Thwei'kha Bhu'ja's Arc

Chapter 5 of 7

Thwei'kha carried the skull down the slope in both hands. The black shell was still warm on the inside where his blade had gone. Blood ran between his fingers and dripped on the pine needles. Skar'khan walked ahead with the club on his shoulder. The mechanical raccoon padded at his heel, its blue eyes bright in the dusk. The den stink clung to Thwei'kha's arms. The trophy was his, but it would rot before the clan ever saw it if he did not clean it now. He could already smell the change. The humid air of the den had soaked into the bone. Soft tissue at the base of the skull sagged. A pale film crept along the ridges. In one more night the plates would loosen and the teeth would slip in their sockets. He would carry home a ruin. They reached the pinewood cottage at last light. The trapper woman opened the door before Skar'khan could knock. She saw the skull and stepped back, but she did not close the door. "Round table," she said. "I'll boil water." She moved to the iron stove and stoked it. She set a wide copper pot on the plate and filled it from a jug. She laid out her tools on a cloth: a curved knife, a scraper, a bone hook, a stiff brush. Thwei'kha set the skull on the table. Skar'khan brought a bucket and caught the black blood as it ran off the edge. Thwei'kha worked with the curved knife first. He cut the last strings of muscle at the jaw hinge. He peeled the tongue free and dropped it in the bucket. He scraped the inside of the palate until the bone showed clean. The woman poured hot water over the shell in small careful streams. Steam rose. The stink thickened, then broke. The brain came last. He worked the bone hook through the base of the skull and pulled in slow turns. The mass came out in wet pieces. He rinsed the cavity twice. He rinsed it a third time. The woman brought a jar of salt and pressed a handful into his palm. He rubbed it into every seam. The salt drew the wet out. The bone began to dry pale under the lamp. Skar'khan stood at the window with the club across his knees. The mechanical raccoon sat on the sill and watched the tree line. Thwei'kha did not look up. He worked the brush along the crest and inside the eye pits until no soft matter clung to the bone. When he set the brush down, the skull on the table was clean, hard, and whole. He wrapped it in a strip of oiled cloth the woman gave him. He tied the bundle to his belt. Four kin. One trophy, saved. Then Skar'khan turned from the window. "Tracks," he said. "Fresh. Not the one you killed."