by P. W. Chance
He took one more mouthful, then turned to her, where she rested on his shoulder. She raised her head and drank from his lips.
He raised the waterskin, filled his mouth once more. She was no longer thirsty, but she pressed her lips to his and drank again.
He slung the waterskin from his belt and picked up the staff. They moved on.
The witch-girl dozed, warm and bound, letting her mind drift. The broad-leafed trees around them gave way to pine and cedar, evergreens. A single snowflake fell, spiralling and drifting down out of the dark sky. She watched it tumble past. Beneath her, Black-dog’s body was as warm as a fire-heated stone, tireless as the waves on the shore.
“Once, there were two brothers.”
She shifted slightly against his back, resting her ear against his shoulder and closing her eyes. His voice sounded deeper, pressed so close to him, resonating in her head. It felt like he was speaking inside her.
“One brother was dark, and one was light. They ran together, laughed, fought. They learned to swim and to hunt. They loved each other. But one day, the dark brother realized they were fated to kill one another.”
He paused for a moment to clamber over a stone. The way was growing steeper, rougher.
“So the dark brother said: you will grow in strength, and I will grow in wisdom. You will learn to hurt, and I will learn to heal. In this way, our powers will be different. We will not crash into one another like stags and be destroyed, but slip past each other, like fish in a stream. So you will go to Heartwood, and learn how to hunt and make war. And I will go to Granny Rattlebones, and learn herbs and secrets.”
“But when he went to her, the old witch frowned. She looked at the boy, and rattled her fortune-bones in her hands, and cast them on the ground to see how they fell. And she said no.”
He stopped, leaning on his staff. They were on a high ridge, moonlit forest spread beneath them. The witch-girl could see the distant shimmer of the lake to the south, and the curving valley where the River-folk lived to the east. To the north, up the slope, loomed the shining, ice-capped bulk of White Mountain. A few snowflakes drifted on the wind, dancing in the starlight.
Black-dog’s head turned slowly, sweeping his gaze over the view. Then his staff crunched on the gravel as he began to march up the mountain.
“The dark brother thought the witch was testing him. He asked again, the next day. And the day after. He went down to the marsh with a clever net and caught a heron, making her a gift of all its beautiful feathers. He sat outside her hut for many days without food. Still she said no. She said there was no test. She said she would never teach him.”
“The dark brother decided that she was wrong. She would teach him, whether she chose to or not.”
Snow was falling all around them, silent as stars.
“The brothers trained with Heartwood, trained to be hunters and warriors. The bright brother ran swifter. The dark brother ran longer. The bright brother was better at throwing a spear. The dark brother was better at moving silent and unseen. He could be very, very quiet.”
“The old witch took an apprentice. A white-skinned, clever girl, who listened to her stories late into the night. The dark brother listened too. Once or twice, the old witch saw him. But as time passed, and the boy and girl each grew in skill, the old woman could no longer tell when he was there.”
“Sometimes, the old woman whispered too quietly for the dark brother to hear. Sometimes, he was too weary from hunting during the day to follow them in the night. But he learned as much as he could. When they gathered herbs, he watched, and listened, and padded after them to see what leaves had been taken and roots ripped up. When the old woman guided the girl through dreams, with smoke and whispering, he lay on the roof of their hut and saw dark things in his sleep.”
“The apprentice was given trials. The dark brother watched. In a deep-shadowed valley, at sunset, the old witch led the girl to a dead tree filled with holes. The witch took a fortune-telling bone and tossed it high into the air. It fell into a hole at the top of the tree, and rattled and tapped its way down through the hollow trunk, sending scorpions scurrying. The apprentice listened, and thought, and plunged her hand into a hole. She showed the old witch the white bone in her palm, the witch whispered, and they turned for home.”
“When they were gone, the dark brother went to the tree. He took a rough stone from the ground and threw it high, so it rattled down through the hollow tree. He chose a hole, reached in, and was stung.”
“He lay beside a stream that night, his veins on fire with the scorpion’s venom, his cramping muscles trying to tear his bones apart. When dawn came, and he could finally open his fist, he saw the stone shattered in his hand.”
Snow had begun to fall, muffling sound, hiding the world. Black-dog seemed sure of the way, still taking them upward. The night grew colder around them. His breath steamed as he spoke.
“When it was time for the girl to become a witch, the old woman brewed a special tea. The old witch whispered in her apprentice’s ear as the girl drank. And then the girl walked through the village, and through the cave. I do not know what she saw.”
The witch-girl rested her head on Black-dog’s shoulder. She closed her eyes, remembering, whispering. “She saw secrets and spiderwebs. Trails and pathways. She saw a man breaking flint for a knife, and she saw the stone it had been and the tool it would be and the hands that would grip it and the hundred things it would carve and cut, trailing before and behind his working hands, ghosts of the future and the past. She felt the cave breathing, the slow breaths of the living earth. She looked with night-bird eyes, and saw shining threads tangled around every man and woman, every dog and child, binding them gently together. She saw a mother stroke a sleeping child’s hair, and at the touch a new thread trailed from the mother’s fingertips. And she knew that this was the tribe. This web of delicate threads, each thread a memory or rivalry or kindness. This is what she had to protect. It was very beautiful.” She buried her face in Black-dog’s hair, smiling at the smell of him. “But she did not see the dark brother.”
The wind was picking up, muttering and howling around them. Black-dog had pulled the cloak tighter around them, but still the chill was slipping through. His voice was low, and she could barely hear it over the wind.
“He hid from her gaze,” Black-dog said. “He did not want to be seen with those eyes, did not want her to know what he kept hidden behind his face. And he had work to do. He took what he would need from the witch’s hut, took herbs and mushrooms. He went into the forest, far away from people, to a shadowed place beneath a great tree. There, alone, he made a fire and brewed the tea.”
The witch-girl shivered. She wished she could put her arms around him. He was silent, now, climbing the icy slope, bracing himself with his staff when the wind howled, trying to tear them off the mountain into the darkness.
She wondered if they would die here, together. If that was why he had brought them here. But that kind of surrender was not something he could choose. She bent her head forward, brushing her lips over his shoulder. “What did he see?”
“A black dog.”
The wind whirled the snow away from them, and for a moment the witch-girl had a clear view of the jagged mountain peak above them. Black-dog marched forward, snow crunching beneath his feet.
“At first he was not sure. He only caught glimpses, black movement at the edge of his vision, the feeling of being hunted. He bared his teeth, calmed himself, hid in ambush. And then he saw it. A hole in the world, hunger on legs, huge as a mammoth, head low, seeking his scent. It was terrifying.”
“But there was something wrong with him, with the dark brother, something wrong with him since long before. He could not feel fear correctly. It never made him want to run away. It made him want to chase and take and break and bite. Made him want to taste blood in his mouth, take a stone in his hand and beat his enemy until there was nothing left but red.”
“Catch the white stag, and gain
your wish. Let the black dog catch you, and it’s your death. But what happens if you catch the dog?”
“The dark brother howled and rushed forward. The great dog ran. They chased each other through the nighttime forest, they hunted each other up the cold hills, flashes of motion and hunger and rage and fear, breath burning in his lungs. Part of him thinking, I will catch the dog, and it will not take people in their dreams. I will protect the tribe. Part of him thinking, kill. Kill. He was high on the white mountain, in cold and snow, and knew that the cold would likely take him even if he won the hunt. But he would end that demon before he died.”
“He was frozen almost to his death when he finally understood.”
They were walking along a stream, now, edged with ice but still flowing, a thin cloud of steam rising from it. Before them was a black hole in the mountainside, with the stream flowing out of it. A cave.
“Fingers stiff, close to dying, he took refuge in a cave. It was warm, dark.”
They passed into the cave. In the near-darkness, the witch-girl could just make out that the walls and ceiling were painted. Dark figures of soot and rust and ochre danced, and fought, and made love. It was blessedly warm, filled with steam and the smell of sulfur.
“He bent to drink from the pool he found there. Cupped the water in his hand, raised it to his lips. As he did, the clouds passed, and the moon showed him his reflection. As the bitter water touched his tongue, he looked down, and saw what he was.”
He knelt. The witch-girl looked down at the steaming pool. The light was dim. The steam blurred and twisted the reflection. Mirrored in the pool was a hunched, dark shape, looking up from the pool with shining eyes.
It looked like a huge, black dog.
You will never be a witch, the witch-girl realized. You are strong, Black-dog, terribly strong, but you will never call a spirit into yourself, never walk in dreams, never see through another’s eyes. You cannot surrender, release, become something else. Your name and nature are too strong, too savage. They will not let you go. You can only and ever be what you are.
Black-dog stretched and sighed. “I kill as easily as most men drink water. I take women the way most men kill. I do as I will, and nothing can stop me but death. I am a monster.” His voice was calm, confident. He spread the cloak over the soft sand, then loosened the straps that tied the witch-girl to his back and gently laid her down. “Some day, my brother and I will taste each other’s blood. I hope one of us survives. I hope it is him. You are hurt, witch-girl. I will heal you.”
She lay on the soft fur, hands and ankles still bound. She watched Black-dog moving in the darkness, his back to her, his words still buzzing in her head. He stirred the ashes of an old fire, added new wood to the red coals hidden there. Flickering light bloomed in the cave, making the figures on the walls shift and dance.
Perhaps I cannot save myself, the witch-girl thought. Perhaps I cannot save the tribe. I have not found the path that leads us all to happiness, and the more I try to gather my world together, the more it slips apart. But this one man, my enemy and lover, I will take his pain away. If I have any power, any skill, I will save you, Black-dog.
Black-dog turned. With the fire behind him, he was a man veiled in shadows, outlined in fiery red. He came close, bent over her, reached around her to undo the knots.
Her arms and legs came loose, and she gasped. She felt as if her whole body had been tied in a tight, warm knot, and she was coming free, every muscle relaxing, a wave of tingling relief and pleasure rushing through her. Her shoulders wriggled, her arms and legs stretching and turning. Stretching, simple stretching, had never felt so intensely good. She let out a shuddering sigh, and then fell back, lying loose and limp on the fur.
Black-dog leaned close. He ran his hands down her, checking, exploring. His hands were callused, smooth and cool as they slid over her skin. He paused at her face, two fingers gently touching her cheek. She winced; there was a bruise there, where Ten-hands had struck her.
Black-dog looked at her for a long moment. She stared back into the dark wells of his eyes, and knew, sure as she knew her own name, that Ten-hands would soon be dead. She would need to act soon if she wanted to kill him before Black-dog did.
And then Black-dog’s arms were beneath her, and he was lowering her into the warm, steaming water of the pool.
Heaven. It was heaven, it was lover’s kisses on every inch of her skin, muscles un-knotting, warmth soaking into her aching bones, warm water-fingers stroking her scalp.
She opened her eyes. She could see Black-dog’s chest and head leaning over her, watching her. She could feel his hands beneath her, supporting her gently, so that she floated in the steaming warmth with just her face above water. Like floating in a dream. Soft currents tickled her fingertips, tongues of warmer and cooler water moved down her body, down her legs. Black-dog was leaning closer. She could feel the surface of the water tickling her cheeks, framing her face. She did not pull away, to sink into the depths. She did not rise out of the water toward him. She floated, perfectly still. His mouth was less than an inch above her, she could feel the warmth of him on her lips. He hung there, motionless. She breathed in his breath, and he breathed in hers. Her eyes closed. Her tears welled up, and ran down to mix and fade in the warm water.
Do not die, Black-dog, hungering-heart, she thought. You will do as you will, you will do as you must, but do not rush to your death before I can heal you.
He laid her down in the water, with her head at the edge of the pool, her body coming to rest on soft sand. His hands worked their way up her body, pressing and massaging her feet, her legs, her neck and shoulders, gentle around bruises, firm where the muscles were sore. He cupped warm water in his hands and poured it through her hair, then ran his fingers through it carefully, undoing tangles, tugging sweetly on her scalp. He massaged down her arms, stroking and rubbing, all the way down to pressing and rolling her individual fingertips. Then he reached for her feet and began again. She did nothing but float, she did nothing but breathe, as he touched, pressed, touched, unbinding and unlocking and releasing every part of her with sweet, strong hands.
An hour or a lifetime passed. He lifted her out of the water. He dried her, patting her softly with the fur cloak. He seated her by the warm fire, and sat down across the flames from her, his long, tanned legs folding under him.
In his hand, now, was the leash. The binding she had set between them. A long cord of oiled, braided leather.
“Fika and Rika found where you had hidden it,” he said. “The followed your scent into the forest, where you had hidden your secret under a stone.”
His face was calm, framed by the fall of his long, dark hair. The fire danced in his eyes.
“The River-witch told me how to break it,” he said. “Manala. She will take her vengeance soon. But not before I am free.”
I did this, the witch-girl thought. Half him, half me. I bound, when I should have healed, or killed. I desired, when I could have loved.
“The way she taught me is very simple.” He stretched the cord between his hands, regarding it. “Woven in with the leather are two locks of hair. Yours, and mine. Woven in with the binding are two kinds of strength. Yours. Mine. We each hold one end of the leash, with the length of it in the fire. The hairs burn away, as we will the binding to release. And then I am free.” His face darkened with anger. “Free of the madness you put in me. Free of the love and hate twisting and clawing at each other, fighting like two brothers too equal to win. Nothing but my true feelings left.”
“Yes,” she said. Her throat was too tight to say any more. It had been a mistake to bind him. But the thought of losing him, of going back to that silent mask, was too painful to bear. There were many in the tribe whom she loved, but none of them knew the things she knew, none of them walked in the dark when she walked. None of them made her heart twist in her chest, none of them filled the empty night with heat and hunger. Except him.
He tossed one end of the leash across th
e fire. She caught it. He pulled it taut.
Between them, the braided leather was bathed in flames, the brown darkening to black. A harsh, scorching smell rose with the smoke.
“Do it,” he said. His voice was a savage growl.
She could feel the power in the binding, in the leather tugging against her hand, tight and strained. She could feel his heartbeat, thrumming down the cord between them. She felt rage and loneliness, felt pain as the edges of the cord began to burn and fray, the binding pulling on her harder, more desperately, as the fire ate into it. She could feel what would happen if she held on, how they would both be pulled in, pulled by their own strength, and their hearts would burn in the fire together. Die together. It pulled harder, hauling her towards the flame, and she strained against the pull.
She looked across the fire to where Black-dog sat, legs crossed. His hand was raised, with the leash wrapped around it, pulling, straining. His head was bowed forward, dark hair hiding his eyes. She saw something fall, shining in the firelight. A tear.
In her heart, she let him go.
The leash burned through with a snap. She fell backwards. Her back hit the sand, knocking the breath out of her.
She lay on her back, gasping. The paintings on the ceiling swam before her eyes, joining and parting, dancing and bowing. She blinked; her eyes were filled with tears. There was a hollow place inside her. She felt alone in a way she hadn’t felt since Grandmother died.
A dark shape loomed over her. Black-dog. His shoulders rose and fell as he breathed.
“Liar,” he growled.
She stared up at him, uncomprehending. He looked down at her, hate burning in his eyes.
“You said you would release me.” His fists were clenching and unclenching. His teeth were bared, grinding, his eyes burning like coals.
“I did! The binding is broken!” She felt a cold stroke of fear, like ice down her back. He was angry. More than angry, furious. She had seen him wild before, seen him savage, but she had never seen him so close to losing control.