Twins - James Lancaster Year 2

They were nestled behind a gathering of gray rocks, the feathers of their Arrows fluttered in the wind. The breeze sailed over them, and their breath faded into its noise. It was the extension of their hunt, as was the earth and river below them an extension of their bones and blood. All they owned was the energy within themselves, and like any tool they had practiced its use until its expression was seemless.

Downwind, mountains of fur and horn pressed across the horizonless grasslands, massive jaws worked the fields with massive teeth and a battery of stomachs. The taste of this grass was fresh to them, and the ground new to their hooves. Antelope moved beneath them, their steps guided by an informed wariness. They had learned well the way of the buffalo, and the buffalo has always been been a callous teacher. Only recently did they have equally callous pupils.

Striped faces moved in the corners of herd, the wingbeats of the Wakinyan cracked and rolled overhead in the roiling ocean of grey above. They were not surprised to see feathers in the breeze, but they had not yet guessed their wearer. Nor did they intend to to find out. Grazers on the outside of the herd looked up, and their attention turned to the yearlings, who were quickly hurried into the centre of the wall of flesh. They grumbled through their lips as they turned their attention to the rocks upwind of them.

“CHAAAAKKKKKAA KA-KA-KA-KA-KA-KA”. As soon as the call was heard they were upon them. Full face paint and snarling teeth chattered their call as they whipped the buffalo into a frenzy. The herd cracked from stillness into a tornado of stampeding bodies, they had become little more than a mess of brown and grey, their sound was matched only by the flying Wakinyan above. New hunters ran into the fray, seperating the herd as the old and sick revealed their weakness. Runts and injured elderly fresh from the season were lagging behind healthy bulls who ran for safety. As soon as the hunters singled out a target, arrows sailed in its direction, always on one side, for the claim of the kill brought rich rewards.

The swift hunters peppered the beast, after one made its mark upon the neck, the business was done, and the buffalo had moved on from the killing fields. Part of the hunting party continued on to bring more buffalo, while the rest moved to claim their kill.

A great man, who wore long tracks of bone armor, painted in the old style, and a head dress of long Wakinyan feathers. His body a canvas of scars and callouses, written on by many strange and ancient teachers, a work he intended to stay unfinished. He observed the bull, and called to companions. “It was Chichimeca's kill, I saw his arrow make the mark.”

Chichimeca stood just behind his tribesmen, six of them disputed the claim, and yet, not one gave a glance in his direction He was used to this, and did not expect the kill to truly be his, he stood, shaking, unable to believe that the hunt was truly over, or that he had actually been there.

His kinsmen approached the kill, a wide man with a long nose and fierce red and black paint, scoffed at the claim.“You favour your own too strongly Maughkompos, my arrow brought it down.”

Maughkompos took it without protest and replied, “Maybe we will settle this when I dig it out of its neck, flint shall speak for itself Ts'emekwes.”

Maughkompos pulled the arrow from the beasts neck with a quick pull, but the fletching had been visible as soon as the two of them closed in on the body. Ts'emekwes relented and called out to the rest of tribe, “He brings food for us on his first hunt,” Ts'emekwes said with a dry voice, “Perhaps the spirits favour him after all.” He gave the boy a pat on the back and moved on without dwelling, His eyes searched the landscape for the rest of their hunting party, bringing their own kills in from the hunt.

Maughkompos ignored Ts'emekwes' remark. “Come claim your kill boy, the meat must be moved before the earth claims it.”

Chichimeca hardly had words to say, he simply acted. He strolled over to the buffalo, the hunters behind him bore into his back with cold stares. He took no heed, he felt his father would have done the same thing, perhaps he'd killed on his first hunt when he was young? Chichimeca was almost certain that he had. He could have even taken two buffalo.

Chichimeca grabbed the buffalo by the ankles, hoisting it over his shoulder, the lifeless body hit the skins on his back, he was careful to not let the horns dig into the flesh, and carried the body carefully.

Maughkompos went over to him, and faced his boy, who now stood with the future of the tribe on his back. “The spirits have blessed you my son, you will have the best cuts, and sinews for a new bow that will strike death into our prey and our enemies.” He smacked the body of the buffalo and felt its muscles, “This is strong prey, you will have mighty weapons and rope from him.” He turned to the tribe, who gathered around the boy and his beast.

Chichimeca felt a swell of pride within him, almost enough to stop him from replying, “Thank you, father.” The promise of weapons excited him, for the other boys had yet to make their own from a buffalo they'd taken themselves, but as much as he tried to drum his enthusiasm for war, he found it wanting.

“Come, for today we have much to say.” He led the tribe out of the grasslands and into the forest, his head cleared the tops of the trees to watch for danger through the canopy. The other men of the tribe also watched, a healthy paranoia of Witch-Buffalo, Giant Lizards and the Unktehi kept their eyes sharp and their steps swift. They often pressed the taller branches out of their way to get a better view, disturbing the birds that nested there, who flew out into the distance in small clouds of panic.

Chichimeca was not yet tall enough to look over the trees like his father. He still lived in the green world of his childhood, while part of him wished to be strong like his father, and give Ts'emekwes a piece of his mind. The birds and bears that scurried along the forest arrested his attention, he looked for glimpses of Yeitso and Tse'Nalyahe roaming through the streams and coursing over gnarled branches. As a child he had played here, chasing the deer and catching birds that flew overhead. He had no time for such games, for now he walked and hunted with the men.

Ahead of them lay even mightier domains, barely visible through the trunks and branches of the forest, and dominating the sight of the elders. Grandfather-of-the-Trees pressed its roots deep into the soil. They twisted through the forest and surrounded the other trees like snakes that were poised and forever prevented from striking. They made their path around theirs, and the warriors made sure to touch its branches whenever they passed. Chichimeca could only imagine the size of it when the adults could see it, spreading above the forest and into the sky. Green clouds tethered to the earth by brown claws, clutching its splendor all to itself. All below it was new, old in it's own way, but nothing had seen the passage of time in more ways than Grandfather-of-the-Trees. Maughkompos pointed a thick and twisted finger in its direction, “What do you know about this, boy?”

Chichimeca, scrambled for an answer. “It is the oldest tree, here from before the Third world, some even say from the first world that came into being.”

Maughkompos knocked him in the shoulder, “Is that all? Too slow, tell me more, use less words.” He said, motioning for his son to speak.

“It marks passage back to our village, the Wakinyan nest in it's branches, Medicine men make powerful cures from its leaves and fruit.” He replied quickly, careful not to show pain from being hit. The blow had barely touched him, but the buffalo had stuck into his side.

“There we go,” Maughkompos snickered, “More like that, and Ts'emekwes may even let you look in the direction of his daughters.”

Chichimeca replied, with false obliviousness. “I don't know what you mean father.” Hoping to avoid any more comments, even if he knew he wouldn't.

“The whole tribe knows, the Yeitso probably know.” Maughkompos replied darkly, “Perhaps they will come for her in the night to get to you!”

“Very Funny” Chichimeca said dryly. Hoping for the conversation to end.

His father sighed at his sons lack of humour and continued, “Do you know why i've asked you this?”

“No, father.” Chichimeca replied,

“The tree is a part of your path, as is the hunting ground and the buffalo herd, the village and the people.” As Maughkompos spoke, they passed snapped branches, he gave them passing glances, taking them in but paying them little heed. They continued on, and he took a piece of rock from the ground.

“This is a part of our history, of our land, you must learn every rock, every tree, and read it's ways.” Maughkompos threw the rock back into the forest, “When someone disturbs that order, if prey moves through this land. You will know.”

Chichimeca saw gouges in the trees, marks the length of his arms. Ts'emekwes shot Maughkompos a look, and he nodded back to him. Ts'emekwes took point and moved in the direction of the markings. “Others will come, they will try to steer you from your path, you've met the tribes to the east.”

Chichimeca remembered them well, tall and hairy, not quite animal, not quite man. The Kolowa tribe was infamous for cannibalism. Maughkompos had made war on them long ago, a terrible fistfight had broken out between him and their leader Stiyaha, he still had scars from where Stiyaha had bitten him. He said the howl of the Kolowa tribe was like lightning from the Wakinyan birds, and they beat their chests so loudly the Thunderbirds would try to drown them out with their songs. As quickly as that visage had come, he connected it with the strange markings and his attention turned back to the trail.

“Do you think that the Kolowa or Giwaka could be here now?” Chichimeca asked.

Maughkompos waved a hand in dismissal, “Probably an angry Yeitso, or a Wakinyan who's gotten on the wrong side of the Unktehi, it is good however, to be sure.” He delivered that last line with a gravelly coldness that prevented Chichimeca from asking any further questions.

Ts'emekwes appeared from the forest, from the look on his face, Maughkompos knew that they had to follow him, he could feel the fear from his son, though he had taken care to stifle it, in this case, he gave no disparaging look or sneer. “We must talk later, something is very wrong.”

“Should I go back to the village? Look for the rest of the party?” Chichimeca asked. Half hoping for his father to say yes.

“You are no longer a boy, you are a Tatanka Warawalkin, you have carried buffalo for your people, now you will watch.” His father said, and turned instantly to the trail, the scentence and the motion were one.

Chichimeca cursed his own weakness and followed them. The twisted trees echoed with calling birds, but as they followed fewer and fewer calls could be heard, the tribe knew this was a poor sign, predators were in the area, though who, or what they were had yet to be decided. It could still be a Yeitso, but there was always the possibility of foreign hunters on their land, something that they could not tolerate.

“Here Chief!" Ts'emekwes motioned to a clearing, the birds calling in the trees had ceased, and an air of silence fell upon the empty greenery, the wind changed suddenly, and blew the smell in their direction, a pungent burning odor.

The body lay in the center of the clearing, blackened, and peppered with holes. The cavernous skull was held open in a permanent gasp, the armour arching along his back still held some of the flesh, which hung in ribbons on the forest floor. No blood stained the killing field, the only markings were the gouges left by the creatures claws, which had been clipped and taken. All that remained of its glory were its mighty tusks and fangs. The tribe circled it, taking in its wounds and size, it was tall enough at the hip to meet their eyes, the trees barely covered its mass from the skies above.

“They have not gone far,” Maughkompos said, “The kill is fresh, I have seen animals burn like this before.”

Ts'emekwes shouted, “I do not think it burned to death,” He motioned to the holes in the creatures head and neck, “They are not natural, this thing was pierced by something that went through to it's bones.”

“How could someone do that with such small weapons?” Maughkompos asked.

“With great effort” A voice echoed from the trees.

Chichimeca felt something behind him, creeping up his back like the sun bearing down on him, but the sky above was dark and grey with the flying Wakinyan. The tribe looked at him coldly, fear started to creep into him, they grabbed their bows, while some took out their spears. Their faces contorted into visages of war, like masks from the dances he had seen that told of those exploits he had been told of as a child, he knew he was about to be in one of those stories, and he knew that they were not looking at him.

Behind him stood two, tiny people, too small to reach the branches on most trees, but they stood with an eerie stillness, and a warmth emanated from them in waves that pulsated towards them. They wore plain expressions, and wore no paint or tribal colours, they had left no tracks to show here they had come from, and held only a bow in each hand. Standing side by side they smiled at the tribe and the tribe stared back.

Maughkompos regarded them calmly, looking at the carcass and back to the two strange twins. Ts'emekwes moved forward, but Maughkompos stopped him, they were too close to his son, too calm in the face of a larger enemy. “Good friends, who are you?” Maughkompos asked.

“Nayainazgana”, the first replied, and motioned to his brother, as if passing a ball, who answered, “Tobadzaschaina”. They spoke in unison, “We are twins," They said.

Suddenly they appeared beside Ts'emekwes, who started backwards, "We come from the plains a long way from here." They continued, their eyes never leaving Ts'emekwes while he picked himself up from the floor and took his arrows in hand.

"They cross distance in an unnatural way Chief" The wide and powerful warrior said, his arrow shaking as its tip pointed at the tiny twins.

“You are passing through our land,” Maughkompos stated, he raised his spear to the sky and walked towards them, Chichimeca stepped slowly out of the way. “I must ask both of you to leave.”

“We have already left,” They said, “And we have come back, and left again,” Their voices echoed from distant places in the forest, echoing off of trees and from inside of rocks.

“You are funny, and bold for ones so small,” He chuckled, “Tell me? What issue do you have with my people.”

“None,” They said, “What issue does the storm have with the coast? The shaking earth with the pueblo? Or lightning with the forest?”

The tribe readied themselves, the tiny warriors would be easy prey, most of their senses made that apparent. But one, deep in their minds, sounded alarms, alarms they drowned out as the spirit of war came over them. But one Chichimeca and Maughkompos could not ignore.

“You speak of war little ones,” He replied, “Make yourselves ready.”

“No,” They replied, “We speak of the shape of things to come.”

Their bows erupted in a flash of sound and light, blue lightning coursed from their backs on their bowstrings. Little surging flashes, as if frozen in place and time, sat upon their quivers, ready to be plucked and fired at a moments notice. The tribe surged back, but Ts'emekwes for all his disbelief, would not go unrooted, and the others looked to him, their faces switched constantly from warlike to rabbitlike. Their minds filled with thoughts of taunts at home, and the glowing, burning arrows held by the strange twins.

Chichimeca stared at the arrows, and the body in the clearing, words flashed through his mind, “I've seen animals burn before,” His fathers voice echoed, “These are no arrow or spear wounds.” The gruff growls of Ts'emekwes called to him. Both were poised, ready to turn the Twins into smears across the forest floor. Chichimeca tried to call them, he put his arms out in front of his father, who pushed him into the ground as he made for the Twins.

The buffalo dropped towards the ground.

“CHAAAAKKKKAAA KA-KA-KA-KA-KA-KA!” The tribe yelled.

The body crumpled as it made contact with the floor, the tribe's feet pounded and sent streams of dead leaves and soil skyward. Chichimeca smacked onto soft terrain, covering his face with dirt and leaf litter. Maughkompos roared.

The Twins grinned.

They raised their bows, lightning arrows in hand. And their voices, clear as if being spoken, bounded in the chambers of Chichimeca's mind.

“This is the shape of things to come.”