Journals of a Time Traveller

INTRUSION

The moon is a cold, silver weight, decorating the world in shades of grey. My siblings walk beside me, but their stares are hollow, fixed on a horizon I cannot see. There is a weightlessness to our stride that confirms it: this is not the waking world. We are moving through the dreamtime.

We reach the place where we left the guts and bone of our kill. A she-wolf stands over the red gore, her coat as dark as a cave. Her eyes are flat, reflecting nothing, yet I feel no instinct to reach for a blade. There is no snarl, no scent of musk or heat. She is a shadow given shape, a spirit keeping watch over what we left behind. I stroke her furry head as I pass by. She does not challenge my approach to the carcass she guards in death.

But someone is already here. It is not Qan or Xagu, for they stand behind me. Instead, a figure squats by the side of the Bearded Bull, stealing his gifts.

I holler out, ‘Who are you?’

The thief turns to face me. He is a young man, one of the barbarian sort, his features broken and desperate. I see something deep in his eyes, though I cannot discern what it is.

Then the moonlight pours into the remains of the Bearded Bull. The bones fill with a silvery light. The bull rises from his grave, and I see the stranger fall back in horror as the bovine skeleton resurrects to stand before us. I am drawn to stare into the darkness of eye sockets pecked clean by eagles. The darkness grows until I am engulfed back into the emptiness of sleeptime.

I cry out once more, ‘Spirits, why have you summoned me here? Who is this thief? Why does the wolf guard your grave?’

I cannot find any understanding. The spirit has a prophecy or a warning I fail to comprehend. Something is coming into my life, some great change. Distraught, I beg for an explanation. Come back, I don't understand!

I scream out loudly.

With that scream, I wake to the daylight world. Droplets of cold water fall from a chilly sky onto my face. Evidently I failed to close the hatch last night, and the rain has arrived, carried by gusts to land upon my cheeks. Xagu’s limbs are wrapped around mine; we are tangled together in our nest of furs. My head throbs, and I stick out a furred tongue to catch a few drops of rainwater. I am so parched.

I rise from the den to boil a birch-bark kettle on our hearth. Qan joins me to enjoy a hawthorn tea. He is pensive, so I ask him, ‘Brother, you seem thoughtful this morning. Did you not sleep well following our feast?’

He looks at me as though asking a silent question, then replies, ‘You and Xagu were both in my dreamtime. We visited the grave of the Bearded Bull…’

I finish his statement for him: ‘You saw the wolf and the stranger?’

Before he can answer, I hear Xagu stir from our nest. She staggers out, sees us staring back at her, and exclaims, ‘You were both there in my dream!’

We talk excitedly about our collective vision until the conversation grows as cold as our brew. Only now do I recall my trance from the previous night, when the spirit of the Bearded Bull granted us permission to join the game.

I ask my siblings about this earlier dream. ‘The barbarian witch, and the stranger who spied upon our celebration—have you also seen them?’

They look at each other, their faces blank.

Qan asks, ‘Witch? A spy? All that I felt was the spirit of O A’killao as he entered our campsite. I saw no people.’

Xagu waves her hand to express agreement with her brother.

Perplexed, I rise from the hearth and wander to the edge of the camp, right where I had seen the eyes of the stranger reflecting our fire. Qan and Xagu join me, looking concerned and puzzled as we step into the treeline. I see ferns that have been trampled, and point them out to my brother.

Qan squats down, prodding at the ground before he looks up. ‘These shimmers are not ours. Someone else has visited our camp, just as you saw in your vision. We are not the only folk in this paradise.’

In response to a sudden chill, I pull my furs closer to my neck. ‘We should return to the corpse of the Bearded Bull to look for further signs of this spy and thief.’

My siblings respond by fetching their birch-bark boots.

We jostle our way down to the wild meadows where yesterday we had slain the bison. On reaching the spot, my jaw drops. Alongside the ruined carcass of the Bearded Bull lie the skinned remains of a wolf.

I stare across at my brother and sister, but the words refuse to leave our lips. We are too stunned by what we are seeing.

Qan points down to the bloodied stones left beside the beast. ‘These are not our tools,’ he announces. ‘These are the stones of the barbarians.’

I am flabbergasted. This poor wolf, the very one I had seen in my vision and whose furry head I had stroked, has been rudely scalped. I kneel down and offer my prayers to its spirit.

Qan trots off to the diminishing remains of the Bearded Bull. ‘Here too,’ he calls back. ‘I see the fat bones cut free by stone.’

Xagu searches the surrounding area, looking for tracks. She soon finds the clumsy marks of a barbarian and beckons us over. Holding our weapons tight, the three of us move with stealth into the undergrowth.

WAR

The bark shield-wall shatters in a spray of dry splinters. The Sheonni pour through the gaps, their faces smeared with ochre, wielding lethal flint. Sugea feels the soil tremble under his feet—the hard, wet thud of birch-bark boots packing down earth that just this morning was consecrated for growth.

Sugea is a shaman for the wheat, not a trophy for the enemy. To be taken alive would be a rot no spell could scrub away. For years he has trained to serve Daghnu, the Wheat Father, chanting and spilling blood into the dirt to make the grain rise. But with the Sheonni breaking through, the priest is gone. He wants to be a man. He rips away the heavy straw mask and tears at the itchy costume. He will not stand in the background like Daghnu’s shadow, shouting holy words while braver boys are butchered.

To his left, Zoreon—a seasoned warrior who had danced beside him for the harvest blessing—takes a mace full to the head. His peaked leather hat collapses into a bloody mess.

The air doesn't smell of burning husks anymore. It tastes of wet, hammered slate, sour sweat, and greasy cowhide. Boys Sugea envied only moments ago fumble blindly in the press, their wooden spear shafts slick with sweat, sliding right through their fingers.

A rope-turbaned Sheonni raider, reeking of the wolf-pelt on his shoulders, lunges at a fallen Leva boy. His movements are heavy, efficient, punctuated by a blunt grunt of effort. All the prayers for rain and the old litanies for the Wheat Father disappear. The earth isn't asking for a neat bowl of bull’s blood anymore—it is drinking everything his people have.

Sugea grips his greenstone axe until his knuckles turn white. The head is cold and smooth, polished by weeks of sand-rubbing. Flint-tipped arrows zip through the air, hunting for Leva skin. He lunges, swinging in clumsy, heavy arcs that pull at his shoulder. He aims for the face of a Sheonni boy who looks just as terrified as he is.

Then, something slams into the side of his head with a sickening crunch. His vision goes black. His knees fold, and he hits the stony ground hard. The last things he sees are the wheat stalks he was supposed to protect, swaying in the wind as if he weren't there at all.

When he comes to, a Sheonni warrior is urinating on his face. Sugea twists, fighting the rough ropes binding his wrists.

He spits his curses up at them. ‘Dung-eating wildborns! Clanless wolf-stinkers!’

They just laugh at his Leva tongue, kicking him with their birch-soled boots. They bind him spread-eagle inside a clay hut. For three days, their crones enter at their leisure to beat him and defile him.

By the third day, the fever takes hold. His body is broken, filthy, and reeking so badly that their Sun-priestess deems him unworthy of a proper Ireslari sacrifice to her pits. They drag him out and dump him onto a midden heap at the edge of the settlement, leaving the strawman priest to rot into the soil of their wheat gardens.

But he refuses to die.

He crawls from the stinking refuse mound. Weak, burning with fever, and unable to stand, he drags his useless legs out of the cultivated plots and into the margins of the dark forest. Among the trees, surrounded by the fallen fruits of the autumn wilderness, his breath slows. As soon as his legs will bear his weight, he sucks air through his swollen throat and limps north, toward the wilds.

 Sugea remains a thou.