The Rage

by Lassiter Williams

  The People remained silent.

  Peyewik looked at Kwineechka, but the storyteller dropped his gaze to the ground. Peyewik was disappointed and felt sorry for Trib. He was about to lead her away when someone said, “I speak for Tribulation as well.”

  It was Jongren. “Friends, to whom I owe my health and sanity, I ask another favor of you. Allow my daughter to sit and eat among you.”

  rib didn’t know what Jongren had said, but it drew a reaction from the Natives. There were surprised murmurs, and they began to point at her as well as stare. She thought she even heard someone laugh.

  “Dess damn this,” Trib said, pulling her hand from Peyewik’s grasp and starting to turn away. A tall man stepped forward, blocking her escape.

  “Move,” she growled, trying to sound intimidating.

  The man looked slightly bemused, but held his hand out to her and said something in the Native language.

  “What does he want?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “He is Kwineechka’s father, Nitis,” Jongren explained. “He is inviting you to eat with his family.

  “Why?” Trib asked warily. “The Natives are all looking at me like I have two heads. Now he’s asking me to supper?”

  She glanced at Kwineechka, expecting him to look away. Instead, he too was staring at her, his golden eyes wide with shock.

  She whirled towards Jongren.

  “What the hell did you say to them?” she demanded.

  “I told them you were my daughter.”

  It took a moment for the words to sink in. When they did, flickers of red appeared in the corners of her vision. “That’s a dirty lie,” she said in a low voice.

  “I am sorry to tell you this way,” Jongren replied. “I knew the People would welcome you if they knew. I wanted you to know you could have a place here.”

  He took a tentative step towards her.

  “I ain’t your daughter,” she hissed. “Come near me again, liar, and I’ll kill you,”

  She turned her back on him and stumbled away, barely able to see through the veil of red covering her eyes. She headed for the darkness at the edge of the village, knowing she needed to get away before her Rage took over. She wanted to hurt Jongren, but not any of the Natives.

  “Trib-u-lay-shun.”

  She recognized Peyewik’s voice.

  “Get away,” she warned him. “Rage coming…I’ll hurt you…”

  Instead, she felt the boy take her hand again, and all at once her Rage was gone. It hadn’t been as strong as she thought. She sat down on the ground, feeling suddenly very tired and alone.

  Peyewik sat down beside her.

  “What in Dess’s Name am I supposed to do next?” she said. “I got nowhere to go, no one to trust…”

  Peyewik didn’t answer, but just then Trib heard women’s voices and a group of Natives appeared. They startled and drew back when they saw her, but Peyewik spoke to them reassuringly, and they came closer again, looking down at Trib shyly. A young woman with a round face had the courage to step towards Trib with her hand extended.

  Surprised, Trib took it, and let the young woman help her to her feet.

  “Thanks,” she mumbled.

  The other women were continuing on their way into the forest, and the round-faced girl gestured for Trib to follow.

  Trib glanced at Peyewik, who nodded encouragingly.

  Trib took a deep breath. “Reckon I got nowhere else to go…” she said, and followed the round-faced girl into the forest.

  The Native women were sure-footed in the darkness, and before too long they came to a stream where, without a trace of modesty, they shucked off their minimal clothing and waded into the water.

  “Oh no,” Trib said, backing away. “I hate water.”

  Two girls came out of the stream and began gently tugging Trib out of her clothes. Too surprised to protest, she let them. She felt self-conscious about the scars that showed up so clearly against her pale skin, but the girls didn’t notice. They giggled shyly and pulled her into the water, which became wide and deep a few steps away from the bank. Trib shivered and for a moment thought she was miserable. Then she realized the water felt good on her sweaty, grimy skin. She hadn’t bathed since Aoifa’s cabin, and that had only been a quick rinse in a wash basin. The women around her were laughing and splashing each other. Trib cupped her hands and scooped water over her head. She felt her muscles relaxing as the cool liquid sluiced down her body. One of the young women handed her a flat, gritty stone and showed her how to use it, scrubbing her skin until she was cleaner than she ever remembered being.

  When they had decided she was clean enough, the women pulled her out of the water, allowed her to dress again, and led her back to a small, neat hut at the edge of the village. Inside, laid out on one of the sleeping platforms was a dress made of soft deerskin and decorated with intricate beadwork. There were matching leggings and boots as well. One of the women pointed to her, then at the dress, then back at her.

  “You want me to wear that?” Trib asked, shocked. She had never worn a dress, much less such an elaborate costume.

  “No chance in Hell.” She started to back away. “I appreciate your kindness, and I reckon you’re doing this on account of what Jongren told you about me being his kin. But it ain’t true. So I should be going now.”

  The women laughed uncomprehendingly and swarmed around her. Their hands were gentle, and Trib gave up resisting as they pulled the dress over her head. Her skin still tingled from the scrubbing, and the dress was a soft caress against it. She had never felt such a thing.

  The women stepped back and studied her. They twitched a shoulder seam here, tugged a legging there, and when they were satisfied, smiled and made appreciative noises at her. Trib was startled by this. No one had ever expressed anything positive over her appearance before.

  Just then the sound of drums started outside and the women scattered. Trib found herself alone with the round-faced girl. She wondered if she should go too, but the girl smiled warmly and gestured for her to sit and wait.

  “What’s happening,” she asked the girl. “Why are they drumming outside?”

  The girl didn’t understand. She just smiled and shrugged herself into a dress similar to Trib’s. The beadwork was equally intricate and Trib wondered if it had been done by the same person. The round-faced girl pulled out a set of combs and held one out to her with a questioning sound. Trib peered at the delicate carvings on it and shook her head.

  “Ain’t got the first notion what to do with it.”

  The girl indicated that she could do it for her.

  Trib hesitated. “If you really want to,” she said. “It ain’t necessary. I don’t know what all this is for.” Then she couldn’t help laughing at the worried look on the girl’s face as she held the comb and studied Trib’s red hair.

  “It won’t bite you,” Trib said, reaching back to untie the leather thong that held it back. “Though I reckon there were things living in there before I combed out the rat’s nest.”

  The girl smiled nervously and touched Trib’s head. When nothing happened and she was reassured that it was like any other hair, aside from the color, she set upon it and with a few deft strokes lifted and pinned it away from Trib’s neck. Trib felt the complicated knot on the back of her head and watched as the girl replicated it with her own hair.

  “That’s really…lovely,” Trib said, the last word awkward in her mouth. It wasn’t a word she was used to saying.

  “So is this,” she said, pointing at the beadwork on the arm of her dress. “Did you do this?”

  The girl gave her a sad smile and said something in the Native language. At first Trib didn’t understand, but then she realized the girl was telling her the name of the person who made the dress, a person who was no longer here or she would be wearing it herself.

  “I’m honored,” Trib said solemnly.

  The drumming outside had grown louder. The girl smiled one last time and led Trib out of
her house and into the center of the village where a huge fire had been lit. The drummers sat near the fire, pounding out a rhythm for the dancers who circled the fire.

  “What in Dess’s Name is happening?” Trib asked, but the round-faced girl was gone, caught up in the circle of dancers.

  She spotted Peyewik on the far side of the circle with his grandfather, and decided it would be better if she left without talking to anyone else. She was trying to find the round-faced girl’s house and her own clothes when she heard the singing. The sound tugged at her and she followed it to another circle around a smaller fire. Instead of dancing, the people in this circle sat close together and sang.

  Trib stood in the shadows outside the circle and listened. She couldn’t understand the words, but the melody was sad and made her think of everyone she had known who had died. Not just her friends and family, but the men she had killed as well. More than just thinking of them she seemed to feel the places they had occupied in her body and heart, whether in anger, hate, or love, and she felt the spaces left behind when they died. The sensation was unbearable, and she stepped away from the singing circle, hoping to escape it.

  There was a touch at her elbow and she jumped, spinning around to find Jongren beside her.

  “I apologize for startling you,” he said. “I was afraid you had gone.”

  “I ain’t your...” Trib started to say, but Jongren interrupted.

  “Your mother’s name was Sarah and your sisters, my daughters, were named Mary, Sorrow, Crucible, and Calvary. You and the last three were named for the circumstances into which they were born.”

  An odd, disconnected image came into Trib’s mind then.

  “Calvary,” she repeated the name.

  “Yes,” Jongren said. “The youngest before you. ”

  “She wore a blue striped pinafore.” Trib didn’t know where the memory came from, but she suddenly could see the little dress clear as day.

  “Yes,” Jongren confirmed, his voice catching. “You wore a matching one. Your mother cut them from the same piece of cloth.”

  “She was wearing it the day she died,” Trib said, seeing a bright red stain seeping through blue striped fabric.

  Jongren couldn’t answer her at first. Then he cleared his throat and said, “The People are singing to the ancestors, those who have traveled to the spirit world before us. They are saying they miss them and will see them again.”

  After a pause he added, “You could sing with them. Your voice can do many things besides summon a Rage.”

  “I can’t sing that song,” Trib countered. “I ain’t strong enough to face all the people I sent to the spirit world ahead of me.”

  To change the subject, she asked, “Why are the Natives singing and dancing when Aoifa or the Puritanics could attack any moment?”

  “They are celebrating now because they are glad to be alive and together. There is a Prayer Ceremony tomorrow. They will ask Manito and the spirits for guidance as to what to do about the Puritanics and the New Murians.”

  “It’ll take more than prayer to deal with them,” Trib said.

  “I agree,” Jongren said, surprising her. “Whether you believe I am your father or not, I would ask for your help in protecting the People.”

  “How?” she asked warily.

  “You can speak to the New Murians on behalf of the People, and I will speak to the Puritanics.”

  Trib snorted. “That ain’t going to work. I already tried asking Aoifa for help. She locked Peyewik and Kwineechka up like prisoners and…”

  She couldn’t bring herself to say what Aoifa had done to the storyteller. “Aoifa won’t help,” she finished quickly.

  “And Scathach follows her orders, regardless of how many innocents are harmed?” Jongren asked bitterly.

  Trib started to say “yes” but paused, remembering what the Scath had said as she tried to goad Trib into fighting her. It was difficult to think of it, to remember again how the Scath had betrayed her, but some of the things she had said…

  “The Scath still values her honor as a warrior. She knows killing my family was wrong. It goes against her warrior’s code to attack those who are weaker.”

  Jongren frowned. “If this is true, then deep in her blackened soul she may feel averse to attacking the People?”

  “Aye,” Trib replied, feeling sick to her stomach as she realized what this meant she would have to do.

  “Would you consider approaching Scathach on behalf of the People?” Jongren asked. “Circumventing Aoifa all together?”

  “Dess knows, the only time I thought to see the Scath again was to get revenge,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “If you could convince her to leave the People in peace, think of the lives you would save.”

  “Even if I could get her to leave the People alone, what about the Puritanics? You told me yourself they want to hang you for being a traitor. I don’t reckon they’re looking to do you any favors.”

  “You must trust that I know my former brethren better than you. I believe they can be persuaded to see God’s plan in this.”

  “And you can see God’s plan more clearly than the rest of us?” Trib sneered.

  Jongren gave her a small smile. “I cannot. Neither God’s, nor Manito’s, nor the Goddess’s. But no more can the Puritanics, until I convince them otherwise.”

  Trib shook her head. She didn’t like the plan at all, but she thought of how Peyewik’s grandfather had saved her life and how Peyewik had named her a friend. She thought of how she felt about Kwineechka and of the kindness she had been shown that very night by the Native women. She remembered her first impressions of the Natives as backwards and primitive and how she had thought her own people so superior. She blushed at how wrong she had been on both counts.

  “I’ll do it,” she told Jongren. “It ain’t a great plan, but my Rage ain’t enough to hold off both the Puritanics and New Murians.”

  “It is precisely my hope that any use of the Rage, on anyone’s part, may be avoided,” Jongren said.

  “Good. If I had my choice, I’d never use it again,” Trib said, surprised by how much she hated the idea of ever summoning another Rage. It made her feel again like she no longer knew herself or her place in the world. And it reminded her of something Aoifa had told her.

  “Aoifa said my ma refused the Rage,” she said. “If she really was your wife, you can tell me why.”

  “Aoifa tried to teach Sarah the Rage when she needed warriors to expel us…I mean the Puritanics…from the settlement. Your mother refused.”

  “Why?” Trib asked, torn between a feeling of shame at her mother’s refusal to fight and an intense curiosity as to why she had done so.

  “Sarah described to me how Aoifa taught others to Rage. She used her siren powers to dig through a person’s memories. She sought those who had been through something terrible because they were easiest to influence. She would call forth horrific experiences, buried deeply in the mind and body, and allow them to consume their owner, creating a terrible strength based on fear and anger. Then she manipulated them further so that this strength could be called upon at will.”

  The details of Trib’s Rage Initiation a few months earlier came rushing back to her. She hadn’t spoken about it to anyone, not even Cuss, but all of a sudden she found herself wanting to tell Jongren everything.

  “It was just as you say,” she told him. “Aoifa took me alone into a cave. I had no weapons, just a shirt and breeches. It was cold…” Trib shivered, feeling the chill of the dark cave again. “Aoifa told me to kneel down. She asked me if I was worthy of the gift the Goddess grants her warriors. I said I was. She asked me what I’d sacrificed in the Goddess’s name. I didn’t know what she meant, but she told me to remember…”

  Trib’s voice faltered. She felt Jongren’s hand on her shoulder.

  “What did she tell you to remember?” he asked quietly.

  “The day the Puritanics murdered my family. She told me to remem
ber as if I were there again. She said my greatest strength would come from my greatest suffering.”

  “Did you remember?” It sounded as though the question pained him.

  Trib nodded. “I remembered the sounds of screaming and breaking in the other room. Then it was quiet, and I went to see what happened.”

  “You do not have to tell me. I saw it myself…” Jongren’s voice was thick with grief.

  “I should have died with the others,” Trib said matter-of-factly. “I don’t know why I wasn’t in the room with them.” She looked up. “Where were you?”

  “You were in your bed, sick,” Jongren explained. “I wasn’t there because I had gone to the apothecary for your medicine. I had to go all the way to one of the Christian settlements because the one in New Murias wouldn’t serve me.”

  “Aoifa told me it was you who killed my ma and sisters,” Trib said, and watched Jongren turn pale, his eyes go wild.

  “That lying witch!” he exploded. “I saw her sister leave the house. I saw her! And to tell my only living child that it was me…Manito forgive me. I went mad at the sight of my wife and children murdered. I thought you were all dead and I ran from there raving. If I had known you lived…”

  He closed his eyes and struggled to regain control.

  “The Scath used the Rage on them,” Trib told him, closing her eyes and seeing the room as if she were there again. “My ma and sisters were torn apart. There was blood everywhere…Aoifa asked me what it felt like when I saw them, but there ain’t words for it. It was so bad I wanted to die so I wouldn’t have to feel it anymore…Then Aoifa asked me who made me feel this way. I told her it was the Puritanics, and she asked me what I wanted to do to them. I said I wanted to tear them apart the way they tore my ma and sisters apart, so that the bad feeling would go away. She asked me where I felt the wanting to tear them apart. I told her it was in my belly, and she told me to let it move through me until I felt it in my arms and legs and hands and feet and everywhere in my body. I did this, I don’t know how, but I did it. She told me to feel it in my throat, and I said it made me want to scream. She said ‘Scream,’ so I did, and the first Rage came to me. I saw red and just wanted to kill. I could still hear Aoifa’s voice. She said, ‘This is your Rage, Tribulation. This is your gift from the Goddess. Let it consume you…”