I have spent the last few hours before sunrise preparing the little meat we have for the long journey. More would certainly have to be hunted as we travel or once we set up camp, but the supplies are extensive enough that with rationing they should last us perhaps a few days even without additional hunting. Enough time to put some distance between ourselves and this place at least.
The job had introduced me to Horas, a twenty-something lean man with a keen sense of humour. Despite the seriousness of our situation I had been pleasantly shocked to discover the cook’s care-free, light-hearted approach to the world. He is slightly over six feet tall and as a result the silence of the kitchen was constantly disturbed by his swearing as he bangs his head on the low ceiling or complains about the ache in his neck.
These first hours of dawn, despite the seriousness of the situation and the stress of the last couple of days, I have actually found myself laughing along with the chef. He may be a survivor, refugee, and homeless, but he has the air of someone without a care in the world, completely untroubled by his situation, he appears content that everything will work out in the end. I am fascinated by his stories as we question each other on our homes. He starts the conversation willingly, until now I’ve strayed from asking too many questions about the tribe’s lost home, afraid of being insensitive. As we work, he fills the silence with tales of his upbringing.
He relives his childhood growing up in the forest canopy and paints a picture of his home. As I already knew, the tribe had primarily lived in the trees, Horas described them as huts resting and entwined with the tree branches, connected by various bridges, ladders, and ropes. From the sounds of it you had to be sure footed to live with Orrian’s people, high up in the trees with relatively few solid structures. I suppose that was the reason for the lack of shoes, one trip, one slippery sole or not being able to hold on with your toes and you might fall to never rise again.
“So, was everything in the trees? Did you only come down to hunt and forage?” I ask.
“Pretty much,” Horas replies, now filling bags of berries. “We had a few dens and stuff, so that the hunters didn’t have to climb up and down every time they needed more supplies. There was this one kid, Osian, and boy you should have seen him. He wanted to be a hunter so badly, but he couldn’t run to save his life, must’ve broken half a dozen branches a week. In the end we had to restrict him from moving around too much or we’d need to reinforce all the huts,” he continues with a grin, although I note the brief flash of sadness as he recognises that he needs to use the past tense. To be completely honest I’m struggling picturing a tree large enough to support Edwyn. Whoever had built his hut must have been incredibly talented just to keep the behemoth off the ground.
Osian clearly hadn’t made it to the mountain and I observe that myself, Orrian, and Horas are all rarities among the survivors. Faelyn had led away mostly women and children whilst from the sounds of it most of the men had stayed to fight. There were of course still a fair number of guards, hunters, and other men who had made it this far, either from leaving with Faelyn or presumably fighting and escaping to re-join them, but as far as teenagers were concerned, the tribe was now sparse. The odd boy or girl our age accompanies their families or guard younger siblings but unfortunately, after looking around the cavern at the faces of those preparing to leave, I can only assume that the majority were cut down defending their home.
“Your home, what was it called?” I ask.
“What do you mean?” the older boy turns to face me, perplexed.
“What was your village’s name? For example, my village is Avlym,” I say.
“Ohh, it’s called Avlym?” he laughs, “I’ve been trying to figure out what that meant. Why does your home need a name?”
“I don’t know, so you don’t get confused with people from other places I guess,” I reply.
“We just called everyone that weren’t us Halpians if I’m being honest,” Horas answers, “and we just called our place home, we didn’t need a name really.” I dwell on that for a moment, I suppose if we didn’t have the colony or traders, we probably wouldn’t need a name either. Still, it seems odd not to have one. The tribe must have really been contained in their own little bubble until the colony came along, unconcerned by the rest of the world.
“Ah our great warrior. You guys nearly done?” a new voice asks from the entrance. We turn to find the robyn-esque guard waiting for an answer. Oddly she seems to be addressing me.
“Orrian’s waiting at the bottom of the stairs,” she says.
“Yeah, hold on,” Horas finishes tying up the last of the bags and adds them to the pile for collection without turning around. I collect up my salted meat strips and add them also, concluding the last of the food preparations.
“This is Astera by the way, my twin,” Horas informs without looking at me, recollecting a couple of knives he’s left on the tabletop and strapping them to his belt.
“We’ve met,” Astera cuts in. Regardless, I say hello and introduce myself. She accepts my introduction politely, but I immediately feel dim-witted for assuming she didn’t know my name. I am the only outsider in a confined space of tribespeople, of course everyone will know my name, I hardly blend in.
“Great warrior?” I ask.
“Yeah you know the-” she abandons her sentence to waive her hand over the side of
