My instinct is to stick close to the shoreline, but
witnessing the pained, deranged man has reminded me that I have yet to see any
of my gangmates. Their absence is ... strange.
More importantly, the ache in my stomach is growing harder.
Have I poisoned myself by eating those berries? The wound in my thigh also
shouts at me, and probably needs attention.
When I reach an avenue of grass between the trees I take a
few breaths and consider my choices. To move downhill will lead me to the
cliffs, to the realms of men. I do not recognise this avenue, but I feel
confident that, properly approached, no gang will refuse to aid me – they might
even adopt me, given the dereliction of my brothers.
I look along the avenue, seawards and then landwards. There
are no sounds to announce the coming of walkers; the sky is cast wrong for a
procession. As the trail moves away from the land's skirts, it curves slowly around
the bulge of the closest hill.
To walk landwards without the support and protection of my
gang ... but women are far better skilled at the easement arts.
'Which clan lives behind this hill?'
I cast the words into the air in the hope that they will bring
me a haul of knowledge ... but I can't remember: I cannot find a memory of this
avenue within me, nor does the hill's shape spark thoughts. Even the healing
pools – I have no recollection of walking across those rocks before.
I search the skies above me for a guardian. Nothing appears.
To approach a woman-clan naked and unmarked ... it is the
act of a man begging for the attention of darts and knives, ropes and flames.
I need to find black mud. I need to paint gang patterns on
my skin. Only then will I risk walking into the foreboding hills.
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