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

by Zoe Saadia

  To jump in might have been an easy way out. If he broke no limbs or didn’t bash his head open by the rocks lining its bottom, he might have a fair chance of getting away. And yet, that would leave Akweks here alone, facing these people, and just as they had been lifted from the illusion of killing all enemies in the morning. They must have been thinking that, judging by their behavior, if not by what the girl had said.

  He calculated fast. Having no bows or other shooting devices, these men could do nothing more than run after him. As they did. He heard their shouts, the heaviness of their breathing.

  Make them put as much distance between themselves and this place as possible, his mind kept repeating, pounding in a perfect accord with the thumping of his heart. If only he had been at his best now, not as tired or bruised, not as alien to these woods.

  In a desperate leap, he gained the upper ground of the nearest cliff, miraculously not slipping upon its slimy surface. A quick glance back showed him that only two men were still in hot pursuit. Another one, a youth with a sling and badly swollen face, had a hard time keeping up, his good arm clutching a club that did nothing but hinder his progress. The people with the boats were nowhere to be seen. Busy with their precious cargo? He hoped they were.

  A quick scan revealing no proper objects to hurl at his chasers, Okwaho looked down, at the current rushing below. Not an inviting dive. He hesitated, then saw a small tier, not wide enough for even one man to stand on, unless he was careful.

  Another glance at the indifferent river. He calculated again. The less people left up there to investigate the matter, the better. The dusk was upon them, and those who went to gather the boats would be in a hurry to go back.

  Struggling upon the slimy surface, he didn’t care for the noise he made while sliding down and into the uneven terrain, almost falling for real, clinging to the ragged stones with his entire body, balancing desperately, hearing the splash of small rocks in the water gushing below. The footsteps of his pursuers echoed above his head. He held his breath, sure that the wild hammering of his heart would give his presence away. It would be impossible to miss him, but all he needed was a brief moment or two, a surprise.

  The rasping voice reached him as the man’s upper body shadowed the last of the light, his shoulders wide, chin scratched and on full display. He was kneeling most probably, or maybe crouching, peering into the water, noticing nothing untoward at first. The other one was talking above, not joining his peer, not yet. It was time.

  Sacrificing his painfully gained balance, Okwaho reached out, grabbing the first man’s shoulder, pulling with the remnants of his strength. If only his other hand could have found something to clutch onto, something steady, something that would give him even a faint semblance of support. As it was, he was hanging onto the man he was trying to make fall. Not the best of situations.

  His victim was tottering but holding on, receiving no help as it seemed, with his companion probably stunned momentarily to react in a proper way. Okwaho felt his grip slipping. In desperation, he hurled his body upward, giving up on the possibility of staying where he was, his other hand catching something. A tuft of hair? He didn’t care. The fall was inevitable, but his rival would go down as well. With only one unharmed man left up there, Akweks might be relatively safe.

  Another heartbeat saw them still tottering, with Okwaho’s instincts acting against his judgment and will, his legs struggling to locate the tier again, to gain a bit of steadiness. It was ridiculous. He knew his grip was slipping, but when a moccasin smashed into his face, and he felt himself pushed into nothingness, stunned but still lucid, he was still clutching his prey.

  The fall turned out to be not as long, made faster by the weight of his rival’s body. In no time, the agitated water hit them, then hurried to swirl and whirl and hurl Okwaho away from his victim, but by this time, he didn’t care. The need to breathe became the first priority, and he kicked toward the last of the light frantically, near panic, as always when under the water and unprepared.

  Slick rocks and drifting logs were everywhere, eager to hurt, but he paid them no attention, catching one unsteady surface after another, until managing to hold on.

  Blinking, he scanned the rushing water, trying to see through the deepening dusk. The yells from behind him were muffled, but only because his ears were full of water. Still, he didn’t hurry to dive back and let the current take him farther away. The unfamiliar river might prove dangerous to swim in, especially in the gathering darkness, and he still needed to make sure they had left this place and Akweks alone, with or without the boats. Not to mention the possible danger from the man he had dragged along while falling.

  Wiping his eyes against his upper arm, he scanned the river again, not daring to release his grip of the untrustworthy, slippery surface he now clutched with both hands.

  Nothing.

  As far as he could see, only the water seemed to be alive in this place. That, and the cliff he had fallen from. Adorned with more than one head, it looked very much alive, disturbingly so.

  The temptation to dive back into the current and put as much distance between himself and these people welled. Knowing every bend of this river, and having so many men and plenty of boats, the enemy would be fools not to attempt to hunt him down. And fools they were not. That much he had learned so far. Not fools, nor cowards, despite what his countryfolk used to say about these Eastern River’s dwellers.

  What to do?

  He watched the cliff, finding it difficult to see in the rapidly disappearing light. The night would force them to go back. Unless they decided to pitch a camp here, to wait for the morning. Oh, Mighty Spirits; oh, Benevolent Right-Handed Twin, don’t let them do that. The night should give him enough time to come back and remove Akweks from the accursed shore. If his friend felt better, then all was well, as then they would sail, to try to locate the rest of their forces. It was the best of solutions, even if a risky one. The enemy countryside was an enigma, and yet they were strong and tough, and now bloodied in battle at long last. They could make it.

  Unless Akweks was not feeling better, but worse.

  He narrowed his eyes against the constant drizzle, eyeing the darkening silhouette of the cliff, the heads upon it gone, the shouts subdued. Or were those his vision and hearing playing tricks on him?

  Oh, let them take the boats and go away! Because if Akweks was not feeling better, he would load the wounded into that small canoe he had hidden and then he would sail for home. A long journey, and not a promising one, but what better solution was there? If Akweks’ wounds truly began to rot, the young man had no chance whatsoever, not without a good healer, good care, and the benevolence of the Great Spirits. None of which he could provide now unless they reached Cohoes Falls fast.

  The abrupt splash behind his back tore him from the intensity of his observations, in time to see the man he had dragged along down the cliff struggling not far away, beating the water with his arms, not doing a good job of keeping afloat.

  Catching his breath, Okwaho let his rickety support go, his hands seeking frantically, terrified that the rough fall or the wild current might have torn his knife out of its girdle.

  The water enveloped him once again, muddy and alien, hostile. He tried to see through the obscure haze. A blurry form was hovering not far away, fluttering with its limbs, raising clouds of mud. As though the waters were not marshy enough.

  Desperate not to get his limbs caught between many ominous obstacles, ready to pounce, Okwaho tore at his loincloth, his fingers locating the knife, its touch familiar, reassuring. Losing sight of his enemy, he kicked for the surface once again.

  This time, the marshy sand greeted him, dotted with logs and prickly vegetation aplenty. Pleased to have a stretch of somewhat steady ground under his feet, he clung to a long branch, desperate to stabilize himself, ready to fight.

  Another quick check of the river did not reassure him. The man was gone. Where to?

  More scanning. Ah, there, by th
at cluster of rocks. An inanimate form was flapping with the ripples, beating against the surrounding stones. Okwaho hesitated, his head still buzzing from his own struggle with the current, too disoriented to analyze properly. The man was swimming strangely before, yes, more struggling than progressing. Did he break something vital while falling down the cliff? Maybe. Which would be the most perfect of solutions. He, Okwaho, could do with no additional fighting for now.

  Groping his way up the shore, the semidarkness making it impossible not to trip, he fought the urge to lie down and close his eyes. But for the enemy being too near, in a questionable condition or not, he would have done just that, crashed down and waited for the darkness to come. Or better yet, slept through the entire night, to wake up to none of this trouble. As it was, he pushed on, following yet another bend of the shore, aiming to reach the cluster of rocks with no additional swimming.

  The man was dying, that much was obvious. Lying awkwardly, with one half of his body supported by the stony surface—the wrong half, as his upper part was not only tilted downwards, washed by the water, but also pushed by it again and again, to bump gently against the neighboring rocks—he looked as broken as a person still alive might be, one leg turned at an impossible angle, the other bent strangely, blood trickling down his forehead and out of the corner of his mouth, his eyes opened but blurry, reflecting no understanding. Still, he was alive enough to pull his face away from the water each time the next ripple covered it.

  Sighing, Okwaho knelt beside him.

  “It’ll hurt for only a heartbeat,” he said, trying to sound calming.

  His hands trembling from the effort, he caught the wounded’s shoulders, pulling him up, struggling to maintain his own balance. The man groaned, but didn’t cry out, biting his lips instead, drawing more blood.

  The newly achieved position was barely satisfactory, but no water covered the drawn face now, and after the agony receded, the man’s features relaxed, his eyes turning calmer, reflecting an understanding.

  Okwaho squatted beside him, as uncomfortable.

  “Now prepare for your journey,” he said, remembering what faith keepers would say on such an occasion. “Go calmly. Not with anger or fear. Your Sky Path will be easy to find if you seek it with your heart open and your spirit calm. Think of good things.”

  He listened to the serenity of his own voice, and it surprised him, but calmed him too. There was no need to thrash about, seeking perfect solutions. They would come once one thought lucidly, once one was prepared to accept that not everything would work out exactly as one wanted. He could almost hear Father saying that, in those very words as well as in different ones.

  If only Father were here now. His fingers found the small leather pouch, still attached to the remnants of his girdle. It didn’t surprise him at all. As long as Father’s necklace was there, he would be all right.

  Glancing at the darkening sky, he concentrated on the broken man in front of him. “The Sky World awaits you. See how clear it is now? No clouds, no mist, no wind. You’ll find your Sky Path easily.”

  The man’s eyes followed his gaze, then came back, expectant, washed with pain, concentrating then blurring again. He did not understand a word of the foreign tongue, of course, but the general meaning must have been clear to him, must have been calming and reassuring. Okwaho went on.

  “Think of your guiding spirit. Ask for his help. He might be willing to accompany you. Wish you could tell me what it is.”

  The inappropriate comment shamed him. The man might not understand a word of what he said, but the spirits did. Foreign or local, it didn’t matter. Great Spirits were Great Spirits.

  He forced himself to concentrate, to think of the Sky World, of the Grandmother Moon that was already glowing in the darkening sky, ready to collect this departing spirit, to weave this man’s hair into her mantle.

  The shivers took his charge, his limbs jerking now and then, but his eyes clinging to Okwaho, pleading. He swallowed, wishing to pause, to get up and drink, to run away from here.

  “The Grandmother Moon is here, you see?” He pointed at the sky. “She is smiling, happy to take your hair and weave it into her beautiful mantle. And Gadowaas, he is waiting for you up there, to admit you into the Sky World when your journey is over.”

  Did they know about all this, he wondered. About the Sky World and Gadowaas, and the importance of one’s calm, tranquil departure? He would have to make sure to ask the girl. With her strange tales of that Glooskap and another one, the bad wolf spirit.

  He suppressed a grin, his mind-eyes seeing her and not the broken man in front of him. Such an outlandish thing, restless and vital, with the funniest way of talking, as though in a rush to say it all, not pausing for breath, not caring for proper sentencing, eyes large and so widely spaced, strange but appealing, somehow. He would ask her about all that. If she came as she had promised.

  Chapter 16

  She stared at her brother, unable to take her eyes off the crusted cut above his ear. Swollen and ugly looking, it glared at her, distracting her from what he said, impossible things in themselves.

  “Why did you split in the first place?” asked Father, curt and matter-of-fact.

  He had squatted near the fire, the only illumination in such a late part of the evening, motionless, his face a mask carved out of wood, hands folded, holding no pipe or cup or bowl with forest nuts like many men would have done. No, not Father, she knew, shivering, worrying for her brother. There was no accusation in these words, not yet, but the question sounded accusing.

  “We thought it was the best to scan the shore. Just in case. In case the enemy left any signs.” Migisso swallowed, visibly unsettled. “You see, there were prints on the shore. Fresh prints. From the time the enemy was supposed to be defeated, gone. I followed them, the footprints, just as. . .” The young man’s voice trailed off.

  “Just as the enemy bothered to give clearer signs of them not being dead or gone.” Father’s words rang icily, cutting.

  A brief silence prevailed, while Kentika’s thoughts rushed about. So the wolf youth had been discovered, she realized, her stomach turning uneasily. Discovered and chased, but not caught. Not according to her brother. The stones he threw wounded people, some severely, some relatively lightly. One cut Migisso’s ear, but didn’t do much damage.

  She had thanked the Mighty Glooskap and all the rest of the sky spirits for that, promising a beautiful offering the moment she could find something worthwhile to offer. Because had the wolf youth managed to harm her brother, she would have turned into his enemy, and she didn’t want it to come to this, not yet. Maybe later. But not now. She still needed to bring him more food, and some medicine to his friend, like she promised. The wounded was not in good shape, and she even played with the idea of asking for her brother’s advice on the matter. After running into him earlier, on her way back, she debated that thought with herself over and over while bathing in the spring, and later, while rushing through the alleys of the agitated village or brushing off Mother’s admonishments. Migisso might have been willing to help. And why not? The wolf youth and his friend weren’t bad.

  But now!

  She studied his face once again, set and dark with what looked like genuine anger. Migisso was usually placid and good-natured, reserved, closemouthed, difficult to see through. An enigma. But not to her. She was able to read him as clearly as drawings on stones. When he was angry, or pleased, or upset, no one knew, not even Father. No one but her.

  “So the enemy is still out there, wandering about as they please.” Father’s voice dripped with an open disdain.

  Migisso winced visibly. “There was only one warrior up there. Only one.”

  “Which our brave men, those who stayed to ‘scan the shore,’ you included, didn’t manage to catch or kill, or even just injure.” Not a muscle moved in the renowned leader’s face, but the tone of his voice said it all.

  Kentika frowned. Her brother did not deserve such a rebuke. And nei
ther did the others. They did everything they could, she was sure of that. They were not as useless as Father’s words implied.

  Migisso’s face seemed to reflect the same sentiment. “He was injured, most surely he was,” he said in a firmer voice. “Achtohu pushed him down the cliff, and saw him being swirled with the current like a broken log.”

  “Along with Amuau.” The War Chief’s nostrils widened as the air hissed, drawn in with too much force. “Achtohu was stupid to do what he did.”

  “He didn’t…” Migisso’s face fell. “He tried to hold on to Amuau, but his arm, it was in a sling, broken, you see? He couldn’t hold on. And we still hope to find Amuau alive and well. He might have been carried away by the current.” His fighting spirit gone again, Migisso stared at the earthen floor, his shoulders sagging. “It was too dark to look for him, and we needed to bring the boats back. But tomorrow with dawn—”

  “Tomorrow with dawn you all will be out there, looking for the dirty enemy!” The cutting edge in Father’s voice made Kentika wince in her turn. Heart pounding, she stared into the suddenly contorted face, not a mask but a thundercloud now, about to burst with the deadliest of storms. “If you think that Amuau just swam while the enemy went down like a rotten log, you do not deserve to be called a man, a warrior, a proud hunter. Your place should be with women, tending plots and grinding maize.” The venom was there, dripping out of the dark eyes. “I dared to hope you were finally beginning to turn into a man. People talked positively of you, your involvement in the previous day and night’s battles. But they evidently had lower expectations than mine.”

  Mesmerized, she watched the glowing eyes, boring into her brother, making him shrink, or maybe melt like a snowball under the strong sun. As always, it angered her, the unfairness of it. Migisso was not like everyone else, true, but he was good and courageous, even if in his own different way.