-King to be the same, but that was only a sign of Roman ignorance.
“Tell him that I have studied of demons and spirits for my whole life, under men who studied all their lives, and so on, back to the beginning of all magic, and never has anyone spoken to me of a single master demon who made everything that is.”
They rode on; the monk was thinking, his head down. At last, he said, “I begin to understand. Maybe you can tell me what God means.” He looked over at Tacs. “You.”
“Me?” Tacs started. Frowning, he fixed his eyes ahead of them, trying to find words. “Oh, well—some great magical … thing that can do as it wishes with me.”
“A good being—a loving being?”
Tacs shook his head. “I don’t understand you.”
The monk said nothing, only held him in his eyes. It was still light enough to see his eyes. Tacs, confused, looked at The Fluteplayer; he could not conceive of a good or loving demon. The Fluteplayer said impatiently, “Tell me what he has said to you.”
When Tacs explained, the shaman made a good-natured face. “So it is not a demon he has been talking about. I begin to see now. Tell him that he has suggested an interesting idea and he must let me think.”
Tacs could not imagine what idea he meant. They rode on in silence—the monk hardly ever spoke to Tacs. The waning moon rose, one side flattened. When it had stepped into the sky to a height of two fists, Tacs dismounted and gave all the horses some water. He felt the black mare’s bag and found it almost empty, shriveled to the touch.
When he went back to the pony, the wind brought him the smell of smoke. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Looking up at The Fluteplayer, he saw the shaman staring south, his back rigid, and his nostrils flared. A moment later the monk asked, “Isn’t that smoke I smell?”
The Fluteplayer grunted. “It could be coming from miles away.”
Tacs mounted the pony; they started off at a quick trot toward the smoke.
Gradually, the smell grew more intense, although every few moments the shifting wind carried it entirely away. When the moon stood near the peak of the sky, they came to the edge of a deep ravine. Tacs led them east along its rim. The ravine was only a dozen feet wide, but the banks were sheer.
“Look!”
Ahead of them, a red glow colored the upper edges of the ravine’s banks. Tacs nudged the pony forward. The others followed him single file, the mares calling to their foals. In one place, the ravine wall had collapsed into a soft slope; Tacs headed the pony toward it, and the little animal pricked up its ears, snorted, and slid down on its hocks.
He reached the floor of the ravine in a shower of pebbles and dirt. Above him on the rim The Fluteplayer and the monk were trying to force their horses down the slope. Tacs galloped down the ravine toward the fire. The hot smoke stung his eyes; it amazed him that he could hear no screams, when the crackling of the flames filled his ears. A deadfall loomed in his way, and he swung the pony around it and rode out into a wide meadow.
He reined in. In the middle of the widened ravine, a fire burned, as big as a house. Flames sprouted and flickered still at one end of it but most of it was only glowing ash. Tacs rode excitedly forward. He could see parts of wagons half buried in the flames. On the far side of the fire he found the bodies.
There were many of them, perhaps as many as twenty, all Ostrogoths, lying in rows with their throats cut. His heart bounded. So Hiung had done it. Now the fire seemed like a beacon set to call him across the plain to witness this revenge. He counted the dead Germans, delighted. There were eighteen of them, including the children; the Hiung had even cut the throats of the dogs.
The Fluteplayer and the monk were coming, calling to him. Tacs shouted to The Fluteplayer to come and see. He could not keep the pleasure from his voice, although he wanted the shaman to be surprised.
Rounding the fire, The Fluteplayer snatched his horse to a stop. Shadows hid his face, but by the set of his body, Tacs could see he was not pleased.
“What’s wrong?” Tacs cried.
The Fluteplayer said nothing. He reined his horse around to walk down the line of bodies; he looked at each one as if they had been long friends. Tacs stared at him, bewildered. The monk rode around the fire. When he saw the dead Germans, he whimpered like a dog. Tacs knew that it was the monk who had caused The Fluteplayer to look so gently on the Goths. But before he could even raise his temper, the rustle of branches behind him brought him around, poised.
The sound died at once, but the pony was staring, prick-eared, into the dark beyond the firelight. Tacs tightened his legs, and the pony minced forward on its toes, its nostrils wide. The monk called out. Tacs ignored him. The pony hated Germans; therefore it was a German that hid in the scraggling bushes along the ravine wall.
Beyond the firelight, he held the pony back while his eyes adjusted, and in that stillness heard the German in the brush move again. The pony snorted. Tacs eased up on the rein, and the pony bounded forward into the bushes; from the thick undergrowth the Goth ran, bent over, racing for the darkness down the ravine.
Tacs let out a yell. The pony on its own lunged after the Goth, and Tacs held back a little to make a race of it. The Goth screamed—it was a woman. She ran for the shelter of the brush against the ravine bank, but the black pony crashed after her through it, and she turned and tried to climb the sheer wall, clawing at the earth and bringing down stones and dirt in a rain around her. Tacs rode up behind her and seized her by the hair. He laid his rein against the pony’s neck and it whirled, and at a gallop he dragged her back toward the fire. With each stride she screamed. He remembered the Hiung tied to the burning wagon and her screams delighted him. Within the light of the fire, he flung the woman to the ground and jumped down to kill her.
