hauling water from the river. Women sat in small groups, chattering as they mended clothing or shelled nuts, but the camp was quieter than usual. A nervous tension hung in the air. The men paced about, restless at their own idleness but not willing to go off hunting until the results of the day’s contest were known.
Besides Tag, two of the other young men were of Mik’s band. Cade was about Tag’s age, perhaps a year older, but Vel was nearing twenty years, Feather guessed. He had been with the Blens only two years and had won Mik’s permission to attempt the test after showing his loyalty to the band.
They were high in the hills now. The city had once dominated the landscape with its splendid solidness, she guessed, but now it was frightening. The ruins were all but covered with thick, lush growth. The foliage was withering in the cold of autumn, but even though most of the leaves had fallen, the walls were partially hidden by the abundant vines. The humps had been buildings, and here and there Feather could see a wall peek through with the figures of fierce warriors carved in the stone blocks.
The savage sneers of the stone figures made her shudder, but she could not stop staring at the fallen city. She had not seen any cats yet, but they were there. The others assured her the giant, orange-and-black speckled panthers were lurking in the ruins. If she watched, she might see one slinking down the moss-grown stone steps, or peering with glowing eyes from a crevice in the once-mighty walls.
Only two days ago, Feather had learned what one must do to attain the status of manhood among the Blens. Before the sun set, each young man must return bearing a tuft of the distinctive, bright orange fur that grew in a clump at the ends of the panthers’ tails.
The thought of Tag performing the task sent terror through Feather’s spirit. She did not fear the cats as much as she feared the possibility that Tag might not return.
The young men could work together, but they must not kill the cats. They were allowed to carry no weapons but knives, to be used only in self defense. The cats were sacred and held back the great sickness, or so the leaders of the Blens claimed. How they knew this was unclear, but it was due to the flourishing of the spotted panthers in the jungle-covered city that the people survived. Feather wondered about that. If it were true, why had they never heard this teaching in her homeland to the north? And why did only the men wear the distinctive necklace?
The punishments for not following the rules of the contest precisely were laid out plainly. Any man who killed one of the sacred cats would become a slave of the Blens forever. And a young man who could not perform the required ritual by sunset would be driven from the tribe, never to share food at the campfires of the Blens again.
“It is better to die trying than not to succeed,” Tag had told her last night, the last time she saw him before the ceremony began.
“I will go with you if you are driven away,” she pleaded. “No, that will not happen to me,” he said, staring into the embers of the cook fire. It was too cold now and too dangerous to go off by themselves to talk in the evening, and this one time Tag seemed not to care if the other boys saw him with her. They had sat together for most of the evening. “Either I come back with the fur, or I do not come back,” he said.
Now, in the morning, she sat shivering. She wrapped her blanket tight around her thin shoulders and watched for movement in the remains of the city. If Tag did not return, how would she make it through the harsh winter with the Blens?
They are boys! she thought. How can their leaders send them off so coolly to their deaths?
Tag, Cade, and Vel had worked together for several days, braiding strong cords of the tough inner bark of trees growing along the river. Their plan was to snare a cat and subdue it together while they gleaned the tufts of fur they needed.
An
Besides Tag, two of the other young men were of Mik’s band. Cade was about Tag’s age, perhaps a year older, but Vel was nearing twenty years, Feather guessed. He had been with the Blens only two years and had won Mik’s permission to attempt the test after showing his loyalty to the band.
They were high in the hills now. The city had once dominated the landscape with its splendid solidness, she guessed, but now it was frightening. The ruins were all but covered with thick, lush growth. The foliage was withering in the cold of autumn, but even though most of the leaves had fallen, the walls were partially hidden by the abundant vines. The humps had been buildings, and here and there Feather could see a wall peek through with the figures of fierce warriors carved in the stone blocks.
The savage sneers of the stone figures made her shudder, but she could not stop staring at the fallen city. She had not seen any cats yet, but they were there. The others assured her the giant, orange-and-black speckled panthers were lurking in the ruins. If she watched, she might see one slinking down the moss-grown stone steps, or peering with glowing eyes from a crevice in the once-mighty walls.
Only two days ago, Feather had learned what one must do to attain the status of manhood among the Blens. Before the sun set, each young man must return bearing a tuft of the distinctive, bright orange fur that grew in a clump at the ends of the panthers’ tails.
The thought of Tag performing the task sent terror through Feather’s spirit. She did not fear the cats as much as she feared the possibility that Tag might not return.
The young men could work together, but they must not kill the cats. They were allowed to carry no weapons but knives, to be used only in self defense. The cats were sacred and held back the great sickness, or so the leaders of the Blens claimed. How they knew this was unclear, but it was due to the flourishing of the spotted panthers in the jungle-covered city that the people survived. Feather wondered about that. If it were true, why had they never heard this teaching in her homeland to the north? And why did only the men wear the distinctive necklace?
The punishments for not following the rules of the contest precisely were laid out plainly. Any man who killed one of the sacred cats would become a slave of the Blens forever. And a young man who could not perform the required ritual by sunset would be driven from the tribe, never to share food at the campfires of the Blens again.
“It is better to die trying than not to succeed,” Tag had told her last night, the last time she saw him before the ceremony began.
“I will go with you if you are driven away,” she pleaded. “No, that will not happen to me,” he said, staring into the embers of the cook fire. It was too cold now and too dangerous to go off by themselves to talk in the evening, and this one time Tag seemed not to care if the other boys saw him with her. They had sat together for most of the evening. “Either I come back with the fur, or I do not come back,” he said.
Now, in the morning, she sat shivering. She wrapped her blanket tight around her thin shoulders and watched for movement in the remains of the city. If Tag did not return, how would she make it through the harsh winter with the Blens?
They are boys! she thought. How can their leaders send them off so coolly to their deaths?
Tag, Cade, and Vel had worked together for several days, braiding strong cords of the tough inner bark of trees growing along the river. Their plan was to snare a cat and subdue it together while they gleaned the tufts of fur they needed.
An
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