Helliconia Summer - Brian W. Aldiss [15]
Freyr and Batalix changed sentry duty in the sky, and still he walked, the only figure moving in the wilderness.
‘Mother,’ cried old Hasele to his wife, before he even got back to his hut. ‘Mother, see what I found by the Three Harlequins.’
And his ancient crone of a wife, Lorel, lame since childhood, hobbled to the door, stuck her nose out in the biting cold air, and said, ‘Never mind what you found. There’s gentlemen from Pannoval waiting to do business with thee.’
‘Pannoval, eh? Wait till they see what I found by the Three Harlequins. I need help here, mother. Come, it’s not cold. You waste your life stuck in that house.’
The house was rude in every extreme. It consisted of piles of boulders, several of them taller than a man, interspersed with planks and timbers, and roofed over with hides on top of which turfs grew. The interstices of the boulders were stuffed with lichen and mud, to make the interior windproof, while spars and whole tree trunks propped the edifice at many points, so that the whole affair most resembled a defunct porcupine. To the main structure, additional rooms had been added in the same spirit of improvisation which had prompted the original. Bronze chimneys thrust up into the sour sky, smoking gently; in some rooms, pelts and hides were dried, in others sold. Hasele was a trader and trapper, and had made enough of a living so that now, towards the end of his life, he could afford a wife and a sledge pulled by three dogs.
Hasele’s house perched on a low escarpment which curved away eastwards for several miles. This escarpment was strewn with boulders, in some places split, in others piled one on top of the other. These boulders provided shelter for small animals, and so made good hunting grounds for the old trapper, who was no longer inclined to wander as far afield as he had done in the days of his youth. On some of the more monumental piles of stone, he had bestowed names, the Three Harlequins being one. At the Three Harlequins, he dug in salt deposits for the mineral he needed to cure his hides.
Smaller stones littered the escarpment, each subtending from its eastern side a raked cone of snow, its size varying according to the nature of the stone, pointing precisely away from the point from which the west wind whistled off the distant Barriers. This had once been a beach, belonging to a long-vanished sea coast, the north coast of the continent of Campannlat, when times had been more favourable.
To the eastern side of the Three Harlequins grew a little thicket of thorn bushes, taking advantage of the shelter of the granite to thrust forth an occasional green leaf. Old Hasele valued these green leaves in his pot, and set snares all round the bushes in order to keep off animals. Unconscious and entangled in the sharp twigs lay the youth he had discovered, whom he now dragged with Lorel’s aid into the smokey sanctuary of his hut.
‘He’s no savage,’ said Lorel admiringly. ‘See here how his parka is decorated with beads, red and blue. Pretty, ain’t they?’
‘Never mind that. Give him a mouthful of soup, mother.’
She did so, stroking the lad’s throat until the soup went down, when her patient stirred, coughed, sat up, and whispered for more. As Lorel fed him she looked down, pursing her lips, at the swollen cheeks and eyes and ears, where countless insect bites had caused blood to flow and mat beneath his collar. He took more soup, then groaned and slumped back again into a coma. She held him to her, putting an arm round him, under his armpit, rocking him, remembering ancient happinesses to which she could no longer give a name.
Guiltily looking round for Hasele, she found he had padded off already, eager to do business with the gentlemen from Pannoval.
She laid the youth’s dark head down, sighing, and followed her husband. He was sipping spirits with the two large-built traders. Their parkas steamed in the warmth. Lorel tugged at Hasele’s sleeve.
‘Maybe these two gentlemen will take this sick youth you’ve found back with them to Pannoval. We can’t feed him here.