“You are from the village of the Original People,” he said. “The healer’s grandson. Why are you here? Someone is with you?” He peered into the darkness behind Peyewik.
“I am alone…” Peyewik panted, still out of breath from his run with the stranger. “I…”
Flame Hair interrupted angrily, moving towards Peyewik with her longknife raised. Kwineechka stepped between them and said something loud and abrupt. Flame Hair glared at him, but lowered her weapon.
“Do not pay attention to her,” the storyteller said, squatting down beside Peyewik. “Tell me what is wrong, little brother. Why are you out here alone?”
“No time,” Peyewik said. “Pale Ones come this way.”
The storyteller sprang up. “How many? From which direction?”
“Six,” Peyewik said and pointed back the way he had just come.
Kwineechka told Flame Hair and she kicked out the fire. She hissed something at him as he helped her bury the embers.
“She says we must find a place to hide,” the storyteller told Peyewik. “She will stay here, to draw them away if they smell the smoke and come too close.”
Peyewik followed Kwineechka into the trees, and they knelt down behind a large rock.
“Keep your head down,” Kwineechka whispered. Peyewik took one last look back towards the place where the fire had been. It was full dark now and he could barely make out Flame Hair’s crouching shadow. She remained completely still as the Pale Ones drew closer. Peyewik could hear the leaves and twigs crunching under their feet now. He remembered the last time he had hidden from the Pale Ones, with Chingwe beside the river, and felt Sky Eyes’ spirit tighten its grip on his heart until he was sure it would kill him.
rib crouched next to the smoldering remains of the fire, sword across her thighs, and listened for the approaching enemy. The Natives had disappeared into the dark trees behind her without a sound. She had been angry when the boy first appeared, taken off guard and suspicious, but the storyteller had insisted that the boy was alone. There hadn’t been time to explain further. If the boy hadn’t shown up when he did, she and the storyteller might have been taken unaware by the approaching Puritanics.
She could hear the Puritanics coming now. They were talking and laughing and making no effort to hide their presence. Trib’s heart started to pound in anticipation of a fight.
Then she heard the Puritanics change direction, veering away from her hiding place and the Natives. She felt disappointed, but also relieved. In truth, she wasn’t sure her tired, wounded body could manage another Rage so soon.
She was getting ready to go find the Natives when she heard one of the Puritanics shout about needing to take a piss. She heard him break away from the others and move back towards her. She debated summoning a Rage but decided she could handle one Puritanic without it. It never occurred to her that she could let him go, that she might steal away, and he would never know she had been there. She couldn’t give up the opportunity to punish any Puritanic that came within arm’s reach.
She could see the Puritanic now, a black shape moving against gray tree trunks. He came to a stop no more than fifteen paces away from her. She knew she would have to subdue him quickly before he could call for help. She rose and moved towards him as quietly as possible. He sighed contentedly as he relieved himself, completely unaware of her presence. He was tall, and she had to reach to get an arm around his throat. He yelled, but she stifled the sound in the folds of her robe and dragged him to the ground. She was surprised by how big he was, by the bulk of his body in her arms, and the strength of him. These were things she was never aware of when she was in a Rage. She held him down by wrapping her legs around his torso and brought her blade to his throat. The killing moment had arrived but she hesitated. The Puritanic twisted half-way around in her grasp, and she saw his face. The night was dark, but not so much that she couldn’t see the mistake she had made. The Puritanic she held was a smooth-faced boy.
Trib’s gut twisted into a knot. This wasn’t right. Puritanics were full grown, bearded men—merciless tyrants who killed children. This boy, for all his height, was no more than a child himself. He didn’t look merciless, he looked terrified, the whites of his eyes showing in the dark as he tried to see who or what had attacked him.
Trib was losing control of him as he thrashed about. The others would hear and come running soon. She knew she had to kill him now. She could feel his face under her hand, his beard no more than a few straggling wisps on his chin. He was probably younger than she was, not much older than the Native boy.
“Hush,” Trib whispered into his ear as if he was a baby to be soothed. “Hush.”
He was sobbing now, gasping against her hand. He felt so alive and strong in her arms. This was some woman’s son. Suddenly the last thing Trib wanted to do was end this boy.
Suddenly he reared up and nearly threw her off. He managed a choked cry, and there was a shouted reply in the distance. She had no choice. The others were coming for him. Trib forced her right arm to pull the blade across his throat. She put all her strength into it, fearing the blade would be dull and he wouldn’t die quickly enough.
“’Dess, help me,” she gasped. Unlike the times she had killed in the past, now she was horrifyingly aware of everything she did. She felt every bit of flesh she cut through as skin and muscle parted under her blade. She gagged as she felt the boy respond to what she was doing to him, heard the horrible sound he made when he tried to cry out. His body continued to move, at first trying to escape, and then convulsing involuntarily. She had killed him, but he wasn’t dead yet. He was watching her, his face inches from hers as blood poured through the gaping hole where his throat should have been clean and whole.
Trib’s hand was slick with blood, and she let go of the blade. Through the sound of sobbing, which she recognized as her own since the boy was no longer capable, she heard the Puritanics shouting, crashing through the underbrush towards her. She struggled to push the boy’s weight off of her, her own muscles stiff and unresponsive as if she were the one dying. She staggered to her feet and yanked her sword out of the boy’s neck. Then she limped in the direction she thought the Natives had gone, throwing up as she went. She almost hoped she wouldn’t find them, afraid they might have seen what she had done.
Two shapes rose from the ground in front of her, one tall, one small. They stood calmly, without horror, and she knew they hadn’t seen.
“Run!” she croaked as a cry went up behind her. The body had been discovered. The Natives turned and did as she bade them. It was all she could do to keep up with them as they moved swiftly and silently through the dark forest.
eyewik and Kwineechka slowed their pace so Flame Hair could keep up. She was gasping for breath, and every now and then a tiny sob escaped her.
“What has happened?” Peyewik whispered. “She is hurt?”
“I do not know,” Kwineechka replied. “I do not think we are being followed.” He came to a halt and listened. All Peyewik could hear was Flame Hair’s ragged breathing. She was too winded to speak, but she gestured that they should keep going. Kwineechka started to argue, but she ignored him and resumed her awkward half-run.
“Little brother, you are tired,” the storyteller said. “You can keep going?”
Peyewik was more tired than he had ever been in his life. Beyond exhaustion, he felt like he was moving weightless through a dream. He started to jog again.
“She cannot go much longer,” the storyteller said, pacing alongside.
Sure enough, after a short while Flame Hair tripped, tried to rise, and fell again. She stayed where she was, sprawled on the ground.
“She is hurt?” Peyewik asked again. Kwineechka bent down to look at her.
“She is breathing.” He poked her with a stick. “No new injuries. I think she sleeps.”
Peyewik knew there was something wrong with her, but the storyteller shrugged, unconcerned.
“You should sleep too,” he told Peyewik, un
tying the small bundle strapped across his back. “This is a good place to stop.”
They were surrounded by tall trees that blocked out the stars overhead. It was still very dark and Peyewik could not tell if they were closer to the beginning of the night or the end. It felt like three nights had passed since he had last seen the sun.
The storyteller handed him a sleeping skin. “I carried an extra in case of cold, lucky for you. We should not make a fire, in case the Pure Men are near.”
Peyewik peered into the darkness nervously.
“Do not worry,” the storyteller said. “If they come, we will hear them long before they get too close.”
Peyewik took the sleeping skin and said, “Thank you.” Then he knelt beside Flame Hair and untied the bundle on her back. He pulled out her sleeping skin and draped it over her.
The storyteller sat cross-legged on the ground, watching him. “You are kind,” he said.
“She would get cold.”
“This is true.” The thought didn’t seem to bother him, and he changed the subject. “We were far from your village when you appeared. How did you find us?”
“There was a man in the forest. He brought me to you.”
“A man? Of the People?”
“He spoke the language of the People, but strangely. He knew your name.”
“This man told you his name?”
“No. He would not let me see his face either. You know him?”
The storyteller was silent for a moment. Then he said, “If I do, he is a friend.”
Peyewik wanted to know more, but the storyteller asked him another question.
“Why were you out in the forest alone at night?”
Peyewik pulled his knees up to his chest. “I ran away.”
“Why?” The storyteller wasn’t shocked or upset. He just sounded curious.
“Chingwe was killed,” Peyewik explained. “It was my fault. I had to leave so that no more of the People would be hurt. Chingwe’s spirit…” He glanced up at the storyteller but could not see his face in the darkness. “His spirit came to me.”
The storyteller waited for him to say more.
“He came to me as a panther and led me to the Pale Ones. I think he wanted me to go to them so that they would be satisfied and leave the People alone.”
“You did not go to them?” Kwineechka asked.
“The stranger caught me and brought me to you.”
“Maybe your friend’s spirit led you to the stranger, not the Pale Ones.”
“It was my fault,” Peyewik insisted.
“Tell me how it was your fault,” the storyteller said patiently.
“An angry spirit clings to me. It drew the Pale Ones to the village, and the Pale Ones killed Chingwe.”
Kwineechka was quiet for a few breaths, then he said, “I have heard people talk about you. You are the boy who dreams and is visited by many spirits.”
“Yes,” Peyewik whispered. He was dismayed to learn that he was talked about even in the village of the Away People.
“Do not be sorry for it,” Kwineechka said. “You are a gift to the People. They are the ones who should be sorry for not recognizing this.”
Peyewik was stunned. He had been sure the storyteller would be wary of him just like everyone else.
“You did not bring Snakebrother to the village,” Kwineechka continued. “She did.” He pointed at the dark lump on the ground that was Flame Hair. “She does not know it, but Snakebrother walks beside her. He hisses in her ear and she does his bidding.”
Peyewik wondered if this could be true, if Flame Hair really was the one to blame for the coming of the Pale Ones.
“If Snakebrother walks with her, how can her people help us?” Peyewik asked.
Earlier, while they were hiding, the storyteller had whispered a brief explanation of what he and Flame Hair were doing out in the forest together, where they were going.
“Your chief thinks they can. He is a wise man, but I am not so sure. I will tell the fighting women our story, as your chief asks, and they will decide how they will be a part of it, for good or bad.”
“You think it will be bad,” Peyewik said.
“She is a man-killer,” the storyteller replied. “She may not mean to do evil, but anger and violence are the way of her people and of Snakebrother. I do not see how they can help us.”
Peyewik struggled to take this in. He was too tired to think anymore.
“Do not worry for now, little brother,” the storyteller said. “All you need to do is sleep. I will keep watch.”
Peyewik lay down obediently and let the storyteller tuck the sleeping skin around him. The nearness of dreams made him anxious, and he did not think he would be able to sleep.
As if he could hear thoughts, the storyteller said, “I will sing a prayer to Manito for your dreams to leave you in peace.”
He began to hum, and Peyewik felt immediately comforted. Within moments he slid gratefully into a dreamless sleep.
rib didn’t know where she was when she woke up, but she could tell dawn wasn’t far off. It was still dark, but the birds were starting to make noise and the treetops were becoming visible overhead. Nearby she could see the outlines of sleeping bodies. Her first thought was that it was Cuss and the other apprentices, but there were only two bodies, and one was small. She remembered through the fog in her head that she was traveling back to the bay with two Natives, and that Cuss was dead.
She sat up stiffly. Her head felt heavy and her whole body ached from lying on the exposed roots of a tree. She wondered why she’d chosen such an uncomfortable spot for her bed. She reached for her sword, but it wasn’t beside her. She felt around her bedroll, and then crawled in widening circles, growing more frantic with each turn. She breathed a sigh of relief when her palm came down on the hilt, but it was odd that the weapon lay so far away from her bedroll, as though she had tossed it away before sleep. And there was something wrong with the blade. She brought it close to her face so she could see in the meager light.
There was blood on the blade. She’d forgotten to clean it.
Then she remembered. The Puritanic boy came back to her like a blow to the gut. She could feel him struggling in her arms, his hot blood gushing over her hands from the gaping wound in his throat. Her fingers clenched reflexively around her sword, her left hand on the blade. She could feel it biting into her palm and welcomed the pain.
“What’ve I done?” she moaned.
“You are ill?”
The storyteller was sitting up, his face blurry in the gray light.
“No,” she gasped. She tried to let go of the sword, but couldn’t. She needed to be strong in front of the Native, but she kept seeing the boy’s eyes rolling in his head, hearing the gurgle of his dying breaths.
“Blood.” The storyteller pointed.
Trib looked down. Fresh, red blood was running down the blade, mixing with the black, dried blood of the Puritanic boy.
“I killed a boy last night!” Trib hadn’t wanted the storyteller to know what she had done, but the words came of their own volition, like a poison being expelled from her body.
He recoiled visibly, but he didn’t flee from her. He held himself steady and said, “You have killed many.”
“Aye, but this one was just a boy, some woman’s child…” Trib’s stomach churned, and it felt as though a heavy weight pressed against her chest.
“All boys are some woman’s child,” the storyteller said. “All boys grow into men. Like the men you killed in the village of the Original People. What is the difference?” he challenged her, trying to understand.
“I used the Rage in the village. It can only be used against enemies. The Goddess wouldn’t have let it work on an innocent boy. I didn’t use the Rage on the boy, though. I just killed him. Dess forgive me,” she said, “I don’t know if he was innocent or not.”
“If he is the son of your enemy, isn’t he also your enemy?” the storyteller asked.
“Pu
ritanics steal boys from their New Murian mothers,” Trib replied. “Force them to their ways and beliefs. If the boys refuse, the Puritanics kill them.”
“Only boys? They do not steal girls?”
“Don’t bother with girls. Just kill them outright, like they did my sisters.”
When the storyteller made no reply, she looked up. He was watching her, his face unreadable. He shifted forward onto his knees, no longer poised to spring away.
“I am sorry your sisters were killed,” he said.
“They killed my ma, too.” She said the words without emotion because she felt none. The Puritanics had murdered her family a long time ago, before she was taken in by the Scath to be raised as a warrior. She had only one set of memories of the event and the people, and she kept them carefully guarded, recalling them only when she needed to summon a Rage.
“You’re bleeding,” the storyteller said quietly. He stood slowly, moved within arm’s reach of her, and knelt down again.
“Dess forgive me if I’ve killed an innocent boy,” Trib said again, vaguely aware of the storyteller’s nearness.
He reached out and touched her clenched fingers lightly.
“If I could give him his life back, I would,” she said.
She had killed before, but had never felt like this. It had never felt like anything before. The Rage had kept her numb. But without the Rage, the killing felt like Hell.
The storyteller sat in front of her, his knees touching hers. His eyes were on her hands as he carefully tried to loosen them from the sword. He started to sing. He was very quiet, but his head was close to hers and the vibrations of his voice buzzed softly in her ear, in her head. Her grip relaxed. He lifted the sword out of her hands and set it aside.
“What’s the song about?” she murmured.
“It is a story,” he said, holding her bleeding hand in his. “About a spirit crossing the River of Death and being happy to see the friends and family who have crossed before him.”
Tears sprang to Trib’s eyes. She wiped them away with her good hand, hoping the storyteller hadn’t seen.
The Rage Page 6