by P. W. Chance
“Wait,” she gasped.
He ignored her completely, pulled her hands up above her head. She felt leather; he had a strap, was winding around and around her wrists. He pulled it taut, binding her to one of the thick wooden posts that held up the roof.
“Wait,” she said again. “You want me, you want to use me for your pleasure, but do you feel anything? Do you feel anything for me when you think of me, dream of me?” She needed to know. For her plans. For the twisting feeling in her chest.
He finished the knot. Her arms were stretched above her head, and she felt the touch of his long hair on them, trailing over her, tickling, as he moved back down. In the blind darkness she could hear his breathing, knew he leaning over her, his mouth coming closer to hers. She could feel the warmth of his breath, now, and the touch of his hair on her cheeks. So close she felt the words on her lips, he whispered his answer.
“No. You are nothing to me.”
The words fell into her mind like a stone, heavy, cold, crushing. The herbs he had fed her, the bitter juice he had made her drink, were working in her now. She felt the words strike in her gut, again and again. She was falling into herself, into a cold and empty place, with the words echoing all around her.
And then the echoes shattered into noise, and she knew, as easily as she knew sunrise from darkness, that what he had said was a lie. He felt something, something stronger than a river in flood, coursing down the connection between them. It was frightening in its power, and in how much strength he must have to control it.
He was touching her body, each touch humming with the power of that connection as he ran his hands down her in practiced, controlled motions. His fingers pressed hard to massage muscles, touched lightly as they stroked down her arms, legs, throat. It hurt, it tickled, it was unbearably good. She felt like she was opening in every place he touched, coming un-knotted, spreading like a flower.
She pressed her eyes closed, breathed hard. “Lying. You’re lying.” She clenched her teeth as his fingers sunk into her thighs, rubbing, massaging. She panted, catching her breath. “Tell me. What do you feel?”
His hands didn’t stop. It felt sweet, sweet, she felt trails of stars wherever he stroked her gently, she felt slow bursts of color wherever his fingers pressed firm. She felt beautiful, felt like his touch was making her beautiful.
“Nothing. I feel nothing for you.”
The words were lies, but she could almost hear the truth, a weight of something trying to break through from behind his harsh whisper. Her body was shaking with every breath. His hands ran down her and she felt sculpted, crafted, like she was a precious, intricate work of art. Like her body was his instrument, and he was making music.
She could feel everywhere he had touched her humming, like taut lines drawn through her body. His hands pulled away and she felt her body arching up, trying to follow, desperate for his touch. She bit her lip, trying not to whine with need as the lines of fire he had kneaded into her began to fade in intensity. No, not yet, I need to feel more, feel that touch more!
His hand covered her breast and squeezed, pinched the tip. She felt it through her whole body. The sensation spread through her like a branching, flickering bolt of lightning, spreading along the lines he had made. Her breast under his clenching hand was a knot of pain, the tip a white-hot point of agony, but the flickering lines felt like warm sunlight and strong wine, like stretching after a long sleep. She wanted him to hurt her more, pinch harder, if that would make the sparks creeping through her arms and legs flare brighter, if that would make the tingling at the top of her head more intense.
He released her. She went limp, lying on the furs, panting. “Tell me…” she started to say, but his hand was on her other breast and she was arching again, her whole body vibrating with sweet fire. In the darkness behind her eyes, squeezed closed, she was watching waves and swirls of blue flame.
His hand released, and she collapsed again. “Tell me, “ she gasped, trying to concentrate as her mind filled with rivers of light. “Tell me what you feel for me!”
He bit her thigh, hard. A hot spike of pain shot up from below, shot up to the tingling at the top of her head and shattered it, released it to flow down her scalp and neck and arms and back stomach and down her legs, her whole body covered in the glorious prickling shiver. It hurt, it hurt brutally where he was biting her, but his fingers were trailing down her stomach and legs and wherever they touched the prickling turned into feather-softness and warmth. She was spasming, legs kicking, arms pulling taut against their bindings, and she heard her own voice, babbling, begging him. “Tell me! Touch me more, tell me the truth! Please, stop! Please, what am I to you, please, more, I’m so close, it hurts, I need to know!”
He was on top of her. She writhed against him, everywhere his skin touched hers was warmth and heat and joy. His hands were in her hair, holding her head, holding it still, she could feel his breath on her lips again and he was telling her, the words flowing into her like water into an empty bowl:
“You will do as I say. Then I will give you what you need..”
“Yes please yes anything.” She was gasping, straining toward his lips, her legs wrapping around his waist, some small part of her remembering that she should resist, but that made no sense. If she did as he said he would be pleased with her, and he would touch her more and hurt her more and whisper to her more and close his arms around her and pull her closer and nothing could possibly be more important than that.
“Break the binding.”
“I can’t,” she sobbed. He was still running his hands over her, it felt so good but it wasn’t enough. She needed to please him, wanted to, but she couldn’t. “I’m not strong enough now. I’m yours, I’m clay in your hands, I love it and I’m sorry, I have to be strong inside to do witch-work and right now I’m gone and it feels so good, and when I’m strong again I’ll be strong enough to say no. Please, please forgive me, please don’t stop!”
His lips brushed hers.
“I hate you.”
His voice was soft, so full of kindness and love and desire that she felt herself melting as he kissed her, as their lips pressed together, both of them gasping with need. He kissed her harder, tongue touching hers, nipping at her lips, growling with each breath, the weight of his body on top of her making her gasp for breath.
He pulled away.
“And I love you.”
It was a savage growl, his voice burning with rage. He yanked at her hair, pulling her head back cruelly, baring her throat. As his teeth bit into her neck, he forced his shaft into her below. His arms wrapped around her as pain from her throat and pleasure from below flowed together like crashing waves and set her on fire. He moved against her, moved inside her, she kissed him and bit him, desperate for more of him. His fingers clawed her back, his lips were soft on her throat. He was pounding into her, breaking her into heat and light inside, all the lines of her body dancing with fire and lightning. She tasted sweat, she tasted blood, the darkness was filled with flashing, swirling colors, he was filling her and destroying her. She cried out as she came, a long wail of agonized joy. Then the darkness rushed back, crashing over her like a warm sea, and everything was gone.
*********
She could see.
She blinked, surprised. The fire in the center of the hut was lit, crackling and hissing to itself as it sent sparks up to the hole in the roof. There was a clay pot, her cookpot, pushed up against the hot coals.
Black-dog was sitting with his back to her, stirring the pot with a stick. She smelled grain and mint, rabbit meat and sweetroot. Black-dog, silent hunter, feared warrior, taker of women, was cooking.
Half-asleep, the witch-girl lay in her pile of furs. They were warm, soft, surprisingly heavy. Not furs. Dogs. His two big hunting hounds were in the bed, sleeping in a lazy pile with her, keeping her warm. The female, Rika, opened one eye and gave the witch-girl a look. The dog sniffed, a half-sneeze chuffing sound. She licked the witch-girl’s hand, sni
ffed again, and settled back to sleep.
The witch-girl lay still, and listened.
Black-dog was speaking. Low, quiet, so quiet she hadn’t heard him at first, he was talking to himself. No, not to himself: he was looking up at the far wall, to the high shelf where Grandmother’s painted skull sat grinning in the firelight.
He was talking to Granny Rattlebones. Can he hear her? The witch-girl was fully awake now, and worried. Is the old ghost talking back to him? How much witchcraft does this hunter know?
A branch cracked in the fire, sending up a spray of sparks.
“You knew, didn’t you,” said Black-dog quietly. “That’s why you waited so long to give us our true names, our adult names, our names as men.” He poked at the fire with a stick; flames leaped up and died away. “You knew what our names would be, my brother’s and mine, before you ever dreamed your witch-dream to name us. You knew what you would see, and what would happen. See a white stag in your dream, and if you catch it, you get your dearest wish. See a black dog in your dream, and if it catches you, you’ll die before the next full moon. So you waited, wouldn’t dream for us, wouldn’t let us become men until your granddaughter was trained. Until she was ready to replace you.”
He looked up at the skull for a while, as if listening. The witch-girl heard only the crackle of the fire.
Black-dog shook his head, slowly. “What she has done to me, I cannot bear.” His voice was rough. Anger, and pain. “I could hold my hand in a fire and smile, but this, I cannot bear. This is not what I truly feel, for her. This is lies and sickness. I would tear it out of my guts with my teeth. I will rage against it until the binding breaks, or the world does. I cannot do otherwise. I am what I am.”
He stared up at the skull in silence, for a time. His fists clenched, and his voice went cold. “If I could choose, I would not choose to feel this. The hunger to do harm. The pride that will die before it bows.”
The witch-girl bit her lip. She should be feeling a touch of fear as she watched the clenching muscles of his back, heard the hate in his voice. Instead, she found herself fighting against the urge to go to him. Hold him, stroke his hair. Sooth him. She held her breath, and stayed still.
Black-dog watched the skull. Slowly, he relaxed, looked down. He stirred the stew-pot, then moved it away from the coals. “I thought so, once. When my brother and I were young, running by the stream, playing at being warriors, telling brave stories. When we played with other children, always we were the strongest, always we were the winners, the leaders, the shining ones.”
His voice was almost a whisper now. “But when we wrestled each other, it couldn’t end. Our strength was equal. The others would gather around us, cheering and laughing and making bets on our play. First the laughter stopped, as they watched us strain against one another, hands on arms, shoulder pressing shoulder. Then they began to worry. The fight was lasting too long. There were bruises. Then blood. Neither of us crying out. Neither of us able to stop. How can you surrender, against an enemy who is not stronger than you? Both of us wishing it would end, but unable to give up. Too much hunger, too much pride. Both of us gripping, straining, harming the one we loved the most. Miserable, hurting, trapped by our own natures, by our equal strength.”
He was looking at his hand, now. A faint, pale scar, twin crescents. A child’s teeth. “The adults pulled us apart. Wasn’t easy for them. We lay in your hut together, old witch, and as we healed I told my brother a story.”
“I told him of two brothers. One was golden-haired, and he was brave and strong. One was dark-haired, and he was clever and wise. And they never needed to fight, because they already knew who would win any challenge. For one was the strong one, and the other was the wise one, and each had their own kind of power to use to help the other. The strong one could wield any weapon with perfect skill. The wise one knew the names and secret uses of every plant and stone. One could defeat any enemy, and the other could heal any wound, and they never fought one another. A healer. I would be a healer.”
“Why would you not train me, Grandmother?” There was sorrow in his voice as he looked up at the skull. Old, tired pain. “Was it because of blood, because I was not your true grandson? Was it because men may not learn witch’s secrets?” His voice went quiet, hard, cold. “Or did you already know what I would become?”
He stood. “I see why you chose her,” said Black-dog. “She set a binding that can’t be undone unless she wills it, with her will unbroken… She’s as clever as I am strong. But neither of us is wise. The binding must break, no matter the cost. And soon there will be war and death and weeping, for all the Red Cave tribe.” He spread his arms wide, voice mocking. “So tell me, dead old woman, did you get what you wished for when you dreamed my brother’s name?”
A chill ran through the witch-girl as she watched Black-dog’s back, the flexing muscle and scars. He was standing ready to fight. Facing down the ghost. What was he seeing, the witch-girl wondered. What was he hearing? Echoes from his own mind? Or the true words of the old woman’s spirit?
Whatever it was, it did not satisfy him. He snarled, turning his head to the side. “Then at least tell me this. You gave my brother his name, you cursed me with mine, for all the tribe to know. So tell me what you dreamed for her. Tell me the witch-girl’s true name.”
Only echoes, thought the witch-girl. He’s only arguing with his own shadow, the ghosts of his own mind. He can’t hear her.
He leaned toward the painted skull, listening intently. “A bird?” he growled. “What kind of bird?”
No, no, no. The witch-girl shivered in her furs. She was only barely matching him, will-to-will, as it was. If he had her name, he would have more power over her, he could break her heart open and take hold of her soul. The witch-girl strained to listen, to hear Grandmother’s voice.
Outside in the darkness, the wind stirred dead leaves, sent them racing and rustling across the ground. Far out over the lake, a night-bird cried.
Black-dog turned and strode out the doorway, his two hounds padding after him. They vanished into the night.
The fire crackled in the quiet hut.
The witch-girl pushed herself upright, sitting on her furs. She pulled one up over her shoulders to keep out the chill.
She stared up at her grandmother’s skull.
“Eat your supper, dear,” whispered the wind.
The witch-girl glared at the painted bone. “What did you tell him? Did you tell him my name? Why?”
“Smells like a lovely rabbit stew,” the old woman sighed. “When was the last time you had a proper meal? Always getting so wrapped up with your work, brewing and binding and giving advice, taking care of everyone but yourself. Go on, eat it before it gets cold.”
“Meddling old haunt,” the witch-girl muttered. She scooted over to the cookpot and sniffed it suspiciously. Stars and stones, it smelled good. She was ravenous. She fished a pair of eating sticks off a shelf and set to work filling herself with sweet and savory chunks of meat and root.
“There, isn’t that better?” Grandmother said. Her voice was the scurrying of some small night animal, out in the forest.
“Too much mint,” the witch-girl grumbled. She would have used more wild onion. This was different. Good, though. It was hard to stay angry as her stomach filled with warm food.
“He was always good with herbs,” Grandmother sighed. The night breeze stirred around the roof.
The witch-girl raised the pot to her mouth and slurped the broth. She felt warm, and tired, and a little sad.
“Have I done this wrong?” she asked the skull. “I feel twisted-up when I think about him. And he… Sometimes he looks at me like I’m nothing, just an object. A stone, or a cord to tie in knots. Sometimes he looks at me, and I’m sure he wants to kill me with his bare hands. And sometimes he kisses me, and I’m sure he’s falling in love with me.” She leaned her face into her hands. “Did I do the binding badly? Did it get twisted up because he’s… some kind of half-witch,
too? Should I have done the binding at all?”
For a while, the skull was silent. Then, the old woman’s tired whisper: “Sometimes I wonder whether I should have drowned one of them in the lake when they were born.”
“What?” The witch-girl sat bolt upright, staring at the skull in shock.
“It’s what we used to do,” Granny Rattlebones sighed. “Twins can be bad, bad luck. But I couldn’t. I told myself stories about why. I told myself that one of them would likely die before they grew to men, from fever, or cold, or accident, and then whichever one lived would be chief. The strength I saw in those tiny babes, I thought it would be a waste to drown one and lose the other. I told myself that, of all the futures I saw for them, all the darkness and sorrow and blood, there was at least one of great happiness. For both of them. For everyone. But in the end, I just didn’t want to kill a child. Not for the greater good, not for anything.”
The witch-girl watched her grandmother’s painted skull, eyes wide. Grandmother had clear visions, she had wisdom and certainty and a cackling laugh like rocks cracking. For her to doubt, to regret, was like the moon choosing not to rise.
“Make it right,” the old woman sighed. “Make my foolishness the right choice, saving both children, both beautiful brothers. Make it the right choice, setting the binding. Of all the hundred paths you wander in the dark, find the one that leads to happiness.”
The witch-girl shook her head sadly. “I don’t know how. He was right. I am not wise.”
“You’re young, of course you’re not wise!” The skull grinned. “But you’re clever!”