The Rage

by Lassiter Williams

  Then a woman started wailing.

  The sound made Peyewik’s blood run cold. He ran to the Ceremony House and found Chingwe’s mother on the ground, cradling her son in her arms. His long limbs sprawled about her awkwardly as she rocked back and forth, a wild song of grief pouring out of her.

  Peyewik saw Chingwe’s staring eyes and the blood pooled beneath him and knew his friend was dead. Chingwe’s mother looked up and saw him.

  “This is your fault!” she cried. “There are evil spirits about you. You brought the Pale Ones here, you brought Snakebrother’s evil upon the People!”

  Peyewik was shaking and couldn’t answer through his chattering teeth. But he knew she was right. It was his fault. He had seen the Pale Ones in his dreams and they had come to him. He had brought Flame Hair’s and Sky Eyes’ spirits back to the village, and the others had followed. Now Chingwe was dead.

  Peyewik turned and ran blindly into the forest. He ran until he could no longer smell the smoke of the People’s destroyed homes or hear the cries of their grief.

  rib leaned her sword against a tree and noticed that her hands were shaking. It was some time after dawn, and she was standing in the forest not far from the Native village. She had been chasing Puritanics, but they escaped when the Rage began to fade, taking her strength with it. She’d thought she was still too weak from her injuries to summon a Rage, but it had come easily when she heard the screaming in the night. Apparently it had served her well. A few paces to her left lay a dead Puritanic. She had the vaguest memory of swinging her sword at him but couldn’t remember the actual killing.

  Suddenly her right leg gave out and she sat down hard on the ground. A red stain was soaking through her robe. The sword wound in her leg had reopened, but she felt no pain. She patted herself down clumsily and didn’t find any new injuries.

  From where she sat she could see the village and the smoking remains of a few huts. She was calculating how long it would take her to crawl back to the old man’s hut, if it was still standing, when she saw a tall figure coming towards her through the smoke. It was the translator. She wondered vaguely what he was doing out in the forest, and if he was all right.

  The translator stopped when he saw the dead Puritanic.

  “Don’t worry,” Trib croaked. “It’s dead.”

  The translator kept his eyes on the body and started humming under his breath.

  “What are you doing?” Trib asked, noticing that the translator wasn’t making her feel nervous, that in fact she felt nothing at all. She was completely numb as the after effects of the Rage took over.

  The translator stopped humming, but kept watching the body uneasily. “A prayer to help him cross the River of Death, or else his angry spirit will stay and haunt this place.”

  “It ain’t angry,” Trib said wearily. “Just dead, like I told you. Are there other dead Puritanics back there?” She nodded towards the village.

  His expression was a mix of bafflement and horror. “You do not know how many you killed?” he asked.

  Trib shrugged. “It’s always hazy when the Rage takes over.”

  The storyteller took a step away from her. “Four,” he said in a low voice. “There are four angry spirits in our village now.”

  “Four,” Trib repeated. It was a good number. The dead men had probably taken part in the attack on the marsh. The Scath would’ve been proud of her, taking on all those Puritanics by herself. Trib thought she should feel something, victorious maybe. But she continued to feel nothing.

  “I came to find you,” the translator said. “Chief Okahoki asks for you.”

  “As well he should,” Trib said without moving. “Now that the Puritanics know where your village is, you people are in trouble.”

  She expected a fear reaction from the storyteller, but he just stared at her.

  “You must come,” he insisted.

  Sudden anger pierced through Trib’s numbness, and she would’ve hit him if she’d had the strength. “In my own good time,” she snapped. “I jump at no man’s command.”

  The translator made a noise of disgust in the back of his throat and turned to leave.

  Just then a terrible wail rose up from the center of the village.

  “What is that Dess-damned noise?” Trib gasped, putting her hands over her ears.

  The translator had stopped to listen. He looked back at her. “A mother weeps for her child.”

  “Why?” Trib asked.

  “He is dead.”

  “No.” Trib shook her head slowly. “That ain’t right. I got to them first. They didn’t have a chance to kill anyone. Not this time.”

  She was still numb, but she was seeing the bodies of her friends sinking into the marsh.

  “Not the old man’s grandson?” she asked in a small voice.

  “No,” the translator replied.

  Trib was glad of this but still had the feeling that something very wrong had happened.

  “You will come now?” the translator asked.

  “Aye,” Trib agreed distractedly, wishing the wailing would stop.

  “You are shaking,” the translator said.

  “Just my hands,” Trib replied before realizing that in fact her whole body was shaking. Even her teeth were chattering.

  The translator moved reluctantly to her side. “I will help you. Chief Okahoki is waiting.”

  “Don’t need help,” Trib muttered. However, when the translator knelt down and pulled her arm across his shoulders, she let him. She saw him turn his head away in distaste, but she was too numb and tired to care.

  A short while later Trib found herself in the chief’s hut again, sitting on the ground with a new bandage on her leg. The shaking had stopped, and the numbness was wearing off. She was exhausted and in pain. The wailing outside continued and grew louder as other voices joined in. It made Trib’s head hurt.

  “Why are there so many old people in here?” she growled at the translator, who stood nearby with his arms crossed. Ten or twelve old men and women were sitting in a circle that filled up most of the house.

  “Elders,” the translator said without looking at her. “The wise ones of the village will decide what the People should do next.”

  “Old folks ain’t going to help against the Puritanics,” she said. “Your chief needs fighters now.”

  The translator didn’t reply, but she saw the muscle in his jaw tighten. The old people started singing.

  “Why in Dess’s name do you people sing so much?” Trib muttered.

  The translator turned his back on her.

  When the singing was done, the old people began a conversation that seemed to circle around the room endlessly, moving from one old person to the next and back again. Trib sat back tiredly and was half asleep when the translator spoke to her again.

  “Chief and elders decide you must leave now,” he said, sounding relieved.

  “I thought they decided that last time I was here,” she yawned.

  “You go now,” the translator emphasized.

  “I got no problem leaving now,” Trib said, suddenly awake and angry. “I was ready to go yesterday. Then Puritanics attacked your village in the middle of the night, and I risked my life to defend it. Don’t I get a word of thanks?”

  “You were like a demon when you fought the Pure Men last night. You brought Snakebrother to the village. Now you will take him away.”

  “I ain’t a demon. It was the Rage. And what in Dess’s name does Snakebrother mean?”

  “Snakebrother is the god of chaos and violence. He brings grief and destruction to the People.”

  “You think I brought this Snakebrother on you?” Trib said. Not only was this not thanks, it was blame.

  “With your…Rage…you killed five men. And you feel nothing about it. This is the influence of Snakebrother.”

  “Grief and destruction were brought to you by Puritanics, not me,” Trib said, struggling to control herself. “Twice now they would’ve done much worse if I
hadn’t been here to protect you with my Rage. The Rage ain’t demonic. It’s a gift given to the warriors of my people by the Goddess, to give us the strength to fight the Puritanics.”

  “You must go,” the translator repeated, a look of revulsion on his face.

  “By Dess, I will!” she shouted. “I’m sick of you primitives and your backward ways. I got duties elsewhere. See if I care what the Puritanics do to you.”

  She hauled herself off the platform and limped through the circle of old people toward the doorflap. Halfway across she stopped, arrested by the continued sound of wailing outside. She caught sight of the old man and thought of all the ways he had cared for her. She thought of his grandson, and how he had looked when she first pulled him from the river. He had seemed dead, but he had come back to life. She had been able to save him. Unlike the others. For some reason she remembered that the boy needed more help with his grappling skills, and then she was overwhelmed by a terrible feeling of regret. She couldn’t leave them to die the way Cuss and the others had died, at the hands of the Puritanics.

  She turned slowly back to the translator.

  “I’m sorry,” she said through gritted teeth. She wasn’t in the habit of apologizing and found it difficult. “You don’t understand. You send me away for good, they’ll come back with worse. There won’t be anyone to protect you. More children will die.”

  “Why would they come back once you are gone? You said the People have nothing the Pale Ones want,” the translator said.

  Trib stared at the translator for a moment before turning to address the chief directly. “The Puritanics have taken everything from me,” she said. “They’ve killed my friends and my family, all of them. They’ll come back and do the same to you because they’re evil. Maybe they are this Snakebrother of yours. But I ain’t. The Rage makes my people strong enough to protect you, and we’re the only ones who can.”

  “The chaos of Snakebrother feeds on itself,” the translator replied before turning to the chief.

  Trib nearly yelled in frustration. She was sick of hearing about this Snakebrother. She struggled to maintain her composure as the translator conveyed what she’d said to the chief. She could tell by the translator’s face that he was against her, but the chief seemed to be listening carefully.

  Trib knew it wouldn’t be easy if the Natives accepted her offer of help. She would have to find the Scath first, before the Puritanics attacked again, and then convince her to protect the Natives. But the Scath had raised her to believe that it was the duty of the strong to protect those weaker. Surely she would see that helping the Natives was the right thing to do, especially after they’d saved Trib’s life.

  When the translator was done, the chief did not immediately dismiss her. He and the elders debated for a long time before the chief held up his hand and made a pronouncement that was followed by silence.

  Trib could see that not everyone was pleased by what he said, especially the translator.

  “Use this Rage of your Goddess to protect us from Snakebrother and the Pure Ones,” the translator said without looking at her.

  “Tell your chief and the old folks they are wise,” Trib said. “It’s the only choice you have.”

  “I do not think you can help us,” the translator said quietly. “You are strange, angry, and violent. In the stories of my people, these are Snakebrother’s qualities, and they have only ever harmed us.”

  “I reckon it doesn’t matter what you think,” Trib replied. “Tell your chief I’ll leave now and return with reinforcements as quickly as I can. It will take some time, and the Puritanics could return any moment. You’ll need to have an escape plan, a place to hide in case…”

  “I will go with you,” the translator interrupted. Everything about him conveyed misery at the prospect.

  “Like Hell!” Trib exclaimed, wondering how she could have ever thought him attractive. Not even Cuss would like a man this irritating, regardless of how pretty he was. “You just said you think I’m this Snakebrother devil. Why would you go with me?” Trib asked.

  “I do not want to go with you, but Chief Okahoki asked me to.”

  “What in Dess’s Name for?”

  “I am Kwineechka,” he said simply. “Storyteller of the People.”

  Trib stared at him blankly.

  “I must tell your people the story of the People. This is the tradition when the People meet other tribes. Our stories become one and create friendship and peace.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Trib said impatiently. “But standing here trying to figure it out is a waste of time I don’t have. You’ll come. Gather provisions and be ready to leave before noon.”

  “You are injured.” He pointed at her bloodstained robe.

  “I’m fine,” she snapped. “You need to worry about keeping up.”

  As she limped her way out of the hut, she saw the storyteller give the chief a beseeching look. But the chief had spoken with finality. The storyteller was coming with her.

  eyewik ran until his breath gave out, then he walked. He stumbled through the forest with the image of Chingwe’s body before him, and the sound of his mother’s cries in his ears.

  There are evil spirits about you! You have brought Snakebrother’s evil upon the People!

  Peyewik knew it was true. He had dreamed of the Pale Ones, and they had come to him with all their anger and violence. Now, Chingwe was dead. Peyewik felt Sky Eyes’ cold grip on his heart and knew he could never go home. He had to take his dreams and the bad spirits far away from the People so that no one else would be hurt.

  He tripped over a root. The forest was growing dark. He had been running and walking all day with no idea where he was or how far he had come. He was tired enough to sleep, but too afraid of what might come to him in his dreams. The iciness in his chest was spreading, seeping into his muscles and bones. His arms and legs grew slow and heavy, and his chin dropped to his chest. He fell to his knees and could not rise. The cold had taken over; Sky Eyes’ spirit had won. Then Peyewik heard something, a faint rumbling. With a tremendous effort he lifted his head.

  A pair of yellow eyes stared at him from the gathering darkness. A feline body slipped like smoke from the shadows and came to stand before him, its purr a deep rumble in its chest. Peyewik looked into the eyes of the panther and felt no fear.

  “Chingwe,” he whispered, certain this was the spirit animal of his friend.

  The cat turned and began to walk away, then stopped and looked back at Peyewik. Peyewik climbed to his feet and when the cat moved again, he followed. Soon he heard rough voices in the distance and caught a whiff of something rotten.

  “I understand,” he whispered to the cat, who gazed up at him for a moment then slunk back into the shadows, silent as a ghost. Chingwe’s spirit had brought him to the Pale Ones. Peyewik was sure it meant that if he turned himself over to them, Sky Eyes’ spirit would be appeased and the Pale Ones would leave the People alone. Resolve swept over him, and he walked towards the fire. The Pale Ones didn’t see him coming so he opened his mouth to call out. Before he could make a sound a hand was clamped over his mouth and he was yanked off his feet by an arm around his waist. His first thought was that the Pale Ones had found him, but his captor moved away from the fire, deeper into the shadows. Peyewik tried to twist around to see who held him.

  “It is better not to see me,” came a harsh whisper from behind. It was a man’s voice. The accent was strange, but Peyewik understood. “You have wandered far from home, little one, and the forest is not safe.”

  Through the trees Peyewik could see the Pale Ones getting to their feet and kicking out their fire. They were going away, and Chingwe’s plan would be ruined. He tried to free himself so he could run to them, but the arm around his waist held fast. He was not released until the Pale Ones had moved off, stomping loudly through the trees.

  “I will take you to your friends now,” the stranger said.

  “My friends?” Peyewi
k’s heart jumped.

  “They will take care of you,” was the reply. “We must go quickly and warn them. Can you run?”

  Peyewik was exhausted but he nodded. The next thing he knew the stranger had a tight grip on his hand and was pulling him through the forest at a fast pace. They didn’t run away from the Pale Ones, as Peyewik expected, but in the same direction. He could hear them crashing through the underbrush somewhere to his left, until he and the stranger passed them by and the noise fell behind. Despite the growing darkness, the stranger ran easily and quietly, like a hunter. Peyewik tried to catch a glimpse of his face, but he wore a hooded robe.

  Just when Peyewik thought his lungs would burst, another fire appeared through the trees and they slowed down. The stranger crept closer, still leading Peyewik by the hand. When Peyewik saw who sat beside the fire, he tried to break away.

  “Do not fear the fighting woman. Go to the storyteller. His name is Kwineechka. He will take care of you. Warn him that there are Pale Ones nearby, approaching fast.”

  “You can tell him yourself?” Peyewik asked pleadingly.

  “The fighting woman would kill me on sight,” he said, his voice diminishing as he backed away. “I am sorry about your village, little one. I could not get there in time.”

  “Who are you?” Peyewik turned, but the stranger was gone. He turned back to the fire. He didn’t want to go to it, but he had to warn the storyteller about the Pale Ones.

  Kwineechka heard him before he saw him and alerted Flame Hair. She was on her feet with her longknife in her hand when Peyewik stepped into the ring of firelight. At the sight of him she lowered her weapon and turned to Kwineechka in confusion. She said something in her ugly language, but the storyteller didn’t respond. He was staring at Peyewik in surprise.