Novu glanced around, at the sea, the beach, the children, the laughing people. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It would be good to stay here for a time. Though I’ve no idea what I’d do here.’
‘Make bricks,’ Ice Dreamer said, and she laughed too.
A man’s voice could be heard shouting, before the platform.
Ana jumped up. ‘The races! I’ll talk to you later, Ice Dreamer. And you-’
‘Novu.’
‘Yes.’ She stared at him for one heartbeat longer, then ran off.
Dreamer picked up her baby, sitting her on her lap.
Novu touched an unfinished blade. It was bigger than any spear point he’d ever seen, longer than his outstretched hand when he laid it on his palm. The shape of a leaf, it had two worked faces, a fine edge, and peculiar fluting channels down at the thicker end.
‘I haven’t been here long either,’ Ice Dreamer said now. ‘Ana’s a good kid. Reserved, mixed up, but good- hearted.’
‘I never saw a blade like this before.’
‘It is the way my people, the True People, always made them.’ She pointed. ‘You see, you use pressure from the bone tools to work either side of the blank, shaping the edge. And then the fluting, which is used to attach the blade more firmly to its shaft – you knock out a thin section of flint to achieve that.’
‘It’s bigger than any blade I’ve seen.’
‘It is meant to bring down bigger animals than you have seen, I imagine. Bigger even than the music deer. I have made these before, but under instruction… My craft is poor. But I will improve with practice.’
He blurted, ‘Could I have one of these?’
She seemed surprised. He continually had to remind himself that people generally didn’t want things, not outside Jericho. But she said, ‘Of course. Come back when I’ve finished one.’
He nodded. ‘Thank you… Where is your country?’
‘To the west of here.’ She pointed at the sea. ‘Further west than you can imagine. And yours?’
‘Further east than you can imagine.’
‘We are both far from home, then.’
‘We are.’
She asked, ‘Why did you come here?’
‘It was more a case of leaving home. And you?’
‘That’s a long story.’
‘I have time,’ he said.
‘And so do I. Here. Hold the baby, while I try to finish this blade…’
The baby was warm in his lap, heavy, and he thought she smiled at him.
27
The dozen runners jostled behind the line scratched by the Giver in the sand.
Shade, braced to run, looked along an empty stretch of beach lined by cheering children. It looked an awfully long way to the prize at the far end, a big convoluted shell full of rattling stones that hung from a pole. Only one man could grab that shell; only one man could win the race. The day was hot, the sun high, and the dry sand was soft under his feet and would be tiring to run on – which, of course, was the idea. After a morning of sports he was already exhausted. The sun had got to him too; his skin, used to the shelter of the forest, was red raw across his back and belly and thighs.
And Knuckle, a snailhead with a grudge, was right alongside him, itching for the race to start.
Zesi stood watching beside her father, the Giver. Arga held her hand, the little girl holding her own trophies of shells and beads that she had won in the children’s deep-diving contests; she looked excited and happy. Zesi was brave enough to smile at Shade. He dared not smile back.
Now his father came up behind him. Even in the bright sunlight the Root wore his finery of bull skin and skull. Shade could smell smoke on him, rich, tangy fumes. The Root had spent much of the day in the dreaming house, as the Etxelur folk called it, where the leaders smoked pipes full of dried weed, and burned strange logs, and breathed the vapours from seeds cast on hot stones – all prepared by the Etxelur priest, who wore a crown of poppies today – plants brought here from far away, for they did not grow in Etxelur – and a huge axe of creamy, beautiful flint was suspended from a rope around his neck.
The Root leaned over his son. ‘We lost the fishing challenges.’
‘We are hunters,’ Shade hissed. ‘Not fishers.’
‘Yes, but we lost the spear-throwing as well.’ His speech was slightly slurred. ‘We couldn’t begin to compete in the dolphin riding. The Giver himself won most of the swimming races.’
‘Is that my fault?’
‘I won’t go away a loser,’ the Root said softly, sinister. ‘If Gall were here he’d win his challenges one way or another.’
‘But he’s not here, is he?’
‘No. All I’ve got is you. And if you’re any son of mine, you won’t – lose – this – race.’ He straightened up and backed away.
Knuckle, standing beside Shade, growled, ‘I follow your cow language.’ He was sweating hard, that extraordinary long skull coated in sand, and his tongue when he showed it had a huge stone plug sticking through it, obscuring his speech.
‘Leave me alone, snailhead.’
‘I will leave you alone in a heartbeat, when race runs. But make it interesting. If you beat me I have reward for you. See our priest, down there by the shell? Today we make our boys into men, into truth-tellers. If you beat me we make you one of us.’ He ruffled Shade’s hair. ‘Don’t worry, not touch your pretty skull. An honour – for a man. Are you a man, little boy?’
‘Do your talking in the race, Knuckle.’
‘Oh, I will…’
Kirike pulled a bull roarer around his head, once, twice, three times. Lightning jumped around his feet, excited as the rest. The watching people hushed.
Shade lined up with the others, as the runners jostled and pushed. He had the feeling it would be more of a long fight than a true race.
Kirike released the bull roarer. The bit of bone sailed in the air. The crowd yelled. Drums sounded like thunder.
Shade lurched forward, fighting for space between strong, pressing bodies.
But before he had made three strides he got a punch between the shoulder blades that laid him out flat on the ground. Heavy feet trampled over his back, and his face was pressed in the sand.
As soon as they were clear he pushed himself to his feet and ran. Most of the runners were already far ahead of him, and people were pointing, children laughing at him. He wasn’t the worst off; two others had fallen and lay without moving.
And Knuckle looked back, grinning. It was too much to bear.
Shade ignored the rest and threw himself after the snailhead. When he got close enough he lunged headlong, arms outstretched, not caring how his sunburned skin scraped over the hot sand, and with one reaching hand clipped the snailhead’s heel. Knuckle fell. This time Shade was first up. He ran over Knuckle, stepping on the snailhead’s swollen skull for good measure, and hurtled after the rest.
The watching people screamed and shook their fists, willing on their favourites.
An Etxelur boy, skinny as rope, was first, to collect the winner’s shell.
But Shade had beaten the snailhead. Surrounded by the runners’ families, the Root stood with his arms folded. Shade knew he wasn’t about to be praised for failing to win, but he had fought off the challenge of the snailhead, and Shade could see a kind of grim satisfaction in his father’s face under the bull’s black muzzle.
Knuckle grabbed his lower arm, sweating, panting, evidently winded from his fall. ‘Well done, boy. You fought
