She shot out of the narrow channel and into one of the wide, shallow swamps. Her flying canoe sailed into the maze of trees as she followed her way south. A lightning-blasted cypress marked the entrance to the far channel, and gratefully she cast a final glance over her shoulders. Nothing. No. Wait. Movement, there, back in the trees! But was it a man, or an animal? Before she could determine, her canoe coasted into the channel, the banks obscuring her view.
Desperate again, panting, she drove herself onward. A red smear caught her eye as she shifted her grip on the paddle. When had her palm blistered and broken? Compared to the ache in her forearms and shoulders, it was nothing.
Time collapsed into fear, pain, and exhaustion as she raced her canoe down the winding passage. A hand of time later she emerged into a familiar swamp and marked her progress. Known landmarks, fallen trees, stumps, and oddly shaped cypress knees guided her through the brackish shallows.
She cried out with relief as she drove her narrow craft onto the muddy shore of the little island. For long moments she could only sit there and gasp for breath. Her arms barely supported her as she tried to get up. She propped herself on the gunwales and struggled against the bulk of her swollen abdomen.
Coming within a hair of capsizing herself into the muddy shallows, she stepped into the water, staggered sideways, and caught her balance.
As her legs came alive, she turned and looked back at the silent swamp. Nothing moved, not even birds, usually ever-present in the winter moons. The water reflected the sky’s dull gray sheen, motionless, heavy.
Slogging out of the water she rolled her arms, wincing. Tomorrow would be agony. Bending over her girth, she pushed the canoe higher up the bank and grabbed the sack of supplies she had brought. The drinking bowl that she normally filled before arriving here was empty, forgotten in the frantic flight.
She collected her atlatl and darts, tapping her ax with reassured fingers. Let him come. Here, on dry land, she could vanquish any fool who paddled a canoe up to the island.
Walking through knee-high dry grass, she stepped into the beaten campsite she had shared over the moons with her relatives. A few damp pieces of wood lay on the wet ground. Looking around, it appeared that no one had been here since she and Uncle had left.
“You need dry wood. This won’t do to make a fire.” She kicked the wet wood and started off through the grass in search of old flooddeposited flotsam. She stopped and inspected a large branch. Thick as a man’s thigh, it had fallen from a water oak. Partially protected by the overhanging branches, the wood felt moderately dry to her touch. She looked around at the brown grass and weeds. Hip high, they masked her movements. The island slept, dormant and silent.
She laid her atlatl and darts to one side and worked her tired fingers, feeling the joints ache. It would take two hands to drag this back. The smaller branches would make kindling, and she could talk Striped Dart into hacking up the rest when he arrived.
She bent, got a grip, and heaved. The branch moved, and like some ungainly turtle, she dragged it one pull at a time toward her camp. With each tug, she took a moment to rise and peer out at the swamp. No movement marred the surface. No sound intruded on the normal noises.
As she bent once again and pulled, she caught a blur at the corner of her eye. Something struck her from behind, knocked her forward over the branch. The hard wood smashed her chin and left breast.
For a terrified instant her thoughts scrambled, then she rolled onto her back, staring up in disbelief. For a moment she could not place his face. “You?”
She was gasping, her heart pounding as Eats Wood grinned down at her. “Hello, bitch. Snakes, it’s been a long time that I have been waiting to do this.”
“What are you doing here?” She remembered him, remembered his fingers twisting her left nipple as he carried her from the canoe landing up to the Men’s House. His leer brought back all the terrible memories of that day.
“It took me a while to work out your trail. I learned a little more every time you left. Never followed you all the way. Just a bit at a time. And what should I find? You, bending your head with Jaguar Hide, planning ways to hurt us all.”
“He is my uncle!” She managed to brace her elbows under her. Eats Wood held a stone-headed ax in one gnarled fist. He swung it back and forth, each swing promising pain.
“He is our enemy.” He smiled down at her. “You made good time today. Jaguar Hide shouldn’t be arriving here for at least another hand of time.”
“What are you going to do?” Her atlatl lay back at the tree, her ax, however, was pinned under her hip, Had he seen it hanging from her kirtle?
“What I wanted to do the first time I saw you.” He tilted his head to the side, eyes half-lidded. “I’ll bet you don’t remember me.”