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

by Zoe Saadia

  Still, she held her tongue, huddling in the far corner, glad to be out of their sight and their possible attention. She needed to think things through, and she needed to get some medicine, anything, an ointment preferably, but maybe a bunch of dried herbs and roots would do.

  It was bad enough that Mother had caught her poring through her brother’s possessions, his precious bag of herbs and strange assortment of tools. She had tried to explain it as best as she could, pleading numerous scratches and bruises her own body displayed, but it only made Mother angrier.

  “Go and ask the Honorable Healer to help you with those, you disobedient child. I don’t want to know how you came by all your injuries. I simply refuse to know. After I told you—”

  “There was an attack on our village, Mother, in case you didn’t notice,” she had said, not caring about her tone or her words, so inappropriate, so lacking in respect. But the accusations were just too unwarranted this time! “I helped, yesterday, when they were shooting fire arrows, and this morning, when we all were there, expecting another attack. Everyone was out and helping, girls too. Even Namaas, that whiny example of perfection and the most appropriate behavior, even she was out there by the fence, useless as always, but trying to help.”

  “And why is she, or any other girl or woman of our attacked village not scratched and bruised like you are, not as disheveled, with their clothes still intact, not torn into a near lack of them?” her mother retorted, hands on her hips. She was a quiet woman, reserved, not outspoken, but sometimes, she could be pushed into anger.

  Kentika ground her teeth. “They are! They were as tousled and disheveled, I’m sure they were. But they bathed in the spring once the enemy was chased away and killed, and they put on other dresses.”

  “And you?” Mother’s voice had a victorious ring to it.

  “I hadn’t had time to do it properly yet.”

  “Of course, you wild thing. You were busy out there, doing forest spirits know what.” Picking up a large bowl and her grinding stick, the older woman turned away. “You are testing my patience, Daughter. And as for your father, you better hope no one has enough time to inform him about your last escapades.” An impatient shake of her head relating her bitterness, her mother was gone, heading for the neighboring cluster of houses, their clan women’s favorite place of gathering.

  Oh, please! she had thought back then, but her confidence disappeared as quickly when Father, with Migisso in tow, had burst through their cabin’s opening shortly thereafter, before she had time to decide which ones of the tied bunches of plants looked more promising, or at least a little familiar. Just as her brother’s fascination with herbs and their magical qualities was bottomless, hers was next to non-existent, no matter how the basics of this priceless knowledge was tried to be drummed into her, along with the other girls of her age.

  And here she was now, watching her brother’s humiliation, afraid to think Father would find time to question her as well.

  “The expedition to bring the boats was meaningless, just a simple task,” Father was saying, eyes narrowed into slits, glowering dangerously. “And yet, you could have proven yourself. The enemy provided you with a perfect opportunity, which you let go in that typical way of yours. All of you did. Useless!”

  The air stood still, frozen, like it sometimes did after the lightning struck when the thunder had yet to roar. Kentika pressed her hands together, sensing the violence. Would Father… He hadn’t struck any of them for quite a long time, but this time, he was truly angered.

  Her eyes darted between their faces, one broad, wrinkled, strong, a face one would not forget in a hurry, a pleasant sight but for the rage that contorted its features now; the other also broad and handsome, but lacking in vitality, closed, muffled, subdued, eyes facing the floor, shoulders sagging. As tall, as strong physically, maybe, but she knew if it came to violence, it would be no contest, as it always was.

  Oh, Benevolent Sky Spirits, please give him strength, please fortify his spirit.

  She took a step forward, then another. Their eyes leaped at her.

  “Go away, Daughter.” Father’s eyes focused, but the growl of his voice made her shiver. “Now.”

  “I will not.” She swallowed hard, but it did not help. Her mouth was as dry as the neglected field in summer. “I will—”

  The footsteps burst into the hovering silence, and the voices. People were coming up the alley, looking for the War Chief, undoubtedly. The next heartbeat confirmed this conclusion.

  “Honorable Leader?”

  Father pulled himself up with an admirable swiftness, one moment a thundercloud about to burst, the next a respectable elder, composed and in perfect control. A curt motion of a head gestured both of them out while the visitors, a large group of elders and other prominent men, began pouring in.

  Barely aware of her movements, Kentika dared to breathe only when the soft night air washed over her burning face, cooling it, or attempting to do so, as nothing seemed to be able to stop the flaming. She tried to concentrate, peering at the campfires that glimmered everywhere, people still crowding the alleys and open spaces outside their houses and cabins, congregating at the ceremonial grounds most probably. There seemed to be many voices coming from that direction.

  Her brother’s presence was nothing but a shadow walking by her side.

  “He was so unreasonable, so wrong,” she said, needing to break the silence. It hurt almost physically, to be enveloped by it. “I can’t believe that he blamed it on you.”

  “He was right.” His voice was empty, lacking in expression.

  She halted abruptly, but he didn’t stop.

  “No, he was not! How could you say that?” Catching up, she tried to peer at him through the darkness. “You can’t be blamed for the failure of an entire group of people, people you didn’t lead but only went along with.” He said nothing, hastening his step. “Also, you all went there to get the boats, and you did bring them back, didn’t you? So it wasn’t a failure.”

  “We lost two men while doing something as simple as fetching boats.” This time, it was his turn to stop, to turn and stare at her through the faint moonlight. “One lowlife on the loose, some sneaky pest our warriors didn’t manage to kill in the first place, disposed of two of our people and wounded one—me, that useless shadow of a person who calls himself your brother.” He drew a deep breath and the sound of it tore at her. “Achtohu was wounded anyway, so it left no one to try and hunt that lowlife down, to follow him in his swim, to not let him get away. You say it’s not uselessness, not a shame? I say it is!”

  “But he caught you unprepared.” She grabbed his arm and fought when he tried to wrench it away. “You weren’t prepared to run into anyone down there. So of course you didn’t expect—”

  “Well, we should have, shouldn’t we? Only this morning, we fought them, and here we were, strolling our shores as though inside the safety of our village’s fence.” His silhouetted shoulders sagged anew. “He is right. I’m useless. Always was, always will be.” A sigh. “We all were, but this was their first time, while mine…”

  “No, it is not like that.” She tried to recapture his hand, but he took a step back, and his gaze kept avoiding hers she knew, even though it was a mere guess, impossible to confirm in the darkness. “He took his anger out on you because you were close at hand. Because he could not have taken it out on anyone else. He is angry with more things than the stupid failure at the shore. This entire attack angers him, the burned houses, the neglected fields. The enemy surprised us and disrupted our life, and it angers him greatly. He takes it personally. He always does, doesn’t he?” A stubborn silence was her answer. “He is angry with the filthy enemy sneaking up on us, catching us barely prepared. And maybe he is frustrated with more things. His mission at Skootuck, eh? They didn’t listen to him, did they?”

  His shoulders lifted lightly, but it made her feel better. He was listening.

  “This mess at the shore is only a part of
it all, a small part. And it would have made no difference, if he hadn’t already been angry.” She drew a deep breath, afraid but needing to say it aloud, at long last. “He took his anger out on you, like he always does. Or me, or Mother even. Don’t tell me you never saw it as it is.”

  The silence enveloped them, broken only by voices carried by the wind. People were everywhere, and yet their small corner of the world was empty, abandoned, saved only for them. For a reason, she knew. Because some things needed to be said, at long last. Because Father was not the good man everyone assumed him to be, but only now did she realize it.

  “He was angry with you for his failures, not yours!”

  His arms came up abruptly, as though trying to push her words away.

  “No, he was not.” It rustled hoarsely, a mere whisper.

  “Yes, he was,” she insisted, her own anger rising, surprising her with the suddenness of it. “He never admits failures. But he must be responsible for some, mustn’t he? He can’t be without fault.”

  He shook his head tiredly. “Maybe. But you can’t try to make him answerable for mine.” A helpless shrug. “He may have his faults. Oh, yes, he does. I’m not blind, and not stupid, Sister. But what happened today at the river was not his fault, but mine.”

  She barely managed to restrain herself from stomping her foot. “Ten more men were there, and you weren’t their leader!”

  “I could have tried to take the leadership. That was what he said.”

  “How?” The darkness was less oppressive now, with her anger cooling and his despondency obviously lifting, if only a little.

  “I don’t know. Somehow.” He shifted his weight from one foot to another. “There was something strange about this shore. Something wasn’t right there. There were footsteps, fresh footsteps. Not prints from the day before. I wanted to see where they led.” His shrug was clearly visible, this familiar apathetic movement of shoulders. “They argued, but Achtohu listened. He said we would stay until they fetched the boats. Since we came back from Skootuck, he has come to trust my instincts, for some reason. I wonder why he would trust me when no one else would.”

  Another spell of silence prevailed. She felt her stomach tightening uneasily. “Did you find something? Do you know where the footprints led?”

  “I’m sure I would have, but then the dirty lowlife came out of nowhere, hurling stones. He killed Ponak right away, would you believe that? Broke the back of his head, made it cave in.”

  She shivered, remembering his cut. “He hit you, too.”

  “Yes, but by that time he was already on the run, as Achtohu and Amuau charged toward him.”

  “Thank all the great and small spirits for that,” she said fervently. “My gratitude is limitless.”

  His sigh was quiet, full of acceptance. She brushed it aside, more interested in other aspects of his story now.

  “What did the youth who threw the stones look like?”

  He looked at her, puzzled. “What do you mean? What youth?”

  “You know, the one who threw stones at you.” Embarrassed, she looked away, forgetting that in the darkness he couldn’t see what her eyes held any more than she could see his. “He… he must be a young warrior, no? I assumed that.”

  “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “Achtohu is the one who may give you an answer to that. He saw the traitorous rat up close. He fought him. Kicked him down the cliff, too. Right into the river.” Another sigh stirred the darkness. “He didn’t manage to hold on to Amuau. The filthy enemy clutched him too firmly. He was determined to take him down with him. He didn’t even try to resist the fall, Achtohu says. He just hung there. Like an ugly flea.”

  “He wanted to lure you away. He didn’t want you to find his friend,” she muttered, her mind back there, near the rocky shore, in the cozy enclosure the cliffs and the trees provided, the makeshift shelter with some grass spread on the earth, to make it softer, and the leaking piece of bark, his improvised water vessel, the one that held barely any liquid in it. Did his wounded friend feel any better now? Or was he still limp and sleepy, breathing shallowly, tormented, but not with heat. He became so upset, so unreasonable at her suggestion that his wounded friend was sick, from rotting wounds maybe.

  The heavy silence enveloped her, not comfortable or welcome anymore. She felt her brother go rigid, turned to stone, staring at her. Even in the darkness, she could see his widening eyes.

  “What?” She tried to find something to say. “I just asked questions. Why do you get so upset?”

  “What do you know about all this, Kentika?”

  She said nothing for a moment, desperate to gather her thoughts.

  “What do you know about the ‘youth that threw stones’?” he repeated, his voice rising. “And ‘his friend’? What friend? I don’t understand. What do you know about any of this?”

  “Nothing!” As always when pressed, she felt nothing but anger. He had no right to yell at her. “What do you want? I asked questions, that’s all.”

  He came closer. “What do you know about the enemy? Did you meet him before? Do you know what he looks like? Are there more of them out there?”

  She tossed her head high. “I don’t have to tell you anything!”

  The incredulousness of his stare turned so intense it pierced the darkness. She could feel it, boring into her. His gaping mouth made her wish to laugh, but not in a merry way.

  “Don’t stare at me like that. I did nothing wrong. And it has nothing to do with your fighting on that shore.”

  “Tell me,” he breathed, still frozen in that ridiculous pose.

  “There is nothing to tell.” Suddenly perturbed, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. What if he insisted? What if he told the others about it? “I was just curious. Also,” she glanced at the flickering lights of the ceremonial grounds, “we better go there now, hear what they say. I want to go to sleep. Wish they weren’t always gathering in our house to discuss things.”

  Not waiting for his answer, she hurried off, her heart beating fast, thoughts racing. Could her trip back to the shore wait for the morning, as planned? Now, with that youth on the run, about to be hunted by every man that could wield a weapon with the coming of dawn, with all the new developments, she might be required to rethink her plans.

  And it was not even certain that he was still alive and well. Maybe he was dead down there in the river, drowned, bleeding and broken-limbed. Or maybe he was wounded, dying on this or that low shore. And then there was his friend, still undiscovered, but not for long.

  She shook her head, determined. There was not enough moonlight to travel all the way, but there would be, probably, later on. If the wind held and the clouds dispersed.

  Chapter 17

  The quiet and the darkness were getting the better of him. Crouching in the far corner, sheltered from the wind and its coolness by the low row of bushes, Migisso tried not to let the relative comfort of his hideaway lull him into sleep, despite the all-encompassing tiredness.

  Just a few more heartbeats, he promised himself. He would count to one hundred, then another round, maybe. If she doesn’t come out by then, then he was wrong, plain wrong, and she must have been fast asleep now, enveloped in coziness and the friendly warmth of their cabin.

  Rubbing his eyes, he shifted, then tensed. The rustling inside the house was unmistakable. Someone was moving there, careful to disturb nothing, neither object nor a light sleeper.

  So she hadn’t gone to sleep upon her return. He pressed his lips together. Of course she didn’t. He didn’t expect her to. Clearly, she was up to something, hiding vital things, involved despite her claims that her secret had nothing to do with any of it.

  Of course it did, but in what way? He didn’t know. She had rushed off too abruptly, avoiding his company with real determination ever since. But he wasn’t about to let her get away with it, not this time.

  The new wave of anger helped to banish the sleepiness. Leaning forward, he peered into the da
rkness, made better by the reappearing moon. Soon his vigil was rewarded with her sneaking out, a faintly outlined silhouette, unmistakably hers.

  Peering ahead, she hesitated, then, adjusting the bag more comfortably behind her shoulder, she charged into the night, her pace swift and determined, sure of itself.

  He forced his limbs into stillness, the effort to stay motionless not coming easily, not this time. To guess her direction was not a difficult task, but to follow her undiscovered would prove more challenging, he knew. Her senses were sharp, her hearing exceptional, long summers of wandering about the woods giving her a clear advantage over even some experienced men. And yet, if she headed where he thought she was heading, there was no need to follow her closely. They would arrive at the same destination anyway. Silently, he slipped into the house, glad that his bow was always within easy reach.

  What was she up to? he asked himself, as the night enveloped him, unpleasantly cold. What did she know about the enemy? What did she do with them?

  A new wave of anger threatened to take him, but he fought it down, determined not to let it spoil his chance. If she brought him all the way to where the enemy might be hiding, it would give him a perfect opportunity to redeem himself, at least in Father’s eyes.

  He shuddered, then concentrated. To think about Father, or what he had said, hurt. But she was mistaken. The War Chief was correct, as always. He had been the leader of their village for many summers, and even people of Skootuck listened to him from time to time. No, such a man could not be guilty of the pettiness and false pride she had accused him of. She was definitely mistaken, obviously guilty of crimes of her own, as it turned out.

  The opening in the fence showed clear signs of someone heading through it a very short time ago: the warmth of the parts of the wooden poles, the trampled plant that was striving to return to its normal position. He studied those, satisfied, blessing the moon for besting the clouds in order to show him the way. Had it been truly dark, he would have never been able to follow her without the aid of a torch that would have given his presence away in a matter of heartbeats.