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The time of the travel-cull came to the tribe. Mavan was ready. He had studied at the knees of the walker-elders with his hutmates and was considered a good student. His limbs were long and lean, his calling voice was clear, and he was gifted in setting the ottersnares. Katla, his future bride, was the daughter of the canoe-chief, and it was considered a good match. The coming of age, the travel cull, had come to the tribe, but it seemed to Mavan that it had come to him. He was ready. Mavan’s peers gathered before the chiefs under the mussethump blue of early morning; Eldren, Mezentius, Yadidah, Walter, and little Kimimela stood in a clump amongst the others, their expressions a mix of excitement and worry. He joined them, sharing a secret smile with El and ruffling Kimi’s hair. Mez, he ignored; it was the best thing. “You set out in one hour,” said the quest-chief, her single pale eye scanning them. ”Blue moon guide you.” She was a woman of few words. So began the travel-cull. -- In the sophisticated lands of the ten duchies, all right-thinking men know the deathtrap called Land Ends Marsh; a sun-pounded expanse of water the color of a dead man’s glassy eye, filled with flesh-cutting rushes, deceptive floating hummocks, reptiles hungry, poisonous or both, and clouds of insects so thick they provided shade. Mavan’s people had lived deep within the marsh for time past counting, and while they entertained each other for many evening hours with tales of the deadly foolishness of those from the richer lands, they did not argue that point; Land Ends was death. “It takes each of us,” they would say, stoic. “Soon or late, child or chief, it takes us.” The travel-cull taught this first and best. Mavan looked at his friends as they set out to cross Land Ends and wondered how many the marsh would take. The first day of the journey, the answer was two. Yadidah led them all, for he was the eldest, and it was his adolescent age-broken calling voice that sang their names in the dusk before the rest took to the branches of sleeping willow trees. They were good deaths, taken by the leg by crocodiles lying to either side of a wending path – they fed the marsh, which in turn would feed the tribe. Mavan marked the place – it would be a good hunting ground for several weeks with the two sleepy leather-logs unlikely to leave. Four days to the blue moon. The second day, the answer was three; bad deaths. Dusk was upon them, and Yadidah stood singing the praise of the tribe for their skill that day. In his pride, he had gathered them too near a grove of sleeping willow, and his voice had woken the nearest. Branches bent to them, daggerleaves falling like tears, before Mavan should call a warning. Yadidah’s song was cut off in mid-note by his own screams and those of the two nearest him. The rest escaped with leaf cuts; deadly, but treatable. Mavan himself was untouched, of course. In the morning, he led them, one death already under his name as eldest; Walter had died in the night, stung by an asp while he slept in a patch of russetgrass. Mavan called his name in the dusk, his sweet voice drifting over the marsh. On the third day, the answer was one. In the night, rain came. Kimimela saved them. Water poured from the heavens like a switch-beating from Angry God. The firm ground was invisible, and children stumbled, lost and drowning. Mavan heard Kimi begin her song; Mavan’s voice was clear, and Elgyn’s could bring tears in the calling song, but it was Kimimela had the Power. Such a horrible song she sang, though; such a sacrifice. Rain, rain, go away Mavan reached her before the end of the fourth line, ending it with a backhanded cuff that sent little Kimi sprawling in the mud, but it was too late. The rain was already gone, ghosts of the Fall dripping from overhanging branches. “Sorry Mavan,” she whispered, holding her mouth. Mavan didn’t answer. He’d turned away to hide his tears and saw Mezentius watching, angry; nothing to be said about that now. The fourth day was very bad. Six were gone in the rain, and the thick heat that followed brought the nitbrit clouds, hovering over the marsh like ghost of a disease. Mavan watched the clouds askance as he led, waiting for them to strike, praying they would not. God was seeing to his ottersnares. One child’s foot slipped and splashed in murky water and the nearest cloud moved. Mavan turned even as another cloud a bit further off shifted. The first cloud reached the child before she’d pulled her foot from the water, bore her into the air before any but Mavan had turned, and ground her into a heavy pink mist before she could make a sound. The clouds move fast when they sense prey, but when blood reaches the air, a child’s laughter is slower. In seconds, ten children were on the ground, writhing, trying to scream through mouths filled with nitbrits. As the vision-chief had told him, Mavan found his leader-strength in desperation, and his voice carried both through the air. Shoo fly, don't bother me, His voice cracked – nearly broke – trying to carry the power, but it was enough; Elgyn caught him as he collapsed. No more than the ten died, a pile of bodies with gaping wounds like sucking mouths as the clouds fled the song. On day four, the answer was sixteen. Mavan, of course, was untouched. He watched Kimimela in the camp that night, and his heart squeezed the air from his lungs. Fifth day was Blue Moon. At dusk, they would find their goal, or it would find them – the walker elders could never seem to agree on this point. That was way of it. The marsh claimed none that day, as though sated, and at dusk, the Resort stood before them in first of the moonlight, limned in silver. Two adults stood on the greensward before the building; an elder man, one eye hidden behind a black lens, and a young woman who looked like no one Mavan had ever seen. As eldest, Mavan led them up the path, pausing at the edge of the harmless grass to call greeting. I see the moon and the moon sees me The young woman (a vision Mavan knew would haunt his dreams until his death) smiled at him and replied. God Bless the moon and God Bless me The children approached. “Welcome, Land Ends,” the woman greeted them. “Thank you. We have heard you have work,” Mavan intoned in the strict cadence of the The Ritual. "Yes we do,” the woman replied. "The bellboys never seem to last... with certain exceptions,” she continued, glancing at the tall man next to her. “Your family has always been strong.” The older man stepped forward, moving through the children, looking each one in the face with his hard black eye and hard black monocle. No one flinched. Mavan was proud. The man came to Eldren and stopped, turning back to the woman. Mavan was not surprised; the stories all spoke the painting walls of the Resort, and Eldren was a gifted artist. The woman smiled at Eldren. “Would you like an application?” “Yes,” Eldren stammered. “Excellent. We hope the wages will be sufficient.” “I –“ “I’m sure they --” Kimimela stage whispered. “I’m sure they are,” Eldren continued, as though Kimi had not just saved him great shame. “If you will see to my room and board, I would like the rest of my wages sent to my tri – my family.” “Of course,” the woman replied, ignoring the minor gaffe. And the pact was renewed. Success. Safety for the tribe. -- During their return to the tribe, the answer was two. Bad deaths. Kimimela died on the third day. The rain came to exact its payment just before dusk – the nimble wisp of a girl slipped on a smooth stone, struck her head on another, and drowned in an inch of scummed water. Mavan killed Mezentius at noon on the fourth day when Mez formally challenged him, claiming Mavan an unsafe leader. Mavan put a skinning knife in his friend’s stomach, then his heart, just as the vision-chief said he would. Mavan was untouched, just as the vision-chief said he would be throughout the travel cull. She had said her reading was something like a curse. His friends were gone, and Mavan understood her meaning.
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