As was his custom before a hunt, Arn used a wide leaf from a berry bush to dab the black paste across his cheeks smelled strongly of the dark fruit, and faintly of an alcohol fermented from the large citrus growing on Scoa Isle. It covered his forehead next, and his chin. When he hid in the brush, none could see him. Others painted a pattern, but the only distinction to Arn’s dark mask were two white spots he left above his eyes, like a second set.
He smeared the black goop on his bare shoulders, then set aside the bowl he had mashed it in and stood up. Less than half the sun had risen, revealing the red bellies of the scattered clouds, but half of the village was awake already. Two of the village’s four rafts had already been set out for the head of the lagoon, where the ocean currents could fill their sewn nets with fish. The village had lost one of the rafts to strong currents and rocks half a year ago, and its replacement remained a work in progress.
Arn glanced away from the water. Grabbing his wooden spear, he marched down the road toward the hunting hut. The others were already there, forming a ramshackle line for the prepping table. Torr was already walking down the slope out of town, his dark-haired head facing the gnarled horizon.
Crezik was ahead of Arn in the line. “Going to get another water scale, friend?”
Arn blinked. “Of course,” he said. “I get one every time we hunt them, don’t I?”
Crezik shrugged. He was a larger man than Arn, and wore horizontal lines of dark green paint over his whole face. The lines that joined the corner of his mouth made his smile seem non-human. “Not every time. Or you’d be Torr’s right hand, not Ollinar.”
“I’m still a better hunter than Ollinar,” he told his fellow tribesman.
Crezik chuckled as he stepped up to the prepping table. He lifted the brush from the poison jar, and dragged it long his spear head, first one side of the point, than the other. “You’re a better hunter?”
“I’m here to hunt, not feed my mother,” Arn said. “Hunting isn’t just about skill.”
“You’re going to lecture me?” Crezik asked, glancing back at him. “I killed my uncle for my place on this band, while the tribe cheered for him. Now they cheer for me.” He was still smiling, though the words didn’t really match. He looked back at the old wooden table and picked out a roll of bandages, a loop of rope, and then stepped away from the table.
Arn didn’t kill a water scale every time on purpose. He didn’t want anyone to know what he could do in the fight ring, if it ever came to that. “I remember that day,” he commented, watching through his peripheral vision as Crezik turned his back.
Another custom before the hunt: he already had his small clay vial out as he stepped up to the table. The hunter behind him was speaking, probably to someone further back, so Arn set the tiny jar down on the wood. He dabbed the hair-made brush in the ashroot poison, and painted the stuff onto his spear head. One sweep of the brush dropped a few drops of the stuff into his vial, and then the brush returned to the poison vat. He pocketed his secret stash of ashroot in his belt, grabbed a length of rope, and followed the other hunter smoothly.
“I should hope so,” Crezik muttered, and they strode away. He pointed at the pink line on his shoulder. “The day I got this scar.”
Arn had some ideas about who the poison was for, but he had not decided it yet. He hefted his spear and followed the other hunters down the slope. The day would come, and Arn’s recent play to get Torr a better position had given him a good idea of how his plot would form. Someone else would benefit from Arn’s deeds, and thus, he would gain similarly—but also, secretly.
He would also need to find something to make anti-venom, such as the blossoms from a rare blue water lily.
That day, Arn did not catch a water scale. He helped Ollinar with one, holding it down with his spear point as the other’s first strike did its work. They carried the beast back to town together, but barely spoke. Ollinar was a year or two younger than Arn, but he demonstrated his prowess every instance he could. They were two of the first to return to the Razaad village. Thalla and her friend Barin were repairing the thatching on one of the outer houses, weaving it together with branches and mud pitch. They waved to the returning hunters, but kept working.
The water scale was hung up to drain. They collected its blood for catching bream or shark from the saltwater, and its venom for anesthetic. Later, they cut off its tough hide for clothing and tools. The muscles and meat were heaped in a bucket for the cooking fires, while the veins would be used as string. The fangs and bones made excellent materials for tools and utensils, also as jewelry. Ollinar did most of the work, but Arn helped him out a little more in return for some of the materials he had won. As Arn had joked, Ollinar’s mother spent most of the afternoon helping them too.
He returned home hours later, with all the pent up energy of not killing something. Raal and his eldest brother Mawko were talking about sparring and he eagerly joined in with them.