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

by Zoe Saadia

  “I need more light. Tell him.”

  She fought her growing nausea, desperate to dart outside, away from the stench that filled their small hideaway, rising like tide, or pressing from above, like a thick blanket.

  “He needs… he wants, he ask me to tell you…”

  The wolf youth looked as though about to vomit too, his lips just a colorless line, eyes wild. “What?”

  “He light, needs light.”

  He whirled back toward the fire, as though welcoming the chance to get away, even if for a short while. His improvised torch, just a burning stick, did not look promising, but it did increase the illumination around the wounded.

  “More cloths.”

  The short order brought her to the fire, too, fighting the urge to dive into the nearby bushes. But for a small gulp of fresh air; just for a brief moment with no stench that assaulted her nostrils viciously, filling her lungs, suffocating, unbearable. How did they stand it? She found herself envying the wounded his unconsciousness, the yellowish, putrid liquid soaked into the used cloth she held clinging to her skin, promising to stay there forever. Oh, Mighty Glooskap!

  “Wash the knife thoroughly.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw the wolf youth tensing, following the progress of his weapon with his gaze. The water in the pot was not bubbling anymore.

  Unaware of her movements, acting as though outside herself, she added another log to the fire, then washed the jagged blade hurriedly, before the water warmed to unbearable again.

  Migisso straightened up, eyeing his work with the critical eye of an artist admiring a carving he had just made.

  “It should be closed up,” he commented, then shrugged. “But I have nothing to sew it with. And maybe it’s for the best. More of the bad things will come out, and dry.” He eased his shoulders, then glanced up for the first time since the beginning of the treatment. “Are you well, Sister?”

  She tried to nod as calmly as she could. “Is it over?” The trembling of her lips made it difficult to form words.

  He just nodded.

  “Will he live?”

  Shrugging, he glanced at the wolf man, instead. “Tell him I did all I could. Tell him he may live, but he needs to be watched closely for some time. If he didn’t go to the worlds of the spirits by now, maybe he’ll manage to stay. I’ll make something for him to drink, something that might help to make his body stronger. Since you stole my bag, we have all we need here with us, haven’t we?”

  “Oh, I—”

  “What did he say? Is it over?” The wolf youth cut into her speech, his voice trembling, face ashen.

  “Yes, he say, he say he did everything. Maybe live. But need care. Drink brews. Take care.”

  She watched his mouth twitching, his throat moving jerkily with each swallow. He better move away from his wounded friend when he vomits, she reflected randomly.

  “He looks dead.” His voice was also difficult to recognize, such a low, throaty sound.

  As though understanding the comment, Migisso leaned forward, putting his ear to the lifeless chest. They held their breaths.

  “He is breathing.” Straightening up, her brother eased his shoulders once again, then reached for the bag, forgotten under the nearest stone. “His heart is beating. Not strongly, but steadily. If he wakes to drink the medicine, he might live.”

  The wolf youth’s expression made her aware that there was no need to spend her energy on translation, not this time. His face lost some of its haunted look.

  “Tell him I’m grateful. Grateful that he tried. I won’t forget.”

  “He says—”

  “We have no time for the idle talk.” Migisso cut her off unceremoniously, with such unfamiliar decisiveness, she found herself gaping. His gaze held hers, firm, determined, a man in charge. “Empty this pot and tell him to bring more water and more firewood. And he better hurry.” The cold flicker in his eyes was unmistakable. “They don’t want to be here by the dawn break. Or all my work here will be in vain.”

  “Oh!” The pang of fear was painful, resonating in her chest.

  “Tell him to bring water first. And quickly.”

  The wolf youth was staring at her, openly perturbed. “What does he say?”

  “We need water. Clean water. For medicine. And more,” she gestured at the branches, suddenly forgetting the appropriate words of the foreign tongue. “More this.”

  “Yes, of course.” On his feet, he eyed her briefly. “He’ll make medicine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell him I will repay. Tell him—”

  “No time, you need hurry.” Now it was her turn to cut him off, the urgency dawning on her at long last. By daybreak, every man who could carry a weapon would be here, looking for him. “I come with you. Bring branches.”

  He nodded curtly, but his eyes flickered in a manner that made her knees weak. He did appreciate her help, oh yes, he knew how good she was to them, and he was grateful. And also…

  Her heart fluttering strangely, she followed him as he dived into the bushes. What was in this gaze of his that made her so unsettled? A simple gratitude should not have done this. She knew he was grateful. He told her so quite a few times.

  The night enveloped them with its blissful freshness, with a crisp wind, cold but oh so very welcome. Busy going through the contents of his bag, Migisso paid their exit no attention.

  “I will not take the freshness of the night for granted, never again.” Looking up, her companion inhaled loudly, drawing in as much air as he could, she suspected. She was doing the same, but in a quieter manner. “The lack of stench, that’s what was missing.”

  Against her nervousness and foreboding, she giggled. “I will not, too. I thought I will, will take it all out there, everything from my inside.” For the life of her, she could not remember the word for ‘vomit’.

  “Yes, it was not easy not to retch all over.” His voice lost some of its previous lightness. “How did he do this? I mean, he was so … so sure of himself. Is he a great healer? He looks too young to be so good. He must be highly sought after.”

  She glanced at him briefly, seeking signs of him teasing her. “Migisso? He is no healer, no sought after. He… he loves healing, loves herbs, but he can’t, can’t be healer. He is to be warrior, you see? Like Father. Warrior, leader.”

  “Warrior?” This time, she felt his gaze brushing over her, his voice trembling with a hint of mischief. “Your brother is no warrior.”

  “He, yes, he can be.” The open contempt of his words hurt. “He just … he needs learn, practice. He be warrior, one day he will be…” Enraged, she halted, staring at him, hating the crookedness of his grin, one side of the mouth up, one eyebrow arched, the picture of open doubt. “You don’t know, you just meet.”

  “Just met, yes. In an ambush. He was shooting at me from the bushes, obviously having watched us for some time.” His laughter was the most annoying sound, rolling softly, laced with unbearable superiority. “He should have succeeded, you know. The most mediocre warrior would have. Also, he should have been ready for the chance of missing, ready with his knife, or a club.” A good-natured wink and he resumed his walk, not bothering to make sure if she followed or not. So much arrogance! “You are the better warrior than he is. You gave me a hard time upon our first meeting, and if you bothered to hide in the bushes instead of just running and shooting, I would have been impaled right away.” Another soft chuckle reached her as she followed, too enraged to just turn around and go back. “Your family has a strange way of introducing themselves to people, local girl. What is your name, anyway?”

  “Kentika,” she grunted out through her clenched teeth. “And you, you have strange way of coming, coming visiting. You come with warriors, and fire arrows. And you complain, complain your welcome. You …” Frantically, she searched her limited vocabulary, frustrated that she could not say all she thought about him in a normal tongue. “You don’t dare complain.”

  The river was ag
ain upon them, not lit as strongly as before. His chuckle wafted in the air as faintly.

  “Yes, you may be right about that.” Bettering his grip on the heavy pottery, he hesitated before taking the familiar rocky trail. “Your brother is a good man. I owe him much, whether Akweks lives or not. I wish I could repay him, somehow. He is a good man, and an accomplished healer. Even if he wants to be a warrior, instead.”

  “He doesn’t, doesn’t want.” Watching his wide back disappearing between the rocks, she hesitated in her turn, then followed, as though tied to his girdle by invisible rope. “He wants to heal, yes, to heal people, to treat. He loves doing this. He is good, yes. He took care of Schikan. Schikan was hurt badly, and his arm, it was broken. But Migisso made… he made…” Another attempt to find a missing word. Oh, but it was frustrating to talk to him for longer than a little while. “He tied, tied two sticks, you see? To hold it…”

  “A splint?” His voice reached her from quite far. Obviously, he needed no more guidance while following the already-familiar trail.

  She hastened her step. “Yes, splint. Migisso made splint, good splint. And he made brew for Schikan to drink. You see? He took care. The medicine man, he trusts, let Migisso help, take care. He knows my brother do good.”

  “Then why? Why is your brother not taking his real path, if he loves it and is good at it?” He was kneeling on the last rock, one hand holding onto a protruding edge, the other dealing with pottery, quick, efficient, matter-of-fact. Wasn’t he as tired, as spent and exhausted as she was? Lacking in sleep, lacking in food, didn’t he need to rest from time to time? Or was he sent here by Malsum or some other spirit after all, evil or good, or maybe both, but not entirely human?

  Fascinated, she studied him, as he jumped back to his feet, balancing his cumbersome cargo with no visible effort, swift and agile, in an obvious hurry, a spectacular vision, even in the meager night illumination, showing no signs of exhaustion. How did he do it, when all she wanted was to crawl somewhere, to curl around herself and sleep for a whole span of seasons, forgetting the terrible treatment she had just witnessed most of all.

  “What?” He peered at her, puzzled.

  “I think you Malsum. Not as evil as they say, maybe, but yes, Malsum the Wolf. Not human. Not just warrior.”

  One of his eyebrows arched. “Didn’t we talk about it before?” A light half-grin playing in the corner of his mouth, he pushed himself past her, beckoning her to follow. “I have nothing to do with your local spirits. But my guiding spirit is a wolf, a wonderful silvery vision I told you about. And he is good. Nothing evil about him.”

  “Did you ask, ask for his help?” She shielded her face against a new gust of wind. “Did you try talk, call him?”

  He said nothing, and she regretted asking a question as intimate as this. One didn’t prompt people to talk about such private matters. It was beyond good manners.

  “I did.” His voice drifted quietly, floating with the wind. “Just as I came back to our world, having been washed to this accursed shore with Akweks. I called on my guiding spirit, and I thanked him for giving me my life back. And yes, I may have asked for a little help.” There was a smile in his voice, a good smile, full of kindness, lacking in amusement. “I know one is not supposed to do that, and I didn’t really. I just asked for advice, for a little guidance.” Another brief pause filled the strangely comfortable silence. “Little did I know in what way my prayer might have been answered. Such a tortuous way! And it took me time to understand. Do you think the spirits are having a good laugh at my expense?”

  With the trees back upon them, he slowed his step, turning to face her, nothing but a dark form, yet somehow, she knew what his eyes held, and the knowledge of it made her shiver with a strange mix of fear and expectation.

  “What? In what way?” It felt safer to talk. She swallowed hard. “What do you mean …” Her voice trailed off, but she didn’t take a step back, suddenly wanting him to do something, something wonderfully dangerous, deliciously wrong. Would he …

  From so close up, his eyes glimmered. “I mean that I never expected them to send me help in such an untamed, forceful, wildly attractive form.”

  With the round bowl getting in his way—he was still balancing it in both hands, careful not to spill its contents—his face was the only thing to near hers, leaning forward, beaming at her. Not grave or foreboding, but happily animated, mischievously expectant.

  She hadn’t spent time pondering the matters of love, but on the rare occasions she did, she had imagined it to be a solemn affair, full of gravity and celebrative foreboding. Not a laughable matter.

  Oh, but there was none of it here, on this wind-stricken shore, with his eyes holding nothing but playful expectation, so very close now, glittering with mirth, and his lips dry and cracked but somehow welcome, warm upon her mouth.

  The time stopped. The night, the wind, the sky, even the stupid bowl, disappeared, melting away in oblivion. Only the overpowering sense of his presence remained, his smell, the warmth of his breath.

  Dazed, she felt her own lips reacting, welcoming his, her mind in a jumble, a small part of it worrying that she might fall as her legs were weak, while the rest of it went blank, giving in to a dazzling sensation. No ritual solemnity, no dancing spirits; nothing but the all-pervading warmth, and the fluttering in her stomach, and the soaring of her spirit, like when jumping from a high cliff headfirst, this wonderful sensation of letting go. And the annoying trembling in her knees.

  Forcefully, his lips parted hers, and it made her shiver. The pleasant warmth disappeared, giving way to a splash of near-panic. Frightened, she jerked away, sensing him shivering too, struggling not to let the bowl slip from his grip.

  “We better bring it back quickly,” he murmured, still fiddling with his burden.

  She tried to contain the trembling.

  “Are you all right?” Now his eyes were upon her, hesitant, not amused anymore.

  Pushing her hair out of her face, she nodded, shamed by the way her hands shook. Her teeth would have clattered, had she not been clenching them tight.

  He made no attempt to move. “I shouldn’t have … I …” Shifting his cargo to one hand, he rubbed his face with the other. “I… I don’t know what happened to me. I’m sorry.” Resolutely, he straightened up. “Come, we need to hurry.”

  Chapter 19

  The wounded’s breathing was light, imperceptible, his chest barely moving under Migisso’s ear. Listening to the faint heartbeat, he held his own breath, trying to hear better.

  Was the man dying? He didn’t know. A faint heartbeat was not a good thing, but it was better than none.

  “His heart is still beating,” he said, straightening up. “He hasn’t left our world yet.”

  They both stared at him, frozen in their dread. Was he to check on their breathing, too?

  He motioned with his head. “Take the pot off the fire for now.”

  The man was the one to react, doing as he had been told, understanding with surprising ease. One didn’t always need to talk in order to communicate, reflected Migisso, reaching for his bag.

  “Now tell him this.”

  Glancing at his sister, he again found himself puzzling over the change. Since coming back from fetching the water, with no firewood loading her arms—did she just follow the foreigner back and forth?—she had been like that, quiet, absorbed, deep in thought, moving slowly, with a measure of uncertainty. His sister? The restless, lively Kentika?

  Pushing his puzzled observations aside, he fished out a slim bunch of dried leaves.

  “Take these and crush them into the smallest of pieces. They should be ground, but we have no vessels and no tools to do that. So just crush them into as many pieces as you can. And tell him to bring more firewood. We’ll need to make it boil in a short while.”

  “I…” She hesitated, as though about to argue, then her gaze concentrated. “Well, yes, of course.”

  A short address in the foreign tongue,
and the man nodded stiffly, avoiding her gaze. Not that her eyes dared to rise higher than her converser’s chin. Where did the cozy atmosphere of the earlier part of the night go? All the affectionate smiles and friendly laughter that made him so angry when he had watched them from behind the bushes. Well, now these two were as wary as two male coyotes on the same clearing.

  He sensed the wounded’s pattern of breathing changing, and it made him forget his musings. Enemy or not, this man was his responsibility, entrusted into his care, a difficult problem, a challenge to any healer, even the most experienced one. He had done something not every medicine man would agree to try, and he had managed so far. The youth didn’t bleed to death, which could have happened several times throughout the operation, the upper leg having many dangerous areas where the blood could have burst all of a sudden, in an unrestrained flow. He had to cut very carefully, and he wasn’t always sure the lethal gush would not erupt anyway. But he had managed, he had! And if the wounded lived, oh, Mighty Glooskap, if this youth lived, he, Migisso, would have proven once and for all…

  “When will he be waking up?” Kentika’s voice broke into his thoughts, interrupting him in the process of counting the wounded’s heartbeats. He motioned her to shut up.

  “He may stay like that for a long time.” Having finished the counting, he watched the stark, lifeless face, fearing the worst. Some people may stay like that for dawns, their chances of returning to the world of the living not good, but not impossible either. With proper care, appropriate brews and foods, one might tempt such spirits to return.

  With proper care.

  Something this youth would not receive. He would either wake up, drink a hastily composed medicine, smear a sloppily prepared ointment over his half-severed leg and hobble away, carried by his fierce companion, before the break of dawn, or he would die. To stay in such a state would bring him nothing but a quick dispatching by his, Migisso’s, fellow villagers. And even if he managed to wake up before dawn, his chances were slim at best, nonexistent at worst.