Fire in the Cave

by P. W. Chance

Time to wake up. The witch-girl called up a memory of a hollow tree, filled with scorpions. Danger. Fear. Focus. Act. Under the witch-girl’s tongue was the bitter little bundle of herbs she had palmed earlier. As the the River-witch’s lips opened against hers, the witch-girl pushed them forward, into Manala’s mouth.

  The River-witch tried to pull away, but the witch-girl’s hand was on her throat, tickling, stroking, triggering reflex. She swallowed, eyes wide with terror. Manala spat, scratched, trying to escape, but the witch-girl’s arms were around her. They rolled on the sand, feet kicking cinders from the witch-girl’s fire, shining sparks lighting the look of panic on Manala’s face. She was trying to reach for her mouth, to reach her fingers back to her throat and cough up the bitterness. The witch-girl would not let her. The sweet smoke was a haze over the water, over both their minds, as they struggled in the shadows and flickering light.

  Finally, Manala lay limp, panting for breath, the fight gone out of her. The witch-girl was on the River-witch’s chest, holding her wrists pinned to the sand. This close, the witch-girl could see the natural shape of her face through the painted skull. Manala looked up at her sadly.

  “Have you killed me?”

  The witch-girl smiled. “Do you feel like you are dying?”

  The River-witch closed her eyes, baring her teeth in pain. “I feel ghosts drawing close. Angry. Hurtful. They will tear me apart.”

  The witch-girl grinned. “Surrender, and I will call them off.”

  Manala’s eyes squeezed tightly, tears beading in the corners. “Do not give me false hope. The mushroom poison is already in my blood. You cannot save me now.”

  “I am a witch. I can do much. Surrender.”

  Manala opened her eyes, staring up at the witch-girl. The witch-girl looked back at her, blue eyes into dark.

  “They say that the Witch of Thorns could even raise the dead,” the River-witch muttered. “Very well, moonrise witch, Luna, pale light in the darkness. I surrender.”

  The witch-girl leaned close and gave her a kiss. “Not poison,” she whispered. “Just a spirit-mushroom. The ghosts are only your fear. Calm yourself, and they will depart.”

  Manala laughed, the sound echoing through the deeps. “Clever bitch! Ohh, clever, should have known you wouldn’t hold poison in your mouth. I think we could have been friends, moonrise witch. It is a shame you are about to die.”

  The witch-girl heard heavy footfalls sounding out behind her, like stones falling to earth. She rolled off Manala and onto the sand, looking up as Ten-hands charged out of the darkness, bleeding from a dozen wounds, stone axe in one hand, copper blade shining in the other.

  He has Black-dog’s axe, she thought, in the slender moment before the blade came down. It’s over.

  And then Black-dog sailed over her head, leaping through the air, swinging a length of broken stalactite like a giant stone club. Ten-hands raised an arm to block. The weight of the rock snapped his arm without slowing, barreling through to shatter into a thousand sharp-edged chunks as it caved in his chest.

  As Ten-hands fell, he finished his last swing. The copper blade came down in a shining arc, ending, with a sick crunch, in Black-dog’s face.

  The warriors fell to the sand and lay motionless.

  The witch-girl stood. At her feet, Manala lay with her eyes closed, breathing steadily, calming her ghosts. Ten-hands was breathing as well, a hissing, painful sound, his ruined chest rising and falling unevenly.

  There was no sound from Black-dog. He lay half in the pool, a dark stain spreading on the sand beneath him, clouding the water.

  The witch-girl reached into her pouch and drew out a long, braided cord. One end was charred, where it had been held over a fire until it burned through.

  She went to Ten-hands, kneeled on his stomach, and wrapped the cord around his throat.

  Ten-hands wheezed, choking on laughter. His hands pawed at her back, the strength draining out of them; his chest rose and fell with tortured slowness beneath her.

  “He’s not breathing,” Ten-hands gasped, an ugly grin on his face. His eyes rolled toward Black-dog, lying half in the lake. “Just dripping blood. Getting cold. Killed him. I won. Killed the witch-taker, the forest-shadow, the mad wolf. Nothing your herbs and tricks and lies can do, little bitch. Killed your…”

  The witch-girl tugged the cord tighter, cutting deeper into the muscles of his neck, cutting off his voice. She passed both ends of the leash to her left hand, holding it tight, as she reached out and picked up a heavy, jagged, blood-stained hunk of rock.

  “Tricks?” she hissed. “Tricks? I am Bright-owl, who is called witch-girl, and Luna. I dream true dreams. I speak true names. I learned my craft from Grandmother Rattlebones. She learned it from Old Water Woman.” The witch-girl raised the rock above her head. “She learned it from the Witch of Thorns, who stole the secrets. The secrets of sickness and healing, the secrets of darkness and vision. Of weakness, and power. The secrets of birth, and death, and rebirth!” Her voice was ringing out, through the caves, echoing back twisted and distorted, as if a chorus of witches, living and dead and yet to be born, were chanting along with her. Her face was twisted in fury. “She stole them, in the dark! In the last hours of the eternal night, before time began!” Her hand came down with a sickening crack. She raised the stone again, and swung it down once more. And again. And again.

  “She stole them,” the witch-girl whispered, “from beneath a stone.” The jagged rock fell from her hand. She leaned forward, pressing her lips to Ten-hands’ ruined face. She released the leather cord, put her hand on the dead man’s broken chest, and pressed. As his last breath hissed out of him, she caught it in her mouth.

  She stood, holding her breath, and walked the edge of the black lake that was the underworld. Black-dog lay on his back, body marred by deep cuts and bruises, face a red mask, hands open and empty. He lay half on the shore, and half in the water. She knelt beside him, raised his head in her hands, and kissed his bloody lips.

  Chapter 9

  Fire in the Cave

  The sun was setting. Soon the hunters would return, and light the fire in the cave.

  The witch-girl sat in the mouth of the cave. Old Surtur, a hound too old to hunt, had laid his head on her knee. He had refused to move, so she was petting him. He was grinning happily, tongue hanging out, as he enjoyed the warmth of the day’s last rays of sunlight. Howl the dog-trainer sat nearby, playing with a pair of puppies.

  Manala, the River-witch, came out of the cave and frowned down the slope. “I am hungry. Why must we wait for them?”

  “Because they’re bringing the meat, River-lady!” Ria Redwife laughed as she came up the slope, carrying a basket of berries. Sparrow was following close after her, with a basket of grass seed and nuts to roast. She peeked out from behind Ria, giving the witch-girl a searching look.

  The witch-girl raised an eyebrow. “Don’t worry, girl, I’ll send Highhawk your way as soon as she arrives.”

  “I didn’t say anything!” Sparrow scampered into the cave, blushing, with a grinning Ria following after.

  Manala crossed her arms, staring down at the edge of the forest. “I am hungry,” she complained again.

  “You are just eager for White-stag to be here,” said the witch-girl, grinning. “...with the rest of the food, ” she added sweetly, as Manala scowled at her.

  “White-stag is a happy, thick-skulled fool,” Manala muttered. “All you Red Cave folk are. Comes from not eating enough fish. Luna, you should eat more fish!”

  The witch-girl stuck out her tongue. “You give silly nicknames. Half the tribe is calling me Luna, now. Or Mother Luna. I’m not even a mother yet!”

  “It is a perfectly good mask name. It does not leave you as free and formless as when they just called you witch, but it does not tie and shape you as a true name would. Someday some clever, foolish little witch will chant it when she tells the line of teachers who gave her the secrets. And it suits you, white witch, girl who shines in the ni
ght like the rising moon. Ah, see!” Manala leaned forward, peering down the hill, as a flicker of light appeared at the edge of the woods.

  Highhawk was leading the way, bearing her torch high, a spring in her step. Hunting dogs danced around her as she led the hunters into the village and up the slope. Behind her followed the hunt-chief. A cheer went up from the women in the village as he passed, bearing a fresh-killed deer over his shoulders.

  “White-stag, White-stag!”

  “Chief White-stag!”

  Behind him, big Bors was carrying another deer. Beside him walked young Fox, and Two-spears, a River-warrior who had come to the Red Cave to join the hunt. Behind them came Redheart Riamate and old Heartwood. The women gathered around the procession as it passed through the village, flirting and joking with the men, until most of the tribe was coming up the hill together in a great mob. From the back of the parade, two black birds took flight, dark shapes against the red light of sunset.

  Manala snorted. “I can’t believe he is trying to tame ravens. That man is strange and foolish.” The witch-girl only smiled.

  The tribe came closer, chattering and boasting, laughing in the torchlight. The witch-girl grinned as Highhawk approached.

  “Luna!” Highhawk called out, laughing. “Did you long for my beauty, and wait out here to see me sooner?”

  “Every moment without you lasts a month,” the witch-girl replied. “A peaceful month in spring, with flowers blooming and birds singing in the evening.” Highhawk made a mock-tragic face, clutching her heart as if stabbed. The witch-girl laughed, and relented. “In truth, there is someone who’s been waiting for you.”

  “Pretty little bird’s been missing me?” Grinning, Highhawk raised the torch above her head and loped into the cave as the rest of the tribe approached the entrance. They passed by the witch-girl in a long, happy stream, smiling and greeting her. Manala stepped into the group alongside White-stag, though she held her head high and did not look at him. The faces of the crowd lit up as Highhawk reached the center of the great cavern and lit the bonfire there. Flames and light danced in the cave, throwing long shadows down the hillside just as the last man in the line reached the cave entrance.

  He was broad-shouldered, dark-haired, with a dark dusting of beard. Two great black hounds were with him, pacing on either side. A strap of leather angled across his face, hiding his missing eye and part of the ragged scar that cut his brow and cheek. Over his shoulder he carried his kill, a great gray wolf.

  The witch-girl stood and bowed. “Good evening, Black-dog.”

  He gave her a crooked smile, watching her closely. “Witch-girl.”

  A raven landed on his shoulder and pecked the side of his head. He winced. The bird flapped away, back to its roost above the cave entrance.

  The witch-girl raised an eyebrow. “Your pet is already well-trained and loyal, I see.”

  Black-dog shrugged. “I like animals,” he said. “Sometimes they like me.”

  Because you’re a beast yourself, the witch-girl thought.

  Howl was on the ground, rolling and wrestling with the hunting hounds. The witch-girl smiled down at her, then offered her hand to Black-dog. “I want to eat. I want to dance. Will you come with me?”

  His large, callused hand folded around hers. He leaned close, whispering in her ear. “Always, Bright-owl.”

  They walked together toward the flickering light.

  There was meat, and fish, hot from the fire. There was mint and cress from the hill, and nuts and mushrooms from the forest stewed together in pots. There were sweet berries, and jar after jar of berry wine from the stores deep in the cave. There was singing, and drumming, and stories told of war and of love. As the last light of sunset faded over the lake, White-stag and Black-dog circled the fire, watching each other.

  “I have led the hunt through the long day,” said White-stag. “The tribe is strong, the tribe is safe!” Men and women cheered, their voices ringing in the cave.

  “But now the dark comes, and I grow weary.” White-stag held out his hand, over the fire. “Who will guard the tribe through the night? Who will guard our witch, as she protects us from dangers we cannot see?”

  Black-dog clasped his brother’s hand. “Go to your rest, Day-chief. I will keep watch in the darkness.”

  White-stag smiled. “Thank you, Night-chief.”

  The voices rang out again. “Black-dog! Night-chief Black-dog!” Then, louder: “Start the dance!”

  The drums began to pound. The two brothers turned away from each other, facing out into the gathered tribe. White-stag grinned, holding out a hand toward Manala. “Will our wise and beautiful visitor dance with me?”

  The River-witch stood, to scattered applause. With her head high and a proud smile on her face, she stepped toward the fire, swinging her hips as she walked. The applause grew louder as she reached into the pouch at her waist, held up a generous handful of dried herbs, and tossed them into the fire. As sweet smoke began to fill the cave, White-stag wrapped his arms around her from behind. She gasped, with an expression of outrage that sent laughter through the tribe. But then she melted back into him, pressing against his chest, rolling her hips against his, raising her arms above her head as they began to dance.

  Black-dog had stopped circling. He said nothing, but held out his hand, open and empty, toward the witch-girl.

  The cheers were immediate as the witch-girl stood. “Mother Luna!” they called out as she stretched, letting the feathers at her wrists trail through the air. “Witch-girl! Ghost-speaker!” they cried as she sauntered toward the fire, the bright stones and shells at her waist rattling with the drumbeat. “Witch of the Cave! Life’s kiss!” they cheered as she reached Black-dog, and took his hands.

  “Show us the moonrise, Luna!” the tribe roared. The witch-girl smiled, her eyes on her lover’s face. He wasn’t smiling. But she saw peace, there. Joy. Hunger. He took a slow breath. She grinned, and leapt into the air.

  Black-dog’s hands lifted her higher, until she could look down on all the tribe, their faces gazing up at her. Her bare feet came down on Black-dog’s hips as she held tight to her hands, her pale body an arched crescent moon above the gathering. As the tribe cheered, she jumped again, throwing her legs over Black-dog’s shoulders.

  She looked down at his face, smiling. His cheek was pressed against her stomach, and he was looking up at her with one eyebrow raised. She bent to kiss him on the forehead, and he growled. The more I tease him, she thought, the more savage he’ll be later.

  “Show us the stars!” the tribe roared. The witch-girl reached both hands into the little pouches at her belt and tossed dust and pine needles down toward the fire. As the tribe laughed and cheered, the fire billowed sweet smoke and shot sparks of green and white and purple up toward the ceiling. The hunters rose, whooping, and the dance began in earnest.

  Young men, bare to the waist, leaped and stomped and spun all around her. She had her legs wrapped around Black-dog’s waist. He was gripping her hips with his hands, supporting her as he danced, spinning her around the fire. She was laughing, laughing. Someone passed her a jar of berry wine. She took a sip and fed it to him, one mouthful, one kiss at a time, as sparks danced and bodies moved around them. His lips were hot, hungry. When she pulled back, his mouth found her neck and claimed it with teeth. Her breath caught in her throat as he bit her. Her skin was on fire, her legs locked around his motion, riding on his strength.The whole tribe was in the dance, now, moving together in the beating drums and swirling smoke, pressing against each other, giving gifts and trading kisses and sliding hands over each other as the drums pounded, beating out waves within waves.

  Her feet touched the floor. They spun away from each other, the dance closing between them. She felt giddy, ecstatic, drunk on wine and smoke and music, on the press of bodies all around. She could barely keep track of who she was touching, who was touching her. She found Redheart and tall, beautiful Nim, dancing pressed close together, skirts and vests gone. T
hey grabbed her and pulled her between them, and for a while her world was Redheart’s mouth bent down to kiss hers, Nim’s soft breasts pressed against her back, Redheart’s chest pressed against her front, all of them moving with the drums.

  She slipped out as they came together, kissing each other hungrily as Nim reached down between Redheart’s legs. The tide of the dance moved her away, her feet stomping and spinning as it carried her. She knew Black-dog was still near, could feel his presence somewhere in the smoke and heat and moving bodies, and she watched for him as she danced.

  She grinned to see Fox and Bors together. The slender younger man was looking up, blushing, nervous, as Bors gently pushed him down to his knees. Bors smiled as the witch-girl slipped behind Fox and gave him a little push forward, so that the young man’s face was pushed right against Bors’ thick shaft. Fox’s shoulders were rising and falling as he panted, mouth half-open. As Bors reached a hand behind Fox’s head and pulled him forward, the dance pulled the witch-girl away once more.

  She saw Manala, held in the air by White-stag, legs open and head thrown back in ecstasy as two hunters took turns kissing between her legs. The witch-girl laughed and moved on. The dance took her past Two-spears, the River-warrior visitor, being held down and ridden by Mother Mara, a blissful expression on his face. The witch-girl whirled with the beating drums and found Highhawk, with Sparrow kneeling before her.

  Highhawk grabbed the witch-girl’s hands and pulled her close, kissing her deeply, trapping Sparrow’s head between their thighs. The witch-girl felt motion below, felt Highhawk’s lips part in a gasp as Sparrow began to kiss and lick. Highhawk’s skin was fever-hot against the witch-girl, her tongue quick and hungry as their lips met, her fingers trailing downward as their breasts pressed and slipped against each other. Then her hand was between the witch-girl’s legs, and they were all rocking together, gasping and kissing and nibbling each other.

  The witch-girl came up for air as Highhawk and Sparrow pulled each other down to the ground. She found a jar of wine and drank greedily, head buzzing pleasantly. Smoke tickled her nose and making her skin tingle, sensitive, feeling every breath of air, every feather-light brush of another body dancing past hers. She turned and saw Howl, dancing by the fire, long braid swaying, a thin leather cord around her neck. The witch-girl grinned.