by Zoe Saadia
“We’ll wait here,” he breathed, gesturing rather than actually speaking.
The warrior next to him shrugged, his eyes narrow, heavily lidded, unreadable. Another one displeased with being led by a younger man. Okwaho’s stomach heaved again. Oh, Mighty Spirits, let my instincts be true again. Don’t let it be that I dragged these men out here for nothing.
He crept closer to the exposed ground. Nothing.
The wind tore at the treetops angrily. Should he go on, following the trail until they reached the river? Try to find more footsteps? Oh, Benevolent Spirits, why was it taking the stupid locals so long to arrive?
Another quick calculation, but it didn’t help. All he had seen was a movement, a brief glimpse upon the exposed side of the hill. It could have been anything, really. Why had he decided it was people? Because of some silly spark? Weapons were not the only thing that sparkled in the light. Many things could do that. If polished, or just thoroughly wet …
“Nothing?”
Akweks’ whisper cut the panicked turn his thoughts were taking, welcome and irritating at the same time.
“They’ll come.” He was surprised with the firmness of this statement, with how his own whisper related conviction he didn’t feel.
“What if they are not heading this way?”
“Where would they be going if not back to their village?” More of an effort to banish the rising tide of misgivings.
“Hunting, harvesting, gathering things.” Akweks crouched beside him, troubled. “Going to some other village they may have around here, even though it would be a strange arrangement.”
The ice was piling up in his insides, but before he could burst out protesting that no people would be building villages so close to one another—why would they bother instead of living together in one settlement?—there was a sound, a muffled something brought by the increased wind, something that jerked his attention away from his friend’s words and the trail they were watching. The rustling of the trees and the buzzing of insects made it difficult to pick out the other sound, yet his senses told him there was a presence out there, a presence that wasn’t there before. The people they were waiting for?
His companions tensed as well, following his gaze. There was no need for a special ability to hear the occasionally cracking branches, the muffled footsteps of people who tread the earth carefully, but not soundlessly, not on a warpath or a hunt.
Silently, he slipped back in between the trees, motioning them to follow. This time, no one argued. Concentrating on his inner world, the way Father had taught him, he didn’t try to see through the thick brown and green, listening instead, probing with his senses, taking in the howling wind, the rustling bushes, the natural sounds as opposed to the less natural ones.
There.
One of the older warriors motioned with his head just as Okwaho’s ears picked out the muffled creak of a broken branch. His nerves as tense as an overstretched bowstring, he readied his body, relying on his instincts as much as on his mind’s decisions when the time came. But for a bit of knowledge of these woods! To have a better idea where these people were coming from and why.
More careful footsteps. They were nearing, heading straight here. The trail! They were trying to reach the trail, he realized. Good! Maybe they were the locals he had spotted before.
He strained his eyes, trying to see through the greenish thickness, the club grasped tightly in his sweaty palm. Why was he sweating? Was it that hot?
The footsteps died away. The cracking of the branches stopped. He felt his heart coming to a halt. One heartbeat, then another. When it resumed its movement, it was fluttering in his chest, filling his mouth with a bitter taste. The forest was still, listening, waiting, just like they did.
Then, with a clarity of mind he didn’t know he possessed, he knew that they had to charge, to charge now, surprising the enemy that refused to be surprised otherwise. The trap didn’t work, but they could still make the best out of the situation by attacking first. The approaching group could not be numerous, judging by the little noise their previous progress made.
Bettering his grip on the club, he looked around, meeting Akweks’ questioning gaze.
“Come.”
He didn’t say it aloud but motioned with his head. The others stared at him, but he disregarded their frowns, gesturing with his free hand again, turning away and bursting toward the next creaking sound, not completely sure he was not running out there all alone.
The bushes tried to block his way, but he jumped over them, not attempting to keep quiet, not anymore. The club was alive in his hands, wishing to fly, to pounce or to rotate in a half circle, to do its work.
The first man he saw gaped, taken aback, his hair tied simply in hunters’ fashion, his eyes wide. He held a harpoon, a spear-like stick used for fishing, not a bad weapon, far-reaching and light, maneuverable; yet, he had no chance to so much as wield it before Okwaho’s club crashed against the side of his head, filling the small clearing with a revoltingly wet thud.
His heart pounding insanely, he froze for a moment, watching the man toppling over, collapsing like a cut-down tree. One moment staring in bewilderment, the other nothing but a mess of dancing limbs, an unsettling sight.
A familiar hiss jerked him away from his observation, making him duck, throwing his body aside. Losing his balance, he would have fallen, but for the unexpected support of an old tree, its bark rough and bumpy against his grip, hurting but in a friendly manner, not letting him fall.
The heavy footsteps behind his back urged him to release his temporary support, sending him ducking again, darting aside. The weighty tip of a club smashed against the old tree, exploding with a thud.
Splinters and pieces of bark showered the ground, as he struggled to turn around in time to meet the next onslaught, to stop it before it had the chance to crack his head open and cause his legs and arms to twitch in the most disgusting of ways. The sun was in his eyes, and he couldn’t see how many people he was facing, nor where his comrades were. Was he fighting all alone here?
His club blocked the next blow in a satisfying manner, but his arms trembled, holding on barely, giving way. His rival pressed on. He was a strongly-built man, much older than himself, clearly a warrior with great experience, his face glittering with sweat, oily hair collected on the top in an elaborate braid. His eyes were large, and they sparkled victoriously, but before Okwaho’s arms gave way, he kicked at his rival’s unprotected legs, slipping down the trunk he was pressed against, rolling away from the remnants of the blow.
Again, the sound of the club brushing against the crumbling bark startled him. Those strikes were too powerful, too well directed. Leaping to his feet, he took a good look at the clearing for the first time, a mess of colorful garments, swinging clubs, and flashing knives. So he was not alone here after all. The realization reassured him, and he pounced on his limping rival, elated, glad that he had enough presence of mind to direct his kick well, right into the man’s knee.
His own assault was met by a club, blocked firmly; still, it pleased him that he was the one to attack now. It gave him strength, cleared his mind, let it analyze the situation. The man was not as agile as before, so if made to chase his prey around the clearing, he might lose his guard.
A strategy that should have worked but for someone’s spear interrupting the plan. As Okwaho faked fear, easing away carefully, preparing to dart, the sturdy shaft brushed past his side, nearly pushing him off his feet again, leaving a burning sensation under his right arm. It almost impaled his rival, and had the man not been so quick himself in darting away, waving his hands to keep his balance, it would have done so.
He calculated fast. To reach the spear was possible but pointless. He had his club, the weapon of his preference anyway. Yet to disregard the long-ranged weapon was to invite trouble, to allow the lowlife who had thrown it the chance of picking it up again.
The man with the club was about to regain his balance, and he hesitated no mo
re. One leap placed him next to his rival, his own club coming down fast, unstoppable now. He knew it would reach its target; this time it was a sure thing.
Another revolting thud and he was standing victorious, his heart fluttering in his chest, pounding in his ears, deafening. His rival was gasping for air, twisting upon the ground, gurgling sounds pouring out of his mouth, along with a trickle of blood.
Okwaho straightened up to deliver the final blow. Oh, Mighty Spirits, please see to this worthy man; please make his Sky Journey smooth and pleasant.
In the clearing, the battle still raged, the hunters numerous, angry, unafraid. Yet, their numbers were evening out, with more of the locals dotting the dank, moss-covered earth, twisting or lying still. There must have been at least ten hunters they had encountered, surprised but not unready, not helpless. Were these the people he had seen from the top of the hill? Such a large group?
There was no time to ponder these questions. Seeing two of his fellow warriors pitted against a group of spearmen, he darted their way, his club high and ready, the war cry vibrating upon his lips. Startled, the attackers turned, some jumping away, out of instinct probably. It gave his companions a much-needed opening, a heartbeat of respite.
While the spearmen attacked, waving their weapons as though they were clubs, he ducked, avoiding the touch of the razor-sharp flint, his club adorned by a vicious spike too, better and sturdier but not as far reaching, demanding a closer combat.
He saw Akweks escaping the thrust of a javelin, leaping away, to bury his knife in another man’s side, twisting it viciously, for the maximum effect.
Ducking another onslaught, he felt the club slipping and didn’t dare to take his eyes off the attacking men in order to regain possession of his weapon. Gaze clinging to the darting spears, trying to anticipate their movements, his hands tore at his sheath, desperate to get hold of the knife.
From the corner of his eye, he saw one of their warriors wavering, letting out a strange sound, the tip of an arrowhead peeking from his throat, placed in a perfect symmetry, as though belonging there, glittering darkly. In the next heartbeat, the man was upon the ground, his face buried in the slippery mud.
An observation that cost Okwaho a cut upon his upper arm, the spear thrusting forward, determined to impale him. As his body twisted, getting out of the deadly flint’s reach, he slipped on the muddy ground, and didn’t try to regain his balance this time, but rolled away, his free hand snatching up a stone, fingers tightening around uneven edges.
There was no time to take good aim. Leaping back to his feet, he hurled his newly acquired missile while still in the process of getting up, seeing the enemy rushing forward, eager to finish his victim off.
The stone met his attacker halfway, crushing into the flushed face with a resounding bang. It was a funny sight, the way the man flopped his hands in the air, as though in a dance, his spear flying sideways, followed by its owner before the next heartbeat was over.
Already back on his feet, Okwaho felt like falling again, this time in a wild fit of laughter. It was really too funny, the sight of the dancing man, now upon the ground, twisting like a snake, gurgling through the bloody mess of a mouth. He tried to make the laughter stop, the wild pounding of his heart filling his ears, making it all even funnier. Oh, Mighty Spirits!
A scream beside his ear helped, taking his attention away and back to the battle. Akweks was staggering by his side, one hand flailing in the air, the other trying to reach behind his back, where a feathered shaft was fluttering, sticking out of the massive thigh, the colorful feathers trembling with the frantic movements, not belonging.
Plunging ahead, he caught his friend, struggling to keep him upright while not falling himself, finding it difficult to hold on against the limpness and the additional weight.
“Hold on!”
Trying to see the enemy who might be attacking them from behind, he twisted, desperate to locate his club, then noticed the silence. Not a dead silence that always preceded some terrible happenings, but a relative calm of an aftermath. The battle was over.
His eyes scanned the clearing, taking in the terrible sights and the smells that should be familiar by now, but were not. That scent of fresh earth and the forest mixed with the revolting odor of blood and discharges, the terrible stench that came from the inside of human bodies and everything it released with its life forces trickling away with no warning or preparation. Oh, how he hated that smell! And the sights it always accompanied, broken limbs and smashed heads filling the world, leaving nothing outside of it, no hope of escape.
He swallowed hard, then forced his mind back to his friend, who was leaning heavily against him, calmer now, not fighting to reach the arrow any longer.
“You’ll be all right,” he muttered, struggling to better his grip on the wide shoulders. “We’ll get you over there, where you can sit. Then we will take care of this annoying thing in your leg.”
He could feel Akweks nodding stiffly, bereft of words.
“Over there.” To Okwaho’s imminent relief, one of the older warriors took hold of the young man’s other arm, taking some of his weight away. “Sit him there, where there is more light.”
A curt nod indicated the edge of the clearing. Okwaho said nothing, struggling with his burden. Ronkwe, the third warrior, he noticed, was kneeling beside their fallen comrade, muttering a prayer.
“Let me see if we can extract it now, or if it would be better to take him back as he is.” The man wiped the sweat off his brow, smearing a mixture of mud and dried blood upon it as he did so. The cut on his right arm was still bleeding, and so was the narrow gash on the swollen side of his jaw.
“Lie still.” That was directed at Akweks, who was twisting his head in an attempt to see the wound from behind, his face a pasty gray mask, his lips an invisibly twisted line, pressed too tightly to part.
Okwaho’s heart squeezed.
“It’s nothing. Just a stupid wound.” Squatting next to his friend, he peeked at the glittering flint sticking out of the bleeding mess, then took his eyes off as quickly. It didn’t look good, that wound, not when they were so far away from home and with no healer around, just the collective knowledge of their fellow warriors, their experience good, but not as good as that of a medicine man. “We’ll get it out in no time.”
The naked agony in his friend’s eyes made him shiver. That and the flicker of fear, too obvious to miss. Akweks was always so brave, so full of jokes.
“How does it look from behind?” The croaking voice was difficult to recognize.
“I … We’ll take care of it. In a short while.” He glanced at the man who was busy cutting off one of Akweks’ leggings, working around the feathered shaft. “How will you…”
“What do you think?” Grimly, the man muttered something that sounded like a curse. “We pull the point off, break it, then pull the shaft out of the back of his leg, where it entered. Think this is the best of ways to deal with it.”
Perturbed, Okwaho watched Ronkwe, who now towered above them, having finished seeing their fallen comrade off.
“We can’t stay here. We need to leave fast. We need to reach our people.”
He glanced at the greenish foliage that separated them from the trail they were watching earlier, desperate to penetrate its deceptive calmness, to hear anything, an indication. It was not all peaceful out there. He would have bet his most prized of possessions on it, a necklace of bear claws Father had given him for safekeeping when he had left home. Oh, yes, he could have bet even that priceless thing against the claim that the people they came to catch were coming here, heading up the trail, where he had planned to waylay them earlier. His hand sought the softness of the leather bag that contained the necklace, tied firmly to his knife’s sheath. The feel of it gave him confidence.
“Take their weapons in the meanwhile.” Narrowing his eyes, the man inspected the protruding flint once again, its glow dulled by the bloodied mess, clinging to it, looking terrible, obscene.
Sighing, he glanced up. “We are as safe here as we can be. The filthy enemy is dead.”
“There are more out there. The people I saw. The people we were looking for before.”
“They are all here.”
He tried not to avert his gaze, to pay no attention to the disdain and the accusation, both written clearly across his companions’ faces.
“No, these are different people. Not the ones we were looking for.”
Their stony expressions hardened. “How do you know that?”
He took a deep breath. “The people I saw were going the other way. And they were a smaller group, not as numerous as this one.”
More heavy silence.
“They could have split earlier.” Shrugging, the first man reached for the wound. “Could have changed their way, too. Followed another trail.” As the rough fingers fastened around the slippery flint, digging into the raw flesh to get a better grip, Akweks’ suppressed groans filled the air. “You have no knowledge of this forest to arrive at the conclusions you keep coming to. I wonder why our leader chose to listen to you in the first place.”
He felt his own sweat breaking out anew, the sight of his friend’s pasty features and the barely concealed terror in his eyes mixing with the familiar frustration. They were determined not to listen! He would have spent his time better collecting the fallen enemies’ weapons, indeed. Yet, the anguished eyes clung to him, pleading, the grip of the young man’s fingers on his own arm threatening to crush his bones.
“I’ll be pulling it out now,” said the man, addressing the wounded, his tone not unkind. “You two hold him still.”
The fingers clenched harder, making his palm go numb. He tried to get ahold of Akweks’ shoulders without releasing his arm.
“Ready?”
