The Hunter's Son, page 2
I’d made it about twenty paces before I saw him gather enough composure to launch his spear at me. Twisting reflexively to avoid the spear, I stepped sideways on an exposed tree root. My leg buckled. I heard a loud snap and felt a shocking jolt of pain shoot up into my gut. Crumpling to the ground, I cried out in agony.
Before I could catch my breath, the Lamanite was on me, angrily tying my hands behind my back.Flushed red with anger and breathing hard, the warrior growled, “I’m going to kill you—very slowly—for that. No Nephite whelp is going to get the best of me.”
He yanked me up, but I instantly fell back down. My right leg was throbbing, rendering it completely useless. Glancing down, I saw my shin bent at a sickening angle where no joint naturally occurred. It was all I could do not to cry out again.
“You think you’re in pain now?” the warrior hissed. “By the time I’m through, you’ll have a new understanding of the word pain. And I’m going to enjoy teaching it to you.” He smiled maliciously. “Let’s start with your good leg.”
Placing the point of his spear on my left thigh, he made to push it through when another man’s voice called out, stopping him.
“Stop! You there! Soldier!”
When the warrior looked up, his face displayed pure astonishment. He backed away, bowing. “Master Healer,” he said with deep respect.
The man he called “Master Healer” sat atop a grand horse. He looked like a mighty warrior himself, yet he wore no battle clothes or face paint. Still, he carried himself with unmistakable authority. He slid from his horse and casually dropped the reins. Standing next to the warrior, he looked to be two handbreadths taller and was equally muscled.
With a furrowed brow, the healer stepped past the warrior and looked down at my leg. He pursed his lips and gave a low whistle. “I believe you have clearly won this battle, my friend,” he said to the warrior. “Excellent work. Now go report back to your commander.”
“Yes, sir. Right after I kill him,” the warrior replied.
The healer’s tone hardened. “No. You will do as I instruct without delay.”
“But—but I’ll be quick. He’s just a worthless Nephite boy,” the warrior stammered. “Let me send him to the grave.”
“You are correct in saying he is insignificant,” the healer said, gliding his hand over my break but without actually touching it. “As for sending him to the grave, you’ve already succeeded. His leg is severely fractured. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? A slow, painful death?”
“He’ll not die from that,” the warrior said, pointing with his spear. “I’ve seen worse breaks, and this pup is just stubborn enough to live through that one.”
The healer slowly stood. “You may be a great warrior, my friend, but do you profess to be a better healer than I?”
“No. No, Master Healer. I only meant—”
“I know, I know,” the healer said, holding up his hand in a calming gesture. “I understand. So this is what we’ll do: You will go help your brothers with the other captives in the village while I do a thorough examination here. If this boy’s break cannot be mended, I will kill him in your behalf.”
I grimaced, dreading death from either man.
The warrior stiffened. “Master Healer, this is my fight, and I demand the satisfaction of finishing it.”
“You demand?” The healer slowly turned to the warrior. He took a step forward and planted his fists on his hips. “You demand? You demand nothing of me, is that clear?”
Anger darkened the warrior’s face. He stood firm but did not meet the healer’s eyes. Thick tension electrified the air. If it came to blows, I wasn’t sure which man would win.
“Do not challenge me on this, my friend,” the healer said steadily. “You will not like the outcome. Besides, how will you explain to your captain that while your warrior brothers destroyed a village, you spent your skills on a boy who cannot be more than nineteen years of age?”
After a moment or two, the warrior turned and marched off toward the village, cursing nonstop. I saw the healer’s shoulders relax before he knelt beside me again. “This may hurt at first, but my intent is not to cause you suffering.”
His words made no sense, but I wouldn’t believe him even if they did. His people had just butchered most of my village—including my family. He’d already caused me a lifetime of suffering.
“You’re a liar,” I snapped.
“Actually, I value honesty above all else,” was his calm reply.
As he poked at the swollen flesh around the break, jolts of pain flashed with renewed vengeance. It was all I could do not to scream. Continuing on, even though I was clearly suffering, his face held a look of curiosity mixed with delight. I believed he truly did enjoy torturing me.
I bit my lower lip and tried to keep my travail to a low whimper.
“I’m impressed with how well you hold your tongue, young man, but I assure you it is not necessary with me. If it hurts, let me know. I will not think ill of you.”
I said nothing. I was not going to show weakness of any kind in front of this strange Lamanite.
Pausing his torture, he stood to retrieve something in a satchel hanging from his horse. Was this the end? Was he selecting a knife with which to slit my throat? Or a club with which to crush my skull? The man seemed to be intentionally taking his time with whatever he was doing, clearly prolonging my misery. The warrior had called him a healer, yet I doubted he was planning to heal me. I was a Nephite. I was his sworn enemy.
Intense pain mixed with growing frustration made me lose all sense of reason. Not knowing what else to say, I harshly corrected him. “I’m only sixteen, you filthy Lamanite.”
The healer sized me up with one eyebrow raised. “You’re quite tall for sixteen. And I perceive you are as honest as you are brave.” Curiously, his tone was friendly; it didn’t register any offense at my insult. Quite the contrary, he seemed almost amused.
“You see, I can sense that about most people,” he continued. “It’s a skill I’ve developed in my profession. The people you can trust—it shows through their eyes.”
He knelt beside me again, holding a squat bamboo container topped with a skin and a smaller clay flask. “Now, let’s fix this leg.”
“Don’t touch me,” I growled. Jerking my leg away, I instantly realized my mistake as another searing jolt of pain surged from my wound. I drew in short, gasping breaths and prayed for the throbbing to subside. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. The healer remained on one knee, smiling gently. Was his happiness a result of my pain? Probably. But his dark eyes seemed to hold a large measure of caring, too.
Even so, he was a Lamanite—an enemy to my people, a killer, a liar, and a thief. It was his people who had just murdered my family and my friends. Could I really trust him to help me? At the moment, I had no choice.
“Are you—really a healer?” I asked between rhythmic pulses of pain.
“Yes, I am. And a good one, too.” He paused to remove a stopper from the flask. “For a filthy Lamanite,” he added with a smile.
In spite of my pain and my distrust, I managed a small grin at his comment. The man certainly acted friendly, but my mind still cried out, Enemy!
Tipping the flask, he allowed a tiny glob of purplish paste to settle on a small green leaf. “Here. Place this on your tongue,” he said, handing me the leaf, “but do not swallow all of it at once. Let it sit and dissolve in your mouth.”
I balked. “What is it—poison?”
“It is medicine. Although any medicine can be a poison if taken incorrectly,” he said with surety. “This quantity, however, will not kill you. It will temporarily hide your pain so I can set your break. The wound feels relatively even, but to mend correctly, it needs to be set back in place, and that is going to hurt.”
“This paste hides the pain?” I’d never heard of such a thing. Sure, there were soothing poultices and such that my mother applied to wounds I occasionally got, but she never gave me anything like this. Some men used wine to drown their pains, but that was simply getting drunk. “What do you mean it hides the pain?”
He shrugged. “For want of a better word. It causes your mind not to register the harshness of the pain.”
This paste sounded too good to be true. My curiosity trumped my distrust. I wanted to know how such a substance worked. I had always had an inquisitive nature. My father explained that there doesn’t always have to be an answer to everything. Not to have a complete knowledge of things was how we developed faith. But my mind was an ever-probing one—always wanting to learn, always seeking to know and understand.
“How does it do that?” I asked.
He cocked his head to one side. “For most it would simply be enough to have the pain gone. But since you ask . . .” He paused and gently pushed my hand holding the leaf toward my mouth. I complied and placed the paste on my tongue. It tasted slightly bitter at first; then I tasted nothing at all. The Lamanite healer continued. “The paste is made from a resin found inside the pod of a flower that grows in our foothills. The local people call the flower poppy. It has astounding effects on all forms of pain, but it is also used by some as a means of merriment—a sort of dream creator. That is when it becomes dangerous. The amount I gave you is safe. The pure resin would kill you—and that is not my intent. When used wisely, this medicine can work miracles.”
I found it odd that a Lamanite would speak of miracles. I’d learned that Lamanites were a pagan people who followed soothsayers, astrologers, and sorcerers. Miracles indicated the presence of an all-powerful God. At least that’s what my parents always said.
Within a minute, my vision began to swim and my head felt strangely thick. Even stranger, I was suddenly happy. Very happy. I knew I should still be angry and hateful, but I wasn’t. The healer looked closely at my eyes and listened to my breathing. Nodding, he next applied a thick, spicy-smelling liniment generously over my wound. To my great astonishment, the pain didn’t seem to matter anymore.
“What is that you’re using?” I asked, trying to concentrate.
The healer seemed amused again, as if no one ever asked him about his secret concoctions. “It is made from balsam bark; but it also has extracts of arnica, lignum, willow, and tobacco. It will reduce the swelling and somehow prevents infection.”
“You mean you don’t know how it works?”
“There are many things I do not know. Only a fool thinks he knows everything. Now close your eyes and count aloud to ten for me, please.”
It seemed a strange request, but I complied. “One, two, three—”
I heard a muffled, gritty pop, and a pulse of light flashed behind my eyes. When my head cleared, I looked down and saw that my leg was now straight. It throbbed but without incapacitating pain. The healer next went about splinting my leg with stout branches and strips of cloth. Then, with seemingly little effort, he picked me up and placed me on his horse.
“My name is Chemish,” he said. “As I’m sure you have gathered, I am a master healer in the land of Nephi. And what do they call you who are as curious as a jungle cat?”
I couldn’t help but smile. “I am Jarem, son of the hunter, Anatoth of Oranihah. And I belong to the Brotherhood of the Leopard.” Even as I said it, the fact that I was a member of that secret alliance seemed childish.
But Chemish didn’t act as if he thought so. He drew his fingers lightly across the fresh cuts on my belly, pursed his lips, and gave another low whistle.
“Very impressive,” he said, looking up at me. “But despite what you used to be, I’m afraid you now belong to the Lamanite people.”
His pronouncement emphasized the grimness of my predicament. I knew I shouldn’t have trusted him! I was a prisoner, the captive of a savage people. Anything could happen to me at this point, and I was powerless to stop it.
As if he could read my thoughts, Chemish patted me on my left thigh. “Do not concern yourself just yet, young leopard. We are not all blood-thirsty savages,” he said then added, almost to himself, “Some of us abhor wanton killing.”
The master healer led his horse down the knoll toward Oranihah. My head still felt thick and tingly from the purple paste, but I forced my mind to think of ways to escape. If only I could move about while my leg mended . . .
I cleared my throat. “When will I be able to walk again?”
“Not right away, but soon. As I said, the break was a clean one.”
Hoping to gain some advantage, I said, “Well, I thank you for my leg. And for saving my life.”
Chemish glanced over his shoulder. “I am a healer. It is what I do.”
Perhaps, but I felt indebted to this man. Although a Lamanite by birth, he was certainly not one by nature. At least not from what I had seen. Even though he rode with warriors, perhaps my initial measure of him had been too harsh.
“Still, I owe you a life, and that I will repay. I swear it.”
Chemish stopped and faced me. For a long time, he said nothing. He scratched his jaw and smiled. “Curious. Such valor from a boy your age is rare and refreshing. I thought such characteristics were all but lost. Tell me, where does one so young learn such honor?”
“From my father,” I said proudly. “He is a great hunter and warrior. I shall be glad to introduce you to him.”
As soon as I finished speaking, the healer’s expression changed to one of sadness. His eyes lowered, and he busied himself adjusting the bridle on the horse. “I would like that,” he said softly, “but I fear you must prepare yourself for the worst.”
I wondered if that meant he already knew about my parents. I wanted to ask, but my head suddenly felt unbearably heavy. I could hardly focus on anything except maintaining my balance. I leaned forward and hugged the horse’s neck.
I remember entering the village. Someone pulled me from the horse and placed me next to some baskets. The village was awhirl with activity and yet felt burdened with overwhelming sorrow. The unending commotion clouded my senses. Soon it became too hard to concentrate on anything.
I closed my eyes and had little desire to open them again.
Chapter three
A gentle, rhythmic bouncing motion awoke me. The familiar sound of hooves treading the ground told me I was still on horseback. I opened my eyes and grimaced. The harshness of the sun burned my eyes—even when I squinted. I moved to rub them and realized that I was not alone on the horse.
“The medicine I gave you causes the black portion of your eyes to widen, much like they do during the night.” It was the healer’s voice. “It makes all light seem more intense.”
Not only had the medicine affected my eyes, but my head still swam and my mouth felt dry and pasty. Worse, my throat was on fire. It hurt to swallow.
“So how does our leopard feel?” the healer asked.
“Fine,” I croaked.
The master healer chuckled as he produced a leather flask and unstopped it. “Take a sip of water. Don’t gulp it down. Just sip.”
I did as he said and felt the cool liquid trickle down. It was painful and soothing at the same time.
Before long, my mind cleared, and my eyes adjusted to my surroundings. The jungle around us was an area I didn’t recognize—not at first anyway—but there was something vaguely familiar about it.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“I believe your people call this ‘the wilderness,’” he answered.
Hearing the sound of horses behind us, I twisted to look and instantly received a stab of pain in my leg. I winced and drew a quick breath but didn’t cry out. I was determined not to show weakness. There were six or so Lamanites on horseback and a few young Nephites walking behind them. The captives were tethered with rope. I couldn’t see the larger part of the war party and assumed it had gone elsewhere.
My first impulse was to jump and run, but that would get me nowhere. I removed the healer’s arm from around me and leaned forward. My mind was awhirl with frustration and worry. I had to focus. What had happened to my family? What was going to happen to me? I felt so helpless. I wanted to weep but refused to do so in front of this Lamanite. I had to be strong. Strength, endurance, and bravery were skills vital to a hunter. I liked to think I possessed a goodly amount of each. But my current situation called for something more. At this moment, information was my best ally. The more I knew about my situation, the better off I’d be. I tried identifying our surroundings, but my mind was still fuzzy from the medicine.
It wasn’t long before the sun disappeared and the moon began to rise on my right, which meant we were headed north. I sat up to get a better reckoning of our whereabouts.
Again looking behind, I asked, “Where is everyone else?”
“Who? Your people?”
“No, I mean the other warriors; the rest of the Lamanite army.”
“Well, I know their main objective was Ammonihah. I suppose they went there or into the land of Manti.”
I was amazed at this man’s honesty. He’d just confided his army’s battle plans to me—his sworn enemy. But then, I thought, why not? In my present condition, I wasn’t much of a threat. It also occurred to me that Ammonihah was south of Oranihah, and we were traveling north—opposite the direction the warriors were headed. That didn’t make sense.
“Why aren’t you going with the Lamanite army?” I asked, confusion filling my tone.
My captor chuckled. “Do you always ask so many questions? I’d think you’d be happy to be away from the battlefront.”
