by Zoe Saadia
She came to life all at once. “Can I say ‘maybe’?” There was a challenge in her voice again, and it made him yet angrier.
“Maybe.”
But now it was her turn to catch his arms, and he felt her palms cold, brushing against his skin.
“You are such a spoiled baby,” she said, laughing. “I can’t give you the answer to that. Not right away. I need to think it over, do I not?” Then her laughter died as she peered at him closely, her serenity almost tangible in the brightening, near dawn air. “But I’m pleased you asked. I can tell you that.”
Unable to cope with the surge of relief that suddenly washed his entire body, he pulled her back into his embrace.
“Yes, it can be ‘maybe’,” he whispered into her lips, not afraid anymore. “As long as it will become ‘yes’ when the time comes.”
This time her lips felt different, warmer and sweeter, already familiar and not colored by misgivings.
“You will be mine,” he whispered. “You just wait and see.”
Chapter 15
The aroma that rose from the bubbling pot tickled Seketa’s nostrils, making her stomach growl. Pressing her lips, she watched the women using their sharpened sticks to pull steaming balls of corn out of the stew, to cool them for a while, before tossing them onto the bowls and plates extended from every direction.
Wiping the sweat off her brow, she turned her gaze away, disregarding the demands of her stomach. It didn’t seem right to eat now, with Iraquas’ body lying on its wooden platform, tied to the lower branches of the pine tree, like the War Chief’s body on the other side of the town, near the cluster of the Turtle Clan’s longhouses.
She had chanted and danced since early morning, and then listened to the customary words of the other clans’ leader, those who came to console the mourning people of the Beaver Clan.
Wipe away the tears,
cleanse your throat so you may speak and hear…
The words said nothing, not penetrating her mind. But the dancing helped. Like always. The wonderful music and the rhythmic, monotonous movement helped her connect with the spirits, and with her inner self, and now to mourn too, she discovered as she felt herself drifting, reaching Iraquas’ departing spirit.
It was still here, she knew, lingering, watching them, trying to participate, sad and reluctant to leave. She would close her eyes and address him quietly, by dancing and by her inner words, telling him how proud she was of him and how his journey would be a pleasant one, his stay in the Sky World wonderful and fulfilling. In nine days he would have to depart, she knew, allowed to linger for only ten dawns from the moment his body stopped breathing.
Leaning against the nearby tree, she watched the eating people and those who still crowded the boiling pots. So many of them! Oh, Iraquas was loved dearly. She smiled, satisfied. Her cousin was the best youth ever, and he would not be easily forgotten.
Tired beyond words and welcoming the respite in the ceremonies, she paused, hungry, but refusing to eat. It was her own private sacrifice, an offering, of her hunger this time. Because she loved Iraquas dearly, and because last night she did not behave appropriately for a person in mourning.
She felt her face beginning to burn again. Oh, how could she? Laughing with this boy, allowing him to kiss her, and on such a night of all nights.
Her cheeks felt hot against her palms, as she tried to push the memories away. That first kiss, and then the last one, before it was too near dawn and they had to go back to her longhouse and the ceremonies. Oh Benevolent Spirits!
She almost shut her eyes in an attempt not to remember how his lips were soft and dry, hesitant in the beginning, but then firm and demanding, his hands powerful, strong, supportive and insistent at the same time, claiming their right to hold her.
Oh, it was a wonderful feeling, this sensation of yielding to his will, of letting go. Such a strange, unfamiliar thing. But she had wanted it from the first time she had noticed him, she realized, wanted to do just that, to melt into his arms and let him kiss her, or even worse. Oh, Great Spirits!
Involuntarily, she scanned the crowds. He had been there through the whole morning, she remembered, every time she would seek him with her glance. She needed him to be there, and he did not disappoint, standing among the consoling people, watching her, his eyes tired and ringed, but glittering, smiling, giving her strength. He could have gone to his longhouse to rest, but he stayed, and she appreciated that.
It would be good to be alone with him again, to feel more of his love. Maybe she should talk to her mother, to tell her about his desire. He would make a good husband for her, such a brave youth, a future leader without a doubt, despite his wrong origins.
Yes, she thought, her heartbeat accelerating. She would talk to her mother, ask her to talk to the Grandmother of their longhouse, oh yes, at the first opportunity. He was good enough for her, better than many.
She frowned, searching the open space around Iraquas’ tree. He was not among the people storming the pots with food, but maybe he had gone looking for Two Rivers. She had seen that man earlier, dancing solemnly or chanting, and then standing next to the platform, his face thinned and closed, eyes sealed, surrounded by dark rings, lips pressed tight, more alone that ever. Such a strange man.
Well, Two Rivers was still there, she discovered, like her, ignoring the food, enveloped in his desperation and loneliness, oblivious of the hostile glances. So many people were angry with him now, but he didn’t seem to care, locked in his grief, indifferent. Iraquas was his friend, his only close friend, she knew, and how it must feel to be the cause of one’s closest friend’s death.
She shivered. Many blamed Two Rivers for the failure of the raid and, hence, the deaths. He must have been blaming himself as well, judging by the haggardness of his face and the stiffness of his shoulders, and the way his hands were folded lifelessly across his bared chest.
She studied him with some curiosity. Iraquas had been fond of this man. He had talked about him on the previous night, when she had brought her wounded cousin water and stayed to keep him company because he didn’t want to be left alone.
Breathing heavily, fighting his pain and the fear, Iraquas talked rapidly, as though hurrying to tell her all about Two Rivers and what a great man he was. Apparently, he believed in the man the whole town had given up on. He didn’t know how exactly, but his friend was destined to do great things.
Eyes glittering with fever, he had told her about Two Rivers’ yet-unclear mission and how he wanted to be a part of it. If the man would leave, he would leave with him, he had said, and her eyes filled with tears against her will, remembering the whispering, broken voice and the burning eyes of her beloved cousin. Oh, if only he could have stayed!
The tears were streaming now, impossible to control, so she turned her face away, desperate to hide her grief from the curious eyes. What did they know about her loss?
“Seketa.”
His voice was coming from the other side of her tree. So that’s why she didn’t see him in the crowd. Staring stubbornly at the ground, she felt the warmth spreading, the familiar warmth that made her feel better.
“That bad?” Coming closer, he did not attempt to take her into his arms, not in front of everyone.
She just nodded.
“I’ll bring you something to eat,” he said after an awkward pause.
“No, no, I don’t want to eat!” She looked up, blinking away the tears. “I will fast until it’s his time to leave on his Sky Journey.”
“You can’t fast for ten dawns!” He eyed her warily, pale and tired-looking, but oh-so-very handsome with those large, luminous eyes set in the well-defined face. “You will be sick.”
“So what?” But his concern made her feel better. “I won’t die like him.”
“You better not.” He grinned all of a sudden and, caught unprepared, she could not fight her smile from showing.
“Can I be of any use to you all skinny and weak? Is that what you were worry
ing about?”
Now his eyes laughed openly. “Yes, you can. But I like you this way better.” He measured her with his gaze. “With all the curves.”
She felt her cheeks beginning to burn, acutely aware of the people around them, wishing them to disappear. “All right, Warrior. Bring yourself a plate of these corn balls and, maybe, I’ll bite one of them.”
His smile widened. “Yes, Honorable Beaver Clan Woman. You’ll get your bite of a corn ball right away.”
She watched him diving into the melee, swift and purposeful. A young wolf on a trail of prints, not a cub anymore but not a grown-up beast, either. She remembered noticing it about him back in the storage room of his longhouse, when she had first spoken to him. He had moved like a forest beast, like a predator. This is how he must have bested the bear, by being nimble and concentrated, by trusting his instincts. And by conquering his fear, of course. Oh, he would make a great hunter and a great warrior.
The struggle against her smile turned more difficult. It was inappropriate to smile now, not in the middle of her grief, still, her thoughts refused to return to sadness. She would most certainly speak to her mother this very evening. They would have to wait, of course, but not for too long. He'd already proven his worth, and maybe, after his first expedition with a raiding party…
“How are you, sister?” Tindee’s palm brushed against her shoulders, pulling her into a light embrace.
“I’m good.”
“You need to eat something. You’ve been dancing since dawn, and you never stopped for even a gulp of water.”
She peered into her friend’s usually mischievous eyes, now wide opened and full of concern.
“I will be all right,” she said, touched. “You’ve been doing all this, too. You do worry about his spirit as much as I do. You were fond of him no less than I was.”
But Tindee shrugged, turning away abruptly. “I don’t think of him now. He is dead. We can do nothing about it.”
Unsettled, Seketa took a step back. “His spirit is still here. For nine more dawns, he will remain with us. And he needs help, too. He needs to be pacified. He cannot leave if he is angry.”
“Oh, please, Seketa. Are you afraid of Iraquas’ spirit? He was the finest boy that had ever lived. His spirit will be the last one to harm anyone, let alone his own family. Please!” The large eyes flashed at her, angry, sparkling with unshed tears. “He, of all people. The best man our clan had. And what are you doing? Dancing yourself into exhaustion, trying to make him leave in peace. I wish he would stay, you know? Stay forever, to guard us and to laugh with us the way he always did.” The tears were spilling now, running down the girl’s cheeks, smearing the elaborate patterns painted for the ceremony. “Oh, forget it. You understand nothing!”
“Wait, Tindee, please!” Grabbing her friend’s arm, Seketa struggled to not let it go. “Wait. You don’t understand. I didn’t mean it this way.” She pulled strongly, making the girl turn back. “I know how you miss him. I miss him, too. I wish he could stay with us, even in the spirit.” Peering at the stormy, tearful eyes, she forced herself into calmness she didn’t feel. For her friend’s sake. “But he can’t, sister. He can’t. He has to start his journey soon. He has no choice, and neither do we. We cannot cling to his memory and make him stay. We have to let him go, to help him step onto the right path. We can’t think of ourselves now.”
The gaze boring at her wavered, softening, filled with misery, then Tindee shook her head. “No, I do not accept it. I want him to stay, even if only as a spirit.”
The rising voices caught their attention, and they turned toward the mats and the boiling pots, startled by the obvious anger in the loudly spoken words. Heart twisting with worry, Seketa recognized Yeentso’s voice, challenging and dripping with disdain.
“Go away. You have no business to eat the food of the Beaver Clan people.”
She didn’t need to hear the answer, knowing whom her cousin by marriage was addressing. Catching her breath, she took a step toward the growing circle of people who still crowded the boiling pots, but now it was Tindee’s turn to grab her arm.
“Seketa, don’t. It is not the time. Let them solve it by themselves.”
“I’m allowed to be here no less than anyone else!” she heard the boy saying, and her heart squeezed with pride.
“No, you aren’t, you filthy foreigner.”
She pulled her arm forcefully and rushed forward, her heart pounding. Yeentso was standing next to the sweating women, waiting for his bowl to be filled. Or re-filled, she thought, as she eyed the hated face, taking in its smug, content expression. He had eaten already, heartily at that.
The Wolf Clan boy – why did she still think about him in this way, what was his real name? – stood a few paces away, half turned, balancing a bowl in his hand, as though he had just halted abruptly, his eyes blazing with fire, his free hand already on the hilt of his knife.
“Go away,” repeated Yeentso, taking a step forward. “You are disturbing the mourning of the Beaver Clan people.”
The youth did not take a step back, but he looked as though he might have. She held her breath, reading the uncertainty in his eyes.
Clearly, Yeentso had seen it too, as he came closer, the half grin upon his face flickering, an unpleasant sight that made Seketa shiver with fear.
“Go peacefully,” he said, voice ominously calm, but having a growling tone to it. “Don’t make me throw you out of here by force.”
All gazes were upon them, and the silence was heavy, encompassing. Even the birds stopped chirping.
She tried to understand what was happening, why the other people did not interfere? He had every right to be here, like the other consoling people, from all the clans of the town. And yet, it seemed as though the crowd was agreeing with what Yeentso just said.
The man’s grin stretched wider.
“These people deserve to mourn without the filthy, foreign presence of the enemies who killed their loved ones. Don’t you have any respect for the feelings of your new country-folk?”
They all peered at him now as he stood there, his lips pressed angrily, but his eyes widening, filling with doubt, dashing from face to face. Aghast, she followed his gaze too, seeing the accusation written clearly across their faces. So many of them, all of them against him!
“Oh, stop this nonsense!” A loud voice came from their right, startling people. They all turned to watch, even Yeentso and the boy, as Two Rivers pushed his way through the crowd.
Unable to breathe, but aware of the vastness of her relief, Seketa stared at the long, haggard face, set and as though carved out of lifeless wood, with no color applied to it, just a mask with empty eyes.
“Do you listen to yourself?” he said, addressing no one and not looking at anyone in particular. “So much nonsense in just a few phrases. How does it not make your heads ache?” He encircled them with his gaze, and now there was a flicker of emotion in the empty depths. “But what do you do? You are listening to it with nothing to say. Did you all lose your sense of right and wrong?”
They stared at him in silence, and she tried to sneak closer, to see what their faces held. Why didn’t anyone say something? The man was talking a plain good sense.
“Because if this Porcupine Clan man,” a light inclination of the head indicated the place where Yeentso still stood, as taken aback as the others, “seems to be chosen the spokesman of the grieving Beaver Clan people, then I suppose all of us, those who do not belong to this family, should leave. Is this the desire of the Beaver Clan? To grieve alone? Is this foreign to the Beaver Clan man speaking your minds?”
A murmur went through the crowd, and Seketa breathed with relief. They were going to listen to reason. They did not lose their sense of right and wrong.
Then the trembling voice tore the silence, making her heart skip a beat.
“Yes, I want you to leave. You, of all people. A person who is responsible for my son’s death should not mar the solemnity of his rites wi
th his guilty, unholy presence.”
Iraquas’ mother did not push her way into the circle of people, but they all knew who had spoken.
Her chest squeezing with compassion, Seketa watched Two Rivers take an involuntary step back, stifling a gasp as though he had just been punched in his stomach, his face turning yet paler, although it was anything but colored with life before.
“I may be responsible for his death,” he said quietly, licking his lips. “But I do have a right to be the part of his rites, to make my contribution in an effort to lighten the journey ahead of him. I am allowed to do my duty to him.”
Yeentso came back to life all at once. “No, you don’t, you foreigners’ lover. You forfeited your rights on the day you preferred to go away with the pretty boy instead of doing your duty by joining our warriors. They died because of you, our War Chief and the young man who called himself your friend. They died because you preferred to enjoy the favors of the foreign cub, away from this town, so no one would notice or interfere with your perverted activities, you coward!”
The air escaped loudly, coming out of many chests at once. Two Rivers seemed to freeze for a heartbeat, while the boy’s eyes grew to enormous proportion, dominating his face completely now, their glow so dark it cast the deep red of his wide cheekbones into a complete insignificance.
His right palm gripping the knife tightened until its knuckles went white, but it was his left arm that made a move. A bowl with the stew went flying, making its way in a perfect arch, to crush into Yeentso’s head and send him reeling, crying out, the hot, ticklish liquid running down his face, to soak into the decorated pureness of his shirt.
Still unsteady, but evidently blind with rage, Yeentso leaped toward his offender, who seemed to be ready, evading the initial attack, his knife out, limbs firm. Women were screaming now, and the men rushed toward the fighters, but Two Rivers was between them first, his hand grabbing Yeentso by the throat, its muscles tightening, lifting the large man off his feet with no visible effort, as though he had been just a child.