by Zoe Saadia
The question that didn’t have a chance to articulate itself, as her father’s rock-hard palm locked around her upper arm, pulling her hard, making her fight to stay on her feet.
“Go away now,” he hissed, pushing her in the direction opposite to the gathering warriors. “If you stay, or say one more word, you will regret it dearly.”
Startled and ready to panic, she yanked her arm away, only to be jerked off her feet with the force of his pull. But for the firmness of his grip, she would have gone sprawling. As it was, she found herself dangling by his side, struggling to break free, to no avail. He was always so strong!
The commotion grew, and many voices were talking now, her brother’s among them, she could hear that. The foreigners were shouting, too, somewhere there among the trees. Father was talking rapidly, addressing no one in particular, or everyone at once.
When she felt the wolf youth’s palm catching her shoulder, she threw herself at him with the last of her strength, doing the unspeakable by kicking at her father’s leg.
That took the renowned leader by surprise, and for a heartbeat, he stumbled over his words, and his grip relaxed, enough for her rescuer to wrench her out and away.
Not really away, she realized, clinging to the safety of his chest as he turned, all sweat and mud, smeared with fresh and old blood, reeking, but solid, familiar, safe!
“You all right?” he breathed, pressing her tightly, but looking above her head, at the commotion. Still hoping to solve it, somehow, she knew, to bring the calm back. Which would be difficult without her translating. She made an effort to gather her courage.
“Yes, I-I-I’m—”
Determined to complete at least one silly phrase, shamed by the annoying stuttering and the trembling of her voice, she felt more than saw the sudden movement, and her instincts told her to lurch away, to avoid the danger.
Clutched safely in his arms, she pulled him along, but he resisted, too strong for her, not moving at all, his attention on the commotion behind her back, shouting to his people.
“Okwaho!” Somehow, his name came to her now, although he had told her that only once, a lifetime ago, when they first talked like people, with no anger and hatred, even though she never thought of him using this name.
He looked back fleetingly, eyes wild, but the sunlight flashing off the polished flint blade already dimmed, sliding up his side, burying itself somewhere in his lower back, and her elbow colliding with the hand holding the knife didn’t help. Or maybe it did, but the ragged flint was still in there, in the depths of his body, and she felt him tensing, twisting away, just a heartbeat too late.
For a moment, the world went still. The sounds disappeared, all the shouting and yelling, and there was only the weight of his body, leaning on her all of a sudden, heavy, still on the move, still trying to do something.
It was happening too fast. Feeling as though if she did the right thing it would all reverse back to normal, she peered at him, trying to see his face without letting him go. He would know what to do, he always had.
“You … you all right?”
His eyes glowed, the only living feature in the paleness of his face, too widely open, their pupils enlarged. The rest of it was just a pasty mask, a wooden carving with no colors applied to it.
“Yes, yes. Listen!” His grip was hurting as he clutched her with both hands now, with an obvious desperation. “Go there. Go to our warriors … my people … go there now… Find Tsitenha. Ask them to take you to him. Talk to him.” A spasm made his face twist, and he pressed his lips and fell silent, drawing one convulsive breath, then another. “Go now, talk to them … tell them ... tell them what I said before. Make them talk to your people …” Again, the loud gulp, his hands hurting from the force with which they clutched her. “Go now…”
“No!” Wavering, as he leaned on her with all his weight, she swallowed to make her voice work, but the tears were choking it, not letting any air in. “I will not … not leave…”
“You have to!” Gathering himself together with an effort she felt physically, seeping through his strained limbs, he grabbed the branch of a nearby tree, pulling himself away, as fiercely determined as always. “Go! They will start fighting if you don’t. And then, then it all was for nothing.” Stumbling, he let his grip of her go, but as she rushed to catch him, his colorless lips twisted in a hint of a smile. “After you are done … come … come back. I … I’ll need it. You always came back, didn’t you? And then, then it will be all right.” The fear flashed out, peeked out of his eyes, gone as quickly, dominated by his will. Oh, but he was a great man! “Go now, before they start fighting. Don’t let them …”
People surrounded them now, their people and the enemies, talking, in both tongues, too rapidly for her to understand any of them. How could she talk to them? They would never listen, not to her, or anyone. It was only him that they had listened to for a short while, before Father … before he …
She pushed the thought of her father away, unable to deal with it, not now. Because now, she needed to find the way to make someone, anyone, listen without his forceful presence by her side. He trusted her to do that. He said that otherwise it would all be in vain, everything that they had been through. She had to do it for him!
“Migisso!” she shrieked, and when her brother’s badly bruised face sprang into her view, she knew it would be all right. “Please!”
He was staring at her, aghast.
“What happened?” His hands enveloped her, supporting. “The blood! Are you hurt?”
“No, no!” The hysterical pitch of her voice was the ugliest, most annoying sound. She drew a violent breath. “Go to him, please, go now. Back there, by that tree. Please, help him. Please!”
He narrowed his eyes. “What happened? Who got hurt?”
“The wolf youth. He got stabbed. Father stabbed him!” The wild sobbing was back, impossible to dominate, not anymore. “He is dying! Please!”
“Take me to him quickly!” The familiar decisiveness in his voice reassured her, helped to gather her senses back. “Where are you going?”
“I have to go, go there. I promised him I would talk, to help his people understand ours. I promised him that there will be no fighting.”
Chapter 24
The trail twisted, then turned steeper, but Migisso did not pause, did not slow his step, rushing along the forested hill, paying his surroundings no attention. The sun was against him, challenging, hurrying toward its resting place, but he needed its light, every little bit of it. Although, of course, one could act under the illumination of a fire, if one was desperate and had no choice. He had proven that last night, hadn’t he?
He frowned, for the first time through this mad, terrible, bizarre day remembering the youth whose leg was rotting away. Was he still alive, this one? Back in the pre-dawn mists, he hadn’t thought much of this warrior’s chances to survive, but who knew? If he wasn’t dead by now, he was probably getting better.
The path forked, and he hesitated, wishing Kentika was around, to tell him which way would bring him back to the shore he needed to reach faster. She was as good as a scout, better than some. Not many knew these woods that well, not even the hunters.
The thought of her made his insides shrink anew. Poor thing! But did she really mean what she said? That she would never, ever step inside their family home; would never address their father or even look at him? How did she propose to live if abiding by such a resolution? Where and how?
No, she must be just distraught and at a loss after the ordeal. Even for her, such a day must have been proving too much, and she was just a girl who had barely seen sixteen, seventeen summers, despite all the courage, all the determination. He still didn’t know how she had made them all listen, when the anger and hatred threatened to explode in more violence, in another deadly combat in the face of a treachery.
And treachery it was, indeed. How could Father do that?
The man claimed confusion. With everyone running ar
ound and shouting, about to resume the fight, Father had said he thought the foreigner was attacking his daughter. So he acted accordingly. There were many people around, many witnesses to confirm that, indeed, it was all very confusing, and the man who talked peace leaped toward the girl when the War Chief tried to push her away at the face of the arriving enemy. So maybe it was just that, the confusion. But for her refusal to come back to the village when it all was over for good, everything might have returned back to normal. Or partly normal. Oh, all the great and small spirits!
The smell of the river grew, and he hastened his step, measuring the sun once again. Was the wolf man still alive? He found himself praying that he was.
Because of his sister? He wasn’t sure.
The man was truly an outstanding person, enemy or not. Violent and impulsive, too young to display such strength of spirit, such extraordinary thinking, he did save them all, with exceptional fortitude and resolve, with much confidence and belief in what was right to do, despite the convention. The Benevolent Glooskap should not let such a man die, even though he was an enemy. But who was he to offer the Great Spirit advice?
Pausing to catch his breath, he clutched his bag tighter, thinking of its contents. The medicine man’s supplies of ready-made ointment and his private collection of tools for patching wounds, various-sized needles, rolls of sinew and other smaller accessories, were most welcome, giving Migisso much confidence. Although, of course, no sewing was likely to take place, not so long after the event.
Frowning, he recalled the wound, the narrow gap where the knife had slid in, not going straight into the depths of the man’s torso, but gliding downwards, along the ribs and around them, to bury itself in the muscle of the lower back. A dangerous blow that seemed to be deflected, somehow, probably by the man himself. After all, the foreigner was a fierce warrior. Of course he reacted and tried to save himself.
Still, even if not immediately lethal, the wound was bad enough, and it took Migisso much deliberation before deciding how to pull the knife out in a way that would not cause any more damage. Too many people were crowding all around, glaring or urging or giving advice, his fellow villagers raising their eyebrows with an open contempt. No one believed in him, as always, but it was the wounded’s gaze that made him disregard all the hubbub, all the threatening gazes and mistrust. The glittering eyes, though clouded with pain, held his, willing him to proceed, to do whatever he felt was right, forceful, trusting. The warrior knew how good he, Migisso, was, no one better.
The camp of the enemy was easy to locate, and although the watchers were spread all around—clearly no one trusted the most unordinary cessation of hostilities—they let him pass unchallenged, their nods motioning him on, their gazes following him, cordial, reserved. The wounded must still be alive, he decided, his stomach constricting painfully, heart fluttering, wishing he hadn’t come.
Protected from the wind, the small enclosure was bordered with canoes piled upon the shore, creating a sort of a wall, an embankment. The glimmer of several fires, with smells of freshly roasted meat spreading over some of them, gave the place an air of friendliness, the feel of a home. Like a hunters’ camp after a successful foray. Migisso felt his taut nerves relaxing.
Following a curt nod by one of the warriors, he bypassed the fires, diving into the shadow of a sharply tilted cliff, another smaller enclosure, a cozy one. The hides spread upon the ground added to the homelike sensation, padded with grass and more hides, with people lying upon them, either asleep or curled around themselves, suffering stoically, hiding their pain. Oh, but the noon battle left enough wounded, on both sides. Against his will, his eyes went to the nearest man, assessing his situation.
“Migisso!”
She was upon him before he knew it, almost pushing him off his feet, pale but clean, with no mud or blood smeared upon her. At least that! Eyes glittering wildly, she clutched his hand between both of hers, peering at him, excited, so obvious in her delight at seeing him.
“How is he?” he asked curtly, aware of the eyes all around them, hiding his affection, and his relief at seeing her unharmed. Following the wounded into the enemy camp had been her choice—wild bears would not be able to stop her from doing this—still, without the wolf man’s active protection, he wasn’t sure she might not be harmed.
“He is sleeping now. And it’s a good thing, isn’t it?” Her gaze lost its vividness, fixed on him, pleading for confirmation.
“I don’t know,” he said, pushing her away gently. “Take me to him and we’ll see.”
Treading his way between the wounded and those who sat beside them, treating or succoring, he felt his uneasiness returning. They were at the heart of the enemy’s camp. Oh, Benevolent Spirits!
A familiar face beamed at him as they neared the hide spread behind the cliff’s corner. It took him a heartbeat to recognize the wide, prominent features, now clean and relatively lively, unlike back at the improvised cave at night, the wideness of the man’s grin.
“Yes, he is much better now,” said Kentika proudly, smiling at the youth, who was partly sitting, leaning against the wall, his leg propped comfortably, the wound gaping, uncovered, glaringly red but not smelling, not rotting away.
Migisso grinned back, at ease again. “Tell him I’ll check his wound when I’m through with his friend.”
She burst into the long tirade, and again, he wondered how one masters such a strange-sounding foreign tongue.
The wolf man was, indeed, asleep, lying on his good side, his wounded back open to the touch of the fresh air. Good!
Not sleeping peacefully, as she had made it sound, the young man breathed fast, his limbs jerking every now and then, murmuring, restless and hot. Pressing his lips, Migisso knelt, studying the wound, the swollen edges of the cut, the wet, glaring crust. No odor surrounded it, other than the familiarly unpleasant smell of the fresh blood. At least that!
Yet, it was too early to tell, and the main thing was to determine if the man’s insides were not damaged. If only a muscle was cut, and no other tissue, then this one might be able to survive. A lucky man. Such a blow should have gone straight into him, killing him in an instant, delivered by a warrior of Father’s caliber. He pushed the troublesome thoughts aside.
“How is he?” she asked, kneeling across, taking the wounded’s hand in hers with an easy familiarity of a person who had done it before.
“The cut is still fresh. It needs to be treated with ointments.” Annoyed with her again for no reason, he shrugged. “I brought a salve and another medicine the Honorable Healer gave me. It should do good.”
“Oh, yes, yes!” She squinted, and her grip on the wounded’s hand tightened. “Will you close it?”
“No, of course not. It’s too late for that.” He sighed. “He may live, if that’s what you worry about, Sister. He doesn’t look too good right now, but with proper care, he may live.”
“Oh, please, please!” Leaning forward, she caught his hand in her free one, almost squashing their patient in the process. “Will you care for him? Properly?”
“Yes, I will. That’s why I’m here, am I not?”
The man stirred. Groaning, he tried to turn over, looking up, still disoriented and wild-eyed. In a heartbeat, she was back in her previous position, pressing his palm, whispering reassuringly. The youth’s face smoothed, and he closed his eyes, exhausted.
Migisso drew a deep breath. “Don’t let him fall asleep again. I want him to drink the medicine first.”
She resumed her whispering, and more helpful hands came to prop the wounded up, to help him drink the bitter brew out of Migisso’s jar. As the man coughed and choked, doubled over with pain, trying not to retch the medicine out, there was much fuss and attempts to help, but all the while, her hand was clutched tightly in the sweaty palm, not released even after the man was laid back, spent, groaning, drifting back into an uneasy sleep.
Eyeing her pale, twisted face, with its sharp cheekbones and prominent nose, and those strang
e too-widely-spaced eyes of hers, no feminine gentleness about her, no refinement, he felt his compassion welling. If that warrior died, something in her would die, too. Maybe all of her, even. What a puzzle. His boyish, unfeminine sister giving her heart to an enemy warrior, a fierce foreigner with unusual ways. How odd.
“He will be well,” he said, catching her eye, having finished smearing a most generous amount of ointment upon the wound. “He won’t die. We’ll make sure of it.”
Her eyes clung to him, full of hope. “Thank you, Brother. I will never forget!”
“Nothing to feel grateful about. I let myself into this mess some time ago, haven’t I?”
Her smile was a fleeting affair. “It all got out of hand.”
“Yes, it did.” He sighed. “But he prevented the bloodshed. Your hero, he did this, and no one else. He made sure our village was not invaded for the second time.”
She just nodded, her lips quivering, pressed tightly, unable to move.
“Because of you?”
Her shrug was light, hardly perceptible, her hand careful not to move out of the wounded’s grip.
“He asked you not to leave him now.” He made it a statement, not needing to see her confirming nod. “I saw it in people who were afraid to die. They cling to all sorts of beliefs. Sometimes, yes, they insist the person close to them not leave. If that person leaves, they actually die, sometimes.”
“He isn’t afraid of anything!” Cut by a sob, her protest sounded weak, unconvincing, but her grip on his hand turned so tight, he wondered how it didn’t crush the man’s bones.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Sick or wounded people do need these things to recover. It’s good that he knows what he needs.” Again, some of the old resentment surfaced. “Schikan wanted you by his side, too. He kept asking. He needed you badly, but you weren’t there.”