by Zoe Saadia
Blinking to clear his vision, the taste of blood and fresh earth filling his mouth, making him gag, he felt a sharpness of a small stone against his palm, inviting, giving hope. His fingers locked around it as his ribs absorbed more kicks, his instincts urging him to strike out, but his mind whispering to wait for a better opportunity, to get the maximum effect of this last effort to do something.
He felt a drop of rain splashing, then another, and they paused too.
“Finish him before the rain begins,” said the other man thoughtfully. “We have to check on Yaree. The dirty whelp cracked his head quite open.”
“He’ll be all right, and the rain won’t begin for some time,” said Yeentso. “The girl worries me, though. If Yeandawa lets her slip away, we are in trouble. She may be believed, although I doubt that. Not after my story will be heard.”
“What will you tell?”
“That the dirty foreigner forced her, abused her for the whole afternoon, and now she is crazed with grief and doesn’t know what she is talking about.”
The chuckle of the other man was loud and surprisingly light. “A good one.”
“But if Yeandawa kills her it’ll be safer.”
He wished he could rub the mud off his eyes, but to do so was to let them know he was still conscious, the effort of keeping still stretching his nerves, testing his willpower to its limits.
“Is the cub dead?”
The shadow fell across as the silhouette of one of them neared, leaning forward, studying him, probably. He heard the man’s breathing, felt the hand grabbing his throat, pressing lightly, checking his heartbeat. Not Yeentso’s hand. He suppressed his disappointment. But for a chance to hit the hated man before he died!
He took a deep breath, disregarding the pain in his ribs, putting the remnants of his energy into bringing his arm up, crushing the stone it held into the man’s face, feeling the sharp edges of his improvised weapon tearing the skin - such a pleasant feeling. The man gasped and disappeared out of his view, to clear the sight of the grayish sky once again.
“The filthy rat!” he screamed as Tekeni tried to make the best of it by rolling away before they came back to their senses.
It might have worked, had he been as agile as before, but with the obviously cracked ribs and the mud and blood blurring his vision, he was not fast enough. A vicious kick brought him back to his previous position, then he was jerked onto his feet.
“Hold his hands. Don’t let him move!” yelled Yeentso. “The dirty cub is crazy, plain crazy.”
He fought the grip that locked his elbows behind his back, kicking wildly, indeed, crazed with desperation. Oh, yes, he was crazy! Crazy to lose his guard in this way, to let himself get caught here in the woods, so stupidly, so carelessly, so foolishly unprepared. For this, he deserved to die. If only there was a way to make sure she had made it back to the town safely.
Chapter 18
The sun was about to disappear behind the trees of the opposite shore, and the growling of the thunder drew nearer, growing in frequency. There would be a storm soon, reflected Two Rivers, watching the rapidly graying sky. Nothing serious, just another pleasantly warm summer thunderstorm. Heno the Thunderer was a benevolent deity.
Still, to sit there, soaking in rain, was not the best of the prospects. He would have to return to the town soon, despite his resolution not to do so before reaching a decision.
To leave or not to leave?
The question kept circling in his head, examining all the possible angles, arriving at a dead end, always. To stay was fruitless, to leave was insane. The town of his childhood offered nothing but frustration, boredom, emptiness. But so did any settlement of his people. His reputation would go with him wherever he went. They all knew about the prophecy and about the strangeness and unacceptability of his ideas.
To leave it all behind by crossing the Great Lake, on the other hand, was tempting but plain insane. He had nothing to seek among the enemies of his people, nothing to ask, nothing to offer. Nothing but a spectacular death that they would be sure to inflict upon him. That might give them an interesting diversion for a day, but he would gain nothing but a painful end.
Even taking the boy along might not solve the problem. The promising youth was nothing but a child when he had left his people, with no influence and no weight. A son of a War Chief, admittedly, but still just a child. No one would probably remember him at all.
No. The attempt to cross the Great Lake was the worst idea of them all. And yet…
The scattered drops of rain sprinkled his face, waking him from his reverie. Time to go back, back to suspicious glances, hatred, and mistrust. He shrugged. The hatred was new, all the rest – not so much.
Hesitating upon the top of the trail, he watched the woods to his left, his instincts alerting him for no apparent reason. He scanned the open patch of the land, all the way to the clusters of trees that began not far away from his vantage point. As though unwilling to disappoint him, a figure sprang from behind them, progressing in a funny gait, seeming like running upon an uneven surface.
Puzzled, he watched her for another heartbeat, then rushed down the cliff, his heart beating fast. Something was amiss. Even from this distance, he could see that it was a woman and that she had been in some sort of a trouble, with her hair flowing wildly and her dress askew, but mostly because of the desperate way she ran. Were enemy warriors spotted in the proximity of their woods?
He hastened his step, but the girl must have been running really fast, as she was close by the time he reached the flat ground. Close enough to recognize her. The Beaver Clan beauty! His heart missed a beat.
“What happened?” he cried out, his incredulous gaze taking in the mess of her hair, the muddied, scratched face, the torn dress. Her feet were bare and bleeding. Why would anyone run around the woods barefoot?
“Please!” she gasped, swaying as though about to fall. “Please. You have to help him. You have to hurry. Please!”
He needed no explanation. “Where?”
“There, in the woods. The small clearing, right next to the cliffs.”
“Stay here!” he tossed, snatching his knife as he burst into a mad run in the direction she came from. She needed help, that much was obvious, but whatever happened back there in the woods, he knew the boy needed help more urgently.
Heart pounding, he thought about his club and his bow back in his longhouse. The knife would not be enough, so much he knew. But how many were they? And how far?
The man sprang into his view, bursting from behind the trees maybe ten, twenty paces away. Breathing heavily and not noticing Two Rivers at first, he scanned the cliffs, searching for the girl, probably.
He knew that one well, the stocky member of the Porcupine Clan, a quiet, unobtrusive type but not a very pleasant company either, with something shadowy lurking behind the smallness of his eyes.
His jaw dropping, the man stared at him for a heartbeat, appalled.
“Drop the damn bow,” shouted Two Rivers, his rage bubbling, threatening to get out of control. The filthy bastard was, indeed, chasing that girl. Did those people have no shame at all?
The man came back to life, bringing the bow up in one movement, shooting with not a heartbeat of hesitation. Astounded, Two Rivers ducked, more out of an instinct than as a thoughtful reaction, and the arrow swished by, scratching his ear, leaving a stinging sensation.
Heart pounding insanely, he covered the distance with two powerful leaps, throwing himself at the man, careless of losing his own balance as long as there would be no range between him and the stretched bowstring. His knife made a fast work out of it, leaving the man gurgling, squirming on the muddy sand.
Breathing heavily, he sprang back to his feet, tearing the bow from the bleeding hands, snatching another arrow out of the fallen off quiver. There was no time to see if the man was dying or not. Back in the woods, the situation might have been bad. He might be too late already, still, he dashed into the dusk enveloping the tree
s, his ears pricked, trying to catch the sounds. There were too many clearings, small or large, to know which one he had been looking for.
Luckily, the voices reached him, carrying clearly, not very far away. Someone was talking, then came a muffled gasp, then more talking. He rushed on, more careful now of the noise he made. They might have been many, but the bow gave him a clear advantage.
By the time he reached the clearing, he already knew that there must have been no more than two, three people there, although only one voice was talking. Yeentso’s. But, of course!
Stifling a curse, his blood boiling, screaming for a kill, he covered the rest of the distance in a few leaps, careless of the noise now, bursting into the clearing, finding it difficult to see the silhouettes with the trees blocking the last of the light.
The kneeling figure caught his eyes, held behind by another man, struggling to break free. Good! The boy must have been still in high spirits, although covered with a mixture of mud and blood.
Eyes wide, they stared at him, all three of them, Yeentso’ knife hesitating in the air, glittering darkly. He didn’t waste his time on talking. As the man brought his arm up, whether to throw the knife at the intruder or to try to tell him something, Two Rivers shot, hardly aiming at all. From such a short distance he could not miss.
Not sparing another glance to the arrow fluttering in the wide chest, and the way it pushed its victim back with an admirable power, slamming the already sagging body against the tree, he leaped toward the other man, smashing his fist into the broad, astounded face, seeing it wavering but not falling, not disappearing from his view.
The man’s knife was out in a heartbeat, as he released the boy's arms, but Two Rivers was faster, his other fist already sinking into the man’s stomach, his own knife twisting, widening the wound to the maximum effect.
He didn’t check on either of his victims again, but rushed toward the boy, who was still kneeling, now leaning on both of his arms, breathing heavily, evidently gathering his strength to get up.
“Don’t!” he said, stopping the youth with his hands from getting any further. “Lie down. Let me see your wounds first.”
“But we can’t,” mumbled the boy, struggling against the gentle push, his words muffled, unclear, coming with difficulty through the swollen, cut lips. One of his eyes was swollen too, badly at that, and the rest of his face was covered with so much mud and blood it turned unrecognizable.
Cursing, Two Rivers studied the cuts running down the high cheekbones and across them. He shouldn’t have killed Yeentso that fast!
“Stop squirming like a worm,” he tossed, annoyed. “Lie still, and let me see if you can be allowed to get up at all.” The cuts looked superficial and not especially dangerous if washed and maybe stitched.
“Seketa.. she needs help…” insisted the boy, resisting his touch as he leaned closer to study the bloodied chest and stomach.
“She is all right. I saw her, and I talked to her, and she will probably be here shortly. Knowing this young lady, I bet she was running right after me, although I told her not to.”
The cuts crossing the youth’s chest did not seem deep as well, cutting the skin and some muscle, intended to inflict more pain than damage.
What a filthy, stinking piece of excrement! He cursed, the desire to go and kick Yeentso’s body overwhelming. A disgusting, loathsome, abominable beast. Even the captured warriors facing their difficult death were not tortured for the sake of inflicting pain. It was an old tradition, testing the man’s strength and inner power, running the gauntlet but getting struck only once by each person. While this man had obviously enjoyed the process, hurting, but making sure his victim would not die fast, with his slimy friend helping readily. The dirty pieces of rotten meat!
“Well, it seems that you will live,” he said curtly, still too angry to talk, but needing the distraction. His rage was again difficult to contain. “But we need to get you down to the lake shore, to wash all those cuts. So now go ahead, get up at long last, and see if you can walk.”
Catching the youth across his shoulder, he helped him up, knowing that with all this desire to go and look for his girl in trouble, the young cub would probably not run around just yet. The bluish mess of the youth’s ribs held his expectations in check as to the ability of his patient to get up at all.
“Thank you,” muttered the boy, suppressing a groan, wavering and clutching to his supporter’s arm. He turned his head, trying to face his rescuer through his unharmed eye. “I’m grateful. So very grateful. I will repay your kindness. As long as I live—”
“Later, wolf cub, later.” He grinned, warmed by the boy’s artless gratitude in spite of himself. “First, let us make sure you live long enough to be that grateful.” Propelling the youth toward the path, he frowned. “We want to reach the shore before it gets dark, so lean on me and make your best to hurry.”
The girl burst upon them as they negotiated their way out of the clearing, progressing more noisily than a hungry bear. Clumsy, still barefoot and limping, she rushed toward them, her face dirty, awash with fresh tears.
“Oh Mighty Spirits, I don’t… I can’t… I…” she sobbed, stumbling and almost falling on them.
The boy, who needed all of his concentration to walk, almost lost his balance trying to look at her and maybe to say something.
Taking more of the youth’s weight, Two Rivers ground his teeth.
“Stop it,” he told her curtly. “Stop making this stupid noise. Come around and support him from the other side. Make yourself useful!”
It came out too sharply, but he didn’t care. They needed to reach the lake before darkness, and it was difficult enough without her interception.
The girl pulled herself together with a surprising swiftness.
“Yes, yes,” she breathed, placing her shoulder under the boy’s other arm and falling into their step quite naturally. One moment a sobbing mess, the other – an efficient female, the prim, upright girl that she was.
He tried to suppress his grin.
“Get your moccasins first. It’ll make our progress easier.”
Without a word she was gone, to be back in no more than a few heartbeats.
“So, tell me what happened?” he asked, mainly to pass the time. Their progress was painfully slow, and he worried he would have no light to inspect the boy’s wounds after the washing. The cub might need to see the healer, although he sincerely hoped they would be able to do without it. They were not going back to the town. Not if he could help it. The dilemma was over, and the solution was not of his choosing anymore, but surprisingly, it made him feel better, glad, relieved, even hopeful.
“We were in the woods,” said the girl quietly. “Talking. And then they appeared.”
“How many?”
“Four of them.”
“Oh,” he nodded. “So none got away.”
She swallowed loudly and said nothing.
“And then what happened?”
Her hesitation was obvious. “Yeentso wanted to kill him, and he told us he would do this.”
“Why didn’t they let you go? I would think Yeentso was seeking no trouble with your clan. He should have let you go, then inform our boy of his plans.”
Again, she said nothing, so obviously uncomfortable he felt like chuckling. For a simple talk, she would not need to take off her shoes and her girdle, nor would her hair be now full of grass and small leaves. Those two were loving each other there on the clearing, that much was obvious. Were they caught in the middle of the lovemaking? What a pleasure for the dirty Yeentso. That would make the bastard feel safe to try to harm the girl as well. The despicable piece of rotten meat must have been pleasantly surprised.
He shook his head.
“So you managed to kill one of the four, wolf cub,” he said, wishing to change the subject. There was no need to embarrass them any further. “Not bad, I say.”
“I would have… have killed more… if I had my knife or my bow,” mutter
ed the boy hotly, his words muffled but loud enough.
“I can understand the lack of your bow, but where was your knife?”
“They made him throw it away,” cried out the girl. “They were afraid to get close to him while he was armed. Such cowardly, filthy lowlifes!”
“I see.” As they came out of the woods, their progress became easier, not hindered by the uneven, slippery ground and the jumble of roots. “Let us hurry. I want to take care of his wounds before the last of the light is gone.” He glanced at the girl. “So how did you get away?”
“He threw a stone,” she said proudly. “Hit Yeentso’s head. Almost made him fall.”
“It was a small stone,” said the boy, apologetic. “I got a bigger one later.” Suppressing a groan, he bit his lips and stopped talking, obviously in pain.
“It did the work.” Two Rivers shook his head, admiring them both. He knew the cub was a resourceful, courageous thing, yet his girl proved to be as good. She did her best under the circumstances, and her actions saved her lover a prolonged, painful death. Too bad they were not destined to be together.
Reaching the path that led toward the wide strip of the shore with various canoes concealed under the wooden tent, the girl hesitated, but said nothing until they reached the waterline.
“Why don’t we take him straight away to the town?” she asked, frowning. “It’s not a long way, and he needs to be treated by a healer.”
“I’ll tell you why if you don’t think about it yourself by the time his wounds are washed and we are back on the shore,” said Two Rivers, taking again most of the youth’s weight. “Come. It’s not long now, and you will be able to rest after we are done.”
Leading the youth into the water, he glanced at the rough wooden construction not far away to their left. Luckily, in this time of the year, with the fishing season in its highest, some people were too lazy to drag their canoes all the way to the safety of the town’s fence. They would have a chance to pick the best of the vessels.