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

by Zoe Saadia

  Forgetting his safety and the need to run low, he darted toward their prisoner, grabbing the man’s shoulders, making them both sway.

  “Your sister,” he cried out, disregarding the terrified flash reflecting in the wide-opened eyes. “Kentika, your sister. We need to find her. She must be here. Call for her, somehow.” Gesturing frantically, he repeated her name again and again, peering into the glazed pools, trying to will them back into understanding. “Kentika. Need to talk to her. Now!”

  Suddenly, the terrified blankness gave way to a flash of comprehension. He saw the calm flowing back, making the bruised face fill with resolution. Just like during the previous night, when the man decided to help Akweks, taking control with untoward briskness, changing in too dramatic of a way, one moment a forest mouse, worse than the least of the frightened women; the other, determined to the point of presuming to lead, about to do what was right no matter what.

  The curt nod and a long phrase in the foreign tongue, invited Okwaho to follow.

  “What is this all about?” Tsitenha’s palm was as hard as a rock on his elbow, and as unwavering.

  “I know someone who can talk both our tongues. She’ll be able to help us.”

  “Help us how?”

  He stood the stony gaze. “Help us talk to them. Stop this fight.”

  The silence was so heavy, he felt it in his chest, pressing his insides, hurting them. It was back to the pre-dawn mist, after the night fighting and before the one that had resulted in the death of them all.

  He swallowed hard. “We need to stop the fight. It is fruitless. Our people die for no reason here.”

  “This is what happens in fights, warrior.” The leader’s voice didn’t rise, but it was cutting like the sharpest of flint. “Are you afraid to die?”

  He shook his head, unable to move his lips in order to answer.

  “Because if it so, maybe you should go back and never come along again, son of the Onondaga War Chief.”

  The mention of Father helped.

  “I’m not afraid to die, nor to fight,” he said, marveling at the fact that his voice rang firmly, loud and clear. His mind was a whirlpool of fragmented thoughts, spinning around, with no hope to grasp or channel them into reasonable thinking. “I fought in two battles over this accursed village, and I proved myself worthy of my father. No one will have a cause to accuse me of stepping away from danger or death. My father will not be shamed by my actions!” He listened to his words, feeling as though it were someone else talking, in this hard, cutting voice, inviting no argument. The club now clasped firmly in one hand, the fingers of the other found the pouch with Father’s necklace, wrapping around it, feeding on its strength. “I will not be accused of cowardice. Anything but this!”

  The stony gaze didn’t waver, but there was something in the leader’s eyes now, something different, changed. A flicker of interest?

  Losing his line of thought, Okwaho clenched his teeth, feeling the reaction, desperate to control the trembling of his limbs. What if they saw it? What if they thought it was proof of him being afraid, and not just enraged beyond measure?

  “So you propose to talk to the enemy?” The voice disclosed no concession, ringing rigidly, ice-cold.

  “Yes.” Okwaho swallowed again, mainly to try to make his heart slip back into his chest, as it was fluttering in his throat, threatening to jump out and be gone. “This village, it’s fortified and well defended. It stands on an elevated ground, surrounded by a high palisade.” He licked his lips, not daring to lie more than this. “The locals are ready to defend it to the last of their men and women. Kayeri was shooting fire arrows and regular ones for half a day, and they just doused the fires and shot back until someone managed to hit his oil jar. They are high-spirited and not afraid to fight.” Another attempt to draw a deep breath. Why was it so difficult to let the air in? Was his heart, still fluttering up there, blocking its way? “If we could stop it here and now, stop fighting, negotiate a temporary agreement, we could leave this accursed place with no more warriors killed. We reached our goals.” He remembered the longboats some of their people were left to guard, the boats and the treasures they held. Clearly, Tsitenha’s venturing into the heartlands of the eastern people was more successful. “We filled our canoes already. Why fight for something we can’t even take away with us?”

  He paused, blinking the sweat away, not daring to wipe his brow. His whole body was awash with perspiration, but he hoped that here, in the relative semidarkness, it didn’t show too clearly. With the sound of resumed hostilities deeper in the woods, their eyes left him, if only for a heartbeat, and he was grateful for the respite.

  “What makes you think the enemy will listen to you?” The leader’s eyes were now mere slits in the broadness of his face, but his words were still dispassionate, still stony and cold.

  “I know someone who can speak both tongues.” He glanced at the healer, all ears like the rest of them, as though he understood. “The War Chief’s daughter, she can speak our way, and she won’t be afraid to do so.”

  “I daresay I don’t want to know how you came by this knowledge,” grunted Tsitenha, turning away, measuring the trees with his gaze, the fighting again not heard or hopelessly muffled. “Well, go and find your interpreter. You have a few hundred heartbeats to make them stop shooting. If you are not back by then, we will resume our attack, and this village will be burned to the ground, no matter what it takes.” A curt nod. “Go, take you prisoner and go. Bring back that war chief, if you can. To talk, to converse. Convince them of that.”

  With the wide back upon him, the man’s voice still reached him, quieter and holding a brief but obvious lightness.

  “Try not to get yourself killed. You made me curious, young warrior. I should wish to talk to you some more later on. To hear of your adventures upon these shores.”

  Chapter 23

  “This man, he wants to talk.” Again, licking her lips didn’t help. Her mouth lacked any moisture, her tongue as dry as the earth of an abandoned field in the hottest of summer moons. “He asks you to open your ears to what he says.”

  Peering at the stony impassiveness of Father’s face, she held her breath, hoping against hope that the man would listen. He never had, never before, but maybe now, at such a crucial time and when so much was at stake, maybe this time …

  In the surrounding silence, she tried to read his expression, or the lack of it. Was he angry? Furious? The wave of latent fear was back. Of course he was.

  Since coming back to nothing but disaster piling upon disaster, the man was like a thundercloud, about to burst. Others may not have been able to read him clearly, to see what the usual stone mask held, but she had known the man all her life. Like her mother and brother, she had learned diligently to try and predict his reactions, mainly in order to avoid the outbursts, and now her danger signals were up, screaming a warning, whispering that this time they all had been treading on the thinnest ice. One careless, hurried step, and it would break, dragging everyone into the frozen depths; her, her brother, their people, and ahead of them all, him, the wolf youth, the man who had enough courage to try to do something.

  Afraid to take her eyes off Father’s face, she still felt his presence, physically, as though he had stood next to her, which he did not. Still, she knew that he would, if need be, with his palms resting on her shoulders, maybe, or even encircling them. But for this to happen!

  Yet, even at the distance of quite a few paces, he was still here, pale, tense, smeared with mud and new bruises and scratches, but as forceful and sure of himself as before. He wouldn’t let Father hurt her, if worse came to worst. He was on her side.

  “To talk?” Father’s lips twisted into an inverted grin, the edges of his mouth climbing downwards, threatening to spill down his chin. His eyes were very dark, and they didn’t linger on any of them, but traveled on, encircling his audience, his entourage of ten men, standing rigid and tense, clutching their weapons, with more hunters spread bet
ween the trees, watching for the enemy’s possible approach. “Surrounded and defeated, the enemy suddenly wishes to talk!”

  Another spell of silence prevailed. No one dared to say a word, not even grunt or nod. Their eyes glued to their War Chief reflected nothing but bewildered expectation. They waited to be worked up, she realized, the ice in her stomach shifting, making her wish to go away and relieve herself.

  “This is the quality of the foe we are fighting against!” Father’s voice picked up in tempo, turning louder, surer of itself. “They are brave against barely defended villages, but as soon as they encounter our warriors, they ask for mercy, beg for their lives.”

  “They are not asking for mercy!” Their eyes leaped at her, Father’s too, and what his gaze held made her choke and lose her line of thought. “This man says they want to talk. He says…” But this time, her voice broke, and it came out weakly.

  “Keep your mouth closed, girl!” Again, his nape turned to her. “Your advice is not asked for, and it is not welcomed. Take her away.”

  “But she is the only one who can tell us what the enemy says,” muttered someone, glancing around, before returning his frantic eyes to their uninvited guest.

  “We don’t need to hear the enemy. All we need to do is kill the invader and clean our shores of their filthy, contaminating presence once and for all. That is all we will do now that they came crawling, begging for mercy.”

  “What is he saying?” The wolf youth’s voice burst upon her through the growing veil of their words, ringing with urgency.

  Unsuccessfully, she tried to clear her throat. “He would not… he doesn’t…” It was difficult enough to force her mind into thinking, let alone form phrases in his foreign way of talking. Why were they all speaking at once? “He would not …”

  “Tell him—”

  “They are not begging for mercy, and they are not defeated!”

  Startled, she whirled around, unable to place the familiar voice with unfamiliar firmness in it.

  “I came from their side of the fighting. There are many of them, up here in the woods, and down the river by the boats. They are more numerous than we are, and they are determined.”

  Satisfactorily tall and broadly built, Migisso was, nevertheless, never an imposing figure, never a person people bothered to listen to, probably because his shoulders would usually sag and his eyes would study the ground, refusing to meet those of the people who addressed him, unless asked to help with herbs and medicine. Yet now, he stood there, straight-backed and dignified, reserved but not indecisive, meeting their gazes, his own calm and unblinking, not hesitant, not afraid.

  “The situation back there by the cliff and down the shore is not good for us. But it is not that good for the enemy, either. And this is why I urge you to hear what this man wants to tell us.” The hastily drawn breath was the only sign that disclosed his nervousness, and Kentika held her own, so proud of him, desperately wishing that he would not lose his spirit, not yet.

  Oh, her brother was not the weakling that they all thought he was. He was a man, and a worthy, admirable man at that!

  “While trying to reach you here, sent by Achtohu and his men, to let our leader know about our whereabouts, I fell into the enemy’s hands, and this man did not let me die. He argued with his leaders instead, and he made them listen. This is why I brought him here. What he says is worth hearing. I implore you to hear with your ears open and your minds unclouded by prejudice. I implore you to listen!”

  Oh, but he was an orator, too. She felt her heart squeezing with pride. Shooting a quick glance at the wolf youth, she tried to relate her encouragement, but his eyes were glued to her brother’s face too, and she knew he understood.

  “How dare you interrupt the speech of your elders and betters?” The thundering of Father’s voice jerked her back from the temporary cloud of cheerfulness. “You, who have never fought as bravely as any of these men; you, who unashamedly admitted falling into the enemy’s hands; you, who is considered good enough for nothing but running messages even by leaders younger than yourself—how dare you?” This time, the War Chief’s face twisted with terrible rage. “You will go back to the village at once, and you will await your judgment there.” Another dismissive wave. “Go away!”

  She watched the familiar face crumbling, fading before her eyes, the broad shoulders sagging in their typical way, the eyes already dropping to the ground, to stay there forever, she knew.

  “No, he is not any of that!” she cried out. Clenching her fists, she rushed forward, oblivious of reason, too enraged to think clearly. “My brother is brave, and he is a good warrior. He is right in what he says. The enemy is not helpless, not begging for life. This youth, he is also brave, brave enough to come here and offer to talk about what is happening. He is not afraid to endanger his life, and neither is my brother. They are both brave, and they see beyond their anger or hatred, or yes, the prejudice.”

  His voice penetrated her ears as she paused for breath, afraid to lose her thoughts, to stumble over her words again. He was talking in a breathless rush, telling her what to tell them, but she didn’t listen. The sound of his words and his presence were enough to give her all the support she needed.

  “There will be much killing, and many people will die. For nothing. On both sides.” Oh, yes, maybe she was repeating his words, but she didn’t care, trusting him to talk nothing but good sense. “The villagers, our people, they will die, everyone who is here now. Even if it will stop them, the enemy, from storming the village, would it be worth the price of so many good men dead? If we stop now, we go back, and they go their way, and it will end, instead of turning into the death of everyone. The fighting here is fruitless. If we can stop it, why won’t we do it?”

  So, he was not as good an orator as her brother turned out to be. Pausing for breath, just as he did, she felt like chuckling, in a hysterical way, yes, but chuckling. He was talking in such a simple way. And yet, what he said was worth listening to. She saw it in their faces, peering at her from everywhere, grave and full of suspicion, but attentive, wishing to hear more.

  “It’s not the time to think of what has been done.” By now, he was standing next to her, and his nearness gave her spirit more power. “Our leaders can meet and talk about it. I can’t promise my people will never sail these waters again. But what we should not do is keep on fighting on this hill today. Enough lives were sacrificed, enough blood was shed.”

  Loving his last phrase—some oratory at long last—she tried to translate it to its fullest, but a scornful voice overrode hers this time.

  “His people’s lives mainly. Not ours.” The man who said that pressed his lips tight and fell silent, but in his eyes, she could see more than just hatred and resentment. There was a need to hear there too, the wish to be convinced.

  “All our lives are in danger now. We have both lost enough people,” she said loudly, heartened by his resumed speech.

  “If there was a reason for the continued fighting, yes, but there is none, not today,” he was saying.

  Contemplating how to translate these words, she heard one of the watchers calling frantically, “The enemy, they are nearing!”, and even though her heart missed a beat, she didn’t move, didn’t gasp or dart away among the growing commotion, with the people around bringing their bows up, groping for their clubs.

  Instead, she looked at him, and then moved closer, and went on translating because he paused for no more than a heartbeat, his voice peaking, drawing attention despite their tension and fear.

  “They are not coming to fight you,” he cried out. “They are coming to talk!”

  She heard him clearing his throat, and her heart went out to him. He must be dead tired, hungry, thirsty, exhausted, with his various wounds still fresh, and yet he didn’t give up, didn’t sit back and let the others fight it all out. His people were still many, too many, battle-hungry, used to victories, not about to wait, not even until he finished. They were coming, and it would be e
ither the talk they wanted, the talk he was trying to force everyone into, or the resumed attack, and the fight in front of the village’s fence again. Migisso must have been right about that.

  The urge to sneak a glance at her brother, to see if he had regained his spirit, welled, but she didn’t dare to turn her head, afraid to draw attention to her and away from his words. He needed her help, her translating abilities, but also her support, her readiness to fight alongside him if necessary. She hoped he counted on that just as she had counted on his loyalty to the end, should the worst happen. He wouldn’t let his people harm her village, and she wouldn’t let her people harm him. But for how long would he have to repeat the same thing? Why wouldn’t they listen already?

  “Do not fight now. Let our leaders, let them speak to each other. Let them meet and talk, and solve this…”

  Somehow, they still held people’s attention, or at least a part of it. She paused for a heartbeat, to marvel at that fact.

  “Take positions! Don’t let the enemy near.” Father’s voice overrode hers easily, accustomed to directing people, in his element. “Do not let this treacherous man deceive us with his lies and half-truths.” Eyes blazing, face glowing a dark, unhealthy red, fists clenched, the War Chief stepped forward, his arms coming up, shaking above his head. “What are we reduced to? Are we helpless children, guileless creatures of the forest, to let an enterprising foreigner, a bloodthirsty invader, calm us with a few artlessly put together phrases, translated by a stupid girl? Are we not people with minds of our own?”

  And still, people stood undecided, their gazes darting between their leader and the intruder, their bows or clubs clutched tightly, ready to be used, and yet hesitating, lacking in confidence.

  “Let us do what is right this time. Let us…” She paused when he paused, out of breath, the noise all around them growing, taking both their attention away. His people were near now, she could hear it most clearly. They did not try to conceal their advance. Why?