A voice rang out in the woods, causing small, unseen creatures to scuttle through the underbrush. A figure, beneath the high canopy, stood askance and slightly irritated, hands upon powerful hips. Grass bowed underneath large feet, shifting weight from one side to another. Why was he here?
A way away, smoke was clearing. Between the trees and the thicket, beside the nettle-thorns and the rabbit hutch. Inside, tiny hairless babies huddle together, worried by the strange creature outside, and where was Mama? Leaves rustled in the fitful breeze.
And then, clouds were dispersing into the air, waved away by the loving hand that coaxed them into being. A small cough, a deep sigh. A gentle sob. A pair of blue eyes open serenely, encased preciously in dirt-blackened skin.
Again, the far away cry was heard, and the dirty hands pulled together the old sack, drew the string, keeping safe the dried bones and seeds and sticks inside. The mushrooms and the dehydrated roots. The flint-stones and the old, cracked rabbit skin.
"Don't worry, little babies," a voice is heard inside the rabbit hole, "Your mother will come now I've gone!" Pine needles and forest gallimaufry gave way beneath skin-clad feet gaining balance. And then, the hasty crepitation of retreating footsteps at a run. Then, silence again in the deep thicket.
"Dammit, woman!" Quieter, now, came the curse from the fur-draped figure. Sweat enticed from tanned skin by the noonday sun dripped neglected down a stately face. One by one, the layers of dead animal shells are shunned, set on the ground, promising to make a nice seat for anyone who would like to rest. A seductive idea, and such a cosseting pile of comfort, perfect for a midday nap, here in the shade of the trees. Here, coddled and caressed by the womanly breeze, kissing away hot skin-tears, licking clean the filthy heat. Here, unbothered by all creatures; man or otherwise...here in the peaceful forest, why not take a nap?
But still the man stands. Still, with his hair unkempt and dreadlocked. Still, with his green eyes stony and restless. Still, with his arms and chest now bare to the delicate wind, to the vixenish wind. Still, simply.
"Woman!" he bellows, mighty lungs letting forth their hoarded treasure, bolstering the word which is shouting with a mixture of contempt and affection. A word which means childhood friend, a word which means occasional bother, a word...
"Impatient, impatient!"
And then, still no longer, the torso twists, the arms turn to weapons in the war-loathing forest. The face, with no intention of violence, pulls a distasteful expression. Green eyes meet blue, impish grin to manful disdain.
"Attila can't wait, no he cannot. Did Galen say to come early? No, of course no. But still Attila comes, early as the spring dew, and then angry at Galen, he gets." Tongue clicks against dirty teeth, but half-heartedly and behind a bright smile.
"Woman, why did you bring me here?"
"Woman, woman..." Hands move dismissively in the air, waving away silly ideas, "I'm nothing but a toadstool, the fox told me so. The fox, with the red fur. Did you see her?"
There is a pause, and a pair of thin lips, framed by primal human fur, purse and then thin in bitter contemplation. "I saw her."
"I know you did. I know you did! I saw you see her. I see you see her, all the time. I watch you see her, watch you send her away. I see her and Bleda, and he does not send her away. But Attila does."
Anger bursts forth from barely-controlled dams. Arms with muscles made of wrath and skin dart forward, clamp onto rags and tags and moss-coloured clothing. Inside, small shoulders threaten bruises, cherished bruises from an unwanted love.
"What does that have to do with anything? Why am I here?"
"You're here because you walked here, Attila, don't you remember?" The voice trembles with the force of being shaken. Moccasinned feet dangle inches from the ground, held up easily by robust arms. The smile does not leave pigmented lips, unafraid of the raw power in the man before her. "The fox, Attila, she is being broken. In days she will be little more than a dog, bushy tail between her legs. But maybe that is better than Attila between them?"
The ground caught Galen up in its grasp, leaves and some insects taking flight in the wake of her fall. Knees knock against the dirt, uninjured and no more dirty than to begin with.
"What would you have me do, woman? Once you stopped me, and now you speak against your own advice?"
"Advice? Galen doesn't remember giving Attila any advice, today. I've seen you, Attila. You and the fox, in my visions. I see many things, but can they all be true?" Deep inhalation through the nostrils, and the eyes shut respectfully. "You will fight for her, Attila. You will win her. You will conquer her, and she will be glad of it. But you will not enjoy her for long."
"I would not let harm come to her," Attila declared, one foot stepping forward, an instinctive challenge against all he despised. "I would die before it."
The crown woven of weeds and of hairs tilts with the head beneath it; thong-bound hands raise in a humble gesture of surrender, "And you shall, Attila. Hunt the fox, Attila, and you shall die. Just before harm comes to her. Though she keeps her womb barred from her master, keeps little Bledas from coming, all for Attila...she will not carry a little one for him. No sweet Attila-daughters, no strong Attila-sons. Only death! Death for the man she wants!"
Lips turn downward in contrariety, brows furrow and a gust of hot air runs forth from twin nostrils. "When?"
A shrug, and the striking blue eyes are hooded, unseen in the deep shade of Galen's hood. "Soon. Two weeks. Perhaps a little longer. Perhaps...perhaps never."
"Never? Woman, speak clearly. Did you not say - "
"Oh, Galen says, Galen says. The fox will be the death of Attila. But do not pursue the fox. Do not pursue the fox, and you escape your final destiny. Galen will keep you, Galen will hide you and keep you safe. Galen knows where you can be happy, she does. Live long and happy."
Once the speech is finished, the strange swaying dance that accompanied it stilled, the blue eyes, portentous, looked up. But the green eyes were not looking, not waiting for a sign of hidden secrets, not expecting the sincerity and the piercing tenderness. The green eyes were watching the inside of Attila's mind; Attila's unseeing, unhampered mind. "And die in my bed?"
"Perhaps, Attila, perhaps," the answer came, reluctantly, as if dragged from a long way away.
"Never."
"Ah, Galen knew Attila would say that! She knew, she knew," her small head hung. But it swung up, then, and for the first time, Attila saw the clean streaks through the grime and the paint. The red rims of the small, girlish eyes. The salt that was drying to the skin in that same maidenly breeze. "Well, it is Attila's choice! A hunter always chases the fox, doesn't he? A hunter chases the fox, damn the consequences, and underneath his careless foot the toadstool dies!"
And before another word was spoken, the small feet turned the young soothsayer around, carried her far and fast through the new trees, through the growing trees, through the grown trees, through the dead trees. Past the nettle-thorns and the green thicket and the rabbit hutch. Past the river-child, the little giggling stream that housed silly fish and newts. Quickly away from the struck and unhappily gaping face of Attila, the poor man who never understood that just because one is a Hunter, does not mean that one cannot also be a Gatherer.