by Jesse Teller
Rachel knew which one of them she would hurt first. She nodded and plotted.
That night they slept in the village. She heard it was called Heavy Hand. She had never heard of a worse name than that. She had been put in the chief’s shack, and the men had all gone to the hall. She thought nothing of it until she heard the women talk about it, and realized it was a place of honor she was being denied entrance to. She heard them talking and her anger rose. She kicked her way out of the bed afforded her, and jumped to her feet.
“Where are you going?” she heard a boy ask. She had been lying in the same room as him, and she was furious about it. She stalked to his bed and reached out fast. She slapped a hand over his mouth as she gripped his man parts. She squeezed.
He yelled in her hand, and she let him. He gripped her hand with his, and she squeezed harder. “Get your hand off me or I will rip this thing off,” she hissed.
He wept, and she knew this entire nation was filled with weakness. She let loose, but kept her grip on his member. “Never speak to me again, male. I will not be questioned by a sniveling boy. Next time you put your nose in my business, I will rip this tiny thing off, put it on a string, and wear it around my neck,” she snapped, shaking his crotch. “Do you hear me?”
He nodded.
“Good. It is the first command given you by a real warrior. I will claim my name now. I am Rachela, Fury warrior and princess.” He nodded and moaned, and she turned her back on him and walked away. She snuck past the room filled with women as they talked about men and food. She never would have been able to do that in her land. No warrior woman could be snuck up on. She walked past them all and slipped out the door. When she got to the night sky, she felt her gown rolling around her and felt sick to her stomach. This garb was unacceptable. It was what they put her in when they dressed her for bed. She grabbed the hem by the neck and ripped with all her force. She dropped the hideous garment to the ground and stepped into the shadows, then slipped past the houses to the central fire.
The man who was supposed to be tending it was asleep, and smelled funny. She had smelled it before. A trader had come to Fury lands a few months ago and traded a barrel of drink with them. The barrel held a liquid that smelled like this. She took the man’s dagger and a brand from the fire. She would need both.
She snuck to the hall, could hear music and laughing. She felt a pang of sorrow at the thought of what she was going to do next. She loved music. Wished she could go in that building and dance. Dancing was so much like fighting.
She couldn’t. She needed a death count. She gripped the torch she carried and threw it at the roof. She missed, and it clunked against the building, falling to the porch to sputter. She rushed up the porch and grabbed it again. Backing away, she threw the torch again with all her strength. She prayed to the matron eagle for the power to kill them all, and the matron brought the torch to the roof.
Rachela laughed and waited for the flames to consume the whole of the building. She wondered if there was any way she could lock them all in there, but she could not figure one. She waited and watched, but saw no flames. She stood for an hour waiting before she slipped away sullen.
“Stupid fire. All it has to do is burn. Can’t even do its job. Man’s fire is even weak.”
She slept that night with the dagger under her. She rested it under her spine, and though it was wickedly uncomfortable, she felt good knowing it was there. The next day, she dressed quickly, after chasing the boy from her room, and hid the dagger on her person. She stepped out into the village and sneered at them all. When her papa greeted her good morning, she didn’t know what to do.
She could snarl back at him and let him know she was mad at him, or she could smile and call him papa and keep him ignorant. She grinned at him and laughed.
“Good morning, Papa. I missed you last night,” she chimed. She stared at him, and he looked at her.
“You are cross with me,” he said.
“No, Papa, of course I am not mad. Why would you say such a silly thing?” She kept her smile locked on to him, and he grinned back at her.
“Furious. You are filled with rage.” He swept her up into his arms and set her on his shoulder. “I think you want to stab me with that dagger you stole last night.”
She froze. She felt the dagger on her back where she had stowed it, wondering if she should pull it now and slash at him with it.
“I’m not mad at you,” he said. “That fool deserved to be stolen from. He was asleep when you found him, wasn’t he?”
She said nothing. She did not want to give herself away, and still held out hope she could lie her way out.
“We, as Beastscowls, are not thieves, but when a fool is parted from his things, it is a lesson to the fool. Let me ask you, would you rather keep his dagger, or hand it back to him and let him know that a girl stole it from him with no trouble? Which of those things would make you happy?”
The village laughed at the man when she gave him back his dagger. She laughed at him and called him pathetic. She said no Fury warrior would ever let a man take a weapon from her, and spat on the ground he stood on. She walked back to her papa and wrapped an arm around his head when he put her back on his shoulder.
“I need a weapon,” she said. “I will steal another if you make me.”
“I can get you a knife. Not a dagger,” Papa said.
“Why not a dagger? I have wielded one before.”
“That is a lie,” Gerber said. “You have used wooden daggers. You would be thrown off balance by a real one. When we get to Tergor, I will have Jessop make you a proper dagger your size. For now, you will be satisfied with a knife. If I see it lying around, if you lose it, you will be punished. Weapons are not toys.”
“Just get me a blade, Papa. I will decide what to do with it,” Rachela said. “I want you to call me Rachela.”
“I will not,” Papa said. “You are not old enough to be a warrior, and your training is incomplete. If I call you that, I must be ready to march into battle with you. I will get you there one day, but for now you are Rachel Beastscowl.”
*******
She stood over Breathos with her knife for a long time, watching him sleep. They were in the Stonefist village now. Days of travel brought them here, and she had been told they were going to stay for a while before going to her new home. She had no intention of ever going to a new home. She knew if she came to the Fury people with the blood of one of the Sons of the Seven on her blade, they would take her in. She stood over him with her dagger poised for a long time, willing herself to thrust, willing herself to take his life.
She cursed when she walked out of the house that night. She walked the streets trying to think of what to do next. She was hungry. Since the last tribe, she refused to eat. She told them she didn’t trust the food, but the real reason was comfort. She had been taught that if she needed to sleep light out in the field, she needed to starve herself.
When she was hungry, she would not sleep well. Right now, she needed to be ready, even while sleeping, to fight her way free. She looked around her and searched for a way to make a statement to her people. She had no ideas.
Then Rachel saw high above the village a flame. She peered into the darkness, seeing dancing light and a high rock wall. Set into its surface was a great cave. And someone was living there. Rachel gritted her teeth. She had to go see what was up there. If she could, she would try to kill them. She needed blood on her blade if she was going to win her way back home.
It took her hours to find the path that led up to the cliff. She climbed the way until it became woods, then slipped up to the edge of the trees and stared at the cliff. The fire had died down. Rachel crept forward.
She entered the cave crouched low. She curled one hand into a claw and the other brandished her knife. She moved slowly, being as quiet as she could as she stalked the dark. She smelled meat drying, and her stomach rumbled. She gripped it and squeezed, fighting to quiet it, fighting to stop it from giving her awa
y. She saw the last embers of the fire, and grabbed a bit of kindling. She lit it on an ember and snuck forward.
She found a small shack built into the cave’s back wall. It was in every way a person’s home except it was built in a cave. She tried the door and it was open. It took her a few moments to see a woman laying on a cot asleep. She stared at the woman for a long time, seeing peace in the face, and contentment in the slight smile resting there. Rachel wondered if she would ever sleep that way, wondered if she would ever rest at night without thinking of battle and men hurting her.
Since she was little, her people had been telling her of the intentions of men to harm and hurt her. They told her about rape and that every man would fight to force her. She thought about the fact that her mother had loved a man, and she wondered if he had ever forced her. She did not know how to answer such a question. She was not really sure what ‘forcing her’ meant. Was he pushing her to the ground, or making her hit herself or stab herself or something? She decided she did not think Papa could do any of those things.
Confusion rioted within her brain, and she gritted her teeth and looked at the woman again.
It hit her then. She needed this woman. If she could liberate her and bring her back to the Fury people, then they would hail her a heroine. They would name her warrior and take her back. Her aunt would be punished for snapping her bow, and she could reclaim her homeland.
Rachel blew out the brand and pulled her knife. She placed the blade on the woman’s neck and hissed, “If you move, I’m going to slit your filthy man-loving throat.”
On the second day, she let her prisoner give her a bath. Rachela and Ellen went to a nearby stream, and both climbed into the water. They washed and laughed and splashed each other. It was only okay because Ellen knew she was caught. Otherwise, Rachela never would have let her wash her.
Ellen got out the tangles. She had a comb and a mixture of herbs and rendered oils she rubbed in Rachela’s hair. She said to let it sit for a while, but it smelled flowery and Rachela didn’t liked it. She brandished her knife and Ellen nodded. She rinsed Rachela’s hair, and all the tangles her hair had always been in were gone. They just vanished. Rachela was not caught up in such things, but when she looked into the water later, she did like how she looked.
Ellen snorted out her laughter when Rachela ducked under the water and caught a fish. Before she came up for air, she put the fish in her mouth. When she came up, Ellen broke into gales of laughter, and Rachela let her laugh. It was fun to watch her be happy.
“So, why do you let your men walk around with weapons and think themselves important?” Rachela asked.
“Our men protect us from the other nations, from being hurt by beasts and from being hurt by other men. We support them in ways that keep their lives possible.”
“You cook and clean for them,” Rachela said. She had won the argument, but she needed to put her thumb in the wound. “They make you cook and clean for them, and you do it because you are their dogs.”
Ellen laughed.
Rachela didn’t like that. She was supposed to feel shame. Not mirth.
“My mother told it to me like this. If I wasn’t here, if all the women walked out of the village right now, the men would die of infection within the week. They would be eating like animals long before that. Berries when they could find them, and burned meat. The men would never clean anything, and within a month, they would move into the drinking hall because their homes would be unlivable. Within a week, they would have to burn the hall to the ground.
“She said the man protects the woman from the world that would harm her, and the work a woman does protects the man from himself.” Ellen shook her head. “Have you ever cleaned anything, Rachela?”
Rachela pulled her knife and jumped into Ellen’s face. She waved the knife in front of her face and snarled. “Do I look like a wife to you?” She loosed her matron eagle scream and grabbed Ellen by the hair. “You will not change me, Ragoth wife. I will kill you first.”
Rachela looked into Ellen’s eyes, and pulled back when Ellen sighed. Rachela suddenly felt foolish with her knife in her hand. “I don’t clean,” she snapped. “That is all.”
“You should,” Ellen said.
Rachela jumped to her feet again and pulled her knife.
“Settle down, warrior, you have no one to prove yourself to right now. There are no men around. You are taking me from my home, where I will not dare tell anyone what I have said to you now. You don’t have anything to kill or fight, so just sit and listen. To do anything else is to waste time.”
Rachela sat. She pointed her knife. “Watch yourself… I mean I’m watching you, by that I mean, we should both watch to see that you don’t—” She shook her knife. “Just be careful.”
Ellen showed her hands and smiled. “Just let me speak. You can kill me afterward if you like.” She looked Rachela in the eye. “Did you like your bath?”
“Yes, but I didn’t need one,” she said, shaking her knife.
“Of course you didn’t, and of course you liked it. Do you know why?”
“Why, Wife?”
“Because being dirty is uncomfortable. You get red spots if you don’t wash enough. You can get sick. You start to smell.”
Rachela held her hair to her nose and smelled the flowery stench. She could get used to it.
“A bath makes you feel fresh. It makes you feel ready and calm. You think better when you are clean.”
“I don’t know about that,” Rachela said.
“I do,” Ellen said. “So, when my cave here is a sty, I start to feel bad about myself. I get depressed.” Ellen looked at her carefully. “Do you know this word?”
“I know lots of words. I know all of the words. But if you need to say what it means out loud to yourself, I will let you, because I don’t want you to be confused,” Rachela said.
“Thank you,” Ellen replied. “I get confused easily. What I mean about depressed is that I start to get really sad when I have to live in filth. So, when it starts to get messy in here, I clean. It is soothing to do so.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well it gives you something to do with your hands. It occupies your mind so you are not thinking about terrible things, and it is a way of helping yourself. Do your people let the men—”
“Males,” Rachela corrected.
“Yes, males, do you let your males clean your weapons?”
Rachela jumped to her feet again. She shook her knife a little, but her heart wasn’t in it. “No, males are beaten to death if they touch a weapon. They can bring a sheathed weapon to their warrior woman if asked, but they cannot touch a weapon out of its sheath. That is the right way to live.”
“As you say. But if your males do not clean the weapon of the warrior, who does?”
“Some of the elder women will clean weapons, and even restring bows with the machines we have, but mostly the warrior cleans her own weapon.”
“Why?”
“’Cause it gets all yucky if they don’t.”
“A foul weapon will lose its edge. It will begin to stink and will go bad if left dirty long enough,” Ellen said. “I clean my knife all the time. I oil it, too. A warrior cleans their weapons and when they do, they feel prepared and ready. They have made a bit of peace with the horrors that dirtied it.”
“Okay.” Just a little knife shaking. “So, you want me to clean now?”
“By the Seven, no,” Ellen said.
“By the Seven?” Rachela asked. “What does that mean?”
“Well, now that you bring it up, I don’t really know. It is just something we say around here,” Ellen said. “I don’t want you to do anything you are not ready or willing to do. That is how I live, and I would not ask for you to live any other way. But I want you to see that a woman or man is not weak because they clean.”
“Fine,” Rachela said. “But I’m not a cleaner. I’m a fighter.”
“You are that for sure.”
Th
e days stretched on, and the men did not come. She realized after a while they would not come, that they were either done with her or were scared. But papa didn’t seem scared of her.
“Papa doesn’t care I left,” she said. “I hate him.”
“You hate your father?” Ellen said. “Why do you hate your father?”
“He took me away from my home and let his dumb friend carry me behind his shield. He is a man and can’t be trusted, and he tells me what to do.”
“What is your father’s name?”
“Gerber Beastface, the ugliest of all men.”
“The fiercest,” Ellen said.
Rachela jumped to her feet but didn’t shake her knife. No point really.
Ellen stood and walked to the edge of the cliff. Rachela followed.
“I’m the fiercest,” she said. “I’m fiercer than Gerber Beastbreath.”
“No, Rachela, you are not,” Ellen said.
Rachela looked at Ellen, grabbed her knife, but didn’t pull it. “How do you know?”
“I died once. Did I tell you that?” Ellen said.
Rachela looked at her with shock. “You died? How did you die?”
“I was giving birth to my son, and he was not coming out, so they cut me.” Ellen pulled up her dress and Rachela saw the scar she had seen at the pool. It was wild and wicked, and Rachela realized now no living being could have survived such a wound.
“Were you scared?”
“I was.”
“What did you see when you died?”
“Fog, mist, and not much else,” Ellen said. “I was scared, but not as scared as I was when I heard Gerber Beastscowl roar at my king chief.”
“He did that?” Rachela said. “He roared at the king chief of the Ragoth?”
“Bold and loud in his face. Have you seen the king chief?”
