Beyond the Great River (People of the Longhouse Book 1)

by Zoe Saadia

  He couldn’t even nod, watching Ronkwe taking hold of the youth’s legs, both of them, the healthy and the hurt one. As though the wounded could do something, give worthwhile resistance, with his damaged leg?

  To take his thoughts off his mounting worry and the bloody mess of Akweks’ thigh, he scanned the clearing once again. Was he mistaken? Had it truly been just a large group of hunters he had spotted earlier, returning to the village, by separate routes, maybe?

  He found himself wishing that was the case, even if it cost him his reputation as a good scout. Was he to return back home disgraced, to leave the Flint People’s lands, to never become as good a warrior and leader as Father?

  The stab of longing was sudden and piercing. What were they doing back home now? Not in Cohoes Falls, but back in High Springs, in his true home. Like anywhere else along the Longhouse People’s lands, the women would be busy gathering crops now, of course; the first, deliciously crisp Green Corn, so tasty and sweet one could gorge on its cobs for days on end, seeking no other treats.

  He could feel his friend’s agony, seeping through the stretched limbs, the body under his grip arching, making him struggle not to let it go. Wounded and exhausted, Akweks was still spectacularly strong, all energy and muscle. They had grown friendly from the very beginning, on Okwaho’s first evening in Cohoes Falls, when Akweks had challenged the newcomer to a spear-throwing contest, amusedly derisive, throwing friendly insults, wagering his spectacularly decorated javelin against quite a few of Okwaho’s possessions. His spear was not of the same quality to even the bet.

  He suppressed a grin, remembering how desperately he wanted to win, or at least not to shame himself with some especially bad throw, the Flint People’s hoop smaller than he was used to at home, more difficult to fit one’s spear through as it was sent to roll around too forcefully, too fast. Oh, how he had feared to shame himself by missing all of the throws.

  The muffled snap brought him back to the present, to the foreign forest and the agony of his friend.

  “Turn him over.”

  For a brief moment, he just stared, watching the older man as he studied the vicious-looking arrowhead, its polished spark muted under the bloody coverage.

  “It came off quite easily.” The man shrugged, then threw the precious piece of flint away. “Their arrows are worthless.”

  Not that worthless, thought Okwaho, supporting Akweks’ limp body, trying to turn his friend over as gently as he could.

  “It is going to be over soon,” he muttered, crouching beside him, desperate to will the stark, twisted features into a calmness he did not feel himself. “Just one more time. It is almost out now.”

  But he knew it was not, that the most painful treatment was yet ahead. Fiddling with the loosely tied arrowhead was nothing like the actual pulling out of the rough, sturdy shaft. His friend was in for a real test of endurance.

  “Hold him tight now!”

  He wanted to turn his eyes away but could not, his gaze glued to the stern, bloodied palm taking hold of the ragged shaft just below the colored feathers, tightening its grip, preparing to pull. A heartbeat of hesitation, then Akweks’ body shuddered, going rigid as his bubbling scream pierced the air. Muffled by the moss-covered earth in which the youth’s face was buried, it still rolled over the clearing, spreading between the trees, startling them all.

  “For all the good and bad spirits’ sake, keep him quiet!” hissed the man, pressing the struggling patient with his own weight, hands covered with fresh blood, face smeared, hair sprinkled with crimson. “I can’t pull it out with all this thrashing about.”

  Sweat rolled into his eyes, threatening to obscure his vision. Letting the other man handle the struggle, Okwaho took hold of his friend’s head, his own trembling hands seeking, running along the sweat-and-mud-covered face, pressing against the gaping mouth, trying to hold the screams in.

  As though in a dream, he flattened his limbs against the wet earth, terribly uncomfortable, pressing with desperation, not sure he was not strangling his ward for good, his lips muttering, whispering stupid encouragements, the taste in his mouth revolting, nauseating, making him wish to vomit.

  “Help me bandage him.” The voice broke into the mindless tide of panic, welcome this time. “Get up and help. Stop lying there like a dead carcass.”

  Akweks’ head was lolling limply in his grip now, quiet for a change. He took a deep breath, then listened. Was his friend still alive? He wasn’t sure, and the wild pounding of his heart didn’t help, interfering with his ability to hear.

  “Is he still with us?”

  He got to his feet with an effort, doubting his capability of keeping an upright position. His legs felt jittery, with no regular firmness to them.

  “Cut this thing.” A muddied part of Akweks’ legging was hurled at him. “Make a few broad strips. They will do for now.”

  He saw Ronkwe going around, inspecting the scattered bodies, collecting their weapons.

  “It needs to be washed.”

  He stared into the reddish mess of his friend’s leg, the swollen flesh, the seeping blood. Seeping, not pulsating. One good thing. It could have been gushing out in a vicious flow, like that other time, with that warrior whose leg was almost severed, cut so deeply that his spirit had hurried to leave too, along with the palpitating flow.

  “It will be washed when we are back with our people. For someone who’s urged us to leave right away, you are suddenly in no hurry at all, young man.”

  The returned anger helped. It made the trembling and this strange uncertainty of the limbs disappear.

  “For someone who didn’t want to listen, you are suddenly all anxious to go,” he retorted, not caring for the consequence of his rude response, not this time. Older warriors were not in the habit of taking such talk kindly, but there was a limit to his ability to take the continued goading and the barely veiled accusations.

  The eyes of his converser positively glowed. “Watch your tongue, warrior,” he growled. “Do not speak to me again in this way.”

  It cost him an effort not to drop his gaze, but he did not back away, not this time. Enough was enough.

  “We better start moving.” Ronkwe’s voice broke the tension. “We have a long way to go yet, carrying one wounded and one dead.”

  “One wounded and one dead! What a useful mission it was,” muttered the man, getting to his feet, his eyes dark with anger. “That will teach our leader not to trust young cubs and their stupid observations.”

  This time, he found it next to impossible not to pounce on his offender, hitting the man hard for the unfounded accusation. Killing him maybe, yes. How dared he? But for Akweks beginning to stir, he would have done the unspeakable, paying with his life maybe; with his honor and good name, for sure. Instead, he found himself rushing toward his friend’s side, the grayish pastiness of the stark face and the wildness of the wandering gaze making him forget all the rest.

  “I’m taking him down to the river, to make him drink and wash his wounds.” He didn’t bother to look at them, adjusting one of his arms around Akweks’ shoulder, to make the pulling up easier. “You can go back in the meanwhile.”

  “Still giving orders, you brilliant scout?” Ronkwe’s jeering did not make him mad this time, not like before. He was too busy struggling with the impressive weight of his friend’s body. “Try not to lose your way when you are heading back.”

  I hope you lose yours, he thought, swaying but adjusting. The youth was reeling badly, murmuring, his mind clearly still wandering. But for a little bit of help.

  He tried to make it look like an easy feat, their derisive gazes burning his back. It was not the wisest thing to do now, to go the opposite way, descending the rest of that hill in order to reach the shore they had left at night, battered, exhausted, and in the heart of the enemy’s lands, who were surely aware of their presence by now. Had their people begun attacking already? The distant clamor and the faint odor of smoke told him all he needed to know. A
nd they should have been there, helping to overcome the fence. Not wandering all over the enemy forest. And yet …

  Akweks’ wound looked bad, the dirty mess at the back of his leg, where the arrow had come out, alarming. It needed a thorough wash at the very least, something their current position at the top of the hill did not offer. There must be a spring up there, of course, maybe more than one, otherwise there would be no fortified settlement there. But to look for such a thing would be impossible now, with the battle evidently developing, keeping everyone busy, the attackers and the defenders, unacceptable to wander a hostile, unfamiliar forest under such circumstances. Back at the river, the wash would be quick and timely, before the bloodied mess could begin rotting for good.

  He shivered. The death of rotting wounds was a terrible thing, just terrible. He had heard many stories, and once, when his brother had broken his arm, falling out of a tree and tearing quite a lot of flesh along the way, the damaged limb had actually begun swelling after a day, smelling terribly, the most revolting odor he had ever sensed. He, Okwaho, had been very small back then, barely three, maybe four summers old, but this was something he hadn’t ever forgotten. The terrible smell and Mother’s open fear. She who had always known what to do and how, always sure of herself and opinionated, even with Father sometimes, suddenly scared beyond reason, with all the commotion and running around, healers brought from all over, a messenger sent to Father, who had been at the far west back then, attending an important meeting with the war leaders of the Mountain People, something not to be interrupted by private family matters, but she sent for him all the same, she who had never lost her strength, her confidence before.

  He shivered again, then forced his attention back to his present predicament. His brother’s wound had healed in the end, leaving only an ugly scar to remember this incident by, where one of the more courageous healers from the False Faces Society had cut the rotting flesh away. But since then, Mother had been hysterical about washing wounds, any wounds, every bleeding scratch. Her endless lecturing on the subject made them roll their eyes, but none of their silly childhood cuts got swollen or painful again, ever.

  He bettered his grip on Akweks’ torso.

  “We’ll get you to the river, wash your wounds,” he muttered, trying to reassure, whether his friend or himself he didn’t know. “Then back to our people, to get that attack on. Take the village, with all its goods, and speed back home. No more rowing against the current, eh?”

  Akweks grunted something inaudible, panting, his hobbling terrible, not helping a bit. He could hear the river speeding not far away. A short walk down the path, really. He remembered the way too well by now, having walked this trail three times since discovering it on the last evening. Was it only a day before that they landed upon that sandy shore, with him sensing the local, persuading Akweks to follow the trail of footsteps?

  The shouts exploded behind his back, blood-curdling yells that could not be mistaken. War cries! Coming from the clearing they had just left, they left little to wonder about. The locals he had spotted earlier!

  Darting to his right, he dragged his groaning friend into the thickest of the bushes, heedless of his ward’s ability, or inability, to walk anymore. There was no time for that. The sound of the surging river was close, offering protection, a possibility of escape. It was still there, reachable, even if not by the trail. But for his companion’s previous agility!

  Long branches flogged their limbs, catching their clothes, as though trying to hinder their progress. But of course. This forest did not want them here.

  “Come on!”

  Akweks was practically lying on him, moaning, barely conscious. The sloping ground didn’t help. It made him struggle against the incline in addition to the hostile foliage and the limp body he was dragging along.

  He felt like giving up, or at least pausing for a heartbeat or two. Just to catch his breath really, to clear his vision. It was full of blurry brown and green, and the wild pounding of his heart made his ears deaf, his throat hurt, his chest about to explode.

  The ground turned slippery, and he was barely able to grab a thick branch with his free hand, stopping his fall while still clutching Akweks, not letting him go, however tempting the possibility was.

  Blinking, he tried to clear his vision, the gushing of the river assaulting his ears. Had they reached it already? It didn’t seem like a possibility. It was too soon.

  The view of the treetops swaying in the distance jumped on him, making the halt look like a good thing. They were on the edge of a cliff, the river not far below, but not close enough either, rushing with gusto, inviting no silly ideas. To jump in was a possibility, yes, but not an advisable course of action with unknown waters and a half-conscious wounded hanging on him.

  Hurriedly, he scanned the current, recognizing the place they had passed before the landing on the previous day, before hiding their boats in the grove. If he could reach those, they might have a better chance. He could take care of Akweks’ wounds, then leave him with the boats, while rushing uphill, to get help. Had Ronkwe and his companion managed to reach their people? But for all the war cries, he might have been hopeful.

  He listened intently. The worst of the yells had died away, but he could still hear much noise, people shouting and branches cracking. So close yet!

  He leaned Akweks against the tree, wrapping his friend’s arm around it. “Hold on to it for a while!”

  The youth murmured something, but did cling to his new support, to Okwaho’s immense relief. His mind must have been already back in their world.

  At the edge of the cliff, he knelt carefully, inspecting the rocky wall. It had footholds, not very wide, but satisfactory. One could climb at least half of it down, until the jump would not look like such a bad thing. But for Akweks’ wounded leg! He wanted to curse aloud. No, his friend would not manage even a step of such descent.

  The noise was receding, enabling his ears to pick out more sounds. A branch cracked not very far away, then another. His heart went still, then, before he knew it, he was on his feet, rushing toward the sagging figure, tearing him off his rickety support, dragging him along toward the edge.

  “Jump, we jump,” he breathed out, not trying to make sense of his own actions anymore, following his inner voices instead, feeling better at doing so, as always. “Don’t mind your leg, it will be better off in the water, anyway. Just hold on until I get to you. Just do it.”

  He could feel Akweks’ hesitation, and his fear.

  “You can do it—”

  The familiar hiss cut short anything he might have thought to add, causing his body to twist out of instinct, losing his balance, making his jump bad.

  Flailing his hands, he whirled in the air, feeling stupid, spinning around, unable to project his body in the right way, to direct it into the deepest of the water, parting the gushing surface with his legs or hands. Instead, it hit him with vicious firmness, resonating through his limbs, taking his breath away. The eerie silence enveloped him, and then it turned peacefully dark.

  Chapter 7

  The fire arrow swished in the air, brushing past one of the tilted roofs, to slide behind it and disappear into the smoke-filled haze surrounding this part of the fence. A new outburst of commotion followed, with people running around, some quite purposelessly, waving their hands and screaming, or carrying buckets of water.

  Clenching one such in her sweaty palms, Kentika paused for a moment, trying to catch her breath, the air stinging, hurting, clinging to the sides of her throat, making them stick to each other, causing her to heave and cough. But for a gulp of a fresh air. Her mouth was so dry, even without the accursed cough that took the last of the blissful wetness away. She fought the urge to dip her face into the bucket she carried.

  Resuming her run, she headed toward the smoke-covered part of the fence and the melee surrounding it. People were everywhere.

  “Bring earth, sand, all sand you can gather!” bellowed a man on top of a short ladd
er. It was wavering, making him clutch onto a blackened tip of the fence’s pole. “Stop pushing.”

  Someone’s container went flying, splashing the water it held. People gasped, and a few hands shot out, catching the woman who dropped it as she wavered, seemingly about to follow suit.

  “Oh, Mighty Glooskap!”

  The crowd wavered as another fire-arrow swished, adding to the tongues of flame that were licking the fence.

  “Water! Water!” yelled someone. “Bring more water.”

  Coming out of her trance, Kentika rushed forward, clutching her heavy cargo with both hands, her mind in a jumble. So much fire! And more kept coming. Those lethal arrows! As if it were not enough that the regular ones had taken their toll already, killing a few and injuring more. But now these were bringing fire, spreading so much destruction, so much fear and desperation. How could one put the fire out if more kept coming?

  “Here!”

  Someone snatched her bucket, relieving her in time to see anther harbinger of fire sticking into the roof of one of the nearby houses, dripping destruction. In the new gust of wind and a momentarily clearing smoke, she saw it was wrapped in something, a sort of a cloth, glittering wet in the flames and the last of the sun.

  “Bring more.” The bucket was stuck back in her hands, along with a light push into her upper back. “Go, girl, go. Don’t stand here and just stare.”

  “Yes, yes.”

  Choking on a cough, she rushed back, up the incline and toward the shallow spring that ran through the village, now barely visible in the billowing smoke. The fires were not that bad, not yet, but the wind made the smoke spread everywhere, adding to the panic and the confusion.

  Elderly women were orchestrating here, filling offered containers and doling them out, as though distributing food on a day of a ceremony.

  “Kentika, come here!” Mother’s voice held the usual note of reprimand, so typical when it came to her name being uttered. “Stop running all over.”

  “I’m not … not running all over,” she gasped, out of breath again. But for the damn smoke. “I’m bringing the buckets to the fire fighters.”