Trip! she thought. Yes, that would be best. For the coming moons, she alone would know what damage she had done to the Hickory Moiety. In her souls, she was plotting the best way of doing it. Simple: overrun, stumble, and fall. By holding the racquet just so, she would make the ball roll straight for her opponent. It would all be over. She could limp convincingly crestfallen to Heron Wing, and there would be no censure.
She was smiling as she ran headlong for the braced woman in her way. Behind her, the pursuing wave of players was pounding ever closer.
At the last moment, she twisted, feinted, and dodged past the defender. Her thoughts had gone silent. Breath tearing at her lungs, she raced for the goal. Driven by something she didn’t understand, she bulled her way forward. The last two defenders had backed, just at the edge of range.
At the last moment, an instant before impact, she recognized the Old Camp woman who had knocked her down. Reversing the racquet, she put her weight behind a low cast, firing the ball between the woman’s legs. That momentary act confused her opponent, drawing her to stare stupidly between her legs. Morning Dew lowered a shoulder, driving into the woman, knocking her sprawling.
That’ll show you just how good I am!
Morning Dew grunted at the impact, stumbled sideways, and saw the ball zipping ahead of her. In three steps she had recovered her stride. Breath coming in great gulps, she raced for the ball, scooped it up, and heard the second woman’s bare feet hammering the ground.
Too fresh, she’ll catch me. Instinct took over; the racquet went back. With all her might, Morning Dew launched the ball overhand, tripping from the exertion, falling. She hit the ground hard—impact drove the breath from her lungs. Her pursuer tried to jump, snagged one of her legs, and hammered the ground beside her with a sodden thump.
Morning Dew sprawled on her stomach, stunned, sparkles of yellow flickering before her eyes. She felt herself falling, unable to suck breath. A gray twilight hovered at the edge of her vision, and a loud ringing filled her ears. When she could finally draw breath, it was shallow, and the pain came welling up from her body.
Shuffling feet came into vision: two, four, then tens of them. The world consisted of feet and the ringing in her ears. Then she gulped a full breath, her stomach nauseous. Hands lifted her, and she blinked, aware that a sea of women surrounded her. The ringing mixed into cheers as her stunned body was lifted high, borne along as if on a wave.
There she floated, adrift on a sea of supporting hands, buoyed by a press of smiling, shouting women.
“What happened?” she asked herself numbly. “What did I do?” She thought of the immense pile bet on the game. Of the loss she could have dealt Hickory Moiety and her tormentors.
You are a matron, the voice said from somewhere inside her.
Thirty-four
“Five points!” Smoke Shield roared. “Five miserable points!” He sat in the seclusion of his dark room. No one would find him here. In the gloom, he could be alone, staring at the empty room around him. He had bet everything: his clothing, furs, paints, boxes, shells, and pottery. Even the blankets and hides on his bed were gone, leaving only the split-cane matting. Through the weave he could see the sheathed stone sword and the little honorary arrows. Had they not been of such great importance to him, they, too, would have been gone. He had even surrendered his shirt, and now wore one of Thin Branch’s, feeling the too-tight material almost ripping from the act of breathing.
The roar from the solstice games had been drifting in, reminding him of the women’s contest. Now it reached a crescendo. Looking up, he could almost believe the palace was trembling. What more had Hickory Moiety lost? He had seen the Old Camp women practicing, and after the drubbing the men’s team had taken this morning, he wouldn’t have bet a broken pot on the women winning. Not that he had one to bet.
The tumult beyond the palace didn’t recede. If anything it grew louder. He closed his eyes, dropping his face into his hands. Old Camp must have been exultant like they had never been before.
Time to go “hunting” again. The last thing he wanted to do was face all the smug faces, hear the taunts and jibes from the winners.
“Five foul little points!” He rubbed his face. The gods alone know what it would have been without his efforts. Of all the points scored by Hickory warriors, one out of three had been his. Gods, what a bunch of rabbits. He peeked through his fingers, seeing his empty floor. The outlines where boxes had been could be made out in the dust. Round rings marked where the pots had once sat.
He had only matting, the ceremonial sword, his war honors, and a borrowed shirt to his name. Not even his war club was left to him. A stinging reminder of his previously stolen bow and arrows.