The Gathering Night by Margaret Elphinstone Page A

out suddenly and grabbed a guillemot. He leaned into the cliff-face while he wrung its neck, then tucked it into his belt, where it hung limply by its head. I was pleased: it’s good to have a taste of roast bird to season a feast of eggs. A few heartbeats later I saw Sendoa catch a razorbill the same way.
    All the while the waves surged hungrily against the shore below my nephew and my daughter’s husband. White sea-spittle licked round the rock-teeth, then withdrew with empty sucking noises. High on the cliff-face, Amets and Sendoa were well out of reach. They never bothered to look down.
    Kemen had a basket strapped to his back just like the others, but his was still empty. He moved very slowly along the cliff-face, feeling for footholds. He trod on a nest. I saw a splash of yellow yolk as the egg smashed against the cliff. Guillemots rose in alarm, screaming. Kemen stood splayed against the cliff, one foot in the broken nest, his cheek against the rock, clinging with both hands. Slowly he twisted his head and looked down. After that he didn’t move for so long that I wondered if something was the matter. Then, very gingerly, he brought his right foot across to join his left in the remains of the guillemots’ nest. One hand edged along the crack in the rock above him. He took another step. At least he seemed to be trying to avoid the nests now. He reached out carefully with his left hand. A guillemot rose into the air, screaming alarm. Kemen’s hand dropped back. Then he reached out again, shifting his balance. He felt along the ledge with his fingers. His hand closed over the egg. I found myself holding my own breath as the hand clutching the egg came slowly back. The egg dropped into the basket. Ten heartbeats passed. Kemen’s left foot moved again, feeling for the next crack in the rock.
    By now Amets and Sendoa had several birds tucked into their belts, and their baskets were almost full. All the ledges Kemen could reach seemed to be empty. The guillemots knew he was a stranger to the bird cliffs so they refused to give themselves.
    Now I knew that at least part of Kemen’s story was true. I knew he wouldn’t be pretending: very few young men ever pretended to lack skill. I knew he’d be trying as hard as he could to keep up with the others, even if he couldn’t beat them.
    I thought about Kemen. He’d arrived among Sendoa’s People early in Yellow Leaf Moon. My son had disappeared at the end of Yellow Leaf Moon. Kemen never encountered Bakar. He’d been with Sendoa all the while at a winter Camp far away from ours. We had Sendoa’s word for that as well as Kemen’s. We could trust Sendoa. If Kemen had brought evil spirits with him on his journey – and certainly his story showed that he’d come from a place where some spirit must be very angry – then he couldn’t have carried them directly to Bakar, because he was never near him. But if Kemen had brought spirits powerful enough to fly through the air from one man to another . . . that was quite possible. He’d told us of spirits powerful enough to drive the sea out of its bed and sweep away the land. Spirits who were able to do that would certainly be strong enough to abandon one young man when they’d done with him, and fly as far as they liked in search of new prey.
    All this Kemen might have brought upon us without meaning it. I found no guile in him – though I could have been wrong – how could I know the thoughts in a stranger’s heart? But now I was Go-Between I had ways of finding out. More than that, it was now my duty to my People to discover what I could, whether I felt like it or not. I’d not been tried yet, but I was beginning to be aware of new responsibilities. Kemen was my first test.
    I walked away from the cliffs towards the High Sun Sky, in the opposite direction from White Beach Camp. No one had used the way through the hazel woods since Seed Moon.