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

by Zoe Saadia

  A pair of wrinkled hands snatched her empty cargo. “Stay here and help to fill those,” said an elderly woman, the oldest member of their clan. “This is what women and girls do.” The bucket was full again, pulled up deftly, splashing not a drop. “Let the men do the running and fighting, whether fire or enemy. It is their duty.”

  “But…”

  A furious gaze stopped her words of protest.

  “Go bring more kettles and pots. Search through the houses on the other side of the village.”

  The run down the incline was easier, with less smoke filling this part of the enclosure. She gulped the fresh air greedily, drawing long breaths, as much as the swollen insides of her nose would take. People huddled near the undamaged houses and inside them, children, the sickly and truly elderly, with a few exceptions of young girls, too terrified to be of use.

  “What are you doing here?” flared Kentika, spotting the familiar willowy figure of Namaas in the semidarkness of the house she broke into.

  “I am … I’m keeping these people safe.”

  A few frightened children huddled next to an elderly woman, with another younger one curled on a mat, hugging her huge belly, swollen with child. Kentika gave Namaas a blazing look.

  “You cowardly fox. Get that pot from up there and come with me!”

  Indifferent to the sobs of her frightened cousin, she searched through the cupboards adjacent to the bark walls. A set of baskets tucked one into another made her smile.

  “We’ll fill them with earth or gravel. They need it up there too, as much as the water.” One more murderous glance directed at the crying girl. “Come!”

  On the other side, the smoke was heavier now, billowing thickly, making their eyes water long before approaching the swirling gray. Two houses next to the fence burned fiercely, beyond salvation, although the blackened poles of the palisade were still in place, glowing like embers of the campfire but holding on.

  Around the burning houses, people dashed madly, trying to prevent the fire from pouncing onto the next dwellings or back toward the fence. The fire arrows were nowhere in sight, but the regular ones poured in, not densely but firmly, coming down from the sky, like lethal rain of razor-sharp flint.

  “Oh, all the big and small spirits!” Namaas’ moaning reached her, along with the girl’s panted breath, irritating, making Kentika wish to push the disgusting weak-gutted fox away. She was scared as it was, without her silly cousin there to remind her.

  Turning violently, she thrust her set of baskets into the girl’s trembling hands. “Fill those with earth, all of them.” Her voice was taking a shrill note, but she didn’t care, her growing anger helping to push away the splashes of latent fear. “Give me that stupid pot, and do as you are told.” Her snatching the larger vessel made her cousin waver and almost fall. “Stop clinging to it, and stop being useless. Fill your baskets, bring them to the fire fighters over there, then take them back and fill them again. Be useful!”

  “Where are you going?” whimpered Namaas.

  She barely managed to avoid the girl’s persistent grip, as her cousin tried to grab her arm.

  “I’m going to fill that thing with water.” The temptation to push the silly fox truly violently, to make her fall, welled, but she fought it, knowing that it was not an honorable thing to do. She was as frightened, or maybe more. She was such a coward, no better than this quivering mess of tears. “Go away and be of use, Namaas. Or I’ll hit you, I swear I’ll do it. I don’t care if you tell on me or not.”

  Back by the spring it was more orderly, either because the elderly women managed to make it all work, like they always did, or because this part of the village was not under attack. No arrows fell from the sky, and no fire threatened to demolish dwellings, to kill people in the most horrible of ways.

  Still, the smell of stale blood and scorched flesh was strong here, and upon reaching the elevated ground, she saw that a part of it was covered with blankets, stuffed with the wounded and those who treated them. So many! She felt the panic coming back, laced with such strong nausea that she felt like choking.

  “Come here and help with the wounded!” commanded one of the women, waving at her.

  “I … I have to bring water … water to the fires.” Her feeble muttering was not audible enough even for her own ears.

  “Come here, girl. Hurry up. Put your pottery somewhere, for all the forest spirits’ sake!”

  Still clutching her heavy vessel, she stumbled nearer, the sight of the man groaning on the ground, his face glittering pinkish red, peeling off, with something dripping out of an empty socket where his eye should have been, making her need to vomit grow.

  “Hold those for me.” A pile of wet clothes were thrust into her hands. “Get rid of the stupid jar!”

  The man upon the ground was gurgling, thrashing his limbs. He would break her jar, she thought, concentrating on this immediate task, finding it safer to think of nothing else. She had to put it somewhere away, out of the wounded man’s reach.

  “You are not trying to make Kentika help with the wounded, are you?” Her great aunt’s voice broke into the hubbub, welcomed if in nothing else than in its familiarity. “Leave her be, Sister. Our warrior girl can’t be trusted with treating people. She’ll do more damage than good.” The old woman turned to her, face caked with mud, sprinkled with blood, furrowed with lines of worry but still amused, if only a little. “Go, little niece. Go fight the enemy. Or at least, fight the fire. Fill that jar of yours with water and be gone.”

  Unable to say a word, Kentika just nodded, clutching her vessel with all her might. Sweat rolled into her eyes, making her blink. The first woman was trying to make the man lie still, but he was struggling, evidently in great pain. Oh, Mighty Glooskap!

  “I’ll tell Namaas … tell her to come here and help.” It was difficult to recognize her own voice, so low and broken it sounded.

  The great aunt nodded sadly. “Yes, do that,” she muttered, turning around and heading toward the rest of the wounded. “And any other girls you see.”

  Back by the smoking fence, people were pushing more frantically, fighting the billowing tongues of flame that were consuming the nearest houses and the tobacco plots, raging unrestrained, eager to spread on to the next buildings.

  “Bring it over there!”

  A wave of someone’s muddied hand indicated the orange tongues that were licking the storage bin, in too close a proximity to the next round house, the gusts of wind showering it with glittering embers. Slipping on the soggy ground, Kentika rushed on, trying to pay no attention to the waves of heat. It was hurtful, the way it scorched her face. She would have covered it with her arms, but for her heavy burden.

  “Here, give me that.”

  Gratefully, she allowed large hands to snatch her cargo, blinking against the waves of heat. People were pressing from all around, rushing and pushing, panic-stricken, so many of them. Some stomped at the flames upon the tobacco plots with their feet, some tried to strangle them with the blankets. The arrows still flew, though not densely and wrapped in no burning cloths now. At least that!

  Some men mounted ladders and were shooting back, and just as she shielded her eyes, one ladder came crashing down, with the shooter atop of it waving his hands wildly, his bow flying in an arch.

  Jumping away from the path of the falling beams, more out of an instinct than as a thoughtful reaction, Kentika watched the other people scampering, even the two men who were supposed to hold it in place. When it hit the ground, trapping the warrior underneath it, but only temporarily, as the ladder was light, made of thinner beams, she rushed to collect the arrows that slipped out of the shooter’s quiver, scattering all over, about to get trampled on. In the commotion, many would have been ruined, and just as they needed each one of the precious weapons.

  “Get the ladder off him!”

  The shooting man was struggling to push it off, his face bleeding, one leg turned under him, in an unnatural manner. His panting br
eath added to the frantic cries all around. She concentrated on her spoils.

  The polished shafts felt good in her hands, sturdy, dangerous, reassuring. Better than the improvised arrows Schikan made for her small bow from time to time, just sharpened sticks usually, sometimes with a piece of flint glued to it, but not always. It was enough to shoot an occasional rabbit. She needed no more than that anyway, he would claim, laughing against her pleas to receive one real arrow.

  Without thinking, she picked up the bow, another precious item lying momentarily unattended, in danger of being stomped on. Some men were dragging the ladder up, pushing it back against the fence but paying it no attention, too busy with the spreading fire. Others came to pick up the injured man.

  Like in a dream, she eyed the ladder, a rickety, unsteady structure, with no one to support it, to hold it in place. Still, leaning against the poles of the fence, it offered a possibility.

  She fastened her hold on the bow. Long and heavy, unlike her half toy of a weapon, it made her feel better, protected, not as helplessly afraid as before. To climb the rungs of the ladder was easy. It didn’t even sway.

  The wind tore at her hair, as the protection of the fence disappeared, giving her the view of the familiar outside, the clearing of the open space next to the poles and the swaying trees not very far away from it, down the incline, now dotted with the enemy. This same war paint she had seen only a day before, on the people down the river, toiling with boat; boats that were hidden anew now, tucked safely behind another shore, where the filthy invaders would not find them easily.

  Involuntarily, her eyes strayed, seeking the tall figure and the wolf tattooed on a prominent cheek. Of course, it was not possible to see, with the enemy darting between the trees, shooting upwards, then disappearing again. To make the arrows rain upon the settlement, she knew, having been taught all about this sort of shooting. Schikan enjoyed rambling about the secrets of warfare. It made him feel important, she knew, not grudging him any of it but enjoying herself as much. Explaining things to her made him feel like a seasoned warrior with wisdom and experience of many moons.

  Between the trees, her eyes picked out two warriors, crouching above what looked like a large jar, dipping their hands into it. Tucking the treasured arrows into the hem of her skirt, having no quiver to put them onto and out of her way, she brought the bow up. It was so heavy! She tried to force her arms into stillness, to make the trembling abate. It was difficult enough to adjust the first arrow, without her hands dancing as though in some strange sort of a ritual. It made her ashamed.

  The men between the trees were still there, still kneeling above their jar, holding arrows of their own, wrapping them in dripping cloths. Making fire missiles, she realized, her heart lurching with fright. So this is how they caused the flames to burn, not to die while the arrow was still flying. How devious!

  She pulled the bowstring, willing her hands to stop their dancing. It was so terribly tight. Was she strong enough to make the arrow fly at all?

  Almost shutting her eyes, she disregarded the hiss of another missile that brushed past the man upon the nearby ladder, making him waver. She needed every grain of her power now, dedicating all of it to the effort of pulling the bowstring.

  Her arm on fire, wrist hurting, heart pounding, she felt the sturdy shaft slipping between her pressed fingers, firmer now, rubbing hurtfully against her skin, less rickety than before. When the polished flint touched them, it was almost steady, pointing at the kneeling men, not dancing anymore.

  Seeing with a surprising clarity, she watched her target for another heartbeat, then let it go.

  Oh, Benevolent Spirits, but it was a relief! Her pulling arm felt it first, before the rest of her stretched muscles relaxed. She let it fall, leaning the hand with the bow against the top of the ladder, groping for the next arrow. The warriors between the trees were on their feet, shooting angrily, their jar nowhere to be seen. Her disappointment welled.

  “Get down!” yelled the man on the other ladder, himself crouching behind the blackened poles, as much as his unsteady perch allowed him.

  She ducked, which made her own ladder jerk. But it let the arrow aimed at her go over her head, to slip against the shattered beams, harmless. The men she had tried to shoot were not aiming at the sky. They were shooting at her! The realization made her lurch as another arrow came, then another. They were true shooters, not needing countless time to reach for the next missile. How did they do this?

  Peeking out again, she saw other warriors joining them, waving their hands, cursing most certainly. Her hand pulled the next arrow, acting as though of its own accord. It adjusted more readily, although now, she was crouching in the most uncomfortable of positions, pressed against the splintered top of the pole, leaning on it, not daring to rise again. Not until she was ready to shoot.

  The man on the next ladder shot again, then lost his balance and went tumbling down as three arrows at once came after him. Her breath caught, she didn’t follow his fall with her eyes, but leaped up instead, barely aiming, releasing her next arrow halfway, having no time to pull it properly.

  It was a bad shot. She saw her missile falling down, as harmless as a small bird. Cursing her own cowardice, she did not take cover as her instincts urged her to do, but pulled the next arrow up, seeing a broad man, a spectacular painted warrior, turning in her direction. The long bow clutched in his hand looked light, easy to manage. He brought it up with no visible effort at all.

  Struggling with her own weapons that were slipping, twisting in a cumbersome way, refusing to behave, she watched the man’s other hand pulling at the string, looking like a porcupine, displaying more arrows clutched between his bent fingers.

  Fascinated, she saw him releasing the first as her ladder wavered, shaking her off her rickety perch like a deer would in order to get rid of an annoying fly. The rough surface of the fence hit her limbs as she half-fell, half-slid over it, landing with a thud, splashing the water-soaked mud.

  Feet rushed past her, many feet. She noticed the decorations on their moccasins, some muddied, partly torn. Blinking, she tried to make sense out of what happened.

  “Are you all right, girl?” Hands grabbed her shoulders, hauling her to her feet.

  “Yes, yes.” She shook her head in order to clear her thoughts. “The ladder fell.”

  “Well, no one was holding it for you. You leaped up there telling no one.” The squinted eyes examined her anew, worried but amused as well. She recognized the man, a hunter from the Wolf Clan, whose cluster of houses was spread on the other side of the village, one of Schikan’s friends and companions. “Quite a warrior you are.” His hands turned her over, pushing her lightly in the direction of the fire and away from the fence. “Good shooting, but now go, help the women and the wounded.”

  “It was no good shooting.” Resisting his push, she studied the muddied mess of her dress, her legs bruised and hurting. “I missed, missed both times. Didn’t hit anyone.”

  “You spilled their oil!” The man laughed. “There will be no more fire arrows, not until they bring more, if they have any.” Picking up her bow, he rubbed the mud off the wooden shaft. “How did you manage to pull the string all the way? This is a hunters’ bow, a serious thing.” Another gaze full of amused appreciation and he rushed off in the direction of the fire, to join the fire fighters, she presumed.

  Trying not to limp, she followed, her knee hurting with every step, refusing to calm down. Did she twist it? She leaned to inspect the grazed skin once again. Migisso would know what to do. He would know right away if it was damaged or just bruised badly. If only he had been here. And Father!

  The thought hit her, making her limbs go numb with fear. What if they were on their way back now, about to run into those fierce warriors out there? Oh, Mighty Glooskap, don’t let it happen!

  Unless they were coming back in force, bringing visiting warriors from Skootuck, maybe. Such things never happened—why would the haughty Skootuck people wish to vi
sit an insignificant village?—but there could always be a first time. Father went there to talk of an alliance, didn’t he? He never shared his plans, not with her, and yet she knew. A few overheard conversations, then a questioning of Migisso, and here she was, apprised of Fathers intentions, supporting his ideas, finding them good, useful. Unlike some other people, her doubting brother included. Father never sought reassurance from anyone, let alone from her, and yet if he had, she would have told him that she believed in what he planned.

  Oh, but for the possibility of his return with many warriors, and now, before the nightfall. Or at least with tomorrow’s dawn. To surprise the dirty enemy, to catch them between two fighting forces, to finish them all off. If only there was a way of sending them word.

  Her breath caught, and she stared at the shimmering smoky air, seeing nothing, not even coughing anymore. The boats! The enemies’ boats they had taken and hidden not far away. If a messenger could sail a light, speedy canoe, like the one she and Schikan had carried together, one could reach Skootuck in a day or so. And then another day to hurry back, and here they would be, maybe in time to save the village. Their people were fighting so bravely. Surely they could hold on for another two days, dousing fires and repelling the worst of the attempts on the fence.

  Frantically, she turned around, forgetting her knee, paying the pain no attention. It was receding anyway. Her mind registered this development but barely, too busy with the swelling excitement. She needed to find Schikan. He would listen, if no one else did.

  Of maybe…

  Her excitement welled. Maybe she could just sneak out on her own. There were so many holes in the fence, so many cracks to slip through. She, of all people, knew all about it.

  This, and the shortest way to reach the river. There was no need to take the usual path. Why, she could be sailing before Father Sun’s descended into the other world for his night rest, tired of watching the enemy harming the people of his choosing. Oh, she could reach the shore and the boats way before that happened, being firmly on her way, to arrive at Skootuck after high noon, the current being in her favor most of the way.