People of the Sea(39)
Kestrel obediently responded to the sharp tone in his voice and rolled to her back.
He fell on her, ripping at her sleeves, pulling them down so that they trapped her arms at her sides. When he fumbled with one hand to unlace his pants, she said, “Lambkill, you don’t have to do this. I want you!”
He forced her knees open. Bracing his hands by her hips, he entered her and thrust violently, trying to hurt her.
Weeping, Kestrel cried, “Lambkill! Please!”
“Shut up!”
As his frenzy built, he gripped Kestrel’s shoulders so hard
that his fingernails cut into her flesh. Finally he groaned and relaxed. A few moments later, he slid off her and laced his pants again.
In silence, he crawled to the opposite side of the lodge and slumped down on one of the cattail sleeping mats. Within a single finger of time, he started snoring.
Kestrel lay unmoving. Dazed. Hurting inside. She felt as though her soul had separated from her body and floated near the smoke hole in the ceiling…. She shook the memory out of her head as she stared at the tapir. The red flesh had begun to crinkle as it dried. Never again. I’ll kill him first.
She dragged herself to her feet and picked up a fresh flake. A mountain of black clouds bore down on her from the north, blotting out the feeble rays of sunlight as it came. Beneath it, cloud shadows roamed the hills like slate-gray beasts stalking for prey. She thought she could make out the haze of rain.
Wearily, she knelt and slit the thin skin on the calf’s belly. She had to bury her arm up to her shoulder to reach the heart. Cutting it loose from its sac took almost more strength than she possessed, but she drew out the organ and tipped it to her mouth. Hot blood coursed down her chin and soaked the front of her dress. She drank greedily, gratefully. Tapir’s blood ran like fire through her veins, giving her strength.
The Boy wept with joy! His Mother would live now. And soon, very soon, he would have the chance to be born again so that he could set things right in the world of humans! Only he could do it. No one else had the strength or the determination!
“Yes, good Mother. Drink as much as you can hold. Grow strong! Do you hear me, Mother? I’m calling to you. I have to be born soon. Hear—”
From out of the siar-spotted blackness, the Man said, “Come here, Boy. I want to tell you a story.”
“I need to watch my Mother! What do you want?” The Man’s voice was as soft and caressing as weasel fur against the face. Tenderly, he said, “There was once a bad Forest Spirit who appeared to a very good Dreamer in the guise of Wolf, and he said to the Dreamer, “I am your Spirit Helper. Above-Old-Man sent me to you.” But the Dreamer said: 7 don’t think so. You must have the wrong woman. I haven’t done anything to deserve a Spirit Helper. Perhaps you were meant to appear to my brother Dreamer in the next lodge… Immediately, the wicked Forest Spirit vanished.”
Seven
Water pooled, sparkling clear, in the small hollow ringed by moss-covered logs. A mat of needles and rosebush leaves coated the bottom of the catchment. Sunchaser dropped his pack to one side and studied the little creek fed by runoff. Helper, under no such compulsion, stepped forward on hesitant feet, sinking into the moss before lapping eagerly at the water.
The trail crossed the creek here. A man traveling alone was fair game. Bears would be emerging from their winter’s stupor, hungry for the lush spring grass and any other food they could find.. The roaring of the lions had awakened Sunchaser that very morning, the sound muted by the trees but telling of empty bellies. Dead branches feathered the gray-brown boles of fir trees and pine, while thick stands of currant
and rosebushes clotted the slope to either side of the creek’s channel. Overhead, a thick mass of evergreen boughs whispered silently in the midday breeze. The glory of the valley brought peace, and rest.
From the time Sunchaser had left Brushnut Village, his fear had been increasing. When he blanked his mind, he could sense wrongness, a creeping blackness easing over the land like a perverted night fog.
Jumpy… I’m still not well. That’s all. A bit of leftover fever. He sank down onto the chilly damp soil. His tired legs trembled, and he closed his eyes, happy to rest for a moment.
Everything was going wrong. First his Dreams of the mammoths dying, vanishing from the face of the earth. Then the way through the maze had slipped from his clumsy fingers like a wet fish. In the beginning, he hadn’t been worried. Power shifted and fluctuated throughout a man’s life. It should have been a simple matter to refocus his efforts and find the way. He’d left Brushnut Village three days ago and had been Dreaming every night, but he hadn’t been able to find the path through the maze. Sunchaser sighed and opened his eyes, aware that Helper had finished lapping up the cool water and come to stand beside him. Absently, he reached out, rubbing the dog’s black coat. His hands were immediately coated with coarse black hair.