Chapter 8

- Noker -

I can guess what kind of ceremony he meant. He's a perceptive old shaman, but this time he's wrong. I have the clan to think of, and certainly Bronwen is not interested in marrying me. I'm not like Brak, so obviously a powerful man, so active, so strong, so smart. Nobody wonders why Piper chose him to marry. But I'm just Noker with the strange head, the fat legs, and the other thing that must stay secret. And the clan needs me.

"I don't know. Perhaps something to do with the penk game."

Bronwen nods. "Oh. You should get ready, maybe?"

I look up at the sun. Noon is still a while away, but perhaps I can try to find out what penk is. "I should."

She puts a hand on my forearm. "I sure you'll do well. Just not do dangerous things. I'll go and tell Astrid that the shaman want see her." She walks off with quick steps, hips swaying.

I watch her until she turns a corner, my crotch swelling like usual when I see her from this angle.

Sauntering towards the area where this tribe practices their fighting, I'm greeted by several of the Borok men I meet. Not all, of course, but I never expected that.

Sarker'ox the temporary chief comes towards me, lifting his right hand in greeting. "Guest Noker, it's good to see you! You look ready for the game."

"I hope I am, Chief Sarker'ox. Though I must confess we don't have any games of penk in the clan. And so I wonder how it works."

The Borok man grins. "I thought you might not know. I think penk is only played by the Borok tribe, and only rarely. Come, I will show you. The preparations are finished."

We walk together to the training area.

"The first part is to test how accurately you can throw your sword. Or in your case, the spear." He points to a small target made from wood and the skin of a rekh. It is made to look like one, down to the teeth. "Your task is to strike it in the middle. Easy enough for most who know their weapons."

It doesn't look easy to me, but I nod confidently. "Of course. He who strikes nearest the middle wins, I assume."

"Precisely! The next part is a test of speed." Sarker'ox points to a row of even smaller targets, each the size of my hand and arranged in a wide circle that fills the training field "Here you run around the circle, knocking down as many of those as you can in the time it takes for a full pot of water to empty itself into another pot."

"And he who knocks down the most targets in that time wins." It looks like a test for how fast one can run, which is one area where I feel confident.

"If one man wins both the first parts, then the game of penk is over and he has won," Sarker'ox says. "But if not, the third part of the game starts. It takes place outside the wall and is a race with targets and obstacles. Both men start at the same time, and he who finishes first is the winner of the game. Men have prepared the obstacles all morning."

"Outside the village?" I don't like the sound of that. Is it too late to withdraw from this strange game?

"The risk of attack is not great," Sarker'ox says thoughtfully. "And the last thing an attacker wants to meet is a Borok man in contest mode, sword in his hand. The tribe has never been attacked during a game of penk."

I nod slowly. "Have you had many games?"

Sarker'ox thinks about it. "In my lifetime, four times. Twice the game had to be settled with the obstacle course. The last time was… eight years ago now."

"And the village was not attacked during those times?"

He scratches his chin. "Well… now I think about it, I seem to recall that there was a pack of rekh that had to be fought off during the obstacle course. Several men died. All the contestants, too. But that was not eight years ago! That happened when I was only a boy, many years before. The last time, the game was not disturbed. Until tribesman Vaker'oz died from being bitten by a venomous Tiny, that is. Unfortunately he lost his way in the jungle and ran off the course and into a nest of fanets. But apart from that, there were only minor injuries. As far as I recall. It was decided to not arrange any more games of penk unless it became necessary. But it's been so long now, that it's about time."

"I see. I hope the obstacle course will not be needed this time." This is crazy. I can't go through with this silly game.

"I hope so too. I must warn you that your opponent, tribesman Unin'iz, is remarkably accurate with his sword. There's a good chance that he will win the game. But remember that it is of no concern! It is only a friendly contest, and not meant to settle any grievances. No one's honor is at stake here, Guest Noker."

That settles it. I'm out. "That's reassuring, Chief. I wonder, would it be possible to…"

He looks at my old spear and frowns. "That is the weapon you will use? You are of course free to withdraw from the game before it starts, though I would advise against it. Better to lose with grace than to give up ahead of time!"

So it's about my spear? "Oh, I wouldn't dream of it, Chief. I have promised to take part, and I shall. With my old spear."

"Perhaps you'd like to borrow a spear from us?" Sarker'ox asks, with real concern. "With a steel head, nice and sharp?"

"Oh, this is steel too," I tell him, "although it doesn't look so good. I like the balance in this one. But thank you for the offer."

He nods. "Simply let me know if you change your mind, Guest Noker. Now we shall find some food for both of us. I understand your friend Brak will watch the game?"

We walk back to the tribe's common table.

"I think so," I tell him, not at all sure because I haven't seen Brak all morning. "If my clansbrother can tear himself away from his wife."

"It's remarkable," the temporary chief marvels. "A Foundling married! Just like our Chief Korr'ax."

"Brak is a remarkable man in every way," I agree. "But so is your chief, I'm sure. I've never met him, but everyone is full of praise."

"Korr'ax took this tribe from a rowdy gang of layabouts and turned us into a real tribe," Sarker'ox says as we sit down and he loads up my plate with food. "Now dig in. You will need to be well fed for the game."

As we eat meat and fruits, I look around for my opponent Unin'iz, but I can't spot him. Nor can I see Bronwen anywhere.

The mere thought of her makes me smile. I wasn't sure she would meet me today and come with me to Shaman Melr'ax, but she came down the stairs with a wonderful little smile on her round face and her happy, bright voice. I can't take my mind off her. Such a cheerful and adorable female…

Sarker'ox sees me glancing at the stairs to the Mount. "You know all the women, Guest Noker?"

I bite into a tult, enjoying the tartness of its juice. "I met them all, except Bryar. It's hard to believe that there are women on Xren now. Although only a handful."

"Five women, and all of them in our tribe," Sarker'ox muses. "One wonders what the Ancestors are planning for us. I don't mind saying that we all dream of being married to one, just like our Chief Korr'ax and your friend Brak. But of course there aren't enough of them."

Many tribesmen are slowly drifting towards the practice area where the game will take place. Some of them give me friendly smiles, while others don't look at me at all.

I nod. "In a tribe like this, certainly each man could be married and everything would still be fine. The tribe would still prosper. In our small clan, each man must do everything he can, or there's not food for everyone. If every man had a wife to care for as well, the work would not be done. And so we would be overrun by outcasts. Or there would be no water. Or one attack by a single rekh might kill all the boys and all those who can't defend themselves. If Brak were less capable, him being married would mean the end of our clan because it takes him away from us a lot. I could certainly not be married and do what is needed for the clan. Brak makes it work because he's… well, Brak."

"He's an active man." Sarker'ox nods and washes down the meal with water. "But I've heard it said that you are the backbone of your clan, Guest Noker. Always reliable, they say. Always busy for his clan. Ah, I think noon is here. The shadows are at their shortest. Shall we go?"

I wipe my mouth and throw a glance up the Mount. But there's nobody coming down.

Perhaps that's for the best. It would be embarrassing if she were to see me make a fool of myself here.

The crowd of Borok men are assembled, chatting excitedly. I weigh my spear in my hand. It's old and rusty, but I did take down an irox with it just yesterday.

Brak comes over to me and slaps my shoulder. "Remember that our clan's honor is secure. This is only for fun. I don't like that obstacle course they've made in the jungle. If things feel too dangerous, simply stop and get to safety."

I nod. "That has crossed my mind. We'll see."

"It may in fact be better if you lose and the Borok clan wins. It might make them more friendly towards us if they don't think we're any kind of threat to them."

"But we're not a threat to them," I point out. I know Brak — he's just giving me an easy way to get out of the contest with honor.

"True, but they may not know it. At least, some of them may have doubts. Ah, there's your opponent."

Unin'iz saunters into the training area, his orange stripes looking so vivid that I wonder if he's used paint on them to make them stand out. Maybe he's not feeling so good after all the frit he had last night. Well, that may not make much difference. He doesn't look sick.

Borok men flock around him, and soon they're laughing, all looking at me. He must have told a joke at my expense.

"You look much stronger than him," Brak says, his face darkening. "I wonder if that pitiful Borok triber can have any hope of winning. But he started this, so it's only fair. Now I think you should try to win, Noker. Perhaps it's better if the tribers fear us a little."

"I will do my best," I assure him. "Though it may not be enough."

All the Borok men are here, except the guards at the gate. The atmosphere is tense, but cheerful. Piper is standing a little to the side, along with one of the other women. Bronwen isn't here.

Sarker'ox calls me to him, along with Unin'iz. "Warriors, this is a friendly game. Let nobody be injured. The first part will test your accuracy. Throw your weapon at the target once. The weapon that hits the closest wins. Do you have your weapons ready?"

I show my spear. "Old, but solid."

Unin'iz draws his sword in a quick motion that turns into a straight-armed slash right towards me, forcing me to jump backwards to not be hit by the tip as it whines past my stomach.

"Much older and much sharper," Unin'iz drawls. "This is a real blade, Foundling. Have you ever seen one?"

I understand what he's doing, because I've also played games when I was a boy. He's trying to make me angry, because angry men are prone to making stupid mistakes.

"Not one like that," I reply. "Did you spend all night polishing it?" His sword is unusually shiny, reflecting the sun in hard glints.

"I spent the night Mating with that woman you keep bothering," Unin'iz says with a fake grin. "I forget her name. But she won't forget me. I see she's not here. She must be happily exhausted."

His words are clearly meant to make me angry, but I only start to worry. Is Bronwen all right? Why is she not here?

"Let's talk no more nonsense," Sarker'ox says quickly. "I think the guest should have the honor of going first. Guest Noker?"

"I think that I," Unin'iz declares loudly, "as a complete man and a warrior and a tribesman with a normal head, with hair but without a ridiculous fin, should have every honor. Who objects to that?"

"I object," Sarker'ox begins, his face going red. "I just said?— !"

"I thank you for the sentiment, Chief," I hurry to say. "But I think Unin'iz is right. As a tribesman, he should go first." The last thing I want is to be the first to throw my spear at that target. I need to see it done before I can try to follow it.

"Very well," Sarker'ox says. "The first to throw his weapon at the target is tribesman Unin'iz. The game of penk has now started!"

The crowd cheers. I try to catch a glimpse of Bronwen, but I only see Piper and the woman called Alba.

Unin'iz takes up his position at a low wooden fence. The target must be about a hundred paces away, looking like a real rekh facing us. I have no idea how I can possibly hit such a small thing so far away. There's a small splash of white in the middle of its narrow chest, and I assume it marks the exact middle.

Unin'iz throws his sword spinning straight up in the air, then catches it perfectly by the hilt. Whatever I thought about him having had too much frit last night has to be wrong. His hands look absolutely steady.

The sun glints off his sword as he aims, winds up, and then throws it. The blade rotates slowly before it hits the rekh with a distant bang.

The crowd cheers wildly as boys run to retrieve the sword and measure the distance from the hit to the center.

"I think that was a really good throw," Brak says beside me. "At most ten finger widths from the middle."

"It looked good," I agree, my heart sinking in my chest. There's no way I can get that close. "He must have practiced."

"So have you," Brak reminds me. "Every time you throw that spear, it's practice."

"But I never throw it," I object. "There's never a need to throw the spear in the jungle. There's no room! I only stab and thrust with it!"

"And you don't always need to do even that," Brak says thoughtfully. "Just do your best, brother."

The boys come back, three of them reporting the same: four fingers' width from the center.

"Your turn!" Brak slaps my back in a friendly way. The crowd looks at me with expectation. I might as well get it over with.

Taking up the same position that Unin'iz had, I heft the spear in my hand. It's well balanced, and while the spearhead is dark and rusty in spots, I keep it pointy and sharp.

I aim, wind up, and throw.

The spear flies through the air, the back end of it making small circles as the shaft wobbles slightly the whole way.

It hits the rekh with a hard thack.

A murmur goes through the crowd, and the boys set off again.

"Wonderful!" Brak enthuses as he grabs my upper arm. "Your aim is just as true as his!"

Unin'iz glares at me, clearly not happy.

"I'm surprised," I admit. "It's the first time I've thrown a spear in years."

"But you are always holding it in your hand," Brak points out. "Your arm knows it so well that it can do anything with it. Even throw it."

The boys run back to Sarker'ox. He frowns and interrogates them further before he raises his hand, demanding silence.

"Eleven fingers's width!" he calls. "Tribesman Unin'iz is the winner of the first part of this game of penk!"

The cheer is deafening. This might mean more to this tribe than I thought.

And to me, as well. Now, I want to win.

The boys struggle with pulling my spear out of the target, and finally they need two adult warriors to get it out. It makes me childishly proud to see. That rekh would have died on the spot, if it had been real.

"That's a dead rekh," Brak echoes my thoughts. "Surely you must be the best spearman in our clan, Noker."

"Sprisk is much better at throwing. He would have won this. Now we shall see how I do with speed."

Again I look around the crowd, but the only women are Piper and Alba. Well, perhaps Bronwen is busy. I'm not going to ask about her, but I won't deny to myself that I'm disappointed she's not here to watch.

"The next part will show how fast our contestants are," Sarker'ox announces. "Again, tribesman Unin'iz will be first to run around the track."

The track consists of thirty round targets placed in a circle, with about twenty paces between each one. A pot with a tiny neck is filled to the brim with water.

Unin'iz gets ready to run, sword in hand.

A boy has brought his drum and stands over it with a wooden club in his hand.

"When you hear one drumbeat, start," Sarker'ox says. "When you hear many, it means the time is up and you can stop."

"Just get me started," Unin'iz growls. "I'll show the Foundling how a real warrior runs."

Sarker'ox gives a signal, and the pot is placed upside down in a large, shallow one such that the water runs freely. The boy hits the drum with his club. The boom is deep and loud as it echoes off the red Mount.

Unin'iz sprints to the first target and knocks it down with a quick slash of the sword, without even slowing down.

"Good hit," Brak says knowingly, as if he's watched many games of penk. "Let's see if he can keep it up."

Unin'iz clearly can. He's fast, and he knocks down many targets before the drum's quick boom-boom-boom sounds over the field.

"Nineteen!" Sarker'ox announces. "Nineteen targets in the time allowed."

The crowd cheers, but I only have ears for a thin little voice that stands out.

"Noker!"

I spin around. And there's Bronwen, standing with her friends and waving me closer.

I jog over. "I didn't think you wanted to watch!"

She smiles up at me, her face flushed. "I had to finish this. It's for you." She holds out a folded-up bundle of fabric. I take hold of it and unfold it. It's a pair of pants, a type of garment that some tribesmen sometimes use and which Bronwen herself is wearing right now.

"How wonderful," I manage, not sure what to do about this.

"They shorts," Bronwen tells me. "Try them on, if you want."

"Now?"

"If you want."