People of the Fire(30)

Heavy Beaver crawled out, the dry air sucking up his sweat.

He walked up to his lodge and ducked in. Red Chert started, looking bashfully at him, lowering her eyes. She sat on the woman's side of the lodge, stripped to the waist. Her long black hair clung to her damp flesh, curled slightly where it matted on her flushed skin.

Through lowered lids, he studied her, seeing the sweat beaded on her cheeks, trickling down between her full breasts. Of all the women, Red Chert remained fat. He saw to that. No one could call Heavy Beaver a fool. In his youth, he'd overheard a conversation between Chokecherry and White Foot—who had later left with Elk Whistle's bunch after a fight over leadership. Chokecherry had stated matter-of-factly that full-bodied women conceived better than skinny ones. Chokecherry had believed that women who were worked too hard, or starved too thin, didn't take when a man planted his seed. Besides which, a Spirit Dreamer ought to have a plump wife. To do otherwise would hint that he wasn't capable as a Dreamer or Singer. A man of Power should have the trappings to accent his skills.

Heavy Beaver pulled at the last of his pipe, enjoying the bitter bite of the chopped willow bark. Despite the heat and

Red Chert's half-naked body opposite him, he couldn't shake the thought of Sage Root. He remembered her standing between him and the kill site that afternoon, defiant, eyes flashing. The image hung before him, so clear he could almost reach out and touch her, trace the curves of her hips, finger the full breasts pushing against the thin hide of her antelope dress.

Better than she herself, he'd known she'd chose the meat— and, thereby, her downfall as well.

She turned me down. She ridiculed me when I tried to Sing her into my sleeping robes. She laughed in my face!

For as long as he could remember, Sage Root had obsessed him. As a young girl, her eyes and mischievous smile had beguiled him. Her limber body gave her preeminence in games and dancing. How many nights had he watched, enraptured, as her skipping, flying feet had come magically alive to the cadence of the Singers and the drums while she whirled and bobbed tirelessly. None danced as gracefully as Sage Root.

Then had come her first menstruation. In the ceremony which made her a woman, Sage Root had been transformed into a most wondrous beauty. Men paid court to her constantly, Singing to her parents' lodge from the shelter of the night, bearing her gifts, seeking to waylay her in the brush as she ran her errands and did chores.

Heavy Beaver had given it his best, the desire in his young heart driving him to the point of ambushing her. He'd almost forced her that night. The burning fever had filled his heart when she turned him down. A man who raped a woman paid dearly. The People paraded the culprit to the center of the camp, stripped him, and sawed his manhood from his body with a dull quartzite flake.

If he didn't bleed to death—a rarity—the women continued to cut him until he did. Only that sober reminder had kept him from fulfilling himself that night so long ago. And. by stale buffalo urine, she'd have been better off for it.

He closed his eyes, imagining himself as he threw her to the ground. With all his weight and strength, he bore her down, staring into her flashing eyes, seeing her hair cascading across the ground in a coal-black web. Her enraged face would redden with the heat of anger, her beautiful mouth gritted.

Pinning her hands above her head so she couldn't scratch him, he would reach down, lifting the hem of her dress, pulling it high so he could run his hands down her muscular legs, feel her calf-tender skin against his. He'd lose himself in the soft swell of her breasts and tease the nipples hard while she fought him.

When she realized the futility of her situation, he would lower himself, wedging a hard knee between her thighs, opening her to him. Through it all, he'd stare into her midnight-black eyes, enjoying her final defeat.

The fire popped and hissed, bringing him back to his lodge. He filled his lungs, exhaling slowly to still the tension in his tight body. Opening his eyes, he looked over at Red Chert.

"Your bleeding will come with the moon?"

"Yes."

He nodded to himself, figuring. He had at least five days before he needed to worry about her polluting him. He pushed Red Chert onto her back, suddenly awkward fingers undoing the belt at her waist. Eyes clamped tightly shut, he relived the fantasy until he spasmed and groaned with release.

He gasped deeply, rolling to the side, feeling sweat run as he flopped limply on his back. Red Chert's eyes remained fixed on the smoke hole overhead, no expression on her placid face.

Heavy Beaver ran a hand over his wet visage, wiping the perspiration away. He'd finished this time. As long as he could fix Sage Root in his mind, he could finish. If he opened his eyes, or if he let himself remember Red Chert under him, his manhood fled, leaving him limp and powerless. This time, he'd held on to the vision, held on to Sage Root. Perhaps, just maybe, this time he'd finally planted his child. Perhaps now he'd be whole—prove himself a true man.