Chapter 83 - The Country of the Ground Scratchers part 1

Before we departed the village of the Denghoi, Ilio and I gathered together what few valuables lay strewn in the ruins, items left behind by the marauders which the fires had not destroyed. The boy was anxious to leave, but I knew we would need the supplies. There were several things lying in the rubble that would be useful in the days ahead.

We recovered a few knives and a hatchet made of stone. I also found some bone needles and eating utensils in the remains of one hut, and a couple intact spears. We put the small things we collected in our clothes pouches and, carrying the larger items in our hands, moved on.

Ilio, I noticed, had retrieved the broken figure he'd unearthed earlier. He secreted it in his pocket without comment, trying to keep me from seeing him do it by turning his back to me.

Instead of continuing south, as we would be forced to cross the river, I suggested we head east, toward the wooded ridge that rose up from the destroyed village. I'd grown up in a densely forested river valley, and knew I would feel more comfortable traveling through the woodlands. I had no love for the wide open plains of the steppe, and the foliage would help shield the boy from the cold winds that swept the region.

Ilio shrugged. "It doesn't matter which way we go," he said. "Not anymore."

He said this in an emotionless way that pained me, his eyes distant and mournful. I wanted to say something to comfort him, but was there anything I could possibly say that would mitigate his loss? His whole world had been stripped away from him.

And I, unbeknownst to the boy, had played no small part in this.

So I said nothing. I put my hand on his shoulder and drew him to me, and we walked east, away from his tribe's devastated camp.

As twilight approached, I built a big campfire in a clearing on the ridge, well out of sight of the plundered settlement. I made the fire near a burbling stream and Ilio went to it and drank, then sat beside the water for a while with his back to me. I tended the fire, poking it with a stick every now and then, and pretended I did not hear the boy's quiet tears. He'd taken the carving from his pocket and wept as he squeezed it in his hands.

We had a little meat left from the day before, and I foraged some edible shoots and roots on the slopes around us. My wives, I'm sure, could have collected a tastier assortment of plants, but I was pretty confident none of my selections would poison the boy. When Ilio finally sought my company, his cheeks scrubbed dry, I passed him some food and he ate.

"My people believe a spirit dwells within all things," I said casually, pretending to chew. "Me, you, that tree, this stone. It is our belief that when a thing from this world dies or is destroyed, the essence within it lives on. For some things, like a stone or a tree, the spirit returns to the earth and is reborn, but the essence of living things, it is said by my people, their spirits ascend into the heavens, where they reside for all time, watching down over us." I gestured up at the sky, in which there twinkled a multitude of faint stars.

Ilio looked up at the stars thoughtfully.

"Do you think that's true?" he asked finally.

"Why not?" I shrugged. "Even if it's not true, it's a soothing thought."

Ilio's eyes cut sharply toward me, then he smiled. "You're not very good at consoling people," he said.

I laughed. "It's not one of my strengths."

We talked for a while after that.

Ilio told me of his peoples' spiritual beliefs, which were polytheistic and sounded quite complex, lots of gods and goddesses with complicated relationships and very human foibles. Very similar to recent Nordic beliefs—recent to me, that is; rather ancient to you modern readers. It sounded as if it was all very entertaining to listen to on long winter nights, I suppose, but I was not converted.

He talked about his uncle and the other Mammoth Hunters who'd taken care of him when his mother died and no one else in the village was willing to look after him. His uncle had been a rough-edged fellow, but had made sure Ilio was fed and clothed. The old man Elk had been his grandfather's brother, the eldest in their tribe. He told me of them all, and I suffered for every one.

I told him about my wives and children, the peaceful valley where I was born, and the big, gentle Neanderthals who were our neighbors. He seemed very interested when I told him about my children, and laughed out loud several times when I described some of their more amusing antics.

It was growing late by then. I could see his eyes getting heavy, and he yawned several times as we conversed. I finally told him it was time for sleep, and he did not object. I watched him unfold his outer coat into a sleeping bag—wondering again at the clever way his people had made them-- and I poked at the fire while he wiggled in and settled down for the night.

He pulled his cover over his head and went to sleep quickly. When soft snores issued from the lump across the fire from me, I rose silently to my feet and slipped away from the light of the campfire.

At the edge of the clearing, I disrobed so that I did not get blood on my garments or snag them on the branches of the trees, and then I flew up into the boughs.

I flashed through the treetops, hunting for something hot and full of blood. Ilio's constant nearness taxed my restraint. All through the evening, the smell of his blood made the dark hunger roil and snap inside me. I could feel my veins contracting, my skin shriveling. I needed to feed.

I leapt from branch to branch, enjoying my freedom. My flight through the forest was exhilarating, a thing I'd enjoyed since my days looking after the River People when it was the only joy I had left to me, my lust for blood so overpowering I dared not venture near my loved ones.

I snatched a fat raccoon from its burrow in a hollow log. An owl met its doom at my fangs. I rustled through the forest canopy like a swift, dark wind.

Further on, I spied a deer on the ground below, bedded for the night in a tangle of thorn bushes, and I dropped down on it from above to tear its neck open. It made a bleating cry and struggled beneath me as I fed on its blood, but I only held it tighter and drew its life into my mouth more forcefully. When it finally went limp in my arms and my belly was tight as a drum, I threw it over my shoulders and hiked back to our campsite.

Ilio still slept.

I hung the carcass in a tree a little distance away to keep the scavengers from it. The deer's struggles, and the journey back to camp, had splattered me with its blood. Instead of dressing, I walked naked to the brook to bathe. Squatting down by the water, I scrubbed my face and arms and chest, washing all the dried blood off me. My cold flesh gleamed, white and steaming, in the starlight.

Ilio stirred when I approached the fire to dry myself. His eyes cracked open and he smiled faintly, then the whites showed and he began to snore again.

I dressed, then retrieved a dry hunk of kindling and one of the stone knives we'd recovered from the Denghoi rubble. I sat cross-legged by the fire. As Ilio slept, I began to whittle a shape in the timber. I worked at my carving for several hours, employing a bit of my vampiric speed to shave the surface of the log away rapidly. The knife was a blur in my white hands. Curlicues and bits of wood drifted down upon my thighs.

As I carved a plaything for the boy, I recalled the long ago nights I sat in my own home by the fire and carved trifles for my sleeping children. The memory filled me with melancholy, but when I was finished with the carving, that melancholy turned to pride and anticipation. I'd carved a very realistic likeness of a Mammoth Hunter for the young orphan, and I couldn't wait to give it to him when he awoke.

"I found something for you," I told him in the morning when he rose, yawning, from his bedding.

"What is it?" he asked.

I swung the wooden carving from behind me and passed it to him with a grin.

I watched his eyes light up. He looked at me with a wondrous smile and in that instant, I knew I loved him completely.

He turned the carving in his hands, smiling and wiping his eyes, then jumped into my arms and hugged me. "Thank you, Thest. Thank you!" And though he tried to hide it from me—I suppose he thought he was too old for such things—I caught him several times, playing with the wooden hunter by the brook, making low noises as the little figure battled imaginary enemies. I even overhead him speaking for the plaything in a low and murmuring voice.

I never allowed myself to forget my offenses against the child, but I pushed my guilt and shame aside so that I could love him selflessly, nurture him without reservation. In the months that followed, I cared for him as if he was my own son, and I watched him grow and mature with the pride of a father.

Oh, Ilio--! My first vampire child… How I sinned against you--!

I loved you, even as you struck me down.

I begged you to forgive me, even in the face of your hatred.

If only I could go back and change the things I did.