by C. K. Brooke
“I am not taking off my clothes for you.” Her eyes flashed at him. “Correction: I am never taking off my clothes for you, Andrew Cosmith.”
“It’s Drew. And never say never.”
Catja waited as he swam a lap, running a constant commentary of how good it felt, how warm the water was. She hated that he was beginning to persuade her, planting the desire to feel the water engulf her, warming and soothing her. But more than that, she was unsettled by how her eyes kept flickering over to him, drinking in the strong curve of his shoulders, resting too long on the shape of his back underwater as he swam.
He was right. She wanted to join him.
Something in her face must have betrayed her, for he swam to the bank where she waited, and mopped the hair from his brow. “Are you going to stand there all night?” He peered up at her, his smile gentler than usual. “Come on, Cat. For once, let your hair down.”
She watched him, considering.
“If you have any, that is,” he added. “I can’t tell; you’re always wearing it up like some sort of austere schoolmarm.”
“Schoolmarm?” Catja exclaimed. “Did you just call me a schoolmarm?”
He frothed with laughter. “Prove you aren’t.” With that, he thrust his arm through the pool and heaved a splash so mighty, it soaked her blouse transparent.
Catja gasped, her shirt, hair and spectacles drenched. “Oh, that’s it,” she growled. She tugged at her sopping collar and undid the top button. “Turn around, you!”
He did as told, doubled over in hysterics. Catja flung down her wet blouse and stepped out of her shoes. She wanted to leave her trousers on, but then she’d have nothing dry to wear back. Determinedly, she peeled them off, too. She stood in only her bloomers and camisole, her chest heaving as she contemplated entering the spring.
“Your spectacles too,” he called, his back to her. “Don’t forget to remove those awful things.”
She whipped off her lenses and tossed them atop the soft bed of her clothing. Without indulging another moment’s hesitation, she stepped in.
Her muscles loosened in the hot water. She slid under to her shoulders, a long breath of relief escaping her. “Ah, you’re right,” she admitted, closing her eyes. “It’s paradise.”
“Told you.”
She reopened her eyes. The man raked back his dripping hair again, and wiped his long lashes. “It’s a perfect night for this,” he said. “Not too warm.”
“Yes, it can be rather miserable in late summer, and then this hot spring is far from refreshing. You’d be surprised how humid it can get up here.”
“You’ve done this before?”
“With the village women,” she replied. She didn’t know why she felt compelled to clarify that. “After the men were done.”
He circled her. Cautious, she watched him. “You know, your eyes are quite catching,” he said conversationally. “Pity you’re always wearing those spectacles over them.”
“I’m near-sighted.”
“Then perhaps I ought to come closer.”
Catja froze as he stopped short of touching her. Beneath the budding quarter moon, he observed her, his eyes curiously panning over her face. “You’re so tightly wound,” he whispered.
Her throat constricted. “You would be too, if you had my responsibilities.”
“I meant it as a compliment.” He chuckled. “It’s cute.”
“I don’t know where you learned what you think you know about women, Mr. Cosmith, but where I’m from, condescending and complimenting are two different things.” Her voice was unsteady as he inched painfully closer.
“And where are you from?” He disregarded the jab, his eyes intent on her. She could make out every brown and hazel spark surrounding his pupils, and each individual eyelash. “Bainherd?” he wondered. “You certainly don’t sound like you’re from Häffstrom.”
“N-not west.” Her voice faltered as he slowly, hypnotically traced a finger on her shoulder, over her camisole.
“East Halvea?”
Mutely, she nodded.
“And does everyone in East Halvea have such beautiful, deep blue eyes?” he murmured.
Warmth emanated from his wet, well-formed chest as he drew in, trailing his finger up to her neck. She shivered, but not from cold. “You know,” he croaked, “I think I’ve decided what I’m going to name this spring.”
Catja gave him a testy look, but he seemed to miss it.
She felt his breath on her lips, hot and sultry, his mouth practically over hers as he spoke. “I’m going to call it,” his voice was a low vibration in his throat, “Where Catja Let Her Guard Down.”
Catja ducked, avoiding the landing of his lips. She paddled to the bank, her heart drumming.
“Oy.” He swam after her. “Where are you going?”
“I’m getting out.” She never should have gotten in to begin with. What was she thinking?
“I was only getting started,” he laughed.
“Don’t you look at me,” she warned him. She waited until he’d turned again before lifting herself out onto dry land. She stepped into her trousers and hastened to fasten them. Next, she donned her damp shirt, her slick hands fidgeting with the buttons. She had never felt more ashamed. Honestly—Drew Cosmith? How had she been tempted by the likes of him, if even for one brainless second? She knew better.
“I trust you can make it back on your own.” She pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose.
He stayed in the water, his expression easy as she faced him. “No worries. We’ll do this again sometime, Cat.”
She grumbled, quitting the clearing.
“And maybe next time,” he called after her, “you’ll actually stay with me!”
Catja hurried out of his range of sight. She didn’t even want to know what he meant by that.
Johanna SHELLED seeds with KYA. They saved the pods in a bowl to grind with goat’s milk for a savory paste. Kya was quicker, deft fingers splitting the shells with practice. Johanna, on the other hand, struggled to pry apart the casings. At times, when no one was looking, she used her teeth.
Sitting cross-legged on the ground was far from comfortable. Her stomach was certainly growing out, and it was all she could do not to grunt with her movements. Getting down and back up again seemed to cost more effort than ever before, and never had hauling herself from one place to the next felt more strenuous. Johanna was grateful for the loose-fitting, straight-hanging deerskin frock the tribeswomen had loaned her when her skirts and shirtwaist had become soiled by the elements.
Around her, the soldiers chiseled away at spears and arrowheads with help from some of the village men. Bram was among them, sharpening a spear with a hunk of flint. Women sang as they worked outside their nearby huts, skinning the hares and foxes their husbands had brought.
Heavy boot steps alerted Johanna to a new presence. She glanced up. Drew strode their way purposefully, his jaw set. Ludwig looked up from his arrowhead.
“It is settled,” Drew announced, breaking apart the others’ conversation. The guards’ voices faded. “We’re leaving before the moon wanes.” He was the only one who seemed the least bit glad for it. Milo’s eyes shifted down, and Bram wore a tiny frown. Johanna might not have perceived it, had she not known him her entire life.
“And going where?” said Ludwig.
“Out there.” Drew pointed to the open lands, the tree-covered hills beyond the village. “Might I remind you, brother, that we are still bound to His Majesty by blood and duty? Look at yourselves.” He addressed the group, the skin between his eyes winching. “You’re becoming too comfortable. You’re forgetting, we didn’t come all this way, survive that wreck and the ice of the North Sea, just to get cozy here.”
Ludwig’s lips pressed together. It was apparent in Kya’s eyes that she sensed something awry. Johanna could re
ad the reluctance in the guards’ faces as well, but knew that few, if any, would speak against her brother. Because, of course, Drew was right. They were bound to the emperor.
Softly, she cleared her throat. “What about the chief?” Drew’s attention rested on her. “Going against his wishes to survey the land as though it’s ours seems a poor way to repay the Oca’s generosity.”
“The land is ours,” growled Drew.
“Th-th-there’s room for compromise,” Ludwig suggested, setting down his tools. Though he stammered, his demeanor was calm. “Can’t we just do…as Catja suggested? I’ll bring Kya. A few tribesmen can come, too.” He indicated the Oca seated among them. “They can help with our m-m-maps. And Uncle Mac can decide what he’ll do, g-g-given the evidence.”
Everyone’s eyes were on Drew. His twitching jaw told Johanna he was growing flustered. “I s’pose it’s possible.” He pouted. “Either way, I refuse to return home empty-handed.”
“What’s this talk of returning home?” Catja was making her morning rounds, checking on the villagers to help anyone in need of medicine or clean water.
“Professor.” Drew beckoned her. “For once, I’m glad you interfered. We’re hitting the road at the height of the moon.”
“Oh?”
“And you’re coming with us.”
Catja stopped short, shaking her head as if to clear it. “Wait. The road to where?”
“The rest of the island, and then on to the others.” He held out his arms. “To explore.”
She gave him a distrustful look.
“You said it yourself.” He prodded her shoulder, and Johanna noticed Catja’s cheeks turned pink. “The Oca can come if they want. With them as our guides, we can bring proof of their existence to our emperor. And you will translate for us.”
“I love how you Jordinians presume everything.”
“Don’t you want to help us, Catja?” Johanna piped in. “You know the land as well as any Oca. In fact, with your experience, you’re invaluable to us.”
Catja’s features softened. Absently, she patted her bun. “Well, I suppose I….”
Kya spoke to her in Ocanese, and Catja nodded. “Yes, good thinking,” she murmured. She straightened the strap of her messenger bag over her shoulder. “I’ll speak with the chief. If he approves,” she gave a curt nod to Drew, “then I’ll consider.”
As she walked off, Drew cocked an eyebrow at Johanna. “Flattery, eh?”
Johanna didn’t respond, save for a small, smug grin as she resumed shelling seeds.
His eyes returned to Catja as though magnetically drawn. “Well-played, little sister.”
The docile steer waited with a travois harnessed to them. The last of their belongings had been attached to the great sticks sloping down from the steer. The Oca had shown them how to pack lightly. During bear season, they’d explained, men often traveled for weeks at a time, and knew how to live from the land.
The chief approached their procession, a headdress of what looked like duck feathers crowning his gnarled brow and gray hair. Dag and Zuri, his sons, were with him. Johanna had come to identify Dag as the more sociable of the two, with a louder voice, a larger presence, and more prone to laughter. Zuri, on the other hand, though equally imposing, seemed quieter and sullen, though perhaps he was only more contemplative.
Their father spoke to Ludwig and Drew. “He say,” explained Dag, in his fragmented Halvean, “on behalf of Oca, he send us good fortune and blessing on journey.”
The chief continued, a lengthier message, and Dag deferred to Catja this time.
“He wishes to remind you that the Oca have placed their trust in you to represent their tradition in what you record about them. And when your emperor learns of their sacred communion with this land, he hopes His Majesty will rethink whatever his plans. Sharing the islands, the Oca can consider. Losing them,” her blue eyes lingered on Drew, “they cannot.”
“How do you say thank you?” inquired Drew.
Ludwig was the one to answer, “Oax.”
Drew turned to the old chief, his face sincere. “Oax,” he repeated, touching his thumb to his heart. The chief returned the gesture, inclining his plumaged head.
“Kinje,” said Kya softly, taking Johanna’s hand. Patiently, she helped Johanna ascend the gentle mare awaiting them. Kya mounted the creature as well, taking the spot in front of her, and Johanna grew uneasy. What if the girl should feel the swell of Johanna’s belly against her back?
From the ground, Bram held the reins to steer the mare. Strapped to his back was Catja’s hefty-looking rucksack containing an old canvas tent. Johanna couldn’t help but notice he looked pensive. “What’s the matter?” she asked him.
He glanced sideways at her, and shook his violet head in disappointment.
“What?” she pressed him.
“You,” he mumbled.
That was surprising. “Me?”
He was careful to speak under his voice. “I would feel much better if you stayed behind, in the village.”
“And be separated from my family and the only people who speak Halvean?” she whispered. “No, thank you.”
Drew stood before the assembled guards, rattling off a verbal checklist. The men dug into their pockets and bags to ensure they carried all they would need.
“You’d be safer,” Bram insisted heavily. “The Oca can take care of you. You shouldn’t be traveling. You especially shouldn’t be riding a horse,” he said as the line began to move and the mare lifted her hooves.
“Would you rather I walk?” Johanna asked testily.
“You should be walking even less than you should be riding a horse,” he grumbled.
Johanna peered across at him. “Your job,” she snapped, “is to guard and protect me in what I choose to do. Not to make my choices for me.”
His face closed. “Yes, my lady.”
At his stiff words, her heart sank. She couldn’t bear to see his eyes without the warmth they usually held for her. Inwardly, she cursed herself. How could she have spoken to him like a mere subordinate, after all the kindness he’d shown her? She had no business losing her patience with the only man who had ever been truly patient with her.
Before she could apologize, raised voices issued around the stinking horses and steer up ahead. Drew was confronting Catja over something, yet again, and the woman gave it right back to him, her hand over her hip. It seemed to Johanna the professor was a woman very much used to being in control. And the Jordinians had certainly interrupted that control.
“Bram.” She refocused on the man walking beside the horse. “I didn’t mean to talk down to you. I—”
“You have every right to,” he replied staidly. “Forgive me for forgetting my station.”
It pained Johanna that he wouldn’t look at her again. Kya sat in front of her, oblivious to the conversation. Up ahead, Drew and Catja were done arguing, but it wasn’t clear who had won. Both looked frazzled—the professor’s face redder than usual, and Drew muttering something about a ‘piece of work.’
“How long will it take to navigate the island?” Bram called up.
“Typically, a moon,” answered Catja, slowing to allow them to catch up with her. “Two, at this pace.”
Drew was at her heel. “Don’t you wish we could lay locomotive tracks from shore to shore?” he goaded her.
“And pump the air with your splendid col emissions?” she quipped.
“Already approaching your sixth moon,” murmured Bram, so that only Johanna could hear. “Cutting it awfully close.”
Johanna wished she could pretend not to have heard him. However, she was sure the look on her face gave her away.
Hawkish creatures circled the skies overhead, casting impressive shadows over the hills below. Steadily, after days of endless evergreens and foliage, the trees grew sparser and the la
nd dipped into rocky canyons.
Truth be told, Drew didn’t know what he and his men would’ve done had several Oca warriors not volunteered their accompaniment. Without any supplies of their own, having lost them to the North Sea, the Jordinians were wholly dependent on the Oca’s land. Only the natives knew which berries were safe to eat, where to dig for roots, which insects were poisonous and how to fend them off.
The evenings cooled rapidly, as though the atmosphere were eager to blot out the sun and return to the chill it preferred. Each night, the travelers erected the canvas that had once belonged to Catja’s father, while the Oca built a fire.
Drew sat close to the flames, warming his hands. “I can’t imagine what this place is like in winter.”
“Covered in snow,” replied Catja.
He made a face. “And you all survive, year after year?”
She smiled, prodding the kindling with a branch. “Why do you think fur is the islands’ foremost commodity? That’s what Oca means.”
“It means fur?”
“More specifically, People-of-the-Fur-and-Icy-Sea.”
“Really?” He bit back a smirk. “All of that translates simply into Oca?”
“Well, it’s short for….” She pronounced a lengthy, percussive title with at least ten syllables, which Drew couldn’t so much as attempt to repeat. “But everyone just says Oca.”
By day, they journeyed parallel to rocky, gaping canyons. The tribesmen—including Dag and Zuri—pointed out significant sites, recounted the accompanying myths, and provided names for each landmark. Ludwig, easily the artist of the group, worked tirelessly to map it all. Ever at his side was Kya, encouraging him.
Drew had never walked so much in his life. His feared his feet would be the death of him. He trudged on in his chafing boots, unable to believe that most of the Oca went barefoot. Even Ludwig had long since abandoned his boots for moccasins. Drew didn’t understand how the rough terrain hadn’t torn through the delicate pelt.