“That you might not be found fully pleasing,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Turn about,” said Hunlaki.
She did so.
She shuddered, not looking at him, as he, leaning down from the saddle, put the knout gently to the left side of her neck.
“Do not think again of escape,” said Hunlaki.
“No, Master,” she said.
“Hurry now to your wagon,” said Hunlaki. “Hope that you will not be beaten.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
Hunlaki, his knout restored to the saddle ring, followed her, slowly, some yards back, until he saw her at her wagon. The hineen was placed in a hamper. He then saw her tied to the back of the wagon, where, already, there were two others. She looked back once, but Hunlaki turned his mount, and retraced his steps.
A light snow had begun to fall.
Somewhere, ahead, he heard the cries of a woman in labor.
Birds screamed overhead, circling.
“Ho,” said Mujiin, riding up. “I saw you with a woman. You are feeling better?”
“I am all right,” Hunlaki assured him.
“I saw you had her away from the column,” said Mujiin. “Did you knout her suitably? Did you make her kick well for you?”
“I did not knout her,” said Hunlaki. “I did not make her kick.”
“Did you put your disk on her, for this evening?” asked Mujiin.
“No,” said Hunlaki.
“She had good calves,” said Mujiin. “I saw. I will know her when I see her. I will put my disk on her for the night.”
Hunlaki shrugged.
“You do not mind?” asked Mujiin.
“No,” said Hunlaki.
“How shall I use her?” inquired Mujiin.
“As you wish,” said Hunlaki. “She is a slave.”
They were, as I have mentioned, at that time, near the heights of Barrionuevo. Indeed, in the late afternoon of the morrow’s march, one might be able, from the track of the column, if the weather were fitting, to see the
It was shortly thereafter that the column halted for the night.
During the night some children were born, and cast to the side of the march.
They were dead shortly thereafter, and the dogs, and then the birds, had them.
Hunlaki that night dreamed of the actions of the spring and early summer.
In the morning the fires were quenched with snow and the beasts harnessed. That day began like most days on the march, not muchly different.
Hunlaki remembered the boy he had killed on the snowy plains, days ago, only days from the Lothar.
And he remembered the riders. He had admired them. He admired the riders, and the boy. It was too bad, he thought, that such a people must perish.
It was such thoughts that were in his mind when he rode past a newly born infant. It lay to one side, in the snowy grass.
He had ridden well past it, when he suddenly wheeled his mount and rode back.
“Away!” he called to one of the dogs, smelling at the tiny, living thing.
Hunlaki looked down at it, from the saddle.
It was tiny, and reddish, lying to one side, on bloody, pressed-down grass. It was a few feet to the left of the wagon ruts, if one were looking toward the rear of the column, to the right, if one were looking toward the front of the column. It was bloody. Mud, too, had spattered upon it, from the wheels of the passing wagons. It had been born, Hunlaki surmised, but minutes before. The dogs had not yet had it. The cord which had bound it to its mother was still with it, and a mass of bloody tissue, to which it was attached.
Hunlaki saw one of the large birds alight nearby.
Hunlaki dismounted and examined the infant. It seemed sturdy. It was crying. Hunlaki did not really know why he had turned back or why he had dismounted. It felt very warm, which seemed strange to Hunlaki, as it was lying in the pressed-down, cold grass. Its small limbs flailed about. Hunlaki did not care for the crying. “Be quiet,” said Hunlaki. Another warrior, mounted, stopped nearby. “Stand aside,” said the warrior, “and I will trample it.” Hunlaki did not respond. “Let us play the game of lances,” suggested the other warrior. Sometimes the infants of the enemy were used in the game of lances, instead of the cloth ball or melon. Hunlaki waved the warrior on. Two other warriors rode by, looking at Hunlaki strangely. Then Hunlaki, embarrassed, remounted, to continue on his way. He saw the dog move a little closer. Its mouth was open. Its tongue was out, and moved about its teeth. The crest was back flat on its neck. Even the bird, which we shall call a vulture, moved forward a little, awkwardly, as such things move on the land. Hunlaki looked down, again, at the infant. Then he looked at the dog, and then at the bird. Then a second bird alit. Hunlaki had seen living infants drawn about by afterbirth, across the prairie, being fought for by the dogs. He had seen them torn to pieces, too, by the birds. Hunlaki again dismounted. He crouched down beside the small body. Curious, he put his hand to the afterbirth. It still retained warmth. The blood, the fluid, on the matted grass was still sticky. To be sure, it was cold, and that would slow its drying. But clearly the child had been born but shortly before, perhaps only minutes before. Hunlaki wiped his hand on his cloak. He then looked about, at the dog, and the two birds. He drew his knife. He put one hand on the infant’s head to hold it steady. He put the blade to its throat. He withdrew the blade. He cut the afterbirth away, leaving enough of the cord to knot, which he did. He then resheathed his knife and lifted the small life in his hands, looking down at it. He stood up, holding the child. One could see the mountains quite clearly from where he stood. Looking down he was surprised to see something he had not noticed before. Near where the child had lain, almost under where it had lain, thrust under the matted grass, as though it might have been concealed there, bloody, was a medallion and chain. They seemed of rich stuff. Hunlaki took this chain, with its medallion, and slung it about his neck. In a little while he had rejoined the march. The infant, within his cloak, warm against his body, was asleep. Later in the day Hunlaki found a wagon in which rode a bitch with her pups. At the teat of the bitch, with her pups, the infant eagerly suckled.
Late that afternoon, from the track of the column, in the distance, looking like part of the mountain itself, partly lost in the clouds, could be seen the
“What have you there?” had asked Mujiin, curious, riding up to Hunlaki earlier in the day.
Hunlaki showed him.
“That is not a Herul,” said Mujiin.
“No,” said Hunlaki.
“Kill it,” said Mujiin.
“No,” said Hunlaki.
“It may grow up to kill you,” said Mujiin.
“That is true,” granted Hunlaki.
Toward evening he rode alone up the high, narrow, treacherous path to the
“If we do not accept this,” said Brother Benjamin, “what will you do with it?”
“I will leave it on the plains, for the dogs,” said Hunlaki.
“We will accept it,” said Brother Benjamin.
“It has suckled on the teat of a dog,” said Hunlaki. “If you have dogs, a nursing dog, it can feed.”
“There will be nursing women in the village,” said Brother Benjamin. “What is its name?”
“I do not know,” said Hunlaki.
“It has suckled on the teat of a dog?” asked Brother Benjamin.
“Yes,” said Hunlaki.
“Then it must be a little dog,” said Brother Benjamin. “We call it ‘Dog.’ “
