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Harg had spent time that night thinking about the sitting of the Circle called by the Lionclaw Clan to discuss the source of the rogue fire the day before and his own deep belief that he had a responsibility to share the magic of the Shakka Stones.
He had brought fresh stones to the gathering and held them close to his furs as the formalities were followed and the Lionclaws forced their heavy energy on the Tribe they ruled with muscle, fear and magic.
As the talk came to the fire of the day before, Harg could feel the eyes of his own Clan lie heavily upon him; as his Aunt prepared to relate her account of events, and in doing so, laying aside her value of truth to protect him.
Between his knees, Harg had let fall a tight wad of dry Kull grass and began stroking the stones against each other, at the same time watching the small sparks spitting into the dry kindle; sparks which brought a thin spire of smoke, followed by the rise of a single flame which burned into every eye in the Circle of silence. The single spire of flame ducked back into the ball of grass briefly before re-emerging with two, three, four other tongues which quickly joined together into crackling, burning, forbidden Fire, made all the more abhorrent by the shock and surprise of all in the Circle at the ability of a young boy to create that which only the Lionclaws held fierce claim to; a secret power kept shrouded in mystery and held in reverence for many Birthing Moons.
In the presence of the tight restraints of fear and superstition, not one mind wondered at the miracle of fire on demand and the many ways it could be used for the greater good of the Tribe.
The crushing hold the sorcerous power of Fire had over the people of Shar allowed only for the deep shock of the people in the Circle whose eyes were rooted to the fireball smouldering between the boy’s legs. He knew, as surely as the smoke that stung his eyes, causing them to water, that he had taken a step beyond the capacity for his people to imagine.
Now, banished to the Karra Cave far from home, Harg was alone and unforgiven, yet his Dreameye would not deny his own belief that he was at the beginning of a new path that would take him to a place that had always been expecting him.
Harg awoke from a thick sleep that peeled off him in layers. He sat up slowly and looked around. A cold trickle of light shivered across the cave’s floor. He stood, wrapping the thick fur around his shoulders and walked stiflly to the front of the cave. Down below, the river seeped a thick, grey mist that hung over the black water like dead breath. The mountains at the end of the plain steamed against a thunderous sky. He turned to the dull glow that flickered deeper in the cave. He had to feed it soon, or it would die, and he might struggle to start it again with the stones.
He slid down the mossy bank to the river and scratched around for dry fuel. Up and down he worked, dropping armfuls of dry and damp sticks into the cave, slowly building the fire.
He crossed the river where a fallen tree lay bridging the banks, and gathered heavy logs on the other side, which he dragged up to the cave. He worked for most of the day, searching and gathering and dragging. He fashioned a green stick into a sharp spear by rubbing it on the grey Shukka stones he carried with him. It would do for now, until he could find the right stones and twine to make heavier weapons for hunting.
He followed the river as it curved around the mountain and opened out into a great lake. In the thick growth that tangled away from the water's edge, he noticed a number of large woven nests, some with the colourful eggs of the tasty waterfowl.
He lay quietly behind a twist of reeds and scrub, waiting for one of the clumsy plump birds to show itself.
At first, he thought he must do something to conceal the Firebreath that poured from the mouth of the cave, in case other Outcasts or scavenging tribes were in the area. He imagined the smoke must be clear to see for days around. But what would others think it to be? He'd heard it said in the village of Shar that no other tribe had the power of fire, and that the hot, licking tongues he'd scratched from his shiny grey stones were evil. He'd tried to show the Tribe that it was the same fire as that which the Lionclaws held captive, but the elders had decided and he had been banished from the Tribe, to be cleansed here at the Ijit until the next Black Moon.
By their fear and anger, especially among the old people, Harg knew that his fire was something new; and if the well-travelled Tribe of Shar had not seen or heard of other Tribes keeping fire - then it seemed he alone had possession of it outside of the Lionclaw Clan; he alone held no fear of it.
He looked up again at the black mouth of the cave, seeing the deep glow of the flames dancing up the inside walls, the smoke puffing out. From where he lay, it looked like the mouth of some terrible monster, or the lair of all the dark demons the Gods had cast out when the Sky Tribes battled before the last Thaw.
No. He wouldn't be troubled during his stay at the Karra Cave.
He heard a rustle in the reeds to his right. A large waterfowl was gliding toward him with its head under water.
His spear flew straight and hard.
The bird was already dead as he retrieved the twine he'd fastened to the back of the spear. Harg was pleased. A few more easy meals this way and...
The water out in the middle of the lake rose in a huge, smooth lump. The still, black surface of the water rolled out in giant rings. In the middle, the great bubble burst and there was a flurry of white boiling water and fountainous splashes that shot up in frothing streams. The waves that ringed out had reached the shores on both sides of the lake, crashing against the rocks and in the reeds. A deep furrow suddenly carved the lake with high, glistening sides and moved away toward the far bank. There was a loud splash at his feet and something smashed into his leg, knocking him back into the mud. A huge fish the size of his arm lay flapping in the reeds, gasping in stranded panic. Its bristling spines had pierced his leg and his blood blurred in the mud. In the shallows in front of him, long flashes of silver darted this way and that as the fishes fled the depths.
Harg looked on the lake where the chaos had risen. Nothing moved. Only the splash of panicked fish and a flurry on the surface as a fresh cold wind blew in from the Plains.
The boy ran.
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