by Angus Watson
The Green tribe girl who’d been talking to Sassa climbed up so she was standing on the dog throne. Sitsi was pretty sure that children shouldn’t be climbing on a chief’s chair and was on the verge of saying something when she noticed that the child wasn’t actually a child, but a small woman.
“Hello, Wootah and Calnians! I’m Tatinka Buffalo,” said the little woman. “Welcome to the Green tribe on behalf of the tribe, me and Manchinga. Sassa has told me about your escape from the Badlands. I’m sorry for your losses, but well done for escaping. You’re the first of their captives to make it here since they came up with those disgraceful spider boxes around four years ago. So welcome indeed. I have heard tales about the Calnian Owsla, of course, and some snippets about the Wootah, so it’s fascinating to meet you and I cannot wait to find out more. However.”
Tatinka paused, looking around them all.
Here we go, thought Sitsi. They’ve still got the giant dogs that Manchinga was meant to have killed and we’re going to fight them.
The small woman continued: “Although we’ve got a lot to discuss—not least about how you’re going to reach The Meadows and what we’ll do with Ayanna’s baby—it can all wait until tomorrow. You’ve come a long way and been through some terrible times. So, when I finally stop droning on in a few heartbeats, you can relax. Klippsta will take you to some lovely huts by the river, where you’ll find more food than you can eat and more booze than you can drink. So you don’t have to talk to any strangers or be gawped at, the whole area will be just yours, other than for a couple of Greens who are excellent at keeping themselves to themselves and even better at roasting bighorn lambs.”
Sitsi wanted to like Tatinka and believe her, she really did. However, there was something powerful simmering beneath the smiling little woman’s confident friendliness. Whether it was something good or bad, Sitsi could not tell, but the last person who’d smiled at the Owsla so much had been Chapa Wangwa. She could see that Sofi was suspicious, too. Everyone else was smiling back at the chief, other than Yoki Choppa, impassive as ever, Ottar the Moaner, who was whispering nonsense to the baby strapped to his chest, and the baby himself, who was looking calmly up at Ottar.
“One more thing, then I’ll let you go,” Tatinka continued. “Nothing’s going to make you want to post guards more than a stranger telling you that you don’t need to post guards, but … you don’t need to post guards. You’ve seen the town, you’ve seen that we have no walls. We’re protected by something stronger than wood.”
“Protected from what?” asked Sofi.
“Everything,” answered Tatinka, holding Sofi’s gaze. “Now go and relax. I’ll see you tomorrow around lunchtime. If you want anything that’s not already by the huts—drink, herbs, mushrooms, wet nurse for the baby, whatever—ask Klippsta and we’ll do the best we can.”
That evening, a good while after sunset, Finnbogi was urinating directly into the river, long and loud, wondering if there was any greater joy that pissing into calm waters on a starlit night.
He walked back up the path towards the flickering fire and chatter, placing his feet carefully. When you’d drunk as much of the Greens’ honey drink as he had, it was easy to walk into a bush, as he’d discovered on the way down to the river. Placing his feet diligently, he made it back to the camp without incident.
“Camp” didn’t do justice to the place. It was about fifteen thousand times nicer than the best camp they’d had since leaving Hardwork. The huts that Tatinka had assigned them were like a lovely little village, and the two guys who Tatinka had sent to cook the lamb were the best hosts. Without talking to anybody, moving around with a stealth that Luby Zephyr would have been proud of, they saw to every need, or at least lots of their needs. Of the six or seven times they’d refilled Finnbogi’s mug of honey drink, for example, he’d noticed them doing it only twice. It was full again now, perched on a table next to the fireside log where he’d been sitting next to Paloma.
He smiled at Freydis and Ottar asleep on bearskins near the fire, then at his newly refilled drink. Then he noticed that everybody was looking at him.
“What?” he said, looking down to check he’d put everything away. He had, thank Manchinga the dog slayer.
“You’ve done well recently,” said Wulf the Fat. “Choosing to fight two rattlecondas to save Freydis—unarmed—was a Hel of a thing. Conducting the pigeons for that long, long journey was beyond awesome.”
They were all smiling at him, Thyri included. Paloma, too. He wanted to cry.
“So I’ve talked to everybody and everybody agrees. You will no longer be known as Finnbogi the Boggy.”
He gasped and blinked.
Wulf stood, walked over and put a hand on his shoulder. “From now on, nobody will call you by your childhood name of Finnbogi the Boggy. To recognise your sacrifice, to thank you for saving all of our lives and preserving the Wootah, you will be called Finnbogi the Pigeon Fucker.”
“Oh.” His heart sank. “Great. Pigeon Fucker. Okay.”
“I’m joking!”
Everybody laughed, other than the non-laughers Sofi and Yoki Choppa.
“What will I be called?” asked Finnbogi.
“I don’t know. It’s traditional to decide when everyone’s had a drink or six, so let’s get on with it.”
“Finnbogi the Brave?” suggested Sitsi Kestrel. Finnbogi wanted to hug her.
“No, no, no!” cried Keef the Berserker, jumping up from his spot on the log next to Bodil. “That’s not how it works. Finnbogi the Brave is far too cool. Finnbogi the Pigeon Fucker works for me. Often one’s first instincts are best. Let’s go with Pigeon Fucker.”
“Come on, Keef,” said Thyri. “The Berserker is a pretty cool name and don’t forget this is a man who made the right choice and talked to a bunch of pigeons.”
“Yes, the Berserker is cool,” said Keef. “Of course it is. I’m cool. Finnbogi is … Finnbogi.”
“How about Finnbogi Big Bollocks?” suggested Paloma Pronghorn.
“Closer, still a bit much,” said Keef.
“Finnbogi Little Bollocks?” asked Chogolisa Earthquake.
“That’s better,” Keef said, serious-faced. “Finnbogi Tinyknob might work …”
“How about Finnbogi the Constant Wanker?” laughed Gunnhild.
Finnbogi looked at her, appalled.
“Oh, don’t pretend you went off into the woods on your own all those times because you were interested in insects,” she added, cheeks glowing with honey drink.
Finnbogi shook his head. This was not going well.
“Finnbogi the Ogler?” said Sofi Tornado. Finnbogi wanted to crawl into a hole. Surely she hadn’t seen him ogling her? He’d been very careful.
“Some magnificent suggestions,” said Wulf. “But I don’t think we’ve found it yet. Has anyone got anything a little more complimentary than ‘the Boggy’?”
“I know I’m not meant to make up my own name,” Finnbogi risked saying, “but can I be called Finn instead of Finnbogi?”
“No way,” said Keef, “you can’t change your first name.”
“That’s the Hardwork way,” said Sassa Lipchewer, “but we’re Wootah now and we make our own rules. Wulf?”
“Yeah, why not. Finn it is. So we’re looking at Finn the …”
“Dim?” suggested Gunnhild. Finnbogi stared at her again and she smiled back, unabashed.
“Finn the Trim doesn’t suit him,” said Thyri, “how about Finn the Prim?” She took a swig of her mug, looking very pleased with herself.
“Finn the Cunt?” said Keef.
Thyri snorted honey drink out of her nose. Finnbogi was not enjoying this.
“Finn the Thyri-Fancier?” said Sassa.
Finn glared at her, ears burning. She winked. He glanced at Thyri. She was looking at her feet, not laughing any more. Was she blushing?
“Finn the Deep,” said Bodil.
“Finn the Creep,” suggested Paloma.
“What was that, Bodi
l?” said Wulf.
“Finn the Deep,” repeated Bodil.
Yes yes yes, Finn pleaded silently.
Wulf nodded. “I like it. But has he done anything particularly deep …”
“He saved us all,” said Bodil.
“So did I!” said Keef.
“When?” said Thyri.
“When these fuckers chopped my ear off and took my eye out and I still didn’t tell them where you were.” He pointed at the Owsla women. All of them, even Sofi Tornado, looked suitably chastened.
“You didn’t know where we were any more than they did, or than we did, for that matter,” Thyri argued, getting further from the subject of Finn the Deep.
“Well, I didn’t tell them where you were going. And me and Arse Splitter saw off more moose riders than anybody else yesterday, and I took Finnbogi’s place swimming down the waterfall at—”
“That’ll do, Keef,” said Gunnhild. “Let’s get this done so we can get back to interesting conversations. We’ll call him Finn the Deep. It may not be entirely accurate, but he’ll like it. Maybe man cannot change the name of dung and make it meat, but Finn deserves a name that he’ll like and that will remind him for ever of his selflessness and bravery. Maybe it’ll even inspire him to carry on acting like a decent adult.”
Finn nodded his thanks. He didn’t trust himself to talk.
“Well, Wulf?” asked Gunnhild.
“Yup, sure. Goodbye for ever, Finnbogi the Boggy. Welcome to the Wootah tribe, Finn the Deep.”
Finn’s mouth fell open. They were all watching. Thyri looked proud. Paloma was smiling at him and nodding.
“I still prefer Finn the Cunt,” muttered Keef, but he caught Finn’s eye and winked.
Tears threatened. Finn’s lower lip wobbled.
“I …” He choked out a sob. Tears came. Finn the Deep snorted and ran from the fire, the laughter of the others ringing in his ears.
Paloma Pronghorn found him sitting on a broad rock high above the camp. It was a moonless, cloudless night, with more stars than there were pebbles on Hardwork beach, some twinkling on their own, many more combining into sparkling celestial clouds.
“I …” he said.
“Expecting Treelegs?”
“Well …”
“Great girl, not a tracker. She’s looking for you down by the river.”
“Oh, I—”
“Shush.” Paloma placed a hand delicately on his shoulder then gripped his shirt tight. For half a heartbeat he thought she was going to head-butt him, but she lowered her face and opened her lips. A heady wave of her animal, honey musk washed across him and then her mouth was on his, her tongue pushing between his teeth. He pushed back with his own tongue, then gripped her hips and leant back onto the rock, pulling her with him.
Sitsi Kestrel wasn’t surprised when Paloma went after Finnbogi—sorry, Finn—even though they’d all seen Thyri Treelegs head after him, too. Sitsi had seen it several times in Calnia. When she was drunk, Paloma became unstoppably attracted to men that other women liked, and hang the feelings of the other woman.
Sitsi had watched Finn fawn over Treelegs ever since she’d met them, and seen her cold responses. If Paloma found Finn first, which she would, and little madam Thyri was thwarted, then that was probably a good thing; a lesson in humility for Thyri and the opposite for Finn.
The fire cracked and orange sparks flew up to the stars. Wulf and Sassa bade everyone goodnight and headed off together. Sitsi had seen Sassa pour every one of her drinks away in the dark without taking a single sip. There was only one reason to avoid poisoning your innards while keeping your abstinence secret. The notion made Sitsi smile, but it was also a worry. It was a very long way to The Meadows.
Keef got up to go to the river and Bodil followed him. Sitsi sighed. Sometimes she wished she was more like Paloma.
“Still good for first watch, Sitsi?” asked Sofi, standing.
“Sure.”
“And you, Gunnhild?”
“I have abstained and am ready. Be wary of drinking when work is upon you.”
“Right.”
Everyone else turned in then, apart from Erik and Chogolisa, who were sitting on the same log and chatting quietly. The big man looked like a child next to the colossal Owsla woman, but they still looked good as a couple.
The large-eyed archer left them to patrol the perimeter and gain her night vision. She met Thyri, stomping up the path from the river.
“Goodnight!” Sitsi chirped. The Wootah girl grunted a reply without looking up and would have barged her out of the way if Sitsi hadn’t sprung aside.
A little while later Erik and Chogolisa headed to the river separately, then went back to their own huts.
Chogolisa could do with being a bit more like Paloma as well, thought Sitsi.
Finnbogi woke on the rock, a chill in his bones and an ache in the arm that was under Paloma Pronghorn.
Paloma Pronghorn.
He lay for a short while, watching the sky lighten, listening to the animals wake and breathing in her scent mixed with the fresh aroma of the woods. The golden moment was somewhat marred by his bursting desperation to piss, but he managed mostly to ignore that.
Finally, Paloma woke and turned. She smiled sleepily at him, then her eyes shot open like a startled deer’s.
“Shall we go back to the huts?” he asked. “Or maybe stay out here for a bit and—”
“No. I like a run when I wake up. See ya!”
And she was gone.
Chapter 7
The Green Tribe
Sassa Lipchewer woke on the comfortable bed and pulled the fur against her chest. Wulf was up and gone. She told herself not to worry; he always woke before her under normal circumstances. Normal circumstances! Lever a beaver, what a joy. She wished they could stay with the Green tribe for ever but she knew that a second night was unlikely.
The time for Sassa’s moon cycle had come and gone. She hadn’t needed the proof. She knew she was pregnant and Sofi Tornado had confirmed it. Wulf had drunkenly spilled the beans about Sofi’s secret super-hearing to her the night before. She’d already trusted that the Owsla captain wasn’t lying about her baby’s health, but now she knew how she knew, it was even more reassuring.
But she knew she mustn’t tell Wulf yet. Too much could go wrong at this early stage. She reckoned she was thirty-two days pregnant. The Hardwork custom had been to wait ninety days before telling anyone other than your mother. She was going to try for that. Sofi, unsuited as she was, could take the mother role for now.
Reluctantly, she climbed off the warm bed and headed out. She bade good day to Sofi and Bodil and trod carefully down to the river. The morning was warm and soon filled with the sounds of splashing and shouting from Keef and Wulf playfighting.
Keef waded out as she approached and ran off into the woods in pursuit of imaginary foes. She watched Wulf wash, as did a couple of beavers, their heads poking up from the dam downstream. A family of muskrats appeared from their cattail lodge on the far, shaded side of the river and swam right by Wulf. Swift little birds swished up and downstream, dipping for morning drinks.
“I’m pregnant,” she said as Wulf walked out of the water, surprising herself almost as much as him.
His eyes widened, his face cracked into a grin and he ran to hug her. She didn’t mind that she got soaked.
Back at the camp, Erik the Angry shouted “Hey Paloma!” and waggled a couple of wood and sinew paddles at her. Paloma had seen him working on them the night before and guessed that they were meant to be rackets for a ball sport, or possibly fishing equipment. “Want to come down to the river and try these out?” he asked.
Fishing equipment, then. She looked about, wracking her brains for an excuse not to go and wondering what she’d done to give him the impression that she might enjoy fishing.
“Why don’t you ask Ot—” she started, then spotted Finn the Deep heading down the hill from the previous night’s liaison. “Actually, that sounds like
a fun thing to do, Erik. To the river!”
They passed Wulf the Fat and Sassa Lipchewer, both of them grinning like mad people.
“The river is the place to be!” said Sassa.
“It certainly is!” cried Wulf, dancing in a circle. “It certainly is!”
“Someone got theirs this morning,” said Paloma when the ecstatic pair had skipped on. She regretted it immediately. As far as Erik knew she’d got hers with his son the night before. They hadn’t actually shagged, they hadn’t done much at all, but Erik didn’t know that. What was more, as Sitsi had whispered hoarsely the moment Paloma had got back to camp that morning, Erik hadn’t got his with Chogolisa Earthquake, even though he should have done and must surely be regretting that he hadn’t had the balls to make a move.
It was a bit odd, walking along with the previous night’s pull’s dad, but, then again, she told herself, everything was a bit odd these days.
They arrived at the river.
“Right, strap these to your feet, please.” Erik held the paddles out to her.
She didn’t take them. “Why?”
Erik put his creations down on a rock. “I got the idea watching ducks take off.” He carried on. His explanation was detailed, with much gesticulation and running on the spot. Paloma watched, amused and confused.
“Fine,” she said at the end of his overlong lecture. “Give them here. I’ll have a crack since you’ve put so much effort in. But it’s not going to work.”
She sat on the rock and lashed the rackets to her feet, feeling like an idiot. Erik told her to make sure they were straight and encouraged her to tie them as tightly as possible, all the while bouncing boyishly on his toes.
“Right,” he said as she stood tentatively. “Do you want me to go through again how—”
“I got it.” She set off along the bank just a little faster than a normal person could run. She leapt onto the surface of the river with her legs still going, ran for about two paces until the leading edge of one of the watershoes submerged and she tripped. She tumbled and splashed down into the roaring water. She scraped on a rock, sank, hit the riverbed arse first, waved her arms, found her feet and stood. It was hip-deep and cold as a white bear’s bollocks.