Under the Red Sky

Chapter 2 - The Morning of the Hunt

Beneath the early morning Purple Sky, dew clung to the land like a cold sweat of fear. Beneath the Purple Sky, men, women, and children lay in their one refuge: sleep. Here, they forgot the Red Sky, the hot wind, and the scorch of stones; they knew only the solid and brief darkness, and it was better that way.

The tribe awoke: the hoarse scream of the hunters' shofars resounded throughout the village. Hawarrr! Hawarrrr! Hawarrr! rasped the ram horns, prying into houses and jabbing into ears like mean fingers. On and on they went, hoarse and ugly, demanding the people arise from their one refuge, their brief treaty of peace. And so they came, like spirits from their graves, shambling, marching, and howling as they passed house after house along their way.

The villagers did not join the march with empty hands; after wiping the sleep from their eyes, they began with simple instruments of their own. The clackclackclack of hollowed, chitin clapsticks gave a hideous rhythm to screeching bone whistles, coarse sounds beneath the continuous hoarse wail of the hunters' shofars. Clackclackclack! Reeech! Reeech! Hawarrr! Together, the hunters and villagers walked deeper into the village. Together, they made a crude and daunting song. The strength of the tribe is always greater than strength of one the Old Man always told them.

The march came to the village's well, a gaping hole at least three men's heights in diameter with stone steps winding down its insides, ending on a ledge some six or seven men's heights below. From the ledge, men and women would lower needlegrass ropes with pots carved from agmagog bones and goat hide buckets, into the darkness where they could not be seen, where they would dip into unknown waters and return filled to the brim. Most of the time.

All the tribe's water came from the well. The ancient memory of who had dug the well and cut its brown stone walls was lost. The well was no accomplishment of the tribe now, only its most precious source for life.

The few hundred men, women, and children of the village gathered around the water-pit, still clacking and screeching. Hawaaarrr! Hawar, Hawaaaarrr! wailed the shofars with finality. The clatter stopped. The screeching stopped. All was quiet and still.

Eight men dashed from the crowd, into the circle formed around the well. Their bare chests swelled with the scarred muscles that marked them as hunters. The clacking began again, this time slower: clack, clack, clack, clack! The men rolled with the beat, disjointed and inhuman, like ghosts flickering in and out of the living world. Their arms stretched out. Their heads tucked down, faces covered by their long, black hair. One foot led the other in a slow trot forward and around, always bouncing to the rhythmic clack, clack, clack, clack! Steadily, the movements grew smoother. Steadily, they grew faster. Clack clack clack clack!

Reeeech! The chitin whistles screamed. First a few, then many made the long wail. Some dropped in and out of the chorus when breaths ran short and had to be caught again. There was no order, no organization to the screeching of breath and bone; the screech bit at the ears like a sharp flame, harsh and wavering.

The hunters began to flail with the crude timbre, black mops flopping about their heads, brown limbs swinging in circles. Red Sky: day had come upon the village. Sweat flew from the twisting, bounding hunters. The furnace of regular life had come, reaching down into the lungs of every man, woman, and child, oppressing the flesh with its tight grip.

The well hummed; a low and throaty growl rolled from its mouth, and when the first dancer heard it, he stopped. The others stopped. The clacking and screeching ceased. Silence. Stillness.

The groan from the well was alone. It grew stronger and closer. Sweat dripped down across the hunters' scarred skin. The whistlers' lungs sucked wind, chests and bellies heaving. Everyone listened to the slow and erratic chant, a throat song climbing the steps of the well. If there was any language to the undulations of the song, no one in the tribe knew of it. The singer approached the lip of the well.