The Days of the Deer Read Free

concentrated on the breathing of each of the other six people sleeping in the hut. Before he could discover whether Old Mother Kush was right or not, he heard noises that
seemed to come from near the walnut tree. He leapt silently to his feet, and was outside the hut in an instant, axe in one hand and shield in the other. He stood stock still outside the door until
he could be sure no one was close enough to slip inside while he went to discover what was going on. Then he stole noiselessly towards one end of the building. When he had almost reached it, he
jumped round the corner. For once, though, the Husihuilke warrior was taken completely by surprise.
    Between the house and the forest, dozens of lukus were spinning round apparently aimlessly, their luminous tails flailing through the air. From the expression on their faces, it seemed as if
they were all whistling, but Dulkancellin could hear no sound. He took a few steps forward so that they could see him. As soon as the lukus caught sight of him, they all rushed to the bottom of the
nearest trees, and soon were no more than a host of yellow, unblinking eyes. One very old luku ventured towards him. Considering the distance and the darkness between them, the warrior could see
him far too clearly. The creature from the island stretched a thin arm towards the west. Dulkancellin followed his direction. From their house, the Lalafke Sea was only visible on clear, summer
days; even then it was no more than a line that appeared on the horizon and then disappeared in an instant. But now when the Husihuilke warrior looked, he saw the sea blocking out the sky, crashing
down on his house, his forest, his life. Dulkancellin gave a mighty cry, and instinctively raised his shield. All at once, the giant wave paused, then flowed round the house like a furrow in
Kush’s vegetable garden. Crushing everything beneath their feet, along the furrow came pale-faced men mounted on huge animals with manes. They were both near and far, and their garments did
not flap as they ran. For the first and last time in his life, the warrior drew back. By now the lukus’ whistling was almost unbearably shrill. Beyond the pale-faced men Dulkancellin could
see a landscape of death: a few fayed deer were wandering among the ashes. The poisoned fruit of the orange trees fell to the ground. Kupuka was walking towards him, his hands amputated. Somewhere
Wilkilén was crying, making the sound of a bird. And Kuy-Kuyen, her skin covered in red blotches, was peering from behind a dust-storm.
    The warrior woke with a start. Once again Kush’s words had proved true. The axe was still leaning against the wall. Everything was still silent.
    Dulkancellin remembered it was a day of celebration. It would soon be dawn, and even sooner his mother would be up to light the fire and begin her daytime tasks.
    Wrapped in a fur cloak, Dulkancellin left the hut, feeling as if this were the second time he had done so that night. The world outside was the same as ever: the warrior took a deep breath. A
dull grey light spread through the darkness. To the south, another grey that was as solid as the mountains began to cover the landscape.
    Dulkancellin’s hair was tied back by a band across his forehead: the way the Husihuilkes always wore it before going off to war or when they were training their bodies.
    The forest was far enough away for him to sing the song that only the warriors knew. Each time they sang they promised that every day they would honour the blood that had lain down at night, and
begged to be allowed to die fighting.
    When Dulkancellin reached the tall trees, he took off his cloak and left it on the roots of a tree. Flexing his body like a young cane, he ran through the undergrowth, leapt like a jaguar,
climbed to impossible heights, and finally hung suspended from a branch until the pain made him drop. On his way back to the hut, he recovered his cloak and picked some seeds to chew on.
    Ever since