Chapter Eleven

The years passed swiftly for Tarn. He grew in leaps and bounds and became will-like and respected in the village as a person slow to anger, quick with a jest, and who smiled often with jocular pleasure. Upon reaching his eleventh winter, when he entered his between years, he underwent clan initiation in the beginning of manhood. Denned stood by him as his sponsor. Though he passed beyond boyhood, and in spite of his size―for puberty had already begun and Tarn had grown nearly as big as the village's smaller men―village custom considered him less than a man, and undeserving of warrior status. Asgard defined a person by their deeds, not by age, or by size. Once he had proven himself in battle, showed his worth as a hunter, passed the craftsman test, or entered the shaman's guild, he would be issued a new name. An adult name that prompted a person to put behind their childhood.

Women were equal to men. Any female, if she possessed the appropriate skills and talent, could occupy any village position. Many village anecdotes included female bravery and prowess on the battlefield, on the hunt, and it was not unheard of for a woman to be chosen as headwoman. That it did not happen more often was simply a matter of physical limitations. Narrow male hips had the potential for greater speed than wider female hips, especially after childbirth. And male musculature puts women at a disadvantage in matters of strength. The same equality that permitted women to fulfil any village role, also prohibited special consideration for physical gender inadequacies. Nevertheless, exceptional women performed exceptional duties and oftentimes commanded greater appreciation from village members who understood how much more competent a woman had to be than her male counterpart, given the inherent limitations gender played.

The morning following his initiation, he went hunting with the spear Denned presented him, now worn smooth as glass from regular use. Korub had secretly fashioned the tip while Tarn helped with the herds and added a second spear to the first. Now that he had undergone the rite of passage, village law permitted Tarn to wear a sword and to join the hunt as a full member and not a hunter's second. The ears separating boyhood and manhood allowed Asgard's youth to choose one of the Warrior, Hunter, Craftsman, and Shaman castes.

With his father's Atlantean sword strapped around his waist, he stepped outside. In the grey predawn, before the sun breaks over the eastern ridge's spiny peeks, he felt the warmth of spring returning to the mountains. Shaurii handed him trail rations and kissed him on the cheek in congratulations and for luck.

He smiled his thanks.

Tarn wore a threadbare cloak that had seen better days over a wolf-skin vest―the fur side turned in for warmth. He had felled the wolf with a well-slung stone while protecting Dennen's cattle. The wolf lay stunned long enough for him to run over and cut its throat. His boot soles were made from hardened boiled leather and his leather leggings lined with fleece. Despite being able to see his breath, he wore only his vest and cloak and calf-length leggings. Asgard's wintry climate had driven the tropical heat of his boyhood from his veins.

Marta remained under the covers. Her back and knees often gave her pain, and arthritis had put cramps and aches into her hands and wrists. Shaurii had been the youngest of three and had come in Marta's early thirties. Now almost fifty, she was nearing her quiet years. The people of Asgard seldom lived through their sixties.

Shaurii had taken over the hut responsibilities. That is not to say that Marta's word was not law. It was. Marta was as fierce as ever, he thought, but also as loving and caring as any woman he knew. Tarn barely remembered his Atlantean mother, Jayleen. As he grew older, her image transferred to Marta. All he recalled was the love his mother had given him and her smile when he had looked up from her embrace that night of the Firelach.

Tarn pushed these thoughts from his mind as he met up with Tyrell for their hunt. Despite the two years difference in age, Tyrell and he had become fast friends. A small smile tugged at the corner of Tyrell's mouth when he sighted the sword strapped around Tarn's narrow waist. He caught his friend's quirky look and returned one of his own.

"Out with it before ye choke."

"It's just that the point nearly drags on the ground. Mayhaps you could wear it across your back," teased Tyrell.

"Oh aye. 'Tis true enough. If I possessed your broad hips to support the strap properly, I wouldn't worry the point so," laughed Tarn.

"That's because the maidens who pursue my hunter's skills do so with honeyed cakes and thick stews."

With a nod and a grunt, the pair set out at a ground-eating trot toward the mountain pass. If fortune smiled, they hoped to catch a band of deer returning from their winter grounds. Tarn ran easily with a spear in each hand while Tyrell loped confidently, two paces in front, scanning the terrain ahead. Every now and again Tyrell looked over his shoulder to greet an eager face that urged him to greater speed.

When they arrived at their chosen location Tarn shifted the sword to his back, where it would not drag on the ground as they crouched low searching for sign. Before the morning shadows began to lengthen, Tyrell motioned Tarn over to him. Imprinted in a patch of ground that had turned muddy, Tarn sighted a partial cloven print.

The pair took cover, pulling an evergreen bough down low to conceal their supine bodies. Neither the cold ground nor the wetness that seeped through leather clothes disturbed the youths. They became part of the terrain, no more decipherable than fallen logs. Expelled into their vests, even the cloudy exhalations of their chilled breaths disappeared. Tarn remembered waiting in similar fashion with his father. A twinge of melancholy relaxed his mouth, drawing a reflective frown.

The sound of hooves scraping across rock reached Tarn's ears and focussed his mind. Sound carried farther in the mountains, so the boys knew the animal to be distant. Tarn signalled to Tyrell that he intended to move across from him and let the prey pass between them. Tyrell nodded and Tarn slid silently away. They were downwind and need not fear anything, but sight and sound.

The air went mute. If it was the prey they hoped for, the animal may have stopped to forage as it worked its way to the valley far below.

Half a sandglass later, they were rewarded with the sight of antlers. It was not trophy buck, but after a winter subsisting on porridge, winter birds, the odd mountain goat and of course, meat strips, Tarn thought it a grand sight. Tyrell signalled him to make the first cast. The buck travelled closes to Tarn and seemed to be walking into his lap. Just as he had once watched his father do, Tarn centred himself and focussed his power into his shoulder and arm. He stood up slowly and let loose. His cast took the deer in the haunches. As the buck stumbled away, wide-eyed and panicked, Tyrell's throw caught it full in the chest. The steel tip separated ribs and pierced both lungs until the far side of the ribcage arrested further damage.

Even before the buck's front knees hit the ground, the boys ran toward their prey hooting and howling delight, congratulating each other with hearty backslaps. They arrived to find the buck clinging to life, each breath shorter than the last. Tarn quickly cut its throat and removed his spear.

"It be thy kill, Ty."

"Aye Tarn, ye require many more months of practise it ye are to become a great hunter like me! Teased Tyrell, pounding his chest.

Tarn leaped upon his friend and wrestled him down. The boys tumbled on the ground until they were muddy and tired, their youthful energy expended, but their grins no less prevalent. Unsheathing his skinning knife, Tarn slit open the buck's chest cavity and removed the heart.

"To first spear does this belong," he said and presented Tyrell with his prize.

Tyrell proudly accepted his tribute and cut off half of his bounty claiming, "Without thy cast to steady the beast, my spear wouldn't have flown true."

Soon after, two bloody grins chewed with pleasure. Following a long and frosty winter, neither boy could think of a better meal than still warm deer heart. They wasted little time skinning the hide and cutting up the meat. When they had completed their task, each carried half. It was a much slower pace to the village, but a happier one as well. Each knew they would be eating thick venison steaks instead of dried meat strips come suppertime.