Among his many responsibilities gathering herbs, treating the injured and preparing the dead, Jorik the Embalmer collected information and advised Stone Spear and the other chiefs as a sage. He discerned omens from the old signs, but had once tried to make a better raft. Did that fit with the old signs?
A storm struck a few days after his conversation with Logern. The fishermen would not help him reach Scoa, but Arn could do it on his own. Jorik’s help would speed things up and convince the hunters there was some sense to Arn’s plans. All Arn wanted was more than Razaad offered him.
It had been months since a storm. The rain washed over the village for days after.
Arn went to Jorik one day when the rain prevented a worthwhile hunt. He was soaked, and stood under the reeds of the Embalmer’s hut for a few minutes until the rivers of rain water finished running through his long dark hair and muddy arms. Jorik must have noticed him there, for when Arn finally paced toward the man’s door, the Embalmer already stood in the opening, smoking a small wooden rod. He smiled to Arn and bobbed his head into the hut.
They entered together. A curtain of pebbles on animal sinew strings clattered aside and revealed the workbench where Jorik worked. There were herbs hanging from the ceiling and growing in plots on the floor. The table was cluttered with clay jars of water and brews, with cartilage and animal hair, with tools Arn did not recognize.
Jorik had a short beard, half-hidden by the stiff leather collar he wore. His blood-smeared garb covered him head-to-toe so only the top portion of his face was exposed to the work he was doing. The position of Embalmer was that of a healer, but also left him the most vulnerable to disease. He pulled off the leather robe and hung it near one of the windows of his hut, revealing a lean body. Jorik was no warrior and no one challenged him to a dual. His was the only position on Razaad that was passed to a trained learner and not won by fierce competition.
“How are you?” Arn asked.
“Well,” Jorik replied. They sat on the reed mat that separated the home from the mud. “It’s been a remarkable few weeks since I had a body to work on.”
The Embalmer removed the heart of each body and preserved it perfectly in the Blood Well as was their tradition. The bodies of the deceased were burned, returned into the world. When all of Razaad lay still and dead, their hearts would be reborn into new men and women. Jorik’s was a grim job, with an eternal importance.
“So I have worked on other things,” Jorik said, indicating his work table. “Do you seek advice or a concoction? Your wounds have healed well and I still marvel that you survived ashroot poison.”
“Advice of sorts,” Arn said. “I want to know about the boats you once tried to design with Logern.”
Jorik lowered his pipe and smiled. His teeth were far cleaner than Arn’s. What tricks did he keep to himself? He said, “What about the boats?”
“How do you make them? What went wrong?” Arn asked.
“Don’t ask these questions,” Jorik said. “Ideas that may work deserve such analysis, not things that went wrong.”
Arn leaned forward. “Do you truly believe we cannot build better boats?”
“What I believe does not matter,” Jorik said. “Logern lost men to a foolish venture. Logern believes we cannot build better boats and that is all that matters.”
“I believe we can build better,” Arn said.
Jorik chuckled. “I mean no attack on you, but, what does that matter?”
Arn scoffed. “What?”
“You are chief hunter, Arn, not chief fisher. Your place is not in the Deep,” Jorik said. He finally puffed another drag on his pipe, his mind made up.
The only reply that Arn could manage was a scowl. He stood up and strode out into the storm. He’d make a raft himself and prove them all wrong. The rain beat down on him as soon as he left the home. Down the hill near the next house, he saw someone move. It might have been Onolan, another of his hunters, a man with the longest hair he’d ever seen a man grow. The hunter was gone by the time Arn reached the foot of the slope.