Jarel gave her a sharp look, his lips parting as though about to answer, but then he turned away, his face grim as he set about skinning the hare. In normal days the dying would be given one last meal; but food was scarce now.
Slowly Iwa lifted up Yaroslav’s head, hardly able to look at those unmoving eyes. Putting a skin to his mouth, she felt him drink, but it was nothing more than a reflex, the water gurgling over his lips as he struggled to take in the liquid. Taking a handful of berries, she squeezed the juices into the water and pressed the flask again to his lips. This time Yaroslav spluttered, his mouth fighting the bitter aftertaste as he coughed back a thin film of liquid. How much has he swallowed? she wondered as she tilted back his head. There was no telling if the berries would work, or how many he should take: most healing herbs were poisonous if taken too readily. If they allow me to see with a bird’s eyes then there’s no telling what else they might do.
‘Just another sip,’ she pleaded, the skin trembling as she pressed it into his mouth. If only she could remember some of Katchka’s healing prayers. Desperately, she tried to dredge up some of the words, but they wouldn’t come, just a jumble of meaningless sounds that crammed in, one on top of the other, like the nonsense rhymes that had always made Tomaz giggle.
‘You should eat.’ Jarel cut away a thick chunk of meat and gave it to her. She must have been quite some time because the meat was well cooked. But she found that she had no appetite now and could only sit, staring blankly at the wall.
‘Leave your father to the ancestor world, where there is no need for such things. But you’ll need all your strength. There’s not much to hunt around here and the woyaks have lost their fear of the woods.’
But the dark settled over Iwa as she lay on the hard earth and prayed to Bielobog and Chernobog that they might let Yaroslav’s death pass over him. Just for a little while longer. What does it matter to the great gods if one man lives or dies? Jarel threw more twigs on the fire and the flames sputtered into life, casting shadows across the walls. In the light the painted figures flickered: the pattern of snakes and hands danced with the figures of men and the shapes of bison. There was something else too; a darkness that picked its way amongst the paintings, a hollow gloom that lurked behind the colours.
Behind her the fire spat as the wood split and the sap from a green branch hissed into the blaze. But she was caught in the eddy of colour as the images on the walls danced before her. There was something else, a presence that breathed beneath the pictures. There it was again. A vision had taken life amongst the figures of bison and elk. In the dark the palm prints beat down upon her as, from the rocks, the pictures of snakes hissed.
There was another sound, and the flames roared higher, but it was no longer the same fire. This one was larger and men sat around it too. They were dressed in rough skins, their eyes old and flecked with grey. These were not men of the clans. There were no clan marks on their clothes, only strange symbols etched across their faces and dyed into the skin. The patterns were irregular but strangely beguiling, like waves or the skin of a snake.
She stared into the face of a boy. He couldn’t have been much older than her, but his skin was gaunt and his eyes were pale. By the fire one of the men looked up and muttered. It wasn’t anything like the language of the clans, more of a guttural cry, hardly indistinguishable from an animal, but the boy understood.
Slowly he crawled to the cave mouth and peered out. There was a strangeness about the forest. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but sensed the difference all the same. It must have been late summer, because the trees were well in bloom and in the distance there was the hum of bees. Yet the bracken was far thicker, totally obscuring the mountain path as it tangled about the roots of trees. From behind the cover of the bracken something moved; like a lynx, only bigger. She couldn’t see it properly, catching only a fleeting glimpse as it slunk through the undergrowth. The boy scanned the forest and then, picking up a rock, he hurled it into the thickets. There was a howl as the rock hit home and the animal snarled off into the woods.
She caught a glimpse of the creature as it skulked away. Only then did she realise just how large the thing was. Just too small for a bear, and surely no cat that size had ever prowled the forest paths? Another snarl erupted from its depths, angry and twisted, and then all was silent. But the boy hardly noticed, fearful eyes scanning the tree line. It was not just the cat which had scared him.
When the boy turned back, Iwa saw the bodies: Jezi Baba had been at work. Three men lay dead, their skin bleached like over-smoked fish. Outside, the darkness gathered and the men huddled close to the fire. She could see seven or eight of them now, but she had the idea that there’d once been more. Perhaps there had been as many as ten or twelve to greet the day, and tomorrow there would be even less. They had nowhere to hide. Some had already tried to run but, out in the forest, death was certain.
