In the gloom there was a sound, like the buzz of an angry wasp. It was a song. By the cave wall an old man daubed frantic symbols in blood and paint. Even now she could see him quite clearly as he worked his spell into the rock, his beard matted with sweat as he dabbed a line of blood and ochre across the ragged edges of the rock.
She felt the weight of his arms, the sense of futility that hung heavily on his shoulders, as he sang the last of his magic into the paint. She could feel the sweat of his limbs, see the tribal marks along his skin. A line of dots followed the shape of his cheekbones where someone had rubbed bearberry juice into pierced skin to form a rough tattoo.
Then she realised the meaning that lay behind the paintings. This was a sacred cave, the history of the tribe marked on its walls. Some of the paintings were different; here the drawings were sacred offerings in celebration of their gods. Others were instructions, a record so that the elders could train the young men for the hunt and mark their passing from boyhood.
How long had people been coming here? Suddenly she had a sense of the passing of things: centuries of hands pressed against the rock, filling the cave with their prints. Even to the old man this was an ancient place, the symbols so antiquated so that not all could be read. Wizened spells stirred amid the rocks and Iwa got the sense that some had not been cast by men at all, but some far older race.
Now the old man worked on a new section. His pictures were different and tainted with magic. This was a paean, the last plea of the dead: not a warning but a memorial. Around the fire the last of the tribe gathered. The food was all but gone as they looked blankly into the flames, their gods forgotten. The scent of death fixed upon them.
Finally, the man put down his brush. Behind him the flames rose as he finished his chant, the words trailing off as the men gripped their wooden spears and waited for death to come. Then suddenly he turned towards Iwa, as if he had some inkling that she was there. But it was nothing more than a momentary glance before he walked back to the others.
Behind her the fire died, and then all was dark.
Chapter Eight
‘Are you there, little one?’ a voice whispered through the gloom. With a start, Iwa blinked and looked into the face of her father.
‘I never thought to see you alive!’ She flung her arms around him.
‘Alive maybe,’ he said stiffly, ‘but very weak.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She relaxed her grip. There was a cold tingle to his skin, or was it just the cave air? But at least he was alive and that was all that mattered. She’d be sure to sacrifice to Bielobog and Chernobog for letting his body pass back to life. And she wouldn’t forget Veles, who guarded the cave that led to the ancestor world, either.
‘I have you to thank for my life, or so it appears. I remember a great darkness, the light flickering over the paintings. I thought that I had travelled deep into the ancestor world. This is a place for such things, don’t you think? I could almost see them, the spirits of my forefathers dancing around the paintings. After all, there are far worse places to die. I heard the call of the dead and my soul was ready to walk the paths of the ancestor world.’
‘The spirit world was ready to claim you, but I wouldn’t let it. I’ll have to apologise to your ancestors for keeping you from them, but I need you here.’
‘Then there was your voice.’ He smiled and leant back against the rock. ‘I should have known that you would never leave me to die so easily. That was always your way, always grasping onto whatever you wanted. You were good at tricking the older children – trust you to find a way to cheat the spirit world too.’
‘It was a simple potion, just a few berries, that’s all.’ Iwa paused and nestled her head against him. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so eager to mention the berries: she didn’t want to have to go back for any more. There are many things best left alone, and the Leszy are chief amongst them.
‘Since when have your hands grown so wise? I didn’t think even old Katchka capable of such skill.’
‘You just rest.’ Iwa pressed her head against his shoulder while his fingers stroked her hair. Everything would be all right now. She’d tell him about Jezi Baba and he’d know what to do. Maybe he could find a way to free the women so that they could live in the forest once more; who knows, he might even get Jezi Baba to kill Krol Gawel and all his woyaks.
‘I feared that you were dead,’ Yaroslav said. ‘I was alone, slowly dying, and all I could think of was you. I prayed to all the gods that I’d not meet you in the ancestor world, the victim of some woyak’s blade. But then you always were a survivor. I should have known better than to imagine that death had claimed you. Just like the snowstorm,’ Yaroslav smiled and coughed up a trace of phlegm.
‘It was you who rescued me then,’ Iwa hugged her father to her, ‘after the rest of the clan had given up hope.’
‘The hunters searched but none could find you. They all thought I was a
