by Zoe Saadia
She let the breeze wash over her sweaty face. Oh, but she needed a good wash-up, come to think of it. She must have been stinking as badly as the ground back near the fence. After all that she had been through, how could she not?
The thought made her smile. Oh, yes, she needed to wash up, and this was as good an excuse as any. Even though women were supposed to go out in groups, to the nearest brook that was good enough to serve the purpose of washing one’s body. There was no need to go all the way down to the river.
She shrugged. There was nothing wrong with bathing in the river. It was as good as the local stream, maybe even better, and if one was not too tired and willing to go all the way… She felt her tiredness welling, and pushed it away. She’d sleep and rest later. They wouldn’t be required to go to the fields today, surely, and maybe not even tomorrow.
The river greeted her warmly, sparkling in the early afternoon heat, in an inviting manner. She shielded her eyes, the peacefulness of it disturbing, setting her nerves on edge. After the turmoil and agitation up there, it seemed unnatural, out of place. It was as though she had dreamed it all, the enemy and both battles, the burning houses and the dying wounded, all the running around and fighting and taking the boats. And the enemy youths, one wounded and unreasonable, the other annoying, frustrated and at a loss, issuing threats he could not follow through with.
You will be spared; when we take your village, no harm will come to you.
She stifled a chuckle. Wonder what he would say about it now that she was the one doing the sparing, she thought. By taking responsibility for his friend’s life, deciding whether to take it or to leave it to him, as one word up there in the village…
Wandering down the shore, she remembered how it had been at night, where she tried to get away from him and slipped and got her leg stuck between the stones. Oh, but he had to enter the cold water in order to pull her out, and he could not talk straight for quite a long time after that, because of how cold it made him.
Frowning, she tried to push the sadness away. He was dead, and it was for the best. He was an enemy, even if he turned out to be a surprisingly decent person. The other youth would not survive either, not alone and wounded and so far from home, but at least she would return his friend’s kindness by feeding him and making him feel a little better.
Scanning the muddy sand under the cliffs revealed nothing. No sight indicated that only last evening they had all squatted there, watching the wolf youth trying to make a fire. He would have managed too, as he was determined and his strokes of the flat stones generated many sparks. But the wind was against him, breathing more vigorously every time he had managed to have his meager pile of dry grass catch a spark. The angered spirits gave him no chance. But then, of course, they were right in doing so.
When she saw a faint blotch of what looked like old blood, her heart lurched. At last! The trail led into the woods, but it made sense, of course. No person in his right mind would stay in the open, not in such a situation.
The food piled in the hem of her dress that she had pulled up in order to carry it easier hindered her progress, but she climbed the narrow path, determined. No more suspicious-looking marks stained the ground, and it was discouraging. No footsteps, no trampled bushes. Did she go in the wrong direction?
“Are you there?” she called out carefully, forcing her mind to seek the words of their foul-sounding tongue once again. It came out weakly, barely reaching her own ears. “Shi-kon. You there, out?”
There seemed to be a rustling somewhere ahead, so she resumed her walk, careful not to slip on the slick moss. It was so quiet in here; again, too peaceful.
“Are you there?”
He materialized out of the thick foliage so suddenly, her heart tossed itself wildly against her ribs, then went still. Fluttering in her chest, it sent waves of nausea up her throat, the trembling frustrating, making her wish to turn away and disappear. She fought not to let the tanned leather of her skirt slip from her sweaty palms, but one of the cobs slid down nevertheless, rolling over the marshy earth after bouncing off the tip of her moccasin.
“You came back,” he said, not asking but stating a fact, openly puzzled, the suspicion darkening his strong, muddied features.
She was still busy fighting with her dress, welcoming the distraction, postponing the need to face him with nothing to fiddle with. She must have looked so stupid, walking up that trail, calling out, then getting so scared.
A quick glance at him confirmed the worst. He was staring at her pulled-up skirt and the food in the improvised pocket it created with one eyebrow raised high, the creases of his forehead making an intricate pattern, clearly questioning her sanity.
“I did it… I not…” She cleared her throat. “Yes, I come back, back to see, to see if your friend, alive or not. That’s why come back. No other reason!”
Why was it important to state her reasons? His gaze reflected the same question her mind was shooting at her in frustration. His other eyebrow joined the first, both arching in a suggestive way, as though puzzled but prepared to break down in amusement. If he laughed, she would try to kill him, she decided.
“Stop look, look at me like that!” Had she not known that doing so would just cause more food to fall from her skirt, she would have stomped her foot in frustration. “I come to your friend. Not you. He is bad, wound, feel bad. He needs eat, drink. I bring him food.” She considered letting it all go for the sake of picking a cob to throw at him. “You not supposed, not alive even. How you not dead? They say you dead!”
That wiped the smug expression off his face at once. “Who said I was dead?”
The air again became thicker, like before the storm. She felt the danger spreading in waves, turning tangible, something she might have tried to touch if she dared. It was there, floating in the air, as though his moods influenced their surroundings. Did the last gust of wind have something to do with his tension? There had not even been a light breeze before.
“Who said I was dead?” he repeated, coming closer. “Whom did you overhear?”
There was an anxiety in his eyes now, the need to know. Somehow it reassured her, made him look less threatening than he might have.
Nevertheless, she took a step back.
“People said, father, warriors, hunters, they all said that.” His growing puzzlement made him look silly, like a young boy. She tried to stifle a chuckle, but it sneaked out, quite a hysterical sound. “Not you in particular. They did not talk about you.” Catching herself talking back in her people’s tongue, she felt the blood rushing into her face again. “Not you. But all, all warriors. When say all, I think all, with you too, include, included.”
“You don’t make much sense.” His frown was back, banishing the youthful expression. “You must have overheard Kayeri. That dirty piece of rotten meat would say something like that, the greasy bastard that he is. He is so stupid, and he will lose more men, you just—”
Suddenly, his eyes widened, grew out of proportion to the rest of his features, turning almost round, filling with a dazed expression. His mouth opened, gaping at her for some time before the words came out.
“There was a battle, wasn’t there? When the sun was high?”
She just nodded, bewildered.
“They all died?” The intensity of his gaze was frightening.
She nodded again.
“All of them?”
It was unsettling, to watch the dismay, the baffled apprehension. He was so sure of himself before. Pale and disheveled, and bruised all over, not the vision of the dauntless, invincible warrior who had frightened her only a few dawns earlier, while spying on the enemy for the first time, but still tough and dangerous and full of decision. Well, now the self-assured determination was gone, and the person who stared at her was nothing but a youth, bewildered and lost.
Her apprehension disappeared all at once.
“Help me with the food,” she said resolutely, indicating the fallen maize. “Your friend, is alive
?”
He nodded numbly, still staring.
“Well, then we go, go to him.” The dullness of his stare was annoying. “Pick those cobs and go. Friend, he need food, maybe water. Eh?”
“You brought us food?” he asked, blinking.
“Umm, yes.” The uneasiness returned with redoubled strength. “He wounded, feel bad. I promised…”
His face came to life with a slightly amused, if a puzzled smile. “You are quite a girl, aren’t you?” Back to his brisk, forceful self, he picked up the fallen maize, then proceeded to take hold of the rest of her burden. “Akweks is there, in the woods. He is not feeling too good, not yet. Had a rough night.” His side glance and lifted eyebrows made her remember the night with uncomfortable clarity. “How is your friend? Still alive?”
The thought of Schikan twisted her stomach in a violent way. He was asking for her earlier, or so Namaas said. But then the battle began, and they were too busy, and then…
“Yes, he better, I think. I go see him when back.” She swallowed. “You did good, good thing. I should thank…”
His grin was one-sided and lacking in mirth. “I wonder about that.” Then the grimness returned. “Are you sure they are all dead?”
Without the need to balance her skirt, she fell into his step easily, climbing up the invisible trail.
“Yes. Father say so.”
“Who is your father?”
“Father? Father is War Chief, our War Chief.”
That startled him into nearly stumbling. “You have war chiefs?”
It was becoming familiar, this expression of puzzled surprise. She returned his gaze. “Of course. Why would we no, no have war chief?”
“I don’t know.” Shrugging, he resumed his walk. “I thought you were just a village.”
That statement hurt.
“We are village, yes. And there, there are bigger, places, towns. Yes. But,” she fought the urge to grab his arm in order to stop him and make him listen, “we are not small; we have many families, many clans. And warriors, yes. We are not afraid. We fight. Your people, they know now.”
“Oh, yes, they do.” His grunt resonated between the towering cliffs. “And if the stupid wooden-head Kayeri had listened to me, they wouldn’t have had to pay…” A slippery, moss-covered stone went flying, kicked savagely, with much venom. Then a familiar shrug replaced it. “Your people are full of surprises, yes. And you, too.” He motioned with his head. “Well, here we are.”
The space between the cliffs was tiny, separated from the view of the river by a cluster of trees, shielded from the wind and the light, intimate. Like a very shallow cave, it gave one the sense of shelter. She blinked in the semidarkness. Not a satisfactory shelter, yes, but better than their previous refuge by the shore.
The wounded was curled on the unpadded earth, motionless, sprawling there, just a dark heap of limbs. Was he alive? Curious, she knelt beside him, acutely aware of his companion, who busied himself with arranging their treasures in a wide piece of bark he seemed to have made use of before.
“I need something better to bring him water in. Pity you didn’t bring a flask or something.”
“He is no good.” She studied the thinned, drawn face, the eyes closed but moving under their lids, restless. Limbs jerking, chest rising and falling unevenly, not rapidly but not as calmly as that of a sleeping person, the wounded gave an impression of a sick person.
“He is asleep now, and it’s good. He needs to rest.” The wolf youth still fiddled with the bark, his back to them.
“He is not. Not just sleep. Think he get sick.” She reached for the wide forehead carefully, afraid to startle the man. His skin was clammy but not burning, just mildly warm, unpleasantly so. It must have been good that his blood wasn’t boiling, and yet somehow, she didn’t feel reassured, not while looking into the sallow features. “Maybe no sick. But he is no good. No healthy.”
“He isn’t sick!”
The exclamation rang sharply, bouncing off the towering rocks. She looked up, surprised. His challenging glare met hers.
“His wounds aren’t rotting,” he went on, when she said nothing, just stared back. “So there is no reason for him to get sick.” The defiance in his eyes grew. “His wounds are healing, both of them. One faster than the other, that’s all.”
“I don’t know what you talk.” She let out an exasperated breath, then turned back to the wounded. “He is no look good, look sick. That is it.” Again, she touched the clammy forehead, taking the hand away when he stirred. “I don’t know why you argue. It change not, nothing.”
He grunted something, then knelt beside them.
“Akweks, wake up.” Leaning closer, he put his palm on his friend’s laboring chest, his scowl deepening. “Wake up.” His nostrils widened, as he sniffed the air. “See, no smell? His wounds aren’t rotting.”
As though she had said something like that. She exhaled loudly, then got to her feet, the neatly arranged pile of food catching her eye, inviting. She hadn’t eaten properly since the day before, either. They were not the only hungry people around, and she hadn’t brought it all only for them.
“Wake up, Brother.”
The wounded groaned lightly, and she stopped her nibbling on a slice of dried meat, trying to see better.
“Wake up. You need to eat something.” The wolf youth was shaking his friend’s shoulder now, not especially gently, his voice ringing with urgency. Or maybe with a flicker of panic.
She came closer.
“What? What is happening?” The wounded groaned and tried to sit up, not making a good job out of it until his friend grabbed his shoulder, pulling him up firmly, helping to lean his back against the uneven surface of the rock. Even with help, the youth’s broad face broke out with a sheen of sweat.
“We have things to eat.” His companion was talking rapidly, no more successful at his attempt to sound light than his friend in the effort to sit up unaided. “What do you want, meat or corn?”
“Water,” croaked the wounded, closing his eyes. “Just water. I’m not, not hungry; sorry…”
The wolf youth said nothing for a heartbeat. He didn’t even move. Yet, she could feel his desperation welling, filling the closed space, making it look darker, although the light barely reached it as it was. She held her breath.
“I’ll bring you water.”
He got up slowly, as though hindered by a pain or a wound too. She watched his wide back, rigid like the surrounding cliffs, the cut under his shoulder blade long and clean, a neat crimson line, not caked with dried blood even. It looked like war paint, a part of a pattern, but for the bluish swelling at its edges.
“Will you watch him until I’m back?” he asked, snatching the arched bark without looking at her.
“Yes.”
He was gone before she knew it, disappearing into the greenish foliage, leaving more tension in his wake. She let her breath out.
The wounded was peering at her painfully. “Local girl? You came back?”
She licked her lips. “Yes.”
A hint of a smile brought some life into the sallow features. “You are full of surprises.”
“I’m not.” Kneeling beside him, she hesitated. “I bring food. You want?”
He shook his head vigorously, but the movement made him flinch, and his face lost the little liveliness it had gained, breaking out in a new bout of sweat.
“The damn thing,” he muttered, when able to talk. “It hurts even if I don’t move.”
“I see, want to see.”
He shrugged lightly, clearly afraid to move, his lips colorless, caught between his teeth. Carefully, she leaned closer, repulsed by the odor of stale blood. The gash wasn’t too large, the size of a smaller pinecone maybe, brownish, swollen, dark, glittering with wetness. It looked painful, unhealthy. It made her think of the ointments the old healer was putting on wounds this very morning, and of his bag of sharp needles and lines of sinew.
“You need healer. He would cl
ose it, put ointment.”
His groan bordered with a snort. She sighed. Yes, there was no use making that comment.
“Our men will know what to do.” His lips twisted into the hint of a crooked grin. “Once they bother to come back.”
“What?” Caught unprepared, she looked up, to stare into his face from too close of proximity. It was as though they were about to touch, or do something silly like kissing. The thought had her backing away in a hurry.
He stared at her, as embarrassed. “What?”
“You say, your people. But…” She hesitated, trying to gather her wits. “But they are dead. They are not—”
His eyes turned as round as his friend’s had a very short time ago, gaping at her, enormously large. “What do you mean ‘dead’?”
She just shrugged, then turned away to watch the bushes and the invisible path the wolf youth must have followed while heading down to the river bank.
“Tell me!”
Her heart twisted at the open dismay in his voice. Just like his friend’s had oh so very short time ago. It was easy to shatter their confidence, but she didn’t find the experience pleasing, not as she might have expected it would be.
“There battle, there was a battle.” She took a deep breath. “Your people, they dead.”
“No, they are not! I know about the battle. Okwaho told me. He fought with them. He came back this morning and told me all about it.” He shook his head vigorously, forgetting about his wound as it seemed, or too preoccupied to pay attention to the pain it brought. “Some died, yes. Your people too, more than mine! They… they didn’t lose that battle, and they didn’t die.” A spasm twisted his face, and the heated tirade died away. “You think you know it all, but you don’t,” he muttered in the end, his eyes avoiding hers.
“Yes, I know. I do know.” It should have been pleasing to prove him wrong, but it wasn’t. She wished she hadn’t started this conversation at all. “It’s not, not the same battle. It’s different. This morning—”
His clenched fist hit the ground. “You are lying!”
She ground her teeth, frustrated, her compassion trickling away. Why would she lie about something like that?