People of the Weeping Eye(177)

“Rest up,” Violet Bead said, leaning toward her. “I have a feeling we’ll need you again.” Then the woman gave her a pat on the back.

Morning Dew watched the ball sail high into the air. She backpedaled, fully aware of the futility of scrambling for the ball amidst that milling confusion of bodies.

She took a position midway back, glancing at the others around her; those fleet of foot, and quick with the racquets. These were the skilled players, the ones who left the bigger women to battle for the ball. The more aggressive women liked close quarters. It allowed them to jab an elbow into a longtime rival’s breast or “accidentally” backhand an opponent in a move that didn’t seem a blatant strike.

More and more women crowded into the mess. Heron Wing had taken a position on the south, Violet Bead and several other good players filling the gaps, knocking shoulders with Old Camp opponents who were also circling the fringes.

Gods, how long was this going to last? Morning Dew was almost breathing easily again when a woman rose above the confusion, lifted by her friends. She gave a halfhearted toss of the ball to a red-dressed player, who flung it hard at another. The receiver missed what should have been an easy catch, and turned, racing two Hickory women for the rolling ball. In that instant, Morning Dew could tell which way it was going to go. One of the Hickory women trapped the ball with her racquet, scooped it up, and slung it eastward. Morning Dew couldn’t see who caught it as the press of women broke apart like a school of fish, racing off to the north.

“Pace yourself,” Mother’s warning voice reminded from the past. “Think first; run yourself to death later.” The ball would always come back.

She glanced at the other women around her, they, too, taking the opportunity to prop their hands on their knees, breathing deeply. Her job now was to wait, to be fresh if the ball came back her way. When it did, she needed to intercept and fling it eastward again. In the meantime, she checked the tight cloth binding she had wound around her chest, ensuring it wouldn’t slip down.

When the ball came it was rapid, the Old Camp women having established a line, passing one to another. Morning Dew turned, heading to intercept when she was hit from the side. She stumbled, tripped, and hit the ground hard, glaring back. The woman who hit her had also tumbled from the impact. As the woman scrambled to her feet, she yelled, “Sorry, but you’re too good!”

Morning Dew found her dropped racquets, climbed to her feet, and charged off, too late to make a difference as Old Camp scored again.

Even up.

Cursing under her breath, Morning Dew limped to the forming line.

“What happened?” Heron Wing asked.

“Got knocked down,” Morning Dew said through gritted teeth.

“Take it out on Old Camp,” another of the women replied. Some clacked their sticks together in approval.

The game seesawed, point for point. Twice Morning Dew got the ball, passing it neatly. Once a woman dropped it, only to have an Old Camp player scoop it, then sling it west, where a goal was scored. They were tied at nineteen apiece.

“Last point,” Heron Wing said darkly. She shot Morning Dew a look. “You rested?”

“I am.”

“Go long. If we tag you, you make that point!”

Morning Dew watched the woman cast a quick look at the piles of goods wagered on the game. They rose behind the stakeholders like a small mountain.

“Nothing about moiety honor?” Morning Dew asked.

“That, too,” Heron Wing asserted as the ball was tossed to open the final play. Morning Dew went south, skirting the massed struggle over the ball. She wasn’t even halfway to her position when Heron Wing’s shout brought her around. The ball was already in the air, arcing wide.

Morning Dew broke stride, racing, too far away to intercept. Nevertheless, she had one chance before the nearest Old Camp woman would be on it. From a dead run, she batted the ball, half a heartbeat ahead of her opponent’s frantic strike. Racing after the rolling ball, she managed to scoop it into the air, run under it, and snag it in a racquet pocket. Then she turned, sprinting for all she was worth. A quick glance over her shoulder let her know the entire mob was racing after her. Before the distant goal four women waited, racquets ready.

How do I do this? Thoughts raced through her. If she could pass them, get within range, the point would be hers.

Why should I? This was Hickory Moiety’s game. All of their possessions rested on her. She could throw wide, send the ball out of bounds, or she could bobble a pass, trip, do anything, and the defenders would scoop up the ball. From them it would pass down that most able line of players to the Old Camp goal.