Eden, Dawn

Chapter 33

  Will they attack ... or show mercy?

  I didn’t get to find out.

  What happened next brought a wave of relief over just about everyone except Ruzzell and Shawz, but it was followed by a second breaker of confusion and panic. And to be honest, I think it hit me more than most.

  Seemingly out of nowhere, a raft banked off the river near our camp, and out jumped three guys, members of the northern clans.

  The mild surprise on their face was the first shock to my system. I expected them to be floored by the scene they discovered. A ‘happy little clan’ at war? Blood and guts? But they weren’t overly surprised. That they didn’t ask a single question was evidence to me that they expected something to be happening when they arrived.

  The fact that the three-man delegation was led by twenty-six-year-old Cainn Bracken, a surly friend of Dylain—a member of his clan and of course, the serial fruit-tosser at the Gathering—was the next download of disquiet for me. Besides being on the other extreme of the good-looks scale, Cainn was cut from the same cloth as Dylain. Two peas in a man-sized pod of belligerence, both with an inveterate bent towards exploiting a situation for vainglory. With one difference: Dylain’s stratagem was public, overt; Cainn’s devilry seemed more hidden, covert. Yes, rumours served as kindle to be honest, but the tidings were well-stoked and with so much smoke, there was bound to be a roaring fire somewhere.

  With him were two young men in the Shawz-type mould. By now, I assumed most of the impressionable young bucks among our number had been recruited, baptised. That Cainn headed straight to Ruzzell to collude in secret was the final storm cloud on a sepulchral day for me. Whatever they were here for; it was not good news.

  After the brief exchange of words between Ruzzell and Cainn, Cainn then turned to us and made the announcement in his croaky, rasping voice as he cracked his knuckles in Ruzzell fashion: “The Mzees have called an Emergency Gathering! Get going now!”

  We hadn’t had one in years, but an Emergency Gathering meant we had to make our way to the main camp immediately. Stop whatever we were doing—no matter how important we might think it was—and make the journey at once. DEFCON 1 status.

  Ruzzell tried to laugh, but again broke down in a spell of spitting and coughing. Again, lots of spitting. Mouthfuls of blood. I thought he was going to say something to me, but didn’t. Or couldn’t.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up,” said Shawz as he and a reformed Brucie helped Ruzzell shuffle towards the pool.

  “The rest of you,” yelled Cainn, his lower row of teeth horribly crooked, and his slight underbite now exaggerated, “hit the road! Yesterday already!” The lustful glint in his eye betrayed one taking great pleasure in wielding a new sense of raw and rash power. “Hey you! … whatshisface … without the ear. Yes, Cartyr! You stay behind with Ruzzell and the boys. We’re going downriver to alert the final camp. We’ll travel back up with them and collect you all on the way. Got it?” He rubbed his thumb along the ragged scar that ran from the bridge of his nose, down his right cheek, curling under his chin before disappearing into the dark bristles of his patchy beard.

  With an asinine grin, Cartyr did a silly little salute, which looked rehearsed to me, coached even. Dylain’s idea? Was this his rebel army? Was mutiny afoot?

  Ruzzell and Cainn, his generals?