Read Online Ursus of Ultima Thule by Avram Davidson - Free Book Online
Authors: Avram Davidson
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he said, “Bear’s weird be better than man’s weird and better than nain’s weird. As a man I’ve been a chieftain high with lands and wealth — you may let your ears drop, ‘tis nought to you
where
and nought to you
what’s-my-name-then
. You were not made upon empty bear hide in lawful bedchamber, ah no, you were made when the bear was in the bearskin. My heritage to you is other than to my othergotten sons. Heed and hear me now, Arnten. By my witchery-bundle and by my shadow, sons you make outside the bearskin be outside the bear-blood. But sons you make when you be a-bearing and be inside the bearskin, the blood of the bear be in them. And if the blood of the bear be in them, then not running water nor icy pools nor fire-hot springs can wash it out.”
And the bear was silent.
• • •
Beechwood makes hard embers and hard embers make long fires. Long fires make long tales. Long they sat there in the scented night and Arntat talked and Arnten listened and learned. He learned that the shift and shape was truly not confined to man to bear, that other creatures indeed could pair, could couple, could double and shift.
Bee and salmon, wolf and bear
,
Tiger, lion, mole and hare …
He learned of the slow growth of metals beneath the earth’s skin and the formation of amber beneath the sea, how amber was one of the things of the perries, whereas metal was a thing of the nains. Once there was a metal called bronze but at length it grew green and sick and presently it died. Now there was iron.
“The sickness of iron is red,” said Arnten, “and iron is dying.” Red glints in the ashes. Reflections in the eyes of the watchers.
“Aye, eh,” muttered Arntat. “The sickness of iron is red.” He swung up his head and his hand gripped his son’s. “What say thee, bear’s boy? ‘
Iron is dying?
’ What?”
That he, knowing so much, should not know this kept Arnten silent and astonished for several heartbeats. Then he saw pictures in his mind: one, one, then he saw things moving, heard the nain tell of years since “Bear” was by them seen. Arnten said, “You have been long inside the bearskin, then, and that long you’ve not seen iron?”
Still the hand gripping his did not move. “
Iron is dying?
True, true, many springtimes I have caught and killed the great salmon and many summer-times I have climbed for honey in the honey trees and in the rocky clefts. Many falltimes have I eaten the last of the frost-touched fruits and the sweet flesh of nuts. And many wintertimes have I felt the bearsleep come upon me and felt the numbness grow inside my head and sunk into the lair till the snows grow thinner. Aye. Eh. I can count the time only by counting your time. You are barely a man. And the last iron I had seen, the last iron I had thought of, I wrapped well the iron knifeiet in my witchery-bundle and hid it well for thee. May it be sick?”
Arnten did not mind the grip upon his hand. He crouched against the crouching body of his fullfather. He rested on that puissant flesh which had made his own and which was now his present as well as his past. Defying mankind and beastkind and time and the night, he let himself recline against the great rough beast which was his father and he let his hand recline in that great rough paw. Quietly, almost drowsily he said, “That witchery-knife alone is not sick. But all other iron is sick.” And he muttered, “The nains,” and he muttered of the nains. And he sighed, “The king — ” and he sighed words of the king. And almost he fell asleep, comforted by the rough, warm body and its rough and powerful smell. Then the body moved, releasing his hand, and a sound which was almost a cry and almost a groan rumbled and broke loose from that strong fatherbody by the embers.
“Iron!
“The nains!
“The king!”
Almost he flew awake. He slid down so that he might stand up. The day had been long and there was still much to talk about. The day had begun with the
where
and nought to you
what’s-my-name-then
. You were not made upon empty bear hide in lawful bedchamber, ah no, you were made when the bear was in the bearskin. My heritage to you is other than to my othergotten sons. Heed and hear me now, Arnten. By my witchery-bundle and by my shadow, sons you make outside the bearskin be outside the bear-blood. But sons you make when you be a-bearing and be inside the bearskin, the blood of the bear be in them. And if the blood of the bear be in them, then not running water nor icy pools nor fire-hot springs can wash it out.”
And the bear was silent.
• • •
Beechwood makes hard embers and hard embers make long fires. Long fires make long tales. Long they sat there in the scented night and Arntat talked and Arnten listened and learned. He learned that the shift and shape was truly not confined to man to bear, that other creatures indeed could pair, could couple, could double and shift.
Bee and salmon, wolf and bear
,
Tiger, lion, mole and hare …
He learned of the slow growth of metals beneath the earth’s skin and the formation of amber beneath the sea, how amber was one of the things of the perries, whereas metal was a thing of the nains. Once there was a metal called bronze but at length it grew green and sick and presently it died. Now there was iron.
“The sickness of iron is red,” said Arnten, “and iron is dying.” Red glints in the ashes. Reflections in the eyes of the watchers.
“Aye, eh,” muttered Arntat. “The sickness of iron is red.” He swung up his head and his hand gripped his son’s. “What say thee, bear’s boy? ‘
Iron is dying?
’ What?”
That he, knowing so much, should not know this kept Arnten silent and astonished for several heartbeats. Then he saw pictures in his mind: one, one, then he saw things moving, heard the nain tell of years since “Bear” was by them seen. Arnten said, “You have been long inside the bearskin, then, and that long you’ve not seen iron?”
Still the hand gripping his did not move. “
Iron is dying?
True, true, many springtimes I have caught and killed the great salmon and many summer-times I have climbed for honey in the honey trees and in the rocky clefts. Many falltimes have I eaten the last of the frost-touched fruits and the sweet flesh of nuts. And many wintertimes have I felt the bearsleep come upon me and felt the numbness grow inside my head and sunk into the lair till the snows grow thinner. Aye. Eh. I can count the time only by counting your time. You are barely a man. And the last iron I had seen, the last iron I had thought of, I wrapped well the iron knifeiet in my witchery-bundle and hid it well for thee. May it be sick?”
Arnten did not mind the grip upon his hand. He crouched against the crouching body of his fullfather. He rested on that puissant flesh which had made his own and which was now his present as well as his past. Defying mankind and beastkind and time and the night, he let himself recline against the great rough beast which was his father and he let his hand recline in that great rough paw. Quietly, almost drowsily he said, “That witchery-knife alone is not sick. But all other iron is sick.” And he muttered, “The nains,” and he muttered of the nains. And he sighed, “The king — ” and he sighed words of the king. And almost he fell asleep, comforted by the rough, warm body and its rough and powerful smell. Then the body moved, releasing his hand, and a sound which was almost a cry and almost a groan rumbled and broke loose from that strong fatherbody by the embers.
“Iron!
“The nains!
“The king!”
Almost he flew awake. He slid down so that he might stand up. The day had been long and there was still much to talk about. The day had begun with the
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