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

by Zoe Saadia

  He stared at her incredulously. “How did you find out that nonsense?”

  She wrinkled her nose and peered back at him from under her brow. “I can’t tell you, not now.”

  “They are all dead, Kentika.”

  She just shrugged, her eyes blank, too blank. He tried to push the suspicion back where it came from, but it returned with a redoubled force, worse than before. If she was… But that was impossible, plain impossible!

  “Tell me!”

  She shifted from one foot to another, then shrugged again, resolutely.

  “Later; I’ll tell you later, Brother.” The frown was back. “But now, I need to reach the spring before Father Sun goes back to sleep. Can’t go to the village looking like that. I must be appearing worse that one of the bad spirits residing in sick animals.”

  Again, the radiance of her smile proved impossible to resist. He pushed his suspicion away. For the time being.

  “You look like a squirrel after a particularly bad winter. Like Msaijo the Squirrel, the one who served Malsum the Wolf and made him do bad things.”

  All of a sudden, she looked slightly dismayed. “That bad?”

  “Worse.”

  “Oh, please!” Then she beamed again. “Wolves are not all bad, you know. Only Malsum. But other wolves are loyal and strong. And good, sometimes.”

  “I know that.” He studied the pattern of dried mud that covered her face like war paint, splattered all over, yet not enough to conceal the darker glow her cheeks suddenly colored with. “Since when are you interested in such? We are not Wolf Clan people.”

  “I know.” Another shrug, another thorough inspection of the ground. “I’m just curious about things. That’s all.” The guilty smile flashed again. “I better be going. If Mother asks about me, tell her I’m around and on my way.”

  “And Father?”

  Her face lost its previous glow. “He won’t ask for me. He is too busy.”

  “They say you were the one to spot the enemy in the first place. Schikan says you went with them, to show them the place where the enemy hid their boats. He said you helped to remove them, to carry them to another shore.”

  “Oh, yes.” She nodded vigorously, eyes sparkling. “They didn’t want to believe me. Many of them. They went out to see if there was truth to what I said, but they were angry with me.” She made a face. “Paqua was particularly mean, more than usual. But Schikan diverted his attention as much as he could, and when we found the boats, he was so proud of me.” The shine of her eyes dimmed. “He is not wounded badly, is he? The old healer said he might live, if he won’t vomit blood or turn hot, or—”

  “If you stayed in the village instead of running out there, on these mysterious missions of yours, you would have known the answer to that already.” Her gasp and the open fear in her eyes made him feel bad for implying the worst. “He is alive, and he won’t die. Not probably. But he is wounded badly enough, and he was asking for you, but you were not around. You were busy elsewhere.” He shook his head. “He was worried about you as much as I was, Sister. He wanted to talk to you, to thank you, I suppose. He seemed to be able to think of nothing else. And also…” Hesitating, he remembered the last thing his friend had whispered, suffering and in pain, but still unable to forget, needing to talk about it. “He said you were speaking with the enemy.”

  Her face drained of color at once. No more healthy glow or blushing. “I did not,” she muttered, frowning painfully, again immersed in observing the ground. “Why would he say something like that?”

  “I don’t know.” He studied her carefully, not liking what her body language was saying. “Why do you think?”

  Her shrug held a familiar amount of defiance. “I can’t possibly know that!” Lips pressed stubbornly, she faced him. “He is wounded badly enough, you said. Maybe his mind was wandering, so he thought he saw me talking to the enemy.”

  “Yes, he said that, that he wasn’t sure. It was dark, and he was in great pain. He remembered a warrior, and you talking to him. He said this man should have killed him, and you maybe, but he didn’t. Because of something you said.”

  Her open relief puzzled him. It was as though a sun peeked from behind the gathering storm clouds. Not only her face but her entire body seemed to relax, with her eyes turning brighter and the pressed lips stretching into a shy smile.

  “Oh, yes, it happened, it did happen. I was so tired and scared, and Schikan was so heavy, and bleeding on me. I feared he would die. And this man, he seemed reasonable.” Again the caginess, the quick averting of the eyes. “I told him that Schikan is wounded. I didn’t think he’d listen, but he did.”

  He tried to make sense of her rapidly spoken words.

  “How… how did you know what to say?”

  And then it hit him. But of course! She used to be close with the captive woman. What was her name? He didn’t remember, but she had been tall and light-hearted, outrageously out-spoken. That is when she had learned how to speak. For the few summers that the woman had lived in their village, Kentika had followed her, just a small girl back then, a wild-eyed thing playing with boys. Until the foreigner appeared. Then the running around and shooting at rabbits was temporarily forgotten. She was wandering all over, bragging about her newfound friendship and whole phrases of strange-sounding words that she had learned. When the foreign woman died, Kentika had been the only one to mourn for real.

  “You still remember how to speak their tongue?” he asked her now, perturbed. Too many aspects of her story did not make sense, but her uneasiness, her caginess were the things that made him doubt what she said. Although, what was there to suspect her of?

  “Oh, yes, I do,” she said proudly. “And not badly at all. You wouldn’t believe how easily…” Again, she stumbled over her words and fell silent.

  He listened to the chirping of the late birds, chattering in the treetops, fluttering their wings, preparing for the night. The dusk was not far away now.

  “Well, you better hurry up, before it turns dark. Or before Father sends for you.” He looked at her sternly. “Whatever is happening, whatever trouble you have gotten yourself involved in, try to sound more reasonable when you talk to him. He will see through you most easily anyway, but at least try.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what trouble you are involved in, but it doesn’t sound good, Sister. Not good at all.”

  “I’m not—” she began hotly, then shrugged in her turn, her eyes, large and too widely spaced, filling with mischievous mirth. “You know me too well, but believe me, it’s not really something bad. I promise to tell you all about it, but not now. When it’s over for good, or if I’m in too deep of a trouble on account of it.” The playfulness was spreading, spilling out of her eyes. “If you could save me from Father’s interrogation, it would be helpful. Can you?”

  “Why should I?” he asked, curiously annoyed. Yet, his inner self was calculating, thinking of the way of helping her to avoid Father’s questioning. The War Chief would be busy, most surely. But for how long? “Maybe he won’t find time to question you tonight,” he said. “And even if he does, he won’t have much of it to do it in a leisurely way. So just be ready to mostly listen and not to talk. Answer shortly, and don’t brag. He won’t know that bit about talking to the enemy. That’s something only Schikan and I know. So you don’t need to worry about that.”

  “I’m not worried.” The sudden wideness of her smile made him forget some of their troubles. “It seems that a whole span of seasons passed since it all began. Don’t you think?”

  Yes, he thought. It does. But what did you do this long span of seasons between the Father Sun’s previous appearance and the next one?

  “Come back in a hurry. Don’t wander about again.”

  A wave of her torn, muddied skirt was his answer, as she whirled around and was gone, running away with her usual speed, having no patience for simple walking.

  He shook his head. She better have a good explanation for all this. What trouble had she got
ten herself into this time?

  Back on the head of the trail, a group of men burst upon him, coming from behind the main opening, speaking loudly, their clubs out and ready. Achtohu, his arm in a sling and one side of his face swollen badly, raised his good hand in a careless greeting.

  “Come along.”

  “Where are you going?” He fell in step with them, curiously comfortable, enjoying the sense of comradeship he had never experienced before.

  “The boats. The lowlifes’ vessels should be picked up and stored and put to great use. Stupid to let them rot out there.”

  Chapter 15

  Squinting in an attempt to see better, Okwaho studied the shadowy grove, desperate to find something, anything, a clue.

  What to do? he asked himself for the thousandth time, his head pounding, exhaustion overwhelming. But for Akweks’ sickness, they would have sailed already, leaving the accursed shore once and for all. What possessed him to go and look for the watching local, or his footprints, on the day of their landing? But for his insistence, there would have been no change of plans, no splitting of forces, no disasters that followed.

  Were they truly all dead up there?

  The girl insisted that they were, but Akweks did not believe her, and now, away from her overpoweringly intense, curiously appealing presence, he began doubting her words as well. She was something else, this wild local thing, a confusing creature, one moment all aggressive, trying to kill him with that silly child’s bow; the other, surprisingly helpful, bringing food, speaking their tongue but keeping quiet when needed, making him wish to talk to her, to tell her things he hadn’t shared with anyone, neither family nor the closest of friends. About the silvery wolf only Father knew, because to talk to Father was always safe. But now, the wild local girl, all scratches and messy hair, knew more than anyone about his guiding spirit. How bizarre.

  Refocusing his mind on more important things, he eyed the pair of oblique cliffs, inspecting them critically, looking for clues. From where he stood, it looked solid, a wall of stone, with no hidden entrances in between the towering rocks. Good, he decided. This will do.

  Tiredly, he shifted his shoulders; his back hurt, muscles aching, crying for rest. In a regular condition, he would have found no trouble in carrying a boat of even greater size than a narrow canoe for a few people to sail. Not a small dugout, neither was it a huge vessel to carry warriors and goods. Still, with all the bruises and cuts his back sported now, it wasn’t an easy task at all.

  However, at least one canoe was safe from the locals, who should have been coming for the rest of their vessels by now, lousy warriors that they were. Why didn’t they? If the battle had happened in the morning and they were as victorious as the girl had claimed, then they should have been coming to pick up the boats long ago. In the first place, they should not have been storing them in such a way, hiding most of their loot on the very next shore. How stupid it was to move the boats from one shore to another. Couldn’t the enemy be bothered to carry their findings up the hill and into the town? Lazy rats.

  Leaning against a tree, he fought the urge to slip along its trunk, to close his eyes, to curl among the protruding roots and fall asleep. But for such luxury!

  He took a deep breath. In a short while, the moment he returned, he promised himself. In the relative safety of Akweks’ hideaway, after it grew dark, he would sleep a little. At least that. After the darkness, after he was sure no victorious locals would come to retrieve the last of their boats.

  Earlier, the moment the girl was gone, he had rushed to the shore, almost kicking himself for not thinking about that possibility right away. If the locals came to claim their rightful spoils, he and Akweks would be left with not even a remote chance of survival, no means to sail away. The renewed vigor the idea and the necessity to implement it brought gave him power to carry the small boat away, to seek a good place and hide it anew, but now he felt as though he could not move a limb anymore.

  The pangs of hunger were not that bad—the girl’s food offering was a great help—but the thirst kept haunting him, no matter how many times he stopped to drink, crouching near the low river’s banks, revolted by the tepid, muddied water it offered. Nothing to rival the fresh coolness of a forest spring. Yet, even had he dared to venture inland, he had no vessel to carry the beverage back with, so all the danger of running into bloodthirsty locals, surely confident with the unexpected victory, would not be worth the trouble, while Akweks needed to drink fresh water more than he did.

  The voices reached him as he neared his destination, barely giving him an opportunity to freeze, let alone seek cover. Someone was climbing up the riverbank, a group of people.

  Not daring to breathe, he slipped toward the nearest tree and the generous foliage behind his back. If worse came to worst, he would dive into the thickest of the forest, he decided, where it would be easier to fight back, facing one or two rivals each time, not the whole pack at once. Judging by the voices, there were more than a few people coming up.

  Five, he discovered, pressing against the rough trunk, the knife slick in his sweaty palm. But for the club he had lost, or a good bow! He held his breath.

  The men were armed with clubs, in high spirits, talking rapidly. All but one, a tall, stringy-looking man, trailing behind, quiet and observing. An easy prey, decided Okwaho. This one would be swiftest to get rid of. But what about the rest?

  He could handle them, he decided. Not much chances of coming out alive from such an encounter, but he wouldn’t go down without putting up a good fight. They wouldn’t have cause to remember him with contempt. They would—

  More voices and the sounds of breaking branches made his heart sink. This time, his eyes counted about ten more people. Oh, Mighty Spirits!

  Fighting the urge to crawl away, into the beckoning safety of the woods, he watched them conversing loudly, gesturing, so very sure of themselves. The boats. In such numbers, they surely came to fetch the boats. But to do that, they would have to…

  The ice in his stomach kept growing, making it difficult to take in breaths. In order to reach the boats, they would have to go past Akweks and his shelter, the cozy hideaway the rocks and the huge tree trunks created, hidden well in the generous foliage yes, but not well enough. What if his friend was awake now, groaning with pain, maybe. One murmur would be enough to catch the prowling enemy’s attention, to help them discover the survivor.

  The men upon the shore strolled in a leisurely way, in no hurry. Which was a wonder. Did they plan to make their way back in the darkness? It was already near dusk, and there were seven vessels there to find and carry.

  No, six. One small canoe was missing. Would they notice? Were they the same men who had discovered and hidden the boats on the different shore in the first place?

  His eyes scanned his surroundings, satisfied with a pile of stones they spotted, some large and moss covered, some perfectly round, hand-sized. He made his way there carefully, eyes still on the enemy. To have a hurling weapon close at hand felt good.

  To his surprise and sudden surge of relief, he saw them heading for the woods not anywhere near the place he had entered earlier with the hobbling Akweks. Was there another trail, a better one? He held his breath, hoping they all would disappear behind the thick greenery.

  A futile hope. The first five stayed where they were, conversing idly, not in a hurry or concerned. But for the thin bastard. Not about to mingle with his peers, that one wandered off, scanning the ground, deep in thought. Was he a scout?

  Okwaho strained his eyes, trying to see better. A nosy type, the invader was heading toward Akweks’ hideaway, not purposely but steadily, as though sensing something, facing the woods in what he was sure would appear as a peering gaze, then it was back to the study of the mud under his feet.

  Okwaho’s grip on his knife tightened, his muscles going rigid with tension. To throw it from such a distance would do no good, even had he been able to aim properly and hit his target. Yet, a stone… His hand car
essed the pile without looking, his fingers picking the most rounded missile. It fit perfectly in his palm.

  One of the enemies called out, yelling something in that foul-sounding tongue of theirs, clearly addressing the scouting man. He wished the girl was still by his side, translating. The thought made him smile. She had been fairly helpful. Then why not in this way, too? She clearly didn’t feel threatened, especially now, when her people won the day. A little beast. Why did she come back? Because he didn’t kill her and her friend, or lover, back on the hill? Did she feel grateful? Not likely, but with those strange people, one never knew.

  The thin man looked back, then shook his head. Not a reassuring gesture, as after a brief moment of hesitation, he resumed walking toward the darkening trees. Okwaho tucked his knife back into his loincloth, or what remained of it, the girdle tying it on torn and hanging in places. Hurriedly, he picked up another stone, having one for each hand now, before starting his careful slip toward the more open ground.

  The congregating people were looking up again, waving in the direction where their peers had disappeared moments before. One left the group, but his steps took him toward the scouting man, who was gesturing, demanding a company, unmistakably this time. Okwaho hesitated no more.

  His feet feeling light, welcoming the motion as opposed to the frustration of crouching, he rushed into the last of the light, aiming as he ran. The first stone hit the walking man square on the back of his head, shoving him forward, to hit the ground and sprawl there in a heap of limbs. The others turned swiftly, their clubs out, surprised but ready to fight. Two of the three rushed forward with no delay, but their lack of bows gave him another heartbeat of respite.

  The second stone swished, flying in a beautiful arc. If not for the distance, it would have been a better hit. Still, before he bolted toward the river, he saw the scouting man disappearing from his view, falling down most probably. Good!

  There was no time to rejoice in his victory. Akweks might have been safe for the time being, but three clubmen were quickly closing the distance between, very determined, every advantage on their side. Even having a club, he might have played with the idea of retreating. As it was, he sprinted toward the river, eyes upon the steep bank, scanning it frantically.