by Zoe Saadia
Her heart came to a halt at the thought of Migisso out there too, stuck with the enemy. No, not the enemy. The wolf youth would not harm him, never, not after everything he had done for his friend. And yet, with more enemies out there now, oh, Mighty Glooskap! Was Migisso in danger now too, and also because of her?
Crawling closer, she tried to see better, to decipher what the enemy was doing, and where her father’s people were now. A volley of arrows coming from below let her know that the enemy was not about to hide, nor try to avoid the fighting. Prepared and battle-hungry, coming from the heartlands of the Great River Whose Waters are Never Still, they must have raided some people or settlements already. Surprised or caught off guard they were not, something Father must have been counting on, she realized all of a sudden, ice piling in her stomach, making it flutter in an unsettling way. Otherwise, why would he try to attack a force much bigger than his, with no planning and no preparation? Why shoot at the passing fleet? He must have been counting on confusing the enemy, on disrupting its confidence, but all he got was the invaders stopping their progress back toward their homeland, turning to row vigorously toward their shore, instead.
A hand catching her shoulder made her jump, and her heart went still, but it was only one of the men, peering at the river, his eyes narrow.
“Run back to the village, girl. Bring help.”
He was gone before she had a chance to answer, or even just nod.
The roaring of the river mixed with the shouts of people, and the clamor of vessels increased as he struggled down the bank and along the protruding rocks, swaying under Akweks’ weight. His friend’s limp body was heavy enough, but the need to carry him carefully, without letting his wounded leg brush against the protruding rocks and flogging branches was truly a challenge that made Okwaho stumble with every other step, as though he were a bear that had eaten the wrong plant.
Desperate for a heartbeat of respite, he halted next to a steep cliff, remembering passing by it at the dusk of the previous evening, returning from his forced swim, having helped the dying enemy start his Sky Journey in a proper way. Had he only known that the help was on its way already, sailing here, battling against the current!
Shutting his eyes for a heartbeat, he inhaled deeply, trying to draw a bit of additional strength out of the thin air. A vain hope. His strength had vanished long since, but he needed to reach their people nevertheless. It was that or die, both he and Akweks, captured by the enemy or eaten by the forest creatures, a fate he had struggled too desperately to avoid through the past two dawns.
And then there was the girl. Wasn’t she wandering out there, trying to take her people away from his shore, now in danger herself, in a possible reach of his own people? While devising a plan to lure the search party to the other shore, they didn’t take the possibility of his people’s return into consideration. All they wanted was to give him some time, to allow Akweks to come back to his senses and him, Okwaho, to take his friend away, into the hills of the opposite bank, having crossed the gushing river, somehow. It was not a good plan, but they had no better one.
He remembered her bruised, dust-covered face, glowing with that wonderful smile of hers, eyes glittering brightly, promising him to take them away, for sure, nothing to worry about. So cheerful and unafraid! And the healer, her brother, glowering from his corner beside Akweks, arguing, with not a single familiar word; helpful too, yes, but in no cheerful way. No, they could not be real siblings, he had decided back then. The gloomy thing would have nothing to do with a rare, exquisite creature like her.
The thought of her gave him the strength to straighten up, to move his legs on, but Akweks groaned and jerked with his limbs, shattering the painfully gained balance. Clutching the nearest trunk with his entire body, trying to stabilize it using his free shoulder, Okwaho stopped breathing at the attempt not to fall. If he did, he knew, he wouldn’t be able to pick his friend up again. He would give up.
The panting breath of the wounded warmed his ear in the most unpleasant of ways.
“Are you good?” he groaned, not expecting an answer, not for real.
Since coming back from the world of the dreams, with the best possible timing, just as Okwaho returned on the run, his news encouraging, Akweks’ mind had been wandering on and off, unable to concentrate, disoriented and in great pain. The improvised brew the healer had made him drink helped, but mainly against the pain. It did not return lucid thinking to the young man. If anything, it seemed to do the opposite, sending his spirit to float somewhere there, between the worlds. An inconvenience, as by then, they had heard the enemy roaming around as well.
Shivering, he remembered his desperation welling, the sense of doom invading in force. It was hopeless—hopeless!—and with the help so near.
“You go, go away,” he had told the healer earlier, after coming back, reinforcing his words with appropriate gesturing. Reassured by Akweks’ improving condition, he was busy calculating how long it would take his people to reach this shore. It was important to be out there, to signal them and make them find the correct landing. “My people coming. You don’t want to be caught out here. Go back to your village.”
The healer’s face lost some coloring, showing that he understood well enough, probably the vigorous gesturing.
“I’m grateful, very much,” repeated Okwaho. “I’ll find the way to repay, you and her. But now go.”
Akweks’ murmuring, cut off by a dry cough, caught their attention, and the healer’s face cleared of fear. He needed to drink, his gesturing told Okwaho, while his hands snatched the bowl. At least that one was ready! He remembered all the precious heartbeats spent at bringing the fire back to life earlier, making the water boil, then cool, then boil again. A tedious process. The plants that were tossed into it refused to mar the water’s clearness, causing the healer to frown and mutter, whether words of prayer or resentment, it was difficult to tell. Akweks was groaning with pain, so Okwaho was glad to busy himself with tending his friend’s frighteningly gaping wound, applying more ointment to it, supporting and reassuring as much as he could.
The young healer was glad to be left to his own devices, he suspected, deciding that he could do nothing but trust the man. She would be furious if her brother betrayed them, of that he was sure. The thought of her making this man’s life misery if he failed, made him smile, but the sense of brief amusement disappeared as he heard the unmistakable noise of people roaming the nearby woods, coming from the hills, most surely. His people? No, it was too soon for that.
The healer stopped stirring and was listening too, intently. When their gazes met, he knew he had been right. Those were the people of the village. So she didn’t manage to lure them away.
Another heartbeat of staring. He felt his palm tightening around his knife’s hilt, not taking it out, but ready to do so. Then he shrugged and motioned toward the pot.
“Is that thing ready?”
The open relief in the healer’s face told him he understood it all. Picking the pottery off the fire, he motioned Okwaho to bring up his bowled bark, pouring some of the bubbling brew with an utmost care, eyes narrow and measuring, calm, although his hands were trembling. From the effort of holding the heavy pot? Okwaho doubted that. Still, the man was no coward, he decided, respecting his unwanted company against his will. This one was no mountain lion, yet a forest mouse he wasn’t either.
“Here, drink this.” Receiving the cumbersome bark with a nod that he hoped relayed his appreciation, he crouched beside Akweks, shaking his friend’s shoulder urgently, trying to will the clouded eyes into concentrating. “This will make you feel better.”
Yet the painful effort of drinking resulted in violent retching that left the wounded gasping in agony, on the brink of leaving their world again, while the noise outside grew, the voices of the villagers carrying clearer, reaching their hideaway.
It was hopeless. Okwaho took a deep breath, then reached for the healer’s bow.
“No!” The man’s
hand was light on his upper arm, resting there rather than grabbing it, the meaning of the exclamation clear.
Wait, the penetrating gaze told him, both palms up now, asking for patience, not imploring or begging.
Reassured, the man knelt beside Akweks. Whatever he said, it seemed to have a calming effect on his patient, the words pouring out, incomprehensible but giving hope. This time, the wounded managed to keep the drink down, choking a little, his upper body leaning on the supporting hands heavily, yet his eyes clearing, filling with life. They clung to his savior, unblinking.
Okwaho held his breath, but the voices from outside kept reaching his ears, not drawing closer, but not going away, either. They were scanning the hillside, he knew, soon to come upon the clearing and the shoreline covered with marks. It wouldn’t be long before they found their way here.
The pot the healer tucked into his hands burned his palms, still scorching hot.
Go, gestured the man’s free hand. Take the wounded and go. Do it now.
He stared at the pale, taut face, trying to slam his mind into working.
“Where to?”
Anywhere, suggested the wave of the hand. Out there, away from the voices.
Another heartbeat of staring. The narrowed eyes held his, unblinking. Now he saw the similarity. She had the same gaze, honest and revealing. It was easy to read their expressions.
He drew a deep breath.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice ringing gruffly, constricted somehow. “I will never forget.”
The hint of an easy smile transformed the man’s face, made him look more prominent, less insignificant. Why did he dismiss him as a forest mouse before? The words that followed were still impossible to understand, but the expression and the urgent nod sealed the promise. He would take their attention away, would hold it as long as he could. Just like her, even if she didn’t manage. Why were they both so kind to him?
“Thank you,” he said again, struggling to help Akweks up, but once upright making sure to look back, to let the man see the depth of his gratitude. Oh, but he would repay them, somehow!
And now, away from the accursed shore, and not chased and hunted down, not yet, he gathered the rest of his strength, determined to reach their people whatever the cost. They had made it so far, he and Akweks, they had managed to survive, not to die when all the others did. Due to the circumstances and not to dishonorable deeds, they were still alive, and the help was near. To lose his spirit, to succumb to his overwhelming exhaustion, would be an act unworthy of a warrior, of his father’s son. Father would never give up or give in. He would fight on, and he would make it all work. The entire union of five powerful nations depended on Father’s good judgment and skill, but what was required of him, Okwaho, now if not a bit of resilience and determination, some confidence and strength, and yes, the ability to talk and make himself be listened to.
He clenched his teeth tight, forcing his feet to move on, one after another, his stomach heavy, constricting with waves of uneasiness. For he knew what was to be done in order to repay her and her brother’s kindness, what was the right thing to do. Her village. It should not come to any more harm. Not a single fire arrow, not one shattered pole of the fence. Her village should not come under another attack, as it would come for certain now but for his ability to convince Tsitenha, their warriors’ leader, to sail on, not to pursue the feat of revenge on the easy target. But how was one to do that?
“Let me down,” groaned Akweks when Okwaho stopped again, this time not because of exhaustion. The hum of the river grew louder, interrupted by the unmistakable sounds of people fighting, shooting and running for cover, yelling out blood-freezing war cries. “I can… can manage.”
He hesitated, then let his friend slip off his back, ready to catch him, not trusting his ability to stay upright. Indeed, the young man faltered instantly, groping for a nearby branch, clutching it unsuccessfully, his hands having not enough strength to hold on. But for Okwaho’s supportive hand, he would have fallen heavily; as it was, he just slipped onto the moss-covered stones, both of them hitting their limbs in an attempt to protect the wound.
“I’m good, I can … can manage.” The wounded shut his eyes, his voice vibrating with pain, or maybe a hint of panic. “Just a heartbeat, or two … just a little bit. I’ll be good.”
“I better carry you on,” muttered Okwaho, himself half lying on the jutting stones, welcoming the respite. He had no strength to pick himself up, let alone the limp body of his friend. “We are almost there.”
“Our people, they came back?” A sheen of perspiration covered the youth’s face like a coat of paint, and his eyes, partly opened now, were clouded, reflecting the effort to stay, and the impossibility of it.
“Yes, they did.” Blinking away the sweat that rolled into his eyes, Okwaho forced himself up, swaying, catching a branch in his turn to stabilize himself. His other hand traced his sash, slipping past the knife and the bow tied to it, seeking the reassurance of the small leather pouch. Father’s necklace. It was still there. He breathed with relief.
“We’ll reach our people now, and then all will be well.” It came out surprisingly confident. He was tempted to believe it himself.
“They … they are fighting. Aren’t they?” The cracked lips twisted into a hint of a grin, the taunt in it obvious, bringing the old Akweks back. “All will be well, eh?”
“Yes, it will.” He didn’t fight his own smile from showing, elated. Oh but Akweks was getting better. “We reach them, help them beat the enemy, then all will be well.”
The smile disappeared in the desperate bout of coughing. He wished he had carried the pot with the brew, or at least that stupid piece of bark to bring Akweks water. “Let’s get you to the river first. You need to drink.”
“She lied…” The words were hardly understandable, but they hit him like a punch in his stomach.
“What?”
“The ugly fox, she lied.” Akweks was swallowing desperately, determined to say his piece. “She said our people were dead. But here they are, not dead. They’re fighting, killing her stupid people.”
He readied himself for the feat of pulling his friend up. “It’s not them.”
“What?” The wild gaze bored at him, imploring, the color leaving the handsomely broad face again. “Not them? Then who?”
“The rest of our people, those who sailed on.” He pressed his lips tight. “Come.”
“No.” With a surprising strength, Akweks resisted the pull. “Wait. Listen, you can’t, can’t carry. Go on. I’ll wait here. I will be well.” The eyes peering at him narrowed painfully. “I can take care … I’ll manage, until you come back. Like before. Like when she came. I went through the night. I didn’t die.” The wounded’s dried tongue had no chance of moistening the cracked lips. “And it won’t take you so long this time. I know it won’t. Our people … they won’t die. Not this time. Will they?”
“No, they won’t. Not this time.” The memory of the mission ahead of him made him wish to stay. “They can’t. They are many, and prepared. And led by a wise person and not that dung-eater Kayeri.” If he had any moisture left in his own mouth, he would have spat. “They won’t die, and they won’t lose. And yes, I have to reach them in time.” He narrowed his eyes, his tiredness back, making him wish to drop down and die in peace. “Are you sure you will manage until I get back?”
“Yes.” The frown of the young man deepened, banishing the painful expression. “You will try to stop them … from harming the village.”
“Yes.”
“Because of the girl?”
Okwaho just shrugged.
“They won’t listen. Our people deserve to be avenged.”
“We attacked them first. And …” He saw the resentment, the flicker of anger crossing the tormented features. There was no point in spending his energy on arguing here in the woods. “It doesn’t matter. But that girl and the healer saved your life. And, well, we do owe them something.”
> “You can make sure they are not harmed. The girl, the healer. But not the filthy village.” Another bout of coughing. “Forget … go. I’ll be all right.”
Helpless, he watch the anguished eyes closing, the colorless lips pressed, forming an invisible line. There was nothing he could do for his friend now but to rush on, to reach their people and get help. And then, yes, join them in the fighting. That village was doomed, wasn’t it?
“I’ll be back before you know it.” He forced a grin. “With help, real help this time. Our people. No helpful locals.”
A faint grin was his answer.
“Take cover!”
The sharp call made Migisso shudder, but he didn’t take his eyes off the sparkling snake of the river and the far inlet where the shoreline turned decisively, brushing against the protruding cliffs.
His heart beating fast, he watched the small figures rushing to and fro, some dragging their boats up the rocky shore, disappearing out of sight, others shooting or waving clubs. Arrows must have been descending on them from the towering cliffs, not densely but steadily, enough to prevent the invaders from climbing the rocks right away, forcing them to seek cover, instead. He wished he could have been standing on the opposite bank in order to have a good view.
“Why don’t you jump up and down and wave your hands?” grunted Achtohu, grabbing his arm and pulling him down their cliff where the others congregated, seven more men, mostly young hunters, with not much experience. Their gazes followed their progress, expectant.
“What do we do now?”
The man who had asked clutched his bow tightly in one hand, with the other ready to dart for the quiver of arrows behind his back. The rest of them stood in a ridiculously similar pose. They were all armed with bows and a decent supply of arrows, all but him. He fought the familiar heaviness in his stomach.