was seething, Ana saw. But while Zesi might be able to talk around some of the Etxelur folk, she had no hold over Knuckle, who hated her so much he would never listen to her.
Novu said, ‘Come on, let’s help those snailheads get all that lovely wood ashore.’ He ran back along the dyke to the beach, shouting instructions out to sea.
56
The First Year After the Great Sea: Summer Solstice.
Jurgi the priest, in his Giving finery of poppy crown on his head and new flint axe at his neck, waited for the snailhead party on the southern bank of the outflow of the Little Mother’s Milk. He had brought food for the visitors, dried fish and hazelnuts, and sacks of drinks.
Kara, wife of Matu, had come with him to set up this small feast. Kara had laced her hair with flowers. She was still thin from the winter’s deprivations, as they all were, but she looked welcoming and beautiful.
And here came Knuckle, leading a party of a dozen snailheads down the valley of the Milk, with Eyelid, wife of his dead brother, at his side. They strode easily, smiling in the midsummer sunshine. The country was generous at this time of year, and they hadn’t needed to carry much - bundles of spare clothes, a few tools, skins for overnight shelters. Eyelid’s daughter Cheek was running around, weaving complicated patterns of her own around the adults’ steady plod. She grew more active and confident every time Jurgi saw her.
Jurgi saw how easily Knuckle and Eyelid walked together, their arms brushing. The company of others was a subtle and consoling gift of the little mothers.
As they approached, the snailheads broke from their walk to fall on the refreshments Jurgi had brought. The children soon found the honeycombs.
Jurgi, smiling, came up to Knuckle with a skin sack. ‘Blackcurrant juice,’ he said in the traders’ tongue. ‘I remember how much you like it.’
‘Good man.’ He took the sack, removed the wooden stopper from the sewn neck, and poured the thick liquid into his throat. ‘Honour to have the priest of Etxelur come to meet us.’
‘The honour is mine. It’s been a hard year - hard for everybody in Northland. But without you we would be much worse off.’
Knuckle nodded, his great misshapen head gleaming with beads of sweat, and he looked down at the children gorging on the chunks of honeycomb. ‘In the end we knew you were right - and Ana, your young goddess. If you had been forced from the coast, it would have been our turn next. Time to take a stand.’ ‘Exactly. Look, your people are welcome to go on around the shore to the Giving feast. The stand has been set up by the middens as usual.’ He glanced up at the sun. ‘I think the games will have started by now. But come with me along the river valley, Knuckle. I want you to see what’s become of your gift of logs and labour. I think you’ll be impressed - and surprised.’
His chin smeared with fruit juice, Knuckle grinned, showing his studded tongue. He turned to Eyelid and his people, and they had a short, jabbered conversation in their own guttural language. The children were keen to get to the beaches, for swimming in the sea was a treat for these inlanders. The younger men and women wanted to take their chances in the contests, the running and throwing, and to see how the crop of Etxelur youngsters - those who had survived the Great Sea - had blossomed in the last year. But Eyelid decided she and Cheek would walk with the men.
So, led by Jurgi, the four of them set off up the valley of the Little Mothers’ Milk, heading roughly west.
Away from the estuary the valley soon narrowed, the languid water passing between walls of sandstone. The trail they followed was sometimes hard to make out, so high was the bracken around them. The flowers’ colours were bright in the midsummer light, and fat bees hummed in clouds of pollen.
‘World full of life,’ Knuckle said. ‘Less than a year since whole place smashed by the Great Sea.’
‘But some have not returned. Otters, for instance.’ On impulse the priest bent down, rooted at the base of the bracken, and came up with a handful of soil. It was speckled with white. ‘And the sea-bottom mud is still here as a reminder. In time it will be hidden, but it will always be visible to anybody