Calamity's Child

by Sharon Lee

  "A good story," he said, softly. "And nothing to weep for."

  Arika snuffled, and raised a hand to scrub at her cheeks.

  "I weep because --" Another gulp, and a wave around at the general chaos. "It was not like this. It was orderly and, and erifu and -- and the babe was born dead, and Keneple caught the milk fever, and the grandmothers did what there was to do..." The tears were flowing again, and she hugged the pot tight to her chest.

  "So, she died," she whispered. "It was past time to leave for Dark Camp... They helped me with the pyre before they left. I packed the tent in haste and, and -- " She bent her head, hair falling forward to shroud her face. "Erifu has been broken, and I don't know how..."

  He slipped an arm around her waist, as she cuddled her pot and wept, offering the comfort of his warmth.

  Gently, he asked, "Keneple was your mother?"

  Arika sniffled. "My elder sister. Elae -- her hunter -- fell from a rock ledge at Far Gathering and broke his neck. We --" Her grief overtook her, then, and there were no more words for a time.

  Slade stroked her hair, murmuring nonsense phrases, as he had heard Gineah murmur to soothe a sick child.

  Gods, he thought, the tragedy unrolling before his mind's eye. Every one of the tent dead, save herself, within the space of one summer walkabout? Mother, hunter, and hopeful babe -- gone, leaving one grieving girl-child, who had promised her dying sister that she would not allow the tent to lapse...

  "Arika," he murmured. "Gineah taught me. We can together put things right. Our tent will be erifu and the envy of every hunter!"

  She looked at him sidewise through her hair. "The grandmother taught you how to order a tent? But that is --"

  "Who says no to a grandmother when she requires a thing?" he asked, smoothly.

  That argument had weight. Arika straightened. "We do as the grandmother says."

  "We do," he said, and smiled at her. "Let us begin in the Windward corner."

  *

  Slade shivered in the light wind and held his end of the braided leather rope loosely by the knot. The other end was tied to the most robust of the shrub-like trees in the thicket with a knot Verad would have frowned upon had he seen it, for it looked to be more erifu than the knots men might use. All around, the rocks, bushes and moss glittered silver in the starlight -- ice, and treacherous footing for even a skilled hunter.

  As had become his habit since his mating, Slade hunted alone. He regretted the loss of Verad's companionship, but the elder hunter had grown even more disapproving of Slade's methods. Hunting alone, he had perfected those methods. It was seldom, now, that their tent was without fresh meat.

  Today, Slade thought, might be one of those rare days when he returned empty-handed. If the binkayli failed to swarm, if his throw went awry, if the leather parted, if the branch gave way -- if, if, if...

  One-handed, Slade reached to his belt and worked the knot on the hunter's touch. Though he hunted solitary, he was often enough among other hunters at the end of the day, when casual groups might form to discuss the weather, the hunting, the lie of the land for tomorrow's hunt. Thus, he had added several odd quartz bits, the tail fur of an ontradube, and the sharply broken stub of the same creature's small antler to his collection of magical items, as further camouflage.

  Finding the vial of vitamins by touch among the lot was a chore, but he succeeded, and squeezed the drops into his mouth. He grimaced at the taste, and at the state of the container, and dropped it back into the bag.

  Checking his hold on the leather, his nose hair bristled. Cold, cold, cold.

  From his left came a rolling rumble, as of dozens of hooves hitting the frozen ground. Slade tensed, then forced himself to relax, pushing all thought of failure -- all thought -- from his mind, just as the binkayli burst out of the silvered thicket, barely six paces from his crouching place, running hard across the open land.

  He threw, the lasso arced into the spangled air, spun and fell about the neck of a well-grown binkayli stallion.

  Oblivious, the stallion raced on. The rope stretched, the noose tightened. The branch held, held -- and broke in a clatter of scattered ice.

  Slade swore and leapt. His boots skidded on the icy surface, he twisted, clawing for balance, and fell badly, left leg bent beneath him, head cracking against the ground.

  Half-dazed, he saw the rope and the branch speed across the icy ground in the wake of the stallion. The pounding of hooves vibrated through his head, and finally faded away.

  *

  It was late when he limped back into camp, leaning heavily on his spear. He staggered to his own tent, standing silver and serene 'neath the changeless winter sky, pushed the flap back, ducked inside -- and froze.

  The air was pungent with some unfamiliar odor, and thick with smoke. Arika sat, cross-legged and naked, before the fire, eyes closed, holding a hunter's gutting knife between her palms. Two women he did not know knelt, fully clothed, facing her.

  Slade moved as quietly as he was able, meaning to retire to the corner where he kept his hunter's gear, to warm himself, and rest his injured leg.

  One of the strangers looked over her shoulder and leapt up, her eyes wide and angry. She grabbed his arm, none-too-gently, and shoved him toward the flap.

  "You are not allowed here!" she hissed. "Go! Do not return until you are summoned!" Another shove, and a third, which sent him stumbling out into the cold, ice-rimed camp.

  Slade stood for a moment, gathering his wits; shivering, aching and angry. Then, leaning hard on his spear, he limped away, toward Gineah's tent.

  *

  "Rest, tomorrow and tomorrow," Gineah said, rising from her inspection of the injured leg. "The muscles are angry, and you -- you are a very fortunate hunter, young Slade. You might have broken that leg, and then you would have been a dead hunter, alone in the freezing darkness, without a brother of the hunt nearby to aid you."

  He smiled up at her. "I was fortunate, I know. I will be more careful, Gineah."

  She snorted and motioned him to sit up, as she crossed to the cook fire and the pot hanging there. "At least your head is hard," she said -- and then, "You should not hunt alone."

  "I must," he said. "My methods frighten Verad, and the others are more timid still."

  Gineah ladled soup into bowls and brought them back to the hearth fire, handing one to Slade.

  "Eat." She ordered. "And while you eat, tell me what your wife was about, to allow a stranger to send you from her tent."

  So he ate, and told her of his strange homecoming, with Arika entranced or uncaring, the smoke, the knife, and the woman who had banished him.

  "So." Gineah looked at him straightly across the fire. "Your wife, young Slade, is a Finder."

  He blinked, trying to read her face, and, as usual, failing.

  "What is a Finder, grandmother?"

  "A woman of great erifu, who may cast her thought out to find that which is lost. The best Finders improve their tents many times over. Your wife is young, she has some years before she reaches the fullness of her gift. But she is already known as a Finder of great talent. The tent will improve quickly, I think, and you will no longer live on the edges of the Dark Camp."

  Surely, Slade thought, this was good news? In the house of his mother, the birth of a Healer was cause for rejoicing. Yet, Gineah looked more doleful than joyous.

  "This troubles you..." he said, tentatively.

  Gineah sighed. "Finders ... do not thrive. The heat of their gift consumes them. Not all at once, but over a time. Sometimes, a very long time."

  He stared at her, thinking of Arika, young and frail and fierce, and his eyes filled. "Is there no --"

  "Cure?" she finished for him. "Child, there is no cure for destiny."

  "Then," he asked, blinking the tears away, though the empty feeling in his chest remained. "What should I do?"

  "Be the best hunter you are able. Be her friend, as I know you can be, O, wisest and most erifu of hunters. If children come to the ten
t, care for them. And pray that they were not born to be Finders."

  Something moved near the flap of the tent, loud to Slade's hunter-trained ears. He came around, began to rise -- and fell back as fire shot through his leg.

  "Rest!" Gineah hissed at him, and went to unlace the flap.

  "Grandmother," he heard Arika's voice, thin and vulnerable. "Is Slade with you?"

  "He is. A woman pushed him from your tent while you were Finding, child. What greeting is that for a hunter returned to his tent wounded?"

  "Wounded?" He heard her gasp and called out --

  "A fall, nothing more. Gineah..."

  She stepped back, motioning, and Arika entered.

  She was wan, and unsteady on her feet, her eyes great and bruised looking.

  "A fall?" she repeated, and knelt beside him, touching the leg Gineah had wrapped. "Is it broken?"

  "No," he soothed her. "Not broken."

  "He must rest," Gineah said. "Tomorrow and tomorrow. Eat from stores. If there is a call upon your gift, you will come to me, rather than turn this hunter out. Am I understood?"

  Arika hung her head. "You are understood, grandmother." She looked up, and Slade saw tears shining in her eyes. "Slade. You should not have been cast out. Next time, I will be certain that those who watch know that your presence will not disturb me."

  "Thank you," he said, sincerely, and touched her thin cheek. The heat of their gift consumes them... he thought, and wanted nothing more than to fold her in his arms and protect her from that fate.

  "So," said Gineah, and his wife stood, to attend the grandmother with due respect, and to receive two medicine pots.

  "Rub the leg with this, morning, mid-day, night. If there is swelling, three drops of this, in noginfeil tea. If there is fever, send, and I will come."

  "Yes, grandmother," Arika murmured, and tucked the pots into her pouch. She looked down at him doubtfully.

  "Can you walk?"

  The leg was considerably stiffer, despite the warmth, but he thought he could walk. "If I can rise," he said.

  Gineah held out a plump arm, and Arika offered a thin one. It took the support of both, but gain his feet he did, and stood wobbling, arm around Arika's waist for balance, while Gineah fetched his vest and his spear.

  *

  They made love, their last night in Dark Camp. After, in the soft silence, Arika snuggled against his chest, and he put his arms around her. She had gained weight since they had married, and the tent had improved as well -- in some part due to his efforts; in greater part, so he had it, to hers. As the Dark wore on, more came to ask the Finder to locate this or that misplaced item, animal, or -- rarely -- person. They paid well, those seekers -- in fur, in food, in good metal knives and spear tips. He watched her closely, having taken Gineah's words much to heart, but, truly, she seemed more well, not less.

  "Slade," Arika murmured. "Tell me about your home."

  He stirred, breathing in the perfume of her hair. "My home?" he repeated, lazily.

  "Gineah told me that you were not of the Sanilithe," she said, nestling her head onto his shoulder. "She said you were not of the Trinari, or of the Chinpha. She said that you had fallen out of the starweb, and were no ordinary hunter at all."

  Shrewd Gineah, he thought, stroking Arika's hair; and really -- what does it matter now?

  "She said," Arika continued, "that she expected your tribe to come for you, and held you away from the Choosing. But when they did not come after two full rounds of seasons, she sent you forth, for a hunter of the Sanilithe must live by the law of the Sanilithe."

  Slade sighed.

  "Did you fall out of the starweb?" Arika asked him.

  What does it matter? He thought again. For surely Gineah was correct -- no one would come for him now.

  "My ...starship... was caught in a storm," he murmured, which was true, if not factual. "Yes, I fell out of the starweb."

  "And before it fell? Did you live on your starship?"

  As much as I was able, he thought, and sighed again.

  "Much of the time. I was ... the hunter... who went ahead, to find how the land lay, if danger crouched, or if sweet waters sang..."

  This she understood, the order of march during the gathering season being: scouts, hunters, gatherers, tents. She also knew that scouts often took harm from their duty. She shifted, pressing her body against him in a long hug, and nestled her cheek more closely against his shoulder.

  "Tell me about your mother's tent."

  His mother's tent -- almost he laughed. Instead, he stroked her hair and stared up into the darkness.

  "My mother's tent was...full," he said slowly. "We lived in -- a permanent camp. It was not necessary to wander in the Warm Days, to spread ourselves thin so that we did not strain the land. It was," he said, even more slowly, feeling his way, "a land of plenty. The camp -- it was called ‘Solcintra'."

  "There must have been many people in your camp, Solcintra," Arika said after he had been silent for a time.

  "Yes," he said, "many, many hands of people."

  "What else?" she asked, and this time he did laugh.

  What else, the child asks.

  "Is my question funny?" Arika demanded, between hurt and angry.

  "Not at all," he assured her, smoothing her shoulder with his hand. "Not at all. Listen, now, and I will tell you..."

  And so he told her, of spaceports, and shops, and healers, and traffic, and sometime before the gray uncertain dawn wavered into being, she fell asleep. He held her then, silent, his thoughts still on the city, his kin, the sky he would never see again...

  *

  Arika gained weight as they traveled into the light, until he was forced to believe what he had not thought possible. And one night, as they sat companionably at the fire; he mending a frayed rope, she mending a broken basket, he asked a question.

  "I wonder," he said, watching her face out of the sides of his eyes. "Will the tent soon welcome a child?"

  Her hands froze, and she raised her head to stare at him across the fire.

  "Perhaps," she said haughtily. Arika was always haughty in fear.

  He preserved his pretense of oblivious industry. "A child in the tent would be -- a joy," he said. "But the hunter should be informed, if he will soon need to hunt for more."

  She looked away, throat working. "As to that -- it is not certain. The women of my tent ...do not always... birth well."

  Her sister, he remembered, whose baby had been born dead -- and who had herself died of the birth. He plaited his rope in silence for a few heartbeats, then asked, quietly, "Is it the Finder blood that puts the babes at risk?"

  She swallowed. "The grandmothers believe so. They call it a ‘gift', but it eats us up, even those it allows to be born."

  "It does not have to be," he said, carefully. "My mother, my brother, my sister -- all are gifted as you are, with an extra pair of eyes, that see what others cannot." He raised his head and met her stare across the fire.

  "You have the blood," she said, with certainty.

  "I do. My mother bore three healthy children; my sister and my brother, who have extra eyes; myself, who has but two. So..." Here was the dangerous ground, for hunters knew nothing of such matters. "So, Arika, my wife, if the child in your belly is one that we made together, it may be that my ...blood... will lend her strength enough to be born -- and to thrive."

  "It may be," she said quietly, and sighed, putting her basket aside. "Slade. How do you know these things?"

  He opened his eyes wide and made a show of innocence. "Things?"

  "That without a hunter, there is no child. How does a hunter put a child in a belly, Slade?"

  Well, he had botched it. He sighed, then smiled at her. "Why, when we enjoy each other, and you take me into yourself..."

  "Enough." She sighed in her turn. "These things are erifu."

  "Among the Sanilithe, they are erifu," he allowed. "In my mother's tent, these things are common knowledge, shared among sisters and
brothers."

  She closed her eyes. "You make me tremble," she murmured, and looked at him once more. "But I see the fire has not leapt up to consume you, so it must be that the spirits of your grandmothers allow you this knowledge." She bent her head. "The child who -- will -- come to us is a child of my blood -- and yours." She smiled, very slightly. "May your blood make her strong."

  *

  Arika waned as the child waxed. Slade held her at night and tried to will his strength into her, for she, his precious, for whom he hunted, did not have his blood to make her strong. Lying awake in the dark, he made plans to dose her from his dwindling supply of supplements; plans which he abandoned as morning overtook him. His Arika was a child of this world, and even as her world was slowly poisoning him, so his needed vitamins might very well poison her.

  He did insist that she refrain from gathering, and when she protested, told her that he would gather. Gineah had taught him something of plant lore. This was true enough, though not as she heard it. Gineah had shown him the fruits of her labors in the evenings when they both had returned to the tent, laying out and naming those things she had gathered.

  "I will bring everything to you, and you will decide if it is good," he told Arika. "But you will not go out alone, soft on your feet as you are! You put our daughter and yourself in danger, and I do not allow it!"

  A grave breach of erifu, that, and yet, strangely, she laughed.

  "Slade. How will you hunt and gather? Or will you give your spear to me?"

  "No, never that," he said, lightly. "A tent mother must not kill."

  "A hunter's work fills the day -- and a mother's work, too. How will you fit two days into one?"

  "Let me try," he said, urgently, and took her hands. "Two days. If I fail to gather, or to hunt, we will -- think of something else."

  It was perhaps a measure of how weak she was that she allowed him his two days of proof.

  *