Behind her the remnants of her fire had dwindled. She shivered, but not from cold. At least she’d survived the night, sleep coming in fits and starts as she tended the fire and prayed that the flames wouldn’t die. It was a wonder that she was still alive and she had woken half expecting to see the ancestors gathered before her. How many of the clan had survived the night, if any?
She clasped her knees to her. Sometimes whole clans would disappear into the forest never to be heard of again. The elders kept quiet about such things, but she’d heard the stories all the same.
That had been long ago: such things hadn’t happened recently, not in the memory of even the oldest. Maybe that’s what became of the lost clans? Maybe they were wiped out in the night, eaten by demons and smoks. and we’ll join them, our memory whispered by the old ones of other clans as the campfires burn low. If only she could see out properly. Not even the thought of her father could make her move. Best to wait for dusk. If her hunger would let her. Then she realised how long it had been since she’d last eaten, and a dull ache began in the pit of her stomach.
She should have woken to the morning song of the women as they gathered by the riverbank and gave thanks to Zorza Utrennyaya, mistress of the dawn star. Sometimes she’d watch from the open tent as the maidens danced the ritual dance of supplication, their feet moving lithely across the sand as they prepared to wash. Perhaps the clan had done something to anger her. Was it Zorza who’d called down the smok? Or maybe it was Jezi Baba. Was it even one of the fire worms? For all she knew it could have been Simargl, the great winged dog whom the gods kept chained up lest he free himself and eat the world? Was it Zorza who’d watched with her pig’s face as the camp burned? She could have slipped his chains and let him loose. But the clan had always been careful in their worship so that the goddess would open her father’s tent and let out the sun chariot to bring warm dawn to the earth.
In the clan songs Zorza had always been a beautiful maiden with gleaming night-black hair, not a pig-faced crone. How could she open the gates of her father’s tent with cloven hooves? And then there was Simargl, more terrible than any fire lizard. Surely if he’d been let off his leash then he’d have gobbled up the sun?
No, the creature in the mists was a smok, not a giant winged dog, she was pretty sure of that. If only she could stop her stomach from groaning. What she wouldn’t have given for a bowl of hot roots seasoned with some of Katchka’s herbs.
There was a noise, thin like the scrape of leather against twigs. She tensed, pressed herself to the ground, breath held, as she tried to make out where the noise came from, but the cover was too thick, the roots of the bracken bearing down on her like the fingers of the dead.
There it was again: someone, or something, was moving above. There was a step, heavy against the scrub. It couldn’t have been one of the clan: none of them would walk so carelessly. Even the children were taught to show proper respect to Matka Ziemia.
Behind the first set of feet, there came another, lighter tread, but just as clumsy. They moved slowly as if tired, their steps careless and uneven. Iwa counted three sets: two almost together, while a third dragged behind. Then they stopped and the breath dried in her throat. They were close now, almost on top of her.
Then she remembered Tomaz. Without daring to move, she turned her eyes and looked about her. He must have crawled away in the night. Perhaps he was dead; he surely wouldn’t have survived the cold, but his body could still give her away. Then she saw him: a tiny bundle lying under a break in the canopy. Above him there was a fracture where the bracken parted to reveal a chink of light barely noticeable from above.
But what if somebody were to look down? Slowly, she inched her hand towards the baby, her fingers crawling across the ground like a snake. Above her the wind moved through the roots, brushing against the old timber, cracked and dry like ancient bones.
‘Aren’t you going to open it, then?’ a voice rattled from above. She flinched, her hand brushing against a loose twig. She could almost see them, vague, distorted figures glimpsed through the thin layer of scrub.
‘Wait up,’ a second voice said. This one was even closer. Iwa lay still and clung to the bank as if trying to burrow in. ‘The last thing we want is for Grunmir to get his filthy paws on this – this is the good stuff.’
Inwardly she cursed her clumsiness, her hand brushing against the scrub as she inched her way closer to the baby. Surely someone must have heard her. They were close, just on the other side of that thin barrier of winter bracken. Even old Katchka couldn’t have been so deaf.
‘We should have drunk it before now,’ the first voice said. ‘It’s not as if there haven’t been chances enough.’ There was a muttered curse as someone laughed. Iwa couldn’t make out the words but at least the language was familiar, if not the dialect. Each clan had its own voice: there was the harsh guttural sound of the southern clans like the Bear Claw
