“Drink some of that stew,” he told her insistently. “If you don’t, you’ll be chewing sticks in two hands’ time.”
She crouched, lifting the ceramic pot and drinking deeply of the mixture. That, at least, brought him a little satisfaction.
“Wretched Snakes,” she said as she replaced the bowl and wiped her lips. “The fire is stone dead, and that tastes like swamp muck.”
“It’s food,” he reminded. “You’ll need the strength.” He wondered what he was going to eat. It wouldn’t do to go begging breakfast from Water Petal as he’d been doing for the last couple of months while he laced his wives’ food with the Serpent’s potions. It might turn into a very long day for his stomach.
He led the way out into the morning. Moisture rode on the southern breeze, speckling his skin and filling his nostrils. In the darkness, he could see tufts of mist curling along the ridge. The line of domed houses seemed to solidify as if from fragments of dreams as he and Pine Drop walked along the earthen berm to the first gap. From there he crossed to the Southern Moiety commons and cut across for the ramp leading up the eastern side of the Bird’s Head.
“Do you do this every morning?” she asked.
“Yes.” It had become a ritual with him. The last place on Earth he wanted to be was in Pine Drop’s house when his wives awakened. Having begun with such low expectations, their relationship had been deteriorating every since. It had been safe to assume that they wanted as much to do with him as he did with them.
He passed the Council House and started up the long ramp. It never ceased to amaze him that his ancestors had built such a triumph. He often tried to wrap his comprehension around the number of baskets of earth that had been dug, carried, and piled to create the Bird’s Head. The sheer size of it filled his souls with awe.
He had taken to sprinting up the long climb and chafed now that Pine Drop was clambering along behind him. Still, he hurried as much as he could, hearing her breath begin to strain when not even halfway up.
“Is there some pressing hurry?” she called from behind.
“Normally I run up this.”
“Well, go.” She waved him on in the foggy grayness. “I’ll see you at the top.”
Thus freed, he ran, enjoying the pull in his muscles as he dashed to the top. He came to a halt just past the ramada and filled his hot lungs with the cool air. As he turned back to the east, he could see the faint graying of the horizon. The south wind pushed at him, a last faint filtering of stars visible through the heavy air as they began to fade in the east.
She emerged out of the mist below, thin and well formed, her movements female and sinuous as she climbed. Her hair, loose and long, swayed with each step. Were it anyone but Pine Drop, the moment would have been enchanting. As she neared, her image grew into Spring Cypress’s. A fantasy that passed as she raised her face to his.
“Now what?” she asked, a tone of resentment barely hidden.
Salamander seated himself and dug into the moist soil with his fingers. “Now we wait.”
“Just wait?” She turned, staring out at the graying world around them. Her breathing slowed as she paced back and forth.
He found the little stone owl he had been carving and the flake that he had buried beside it the morning before. Wiping the black clay from it, he resumed his carving.
“That’s what you do up here? Just sit and carve?” She pointed at the stone image in his hands.
“Why don’t you go back and sleep? This can’t be pleasant for you.”
He could make out her features now. She was a striking woman, her round face balanced with a thin nose and perfect cheeks. She comported herself with a proud bearing and quiet dignity. He could see her teetering on the verge of stomping off. At the last instant, apparently by force of will, she relented and plopped herself down beside him to stare out toward the eastern horizon. The light there had begun to yellow.
He asked, “Why are you doing this?”
She mulled over the words before she said, “I thought that, perhaps, we might try spending some time together.” She was winding her gleaming black hair into tight ropes, only to flip them free and repeat the process. “If we are to live together, we must build some trust between us.”
“All right.” He shot her a wary look.
“Do you hate me?”
The question caught him by surprise. “No. I don’t hate you. I just don’t like you.”
She stared out at the distance, arms crossed as she leaned forward. He could see her expression tensing, as if she were fighting a pain in her stomach. Returning his concentration to the little red owl, he carefully began the notch that would separate the figure’s feet.