People of the Lightning(102)

The wind blew, causing their fire to spit and flare. Patchy shadows danced over the clearing where the gamblers sat, mottling their triumphant faces. Blessed Sun Mother, the things he had witnessed over the past few days … ! After they’d run from Heartwood Village, Dark Rain had led them along forest trails so dark and narrow, Beaverpaw had feared every moment for their lives. He had sweated in spite of the chill breezes, and kept a dart nocked in his atlatl at all times. Dark Rain seemed to know exactly where she wanted to go, so he and Bowfin had obligingly brought up the rear. They had hunted the food, searched out the fresh water, made the camps. Dark Rain had done nothing—except taken turns servicing them each night. The woman was insatiable. She would crawl from Beaverpaw to Bowfin and back again. Her needs were … inhuman.

Then tonight, at dusk, the sound of laughter had drifted through the trees, and Dark Rain had whooped and broken into a run. Bowfin had followed on her heels, like an excited stag during mating season. Beaverpaw had lagged behind, proceeding with care. Not only did he not know the people ahead, he did not even really know where he was. Far to the north of Heartwood, and inland about a half day’s walk—more than that he could not say.

As he’d neared the clearing, the stink of human wastes, of rot, accosted his nose. Skin crawling, he had sneaked off the trail and come up behind the men who, by then, were passing Dark Rain amongst them, kissing and caressing her. Bowfin had stood looking on, confusion on his young face. The clearing had brimmed with filthy men who shouted crude comments at Dark Rain, and kept their weapons very close at hand. Dirt filled the creases on their necks, arms, and legs. Every one had greasy, unkempt hair that looked as if it hadn’t been brushed in moons. They wore filthy breechclouts, black with grime. Did none of them ever bathe or wash their clothing? And they all coveted his Dark Rain … .

When Beaverpaw entered the clearing, the men had whirled, and lifted their atlatls in a single practiced motion.

“He’s mine!” Dark Rain had yelled. “Leave him be.”

After four hands of time sniffing beach-pea smoke and gambling, Beaverpaw barely recognized her. Her beautiful face had flushed, her eyes had gone glassy and cruel. Each time she lost a throw, she lunged at the winner, trying to claw his eyes out. These men knew her. Knew what to expect. They fended her off with a slap, or a fist, and then they all laughed and called her a whore. She did not seem to mind at all—but the word grated on Beaverpaw, deep down, like a burning brand thrust into his belly. He loved her. If she was a whore, and everyone here knew it, what did that make him? A whoremaster, or a whore’s dupe? His anger simmered and soured—and beneath it homesickness ate at him.

He had not even hugged Waterbearer or his children good-bye before he’d left. Why hadn’t he? He owed them at least that much. He certainly owed them some kind of explanation. He knew now that he should have just confessed and thrown himself on his wife’s mercy, rather than letting Dark Rain talk him into taking the coward’s way out. Running away. Him! War Leader of Heartwood Clan! For the rest of his miserable days, he would bear that shame. And little Manatee Flipper would be forced to live with it, too, and all of Beaverpaw’s other children. He could hear the taunts already, boys shrieking, “Your father was a coward! He consorted with an Outcast woman, and ran away when we needed him most!”

Beaverpaw’s stomach heaved. He turned and vomited into the autumn leaves that carpeted the forest. The gamblers jeered and called him names, but he did not care. No matter what his body did to try and cleanse itself, he could not rid his souls of the foul taste of failure. Or the knowledge that this futility, this desperate regret, had been born in his erect manhood. The moment he had allowed it to shout down his heart, he had doomed himself. And his family.

All because he had fancied himself in love with the perverse, ruthless shrew before him.

As though she’d heard his thoughts, she turned and ordered, “Give me your stiletto.”

“What?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Dark Rain did not seem to notice his discomfort—or perhaps she just didn’t care. “What for?”

“I am out of goods to bet with. I’ll win it back, don’t worry. Give it to me! It’s my throw. I need it now!” She imperiously stretched out her hand.

Beaverpaw untied it from his belt, studied the designs he had so carefully etched into the bone, and walked forward to place it in her hand.

The big man sitting across the fire from her grinned, showing his rotten yellow teeth. He had a chest like the thick trunk of a hickory tree, and stringy black hair that hung down to his waist. “Oh, Dark Rain,” he said. “I see you have found another generous lover. Is he as good as that boy trader? What was his name? Seashore, wasn’t it?”