His wife, Astcat, the great matron of the North Wind People, leaned against a pile of hides to his right. Kstawl had dressed her in a bright yellow wrap. Ascat’s jaw gaped, and her beautiful green-brown eyes jerked from place to place. Gray hair framed her long, narrow face. He thought he saw the slightest flicker of a smile on her lips when she looked at him.
“How is she?” he asked.
“Not well, Father.” Kstawl had seen three and ten summers. Her whiplike body was still a girl’s, with only the first hint of womanhood beginning to bud on her chest. She wore her long red hair in a bun coiled over her right ear and fastened with a beautifully carved buffalo-bone pin. “The Matron hasn’t eaten since this morning when you left for the Council meeting.”
She’d been trying to feed the matron spoonfuls of fish stew. Stew had dribbled down the front of Astcat’s dress.
Cimmis walked across the lodge and untied his belt pouch. It hurt to see his wife like this. Only a few moons ago, she had been bright and happy, her smile like sunshine in his soul.
“When did her soul fly?” he asked as he placed his pouch beside their bedding hides.
“Father, it was as though when you left this morning you took her soul with you.”
Cimmis nodded.
Before leaving, he and Astcat had discussed what to say to the Council. They had agreed it would be better to limit attacking recalcitrant villages that refused to send tribute; it was better to wait until they could call in favors from the other North Wind villages. Perhaps gather additional warriors before pushing the Raven villages.
She’d reached up and tenderly touched his face. My husband, the fact is, they cannot pay. These are difficult times for all of us. If we continue to harm them, they will strike back.
Kstawl rose and returned the bowl to the stew bag that hung on the tripod by the fire. As she poured the bowl’s contents back into the bag, he watched her. Her innocent oval face wore a perpetual frown.
Apparently nervous beneath his gaze, she wiped her hands on her brown dress and lifted the water bag beside the fire, preparing to wash the bowl.
“No, Daughter, don’t wash it,” he said, and walked over for the bowl. “Perhaps I can get her to eat.”
“I hope so.”
Cimmis stirred the stew and ladled the bowl full again. Kstawl stood quietly, awaiting further instructions.
“It’s late. Go and sleep. Thank you for trying to feed her.”
“I’ll return first thing tomorrow, Father.” She ducked through the flap.
Cimmis took the warm bowl to Astcat. Her eyes had stopped jerking uncontrollably. Now she stared vacantly at a fixed point in space. A small improvement.
“Here, my wife,” he said softly, and sat down beside her. “You must eat something or you’ll be as skinny as a weasel. I’d have to set your belongings outside my lodge.”
They always joked about divorce—about setting the other’s belongings outside the lodge—because it was simply unthinkable. Since their Joining day, he had taken captive women to his bed, even married them to establish beneficial political alliances, but he’d never loved them. His love for Astcat was like his heartbeat, constant and necessary.
Cimmis put his weak left arm around Astcat and hugged her shoulders. “Please try to eat. You know how it upsets me when you stop eating.”
He carefully raised the polished horn spoon full of fish stew to her lips.
She dutifully opened her mouth, chewed twice; then her mouth gaped and chunks of fish fell down the front of her dress.
Much practiced, Cimmis used the spoon to scoop up one of the chunks, and fed it to her again. This time, she chewed and swallowed.
Cimmis smiled. These were the small victories that made him happy. Not exacting the tribute owed them. Not leading war parties, or winning Council arguments.
Cimmis ate a bite of fish stew and gazed around the lodge. Blue-gray smoke spiraled up from the fire, hovered near the smoke hole, then escaped into the cold night beyond.
Most of their belongings were gone. A moon ago, when it became clear they could not survive the winter without additional tribute, the Four Old Women had made the decision to move to Wasp Village. He had ordered everything except what they needed every day to be packed and sent on ahead.
He hadn’t realized that on those rare occasions when Astcat’s soul returned to her body, she would need those things. Not so much because of what they contained, but because the baskets reminded her of where she was in the lodge. He’d come home right after dispatching the warriors with the first litter loaded with their things and found her wandering the lodge like a lost child.
He finished the stew and hugged her shoulders again.