by J. D. Lakey
Suitably provisioned, they left the Pantry and raced each other back across the square to the weapons warehouse. The children tumbled through the door, breathless with laughter.
The duty of weapons master had fallen on Zeff this day. He was her favorite oldpa. She loved that he wore his silver hair long and pulled back in a knot at the back of his head. Few Fathers lived to get the silver in their hair. Cheobawn thought it made him look elegant and wise. It certainly set him apart from all the other Fathers who kept their hair cut close for convenience.
The old man looked up, smiling. Then he caught site of Cheobawn’s short frame in their midst. The smile faded to be replaced with an intense stillness. Cheobawn watched him, wondering if males had psi abilities that they did not reveal to the Mothers for surely Zeff was listening to his own personal ambient. Cheobawn held her breath and waited for the scolding. It did not come, though it was apparent that Zeff had much he wanted to say. Instead, the old man grunted and held out his hand.
“Let’s see your tag,” he said.
Tam held it up but did not relinquish it, as if it were too precious to be risked in strange hands.
“Phillius already checked with Hayrald,” Tam said in a rush, trying to belay any more arguments. “We are a four plus one, in the records under temporary Pack.”
Zeff met Cheobawn’s eyes, a doubtful look on his face. Cheobawn gave him an tremulous smile, wishing with all her heart that he would put away whatever reservations he was feeling. Mora could not keep her locked up in the dark for the rest of her life and the village Fathers could not protect her from her own fate, as much as they wished to. The Pack held their breath and waited.
“Fine,” Zeff said at last. “Everyone go get your tools and come back here.”
Alain headed towards the rack of short swords. Tam grabbed him by the arm and steered them all over to the rack of bladed sticks. While nicely suited for cutting down hard to reach fruits and nuts, the sticks turned into deadly weapons in well-trained hands. It was the first weapons form every child learned.
Cheobawn, too short for the long weapon, went over to another rack and picked up a gleaner’s hook. The short staff, meant for harvesting wild grain, had a small, sickle shaped blade on one end.
“Belt knives?” Alain suggested eagerly Megan and Cheobawn exchanged looks. They all carried pocket knives. A belt knife seemed a bit much.
“Simple is better,” commented Cheobawn to no one in particular.
“We have to travel fast. Do we really need the extra weight?” Megan added.
“One hunting knife, in case we have to field dress a carcass. Alain, you are the biggest. You carry it,” Tam decided.
Megan and Cheobawn exchanged amused glances. The likelihood of this lot bringing down a game animal on their first foray was laughably non-existent.
The ever-hopeful Alain grinned and scampered across the room to the knife drawers. He joined them at the counter as Zeff began to enter their weapons list into the form on his screen. Tam looked down as Alain slipped a ten inch blade onto his belt.
“Really?” Tam asked. Alain grinned at him, his good mood irrepressible.
Zeff rattled off the rules, almost identical to Phillius’s instructions.
At the end he pointed at Cheobawn.
“Littlest in the center of the group at all times. The big cats pick the easy prey off the front and back first. Pay attention. The mountain gets to keep what it takes. Remember that.”
“Ye’sir,” they chorused solemnly.
Zeff looked like he wanted to say more. They waited.
“By the Mother!” he growled, waving them out. “Get going. There’s nothing I can say that you won’t learn the hard way on your own. Scat!”
They tripped over each other’s heels trying to get out the door first.
“Zeff. Always so cheerful and positive,” Connor said with a snort.
“He worries,” Cheobawn said.
“Why jinx us,” Megan fretted, “by thinking only the worst things?”
Cheobawn thought of the bright giggly place in the middle of the woods and laughed.
“No worries, no trouble, just fun,” she assured them, twirling her hook in her fingers. Connor and Alain laughed, trying to mimic her moves with their sticks.
Tam squinted at Megan.
“Should I ask her what she knows or just wait and be surprised?”
“It never gets any clearer if you push her. I have found it is best to be patient,” she said.
“Patience,” agreed Cheobawn, with a spin of her hook.
Tam smiled but he tapped the spinning blades down out of the air with his own and shooed them all towards the East Gate.
They had one more stop to make before they could exit Home Dome. The East Gate’s changing room stood just a dozen strides from the gate. It contained stockpiles of communal work clothing used only for exterior forays. The leather aprons, coats, riding chaps, bonnets and wide brimmed straw hats hung neatly on hooks. Gloves, hats and outer wear of every sort were stored in vermin proof chests. The room smelled of cedar and soap and leather polish. Cheobawn sniffed deeply. There was so much promise in that smell. For the rest of her life that smell would remind her of the excitement of freedom under bright skies.
They shed their village slippers, replacing them with the more sturdy wayfaring boots well padded with felted liners. Cheobawn found a pair of boot liners that fit her small feet. It took a good amount of hunting to find boots in her size. By the time she was suitably shod, the Pack had found its way over to the gaiter bin and within minutes were lacing up the reinforced leather thorn shields on forearms and calves.
Cheobawn picked through the communal bins, looking for thorn guards that would fit her small form. She was starting to feel a little grumpy. The day they became an official Pack they would be able to requisition their own personal gear. As a temporary Pack they were reduced to wearing the well used castoffs of the older Packs. That day could not come soon enough, thought Cheobawn, her frustration growing.
She stamped her foot. None of the gaiters fit her. This was pointless. She was too small. She watched sadly while the rest of her Pack tightened up the laces on their leather armor and headed for the door, chatting excitedly.
Tam counted noses and paused, looking back.
“Hey, wee bit. What’s the problem?”
“Nothing fits,” Cheobawn said forlornly.
“She needs gaiters,” Alain said, stating the obvious. “This is supposed to be a gleaner mission into the deep bush.”
“Can’t she do without?” Megan asked anxiously. “It’s not like we actually mean to glean.”
Tam shook his head, a worried look on his face.
“Everyone else gets to dress up but me. I want to look like a warrior, too,” Cheobawn protested, her lip trembling.
Tam stared at her sad little face and then looked around the shed in desperation. His eyes lit on the storage chests set against the side wall.
“Come on. There might be something we can use.” He ran his fingers down the inventory lists pinned to the outside of each of the chests.
“Dusters. Parkas. Snowsuits. Mukluks. Ah ha! Mittens and hats,” he crowed triumphantly. Tam hit the release button on the lid. It barely had time to unseal and swing open before Tam was digging under the top layer of aromatic cedar boughs. He seemed to be looking for something very specific as his quest took him deeper and deeper into the box. When it seemed he must have surely dug to the bottom and only his legs were visible, he let out a muffled cry of success.
Cheobawn giggled at the piece of anatomy he presented to them. Megan hushed her.
Tam emerged from the chest covered in dried needles, holding up a wad of white cloth, a triumphant grin on his face.
“Woolsey neck scarves,” Tam crowed.
“It’s the height of summer,” Megan reminded him.
“No, wait, this will be so awesome it just might set a trend with the other kids. Trust me,” he said.
>
He sat Cheobawn down on a bench. Going back to the gaiter bin, he grabbed an armful of extremely large leather gaiters. These he stripped of their leather laces which he brought back to Cheobawn. Taking a woolsey scarf, he began wrapping Cheobawn’s calf, starting just below her ankle on the outside of her boot and working upward. Tucking the ends in, he picked up a long leather cord. This he folded double so that he could loop it under the heel of her hard soled boot. With quick motions, he criss-crossed the strings up her leg, tying them off at her knee. He repeated the process for her other leg.
“Alain, give me the knife,” he ordered, holding out his hand. Alain grinned and handed over his prize blade. Tam draped the last scarf over the razor-sharp edge, gathered the cloth in his fist, and jerked the blade through the tough cloth. The spider silk fibers made an almost audible pop as the blade severed the wool and silk threads. Megan gasped, shocked at the destruction.
“What? So? You ladies will have to weave one extra scarf this winter. It’s not like we don’t have extra,” Tam snorted scornfully.
“Ladies? You. You are so … male,” sputtered Megan.
He grinned at the older girl as he handed the knife back to Alain. It took less than a minute to wrap Cheobawn’s forearms using half a scarf on each arm, tying them off with the leather thongs in the same manner.
“Clever,” said Cheobawn, admiring her new costume.
Tam grinned at her and tousled her short blond curls.
“Let’s go,” he said, standing up and scooping up his stick.
Cheobawn picked up her hook and whisked it around as she danced across the room, using one of the larger stick fighting styles she’d modified for her height. It was something she had invented after spying on the stick fighting classes given to the oldest boys. The cloth gaiters moved well and did not hinder her motion. The woolsey, being half spidersilk, was light and thin and would not snag on thorns or pick up burrs. She turned, immensely pleased, and caught the boys looking at her, perplexed. She froze, biting her lower lip. She had done something wrong again. They were staring at her hook.
“What?” asked Megan, “You’ve never seen a girl who could fight before?”
“Uh,” grunted Connor, “No, I mean, yeah, it’s just … I just never thought of the hook being a weapon until now, is all.”
Alain nodded in mute agreement. Tam had a funny smile on his face, as if he’d just picked up a rock and discovered it was a bloodstone. He shook himself out of his fugue and turned towards the door without another word. Megan grinned encouragingly at Cheobawn and then turned to follow him.
Chapter Four
The east gate was just around the corner from the changing shed. Two warriors stood blocking the doors. Sixteen-year-old Sigrid seemed awkward in his leather armor. The guard position was new to him and the authority, like the leathers, did not quite sit comfortably on his shoulders. The lanky boy was dwarfed by the imposing figure of Hayrald, First Prime to the First Mother’s High Coven.
Cheobawn saw the dark look on her Da’s face and stopped short. It had been too good to be true, she thought, this new found freedom. Here he was, come to personally take her home, not trusting the task to anyone else.
Tam also paused, looking back at Cheobawn.
“Move it, pipsqueak,” he said, grabbing her by the arm and jerking her back into motion. “You are part of my Pack now. There are rules even adults have to follow.” The last was said almost as a prayer. Even Tam did not wholly trust this to be true.
When he was sure she was going to walk on her own he let her go and pushed to the head of the line, fishing in his pocket for his blue tag. He held it up in front of his face as if to ward off any evil wishes emanating from Hayrald.
“Temporary Pack, four plus one, on a foraging foray,” he said nervously.
Hayrald ignored Tam. Instead he turned his gaze toward Sigrid. Sigrid flinched and stepped forward, taking the tag. With nervous fingers, he keyed in the appropriate information onto the screen set in the gatepost kiosk. Tossing the blue tag into a bin, he took a red tag from its hook on the kiosk wall. The rows and columns of tags hung neatly on their numbered hooks. Cheobawn counted the empty hooks. Twelve. Twelve groups out beyond the walls. Some would be in the fields and orchards. A few would be out beyond the well maintained fields, hunting for fresh meat while they patrolled the village perimeter. She listened to the ambient for a moment to get a general idea where they were and marked them on her mental map. The North Fork Trail was still clear for them.
Sigrid handed the red tag to Tam. That done, he stood tall and began to recite what he had obviously only just memorized.
“Tag gets you back in. Don’t lose it. Gates are locked down at dusk. Do not be late. Observe and report anything of interest. Be prepared to give time, grid coordinates, and landmark references. Uh. Oh, yeah. Keep track of clicks traveled. A detailed written report along with a neatly drawn map is due on the Pack Master’s desk by dawn tomorrow, no exceptions. Any contact with unfriendlies is to be reported to the guard the moment you return. No exceptions. Uh …” Sigrid faltered.
Cheobawn finally found the courage to look up at her Da. He was watching her intently, an odd look on his face. She waited for him to say something, anything. Instead he jerked his eyes away to pin Tam with a forbidding glare.
“There is a Black Bead in your group, Pack Leader,” Mora’s First Prime said. “Do you accept that burden?”
The insult cut through Cheobawn’s heart like a knife. She shuddered and bit down hard on her lip to keep from making a sound. She did not need to look around to see the effect this announcement had on her new friends. The ambient flared white hot for a moment, blinding her to all else. Megan hissed in fury at her side while the boys grew silent and still.
Cheobawn blinked hard and lifted her eyes once more to look into her Da’s face. He may not have been her Truefather, for what child ever knew who sired them, but he was the Father of her Heart and had been since before she could remember. Their bond went deeper than mere genetics. She silently begged for a sign of that love but he would not look at her. No smile or grimace bent her way to ease the hurt he was causing her.
Ah, she thought remotely, I knew it was too good to be true. There is always a barb hidden in the happiness of the world. It sinks into one’s heart and when it gets torn out it leaves a gaping and bloody hole.
“I do accept it,” Tam said loudly, his voice vibrating with the rage he could not contain.
“Do you understand that her gift is the gift of chaos? That her Luck is as unpredictable as the wind and must be guarded against?”
Bad Luck. Without saying the words, he had labeled her. Cheobawn had not thought that the world could hurt as badly as it already did, yet here was her own Da, proving her wrong. She wished with all her might that the earth might split open and swallow her down into its cool, dark belly.
The silence became complete as Hayrald waited for a response and Tam fought to contain his emotions. Cheobawn felt the ambient grow cold with his resolve.
“I will be careful with her, First Father,” Tam said finally. Perhaps this was not the response Hayrald expected. A muscle quivered in the her Da’s jaw. With a grunt, he turned and strode away.
The Pack stood rooted to the spot, uncertain as to what was expected next. They waited for their alpha to guide them. Tam stood frozen, staring off into the distance, a bright flush on his cheeks, seemingly unaware that the Pack stood lost and rudderless around him.
Sigrid glanced nervously after Hayrald. He looked down at the young Pack. Then he opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, sighed, and waved them through the gate.
Tam grabbed Cheobawn by the arm in a painful grip and marched her out of the dome and down the road that cut through the fields. He did not speak as they passed the vegetable gardens, melon patches, and grain fields. He did not look down at her. He did not look around to see if the others followed. He just pounded the earth with his boots, his jaw set, his fac
e rigid in his unexpressed fury. His anger beat at her mind like thrown stones. Cheobawn felt sick. Did he hate her? Did he regret saying yes to Megan’s demands?
It was not until they passed the last of the maize fields that he stopped finally and let go of her arm. Cheobawn sank down, squatting on her heels, to bury her face in her hands. She waited there, in the darkness, for the world to stop throbbing inside her head.
“I hate him!” hissed Megan.
“Why did he do that?” growled Alain
“Who cares,” Connor said. “We’re out. That’s all that matters.”
“Yeah, but,” sputtered Alain “it’s like he hates her or something.”
“Enough!” shouted Tam, loud enough to pull Cheobawn out of her dark reverie. “Everybody calm down. Adults are always testing you. If they get under our skin, they win. Look at us! Just a few mean words and we are all blubbering like babies.” He shook his head in disgust, glaring at them. “By all that’s holy, this must be a new record for a demi-Pack. Failed before we set foot outside the gate.”
The Pack flinched and grew silent. They watched their leader try to get control of himself. Tam opened his mouth to shout at them again but the looks on their faces stopped him. With a groan, he spun about and stomped away, kicking at every dirt clod and stone in his path.
Cheobawn rose to her feet, guilt overwhelming her own pain. Poor Tam. She had to live with this every day. Sorrow and betrayal were old companions. For Tam, this was surely a new kind of torture. She thought about volunteering to return to the dome but she could not find the will to say those words.
The ambient still throbbed. Cheobawn turned and found Megan standing behind her, her hands curled into fists.
“Shhh,” Cheobawn said, taking one of the girl’s hands in her own. She caressed it until the fist relaxed. The next words that came from her lips were a prayer, words Megan had used too often to soothe Cheobawn’s own hurts, words loosely borrowed from the prayers Menolly intoned amidst her smoke and ceremony on Temple Day. “Listen to the world, sister. Listen to the stars overhead. Let it go. It is nothing. A tiny thing that cannot compare to all that exists around us.”
