by Leia Rice
The more Mechan sat alone, thinking about her, the more his thick root responded. It almost hurt him. He could not give in. He loved his wife. Loved her…his dear, dear wife.
He rose and approached an old trunk. Dipping one of his hands into the items within, he fished around and pulled up a thin thong of leather with a tooth pendant. His wife wore it around her neck when she lived, a reminder of the first kill that Mechan brought back for her—a mountain cat, just as he almost killed for Ishara, though for different reasons.
Mechan’s hand closed around the necklace. He tucked it back into the trunk once he had cooled, no longer lusting for the pretty, disobedient thing out in the slave pen. “She will learn her lesson, or I’ll keep her in there for the rest of her days.”
Or maybe he would have her for company come dinnertime. It would not be so insufferable eating by himself if he had someone to talk with. Even if that someone grated his last nerve and set his loins on fire.
* * *
Ishara sat naked across from Mechan, her legs folded and tucked under her bottom. Her stomach rumbled in hunger, but she left everything in her bowl untouched. She wanted nothing from him. If that meant she had to starve trying to prove her point, then she would.
Her dreadlocks were still damp, despite hours of lounging outside in the pen watching camp life pass her by. It embarrassed her to be locked away like a pet for all to see. Her renewed sense of pride overcame the hunger pains. Food was the least of her worries. She had to find a way back home.
Ishara categorized the things in the room, all of which were shrouded by a shadow from the only lit fire in the tent. Most of the objects were dusty and untouched, ignored for what could have been months or years. She noted a large, dead tree branch propped up in the corner of the tent, helping to elevate the canvas. The wood twisted, pressing upwards into what used to be beautiful limbs once lavish with green leaves. Now, the ends were dull and bare, but the piece possessed a certain mystic beauty, a certain secret story that she yearned to know. “Why do you have a stick?”
Mechan lowered his knife and impaled deer meat. After finishing the chunk in his mouth, the chieftain looked over his shoulder. “It is an offering. Or was.”
Ishara continued to watch the stick, waiting for it to move or do something impressive. At long last, she pushed herself up out of the furs, abandoning her bowl of whatever Mechan served her for dinner. She padded across the tent, bare toes nestling into the warmth of the pelts that covered the floor. “I don’t understand. What do you mean ‘an offering?’ It is a dead branch.”
“Before the Manahotchi men get married, they offer a branch to the woman they wish to court. It is a symbol of peace and growth.” Mechan looked away from the branch, and Ishara caught the glint of sadness deep in his gaze when he went back to stabbing at the meat in his bowl. “After the marriage, you use it to build your new home.”
She reached out to touch it. It came from one of the elder trees whose branches started many feet off the ground. Any man would find it challenging to climb the long trunk all on their own. “In my tribe, the boys often challenge each other to see how high they can climb the trunks of the elder trees. I’ve seen many of them break bones after losing their footing.”
Mechan grunted, his lips smacking together as he chewed his dinner.
“It must be a great honor to receive not only a branch from the chieftain, but an elder branch. Very impressive.” Ishara allowed him a small compliment, abandoning the branch in search for something else she could entertain herself with. Her respect for his personal space waned. If he insisted on keeping her as a slave, then he would have to insist on her sharing his space as well. She also grew bored of watching the chieftain brood.
She spotted a wooden trunk with two large hands imprinted into the dust and hurried in its direction. The trunk rested on the edge of where the main confines of the tent lead back into the private sleeping area, where hardly any light reached. Ishara checked over her shoulder, noting that Mechan no longer paid her any mind. He scooped a handful of mashed yams into his mouth and lanced another piece of meat onto his knife.
Ishara knelt down beside the chest and opened it carefully. Resting on top of a pile of suede dresses was a tooth threaded onto a leather thong. She reached inside and lifted the necklace up into the firelight, admiring the sharp edge of the ornament, and then slipped the piece around her neck, knotting it in the back. The tooth was cold against her chest, and at the same time, Ishara felt empowered by something, as if the Spirits themselves have filled all the empty spaces in her body.
“You should come back and eat your food before it cools.” Mechan spoke to her, but did not bother to look at her.
She watched him the whole time, knowing well that she should not be going through his things. She lifted one of the dresses out of the trunk, pressing it to her naked form, relishing the silky, soft feel of the hide. Small designs of burning suns embellished the hem, which would stop just above the knees if worn. With another peek back to Mechan, she noticed that his attention belonged to his food, and decided that she could get away with trying on the dress.
“I’ll be fine. I’m not even hungry.” She tugged the dress over her head and down the ample curves of her hips. The garment fit snugly, as if it could have been made just for her. In some places, she filled it in a bit more, especially around her breasts and waist, where the suede pulled tight. She twisted her body so she could look down the back of her form, admiring the piece wholly. “Beautiful.”
“What?” Mechan turned at the misplaced comment, and when his dark eyes found Ishara, she could see something inside him set aflame.
It frightened her.
“Take it off.”
Ishara stood where she was, transfixed. She shook her head, though she didn’t know why she chose to fight this battle. He looked at her with both anger and greed. She wanted more.
Mechan rose to his feet, towering inches above her. He took another step closer, his hands tightening into angry fists. “I am telling you to take it off. Those are not yours.”
“They are your wife’s?”
“Yes. You will take it off now, or I will have to take it off you myself.” Something visceral buried itself deep down in Mechan’s tone. Something that called for Ishara to attack it. To own it. This moment was hers.
“Are you not the mighty chieftain, Mechan? Will you let a dress be the thing that destroys you?”
Mechan’s teeth gnashed together, and he closed the space between them. “Do not toy with me, girl. Not with this.”
Ishara stepped back, her heels pushing up against the trunk behind her. “Tell me about her. Was she pretty? What did she look like?” She tried to bait him into the conversation. She wanted him to play her game for once. She wanted him to be a slave to her.
“Take it off.” Mechan pushed Ishara backward and she tumbled over the trunk, all limbs.
She found her feet again, and after dragging her palms down the sides of her dress, smoothing it free of wrinkles, Ishara smiled devilishly and shook her head. “She must have been a beautiful woman to have made you so angry with longing.” Ishara continued to move backward, breeching the private space of the sleeping quarters in the back. She sank into the protective darkness while watching Mechan. And when he caught her, she had no idea what she’d do.
“I am not angry,” Mechan growled from deep within his gut. His shoulders rose up and down with each hot breath he inhaled, and his nostrils flared when he exhaled. He reminded Ishara of an angry stallion, either ready to mate or ready to kill.
She grew wet.
“You are violating her memory.”
“Oh am I? And how am I doing that? By wearing clothes that she can no longer wear herself? What were you going to do with these clothes, hmm? Keep them in a trunk, untouched, for the rest of your life?” Ishara stopped her retreat and decided instead to ground herself where she stood. She would let him catch her. She wanted to see what he would do. “I must say that I m
ake a much better use of them. Don’t you agree?”
Mechan did not stop his pursuit. “Take it off. And take off the necklace. You are disrespecting my wife’s memory.”
Ishara resisted the urge to take another step back as Mechan eventually caught up, nearly standing on top of her. She could feel the heat of his breath on her skin and it caused her cunt to pulsate in desire. “Take them off me.”
His hands struck outward, pulling at what little fabric he could manage to peel from her body. He yanked her forward as he fumbled. The action lacked seduction. Mechan did not feel what she felt, or at least she started to draw that conclusion when he violently jerked the dress up once more. This was not about her at all. He truly was insulted that she wore his dead wife’s dress.
“Take it off,” Mechan hollered, his guttural voice echoing past the tent, desperation sounding through the reverberations. “Take it off. Spirits be damned, take it off. Take it off!”
Ishara no longer felt empowered. Fright froze her. She heard him shouting at her, but all she could see was the cold anger that pierced through his dark eyes and into her very soul. She needed to take the dress off. She had become a part of something she did not want to be. No longer did Ishara think of this as Mechan’s weakness. This dress, this memory of his wife…this was Mechan—his whole world.
She quickly pulled the dress up over her head, abandoning it on the ground, a puddle of suede and memories.
Mechan picked the dress up with his one hand, and with the other, he grabbed Ishara by her wrist and tugged her out of the sleeping quarters, through the living quarters, and out into the cold night. Rain fell from the sky as if the very spirits cried for Mechan’s plight.
What had she done?
Ishara winced as Mechan tossed her back into her slave pen. She rolled across the dirt, the bars of the pen stopping her. A pang of anger surged through her limbs, but as she looked back up at Mechan, ready to yell at him for manhandling her, she was quickly reminded of the pain that she caused him first, and it did not make her feel victorious at all.
“I do not know what they teach you in your tribe, child, but in this tribe, we respect the spirits of the dead and we respect the people who have lost those close to them.” Mechan pointed a thick finger at her face, and behind him, the Manahotchi started to leave their tents, peeking out toward the commotion. All eyes were on them. “You are not my wife. You will never be my wife! You will never know what she was like or who she was, because you have shown me today that your defiled self could never understand someone or something as beautiful as she was.”
“M-Mechan…”
“Don’t you speak to me so familiarly, slave. I am your Master and you will address me as such.” Mechan spit in her general direction, and if he wanted to really hit her with it, he probably could. But the pained tug on his features made Ishara think that he really didn’t want to spit on her. Or hurt her. She had already wounded him, and he had had enough.
Ishara looked between Mechan and the others who now watched her. She swallowed hard and lowered her eyes, shivering beneath the chill of the rain. It no longer mattered that she was naked and shamed in front of the whole tribe. Mechan was right. Ishara acted inappropriately, especially for a chieftain’s daughter. Because of this, she could only manage to muster a quiet, “Yes, Master.”
Mechan turned away and stalked back into his tent. The flaps were tied down tightly, and soon, all was quiet save for the pattering of the rain in newly formed mud puddles.
Ishara curled up in the corner of the pen, hugging her knees up to her chest and the top of them brushed against the necklace that she still wore. She reached up with shaky fingers and wrapped the tooth into her palm, holding to it tightly. “I am sorry,” she apologized to the piece of bone and held it close to her for the rest of the night.
Chapter Five
Mechan did not know how much time had passed since he put Ishara in the slave pen and crossed her out of his life all together. It might have been minutes, or hours…and when he looked at where the light seeped in through the canvas seams, he thought that even days could have passed.
He put the dress back in the trunk where he would no longer have to look at it. When he did, he saw Ishara and his beloved wife at the same time, and the thought maddened him. He did not know what this woman—this slave—was doing to him, but he felt like he should hate it with his whole being.
He didn’t.
It quickened him and breathed life back into his once dead heart.
Why? Ishara proved to be a defiant, disrespectful little brat of a woman who seemed to want nothing more than to push the boundaries and see how much she could get away with. As Mechan closed the lid of the trunk, he thought of his wife. She had been much the same way. The daughter of one of the elders in the tribe, she rebelled against everything expected of her, insistent that she not have to be bound by tradition and expectation. It was this fire that Mechan yearned for, and Ishara carried the same flame.
“The necklace.” Mechan opened the trunk up again and sorted through it. Nothing. A new anger surged through him. “She took the necklace.”
“What necklace?”
Mechan craned his head around to find Zari standing by the entrance of his tent. She wore a dyed blue dress that made her dark, black eyes glitter like they held their own light inside. “Zari. What are you doing here?”
Zari snaked her way into the tent with a hippy swagger that made the beads strung around her waist click together. “You have been in here alone for half of the day, Chieftain. I thought you might need the company.”
Mechan watched her cautiously, not trusting the way she seemed to slither into his presence. There was always something about her that gave him pause. It was probably why, despite the pressure of his clan, he had not bothered to think about wedding her. He grunted and shut the trunk once more.
“You should not let that girl get to you, Mechan.” Zari bravely addressed him by his name and had he been in a better mood, he might have let it be.
“Chieftain.” He moved to sit back down beside the fire. “And I do not let slaves get to me.”
Unfazed by the reprimand, she sat down beside the fire as well. “The whole tribe speaks of it. How she disrespected your wife. They all agree that you should have just drowned the little wench and been done with it.”
Mechan lifted one of his thick brows and stared across the flames at Zari. “Go on.”
Sliding her palms back over the furs to lounge, she continued, “She is the daughter of the Oolani chieftain, and she has belittled you…in your own camp. I know that you are adverse to killing women, but a statement should be made here.” Zari’s icy eyes flickered to Mechan as she dragged her hair out of her face. “What will the young men think if they know a slave can get away with insulting the chieftain? It just shows them how much they could get away with as well.”
“That is ridiculous. The Manahotchi would never do any such thing.”
“Wouldn’t they? Just the other day, your son found a few boys trying to plot their own rebellion. With all of this talk of an impending attack, they wish now more than ever to find glory.”
Mechan scoffed and stared back into the fire. “If they were raised by any good Manahotchi mother, they would know that glory does not come from shame.”
He could sense her eyes on him, but continued to watch the ash in the bottom of the fire pit glow, curl, and extinguish over and over again. The hot, orange tones rippled and churned, lifting into the amber of the bigger flames. He wanted her gone.
Zari placed her hand on Mechan’s forearm. “You know as well as I do, my chieftain, that these boys are born of ambition…and ambition blinds even the most dedicated of men.”
Mechan withdrew his hand from her touch and shook his head. “I am not killing the girl.”
“It’s because you have feelings for her.”
He narrowed his eyes and glared back at her. Zari crossed the line.
“Don’t look at me
like that. I can see it. Just in the days that you’ve had her, she’s ensnared you in a trap that you refuse to acknowledge.” Zari crawled around the fire and sat directly beside Mechan, unafraid. He did not appreciate this sort of defiance—the conniving, sneaky kind that made it impossible to trust in those who used it. “The whole tribe can see it.”
“They cannot.”
Zari’s lips tugged into a cat-like grin. “So you admit it, then? You admit that she has trapped you.”
He snarled and rose to his feet, stepping away from the fire. “I admit nothing, as there isn’t anything to admit.” He crossed his arms across his broad chest and his muscles tensed as they would before a battle. But he was not at battle. It was only Zari. “You are trying my patience, woman.”
“How long will you play this game, Mechan?”
“Chieftain,” Mechan corrected once more.
“Chieftain. How long? You should have been remarried years ago. There is an impending attack. You only have one heir.” Zari rose to her feet as well, her body rolling fluidly as she stood. She approached Mechan and reached out to put her hand on one of his biceps. “If you marry me, you secure your tribe’s future. You will fill them with a renewed confidence.”
Mechan didn’t back away this time. He kept perfectly still, frozen to the very spot where he stood. “I am not ready to remarry.”
“And if the girl wished to keep you as a mate? Would you be ready then?” Her words were bitter. Challenging.
“She is a slave.”
Zari laughed and pulled her hand away from him. Turning on a heel, she snorted and moved across the tent, stopping beside the branch that kept the one side of it propped up. “You can’t hold on to her forever. You are hurting your tribe by doing so. And when the enemy comes to destroy us, Spirits forbid it, who will you leave to lead the pieces left behind?”