Nature's Tribe

by Jacky Gray

  Cal could think of nothing suitable to say, so he said nothing. She threaded her arm through his as they approached the main route through the village, saying she needed his support over the icy patches. His natural chivalry overcame his instinct to recoil at her attempts to ensnare him in her web.

  She assumed a caring sincerity which made his skin crawl. “It’s a pity you weren’t there or you’d see the truth in my words. I’ve never seen her as happy as when she was gazing into Tol’s eyes – they made a handsome couple. And there were several others; she had more partners than the rest of the room put together.” As Eanje spoke, the door to Senna’s house opened. A troupe of mummers tumbled out, with much merriment and kissing of cheeks.

  Cal watched in disbelief as the girl he wanted for his own shamelessly offered her cheek to each of the gaudily-dressed characters, clapping her hands and laughing.

  Lyrelie’s voice carried clearly across the street as she declared what a wonderful actor Verat was and how much she looked forward to the performance. Staring at her figure-hugging costume, he felt a new set of thorns wrap themselves around his fragile heart.

  Eanje pulled him away, squeezing his arm as she whispered, “Now do you see what I mean?”

  ~*~

  Lyrelie stared across the road in disbelief, the lightness of heart from the mummer’s wild cavorting forgotten as she glimpsed Eanje snuggled up with a man, kissing his cheek suggestively. Before she had time to recognise the familiar figure, the woman pulled him away.

  Closing the door, she remembered Eanje saying it was bad luck for people to see the costumes for the Wheel of the Year dance and mentioned it. Her mother’s unexpected sternness, combined with the recent shock of the dark Hooden horse, brought Lyrelie to the edge of tears.

  Senna confessed to the tease, beckoning for a hug.

  As she climbed the stairs to change out of her finery, Lyrelie’s mind focussed on her worst fear as her mind put a face to the familiar figure with Eanje. Cal – her Cal.

  No. Her inner voice shouted its horror, desperate to convince her it had all been a trick of her imagination. That she had not just witnessed the boy she loved in the arms of another. She stumbled at the word “love,” even as her heart sang with the recognition of the truth.

  She loved Cal.

  And had done for as long as she could remember.

  Not just as a gallant older-brother figure, but as the man he was turning into. A kind, generous, gentle man.

  The sort of man who had accompanied her through childhood, understanding everything dear to her because it was dear to him, too.

  She glanced down at the dress, frowning at the thought of his absence from the rehearsal that morning. And the Yule ball last night. Had he been somewhere with Eanje? Her mind dismissed the possibility as she realised the woman had been at both events.

  Cal didn’t join the throng watching the mummer’s show that evening, but Eanje hung off Domenyk’s arm with a self-satisfied smirk. Lyrelie resolved that, if Cal wasn’t at tomorrow’s rehearsal, she’d ask the Magister if he’d quit.

  The following morn flew by as she practised the dance several times in full costume under Senna’s watchful eye. When she reached the village hall for the rehearsal, she found Cal lurking in the kitchen behind the hall.

  She recoiled in horror at the nasty bruises marring his cheek and swelling his eye. “What in the name of the goddess happened to you?”

  He shook his head. “It’s nothing. I don’t suppose you have any salve?”

  “Of course, but it won’t cover this. You’ve been fighting. Why would you fight on the day you are due to perform?”

  “Can you fix it?

  “Yes. But only if you tell me who did this to you.”

  “I don’t know their names. A couple of the older lads.”

  She stopped with her finger, coated in the precious salve, less than an inch from his skin. “You must have done something to provoke them.”

  “Nope. It was the other way around.” He pushed her hand closer until the unguent met its destination. “Will you trust that I had good reason?”

  She met his gaze, looking away at the intensity, intuiting that she was somehow the cause of his pain. Administering to the physical damage, she put aside her natural curiosity in favour of getting through the rehearsal.

  Along with everyone else, she watched in amazement as he performed a dance telling of the grain harvest at Lughnasadh. He used full-sized scythes with wooden blades, fashioned to resemble steel. Nevertheless, they could still cause some damage as his intricate sequence had them swinging close to his face and several limbs. She felt sure it would be a high-point of the ceremony, and gave thanks she would be performing before him and not immediately after.

  ~*~

  Cal wanted nothing more than to confess his feelings to Lyrelie, but her tone and actions as she tended to his wounds hinted at her displeasure. The obvious reason was her well-known disapproval of fighting. Whenever the subject of the militia was raised in conversation, she would hold her counsel, offering nothing but a deep frown.

  If ever two young bucks threw punches in her presence, whether for real or in jest, she would walk away with a pithy comment. Her favourite was, “Don’t come crying to me when your wounds need patching, I refuse to waste my time and energy on such nonsense.” And yet here she was, doing the very thing she professed never to do.

  Staring until she was compelled to meet his gaze, he murmured his gratitude. “Thank you for helping me. I know you would never normally …”

  “I’m not doing it for you. I’m thinking of all the youngsters coming to watch. I would not want them to be frightened by the sight of a bloodied ruffian.”

  He muttered an apology, wondering if she might have more sympathy if she knew he’d incurred the punishment defending her honour. But her compassion was the last thing he needed; he was already in trouble because of the ideas her subtle fragrance triggered in his mind. Ignoring his body’s natural reaction to her proximity proved difficult, so he focussed instead on the reason for his current state.

  On his way to rehearsal, he’d taken the lane leading from his farm to the village, ambling slowly on legs stiffened by so many days of training. Moments later, he heard a sound he likened to the braying of inane donkeys, approaching from behind. Listening to the rapidly nearing conversation, he distinguished three separate voices of lads making boisterous claims about the previous eve’s festivities. As they overtook him, his senses went on full alert: all three wore deep cowls covering their hair and hiding their faces. Instead of forging on, they slowed to match his pace, confirming his suspicions.

  The taller of them seemed to be a leader as he swaggered and tossed lewd remarks about the females and what he would like to do to them. Knowing their jibes were aimed in his direction, Cal refused to let himself be drawn in. He ignored them until Lyrelie was mentioned.

  “You know; the one with the red curls. She was putting herself about, dancing like a strumpet and making cow eyes at every man in the room.” A deep, sordid laugh preceded his next comment. “I’ll wager she’d happily lift her skirts for a real man like me.”

  The rage building inside Cal erupted at the end of his arm in a fist which targeted the voice’s owner, knocking him to the ground. Years of heavy farm tasks had developed the muscles of a full-grown man, and the recent training gave him speed, agility and fast reflexes. The heat of anger coursing through his veins saw off any remaining stiffness, and he took on the other two, dancing round them as he dodged their punches with ease.

  The fallen leader regained his feet, instructing the other two to grab Cal’s arms.

  Having trained with Jarl when considering a career in the militia, Cal knew a few manoeuvres to use attackers’ strength against them. One in particular involved luring them close, and banging their heads together.

  Unfortunately, his attention was distracted at the crucial moment by a feminine scream. This allowed the leader to land a punch before t
he pack forced him to the ground, each aiming a kick before running off. They obviously wanted no witnesses, and he gave a wry smile at the identity of his saviour.

  Eanje fussed over him as though she genuinely cared. “Poor Cal. Should I fetch someone?” She glanced toward his farm. “Your father, perhaps?”

  “No.” He couldn’t help the vehemence in his tone, but she seemed unaffected by his ire.

  “I’m so glad I stopped by to ensure you didn’t miss today’s rehearsal. I’m sorry to say I didn’t see who they were. How dreadful you should be walking here just as those ruffians passed by.” Her jumbled words alerted him to the unnecessary explanation, which his father always associated with guilt.

  Resisting her attempts to aid, he got to his feet, pushing away her hands when she would touch his cheek.

  “You are bleeding. Here, have this.” She offered a delicately embroidered square of linen.

  He refused initially, not wanting to stain it with his blood. But when the red stuff began to drip from his nose, he took it, staunching the flow.

  “Should we go back to the farm and clean you up?”

  “No!” This time, he shouted much louder than necessary and she flinched. Ignoring his natural remorse at causing consternation of any kind, especially to a female, he reined in his anger. “I will be all right by the time we reach the hall.” Striding toward the village, he regretted his haste as his back twinged where one of the kicks had met its target. He had no choice but to slow, and she had no problem keeping up with him.

  She followed as he detoured on a route which would not take him past Senna’s house. If she noticed the diversion, she did not comment. In fact, compared to her earlier verbosity, she stayed remarkably quiet – not a behaviour he’d expect from what he’d seen earlier.

  Thankfully, when they reached the hall, Magister Ranly prevailed upon Eanje’s services and he was able to slip away to the kitchen, using the sluice pail to rinse out most of the blood from her kerchief. He wiped the dampened cloth over his face, hoping to remove most of the evidence of his altercation.

  Tipping the pail’s contents over the vegetable patch in the courtyard, he registered that the iron and other nutrients would enrich the soil where next year’s crop lay dormant. He’d no sooner replenished the pail from the well, when Lyrelie found him, tutting her displeasure at the state of his face, even as she repaired the damage.

  Because the Sabbats they represented were next to each other, he found himself seated next to her throughout the rehearsals. He caught her staring at his face several times, and knew she wondered how he’d acquired the injuries, but refused to voice her concerns.

  The first time she ran through her dance in a loose-fitting tunic, he appreciated the artistry of her storytelling as she mimed the sunrise, followed by an endless, dreamy day. She enacted flowers turning to face the sun, followed by butterflies and bees flitting from flower to flower, finishing with a long, slow sunset.

  For his turn, he wanted to keep a little in reserve, taming his moves with the scythes. It made sense to keep the entire dance restrained within the confines of the hall, but the stiffening of his abused muscles caused growing discomfort. He wriggled his shoulders to ease the tension.

  After the last dance, the magister called a short break, suggesting all those not already in their final costume should don it now. “After the second practice of all the dances, we shall have a longer break where I suggest you all eat something wholesome which will satisfy you until after the evening ritual.”

  As they walked toward the hooks where their costumes hung, Lyrelie caught Cal’s arm. “Shall I have a look at your shoulder? It seems to be bothering you.”

  Surprised she’d noticed, and pleased by her concern, he smiled. “I’m sure it will suffice.” A bold statement which challenged every fate and deity to prove him wrong.

  Lyrelie took far less time to change than he, so she had already taken her place when he reached the bench, and she immediately saw what needed doing, tying the ribbons to secure his cumbersome attire, fashioned from straw to give the semblance of a corn-dolly.

  When she stood for her rehearsal, the breath caught in his throat at the beauty of her slender figure. He watched, transfixed by her elegance and unable to control the lusty thoughts her form-fitting dress provoked. This may or may not have been responsible for the lapse in concentration during his performance, immediately after hers.

  The injuries to his back and shoulder resulted in a sharp pain which travelled down his arm and weakened his grip on the scythe so he barely managed to stop it falling to the ground. This could have caused damage to anyone sitting nearby, but he willed all his strength into his hand and somehow made it through to the end of the dance.

  Lyrelie spotted the slip and, at the end of his rehearsal, led him out to the empty kitchen where she carefully assisted in the removal of the fragile tabard which had turned him into Lugh, the mighty king of the grain harvest. Taking charge, she bade him sit on a stool while she lifted his loose chemise with a gasp.

  “What is it?” He turned sharply, trying to see what had caused such a strong reaction.

  “Surely you must remember an attack which left you with such horrendous bruises? I imagine you were kicked several times. How could you not be crying in pain?”

  He showed her the ointment the Black Hilts had recommended, and she sniffed it, wrinkling her nose as she pushed it away.

  “No wonder you couldn’t feel any discomfort; the strength of these painkilling herbs is normally used on war-horses. Lift your arm.”

  He willingly obeyed, wincing as he did.

  She snorted. “In the absence of anything more suitable, I will apply some now, and another coating before the ritual starts. Then, I hope the energies of the henge will do their part to ease the pain.”

  “Do I not need some tight bandaging to lend support? That’s what we’d do for an animal with a broken limb.”

  “On anyone else I might suggest it, but this is not a break and you seem to have inordinate strength. My instinct suggests you will heal better with the freedom of movement and fresh air.”

  As she applied the salve, Lyrelie’s touch incited a sharp intake of breath, and he dared to ask for more. “Could you try some of the energy healing I’ve heard you mention? I believe it would help.”

  Her eyes lit. “Really? I’ve told you about it? But …”

  “Not me.” He quickly confessed. “I can’t remember who you discussed it with, but I’m aware it’s very effective. Particularly for muscle injuries.”

  Realisation dawned. “You heard me talking to Mama. But how?”

  He didn’t want to admit to the number of times he’d stood outside her window, trying to pluck up the courage to ask her to take a walk with him. Or attend a festival, or a dozen other events. But each time, he’d been put off by some inauspicious portent.

  Lyrelie blushed as she rolled his chemise back down. “Never mind. I think we should hurry before the rehearsal ends and people come flooding back here.” She rubbed her hands together and placed them on his shoulders, letting the heat build for a few moments before making small, circular movements which simultaneously ended the ache and sent a multitude of pleasurable sensations throughout his body.

  He gulped and she paused. “Does that hurt?”

  “No. The opposite; whatever the opposite of pain is.”

  “Pleasure.” She said the word without thinking, before her brain registered. “Oh.” Her cheeks reddened. “You bad lad.” She slapped his tender shoulder.

  “Ouch. That hurt.”

  “Good. That’s what I shall do until you learn to behave.”

  “Sorry. I promise I’ll be good.”

  “I should think so.” She resumed her ministrations, this time pressing harder into the sore muscle, making him rotate his shoulders to ease the verging-on-the-edge-of-painful pressure.

  “That’s more like it. You should not be rewarded for getting into fights. There is never any reas
on good enough to warrant that behaviour.”

  He could stand it no more, facing her to explain the reason for his injuries. Instead of the unbending he expected, she merely sniffed and, turning him around, continued the massage lower down on his back.

  “Apologies, Lyrelie. Have I done something wrong? Should I not defend your honour? I could not sanction those ruffians …”

  She pressed a tender area, eliciting a gasp. “You wouldn’t have had to engage in any fight if you weren’t so gullible.”

  He frowned. “What? How could it possibly be my fault?”

  She finished up the massage, smoothing her hands down his back from neck to waist. “Let me see. How often have you spoken to Eanje prior to this week?”

  “Not a lot. Maybe three times.”

  “Is it not odd she would appear twice on your path in two days? Given how little contact you’ve had.”

  “True.” He nodded. “She’s not someone I would call an acquaintance, let alone friend.”

  “And yet, here she is, calling on you in her concern that you might miss a rehearsal and be prevented from performing in the ritual.”

  Cal’s face brightened. “Maybe Ranly sent her. She seems to be helping him to organise it, even though she’s not performing.”

  “Did she personally invite all the other dancers who missed rehearsals?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Well I do, and the answer’s no. Only you.”

  Cal suspected Eanje was connected to the ruffians’ appearance and their attack; maybe she’d fed them gossip about the Yule ball; exhorting them to goad him into action. But why? “I still don’t see how this is my fault.”

  Lyrelie sighed, her tone resembling one she might use when speaking to a slow child. “If you hadn’t been so friendly in the first place, she would never have had to employ villeins to attack you so she could rescue you.”

  “No. You have that wrong. What could possibly lead you to that conclusion? I have no interest in her and never have.” He paused, remembering back to Eanje’s earlier babbling. The fact the brutal band used the same words she had about Lyrelie was no coincidence. Words he hoped his girl would never hear in connection with herself.