lumps of muscle from the river folk. Imagine if every woman in Etxelur had a child, and then another, and another. In fifteen more years we’d have a strong cohort of workers. We could do our own work, fulfil our own dreams-’
‘Your dreams,’ murmured Arga.
‘And we wouldn’t have to use up our precious flint persuading somebody else to do it for us.’
‘They may not accept it,’ said the priest uneasily. ‘The people. They’ve followed you this far, Ana, but-’
‘If you back me up they’ll swallow it,’ she said, sounding uninterested. ‘Just say it’s the will of the mothers. That always works.’
Jurgi felt a spark of anger at her casual insults. ‘Take care, Ana. I am still a priest, your priest, and you should listen to what I say. You don’t see all. You don’t hear all. They come to me sometimes. They complain to me. Argue about whether the mothers really want us to do this, or that. I try to persuade them it’s so. I’m not sure if I always succeed.’
Ana became thoughtful. ‘So, even after all these years of us working together, they still come to you without telling me?’
The priest stiffened. ‘The people’s relationship with the little mothers has existed as long as the world. Long before you or I were ever born.’
‘But the fact is there are still two centres in Etxelur. Two sources of decision-making. Or at least that’s how the people see it, evidently.’ She stared at him. ‘I think I’m going to have to do something about that.’
He felt vaguely alarmed, having no idea what she might mean.
Arga was still angry at Ana. ‘I’m telling you the people won’t stand for it, this business of the babies. If the priest tells them they must, they’ll challenge him. That’s what I think.’
‘She may be right,’ said Ice Dreamer languidly.
Ana thought it over, and nodded. ‘All right. Maybe it’s too early to bring it up at this council. We’ll leave it until the autumn equinox, and give ourselves time to work out how to argue for it. But argue it we will, for I’m convinced this is the only way forward for Etxelur… Until next time. Now, Novu, what’s this rubbish I hear about stone from Albia?’
‘It’s far from rubbish,’ Novu said. He shifted stiffly, and from the pile of goods beside him he produced a heavy block of stone, wrapped in skin. Unwrapped, it seemed to glow in the soft, diffuse light of the lamps. ‘Look at this stuff. Now, Ana, yes, it’s Pretani, and I know we have had our problems with them. But Kirike brought me this, and he thinks they are sincere, they really do just want to trade. I think we have to consider it. Just think what we could do with this – our dykes covered in this fine stone rather than my clumsy mud bricks and plaster!’
Arga said, ‘Once again your dreams expand. Think how many more babies we will have to conceive to build everything out of stone!’
But Ana wasn’t listening. She leaned forward and ran her hand over the stone’s smoothly worked surface.
68
Me was prodded awake in the usual way, by a wooden spear shaft in the small of the back.
He sat up. He had barely slept. He was stiff from lying on the dew-soaked grass with the others. The tether was tight around his neck.
Above him the branches of a big spreading oak obscured the grey light of morning. But he was under the tree and not in it, for the grounders would not let the Leafy Boys climb. And this isolated tree stood in a clearing. It was agony for any Leafy Boy to be trapped down on open ground. Even when he started to move and got the stiffness out, the dread would linger.
The grounder who had prodded him walked around, kicking or poking the other Leafies. Then he paused by the side of the tree, propped his spear up against the trunk, and opened his hide trousers. Me saw his thick piss spray in the air, bouncing off the trunk, the golden droplets oddly beautiful where they caught the light. Then the grounder walked off to where his fellows had spent the night, gathered around their fire.
The other Leafies stirred, a dozen small forms emerging from heaps of dead leaves. They were all naked, filthy, miserable, and they all had tethers tied tight around their necks, fixed to a single stake in the ground. One girl moved stiffly, and Me saw from the bruises on her thighs and small breasts that the grounders had come for her in the night. He had a vague memory of a disturbance, a rustling of leaves, a scream muffled by a hand over a mouth. He had just lain still, thankful that it was not him.
Another grounder came over with a hide sack and dumped out a pile of offal, twisting grey guts. Before the grounder had turned his back the Leafies fell on it. The offal was tough and tasteless and the stomach contents were acrid, but the Leafies fought and snarled over it like pigs, their small backsides in the air, their faces red with blood. Me used his weight and strength to shove little ones aside. He was not shy; if you didn’t fight you went hungry. Sometimes the grounders let their dogs go for the food, so you had to fight them off as well.
Me saw one small boy pushed out of the feeding group. This hungry little boy had been losing the fight for food for days, and was starting to look pale, scrawny. He pawed at his tether. The grounders wet the knot by pissing on it before tightening it, and when it dried out the rope contracted, making it impossible to pick apart even with a Leafy’s small clever fingers. If they saw the boy trying the grounders would knock out his teeth; he would live, but he’d starve.
When the food was gone, the Leafies got as far from each other as they could, and began to perform their pisses and shits. Me, squatting, was ferociously thirsty, but the grounders never brought water. The Leafies would have to find what they could for themselves in the course of the day. Some days, in fact, they were left tethered where they had been during the night and not moved at all, and Me would finish the day enraged by thirst.
But today, it seemed, was not going to be one of those days.
The grounders were already moving. One of them kicked dirt over the fire. The others lifted their hide cloaks over their shoulders, and picked up their spears, and tucked knives into their skins. They started shouting, laughing, throwing punches at each other. Me, with a shudder of dread, recognised their mood. It was going to be another day of running and fighting and killing, and the grounders were getting themselves ready.
One of the grounders came over to the Leafies. He slashed through their tethers, wrapped the ropes around his wrist, and snarled at the children until they moved.
The grounders formed up and set off across the clearing at a heavy jog. The Leafies, driven ahead, ran in the horror of the open air. If one of them stumbled the reward was a kick or a prod with a stabbing spear.
But as Me ran, as always, the cold of the night worked out of his bones and muscles, his legs pumping, the breath sliding into his lungs. Me was young and healthy. He would have enjoyed the run, if not for the sheer terror of the openness, and the uncertainty of what was to come. Before the sun was much higher in the sky they came to a landscape that was even stranger to the Leafy Boys, a place where water glimmered everywhere, in streams and ponds choked with reeds, and shallow islands rose up, and there was scarcely a scrap of forest.
The grounders charged on, making for the bits of high ground, driving the Leafies on through mud and marsh and shallow open water. Soon Me’s bare legs were soaked, and clinging mud dragged at his feet. Huge flocks of birds rose up and flapped away, cawing their disapproval, and the air was full of noise and sprayed water. All the Leafies were terrified. But when he got the chance Me scooped up water, shook out the living things that swam in it, and sucked it down his dry throat.
One boy went down in a flooded gully, gurgling in terror. Me saw it was the little boy who hadn’t been able to fight for the food. The grounder holding the tethers had to stop and drag the boy’s scrawny body out of the murk, yelling with anger and impatience. But after a few paces the boy fell again. The handler hauled him up once more and shook him.
The boy spewed water from his mouth. He reached out to the grounder, like a baby reaching for its mother.
The handler thrust the boy into the water, driving down his neck with his strong outstretched arm. One of the other grounders called over. The handler shouted back, laughing, keeping his arm in place. When he raised his arm again the boy dangled, his tongue sticking out of his mouth, his lips blue. The grounder dropped him in the water, cut the tether with a slice of his knife, and turned to run on.
Me and the others had no choice but to follow. He knew he would never think of the boy again. They approached one of the larger islands. There were grounders living here. Me could see houses, squat cones plastered
