Spoiler! :
The Hunting Dog
© 2011 by Payne
Chapter 1
The people of Spica were half-serious when claiming that they lived on the very edge of the world. To the east, a sharp red butte cut off the sky. Its chalky sides made it nearly impossible to scale, but provided the foundation for their homes. Spicans generally disregarded it, though, instead looking to the west, where the desert stretched on as far as the eye could see. Somewhere out there was a world foreign to them, unseen by most simply because the journey was so strenuous.
The village itself was built somewhere in-between, on the harsh scrublands. The living was difficult, but as a result of it, the people became strong.
Cane Venatici stepped outside. A small twister of dust swirled between the clay houses, dancing on a hot breeze. The sky had turned a deeper blue. There were no clouds—only the stars and a full moon, turning the cracked ground to silver.
A small hand wrapped itself around his. “Can we go now?” Pyxis asked impatiently, staring up at him with those dark green eyes. They looked black in the moonlight.
Another gust of air swept through the village, and she rubbed the back of her hand across her forehead, leaving a dirty smudge.
Cane dutifully knelt, wiping it away with his sleeve and straightening her clothes. “Now, do you remember how Papa told you to behave?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
She sighed heavily, fidgeting with her braid. “Don’t go too near the fire, don’t bother the elders, and…um…I don’t remember the last part.”
“Don’t shout.”
She gave him a look, silently communicating the fact that he was asking her to repress natural behavior. And for an entire night, at that.
Cane stood and took her hand again, leading her past the houses and out into the open desert plain. Small fires had been lit in a loose circle out there, some for cooking and some for socializing, all surrounding a much larger fire. They had been lit and fed using dung from the stables and pyre plants from the expanse.
The villagers—the people of Spica—were scattered and clumped around the fires. Cane could sense their anticipation of the coming festivities. It was like this every year.
As they got closer, Pyxis released Cane’s hand and ran to embrace their elder brother, Boötes. As he stooped to pick her up, his black hair glinted in the firelight. It was a color shared by all three of them, inherited from their father. Pyxis looked more like their mother, with her green eyes and high cheekbones. Cane wondered often if those cheekbones had been their mother’s parting gift to her last child.
He repressed a wave of sadness and sat down next to his father, Hamal, who was seated comfortably a couple of feet from the central fire.
“What took so long?” Hamal asked.
“Pyxis,” Cane answered. “You know how she hates having her hair brushed. I had to pull out a few burrs, as well.”
Hamal chuckled. Safely away from the fire, Boötes was swinging his sister around by the arms as she laughed wildly. Her braid had already come undone; the scrap of leather Cane had tied it with was probably lying somewhere on the ground.
When Boötes finally set her down, she scurried over to deposit herself onto Hamal’s lap. “Papa, how did the hunt go?”
“See for yourself.” Boötes joined them and nodded toward the fire. A large boar was on a spit over one of the cooking fires. Its flesh was a ruddy-brown, and had a sun-weathered look that belied the tender flesh beneath it. The tusks were barely as long as Pyxis’ forearm, but the Spican hunters knew better than to underestimate them; a man had been gored to death the year before.
That was one of the reasons why Cane had chosen to stay home from the hunt this year. He was eighteen this year, and finally old enough to possibly be selected for the pilgrimage. He had no intentions of risking injury after waiting this long for a chance at such an honor.
He fidgeted in anticipation. Boötes gave him a cursory glance, then paused and turned to study him. “Little brother…are you wearing one of my shirts?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Cane fidgeted again, this time in discomfort. Hamal chuckled and said, “Because he’s growing out of his old clothes, Boötes. And so are you.”
Boötes scowled and fidgeted with his sleeve, which was indeed getting a little snug. “It’s not so bad yet.”
“Go see Zaniah about it tomorrow,” Hamal said absently, staring into the fire.
“Zaniah is a thousand and one years old,” Pyxis said matter-of-factly. Hamal, trying to repress a chuckle, patted her on the head. “That’s not a kind thing to say, little one. She is old, but nowhere near a thousand.”
Her face scrunched up. It was an expression of pure stubbornness, perfected by headstrong children the world over. She evidently preferred her version.
Cane would never say it out loud, but he agreed. The old woman was undoubtedly the best weaver in the village, but her craggy face made her look like some sort of ancient prophetess born from the desert.
After a while, someone called for music. The brothers Wasat and Tejat eagerly ran to fetch their instruments—camel-hide drums for Wasat, and an ancient, well-worn sitar for Tejat
They began to play somewhat tunelessly, making a cacophony of thumps and twangs. It took a few minutes of arguing amongst themselves, but at last they began to play a mournful old tune.
Cane heard a familiar roar of disapproval; nineteen-year-old Baham stood up, towering over the seated figures, a massive chunk of meat clutched in one hand. “Something cheerful!” he bellowed. “Are you trying to murder us all with sadness?”
Someone snickered, and Cane saw Baham’s mother tugging irritably at the hem of his tunic, obviously trying to get him to sit back down.
Baham was rarely soft-spoken on a normal day, but tonight he seemed to be shouting intentionally.
Cane shook his head. The brothers’ flustered performance. Baham’s overt displays. The general atmosphere of tense anticipation.
It was all because of the pilgrimage. It had been a full year since the last pilgrim’s return, and the time had come for a new one to be chosen.
Any male between the age of eighteen and twenty-one was eligible to be selected. Some viewed the possibility with fear, others with solemn awe. There were the odd few who showed no interest at all.
Cane wasn’t sure whether he was thrilled or terrified at the prospect of possibly being chosen; tonight, all he felt was a sort of numb serenity.
The pilgrimage was generally explained very simply: the chosen youth would make the five-day journey to the village of Kaitos, and either return home immediately or venture farther out into the world. It was a test of basic survival and determination.
As time went by and the fires burned lower, some of the old women began to spin tales for the now-quiet children, who listened intently with wide eyes. They were sated on rich meat, and their minds readily strayed to the distant lands the women created.
The others gathered closer to the coals, waiting for the moment they had been looking forward to since the day began. Tejat and his brother had retired their instruments; the only sounds were the low voices of the storytellers, the crackling of the fire, and the thriving noises of the desert.
A woman rose from the assembled crowd, hair concealing her face, and stepped forward like a newborn calf on unsteady legs. Clutched in her right hand was an urn of wine. She raised it to her lips, tilting her head back, and the dark curtain of hair fell away.
Cane had admired Andromeda before, but tonight there was something different about her. Something wild, barbaric, and sensual. Maybe it was her serene expression, or maybe it was the way her eyes never strayed from the central fire, which had dwindled away to the coals.
Her bare feet carried her to the edge of it, and with a careless movement she tossed the urn into the embers. It shattered, throwing flames high in a way that wouldn’t have been possible on any other night.
The young woman’s hips swayed gently under a few scant layers of silk—crimson, sienna, indigo—and Cane was hypnotized.
He didn’t know how long she stared into the swimming coals, that wild look in her eyes, but eventually she raised her head and looked directly at him. “Cane Venatici,” she sighed.
His stomach jolted with excitement, but he knew he must have misheard her.
Then the men were looking around dazedly, as though woken from a deep sleep, and the women stretched like cats.
“Cane Venatici,” Andromeda repeated, holding out her hand.
He stood, still certain that he was imagining all of this. Andromeda’s dark eyes stared into his soul, and he knew that she could see the fear and excitement and dread intermingling within.
As he approached, heart hammering, she watched him coyly through her eyelashes. “Congratulations, Cane. The pilgrimage is yours.”
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