by Socha, Walt
“Still withdrawn. At least with the guys. She now works with the girls in the afternoons, plus shorter classes with the boys. Otherwise, she keeps to herself. Bit of a balancing act for us; trying to support her yet leaving her space to heal. And deal with her anger.” Larry blew out a long breath. “Spends a lot of time tending her medicinal herb garden. Joe makes a point of spending time there. Potts also.” Larry looked at Brent. “You planted most of that for her, didn’t you?”
Brent stayed silent, looking nowhere.
Larry shifted his weight. Took a deep breath. Stared at the shimmering air above the fire hole.
“What is it?” Brent raised one eyebrow.
Larry’s eyes roamed around the clearing, finally settling on Brent. “Alita and Canisa have been taking her breakfast in the mornings lately. She’s started keeping to herself till midday.”
“Damn.” Brent closed his eyes. “Morning sickness?” “Probably, but no one—us guys that is—have the nerve to ask.” Larry watched the muscles in Brent’s face twitch. After a few minutes, he returned Larry’s gaze. “And Joe?”
“A bit on pins and needles.” Larry bit his lip. “Afraid of offending anyone, I suspect.” He looked off into that same nowhere. “Even I kinda blew up on him.”
Brent shrugged. “Well, his grand adventure has gone to shit.”
“Our grand adventure.” Larry watched Brent’s face.
It remained impassive.
He added some thicker pieces of wood to his fire and busied himself with adding dried leaves to the boiling water. “Our resident philosopher?”
“Potts is a great help in the gardens. Still doing most of the cooking.” Larry stared at the pot swaying in a small arc over the fire. “Been listening to him.”
“Is he still preaching that Buddha thing?”
“Only when I ask him questions.” Larry shifted position, allowing the backrest to take more of his weight.
“Any recent words of wisdom from Potts?”
“When prompted, he still talks about his version of Buddhism. Stuff like there not being any real self, just some feedback loop in our heads reacting to incoming perceptions.”
“Feedback?”
“Kinda like all those stories that our brain cells invent to make sense of stuff.”
“Sounds pseudo-scientific to me.”
“Well, he uses better words.” Larry looked skywards and let his eyes go unfocused. “Says the key to life is to control our response to what hits us. He claims that meditation helps.”
“Anything specific?” Brent poked at the fire. “Or is it all generalities?”
“The last time we talked, he went on about triggers.
Something he calls ‘shenpa’.” “Which means what?”
“Stuff that sets us off. I guess I’m a bit of poster child. All I gotta do is think about that kid I killed and I get myself into a slump.” Larry could feel his pulse quickening. “Part of that bundle of perceptions thing he rants about.” He paused, remembering Potts’s words. “The more I think about it, the more sensible it seems.”
“What good is it?”
“Once ya recognize the triggers, you can control them.” Larry spat out a bark of a laugh. “Although I’m not sure I’d want to control any of my urges around those white clay guys.”
“Do me a favor.”The edges of Brent’s mouth twitched upwards. “Don’t.”
“So, when are you comin’ back?” Larry stared at his friend. “Kinda miss your dour face.”
One of Brent’s eyebrows rose. “Still have some thinking to do.”
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Samatu held out his wooden bowl to the slave, watching her battered face as she ladled the thick meat and squash stew into his bowl. She didn’t meet his gaze. He left the cooking fires and wandered toward the nearby assembly circle where his father and Tork were eating. Several of the other Skullmen sat around the pair, eating their own evening meal.
Samatu sat at the edge of the assembly area, close enough to see and hear Tork and Nist but out of their direct view. Unless summoned closer, this would be as close as the youngest Skullman could approach to any gathering, official or casual.
The two men were discussing the second planting of vegetables when the appearance of Tork’s wife, Manis, interrupted them. Nist rose to help her sit on a skin next to Tork. Several slaves appeared with steaming bowls of stew and gourds of water. The small group ate in silence. Samatu finished his bowl. Around him the life of the village hummed with unhurried activity as the sun touched the western hills. Beyond the far side of the assembly circle, a large group of Skullmen tossed sticks for rights to the various female slaves. Samatu thought of the bruised face of the young woman who had served his stew. The image of the old man called Potts who served food in the camp of the strangers flashed through his memory. “Did Mother eat?” The low voice of Tork drew
Samatu’s attention.
“Only a little in spite of my insistence.” Tork’s wife shook her head back and forth in slow arcs.
“Her moons are few.”Tork’s head turned toward the south where the summit of the burial mound appeared beyond the edge of the village. “Most of the planting is done. I will move more slaves to work the Honor Mound.” “Several more of the sacrificial children have started moon bleeding or night spitting. They are no longer suitable for burial.”
The muscles at the back of Tork’s neck tensed. “Just more problems to solve.” Tork faced Nist. “Send scouts east and south, beyond the tribute villages. A midsummer campaign will strengthen the warriors.”
“What of the strangers up the Great River?” said Nist. “We will continue watching until harvest. I want to know of their crops.”Tork rolled his head and stretched. “Scouts report unknown plants in their fields. Any new food may be useful when we strike inland. As will the magic for their devil weapons and the animals called ‘horses’.”
Samatu looked down at his bowl as he rotated it back and forth. Thoughts fought for attention. Did Tork mean to sacrifice the children when his mother died? And what of Haven? Would he be attacking the Sky Goddess and her strange tribe as the days shortened? The stew fought in his stomach.
Chapter 42. Day 79
Brent shook the debris from his foam pad, swearing as the small rip lengthened to two inches. Soon the pad wouldn’t be of much use.
After adjusting the foam into the depression he’d dug out over a week ago at the base of a towering oak, he sat and leaned back into the rough bark. Below him, the Susquehanna meandered along and through the multiple ridges that defined this area.
For the past week, he’d been spending several hours up here in the early mornings and the late afternoons. If nothing else, climbing this ridge provided needed exercise. He dug binoculars out of his pack and scanned the river. Nothing floated. A single man, or small group, would be invisible on the trails across the river, but a large force would most likely travel by water.
He held his breath as he peered west at the watchtower, which was barely visible. It must be at least four miles away.
He let out a long breath as he lowered the binoculars. Damn, had he been an ass for blaming Joe? Shit, no one was perfect. Humiliation rolled over Brent as he thought of his father berating him for real or imaginary failings, his older brothers laughing afterwards.
How long would he suffer from his father’s words? Was this one of those triggers that Potts had been going on about? Sure seemed so.
What had Larry said? Recognize and control. Brent snorted. Yeah, like that would work. He started to raise the binoculars. Then lowered them. Why did he let his asshole father affect him here of all places? The jerk wasn’t even born yet.
He snorted in a sharp breath. Was he treating Joe the same way he’d been treated?
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Potts wiped his face with his handkerchief as he entered the shade of an old oak. He dropped his hoe and lowered himself to a sitting position next to his pouch and water bottle. A weak breeze rattled the leaves as it cooled his body.
After a quick look to confirm that he was alone, Potts pulled out his pipe and packed it. Striking one of his last matches, he lit it and drew in deeply. He’d been weeding for hours, and this bit of a break was well deserved.
The sounds of footsteps interrupted his second puff.
Hatimu appeared.
“You use the pipe without ceremony?” The Elder raised his eyebrows.
Potts drew another lungful from he pipe. “Not tobacco. An herb. Something for my spirit.” He waved his left hand at the ground beside him.
Hatimu sat and stared at his hands. “How is your spirit?” Potts asked. “Weak.”
Potts shifted to face the elder. His face showed no expression that Potts could discern. “I will listen.”
After a long moment, Hatimu met Potts’s eyes. “When Tork’s men attacked, I led our remaining warriors to meet them.” The elder paused for a deep breath. “I just stood there in fear as the white clay warriors killed our warriors.” Potts knocked the ashes from his pipe on one of the gnarled roots of the old oak. He refilled it and handed it to Hatimu. When the elder held it to his mouth, Potts lit another of his remaining matches and held it over the bowl. Hatimu inhaled.
After two long inhalations, Hatimu returned the pipe. “One of Tork’s men knocked my club from my hands. Then he laughed. Several others joined him to prod me with their clubs. More joined in to beat me across the back with the shafts of their darts. I did not even have the honor of death.”
Potts knocked the ashes from the pipe once more. “Would the outcome have been any different if you had died trying to repulse their attack?”
Hatimu hesitated before meeting Potts’s gaze. “No.
But how can a man live without honor?”
Potts refilled the pipe with hands that now shook. Could he match such honesty? “I have a story also.” He lit the pipe and took comfort in the sweet smoke. “Seven days after arriving in your lands, we were attacked by Tork’s men.” Potts took in a long breath. Expelled. “Brent, Larry and Joe fought them off. Even Kristi prepared to help. I just stood there. Confused and scared.”
He met Hatimu’s eyes. “My lack of action troubles my thoughts.”
“Were you a warrior in your lands?”
“No. But neither were Joe or Kristi.” Potts filled, lit, and passed his pipe to Hatimu.
“We are both pained by yesterday.” Hatimu sucked in the smoke, the tension in his face lessening. “Do you have a way to mend our spirits?”
“Yesterday is gone. One always has the choice to be a better man today.”
“Is that what your gods tell you?”
“No god told us anything. Just a wise man.” Potts shifted his attention from Hatimu to the sky, trying to visualize the planet moving through space and time. Was that wise man dead, alive, or not even born yet?
Chapter 43. Day 86
Joe glanced at the sun as he rode down the riverside trail. He was late getting out of Haven for his afternoon scouting ride. Daru had slapped his sister—something about her not showing him respect. It had taken almost an hour to calm him down. Maybe Larry was right about some of the children suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. If anyone ought to know, it’d be Larry. But PTSD in an eleven year old boy?
The weight of Haven was choking the breath out of him. And now this. Even Potts seemed stymied by the behavior exhibited by some of the children. He certainly wasn’t going to bring it up to Kristi. She was still dealing with her own devils.
The trail opened into a small open area. He couldn’t tell if it was a deliberate or accidental burn but it would be gone in a couple of years. Joe reined Snark to a stop at a break in the shoreside trees and gazed at the riverside foliage at the opposite riverbank. While he hadn’t seen any sign of white clay warriors recently, he knew that Tork wouldn’t leave Haven alone.
Joe pulled out his binoculars and adjusted the focus as his eyes inched along the riverbank. Anyone trying to hide would probably be invisible, but not patrolling the valley would be crazy.
He slipped the binoculars back into their case and nudged Snark forward. He’d survey as far as the remains of Two Valleys before turning around. Twice more he stopped and scanned. What could he even do if he saw Tork’s men on the opposite shore?
As he approached Two Valleys, he slowed. Normally, he’d hear normal bird activity die away, replaced by warning calls, as he rode. But now the feathered critters were already chirping their danger calls. There was a predator around. Should he get help? The small trail to the fish weir was just past the abandoned village’s small creek. And led to a good place to land a canoe. Joe unholstered the Ruger, cocked the hammer, and nudged Snark forward. Within minutes they reached Stoney Creek. No recent prints, man or beast. Joe nudged Snark again and she scrambled up the creek.
“It’s just me,” a familiar voice said.
Joe jerked, Snark prancing in alarm beneath him. He uncocked the pistol and slipped it back in its holster as his heart rate slowed to normal. “Brent, you trying to give me a heart attack?”
Ahead, Brent stepped onto the main trail from the smaller one that led to the river. “You’re the second person lately who’s asked that question.” He wore his pack and had the strap of his bow bag slung over one shoulder.
Joe dismounted and, with his left hand rubbing Snark’s head, stood facing Brent.
Brent moved forward until he stood a pace in front of Joe. “I think I’ve got that thumb grip nailed.” He held out his right hand, a ring of leather tied just below the thumb’s first knuckle.
The knot in Joe’s gut untangled as he grasped his friend’s hand.
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As they walked past the river garden plot, Brent pointed to the river side of the trail. “Been a bit crazy with the axes?”
“Now that the fort’s walls and gate are in place, we’re finally finding time to work on other barriers.” Joe eyed the rows of felled trees, all pointing toward the river.
“I’d hate to force my way through all those interlocking branches.”
“Got a few hundred more yards of barrier to construct if you’re bored.”
“Consider it done.”
The riverside trail dipped to cross the village’s main stream. Brent picked his way across the line of stones. “Larry hasn’t built a bridge yet?”
“Actually, he’s mentioned it.” Joe followed, holding Snark’s reins off to his right where the streambed had been cleared of obstacles.
As Joe started clambering up the opposite bank to join Brent, a sharp whistle cut through the air. Joe responded with his own whistle.
Four echoing drum beats sounded from the tower. “Someone must be approaching Haven.” Joe raised an eyebrow at Brent.
“Nice improvement,” Brent said.
“For at least as long as we can keep recharging the batteries in the IR goggles.” Joe walked up the west bank and paused. “After that, the tower lookout is going to be blind at night. Going to have to come up with some sort of non-tech security. We’re kinda hoping Zoey will entice a mate. She’s old enough to breed.” He turned off the riverside toward Haven, following the well-used path along the creek north toward Haven.
“I’m still wondering about the absence of dogs.” “I’m guessing Tork’s men killed them as a matter of course when they attacked.” Joe waved a hand toward the east. “But we have heard barking further up the valley in recent days.”
Within minutes, they arrived at a fork in the path. The left branch worked its way up the hill to the tower. The right branch continued northeast to cross a smaller stream that marked the southwestern boundary of Haven. “Actually, I think Larry’s also planning a small bridge across Salamander Creek. Its banks can get a bit muddy.” Joe picked his way through the shallow water.
“It’s got a name now?”
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“The kids came up with it.” Joe smiled as he thought of the children’s excitement at being given the task of naming the two streams. “And they’ve named the main one Snake Creek.”
“Still restricting drinking water to our newly named Salamander?” Brent asked as he stepped from one stone to another.
“Yeah, especially now that we’ve permanently moved some of the horses to that cleared area upstream of the Snake.”
A figure appeared as they entered Haven’s main clearing. “Welcome home, uncle Brent.” The form materialized into Matu. “I’ll take Snark.”
“I’m glad to be back,” Brent said. “What have you been up to?”
“We repaired the fish weir at Two Valleys village.” Matu beamed as he took Joe’s horse. “And we are hitting the target almost every time.”
“And what are you going to do with that skill?” Brent asked.
Matu hesitated and glanced at Joe before meeting Brent’s eyes. “Protect and feed Haven.”
At Brent’s nod, Matu smiled and led Snark to the horse corral.
As they entered Haven, Zoey started to bark out a warning that transformed instantly into an excited dance as she approached Brent. Behind her, two shadowy figures rose from the fire circle. The first solidified into Larry as he trotted past Joe and enveloped Brent in a bear hug. “Welcome home, asshole.”
Potts clapped Joe on his shoulder as he passed to give Brent a more sedate two-handed handshake.
As the four walked to the fire circle accompanied by a circling Zoey, a smaller figure rose to greet Brent.
“I am sorry for all the problems I’ve caused.” Alita kept her head down as she stood in front of Brent.
Brent froze, his impassive fire-lit face twisting into a frown. He placed his hands on her shoulders and leaned down to gaze into her eyes. “Alita, we’re here because we chose to be.” He looked up at the children sitting around the fire. “Your brothers and sisters need us.” He took in a long breath. “And we need to help.”
Alita led Brent into the circle, sitting him on one of the camp chairs next to a grinning Hatimu as Potts spooned venison stew into a bowl. Alita took the bowl and handed it to Brent. Zoey settled down at his feet. Then Alita returned to her seat next to Nikaku.