Nunani: In the bones of the world (Part three)

Despite the dread that the hunter had borne since realizing the dwarf was not human, his awe at witnessing the Tunit camp was such that his heart began to fill with joy, eventually giving way even to laughter. Never had he beheld such perfection as existed among the Tunit.

For it was not simply the items crafted by the Tunit that were so fine. The beauty of such objects paled to that of the Tunit women. One of the many, many things that made the Tunit so strange was the great difference in the appearances of their men and women.

While the hunter noticed that all the men were, like his rescued companion, of dwarf-like stature, unsightly and dumpy-looking, the women were the complete opposite; theirs was a radiant, timeless beauty that he had never before envisioned.

The Tunik that had travelled with the hunter until now quickly spoke in his odd tongue to his fellow Tunit, gesturing at the hunter as he did so.

This is it, thought the hunter as he watched them, I’m as good as dead now.

But he was wrong. As quick as light flashes across water, smiles appeared upon the faces of the Tunit. They welcomed the hunter, bringing him sumptuous foods, and speaking of the feast hall that was to be built in his honour. They found him a luxurious place to rest, after which he awoke to find that all of his vulgar human belongings had been replaced with the finery that means Tunit craftsmanship. For a small eternity, he laughed to himself, pulling at the perfect string of the perfect bow they had given him — a weapon superior even to the bow possessed by his Tunik companion, that which he had at first so coveted upon meeting the dwarf.

So began the uncounted days of feasting, of dancing, of singing, of games and laughter that surrounded the hunter like a warm blanket does a child, dulling his memories of the world of men, so that it seemed he had always been one with the Tunit, counting himself among their number and ways.

For the Tunit seemed not to treat him any differently than one of their own, except perhaps in that they never tired of his company, always questioning, wondering at his mind, thinking him the wisest of beings for his knowledge of the land, his skill at hunting upon it and surviving without the powers innate to Tunit nature.

But they could not know that there was one other way in which the hunter always felt like an outsider while among them, a feeling that waxed like a cancer within him. Always in secret, always to himself, he wondered why none of the Tunit women offered themselves to him. With every attempt that he made at romance, the women would simply laugh in their ticklish, butterfly ways, brushing him off with the promise that they would meet up with him later. And later never came.

Time drew itself out. One day, the hunter snapped, muttering to himself,

“So I am like a favoured dog, one who is allowed to sleep in the entrance to the home, but not among the masters.”

Firelight danced across his skin as he watched a Tunit female laughing next to him for the thousandth time, as the singing of others, in nearby tents, rang in his ears. But there was no return laughter this time. The day before, he had prepared his belongings, and he was ready to go. He intended to leave this place that had at last become empty for him. And he had arranged to be alone with this girl. There was one last thing to do.

Leaping up, he seized the girl, who at first assumed that the whole thing was play, and so did not resist him. He pulled her outside, sharply commanding that she silence her giggling, as he gazed away, off across the horizon. As he had guessed, the weather was perfect, and it was his intention to get away on foot.

“You like me, don’t you?” he whispered to her in a hot, low voice. “I like you. I want to be with you, and together we’ll leave this place.”

She looked at him, stunned for a moment, as though unsure of what to say.

Then she screamed.

(Continued next week.)