“A good name,” Kerrick agreed. “For the Arnwheet is also a good hunter with the best eyesight. Only an Arnwheet can hang from the wind, then drop and take its prey. Arnwheet will become a great hunter when he begins life with a name like that.”
When Kerrick called down to him Herilak climbed easily up the notched log to the rooms above. He went inside and saw that Armun was nursing the baby, surrounded by a circle of admiring women. Kerrick stood proudly to one side. The women brought her food, jugs of water, whatever she needed. Herilak nodded approval.
“Look at the strength in those hands,” he said. “How they clutch, the muscles working in those mighty arms. There is a great hunter there.”
Herilak admired the luxury of the surroundings as well. The clay pots holding water and food, the woven mats and soft cloth. Kerrick took a finely carved wooden box from a ledge and held it out to him.
“Another secret that the Sasku have is here. Let me show you. With this you no longer need to drill wood or carry fire with you.”
Herilak looked on in wonder as Kerrick took a lump of dark rock from the box, then another polished stone with grooves scratched in its surface. He next took up a pinch of powdered wood. With a quick motion he struck one stone with the other—and a spark flew into the wood. He had only then to blow on it and it burst into flame. Herilak took the two lumps of rock in his hand and wondered at them.
“There is fire captured in this rock,” he said, “and the other stone releases it. The Sasku do indeed have strange and powerful secrets.”
Kerrick carefully put the box away. Herilak went to the ledge outside and marveled at all the activity below, and when Kerrick joined him he pointed and asked Kerrick to tell him about it. Herilak listened closely as he explained the spinning and weaving, then showed him where the smoking oven was, the oven where the pots were fired.
“And there, on those racks, those red spots are the chilies that brought tears to your eyes. They are dried then crushed. Inside the bins are the sweet roots, different kinds of squash as well. They are good when baked, and even the seeds are ground into flour. There is always food here, no one is ever hungry.”
Herilak saw his enthusiasm and happiness. “Will you remain here?” he asked.
Kerrick shrugged. “That I do not know yet. It is familiar to me, living in a place like this, for I lived for many years in the city of the Yilanè. There is no hunger and the winters are warm.”
“Your son will dig in the ground like a woman instead of following the deer.”
“He doesn’t have to. The Sasku hunt deer, with their spear-throwers they do it very well.”
Herilak said nothing more about this, but his feelings were clear in the way he held his head when he looked about him. This was all very interesting, good enough for those born here, but in no way comparable to the life of a hunter. Kerrick did not want to argue with him. He looked from Herilak to the Sasku digging in the fields and could understand them both—even as he had understood the Yilanè. Not for the first time did he feel suspended in life, neither hunter nor tiller of fields, Ter or marag. They went inside then and his eyes went to Armun holding their son and knew that he had a base now, a sammad of his own no matter how small. Armun saw this look in his face and smiled at him and he smiled back. One of the women came from the cave mouth and whispered to him.
“A mandukto is here and would talk to you.”
The mandukto stood on the ledge, wide-eyed and trembling. “It has been as Sanone said. The mastodon is born—as is your son. Sanone asks to talk with you.”
“Go to him. Say that I come with Herilak.” He turned back to the big hunter. “We will see what Sanone wants. Then we will talk to the manduktos, find out if there really is a way across the desert to the west.”