Tundra

I dismounted the boat first, hitching up my robe to avoid wetting the hem in the sinking shallows. I was glad to be back on solid ground, a fact I held my tongue about. Then, up the path I walked, feeling my clothing whipping stiff as sheeted ice in the frigid wind. It was not in the glade that I was to meet my first Mossen Grove druid.

The way to the village was paved with bones, both a symbol of destructive power and a notifier to newcomers that they would have to bare all. The moonlight made the protruding ribs of hunted whales eerie and sharp, like sickle moons in miniature, slicing at the aurora-blue sky that was their backdrop. The beaten path up the shore was lined with black strips of dried seaweed littered with shells. Further uphill, on a mound reserved for it alone, a whale skull, displaying draconic rows of scrimshaw teeth, each carved with tattoo-like markings, was lit from within by a dribbling candle of solidified fat. Around this central mound, huts of driftwood packed with earth and further bones were visible, each stretched over finally with waterproofed seal or mammoth skins. Some huts had further mounds of driftwood in front of them, probably for fires, and bunches of seaweed for similar purposes drying by their doors.

The hut at the top of the hill alone was different. This dwelling was made with care, not haplessly, entirely from skins and driftwood, without a bone in its frame at all. Outside its door were garlands of fresh oak gathered recently, and most likely replaced on a regular basis. Instead of the sickle moon, a simple, gold torque hung over the entrance to the low building. This was a druid’s house. Lifting the sealskin flap of the hut, I let myself inside, and discovered a space full of symbols and old relics, where the past came to life.

The first response I encountered was a rebuff.

‘Druid.’ I bowed my head.

‘Mage.’ The druid raised an eyebrow sarcastically. Suddenly, I did not want to introduce myself as a gawker. I decided to pick a more pressing topic of conversation, to elicit some information from this strange man with his oak-laden tangle of hair and golden circlet for a crown.

‘I have come to talk about the fungus giants,’ I said. ‘As a druid of the land, you should be familiar with the lay of the tundra and all the things that walk on it.’

‘You have come too late, Tower man,’ the druid replied, chuckling in a menacing way. ‘There are no giants, not anymore.’

‘I mean no disrespect,’ I interjected, irritated already, ‘and I am not asking you to divulge secret knowledge. You must agree that matters of the land affect us all. I am simply asking because this is something we in the nameless school know nothing about.’

‘And maybe it should stay that way. Why are you Tower men always so obsessed with cataloguing everything? You don’t need to know about the giants, the giants are gone, but even if you did, they are not something you can pin down in your books. You couldn’t burn their hairs to make brushes to paint them, or mix their blood into ink…’ The druid paused, grinning nastily. I saw that he had more than a few teeth missing. Only on the tundra, that was a sign of age and status. ‘You didn’t think I knew about that, did you?’ he posed. ‘We know far more about you tower-men that you realise. We were here before you, and we will be here long after you give up and go back to the south.’

‘I know things, too,’ I countered. ‘There are still giants. I saw a procession of them, not two nights hence, and you are right, I do want to catalogue it. I want future generations in the nameless school to go into their library, find a book of giants, pull it off the shelf and know all they need to about them. I’m doing this for my people, surely you can understand that.’

The druid was cunning, however. ‘And when they pull that book off the shelf, you want them to see your name?’ he asked.

‘And when they pull that book off the shelf I want them to see my name, yes,’ I admitted, thinking it better to. ‘I won’t deny that. I don’t think it’s such an unreasonable motivation, do you?’

The druid seemed ponderous for a moment. All the lines in his worn face stretched long and sombre.
Then, ‘You say you saw a giant,’ he said. ‘When and where?’

‘In a valley a few days travel from here, two nights ago.’

He shook his substantial mane. ‘No. That’s not possible.’

‘Why not?’ I asked, but did not receive an answer.

‘Tell me more. What else did you see?’

‘There were mammoths. The local tribe took me there. Are you going to tell me why you think this is impossible?’

The druid made a thoughtful noise. ‘Soon,’ he promised. ‘Tell me about the sky. What constellations did you see?’

‘Arthenis, the archer, was in zenith. Sycorim, the worm had just risen.’

‘No, this is useless to me. Why don’t you tower-men know what anything is called? Did you see the aurora?’

‘Yes,’ I said firmly. ‘I did.’

‘How bright was it?’

‘No.’ I shook my head, measuring my chances. ‘I’ve answered your questions, now you answer mine.’

‘Take me to where you saw it,’ the druid bargained, ‘and tell me about the lights in the sky. Then, Tower man, I will show you your giant. I will even let you write about it.’

In my bones, I felt my opportunity, and with a nod I accepted.