She looked at him, and to his shock he felt himself losing balance, felt himself falling into the infinite brown depths of her eyes. In that instant he felt that she saw him. Knew him as perhaps no one else ever had.
“Yes.” Her voice trembled, but she did not blink. Her eyes did not shift, and Frog wondered.
Grand chief.
Then without another word, he left.
Frog the hunter skulked upon the plain, stealthy as a spider monkey as he scrambled to a ridgetop. From this concealed vantage he could peer down on the bouldered plateau. There was little to be seen save acacias and wild fig, candelabra and a fever tree or two. The moon squatted low and swollen on the horizon. The night was very clear.
There within the darkness…was that a greater, deeper shade? Was that the shadow of the mountain? A moon shadow? It seemed almost to point at the very clump of wait-a-bits where lay the terrified, exhausted Butterfly. From time to time out on the heated sands, he dreamed dreams of floating phantom mountains, shining, vanishing, reappearing at the whim of the moonlit clouds.
He should run. He should leave the husk of a girl in the boma and go home. No one would ever know he had even seen her. In that way, at least he would live, and one day marry, and have children….
“Chief,” he whispered.
The nameless one tossed and turned beneath the lashed branches, lost in nightmare, her eyes clouded with bloody visions.
Again she stood on the cliff above a distant, raging river. Afraid to die, shamed by the inability to simply release her grip and fall into Great Mother’s arms.
Gigantic, implacable, motivated by hungers beyond her ken, the Mk*tk crept toward her, hand over hand along the rocks. Their alien smell drove thought from her mind, so that she slipped and tumbled….
Gasping, she sat up, raking her cheek against the thorns. For a few breaths she was disoriented, unable to remember where or even who she was. Then a primal wave of hunger banished the confusion. The glorious aroma of roasting animal flesh filled her nose.
Frog squatted in the boma’s entrance, turning a spitted, skinned hedgehog over a bed of coals.
He was still with her? Had not fled? She was so astonished she could not speak.
“Eat,” he said. He wrapped a steaming half carcass with a banana leaf, and tossed it to her. She caught it, passed the steaming meat hand to hand until it cooled, and then put her teeth to work.
“I wish to see if your dreams are real,” he said. “Or if you are the crazy girl everyone says.”
So immersed was she in gnawing the flesh from the small bones that she could not even think of words to answer.
He gazed at her soberly. “If we both die, I will know you were wrong.”
At that, she felt the corners of her lips turn up. It was the first glimmer of happiness she had felt in a very long time.
Frog and T’Cori lay in shadow, looking down the hill at a group of three Mk*tk below them. They were larger than Ibandi, muscled much more heavily, with more body hair and flatter jaws, broader noses beneath shorter foreheads. The three looked in all directions and at least once appeared to look directly at the two Ibandi.
Beside him, T’Cori stiffened and started to crawl back, but he gripped her arm. He himself might have bolted, if not for the memory of the lioness: The predator can look directly at you and not see you. He is not Father Mountain or some all-powerful demon.
The Mk*tk sniffed the air, scratched at the dirt in search of sign and then trotted away.
The girl had described the place where she and her sisters had been captured. It dried Frog’s throat to realize he had been just across the valley from his people’s desperate struggle.
Could he have helped? No. If Owl Hooting and his brother had been killed, poor Frog would have been squashed like a melon.
In the easiest decision of his life, Frog decided to stay far away from them. It was possible that these creatures would anticipate his actions, but he was following his own, lesser num, which told him to trust the girl. Every evidence suggested that the Mk*tk were stronger and faster and more aggressive than he. He could only hope that he was smarter. If he had not even that advantage, then the two Ibandi had no hope at all. Better to simply lie down and die.
After the Mk*tk below them moved off to the east, Frog and the girl continued west.
Every shift of wind increased the risk of discovery. Every strange smell or echo promised disaster. Despite her small stature and mannered ways the girl seemed sturdy enough, and surprisingly nimble. She knew nothing of hunting or trapping, but from time to time she would stop and point out a plant or animal, and tell him of some function of which he had never dreamed. She pointed to a cairn of rocks and dung perched on a cave shelf above them. “Hyrax,” she said.
He knew the tiny mouselike creatures well. “Not much meat,” he sniffed.
“Their scat makes a tea, good for the shaking sickness,” she said.
She seemed thoughtful when she said that, and he wondered if there was a story to tell. She didn’t continue, and he remembered when Deep Dry Hole had collapsed, frothing at the mouth. Three times in a moon this had happened. The dream dancers had come and given him a thin soup to banish the shaking sickness. Afterward he had suffered only one more, and then none for as long as Frog could remember.
“Mouse shit?” Frog asked. “This is the medicine Dry Hole took?”
She looked at him proudly, seeing nothing humorous at all in the secret ingredient.
“Tell no one,” she said. “It is our secret.”
“No one,” he lied. Frog simply couldn’t wait to tell Dry Hole the truth. Perhaps he would wrinkle his nose, or if Frog decided to speak while Dry Hole was eating, he might even spit up his food.
That would be entertaining to watch. All the more reason to survive to reach home once again.
He heard the river before they reached it, and rather than merely fording its rushing waters, Frog thought to see if it might offer up nourishment. He shushed her and together they lay flat in the grass, watching the water at a slant so as to reduce glare. For half a quarter they waited, and then…
There! Frog glimpsed a flash of life beneath the surface.
“Butterfly, quiet,” he whispered, and crawled onto a jutting flat rock, close enough to the water to see his own reflection. She bit her lip and hunkered down obediently. Ten breaths he waited, and then ten more. When he saw the moving shadow, he lunged.
Frog was not strong, and many were faster afoot than he, but Frog’s hands were quick as his totem’s tongue. He lunged, slipped from the rock and fell into the river. Then he sat up on the rocks, sputtering, holding a flapping blue fish high in both hands. Never before had he seen its like: pink speckles against pale blue flesh with flat black eyes. But it flapped mightily, and anything that fought so for its life must be tasty indeed.
Both he and the girl laughed delightedly. She stood and ran in a circle, flapping her arms like her pretended namesake, thanking its spirit for the gift of flesh.
It was the first truly good moment that they had shared.
Another day’s walking, and Great Sky was now a misty gray ghost before them. Or was that Great Earth? Coming from the south, the two mountains were in line with each other, so that what appeared when the light was just right was a vast cairn of green-dappled gray rock. This was the outer range of Ibandi hunting territory. The nameless one seemed more at home now as well. Occasionally she dug tubers and plucked fleshy seed fruits with cries of happy recognition. Gradually their camp transformed into a place of joy and promise. Where they found caves, he used them, except one that had clearly been used before by Mk*tk. On that occasion they moved on, as he had with the baobab tree.
Two days from home, he was about to step out of the grassland into an area blackened and still smoldering from a lightning fire, when the nameless one pulled at his hand. “Wait,” she said.
“What, Butterfly?”
She smiled at the play name, then grew serious again. �
��Something is wrong,” she said. At first Frog thought to question her, then a voice within said, again, Trust the girl.
Were they being followed? But if that was true, why hadn’t the Mk*tk simply killed them? Certainly the monsters had little to fear from a single Ibandi boy.
Not that, then. Perhaps something else. Perhaps…perhaps their enemy was closer than he thought. Occasionally, as the wind shifted, his nose had wrinkled at a strong, alien scent.
So far, he had seen nothing: no tracks and no visual sign.
Perhaps he no longer believed in gods or a life beyond this one, but he had to trust something sometime. Why not trust himself, the skills taught him by Snake and his brothers, and this strange girl?
Yes. Trust.
What to do? Frog and T’Cori couldn’t circle any farther west. If Others were genuinely on their trail, then they might be driven into lands completely unknown. On the other hand, considering the nature of their enemy, if pursuit was that tenacious, no hope remained.
No. There was always hope. He was an Ibandi hunter, and the Ibandi would not be driven from their own lands.
So very cautiously, he began to move T’Cori farther east, backtracking and then searching for footprints.
And then at last he found sign, one brutish, splay-toed Mk*tk track, with wide thick toes and deep, heavy heel-print. A green centipede lay crushed in the impression, its pus sac mostly dried but still a bit gummy to the touch. From that wetness, Frog estimated the Mk*tk to be a half day ahead of him.
Letting caution rule him, Frog circled around the field of short blackened grass, camping in the bush without a fire. They followed on at daybreak when once again his eyes could distinguish between eland and elephant.
The wind wrinkled his nose. Frog stopped them, crouching to examine a sprig of broken grass. Then he simply remained still, and motioned her to follow his example.
“What are we doing?” she whispered.
“They may be close,” Frog said. “We take no chance. A hunter’s ally is stillness. My uncle Snake told me to be like a rock. All men, all animals want to believe all is well. Tell the world that you are harmless, and most will pass at peace.”
The girl nodded, and remained silent and still until he rose and motioned her to follow, which she did, dumbly, head down. But a quarter day later she said: “You are following him. How do you know he is not also following you?”
The idea burned. The thought of one of these terrible two-legged in the bush behind them, growing closer by the breath, was almost more than he could bear. And yet he wondered: Could that have happened? Could the Mk*tk have backtracked, just as he had? Found their signs? Even now come close enough to cast a spear?
No. Frog was slower and weaker than his brothers, but he trusted his mind. He had to. It was, and had always been, his sharpest weapon.
But with every step, that possibility gnawed at him.
Grand hunt chief. What if she was right? What then?
Frog began to cut glances at the nameless one. Again, he considered his motivations for remaining with her. Because she was a sacred dream dancer? Because there was a chance that T’Cori saw things that he did not? That she had actually seen a future in which he rose high in the Circle? He did not know how such a thing could be, but she claimed to see it, nonetheless. He had always suspected the dancers possessed such power. Snake said that Stillshadow could see the future. Could the nameless one?
So Frog doubled back on himself. For a quarter, he circled back, until he cut his own tracks again.
And there they were. Mk*tk tracks. Larger, deeper than Ibandi tracks. More weight on the balls of the feet, as if ready to sprint at any moment. “Do you trust me?” he asked the girl.
She nodded. “With my life.” Frog took her up into the rocks, very careful to brush away her footprints and any other sign that he and the nameless one had passed this way. “If I don’t return, it will be because I am dead,” he said. “If I die, would you rather die or have the Mk*tk take you back?”
Her expression told him all he needed. For his broken-winged Butterfly, death would be a comfort. Frog nodded. “Then here is the rest of the food,” he said, laying down the leather sack in which he had carried their supplies. “I will come back.”
There was a pause of several breaths in which neither of them spoke. Tears shone in her eyes, making them like twin summer moons reflected in the waters of Fire Lake. “Butterfly Spring,” he said. Her lips turned up in a sad little smile, and she spread her arms, flapping. Frog replied with his own little hopping dance.
Butterfly. Frog.
Family.
He started to turn away, but she called to him and threw her arms around his shoulders, holding him so tightly that he could barely breathe.
Again, he felt himself growing aroused, and was troubled. He had sexed with Fawn, a dream dancer, and now Fawn was dead. Other men and boys had lain with dream dancers, and it had brought no grief. Frog was confused, not knowing what was right or whether Fawn had been wronged in lying with him. He knew only that he did not want to sin against Great Mother twice.
It was almost embarrassing to pry her away. But the gratitude glowing in her eyes told him everything that he needed. This was right. And regardless of what happened, in her eyes he was a hero. As were his brothers. As Uncle Snake was. As he, Frog, had always hoped to be.
“I’ll be back,” said Frog. And then he was gone.
Whenever the way was clear Frog trotted, slowing down whenever the brush might offer concealment to an enemy. He crouched to examine the grass ahead, saw that it had been bent and broken only a quarter before, and increased his pace once again. If he could even once glimpse his quarry, it might be possible to design some kind of ambush. But even if he did catch sight before the Mk*tk detected him, how would he get into a killing position?
He was just thinking this when an impala buck bounded out of the brush behind him. Golden, slender and graceful it was, with a flash of white at hooves and flank. Its curved brown antlers swept back as if windblown. Wide-eyed and startled, it bounded off in another direction when its wide brown eyes glimpsed the human hunter.
The flesh along the back of Frog’s neck itched terribly. What had just happened? Was the appearance of the buck a coincidence? A sign from Father Mountain?
Or had the impala been disturbed? Driven from behind?
And if it had…?
The impala fled, but Frog sprinted after, cocking his spear arm, aiming, feeling the sense of sacred connection, praying that it was the impala’s death time. He threw, blunt end first.
The spear flew true, striking the impala hard at the rounded back of its skull, stunning it. Frog unslung his second spear, swinging it as the impala staggered to its feet, smashing it along the side of the head. It collapsed onto its side, bleating.
Then Frog scrambled away, wiping out his tracks, stepping on rocks whenever possible, until he was concealed at a safe distance.
The impala fell silent.
A hand of breaths passed. Frog felt a fool. Then again, better a live fool than a dead hero. Or a dead and devoured hero. Who knew what terrible things these Mk*tk did? T’Cori had not spoken of them eating human flesh, but that did not mean they eschewed such fare. Young Frog would make a tasty morsel indeed.
Frog heard something stirring in the brush, and a silver-backed jackal emerged. Its black-peppered tail twitched, red flanks and legs devoid of fat, pale chin and lips flecked with saliva. He was about to throw a rock to drive it off, when a second sound tickled his ears. The jackal’s massive head flicked around to face the direction from which the sound had come.
The imposing bulk of a solitary Mk*tk emerged from the brush. The jackal took one look at the Other, snarled, and despite its obvious hunger decided not to contest the meal. It ran, yipping in raucous disappointment.
The Mk*tk faded back into the brush, becoming just another shadow among the fronds. What was that shadow thinking? Was the Mk*tk as cautious as Frog had been? Then
his enemy crept farther forward, close enough to examine the stunned impala. Frog was glad that he had downed it without leaving an obvious wound. What might the Mk*tk think about the gift? Had they mind to consider such things, or would belly overrule head?
The Mk*tk sniffed the air. Frog prayed that the wind would not shift and betray him. With a black-bladed knife wrapped with a leather thong the Other cut the impala’s throat. Even before the buck’s feet ceased flapping, the Mk*tk was slicing strips from its body.
Unwelcomed thoughts swirled in Frog’s head: Did the Mk*tk trade with the coastal people? Or rob them? Or did they have their own sources of black rock?
Quiet, he told his mind. No time for the endless rattling of unanswerable questions.
Frog raised his spear point-first. Felt the stretch in his shoulder as he drew his arm back. Careful. Careful…and then he released the tension, hip twisting, chest pivoting, and then shoulder, the last segment of what the hunt chiefs called The Bamboo Whip, the movement that released the spear to flight. Almost as it left his hand, Frog sprinted after it, knowing that if it missed, the Mk*tk would catch and kill him.
But it did not miss. The spear struck the Mk*tk squarely in the back beneath the left shoulder, driving into the lung. The giant staggered, roaring in pain and rage as he reached back and clawed for the shaft, gripping and wrenching it loose. Screaming a string of sounds Frog did not comprehend, the Mk*tk hurled it to the ground. The spear’s firehardened wooden tip was smeared with crushed poison grub, but even if there was enough to kill the Mk*tk, it might take another quarter. Frog did not have a quarter.
One or the other of them would die this day.
The Mk*tk spun, arms wide, eyes bloodshot and lips pulled back from his mouth exposing great, flat, thick, yellowed teeth. Shrieking challenge, it charged him.
Frog stood his ground for a breath and then jabbed his second spear at the left ribs, wove out of the path of a grasping arm and jabbed at the right, swift enough to nick the Mk*tk, but almost slow enough to be grabbed as his foe clawed for him. The Mk*tk wrenched the spear from Frog’s grasp, spit on it, then cast it aside.
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