Two Rivers

by Zoe Saadia

  Picking up her basket, Seketa rushed toward the other piles of earth, wishing to put a distance between her and her gossipy friend, her heart beating fast.

  Why should she care? she asked herself, angered. This boy was of no consequence to her. Who was he, if not just another member of the Wolf Clan? A troublesome member, at that. Last night was the first time she had spoken to him, although, for some time she had been aware that he was watching her, quietly and covertly. She had noticed, of course. Their town was not that large, and he had participated in many ballgames, if in not as many hunting expeditions as the youths were required to participate. He was not trusted. Apparently, with a good reason. And yet…

  She remembered the way his eyes glimmered, large, beautifully spaced, challenging and haunted at the same time. And he was not the only one to blame for what happened. He didn’t lie to her, of that she was sure. There were many witnesses to relate the story. He would be caught in his lies if he tried.

  She pulled at the weeds angrily, throwing them into her basket without looking. A wise person would keep away from this mess, and she was held to be a smart girl.

  Chapter 6

  The razor-sharp stone snapped with a smack, coming off the wooden handle with what looked like finality. Some of the strips clung to it, not letting it fall off the handle entirely, but the sap could not hold it in anymore. A serious damage demanding a thorough repair.

  Two Rivers cursed. He'd known the axe was going to break, but he'd counted on it to hold on until the end of the day. And it would have, had he been more careful. However, the stubborn tree, although blackened from fire and wobbly, was not damaged enough, and so he had lost his patience and struck too hard. Time after time. And now his axe was gone and the tree was still standing, challenging him.

  He listened to the pounding all around, as the people worked on the few of the remaining trees, taking them down. The new field had been overdue for clearing. The women of the Turtle Clan demanded it to be ready by the Planting Moon, but now it was already near the first harvest. No maize would be planted here now, but another crop of squash and beans could definitely make use of the newly cleared ground.

  “You should have let it burn for longer than you did,” said the middle-aged man, one of the Beaver Clan’s esteemed members who came to help. He brought his axe down carefully, making it slide alongside the thick trunk, deepening the cut.

  “We were afraid the fire would get out of control,” muttered Two Rivers, frowning direfully at his broken tool. “It was raging too fiercely for anyone’s taste.”

  “Well, then you should have planned it more carefully from the beginning.” The older man squinted against the glow of the afternoon sun. “As it is, this field may not be ready in time for planting even the squash.”

  Two Rivers grunted, then threw the remnants of his axe to the ground, enraged.

  “It’ll take you time to repair that.” The young warrior that toiled around the nearby stump straightened up and wiped his brow, smearing it with lumps of fresh earth.

  “I know that!”

  “Throwing it all around won’t help the matter. Did you know that, too?”

  “No, I was sure I’d pick it back up as good as new.” He kicked the wooden handle, making it roll toward the stump. “It helps, it helps a lot. It makes me feel better.”

  “Oh, then go on, by all means.” The young man grinned widely, unabashed. “Want to take my axe for a while, to channel your anger into a more useful direction?”

  “Well, actually, yes, I do.” Strolling toward the offered tool, Two Rivers found it hard to suppress his own grin, his mood improving. Iraquas was a friend of quite a few summers. Much younger and not interested in politics and the tortuous ways of the various councils, Iraquas, nevertheless, had offered the kind of friendship Two Rivers needed most – a simple, loyal companionship, with light banter and no difficult dilemmas. The youth had been a promising warrior, destined to become one of the leaders in all probability, but so far, the glorious destination of his people did not bother him. And so were the strange far-fetched ideas of his older friend.

  “Don’t break it,” said Iraquas, offering the axe. “I love this particular tool. It will cost you more than just a repair if something happens to it.”

  “I will cherish and revere this sacred tool of yours.” Grinning, Two Rivers went back toward the thick trunk. “Oh, I do need to best this old forest giant. It’s time it cleared the path for the younger saplings, anyway.”

  Making himself comfortable upon a half-burned stump, Iraquas picked a greenish staple and began nibbling on it.

  “You will not best it today, this much I promise you. It looks wobbly, but mark my words, it still has a lot of spirit under its bark.”

  “Like I said, you should have burnt this patch of earth more thoroughly,” repeated the older man, stopping his chopping to wipe his brow. “We won’t make it in time. Not with the War Chief planning another raid for the beginning of the Plants Growing Moon.”

  “A worse mistake than not to burn this field up more thoroughly, if you ask me.” Chopping at the same cut with equal intervals, Two Rivers was pleased to hear his voice even, not gasping or trembling with an effort. It was a difficult task, but he needed to best this tree before nightfall. “Why would we raid the Rock People villages? They are small and unimportant.”

  “Because they attacked us, maybe?” suggested Iraquas, immersed in his tasty treat.

  “They did not attack us. They raided the settlement of the Deer People to the west. It happened almost a whole span of seasons ago. Since then, we went to war against the Deer People as well. They are not our allies anymore. Still, we are eager to avenge this long forgotten raid on the people whom we consider our enemies now, too.”

  “It is not as simple as that, Two Rivers,” said the older man, pausing to catch his breath. “You speak well, and you do have a gift of good thinking. But sometimes this clear thinking of yours is not enough. Sometimes the matters are more complicated and they include honor, certain old ways, a measure of cunning thinking. Sometimes a simple display of power is required, to make our enemies think twice and thrice before planning their raids into our lands. This way, we spare our women and children the unnecessary fright and the need to run back behind our town’s defenses, harming their spirits and their efforts in the fields.” The old, squinted eyes flickered kindly. “Sometimes simplifying is not the best course of thinking. You should listen to the people around you, and not to your heart only.”

  “Well spoken,” said someone, and many men stopped their work, pausing to nod appreciatively.

  Two Rivers nodded too, impressed.

  “I appreciate your kind advice, Honorable Elder.” He paused, studying the wooden handle of his new tool. “I will try to follow it, although, sometimes I cannot but stop and wonder. Our people’s plight would not give my spirit rest. Sometimes, we may need to pause and examine our ways. Sometimes, we may need to restore to less usual solutions.”

  The older man’s gaze measured him, kind, slightly amused. “Listen to your heart, do not close your ears to its whispering. But do not forget to listen to your peers as well. And to your elders.”

  He could feel the eyes of the people upon him, wary, their disapproval barely concealed.

  “I cherish your advice, Honorable Elder,” he said with a certain difficulty. From the corner of his eye, he could see Iraquas frowning, attempting to hide a grin, most probably. “I’m grateful.”

  To argue with the older, highly respectable man would have been the height of bad manners. He pushed his resentment away, resuming his treatment of the old tree, instead.

  “He silenced you quite neatly, that old man,” said Iraquas as they proceeded down the trail, heading back to the town. The dusk was still far away, but they could see the late afternoon shadows spreading down the fields of the various clans, as the women were leaving in a colorful procession that pleased the eye.

  Two Rivers shrugged. “He sp
oke well. His advice was good.”

  “Oh, how very reasonable of you. But I bet that under this calm ‘thank you for your priceless advice’ you were like the rapids of the Northern River, swirling and shooting white foam.”

  “Oh, please!” He grinned, against his will. “Since when can you see through people? Or since when do you care?”

  “I don’t, but I want to see you losing this temper of yours. It’s quite a sight, so they say.”

  “It is not.”

  Two Rivers squinted, trying to see against the fierce glow of the setting sun. A group that neared them seemed to be in a hurry.

  Iraquas saw them too, and, as the newcomers hastened their step, their hands made their way to the knives tucked in the sheath of their loincloths, just in case. A group of men hurrying up and looking agitated bade, usually, no good news. Was a raiding party spotted in the town’s proximity?

  The men were closer now, their faces glittering with sweat, eyes sparkling.

  “Glad to see you are on your way already.” One of the men waved his hand, his smile wide. “We were sent to hurry all of you back.”

  “Why?”

  “Good news! The War Chief received the formal agreement of the Clans’ Mothers to proceed with the raid into the Rock People’s lands. We will leave in two dawns.” The man’s smile widened, while his companions nodded vigorously. “The War Dance will be held with the coming of the first star, so you all should wash yourselves and prepare.”

  Iraquas’ whoop could be heard on the other side of the Northern River, of that Two Rivers was sure.

  “A raid in two dawns,” cried out the young man, slapping his thigh with such force the smacking sound echoed between the trees. “Oh, how can life get any better?”

  The other men laughed, their elation matching.

  “They are in a hurry to proceed with the War Dance, aren’t they?” commented Two Rivers, trying to share their excitement.

  What was wrong with him? he wondered. He was no coward. Why couldn’t he help but to think about the futility of it all?

  “Well, there is no need to postpone the ceremony. The warriors should get into the right mood. And maybe we will be able to start out even earlier, if the Clans’ Councils would prepare our supplies in a hurry.”

  “Also, it would be wise to make this raid official, before the Clans’ Mothers should change their minds.” Two Rivers found it hard to suppress his grin. “With those women, one never knows.”

  The grins of the others sparkled mischievously.

  “Yes, that’s true, of course. One could never be too careful with the leaders of the Clans and their switching moods.” Seeta, an impressive, wide-shouldered warrior, chuckled. “Women!”

  “They would never dare to go back on their word,” cried out Iraquas. “It would be just too much.”

  But the others laughed.

  “You are young, Iraquas. You haven’t seen much,” said Seeta. “And you haven’t taken a wife yet. Wait and see until you learn how their devious minds work. You will be amazed.”

  “So what?” protested the young man, his eyes flashing. “I know how our councils work, and I say that the Clan Mothers had better not try to change our plans!” He glanced at Two Rivers, still seething. “Can they do that? I mean, can they tell us not to go after they had agreed? Would our customs permit something like that?”

  “Yes, they can.” Two Rivers hid his grin, amused by his friend naivety, but unwilling to humiliate him by showing his amusement. The open laughter of the others was more than enough. “It would be frowned upon. And yes, it might not be too lawful. But they can do that. After all, they are the ones expected to provide us with food and clothing for the journey.”

  “Oh, yes? And we are the ones expected to protect them, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, of course. That’s why they don’t use their right of veto too often.”

  “They are using it often enough,” muttered one of the men. “But yes, Two Rivers is right. Our laws and ways are well-balanced.”

  “Not well enough,” insisted Iraquas, kicking at a stone. “We should not be forced into asking their permission at all. We are men, and our leaders are chosen and know better. We should be allowed to do our work uninterrupted.”

  “Chosen by those same Mothers of the Clans. Didn’t you know even this?” Seeta’s grin was challenging, openly amused. He enjoyed baiting the young man, taking pleasure in putting him in his place, and it made Two Rivers angry.

  “He knows who is appointing whom,” he said impatiently. “Don’t start feeling too good with yourself just yet. You are not that well-versed in our laws, either. You are not the War Chief and not the Council member.”

  “And you are neither of these, too,” growled Seeta, coming a step closer, threatening. “And you will never be one of them. You will spend your life arguing, speaking of your nonsense, not listened to at all.”

  “That’s what you think.” Two Rivers didn’t move, glaring at the darkening face of the man, knowing that no attack would come, not this time. Seeta was a good warrior and a brave man, but he was bluffing more often than not. “You just wait and see.” He shrugged, turning back toward the trail. “Go and talk to the rest of our party. They were leaving the field too, but might have been lingering.”

  “Don’t give us orders, foreigners’ lover!” Seeta’s voice trembled now, his rage spilling. “I wonder what you are doing, spending your time in respectable company. I would expect you to huddle here in the woods with the savage cub you were defending so eagerly yesterday, maybe enjoying him like the last of the captive women. You are good for nothing else, you coward!”

  He heard it like a thunder behind his back, the words hanging in the air, lingering, filling his whole being with the black wave of hatred, so intense he could feel its bitter taste in his mouth. The world stopped, died for a heartbeat, the regular sounds gone, with nothing left but those words. They pierced him and made his heart freeze, filling his stomach with ice, the blackish, muddy ice of the springtime.

  He didn’t remember himself moving. One moment he was on the trail, stunned, breathless, staring in disbelief. A heartbeat later, his body was pressed against his slightly taller rival, pinning the broad man to the tree, slamming his back against it, his knife pressing at the exposed throat, his eyes seeing nothing but the hated face and the widely opened, gaping eyes.

  “Take that back, you filthy lowlife!” he heard someone saying, and it took him a moment to realize that it was he who had been talking. “Take it back, or I swear I’ll cut your filthy throat and feed your rotten flesh to the wolves.”

  The eyes staring at him did not blink, glazed. Through the wild pounding of his heart, he could hear the others coming back to life, rushing toward them.

  He didn’t struggle, when they pulled him off. He didn’t press the knife, either. But as their arms drew him back, he made himself ready, seeing the eyes of his rival filling with life, a whole gamut of emotions chasing each other across the incredulous gaze – shock, fear, hatred, fury.

  As the man threw himself forward, he ducked, pulling away from the clutching arms, avoiding the punch. His own fist shot forward, colliding with the man’s belly. The groan of his opponent was music to his ears, but the powerful kick of the decorated moccasin surprised him, connecting with his side, sending rays of pain up his own stomach.

  Fighting to catch his balance, he saw the formidable fist nearing his temple and tilted his head in time to avoid the worst of the blow, feeling the man’s knuckles sliding along his cheekbone, instead. It made his head reel, but he paid it no attention, clenching his teeth and hurdling himself onto his rival, oblivious of reason, his senses screaming danger.

  His fingers claws, he grabbed the man’s throat as they wavered and lost their balance, collapsing onto the ground. Struggling against the hands that were pulling him off, he pressed hard, anxious to render his rival unconscious, afraid of the danger he presented, now more than before, because of the insult. The
kicks of the man were vicious, but they grew fainter as the gurgling sounds filled his ears, until he could not resist the others’ strength any longer, pulled to his feet by the force that was not his.

  Breathing heavily, he stared at the man upon the ground, watching him squirming, coughing, his mouth wide open, gulping the fresh air. He tried to shake the hands off, but their grip tightened, digging painfully into his flesh.

  “Let me go,” he growled. “I won’t attack him again.” He could feel their hesitation enveloping him like a heavy cloud. “I promise!”

  They moved away, one by one, and he shook his head, trying to make it work. It was full of hazy mist, the wild pounding of his heart not making the thinking process easier. Two of his companions were kneeling, helping the assaulted man up.

  He took his gaze away, then bent to pick up his knife. They tensed, and he hurried to put it back into its sheath, his hands numb and trembling.

  “Let us forget this event,” he heard one of the men saying. “There were words that should not have been uttered, and deeds that should not have been done. Yet, no one was seriously hurt, therefore, I propose to forget what happened.”

  He could feel Iraquas nearing, standing by his side, ready to help. It reassured him.

  “I’m prepared to forget this,” he said, surprised to hear his own voice firm. His heart was still pumping, and his limbs trembled badly.

  Seeta rose to his feet, reeling, trying not to lean on his friends’ arms.

  “I’m not sure I’ll forget this that easily,” he said, coughing again to clear his throat. “But I will try.” The dark glance he shot at Two Rivers said he would not be forgetting any of this. “Let us go and do our duty.”

  The silence returned as their steps drew away, dying gradually, swallowed by the deepening dusk. He listened to the wind, feeling it blowing strongly, rustling in the treetops.