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How has the tribe prepared their meals?
Moving slowly, I make my way further into the village to a small, squat building that is situated not too far away from the fire pit. If the Xeniiv have set up their village similar to my own, then this hut should be for food storage. But when I pull aside the thin door, there is barely anything inside.
It is the early days of the hottest season, and as such, the hut should be burgeoning with game, grains, fruits, herbs, and tubers, all of the food needed to feed a busy tribe. I study the interior and count two meager bags of grains, most likely harvested from the gret plants that grow on our plains. I lean over one of the bags and immediately recoil at the musty, sour smell. Small green squirming bodies wiggle among the black kernels. The gret has become infested with the insectoids that are frequently attracted to old, spoiled grain. I check the other bag and spot even more insectoids. My stomach roils with disgust.
What in the sard is going on here? A tribe cannot survive without food.
I think back to the small sentry that I assumed was a young hunter. Maybe he is not all that young, but malnourished. Could the Xeniiv tribe be starving? My thoughts wander to the kitlings in my own tribe who are always so joyful and carefree, and my throat feels tight at the thought of them suffering with the pangs of empty stomachs. And the wombs – are they suffering with the lack of nourishment, too?
But none of this makes sense. There has always been an abundance of food on our planet.
In the back corner of the hut, I notice a stack of skins from the small creatures that dwell near the waterways. Hydras have distinctive blue, scaly hides with long-spiked tails. They’re typically easy to catch and abundant, but their meat is difficult to chew, oily, and bitter with very little nourishment. They are not considered worth the trouble for hunters to pursue for food.
It appears the Xeniiv tribe has resorted to eating the scaly creatures.
I quietly make my way through the rest of the village and notice a lack of any noises. Even a village at sleep should never be completely silent. Someone is almost always awake or starting out early on a hunt, but everything is eerily quiet.
That is, until I reach the large hut the village chief calls home. As I near it, the snoring of a male makes its way to my ears. I pass by a window on the side of the hut that has been left open to catch a breeze and I peer inside. My eyes are able to make out a sumptuous interior with furs tossed on the floors and baskets of what looks like food and large clay pots stacked against the walls. The sour smell of the fermented drink, kifir, drifts out on the breeze and burns my nostrils and eyes. The hut smells like someone held a feast inside with nothing but kifir to consume.
In the far corner, among a mound of furs piled on top of a bed is a large male who lets out a deep breath that ends in a loud belch that releases another wave of noxious kifir fumes in the air. I cannot tell if the male is the tribe’s leader, Chief Aarixon, as his face is turned to the side, but based on his location in the chief’s hut, he must be. I am surprised at his drunkenness. The Aarixon that I have observed during trading visits only imbibed occasionally, even at the feasts and games I attended many years ago.
I slip unnoticed out of the village and through the jungle following my previous route back towards my own tribe’s territory, stopping every so often to make sure I have not been followed. This time, I notice things that failed to register with significance on my earlier journey.
This part of the jungle is quiet, not unnervingly so, but there is not an abundance of the noises that should be common. I fail to hear the scurrying sounds of small nocturnal creatures and the fluttering of feathers high in the trees. It is nearing mating season for dicros, and usually the musky scent of the males in rut lingers in the air. As I lift my head up to inhale deeply, I only smell the freshness of the jungle. The only conclusion I can come to is that there are no animals in Xeniiv territory. Which would explain their lack of food.
Perhaps that is the reason why footprints from unknown males have been spotted on our lands. The Xeniiv may have decided to venture further afield in order to find game that has become absent on their lands. I feel relief that the rumors of an impending attack seem to be untrue. The other tribe is simply hungry.
What does not make sense is why. Our planet is burgeoning with resources – it is one of the reasons the Ancestors chose to settle here. The Xeniiv should have plenty of food so what has happened to it? Although, the chief’s hut seemed to be well stocked, especially with kifir.
As a Laediriian, it would bring dishonor to my tribe if we did not aid them in their need. I will confess my actions to Chief Daggir and seek his counsel on how to proceed.
I am positive he will communicate with Chief Aarixon and offer our assistance.
As I cross the river that marks the border between their territory and my own tribe’s, there is a steady increase in the noises of the creatures of the jungle. It’s almost like there’s an invisible boundary keeping the animals from crossing over to the Xeniiv territory.
Hours have passed since I set out on my errand earlier tonight and now the Sister Moons hang low on the horizon and there is a graying of the sky that indicates dawn will come soon. If I continue in the direction of this trail, I will travel near the plains where my tribe hunts, but I must take a detour and venture onto a less-travelled path to reach the clearing where the females reside.
My heart pounds a heavy beat as my feet pick up their pace at the thought of being near the female again. The instinct to be hurry to her and protect her is so strong it is like a pull urging me to move quickly.
As I near the large boulders at the fork of the trail, I stop to listen for a moment. My sensitive ears twitch and turn as they filter through the different sounds in the jungle. Someone is coming. The nearly imperceptible sound of footfalls on the dry leaves of the jungle floor reaches me.
I dismiss the thought that it could be one of my own tribe. No one in my tribe would be headed towards Xeniiv territory without a good reason, nor would they be so careless as to make so much noise.
The footsteps come closer, and I conceal myself behind one of the large trees. I can feel the ripples of color cross my skin as my body blends itself against the bark.
The trees are too close and the space is too confined for my sword to be of much use against another male, so I wait with my hand on the dagger in my belt ready to strike out if need be. Moments pass with the tension flowing through me increasing. My ears pick up the sounds of someone drawing closer until I spy a male walk past the spot where I’m concealed.
The male is not a member of my own tribe, and I don’t recognize him. His frame appears gaunt and he is young, and I assume he must be from the Xeniiv tribe. Anchored across his narrow shoulders is the carcass of a dicro, one of the hooved creatures that populate our world in abundance. He has obviously been on a hunt to furnish his tribe with food.
Could this male be the source of the mystery footprints on our land?
I step out from behind the large tree and my voice thunders around us. “Halt, hunter!”
The male freezes, then quickly bursts into a sprint. He is faster than I would have thought given his thin frame, but he does not get very far. Before I can decide whether to pursue him or not, the male trips over a root and goes sprawling among the leaves. His head strikes a rock with a thud.
Sard!
The young male staggers to his feet, his grip on the dicro firm and desperate in his resolve not to release it. He is younger than I thought, his ridges have barely developed and his skin color flickers briefly before settling back to its normal color. If he was older, his coloring would automatically shift in an attempt to camouflage him from me. He is most likely a young hunter who has not earned the right to wield a sword, yet.
