Scanned by Highroller. Proofed by the best elf proofer. Made prettier by use of EBook Design Group Stylesheet. Killbird by Zach Hughes Chapter One On the second day of the second moon of summer I saw the bloodflag hanging limply atop Yuree's hidehouse. A hunter's morning it was, with the mist hanging in the lows. The Lake of Clean Water was there, under the mist. The sun was climbing toward his first leap over the Far Hills. I had been awake to see the stars die in the early light, to hear the call of the nightbirds as they settled into their secret places, to prepare myself, with water heated over a low fire, using the honed edge of my hardax to scrape away my curse. I untied the flap of my hidehouse and stood, my face smarting. It is said that not one in a thousand has the curse. I had never known another. For all those beyond the Far Hills who, one in a thousand, suffered, I uttered a prayer to the gods of man. And in the midst of my prayer I saw it, looking up the slight slope to see the couch cover with the almost unnoticeable blood signal. I felt my face burn with a new feeling, not only from the scraping. With my heart pounding I dived back into my hidehouse. The day was not unexpected, had, indeed, been foretold, within half a moon period it turned out, by old Seer of Things Unseen. Because I was of an early-rising nature, due to my curse, I was the first, waiting outside the hidehouse of Strabo of the Strongarm, my hardax lying atop the pile of buythings. It was not an unimpressive pile, I felt, topped by the well-tanned skins of the swimmers. In addition to the swimmer skins, soft fur for the soft skin of Yuree, there were two handcut buckets of wood filled with the sweetness of the stingers, a pile of god's jewels, two huge skins of the two largest bears ever to be killed by a member of the Strongarm family, and toys carved to please Yuree—females being, at best, somewhat frivolous. Indeed, I had nothing to be ashamed of, except myself. I heard movement inside the large hidehouse where Strongarm slept and then the flap was untied and thrown open and I saw the powerful arms which gave our family head his name. Still a young man, Strabo had the eyes of a killer of birds, the legs of a perfect man, the stout, short body of our people. He wore the feathers of a family head with authority, and it was he who had shown the courage to take the family over four ridges into the Valley of Clean Water, thus bringing new prosperity to all. «I beg to be considered, honorable father,» I said, bowing my head. Strongarm merely glared at me. He had his hardax in one hand, and he extended it, granting me the boon with the traditional motion, but then Strabas was looking past him, her sun-browned skull showing the same delightful shape as Yuree's own lovely head. «It is only the Haired One, then?» Strabas asked, looking around in disappointment. «It is early yet,» Strabo said. Even as he spoke I heard movement behind me and turned to see not one but two premen trudging up the slope carrying a pile of buythings. Yuree, daughter of the family head, would receive many offers. I recognized, behind the pile of buythings, Logan, son of Logman. His browned skull gleamed in the light of the early sun, and my heart sank. How could I even dream of being considered when the most handsome premen of the family would be piling their buythings in front of the Strongarm hidehouses? «Eban of the Hair,» Strabas said, watching Logan move closer with obvious approval, «are you not son of the dead Egan the Hunter? And was not his pairmate the daughter of Siltan the Wise?» «I know the intent of your questioning, honorable mother of us all,» I said, bowing my head. «I have talked with the Seer of Things Unseen, and you need have no concern, for it is recorded that my mother, daughter of Siltan the Wise, was not daughter of his loins but prize of battle, thus there is no blood taboo.» «Yes, it is true,» Strabo muttered, although it seemed to pain him to say such. I could not fault the pairmate of our family head for her concern. Inbreeding is the enemy of any family, and the all but starving weaklings of the low slopes are proof of that, mating indiscriminately with no thought of the future. «Humph,» Strabas said, turning her attention to Logan, who placed his buythings carefully and put his hardax, not nearly as good as mine, atop. Logan looked at me and rubbed the top of his head meaningfully, his fingers sliding over the slightly oily surface of his skull. I looked away. My own skull still tingled from its daily scraping. Now others began to arrive, until, by the time the sun was burning away the mist, there were eleven premen, all unpaired, waiting in front of the Strongarm hidehouse. It was then that Yuree chose to make her appearance. I felt my face burn and knew the pleasant weakness of my knees which I had begun to feel long before she was due to come of age. She looked at me and smiled, her beautiful skull gleaming with a morning application of oil to protect it from the sun. But her smile, although I felt it was for me alone, was also spread around to encompass Logan, Teetom his running friend, Young Pallas and the others. «Is that all, then?» Strabas asked, looking down the slope toward the hidehouses of the family, where morning cookfires were beginning to smoke. «Is not every eligible preman in the family enough for you?» Strabo asked, patting his pairmate on her well-shaped haunch. «And so, Eban, son of Egan the Hunter, what do you speak?» «I speak the sweet of the stingers,» I said, placing the two buckets of the delicious and sticky stuff at Yuree's feet. «The hides of the swimmers to be soft on Yuree's skin, the hides of the bears, one killed by my father, one by myself. I speak playthings to please, the chewed skin of the deer for nighttime comfort in the cold of the winters. My hardax, the ax of Eban the Hunter, will provide. My hidehouse is new, of the finest skins, and behind it, in the sun, the provisions for winter are drying already.» «Well spoken,» Strabo said. «He speaks not of his hair,» Strabas muttered, looking at my skull and my face, where the stubble of my hair made a darkness. «And Logan, son of Logman, what speak you?» Strabo asked. Logan's buythings were more numerous, but contained nothing as important as a bearskin. The others were comparable. I was beginning to be sorry I had gone first before it was over, for there was nothing to do but stand and listen as the premen of the family made their offers and their promises. When at last it was over and all had spoken, there was a silence. The females of the family, leaving their cookfires, had begun to gather. I felt as I usually felt when the family gathered, as if all eyes were on me, on my prickly skull, my darkened face, my limbs which were not as strong-looking and beautiful as those of the other premen. My body, too, was somewhat of a curse, although, since I was merely a preman, there was hope. But where Logan, for example, was squat and thick, his arms short and powerful, his legs shorter from the knees down than from the knees up, I was thin, almost as thin as the starving weaklings of the low slopes, and my arms were long, my legs long and slim. It was not that I was not strong. The games proved, to the surprise of all, that my slim arms with their bunched muscles at the bicep were strong, that my long legs, making me a full hand taller than any of my contemporaries, were powerful and, surprisingly, seemingly tireless. It was my legs which were the secret of my success as a hunter, for I could cover half again as much ground in a stride as, say, Logan with his short and beautiful limbs. But it was time for the selection. Strabo pulled himself erect. «Well spoken, all of you,» he said. «You do me and my daughter honor, and the choice will be difficult. You all know the custom. It is for the mother to speak first.» Strabas stood forward. She was dressed in her finest, although the weather was hot for swimmer skins. «It is cruel for me to have but one choice,» she said, smiling at the young premen who waited in expectation. «I know you all. I have known your fathers and your mothers and, in some cases, your fathers' fathers. But the custom is the custom, and while I would choose you all, could I but do so, I must harden my heart and choose but one. That one, my choice, is—» She paused, but it was not effective, because we all knew her choice. Even he knew it, for he was shifting from one foot to the other, a proud smile on his face. «—Logan, son of Logman,» she said. The assembled females oohed in agreement. «And now I must choose,» Strabo said. He looked up at the sun and made a worship sign. «My pairmate has spoken well, and I, too, regret that by not saying names I exclude some of the finest young premen of the family. But the custom is the custom, even for Strabo of the Strongarm. I choose Young Pallas and Cree the Kite.» As father, Strongarm had two choices. In actual practice, the custom was not always fulfilled, for if the daughter coming of age was not desirable or rich there would seldom be enough premen to fulfill all of the allowed choices. It was considered to be honorable if two premen applied at a coming of age, shameful if there was only one, so that in some cases buythings were exchanged merely to have at least two applicants. Once, when I was very young, I remember Stillas the Housemaker leading a two-man raid on another family merely to capture one preman to assure his daughter of having two applicants. After the choice was made—the family member, of course—the captured preman was released. And now there was a pause as Yuree, shy and smiling, stood before us. «My father and mother honor me with their wise choices,» she said. «I am the most honored of prewomen. It is not pride which forces me to choose, but the custom, for who am I to question the age-old ways of the family? And so, with humbleness, I choose my three.» The way she emphasized the «three» told me that she did feel a little pride, for not many girls had the opportunity to choose three. «My choices,» Yuree said, «are Teetom…» I found myself holding my breath. «Yorerie the Butcher…» There was an intake of breath, for that choice was a surprising one. Yorerie the Butcher, preparer of meat, always smelly, crude, cursed with a bent of tongue which made speech difficult, was an unlikely choice. But, on the other hand, so was Teetom, the shadow of Logan. Teetom was a mean-natured preman with a hint of cruelty in his makeup, as if to make up for his weakness. He had been a sickly child and, as a result, was stunted, was two hands shorter than Logan. «And my third choice,» Yuree said, as I prepared to pick up my buythings and go back to my loneliness, «is Eban, son of Egan the Hunter.» And as she said it she looked me full in the face, a smile lighting her lips. Those who had not been selected began to pick up their buythings. When they had gone, Strabo sighed and stood forward. «And now, as is the custom, the new woman will
