The Rage

by Lassiter Williams

  Fox was awakened from her daytime sleep by the smell of humans. She had smelled humans before, but these were different. They stank of rotting things. Fox peered out of her den and saw them moving in a pack towards the river. She gave a loud yip of warning.

  Peyewik came awake with a start.

  “There is a fox in the woods,” Chingwe grinned at him. “I almost didn’t hear it. You snore like Old Man Chikinum.”

  “Fox should not be awake during the day!” Peyewik said. A faint smell of rot reached his nostrils, and his whole body tensed. “Something is coming. We must hide!”

  Chingwe thought he was joking and kept smiling.

  Peyewik grabbed his friend’s arm and yanked him towards the riverbank. Startled, Chingwe lost his balance. Peyewik caught him and pulled him down among the roots of the fallen tree. Crouching there he put a hand over his friend’s mouth as the smell of rot grew stronger. Chingwe’s face crinkled in confusion and disgust.

  Peyewik tried to quiet his breathing and listen. There was nothing but the sound of the water moving at their feet. Then he heard voices, soft at first, growing louder as they drew closer. They were men’s voices and Peyewik did not recognize the harsh, guttural language they spoke. The stench was overwhelming now, like the village waste heap on a hot day. Peyewik watched Chingwe’s expression change from confusion to fear, and he remembered their fishing gear sitting out in plain view.

  A shadow fell across their hiding place.

  Peyewik looked up and saw a monster standing on the tree trunk above them. Its face was the color of a plucked bird and half covered with hair like dried corn silk sticking out all over. Ragged clothing hung from its pale, bony body. The monster looked down, and Peyewik saw shards of blue sky where its eyes should have been.

  The monster howled when it saw him. It bent forward and seized him by the hair, dragging him from his hiding place. Peyewik was too terrified to scream, but he heard Chingwe cry out. There was a second monster on the fallen tree, and two more on the riverbank.

  “Chingwe, run!” Peyewik found his voice at last and saw his friend scramble out from under the tree roots. The monster on the log and the two on the ground moved to catch him, but Chingwe ran fast, faster than Peyewik had ever seen him run before. He darted among the trees like a deer, flashing in and out of sight. The monsters stumbled after him, but he had already disappeared around a bend in the river. Peyewik started flailing, kicking, and punching until a fist crashed into the side of his head and he went limp, the ground spinning beneath him. His captor made a rough sound, and he looked up dizzily. The monster’s face swam before him, its eyes cold as a winter sky. The monster shook him and repeated the rough sounds. Peyewik tried to struggle again, and then to shout, but the monster put a hand over his mouth.

  One of Chingwe’s pursuers returned from the forest. It sounded angry when it spoke, and he hoped it was because Chingwe had escaped. The hand over his mouth relaxed a little, and he sank his teeth into it, snarling like a dog with a deer bone. The sky-eyed monster yelled and shook him off. Peyewik tasted blood as he tumbled to the ground and wondered if the monster was human after all. He tried to scramble to his feet and run, but Sky Eyes, sucking on his injured finger, kicked his feet out from under him. Sky Eyes barked at the other monster, and it turned and jogged back in the direction Chingwe had run, towards the village.

  “Manito, be with me, be with Chingwe, protect us…” Peyewik sang a prayer under his breath.

  Sky Eyes grabbed Peyewik again and tucked him under one arm. He jumped down from the log and started walking. Peyewik saw that he was being carried in the wrong direction, away from home and all that he knew, and he put all his strength into fighting. Sky Eyes lost his grip, and Peyewik tumbled down the riverbank onto the rocks at the edge of the water. Sky Eyes skidded down after him and splashed into the shallows.

  “River spirit, help me!” Peyewik cried, trying to push himself into the current to be carried away. But Sky Eyes caught his ankle and dragged him back. Peyewik could hear him muttering under his breath. Without warning he pushed Peyewik’s head under. Peyewik gasped reflexively and inhaled water. He panicked and thrashed as water choked his lungs. He thought of his grandfather and longed for home...Then darkness seeped in behind his eyes and his arms and legs grew heavy. Panic ebbed, and the river pulled him gently towards deep, quiet waters.

  Then the river pushed him back, rejecting him from its peaceful flow. A heavy weight bore down on his chest, pressing him into solid ground and squeezing the river out of him. He coughed through a mouthful of warm water, and the weight lifted, allowing his lungs to fill with air. He opened his eyes and saw a pale face staring down at him.

  Peyewik rolled into a defensive crouch, but it wasn’t Sky Eyes above him. It was a boy, older and taller than himself. He wore a brown cloak pulled low over his face, but Peyewik could see his eyes. They were the color of new leaves, not blue. Peyewik watched the boy and waited for him to move.

  But the boy didn’t move. He sat on his knees, his chest rising and falling with wheezing gasps. He gazed back at Peyewik, his green eyes fever-bright. Peyewik began to edge away. The boy stayed where he was.

  Suddenly Sky Eyes reared up behind the boy. Rivulets of blood and water ran down his face, and he lurched forward with a roar. The boy answered with a terrifying shriek and exploded into motion, rising and spinning around so fast Peyewik saw only a blur. Then Sky Eyes was hunched over, clutching a knife handle protruding from his belly. The boy’s green eyes burned with hatred as he kicked Sky Eyes to the ground. The man fell on his side, eyes bulging. He groaned, and blood came out of his mouth.

  Peyewik stared at Sky Eyes, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He could feel Sky Eyes’ spirit struggle as it was pulled away from his body, drawn towards the spirit world. Peyewik knew he needed to sing to it, to help it across the river of death, but he couldn’t remember the right song. The spirit struggled harder and grasped at him, a cold clutching at his heart. Peyewik tried to back away from the now empty body. His own body felt empty too, as if his spirit had fled far away. He wanted to run, but his legs were shaking too hard. The green-eyed boy bent over and pulled his knife from Sky Eyes’ body. Then he collapsed, the hood of his cloak falling back to reveal hair the color of flames.

  With a shock that consumed the last of his strength, Peyewik realized that the boy who had saved his life was actually a young woman. And he had seen her before, through the eyes of Vulture, standing in a marsh, surrounded by death.

  ribulation felt as though she was burning from the inside out, choking on flames. She writhed in torment until a cooling liquid was poured down her throat. She heard someone singing, an unfamiliar voice, and words she didn’t understand. The sound soothed her and the heat abated. She could breathe again and she opened her eyes.

  A scarred face loomed over her.

  “Scath,” Trib croaked, relief flooding through her. Everything would be all right now that her master, the head warrior of New Murias, was there. “Was that you singing?” she asked.

  The Scath made a sound halfway between a laugh and a growl. “Ye know I don’t sing, girl.”

  “What’s happened? Where is everyone?” Trib asked.

  “By ’Dess, I’m expecting ye to tell me.”

  Terrible images flooded Trib’s mind, and she shook her head to be rid of them.

  “No!” she said. “I don’t know what happened.”

  “Ye do know,” the old warrior said calmly. “And ye will tell me.”

  Trib closed her eyes and saw the destroyed bodies of warriors and priestesses sinking into the marsh. She started to shake and pain flared all over her body.

  “They’re all dead,” she whispered.

  “How’d they die?” The Scath’s voice was flat, unemotional.

  Trib saw again the sparks of rifle fire, the dark figures emerging from the reeds.

  “Ambushed by Puritanics,” she said.

  “No warriors of mine would be taken unawar
es,” the Scath replied.

  “It was hot,” Trib said meekly. “We were bored. There was nothing to do, no one to fight. We wanted to be up north with you…”

  “Ye were lazy and careless,” the Scath interrupted. “The Puritanics took advantage.”

  “’Dess, forgive me,” Trib said, trying to rise. A searing pain in her shoulder caused her to cry out.

  “Lie back,” the Scath ordered. “There’s nothing ye can do now but tell me the rest.”

  “There was an explosion,” Trib replied. “I was knocked out. They left me for dead.”

  “But ye weren’t dead. Ye lived, while yer comrades died.”

  Shame washed over Trib, and she felt suddenly grateful for the pain and heat that punished her.

  “Ye said ye were knocked out by some kind of explosion,” the Scath continued. “Reckon the Puritanics got new weaponry. What did ye do after ye found ’em all dead?”

  “It’s hard to recall. Reckon I was fevered.”

  “As ye are now,” the Scath pointed out.

  “Explains why I’m hotter than hell,” Trib said.

  “Aye. Think hard, girl. What did ye do next?”

  Trib fought her way through the heat and the fog in her brain. “I chased the vultures away and started following the Puritanics’ trail out of the marsh. I don’t know how long I followed it. Sometimes it was day, sometimes it was night. I was in pain but I couldn’t stop. Those bastards had to die. And then I saw a man…”

  “Puritanic?” the Scath asked.

  “I ain’t sure. There was something strange about him. He disappeared before I could catch up with him. I heard a shout, followed the sound to a river, and there was another man kneeling in the water. This one was definitely Puritanic.”

  “What was he doing in the water?”

  “’Dess, damn him, he was drowning a kid,” Trib remembered. “Rage came then. Don’t recall any more. Where am I, Master Scath? How’d you find me?”

  The Scath gave her growling laugh again. “I didn’t find ye girl. I ain’t here, and yer as lost as can be.”

  At that, the old warrior vanished.

  “Scath!”

  Trib tried to sit up only to have the right side of her body explode in pain. She fell back, breathing through her teeth until the pain subsided. She was soaked in sweat and knew that her fever had just broken, taking with it the hallucination of the Scath. She blinked the shadows from her eyes and mind, trying to sort the real from the dream without panicking. She turned her head carefully, taking in her actual surroundings for the first time.

  The sole source of light was a partially blocked hole in the roof. She could just make out the interior of some kind of hut. She was lying on a low, narrow platform against one wall. Similar platforms piled with animal skins ran along the two walls she could see. Dried plants hung from the walls and roof.

  There was a rustling beyond Trib’s field of vision, and she tensed, sending another pulse of pain through her body. A figure wrapped in animal skins came into view. It was an old man, his brown face deeply lined, and long, gray hair hung over his shoulders. She realized with shock that he was a Native. She had never seen one up close.

  The old man leaned forward and slid a hand under her neck. His grip was strong but gentle as he lifted her head and held a steaming bowl to her lips. There was no malice in his face, but Trib hesitated. She was in pain, weak and helpless. The old man could do anything to her. Instead, he continued to hold her head gently, the bowl at her lips while she decided whether or not to drink. The tea smelled good, and Trib was thirsty. She drank until the bowl was empty, then lay back on the pile of skins, exhausted.

  “Who are you? Where am I?” Trib asked the old man. He looked at her without answering.

  “What happened to the boy? Is he all right?” she tried again, though she wasn’t sure her memories of the boy in the river were real and not another fever hallucination. The shadows were closing in once more. She struggled to keep her eyes open as the old man began to sing again. She couldn’t understand the words, but his voice was soft and steady. The sound washed over and through her. Her breath slowed and her eyes closed. Pain and fear disintegrated as she slid into a dreamless sleep.

  ou are well, little one?”

  Peyewik peered out from under the fur quilt at Old Woman Menukan, a tiny, wrinkled woman with a carefully arranged knot of gray hair at the nape of her neck.

  “I am well,” he said, though he didn’t feel well. “Chingwe is all right?”

  “Your friend is fine. He is not so bashed up as you,” she replied.

  “How long have I been sleeping?” he asked.

  “A day and a night. Were your dreams easy? I burned cedar to keep away nightmares.”

  “I did not dream,” Peyewik said warily, wondering if she was one of the people who talked about his dreams.

  “I am glad.” The old woman smiled, revealing her nearly toothless gums. “If you have slept enough, Muhkrentharne wants you to come home. He gave the flame-haired one gravelroot, and her fever has broken.”

  Peyewik burrowed deeper into the furs. After outrunning the pale-skinned men, Chingwe had returned to the river with seven of the village’s strongest hunters and Muhkrentharne. They had found no trace of the pale men, except for Sky Eyes’ body, which they had refused to touch because they thought his angry spirit might linger nearby. The flame-haired girl was still alive, but the hunters hadn’t wanted to touch her either. They were going to leave her to die until Peyewik, bruised and shaking, told his grandfather that the flame-haired girl had saved his life. He also told him that he had seen her in a dream the night before. To Peyewik’s dismay, Muhkrentharne had then asked the hunters to carry Flame Hair to his house. The hunters were uneasy, but they did as he asked because he was an elder and the village healer.

  Once back in the village, Peyewik had wanted to be near his grandfather, but Flame Hair smelled terrible and was delirious with fever. She kept crying out in the same ugly language Sky Eyes had spoken. The smell and the sound made Peyewik sick to his stomach, and he could not sleep. So Muhkrentharne had carried him like a baby, in arms like gnarled tree roots, to Old Woman Menukan’s house.

  Old Woman Menukan’s husband had died years ago and her house was very clean and quiet. Peyewik did not want to go back to the smell and noise of Flame Hair.

  “Get up, child,” Old Woman Menukan encouraged him. “I have a salve for your bruises.” She knew almost as much about plant medicine as Muhkrentharne and often helped him with his healing work.

  Peyewik climbed gingerly off the sleeping platform, his whole body stiff and painful. The salve stank, but it eased some of the ache.

  “The bruises won’t look so ugly tomorrow,” Old Woman Menukan said. Then she handed him a loaf of cornbread, still warm from the ashes of her cooking fire. “Take this and share it with your grandfather. Both of you need to eat.”

  Peyewik felt queasy and couldn’t imagine ever being hungry again, but he was grateful for her kindness and thanked her.

  As he pushed open the doorflap to leave, she said, “Little one, you know the People love to gossip. But you must not pay attention to what they say about your dreams or anything else.” She smiled her toothless smile, and Peyewik wished again he did not have to leave her house. However, he missed his grandfather, so he set out for home despite the knot in his stomach.

  He saw no one as he passed through the village. It was midmorning, and everyone was in the garden or working on the fishing nets by the river. He wondered where Chingwe was but was glad he didn’t have to speak to anyone. For the first time in his life the familiar surroundings of the village felt strange to him, fragile, as though they might vanish on a gust of wind. He felt a sudden, cold ache in his chest and remembered Sky Eyes’ spirit clutching at his heart. There was movement in the nearby underbrush, and he jumped. It was only a startled groundhog, but his heart pounded.

  Then he smelled a good smell, a whiff of clean pipe smoke, and hi
s heartbeat slowed. Muhkrentharne was sitting on the ground outside his house, smoking his pipe in the sunshine. Peyewik ran forward and crashed onto his knees in front of his grandfather, throwing his arms around his neck and burying his face in his chest.

  Muhkrentharne patted his hair, and the cold grip on Peyewik’s heart released. He was home, and the world was safe again.

  “Come inside,” Muhkrentharne said. “I gave the flame-haired one willow bark tea to ease the pain, hops to make her sleep. She is quiet.”

  Peyewik didn’t want to go anywhere near Flame Hair, but he let Muhkrentharne take his hand and lead him inside. The house still smelled of her, but not as strongly. When his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he could see a figure on one of the sleeping platforms. He took a step forward and stared down at it. He couldn’t believe this was the same creature he had seen at the river. She had been towering and fierce when she attacked Sky Eyes. Now, wrapped in mud poultices and sleeping quietly, she looked barely more than a child.

  “She is a shapeshifter?” he whispered. “Or a demon?”

  “She is of the race of men, like the People,” Muhkrentharne said. “But there are strange spirits around her, and she is not of this place.”

  “She will go away soon?” Peyewik asked hopefully.

  “She cannot go too soon,” the old man said. “Her spirit has only just decided to stay with her body. She must heal first.”

  “But she does not belong here!”

  “This is for a boy like you to decide?” Muhkrentharne asked sternly.

  Peyewik dropped his eyes to the floor. “No.”

  Muhkrentharne put a hand on his shoulder. “The council of elders meets tonight to decide whether Flame Hair will be allowed to stay. Chief Okahoki has asked you to join us.”

  “Children never go to the council of elders,” Peyewik said.

  “The chief wants to know what you have seen with your eyes and in your dreams,” Muhkrentharne replied.

  “Chingwe will come with me? He also saw the pale men.”