by P. W. Chance
The witch-girl frowned, staring at the red coals of the fire, thinking. “The binding is working. He’s fighting it, but it’s strong. But there’s still something wrong with it. Lies and sickness, he said.” She rubbed her forehead. “Setting it almost went wrong, but I didn’t make foolish mistakes. I didn’t try to set it during the dark of the moon. I didn’t use leather from an animal that died of disease. What else, what else should you never do when binding a heart…” She froze. Slowly, she looked up at the skull.
“Never, ever, never, ever,” the old ghost whispered, “never set a witch’s binding atop a true one.”
“He was bound to me already.” The witch-girl blinked, barely believing the words coming out of her mouth. “Already, he felt something for me, something strong and old and hidden. Love, or hate. Why did he hide it? He’s Black-dog. He takes whatever he wants. If he hated me, he could have hurt me, maybe killed me. If he loved me, I, well,” She blushed. “I might not have refused him. Would have given him a chance, at least.”
“Clever,” the skull whispered.
The witch-girl was on her feet, now, pacing around the fire, thinking furiously. “If he hated me, he still might love the tribe. I’m the healer, the witch. He might let me be for the tribe’s sake, because they need me.”
She stopped, looking out through the half-open curtain that covered the doorway. The sun was rising. A gray-white mist had risen from the lake, spreading fingers between the huts, curling through the village. “And if he loved me,” she said quietly, “loved me, not just desired me, he might have held himself back. The way he is, the things he does to women, he might not have wanted to hurt me.” She wrapped her arms around herself, pulling the fur cape tighter. “Until I went to him, bare and with a leash, and offered myself.”
“...the path…” The old woman’s voice was barely audible, fading as night faded into day.
The witch-girl sat, wrapped in her fur, watching the mist. “What happens next,” she muttered. “He’ll try to finish that strange ritual he began, the trick he played on the river-folk. But what is he doing? The blessing, the marked girl offering herself to the whole town, that would make sense if he was trying to end a drought or ensure a good harvest of fruits and berries from the forest, but it’s nonsense for breaking a binding. Where did he learn this? He knows some herbs, he’s got enough raw strength to work some crafts by instinct.” She shivered, remembering hands on her skin, remembering leather twisting tighter, digging in.
She shook her head, concentrating. “No. He can’t break the binding with strength alone, because part of its strength is his. He needs skill and training, he needs a witch, and I won’t help him. His ritual will do nothing. The River-folk’s witch, that woman Manala, she’ll put a stop to it. And what will he do then?”
The witch-girl stared at the mist, thinking furiously, and saw.
She saw the River-folk girl, Four-leaf, lying covered in flowers and hands. The men of her tribe were gathered around her, reaching for her, touching her. Her arms were stretched ecstatically over her head, her eyes half-closed as she rode a wave of exhausted pleasure.
The crowd parted. The River-witch was there. Her skin was stained soot-black, save for the white bones drawn upon her. Ribs, arms and legs, white skull-mask. Her hair was in long braids, hanging to her waist, decorated with shells, stones, bones. She wore nothing but a belt of little bags and pouches. She stood tall and proud, and the men bowed their heads as she approached the flower-covered altar.
“What has happened here?”
Ten-hands, strongest warrior, ten dark bands on his mighty arms, stepped forward. “She said she met a river-god, wise Manala. The spirit marked her, and commanded her to offer herself to all who would have her, so that the river may flow with blessings.” He grinned, spread his hands. “We did as she asked.”
The witch leaned close over the tired, happy girl. Four-leaf gave her a sleepy smile. Manala peered at the green-stained markings on the girl’s skin, then closed her eyes and sniffed, three times, like a dog. She frowned. “Too many men. Can’t tell. But perhaps.”
She rose, and turned. “Carry her to my dwelling. Tomorrow, she will show me where she met the spirit. There I will give thanks for his blessings, or punish his lies.”
This must be how Grandmother saw, the witch-girl thought. The visions didn’t just come. She had to start by thinking, working, learning how each heart would choose. Wisdom is built of cleverness and watching.
She saw the River-witch in the forest, in the morning light, Four-leaf leading her towards the waterfall. The River-witch was careful, ready. On her belt was a bag of offerings, shining shells and flowers, to thank the river-god if the story was true. In her hand was a thick, heavy staff, to punish any man or spirit who tried to play her for a fool.
In the morning light, in the mist of the falls, the River-witch crouched to examine the mossy bank where Four-leaf had been taken. She bent low, closed her eyes, sniffed.
Black-dog was on her before she could stand, exploding from his hiding place in the thick bushes. One arm was wrapped around her chest, binding her arms to her sides; the other wrapped her throat. As he lifted her off the ground, his dogs rushed out, leaping on Four-leaf and knocking her back into the river. The girl splashed, turned over and over by the current, struggling up towards air.
By the time she returned to shore, Black-dog and the River-witch were gone.
The witch-girl blinked. She had grown cold, sitting in her doorway, watching the sun burn away the mist.
“That’s what he wanted,” she whispered to herself. “The ritual was false. He only needed to draw out their witch. To kidnap her, to make her break the binding. But it’s not like capturing a warrior or taking a woman. You can’t kidnap a tribe’s only witch, their only healer. This is what he meant, the blood and sorrow. This is what brings it.”
She looked out at the village, and saw smoke and fire.
“This will start a war.”
Chapter 6
Mercy
The Red Cave was empty. The morning light showed her the packed-earth floor, the cold ashes of the firepit, a few broken spearheads and scraps of leather. The hunters were gone.
The witch-girl stepped out of the cave, wincing in the bright daylight. The waves of the lake were shining in the sun, reflecting white sparks of light that drove into her head like spikes. It was an unnatural time for an owl like her to be up and dressed for travel, but she couldn’t wait for evening. Her fist tightened around the old leather footwrap she’d taken. She closed her eyes against the glare, listened, and then hurried toward the sound of dogs.
Howl the hound-keeper was sitting on a sunny patch of grass, surrounded by dogs. Most of the pack was gone with the hunters, but a few were too young or old to run with the pack. A nursing mother and a scarred old male were lying on either side of Howl, who was playing fetch with two half-trained young dogs and a pile of clumsy puppies. One puppy had the end of Howl’s long braid in his teeth, shaking it back and forth.
As the witch-girl approached, the younger dogs rushed to her, barking and sniffing and tripping over each other. The witch-girl knelt to ruffle ears and scratch under short puppy muzzles. She thought of Black-dog.
Once, he had come upon a group of puppies playing. He looked down at them for a while, watched them roll over each other and bump into his legs. Then he bared his teeth and growled like a bear. Most of the puppies had run to hide behind their mother. Two little black ones, with tiny teeth and big, clumsy paws, had stood their ground and growled back at him. He knelt down with a piece of raw leather and tugged it back and forth as the two pups dug their teeth into it and tried to pull it away from him. Those pups, Fika and Rika, had been with him every day since. They were with him now, wherever he was.
You put yourself in my mind, he had said. When I try to sleep, I dream of you and wake. The witch-girl shook her head, clearing away the memory. She needed to concentrate. No knowing how much time she had.
Howl was standing, watching her, frowning with concern. “Good morning, witch-girl. Are you well?”
The witch-girl looked up, eyebrow raised. “Why would I not be?”
Howl looked away, blushing slightly. “I... heard you might be ill.”
The witch-girl snorted. You heard I might have stumbled out of Black-dog’s den, flushed and bound, she thought. You heard I had the leash you gave me tied tight across tender places, heard I had to be carried home. And you dream of being Black-dog’s pet, and wonder what happened between us. Good. Wonder.
“I am well. But I need to find White-stag, quickly. Where are the hunters?”
The scarred, grey-furred old hound pushed a shoulder against Howl’s leg. She bent to scratch behind his ears. “They’re off toward White Mountain. They left before dawn, moving quick. There were wolf-howls out there last night, and they plan to chase the wolves out of Red Cave territory before they start taking our deer.”
“I need you to call them back. Can you?”
Howl bit her lip, thinking. “Yes. I can send Spotter and Curl, with old Surter to keep them on the task.” The scarred male twitched his ears, and the two young hounds trotted over at the sound of their names. “I will do it if you ask, witch-girl, but may I know why?”
“The River-folk may be coming. Not to raid, or trade. A full war-party.”
Howl’s eyes went wide. She took a handful of red feathers from her bag and fixed them to the dogs’ collars, the sign for “trouble, come quickly.” The witch-girl held out White-stag’s old footwrap for the dogs to sniff. The three hounds buried their noses in the old leather scrap and snuffed deeply.
Howl pointed to the forest and barked, “Seek!” The hounds bounded off into the green, toward the distant mountain.
Howl frowned, worried. “It will take time for them to find the hunters. More time to return. If the River-warriors arrive before they do…”
“Go to the village,” the witch-girl said. She was checking though her pouches, making certain she had every herb and trinket and dye she might need. “Gather the women, call back any who have already left. Tell them to arm themselves. There are weapons deeper in the cave. Not just staves, take spears and knives and javelins. They can defend the cave mouth until the others return.”
The pups around Howl’s ankles began to whine, picking up her fear. “I will tell them. But where will you be, witch-girl?”
“Trying to stop the war before the blood starts. Or perhaps just buying time.” The witch-girl turned to face the sun. She narrowed her eyes against the glare and started walking. Eastward, toward the river.
*********
In the forest, halfway between the Red Cave and the River Village, was the meeting stone. It was twice as high as a man was tall, and four times as long, a great rough dome of rock rising out of the leaf-scattered forest floor. In the clearing before the stone a campfire burned, sending a twisting ribbon of smoke into the sky.
The witch-girl sat cross-legged with her back to the rock, watching the fire. She was in full witch’s garb, dressed for her task with lips stained red and black soot across her eyes. Bracelets of bone and blue stones adorned her wrists and ankles. Necklaces of feathers lay bright upon on her chest. A leather band ran through her hair, holding a single bead in place on her forehead. Obsidian, for true visions, for seeing through darkness.
She watched the fire, turning her worries over and over in her mind. If her visions were false, if Black-dog had never gone to the River-folk and never taken their witch, perhaps no one would come. She would return to the cave, mistaken and embarrassed. The whole tribe would be waiting. They would be frightened, on guard, wanting an explanation. Should she lie, make up some story to protect their faith in her wisdom? No. There was a time for fooling the less wise, and a time for admitting mistakes. If all that happened was that she looked foolish, that was a blessing compared to what might happen if she was right. She tried to hope she was wrong, but could not believe it. She knew.
Her visions were true. So, the River-folk warriors would be making their way to the Red Cave to seek vengeance. They could take the north path, past the White Mountain. They could take their canoes south, down their river, then up the fork that led back to the lake. But she could see no reason why they would; their best hope was in moving quickly, directly through the forest. They would see the smoke from her fire, and they would come to the meeting stone. She need only wait.
The fire hissed and crackled.
A woodpecker tapped a tree.
A twig snapped.
She looked up. Ten-hands, greatest warrior of the River people, was standing at the edge of the forest. He was taller than White-stag, broader across the shoulders than Black-dog. A giant, the largest human she had ever seen. He was beardless, bronze-skinned, with his hair in a hundred war-braids. He had a spear in his hand. At his belt gleamed a rare and dangerous treasure: an axe of shining copper.
Other warriors appeared to either side of him, stepping forward out of the forest. More, and more, armed for killing. Surrounding the clearing. Staring at her.
She spread her hands wide, and hoped they could not hear the pounding of her heart. She must do this properly, with full ceremony, to have a chance of success.
“I greet and praise you, mighty Ten-hands, River-warrior, Wolf-killer, Swift-swimmer. Let all remember your victory in the warriors’ games! Though five men put their shoulders to the log to oppose you, the strength of your two hands was as great as their ten. Your feet bit into the earth as you pushed. Your back was like a tall mountainside. Your arms were the antlers of a charging stag. You forced them back, as the wind sweeps the dry leaves before it, and with cries of defeat they fell into the river. Thus you gained your name! Ten-hands, strongest of the River-people!”
There was a chorus of cheers as the warriors called out their leader’s name. “Ten-hands!” “Mighty Ten-hands!”
He stood unmoved as the praise washed over him. His face was blank, watching her.
She returned his gaze, eyes steady. She would not show her fear on her face. She would not let him know how her stomach twisted, or how the sunlight shining through the trees was sharp in her eyes, half-blinding her. She set her hands on her knees.
“I am the witch-girl of the Red Cave, spirit-talker, true-dreamer. I learned my craft from Grandmother Rattlebones, who learned it from Old Water Woman, who learned it from the Witch of Thorns, who stole it from beneath a stone in the dark before the morning time began. Mighty Ten-hands, will you sit by my fire and share words with me?”
Ten-hands stood silent, as if carved out of stone. The river-warriors watched him, watched her. If he raised his hand, they would rush her, grab her, a dozen hands would seize and bind her to take her prisoner. If he raised his weapon, a dozen spears would fly through the air to strike her, pierce her, pin her to the ground with the life-blood leaking out of her.
He stood in silence. The swaying tree-branches cast shifting patterns of sun and shadow over him. Then leaned his spear against a tree, walked into the clearing, and sat, cross-legged, on the other side of the fire.
“I greet you, witch-girl of the lake and the cave.” His voice was surprisingly soft for such a large man. “I will sit by your fire and rest, for a moment, before I and my brothers continue on our path. Then we will go to your village, kill your warriors, burn your homes, and take the Red Cave for ourselves. If you choose to speak while I am resting here, perhaps I will listen.”
The witch-girl’s breath caught in her throat. The smoke from the fire was, for a moment, the stench of burning huts. She saw her friends cut down, Highhawk falling with a spear through her stomach, old Heartwood felled by River-warriors with stone knives. White-stag roaring his defiance, swinging his great stone axe, as spears pierced him from every side. Black-dog, snarling, blood pouring from his wounds, rushing toward his enemies again and again to lay his hands on them, break them, kill them, give pain to as many as he could before his last drop of blood left him.
Another path, she thought. I will find another path.
Her gaze had not wavered. Her voice was steady. “It has been many years since River and Cave sought to kill each other, noble Ten-hands. There have been raids, theft, kidnappings, as River-warrior and Cave-warrior alike sought to test their skills. But no death. Why do you seek it now? Why do you long for mothers weeping and young men lying cold upon the ground?”
Ten-hands sat with his hands on his knees, back rigidly straight, head high. He glared down his nose at her. “For many years, the River has been stronger than the Cave. Your warriors use tricks and deceptions, desperate in their weakness. In our mercy, we have allowed this. But now you have taken our priestess. Manala, river-witch, who speaks to the gods for us, is gone. We will not wait for your wicked plan to work. We will not wait to be killed by sickness or flood, with no witch to protect us from the unclean spirits your people send. We will punish you now.”
The witch-girl nodded once, slowly. She felt exposed, with so many strangers’ eyes upon her. Nothing was right; she should be sleeping while the sun was high and walking at night, she should be tending to problems within the tribe while the hunt-chief dealt with outsiders. But if things were not unnatural, they would not need a witch to fix them.
She took a deep breath, and hoped Ten-hands wanted peace. “Out of great need, a warrior of the Red Cave has sought the help of Manala, wise witch of the river. It is true that this leaves the River-folk without a witch, until their business is done. Therefore, I offer my skills. If you will leave the Red Cave in peace, I will be healer and priestess for you and your people until Manala returns. I will perform my duties faithfully, as if you were my own tribe, my own blood. I swear this on my eyes, my teeth, and my name.”
Ten-hands narrowed his eyes, glaring at her. Her heart sank. “Red Cave witch. Necromancer. Your skin is pale as bones. Your magic is wicked and false. You will not be our priestess.” His legs unfolded as he stood, towering over her. His lip curled in a snarl. “We will have the Red Cave, and be warm there in winter. We will have the lake and hunting grounds, and grow fat and strong.” He turned away, walking back toward his spear.
