by Zoe Saadia
“We follow the shoreline,” said Achtohu, tossing his head in a decisive manner, leader-like. “Try to surprise them. If it works, good. If not, we’ll still be of use to the War Chief.” Kicking at the rotten log that blocked the trail, he turned away, beginning to pick his way between the rocks. “We have nothing to do here, anyway. The lowlife we are hunting is either dead or with them. Isn’t he?” The glance shot at Migisso was pointed, as cutting as a sharpened flint. “You’ve been wandering around for only-spirits-know-how-long. You should be able to tell us.”
Trying to gain time, Migisso just shrugged, but this time, they were not about to let him get away with pretended indifference. Their gazes bored into him, openly hostile.
“How long have you been out there?”
“Since before dawn.” It came out well. He was surprised by the steadiness of his voice. The pangs of fear were gripping his stomach again, and his heart was racing in no reasonable manner.
“Why?” Achtohu didn’t stop, but his tone made it clear that he might, if not answered.
“I wanted to scan this place again. Those footsteps, they didn’t let me sleep.” Still firm words. He marveled at the fact briefly, watching his step as the stones they tread upon turned slippery, awash with the nearness of the river.
“Why alone?”
This time, it felt proper just to shrug. Their hostility seemed to lessen with the need to watch their step, and Achtohu was busy scanning the river ahead, motioning them to slow down.
Migisso struggled not to let out a sigh of relief. Turning his eyes on the gushing water in his turn, its noise drowning everything out, the sounds of the battle as well, he tried not to think about the night, and the following dawn, and the unreality of it all.
Did he really help the enemy, the very man his people were desperate to catch, the despicable foe, the lowlife who had killed Amaue, while wounding him, Migisso, and the other man?
It didn’t seem possible, not in the clear daylight, even without another battle developing farther down the river. Where had more enemy come from, the underworld spirits sent by evil Malsum as they were? Nothing made sense anymore, his own actions and those of Kentika coming like a natural part of the world that was turned upside down.
The thought of her made him shudder again. She might be out there now, caught in the middle of the fighting, surely being with the group she had knowingly lured away from their rightful prey. How enraged her intention to do so had made him back during the night. Oh, but for the warrior with the wolf tattoo, he would have tried to stop her, physically maybe. Fierce and passionate as she was, he was still older and stronger. He might have managed to restrain her. But then what? She did what she did for her own reasons. If she wished to help the enemy, then that was that. Convention never ruled her, never interfered with her ways. She couldn’t be stopped from helping that warrior.
So he had been left with her fearsome companion and his dying friend, doing what he always did best, brewing medicine, making sure the wounded did not embark on his journey to the other worlds before his time. There was nothing better to do for him, anyway.
He shook his head angrily, suddenly incensed. Why lie? Whom was he cheating by lying to himself? He wasn’t forced to help. Yes, he was, in the beginning. The bloodthirsty warrior would have killed him instantly, but for her. Even when he said he wouldn’t, whether he, Migisso, treated the wounded or not, he still did not believe the filthy enemy. Not like she did. And yet, he didn’t agree to operate out of fear. Of that he was sure. The challenge of doing something as complicated as cutting a rotten wound was what drew him by then, what made him agree.
A young man of his age, with nothing but summers of study on his own, sprinkled by only a little bit of guidance from the kind medicine man, would barely be allowed to boil a brew against simple aches. He would never be let anywhere near the attempt to actively treat a person in order to make the sick heal. Not even to stitch a wound, let alone to cut a rotting one, when the person’s mind was already beginning to wander. It was too late by that time, and the only time he had seen a healer attempting to do that, it did nothing but send the person who suffered onwards in more agony than without the operation.
Oh, it was a hopeless attempt. Yet, they both, his sister and her foreigner, begged, and he knew he could not let such an opportunity pass. Back home, even if allowed to take that path, to learn from the medicine man openly, he would not be entrusted with such responsibility until he himself was old.
Following his peers, he proceeded along the slippery path, trying to curb his welling excitement. He had done the impossible, hadn’t he? By cutting the rotting flesh off the warrior’s wound in that certain manner that had enlarged the wound but not to a lethal extent, he had brought the dying man back into the world of the living, doing something even the revered old healer, the most trusted medicine man of the village, didn’t manage.
Stealthily, he glanced at the sky, squinting against the fierce glow of Father Sun. Was there an answer up there, behind the puffy clouds, where Revered Glooskap might have been living among other Sky Deities? Was he correct in insisting on following his heart, even against Father’s wishes? Did his true path lie in healing people and not in warring and hunting? The spirits may have been showing him the way, and if so, they would not be angry with him for lying to his peers, for misleading them the way she did. Or would they?
Recalling the dawn in the cramped, suffocating, smothering hideaway made him shiver again. Why did he help that warrior escape? When the man came back running, motioning vigorously, obviously trying to make him, Migisso, go, he did not understand the real meaning of ardent gesturing. Responsible for his charge, who was by then showing clear signs of coming back to life, he had stayed and made the wounded drink the necessary broth, assuming that maybe the wolf warrior had seen the villagers’ searching party. An assumption that was proved true when they heard voices later on. So she didn’t manage to lure their people away, apparently.
What happened next was still the most puzzling. The warrior should have killed him, Migisso, and been gone. He had seen the man going for the knife, most clearly at that. Speechless, they stared at each other, but then something made the enemy change his mind.
Shrugging with acceptance, he had motioned toward the medicine, and then they went on making the wounded drink as though nothing happened, until Migisso had made his suggestion, for a reason he himself couldn’t fathom. Instead of letting his countryfolk catch their prey, he had helped the enemy against everything he believed in and against any better judgment. He even went to such lengths as going out there and deceiving—actually deceiving!—Achtohu and his followers the way she had done, by concocting some story and making them look elsewhere. Not that it was a difficult feat, as by that time, the distant yelling and shouting had reached them, and it was not long before they could catch a glimpse of the developing battle, standing rock-still and aghast on the edge of the same cliff where the warrior with the tattoo had battled Amaue and Achtohu on the evening before and won.
From his companions’ urgent talk he had gathered that, yes, the main part of their people was out there, searching for the bodies, led by his sister. So she had been successful, even if partly.
And then, suddenly, he knew, chill filling his stomach, that that’s what the warrior was trying to tell him, that’s why he insisted on his, Migisso’s, departure. He was trying to make him leave before his own people came. He was being decent.
The realization that should have helped, but it didn’t. Instead, he felt something close to disappointment. The enemy was proving honorable time after time. How so?
“Wait.”
Achtohu’s urgent whispering tore Migisso from his reverie in time to halt along with the others. The clamor was more distinct now, mainly of people shouting and arrows hissing, and boats being dragged hastily, bumping against rocks and splashing water. People were talking in a foreign tongue, so familiar by now. Had Kentika been here, he thought suddenly, s
he would have been able to understand what they said.
He scanned the towering cliffs, seeking the source of the flying arrows. Was she huddling up there, watching the battle, or had she snatched up some fallen man’s bow the way they said she had back in the village and was shooting alongside the men now, forgetting her affection for the handsome enemy with the spectacular tattoo? And where was this young man and his wounded friend? Did he manage to reach his people?
“We wait for our warriors up there to resume the attack, then we join,” whispered Achtohu, motioning with both hands, reinforcing his words. “You,” his eyes rested on Migisso, “go up there. Find our people. Tell them of our plan.”
“Why him?” asked one of the youths. “I’m a better scout.”
“Not an outstanding achievement,” someone said as he chuckled.
“Quiet,” hissed Achtohu, his eyes flashing dangerously. “He is a better messenger than you are. Stop arguing and keep quiet!” His head motioned Migisso to proceed, inviting no argument, had he had anything of a way of an argument to offer. Which he didn’t, of course. This was a sensible mission. With his lack of appropriate weaponry, even more so.
“He has no weapons, nothing to shoot with.” This reached his ears as he worked his way up the cliff, about to disappear out of their view. “He is good for running messages. He proved himself over the past few dawns.”
“At least something he is good at.” The chuckles that followed this phrase drowned in the general noise of the river and the enemy, but this he didn’t regret.
Chapter 22
“Gather the boats under that rock, together with the wounded.”
Tsitenha wiped his face impatiently, squirming against the constant drizzle, his wide forehead creased in what looked like a web of direful strips.
“How many dung eaters do you assume might be out there?” he asked, turning back to Okwaho, his hand waving in the direction he came from.
There was no accusation in the man’s voice and no hostility. At least that! He didn’t expect an ardent welcome, not after his earlier experience with Kayeri. Bearers of bad news were rarely received well, getting the blame for the unfavorable information they delivered.
Well, it didn’t happen this time. Not yet. If anything, he had been received most warmly, as he stumbled into the frenzied activity in the shallow, angrily rushing water, under the relative protection of the towering rocks. The warriors were busy dragging their canoes into the tiny inlet, no more than just a curve of a shoreline, where the arrows could not reach them, carrying the wounded along. Quite a few men sported fluttering feathers and shafts, protruding out of their limbs or clothing. The locals knew how to shoot.
Luckily, many were unharmed and in high spirits, not about to panic or act recklessly, trusting their leader, listening to his words. Tsitenha was no Kayeri; and it was thanks to his quick reaction and even quicker directions that not many had been hurt. The local lowlifes were good, everyone agreed, their ambush timed and executed well.
Little did they know, reflected Okwaho, fighting the urge to lean against the inviting slickness of the nearby cliff. The locals were here for another reason.
“I assume there were no more than ten men. Maybe even less.” He forced his back into straightening, not about to show his exhaustion. Or his uneasiness. His reception was warm and cordial, but it would change in a heartbeat the moment he started arguing, he knew. Yet, what choice did he have? “They wouldn’t send a large party to hunt one man.”
“And the warriors up there?” Tsitenha’s eyes narrowed, as his head motioned toward the source of shooting.
“Also not a large party. Probably of the same size.” Even a shrug proved like a chore, his shoulders heavy, too heavy to lift. “Yesterday, when they came to collect the boats, there were about fifteen men. I would assume the same party came back, but split for some reason.”
Some reason! His stomach churned as though haunted by hunger. The reason they split must be up there now, among the shooters, about to get attacked. How to prevent that? How to keep her from harm?
Tsitenha nodded curtly, his eyes darting from place to place, assessing, making sure his men did what he wanted. Not all the boats could be secured in the small hideaway. Some had to be piled atop the others.
“Ten men will stay here, to keep the canoes and the wounded safe.” A vigorous gesturing brought forth the men that were singled out. “Keep an eye on the cliff. When Kanadera and Oware come back with his wounded,” a curt nod indicated Okwaho, “tell them to stay here with you. You,” the flinty eyes brushed past him, lingering for a heartbeat, assessing again, “come with us. We’ll need your knowledge of the terrain.”
Some knowledge, thought Okwaho, preferring to stay, knowing better than to argue. It would have been, of course, more logical to remain with the men guarding the boats, to catch even a few heartbeats of rest, to make sure Akweks was brought here with no trouble. What if Kanadera and Oware didn’t find him? Or what if they ran into the lowlifes that were most probably now hot on his heels?
And yet, he was needed up there more urgently. And not because his people wished him to guide them up the cliff, or anywhere around these woods. He was needed up there, to do whatever was necessary, whatever it took.
The path he had climbed last night, after seeing the dying local off, beckoned. It might give them cover for at least a part of the way. He scanned the river, trying to track the direction of the arrows.
“They are on the top of that cliff, spread evenly,” said the leader calmly, as though reading his thoughts. “Which way will bring us up faster?”
“This trail leads up there and into the woods.” He tried to remember his climb that was blurring somewhere there, in the depths of his memory. It was already dark back then, and he had been in a terrible hurry. “I think it may provide a bit of a cover. There were thick trees on both sides of the trail. Not all the way, but most.”
“I see.” Tsitenha’s grin held no mirth. “So this is where they expect us to appear? Good.” Another mirthless chuckle, the wave of the weathered hand. “Follow me.” The man’s decisive footsteps echoed between the towering rocks, heading in the opposite direction.
Okwaho tried to slam his mind into working. As though in a fog, he followed, finding nothing better to do. To concentrate on his steps while trying not to slip into the gushing current seemed like a worthwhile cause. The remnants of his dwindling strength would not extend to do much more than that. All he wanted was to crawl somewhere into the quietness of the woods, to curl around himself and sleep for all eternity; to wake up back to the reality of a simple warrior, with no difficult questions or dilemmas, with no nagging thoughts about the enemy and their plight. Or his debt to these people.
The climb was precarious, uncomfortably steep, with no trail and not always footholds, forcing one to hang on the strength of one’s arms only, unless wishing to plummet back into the raging stream. Not necessarily a lethal dive, as his adventures yesterday could have attested, but for the demand to keep absolutely quiet. Tsitenha was not the leader to incense by disobedience. For the thousandth time, he wondered how such a man could have made the mistake of leaving a nonentity like Kayeri in charge of twenty warriors and an unknown target. What did he think of the following disaster?
The man had shown none of what he might have felt upon hearing Okwaho’s terrible news. His lips tightening, eyes closed and unreadable, he just nodded stiffly, then turned to deal with the more pressing problems. Under the shower of arrows, there was no time to rage or fume, or to ask too many questions. These could wait until after they dealt with the ambush, or the people who shot at them, or the accursed village. Against his will, he shuddered.
Upon the widening shelves near the top of the cliff, they paused, listening intently. The whispering of the woods related no visible danger. Were the ambushers gone? It was eerily quiet up there, with even the regular sounds of the high noon turning silent.
Spread out, motioned the leader�
�s hand. Get the clubs ready. Not the bows.
By the time all twenty men reached the top, the first wave was off, scouting. Forgetting his tiredness and his original misgivings, Okwaho slid into the quietness of the grove, giving in to the familiar pleasure of scanning the earth, of reading her messages.
Oh, yes, people had been all over this place, and a very, very short time ago. Many people. He counted more than five different prints. One of them smaller than the rest, familiar. Hers?
He fought the tightening in his stomach. So it was her footsteps he had followed in the first place, the footsteps that had brought nothing but disaster upon them all. Was it the Left-Handed Twin’s, the most evil spirit of the underworld, doing? Or some game the local spirits were playing? What did it all mean?
“They sneaked away.” The warriors’ voices jerked him back from the darkness of his thoughts.
“They didn’t go far yet.”
“Less than ten people,” said Tsitenha. “We follow. Catch them before they reach their village.”
“We won’t manage. They know these woods, we don’t.” Again, he wished to bite his tongue off for saying things without thinking. Would he never learn? Their disapproving stares burned his skin.
“Would you presume to advise without being asked to do so?” asked the leader coldly, but his eyes weren’t blank or furious. Instead, they measured Okwaho in a somewhat taunting way, as though daring him to speak, as though approving.
“No.” He knew he should drop his gaze before muttering his apologies, the safest behavior under such circumstances. “I would not presume to advise a leader of your knowledge and experience, but ...” he hesitated again, the goading gaze daring him to proceed.
“But?”
“This village, it’s well defended. It is not as small or as insignificant as it looks. Their fence is high, and many warriors are in there. We made the mistake of underestimating its people. The man you left in charge of our group insisted on attacking it, even when all hope was lost.” His mouth felt as dry as an abandoned field in summer. He tried to swallow, failed. “We should not repeat this mistake, should not let more of our warriors die for nothing.”