Ghruhn is one. He is watching the stars.

There are so many in the sky. Some are shiny, some are dim. Some make patterns, some stand alone. The stars are pretty. The elders say that the world is perfect. That the spirits made everything exactly the way it is should be. He is not sure what that means, but the elders said it so it must be true.

Ghruhn looks out over the camp. From this hill, he can see the whole world. He can see the clearing below, the fires in the camp, and the sleeping people around them. They do not need tents, it is the growth season. He can see the forest, the trees plunging everything beneath them into the deepest shadow. The forest stretches as far as the great mountains that mark the edge of the world, the snow-capped peaks reaching ever upwards. Above the mountains, looking down on the forest is the endless sky, where the spirits dwell. The Eye of Chari hangs above him, full, casting a pale light over the forest and turning the canopy into a dark sea.

Ghruhn can smell the forest all around him. The sharp green scent of pine trees overlays the musty aroma of the decaying leaves and branches carpeting the forest floor. The tang of blood nearby where an owl took a rabbit. The smoke rising from the camp below. The musky scent of badger drifting from a hole between the roots of a tree where it nests. The earthy smell of the moss growing on the rocks around him. There is damp in the air, it will rain by morning.

Ghruhn can hear the night sounds rising, the whole forest a single, living being. The whisper of the wind, blowing through the trees, and the creak of ancient branches swaying. Chitters and rustles from the undergrowth as small creatures scavenge and hunt, hide and sleep. The mournful howl of a wolf, carrying over the treetops from afar, singing of loss and sorrow. The death-scream of some small creature as the circle of life continues to turn.

Ghruhn can feel the forest. The coarse texture of the rock on which he sits. The cool breeze against his face, redolent with the scents of forest life. A leaf, touching his shoulder as it falls to earth. And underlying that, a connection to all other things, the fundamental link that makes him part of this forest.

It is time to sleep. Ghruhn begins the walk back to the camp.

**********

Ghruhn is two. He is fighting for food.

Ghruhn hammers a blow into the jaw of his opponent. In return he takes two sharp jabs in the side. He grabs his adversary’s arm and with a grunt, twists and pulls, throwing him to the ground. As his foe rises to his knees, Ghruhn kicks him in the side then reaches down, locking an arm around his neck and squeezing. His enemy scrabbles at his arm, trying to breathe, then smashes his head backwards, breaking Ghruhn’s nose. Ghruhn barely feels it, still squeezing as red clouds his vision, his rage pounding in his ears. Ghruhn drops his brother unconscious to the ground, roaring his triumph. It is the warm season and there is plenty for all, but the best portions are reserved for those who earn them.

The elders teach that the world is beautiful but they also teach that it is harsh. A broken leg from a fall can kill. An infected scratch from hunting can lead to fatal sickness. Eating the wrong plants and animals can poison even the hardiest warrior. The strong survive and the weak perish and even the strong can be killed by mischance. It is the way of the forest. Even these perils, however, fade in the light of the pale skinned creatures that have begun to encroach on the People’s territory.

The hunters began seeing signs of their scouting parties in the last cold season and now, mid-way through the warm season, the pale skins have begun crossing the mountains. Several scouts have vanished and a whole hunting party was killed, hacked apart in ways even the most rabid of animals could not have done.

His father was in that hunting party. The elders tell him not to mourn, that death is a natural part of life and should be embraced as fully as any other part. They say his father has become one with the forest, joining with all the generations that preceded him, and so will never be very far away.

Ghruhn snaps his nose back into place and walks towards the fire to claim his prize.

**********

Ghruhn is three. He is hunting deer.

Ghruhn crouches, completely still, beside a tree. His breathing is low and slow, even and silent. He tastes the air, testing for other predators in the area. It’s easy to get lost in the hunt, focused on the prey, and not realise that you are also being hunted. A slow shift of his weight and Ghruhn can now see around the tree, see the deer grazing in the clearing. His movements must be small, blending into the natural movement of the forest, or he will spook the deer. He must stay downwind or the deer will scent him and bolt.

Ghruhn watches the deer. Even from this distance, he can see that it is in good health, its coat soft and smooth. He can make leather from the skin, soft and supple, suitable for clothing or a fur blanket. It is the falling season, and the velvet has stripped away from the deer’s antlers, leaving the buck ready to fight others of his kind for dominance. The horn can be carved into many things. He could make toggles, tools, weapons or jewellery from that rack. His coat needs new toggles, and he’s promised a carved pendant to little Ghiil.

Ghruhn can feel the earth beneath his feet, connecting him to the world. He is part of life, part of the forest. Gently he opens himself, allowing the spirit of the forest to fill him and reaching towards the deer. The elders say that the best hunters are those who join with their prey, becoming one with them, even as they stalk and kill. The death of your prey should always be shared. It should never be easy, or pleasant, and should be sought only from necessity, as part of the great cycle of birth, death and rebirth. Ghruhn still cannot join with the deer, but his connection to the forest spirit grows with every hunt. It is only a matter of time.

The buck is still grazing, oblivious to Ghruhn’s presence. He knows he should strike now, before the winds change, another predator arrives, or the deer moves away, but this moment of perfect stillness is beautiful, tranquil, and he is loath to shatter it with death. There is little choice, though. He knows that the cycle must continue.

Ghruhn readies his spear. The People will eat well tonight.

**********

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Ghruhn is four. He is dancing in the firelight.

Ghruhn’s pulse pounds to the throbbing of the drums, as he whirls and stamps around the bonfire. His breath mists the air, rasping in his throat, and the muscles in his legs begin to tremble as exertion takes hold but he must continue the dance. The firelight flickers from the walls of the cave casting shattered images of the dancers, whirling and breaking and reforming again and again. Ghruhn is Anuma the Hunter, who first found and woke the forest spirits. His neck and shoulders ache under the weight of the mask, but he must continue the dance.

The drums pulse and the chant of the People rises into the night. Ghruhn can see Eysa looking coyly up at him but, no matter how much he wants to be with her, he must continue the dance. They were married at the start of the cold season, and Eysa already carries their first child. The Healer says it will be a strong boy, who will bear his name proudly. Ghruhn will not have him enter this world in shame. Dancing Anuma is a great honour amongst his people, conferred only on the strongest warriors and best hunters, and those who are selected rise dramatically in status. He will not fail in this, he continues to dance.

This is the worst cold season anyone can remember. Even Anum, the eldest, says it’s the coldest season the People have ever faced. Ghruhn is grateful that the forest spirits led them to this cave, that it was not already inhabited. Without the protection it offers, some would already have passed. Ghruhn hopes that the invaders are suffering as much as the People are. Perhaps this cold season will persuade them to go back to where they came from. He continues to dance.

The Shaman’s voice rises over the chanting, surging with the drumbeat as he calls out to the forest spirits. Words of Power and Awakening spill from his lips as he exhorts the spirits to stir from their slumber and bring life back into the world. Ghruhn hopes they look kindly on the Shaman’s pleas. The cold season has not treated the People well, and they cannot survive it much longer. The sweat pours off him, and his eyesight starts to blur, but he continues to dance.

The Shaman’s voice peaks and the drums hammer once, twice, three times. Silence reigns as the sun crests the horizon. Surely the spirits have heard them.

Ghruhn collapses to the ground as Eysa rushes towards him.

**********

Ghruhn is five. He is watching the enemy.

Ghruhn looks down from the top of the crag at the enemy camp below. He knows he’s invisible up here. The invaders seldom look up and, even if they did, the bush he’s hiding under would camouflage his silhouette. It is the growth season and, instead of beginning to harvest the new growth, the invaders are tearing it away and burning the rest. The smoke tickles his nostrils as he lies in the bush but he cannot afford to sneeze. A slow, halting movement brings his hand forwards, blending into the forest movement as he carefully draws a cloth over his mouth and nose.

Ghruhn is puzzled by their actions. For creatures that have killed so many of his people, they do not seem particularly aggressive. They have spent most of the time Ghruhn has been watching cutting down trees and burning the forest, scratching in the dirt and creating strange log tents. Surely they realise how difficult it would be to move such a shelter? If the People stayed in one place too long, and did not follow the animals and the forest currents, they’d surely starve. Perhaps the invaders will be driven away by their own ignorance.

The People lost another hunting party last week, which is what lead Ghruhn here. He found the remains of the hunters not far away, mangled and dismembered in the same way as all the others who have been lost to these invaders. Ghruhn struggles to reconcile the violence and savagery of those deaths with the placid obliviousness displayed by those below. There’s no doubt that these invaders are responsible, but their actions are incomprehensible.

Every season, more of the invaders arrive and more of the People are lost. They are squeezed into a smaller and smaller territory as the forest burns around them. If this continues, before too many more seasons have passed they will be only a memory.

Ghruhn slowly inches backwards. The elders need to be warned.

**********

Ghruhn is six. He is preparing for battle.

Ghruhn looks down at the enemy camp from the same crag he used to observe them before. Around him, the rest of the hunters prepare themselves, readying their spears or watching the invaders moving within the camp below. It is nearly sunset, and they will attack shortly after dark. The warriors have already circled the camp, to attack from the opposite direction. Between the hunters and warriors, as well as the scouts on the periphery, there should be no escape.

The elders have decided that the invaders need to be sent a message. No more will the People sit by while they are picked off one by one. No more will the trees fall and the forests burn. No more will the invaders take what they want and destroy the remains without consequence. It is time that the People fought back, that the forest itself fought back. Even now, the elders, the Shaman and the Healer are at the Great Tree calling upon the forest spirits to aid them.

Ghruhn looks around. His hunters are ready, standing or crouching in concealment and watching the enemy below. He knows his hunters are there and he can still barely make them out, even their breathing in tune with the natural movements of the forest. What chance do these outsiders have, without a similar link to the world?

This raid seems pointless to Ghruhn. More death has never solved a problem. His brother fell in the last hunting party that was destroyed and nothing Ghruhn does tonight will bring him back. The People know that to do nothing is to die and so the elders have decided to raid the invaders, maybe push them back where they came from. Ghruhn spoke against it, but had no better proposal. The choice was made.

The bushes behind them rustle and the hunters tense as three wolves pad into the open. The biggest wolf, pelt shot through with frost-like silver, stalks towards the overlook. Ghruhn freezes, but the wolf makes no move to attack. The alpha looks down over the edge, a low growl rumbling in his chest, before raising his muzzle in a mournful howl, the wolf-song drifting over the forest. The two others join in, then six, nine, a dozen other voices join the chorus, scattered through the forest below, singing of pain and loss… of death. The old wolf’s eyes catch Ghruhn’s, locking them together for three heartbeats of eternity, before it turns and pads back into the forest. As the other two follow the great wolf, Ghruhn begins to breathe again. Surely the forest has answered their pleas.

The sun is setting. It will be over soon.

**********

Ghruhn is seven. He is dying.

They came from the darkness, without warning or sound, riding huge four-legged beasts and brandishing shining weapons. Somehow, they must have found and silenced the guardians before they could raise the alarm and then encircled the camp to attack from all sides.

Ghruhn was with Eysa, sharing their son’s first days in this world together when it began. He’d snatched his spear and knife from the furs and charged out of the tent to meet the threat. He brought down five with his spear, thrusting into the looming shadows wavering in the firelight. The spear shaft snapped then, the blade lodged deeply within a sixth attacker. He killed a seventh with his knife, leaping onto its back and stabbing again and again, the blood drenching his hand and wrist and making his knife handle slippery.

Then pain – blinding, agonizing pain – surged up his back, rolling in waves as he fell. Ghruhn crashed to the ground unable to break his fall. He was stunned for a few seconds, the pain gone and the chaos around him rendered meaningless. Then the agony returned, hammering into him like a spear. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t move!

Before his eyes, he saw the hunters and warriors cut down one by one. He saw the Shaman fall, run through from behind as he tried to call on the spirits for aid. He saw the Healer die, her head split open as she ran to save a child. He saw Eysa die, a thrown spear taking her in the back as she ran for the forest, clutching his son. How did it come to this? Seven seasons seems too short a time to live, three seasons not enough with Eysa.

He could move his head. Looking around he saw the remains of his life, his world, lit by the wavering dance of the flames consuming the camp. He saw the corpses all around, staring blankly into the shadows.

A noise. Ghruhn looks up. One of the invaders stands over him, a long metal blade in its hand. Perhaps his eyes are failing, the invader seems covered by a scaly skin, shining like silver. The last thing Ghruhn hears before the falling blade delivers him to darkness is the crackling flames and the guttural syllables of the invaders.

“Die, foul orc!”

**********

Ghruhn is gone. He has returned to the forest.