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

by Zoe Saadia

He shivered, then put his attention back to his friend’s lifeless form. Even in the fading moonlight, it wasn’t difficult to see how pale and drawn he was, how his usually fit body sagged listlessly, jerked with every breath, drifting between their world and the other one, the realm of dreams and spirits. After the ministrations of the old healer, it was no wonder the young man was left with no power to even stay around.

  The medicine man was busy treating another wounded, a man with a gaping gash on his thigh, his eyes shut tightly, his teeth making a mess out of his lower lip, obviously stiff with pain as the water was poured into the wound. Involuntarily, Migisso leaned closer, studying the gash.

  “It needs to be closed,” he muttered, not realizing he was speaking aloud.

  “Yes, it does.” The old man nodded, as immersed and oblivious of his own words. “Such a gap should not stay open. It’ll rot.” He shook his head resolutely. “Bring me more water, and my larger bag. It’s lying around, somewhere.” A kinder look measured Migisso, taking in his cargo. “After that, go and fix that plank to your friend’s arm. He will be well. He is a strong young man, and your sister was a gift from the spirits who sent her to him.”

  He could do nothing but nod this time, the mention of his sister making his stomach clench. Oh, how worried he had been earlier, when among the hectic preparations to surprise the enemy with the unexpected reinforcements the town received, he had found a moment to rush home, to make sure his family was all right. They would need reassurance, he knew, but only upon entering the dim, cluttered space did he find out how badly they needed it.

  Surrounded by aunts and cousins, his mother related to him that not only he and Father were the cause of her worry, but that Kentika was also gone, nowhere to be found. He tried to make sense out of it, to come up with all sorts of possible explanations. She might have been busy out there, helping. The fires were taken care of by now, and the wounded, but still much work needed to be done. Yet, not at night, one of his aunts pointed out. Everyone was accounted for, everyone but Kentika.

  Worried, he went back to the men he came here with, as the organization of the night sortie was more important, the frantic collecting of all available weaponry, the coordination of the projected action. There must be a good explanation for her absence at home. The wild thing always tried to be in the thick of events, if allowed, which she usually wasn’t, yet, in the current state of affairs, no one was there to admonish and reprimand. She would be somewhere there around the town. There was no other explanation.

  And yet, the fear kept nagging, especially when he heard about her exploits through the afternoon attack. Help douse the fire and treat the wounded? No, it was not her way of doing things. To stand on the top of the ladder, shooting someone’s bow was just the deed his sister was up to. The men who had told him about it laughed briefly, openly amused, even appreciative. Yet, no one had seen her later through the evening. It was as though she had just disappeared, dissolved into thin air.

  Making his way through the maze of groan-filled darkness, he concentrated on his step, trying not to slip or tread on someone. There were too many wounded, too many villagers with burns and cuts, too many warriors brought in now through the night. The surprise nighttime attack hadn’t worked for some reason. It must have helped to make the enemy suffer, to reduce their force, not very impressive to begin with, but it did not catch the invaders unprepared. Why? How had they known?

  “Where is Schikan?” Kentika’s voice startled him as he searched between the blankets and the people stretched upon them, those who awaited treatment or who could not be carried to their homes due to the seriousness of their wounds. The bag with the healer’s tools was not easy to locate. “How is he?”

  “I don’t know.” He refused to look up, too angry to talk to her civilly as yet. Not that in the darkness she would have seen much of his expression.

  The silence prevailed. “Where is he? Has he been treated already?”

  “The healer took care of his wounds, yes. But I’ve yet to put his arm in a splint.” Another heartbeat of heavy silence. “Have you gone home already?”

  “Yes, I have.” Still crouching upon the ground, all he could see were her feet, one tip of the moccasin tapping impatiently, the torn decorations jumping up and down, splattered with dried mud. The fringes of her dress seemed to be in no better condition. “I have nothing to do there, and they can’t make me stay.” She hesitated again. “Not with what is going on all around.”

  His hands locating the desired bag at long last, he got up, tired beyond reason. “And you know all about what is going on here, and out there, too.” It came out as an open accusation.

  “Yes, of course!” she retorted, ready to give measure for measure, as was always her custom. “I was of use. I did good things. I saved Schikan’s life. Don’t I get even a simple gratitude for it?” Her lips pressed into a thin line. “He is your friend, and he would have died out there if not for my help. But all you care about is appropriate behavior.”

  He felt like turning and running away, or maybe striking her, the unreasonableness of her accusation cutting like the sharpest arrowhead.

  “You shouldn’t have been out there in the first place. You could have been killed. Or taken captive. Would you have liked that? To be captured by the filthy enemy? Is that what you want? Because if yes, then go out there again, by all means.”

  Her hissing breath tore the darkness, but she said nothing for a moment, atypical to her. Kentika always had something to answer back, especially when admonished.

  He drew a deep breath. “Mother was worried sick. And yes, I was too.” A shrug proved a tiring business. “And Father, if he heard about it—”

  “Father will not hear about it, unless you are eager to go and tell him. And in this case, you will get your share of his rage as well.” She stomped her foot angrily. “I don’t need you scolding me. I got enough chiding and dire promises of punishment already.” Her foot came down again, scattering pieces of dried mud. “Maybe I shouldn’t have gone out this time, but I did helpful things. My arrow broke the oil jar the enemy used to make fire arrows. And if not for the invaders on the river shore, I would have been nearing Skootuck by now, bringing them our request of help.” Another angrily drawn breath shook the darkness. “And I did save Schikan’s life—I did! And you didn’t thank me even for this.”

  He eyed her helplessly, fighting the budding sense of guilt and remorse. “I worried about you,” he said finally, knowing that the anger was gone, for good, as it always was. It was impossible to stay angry with her for more than a few heartbeats. “You could have been hurt. It’s not like your usual sneaking out. It’s more dangerous. You could have been captured or killed.”

  “But I wasn’t.” Her anger was cooling as rapidly, he could feel that. They were always too close not to read each other’s moods. “And, anyway, I worried about you too. How did you manage to come back out of nowhere, and in such a surprising fashion?”

  I could have asked you the same, he thought, remembering her stumbling in through the missing pole of the fence, almost carrying Schikan, who was barely conscious, in bad shape. She was, of course, tall, relatively broad-shouldered, inappropriately strong, fitter than some young men even; still, Schikan was a broad-shouldered warrior, not a girl or a child to carry around.

  “How did you find him there in the darkness?”

  Her uneasiness was back. “I was on my way here.”

  As though that explained it. He tried to stare her down, an easier feat now as the sky above was turning gray. The darkness grew less oppressive, and he could see the old healer glancing up, waving impatiently.

  “They need my help. Go and sit with Schikan, if you can’t stay at home. Bring him water. Make him drink as much he can. I’ll come to fix his arm shortly.”

  A group of men swept past them, their faces gray with fatigue. “Come along. We are off to seek our wounded and dead out there.”

  His hesitation drew direful frowns from m
ore than one person. He tucked the bag into her hands. “Give it to the Honorable Healer.” Before hurrying to catch up with the others, he bestowed upon her a meaningful look. “No more sneaking out, Sister. Promise!”

  This time, she nodded readily. Reassured, he hurried after the men.

  “Be careful out there,” Paqua, clearly the leader of the group was saying. “The enemy seems to retreat back to where they camped before, but we can’t be sure. Some may still be wandering around.” The older man’s narrowing eyes almost disappeared in the depth of his frown. “They have to lick their wounds, surely. I hope they were hurt more badly than we were. They are bad spirits, but the night fighting is not their strong suit.”

  “Any more than it is ours,” muttered someone.

  The older leader gave them a stern look. “We did well. Even if not achieving the surprise and the victory, we did throw the enemy out of balance. They must have lost enough warriors to render the renewal of the attack on the morrow impossible.” Another meaningful gaze. “We did well.”

  “What will we do now?” asked another young warrior, a man who had come with them from Skootuck, less than a dawn ago. Had only half a day passed? Absently, he wondered about Achtohu and his whereabouts.

  “The three of you will go and search for our people who might need help.” A shrug. “The others will come with me. If we organize enough men and weapons, we will give the enemy another surprise.”

  “Without the oil, the fire arrows will not work.”

  “I know that!” Grimly, Kayeri kicked at the still-glimmering embers of the night’s fire, sending some of them scattering.

  The sparks the kick generated might have looked pretty, reflected Okwaho, but for the strengthening light. Father Sun was up and about, climbing up his usual path, oblivious to the petty dilemmas of the people roaming the earth.

  Absently, he watched it, trying not to blink, somehow sure that if he didn’t, everything would be all right. He was dead tired, but rest was nowhere in sight. It was not enough that their leader, now permanently irritable, wished to go on attacking the village he had failed to storm on the day before, not having enough warriors this time and not even enough weaponry to do that, but his request to bring Akweks back was denied again, as angrily as before. It was as though the man was irritated at everything he, Okwaho, said or did.

  Nothing new, and yet, this time, he needed to get help. Or at least to go back there himself, to see that Akweks was all right. A weaponless man, wounded and alone in the woods was exposed to enough danger even without the damn girl, the filthy fox who, of course, did not even let his footsteps die away before bolting back to her village, despite all his threats and promises. Had she told her fellow villagers about Akweks already? Surely she had, even though these people were now busy with other things, like the necessity to throw all their efforts into the attempt to banish the invaders. Should he have killed her while he had a chance?

  He shrugged. Probably. But having run into her in the middle of this strange night battle, he was startled, disoriented enough as it was, taken by surprise. It was not something he had expected, so he didn’t do what was right, namely kill her and the warrior she was carrying and be done with it. Letting her go just like that was the stupidest of his recent decisions.

  He frowned again and put his thoughts back on his current predicament.

  “They lost many men in their night prowling,” Kayeri was saying. “They will be in no position to put up a fight today.”

  The others shifted uneasily and said nothing, twelve warriors in all, many wounded to this or that degree, bruised, scratched and dirty, gray with fatigue. Not a glorious force to storm a camp of women, let alone a fortified settlement full of fierce, enterprising locals, who had already shown they were no weaklings, no easy victory; they had reportedly fought like beasts on the day before, defending their home, not letting even fire arrows dampen their spirits.

  Why, judging by that girl alone, his personal encounter with the representative of the locals, those people were strong and determined, not easily intimidated, neither by threats nor by deeds. Harmed by the night warfare or not, how was one to know the amount of men capable of fighting who might be huddling inside, preparing something dirty like that nighttime assault.

  “We will wait until Father Sun climbs a little higher, then we attack.” Kayeri was talking rapidly, as though in a hurry. Was he trying to convince himself as well? “A simple assault on their fence will be enough. They are in no position to defend it properly, not today. If nothing else, they are tired and spent.”

  “And so are we.” He said it without thinking, still deep in thought.

  Feeling the stares, his head cleared all at once, but it was too late to take the accursed words back.

  The leader’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe you are too tired, warrior, but the rest of us have better stamina by far.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.” He heard his own voice dying away, trailing off without consideration to his will, their stares the only thing tangible. It served to anger him, and the anger gave him his strength back. They were not being wise or reasonable, none of them, following that stupid, arrogant man with not a word of protest. “This attack, it’s not a wise thing to do. We are too few, too battered from the unexpected night fighting, to make the best out of it. We won’t succeed.”

  He remembered Father, his broad, dignified face, the intricate pattern of scars, the kind, confident smile, the vitality behind the luminous eyes. He had a calm and pleasant voice and a measured way of speaking, the way of a person used to talking to the crowds, accustomed to being listened to.

  If you decide to charge, to just attack blindly with no preparation and no thinking beforehand, the man had said when on the relevant subject, make sure to put it all into the first concentrated effort. Your first assault will indicate the outcome of such a fight. Actually, your first blow might very well decide the entire outcome, so put it all in that initial attack. Do not have qualms or hesitations. But if it doesn’t work, walk away if possible. Do not insist on fighting a hopeless battle.

  He had been talking about personal fights when he said those things, Okwaho remembered, when he was a mere boy, coming home with a bloodied nose and tears of frustration in his eyes, tears he tried to conceal at any price, afraid they would be mistaken for a sign of weakness. What if Father thought less about him because of that? But the man didn’t laugh; neither had he grown angry nor scolding. He took his son out, instead, to go to the spring and wash his face. And have a talk. Oh, how good it felt to talk to Father on the relatively rare occasions he was home and not busy with this or that gathering or council.

  Well, Father had talked about personal fights back then; yet somehow, now, he felt this advice was good for their current situation. They had attacked that village without preparation, with too small of a force. They might have surprised it, might have caught it unprepared. Yet, they had failed on that account. The rival did not waver. It stood firmly, and it won by not giving in. So all they could do was leave with what was left. To charge again was stupid, a fruitless attempt. The village was not that important.

  “Do you presume to teach me, to tell me what to do?” Kayeri was staring at him, narrow-eyed, his face taking a somewhat livid coloring.

  He withstood the burning gaze. “I do not presume to tell you what to do, but I do believe we all are entitled to sound our minds.” It came out well, but his voice was trembling, again from tension and rage, not from fear, yet he was afraid they might interpret it in the wrong way. “We cannot just storm a fortified settlement without enough men and not enough preparation to persist with the fight.” He clenched his fists tight, because they were shaking too, even if not in a visible way. “I believe we should return to our boats, join the rest of our forces, then detour through here on our way back, if you feel it’s important. When we are better prepared.”

  He felt their gazes boring into him, somehow less stony or disapproving than before. They wer
e listening. Surprised, he glanced at the nearest man, and hence missed the movement, startled when Kayeri’s body nearly pushed him off his feet, pressed closely, not taller but broader, intimidating.

  Fighting the immediate panicked reaction, Okwaho forced himself into stillness, ready to block a blow that might come. Or maybe a thrust of a knife. This man had a reputation, he knew, having spent more than a moon at Cohoes Falls, enough to learn of its prominent people and the tales of their deeds. Particularly about this one.

  The silence was heavy, encompassing. It lasted for a heartbeat, then another, then some more. Many heartbeats, or maybe just a few. He could not tell, as his heart was pounding too wildly to count the beats.

  “Don’t push your luck, you cheeky cub,” the man hissed finally. “One more word of your unwelcome advice, and you may get hurt. I came here to kill the enemy, but you are tempting me to teach you a much-needed lesson, a lesson about respecting your elders and betters. They obviously neglected teaching that back in your Onondaga lands.” The man’s breath was hot upon his face, revolting. It made his skin prickle, his danger signals up, screaming a frantic warning. “Well, it is not the time to do that now, but you better get out of my sight. Go away, go back to the boats. Take the smallest canoe and sail home. I do not want you among my warriors anymore. We do not need cowards. Nor do we need spoiled brats who think too highly of themselves. You are nothing but a cheeky cub who has yet to see a real battle, but who presumes to tell hardened warriors and leaders what to do. Well, you won’t be listened to. Not here. If you manage to reach our lands, our town, sail on, back to the Onondagas, back to where you came from. They must be softened by too many summers of no wars, enough to let young cubs think they can tell hardened warriors what to do.”

  He knew he should step away, to back off while he had a chance. Yet, he could not. His entire body turned into stone, his muscles so tense he could not feel his limbs anymore, his whole being dedicated to only one thing: to keep calm, not to let his mounting fury get the better of him and make him do stupid things. He wasn’t here to kill his countryfolk, either. And yet, he was not here to take insults, to let the arrogant piece of rotten meat intimidate, or even beat him, into obedience.