People of the Weeping Eye(155)

“Just name the Albaamaha who did this thing, and the pain will be over.”

“I can’t!” Red Awl had cried. “Anyone I named would be innocent! Don’t you stupid Chikosi understand? If an Albaamo did this thing, I don’t know who!”

And so it had continued. Now for a blissful moment there was silence but for the woman’s choked breathing. Red Awl had fainted, his souls fleeing from the wreckage of his body. Fast Legs had slapped snow against the worst of the wounds, seeking to draw the man’s souls back, but his body sagged limply.

Smoke Shield stared out into the night. A good three inches of soggy snow had fallen, melting from the bottom up. What will make him talk? He pondered that idea, thinking of different manners of inflicting pain.

Fast Legs asked, “War Chief? Should we let him rest until morning?”

Smoke Shield rubbed the back of his head. “I suppose. It’s late. Maybe when he finally comes to, he’ll understand that this will go on and on until he talks. Maybe that inevitability will do what immediate pain cannot.”

“And the woman?”

“Cut her dress off. It’s cold. I could use some soft warm relief.” He smiled grimly. “Torture is an exhausting business.”

Lotus Root turned out to be the best part of the day. She fought like a wildcat when he pulled his beaverhide shirt over his head and settled on top of her. He had to cuff her once, hard, when she bit his lip and drew blood.





Red Awl blinked. Pain, terrible and encompassing, brought him to wakefulness. He bit his tongue to keep from screaming. He gasped for breath and tried to swallow down a dry throat. The deep burns on his body shot white agony through his limbs and torso.

I have never known hate until now. He managed to focus on the sleeping forms barely visible in the darkness. In the rear, huddled against the wall, he could make out Lotus Root. Her hair fell over her head like a shawl, and she clutched her ruined dress around her like a blanket. He swallowed hard, trying to keep from moaning. By the Ancestors, he didn’t want to wake the Chikosi.

The act of sitting up left him woozy and reeling. How could a human body hurt this much? “Lotus Root?” he whispered. “Shhh! Lean this way. Maybe I can get to your knots.”

She didn’t respond, but remained huddled, like a child who had been beaten.

“Lotus Root? We must be very quiet.”

“Go away,” she whispered miserably.

A hot tear traced down his cheek. What had they done to her? She had always been the strong one.

“If I can reach your knots, I may be able to loosen them.”

She remained like a lump.

He bent his neck, feeling burned skin compressing. Abba Mikko, help me!





Smoke Shield awakened to the winter song of a robin. He shivered in the cold, blinking to clear his vision. Morning light spilled through the low doorway, the world beyond bright with reflected snow. He yawned, seeing his breath rise in a wispy white streamer. Gods, Fast Legs needed to stoke up the fire. He tried to snuggle deeper into his bear hide. When he made a face his lip ached, which reminded him of the Albaamo woman, and her sharp teeth.

He chuckled. Well, Red Awl should be recovered enough that he could watch while Smoke Shield enjoyed another session with his wife. Yes, that was a great way to warm up while the fire was rekindled.

He sat up, dabbing at his swollen lip, then froze as he looked toward the captives. Gone! Both of them!

“Fast Legs! Wake up!” He scrambled to his feet, searching in the old trash at the back of the hut. The bindings lay in limp piles. He knew Red Awl’s; they were stiff with blood, and cleanly cut. The woman’s still had kinks in the cord where the knots had been pulled loose.

“What’s happened, War Chief?” Fast Legs stood, eyes thick with sleep.

“They’re gone. So are my bow and arrows.”

“I was sleeping on mine.”

“Thank the gods.” He leveled a hard finger. “How did they pick the knots?”

“I don’t know, War Chief!” Fast Legs swallowed hard. “You checked them yourself!”

He gave the man a “You’ll pay for this” look. “They can’t have gone far. Come, before this snow melts, we can run them down.”

He grabbed up his bearhide cape and peeked out the doorway, half expecting an arrow to be loosed in his direction. Nothing. He bolted from the door, sprinting to one of the trees, to stare warily out at the forest.

The tracks headed straight down the trail, making for the canoe landing.

Fast Legs darted out, then to the side, his bow drawn, arrow nocked. “Do you think they headed for the canoe landing?”

“I do. But we’ll have to go carefully. I think they’ve fled, but you can’t tell.”