Primrose licked sweat from his upper lip. The salty flavor taunted his empty stomach. How long had they been here? Twenty hands time? More? At least the night had been cool. Not like this stifling afternoon heat that made it hard to breathe. Ries buzzed in glittering dances around them, landing on their clanMny faces, biting until Primrose thought he would go mad.
"I'm worried," old Nit whispered. Her eyes flitted over the raised sleeping platform behind Primrose, then dropped absently to the rows of grain-filled pots along the walls.
Green Ash's house was simple. Only a few baskets decorated the walls. A weaving loom stood beneath the sleeping platform^ a half-finished blanket on it. Folded piles of dresses lay neatly mounded beneath the window. In the slices of window light, their red, green, and yellow colors blazed, providing the only real spots of color.
Nit let out a tired sigh. "She's not opening up like she should."
Fescue bent down to peer between Green Ash's spread legs. The oldest woman there, over sixty summers, she had large black eyes and a moony face. Not a single tooth remained in her head. Her words were always slurred. "I can see the top of the baby's head . . . but there's not enough space for him to come out."
"Wait," Little Rye Grass urged. "Give her a few more hands of time before we start to panic. At least he's not coming out backwards." She shook her head to toss her sweaty black hair away from her face, then nodded encouragingly at Primrose.
His throat tightened. Gently, he stroked Green Ash's wet forehead. Her whole body was sheathed in sweat. "I love you. Green Ash. Don't worry. The baby's just being stub-bom. He's taking his time. But he's coming."
When a new wave of contractions struck, Green Ash reared up, pushing with all her might while she gritted her teeth. For the first time, she let out a scream, and Primrose put his arms around her and smothered her head with kisses. "Keep trying, Green Ash. Don't give up! Push! Pushr
But she fell back in his arms, panting, and he eased her down onto the drenched blanket. "Primrose! Don't let them take my baby. Stop them! Stop them ..."
Old Nit growled, "Talk to her. Primrose. Say something!"
He stuttered, "I—I've been thinking about Locust, off and on, wondering where she is and how she's doing." Green Ash let out a shuddering breath and closed her eyes. Primrose smoothed his fingers down her cheek to her throat. "By now. Locust and Badgertail should be ready to join forces with the separate war parties that they sent out to talk to the northern villages. I've been praying that White Clover Mounds and Henfoot Village joined them. Locust figured they could glean about four hundred and fifty warriors from those two places, and that would give them enough to beat Petaga. I don't know. I have misgivings about the war. Who knows what will come of it? I can't see any way that we can have our old lives back. Too many people will have suffered. No one will be happy."
Primrose picked up his fan again and swept air up and down the length of Green Ash's body. The flies rose in an angry torrent. Had there ever been a day so hot or filled with so many biting flies? The insects buzzed incessantly, and though Primrose kept his fan moving to shoo them from Green Ash's naked body, there were so many that he couldn't keep them off. They simply moved to Green Ash's legs, arms, or face, depending upon where Primrose waved his fan.
''Talkr Nit ordered.
"I—^I heard a funny story." Primrose laughed nervously. "Did you hear it. Nit? The story about the Sun Chief and the field mice? Apparently the mice have infested the temple with a vengeance this cycle. I guess it's because the plants wilted so early and they're hungry, so they're coming inside, sniffmg for bits of com or seeds. Well, the way the story goes, the Sun Chief woke one night screaming when two mice crawled into the coils of his hair and couldn't get out. Those poor mice got flattened by fists before it was through, and the Sun Chief ..."
He continued his story, his voice droning in unconscious rhythm with the swarming of flies, but Locust's pretty, pointed face filled his mind. Be safe. Locust. I need you to come back to me.
Surely she would be all right. She was cunning, and a perfect shot. No one could come close to Locust when it came to drawing a bow. But . . . what would happen if none of the northern villages had agreed to join them? They would be outnumbered, what . . . two to one?
You don't know that. Stop imagining the worst.
The possibility gnawed at him. Why did people fight wars at all? Couldn't everyone just share what little they had and live in peace? Then he shamefully recalled how desperate he had been last winter—desperate enough to stamp around in front of Locust weeping and pleading for her to do something to get them food. They hadn't eaten in two days. At the time, he hadn't cared in the slightest what lengths she had to go to in order to find food. Threats, theft, even murder, would have been acceptable. But Locust had only shushed him and held him tightly before she'd gone out hunting. When she came back the next morning with two measly pack rats, he had spent all day in bed, crying.