Climate of Change (26 page)

Sin took his burin in his right hand and a rock with his left. The two boys were pool-reflection images of each other; their hair curled in opposite directions, and they used opposite hands. Crenelle had tried to get Sin to use his right hand more, but the boy was resistive; only his left would do. Seeing how it was, they let him be, though there were members of the tribe who thought that preferring the left hand was a sign of possession by an evil spirit. Nobody said anything, because the boy's uncle Hero was chief, but if there ever came a time when Hero was not chief, there could be mischief. Craft had seen others glancing across from their hearths, their gazes lingering a bit too long on Sin. That was a disadvantage of communal living; there were no secrets.

Craft gave each boy one of the split sections of the antler. “Find a
crack, and pound, the way I did,” he said. He took another antler and demonstrated.

They tried, but the antler fragments skidded out from under. “Hold it with your foot,” Craft advised. “But don't hit your toes with the rock.”

They tried again, but couldn't get it. Their patience was as small as they were, so Craft ended the session before there was injury or tears. “Watch me, today. Tomorrow you can try again.” He split the two halves, and split them again, until he had several thin slivers of antler.

“Now to make a hole in it,” he said, taking up one sliver. He held it down and dug very carefully into one end with a smaller, sharper burin point. This could not be rushed, or it would split the sliver again, and that would spoil it. The boys were losing interest.

It was time to change the subject. “Let's do some carving instead,” he suggested.

They were happy to agree. Needles might be boring, but animal figures were interesting. Craft brought out his stone knife-chips and three sticks of wood. “What shall we make this time?”

“Mammoth!” Dex exclaimed as he snatched up one chip.

“Moose!” Sin said, taking another.

They were too ambitious. “Can you carve the trunk?” he asked. “Or the tail?”

They sobered, realizing that such details were beyond them. “What about a bird?” he asked. “With its wings folded.”

They nodded. That should be feasible. Such a figure would be mostly rounded.

“Start with the head, at the end of your stick,” he said. “Very carefully.”

They concentrated. They weren't apt, but were able to round off the ends of their sticks somewhat, which counted for heads. Craft started a similar one, trying for a recognizable owl. His brother Keeper was of course much better at carving animals and birds, because he loved them so well.

There were footsteps outside, and a woofing sound. “Uncle Keeper!” Dex cried, and scrambled up to intercept him. Sin did the same, using opposite feet to get up.

In a moment Keeper was there, with the three dogs, entering at the end of the long house. The boys dropped their sticks and chips and hugged each dog in turn, and the dogs licked their faces, liking the attention.

During that distraction, Keeper spoke his business, in a low voice. “A message boy came from Hero. He has encountered a raiding party of the Green Feather.”

This was serious. “He'll need men and weapons,” Craft said.

“Yes. Men are going there now. But they have only their own weapons. We'll need to get extra ones to him as soon as we can.”

Craft glanced around. “But what of the dogs? The Green Feather eat them. And the boys—”

“We can't leave them here,” Keeper said. “The Green Feather might raid this house.”

Others were coming to a similar conclusion; there was a stirring as the news spread. The long house was an easy target, and an obvious one, because often women were in it while the men were out, easy prey. They couldn't defend it; the Green Feather would simply hurl a fire spear into the roof, then pick off the people as they fled the fire. The men would be killed, the women raped and then killed if they resisted too much, and the smaller children would be adopted as slaves. Unless the enemy was defeated and driven away before it could get close.

“We'll have to take them with us,” Craft decided. “Do the women have the word yet?”

“The runner went out to find them. They'll be coming back soon.”

“We can't wait for them. Hero needs those weapons immediately.”

“Yes.” Keeper snapped his fingers, and the three dogs came to cluster around him.

Craft doused the fire. “We must go take weapons to Uncle Hero,” he told the boys. “You stay close and quiet.”

They nodded together, understanding when something was serious. There were times when silence was the price of life; it was among the earliest lessons any child learned.

Craft had a separate alcove where he stored newly made weapons. These were reserved for the chief, and this was an occasion for their
use. He quickly bound ten spears together and gave them to Keeper to carry. Then he bound several stout staffs similarly, and gave them to another man who appeared. Finally he took four bows, and as many arrows as there were, stuffing some into his backpack along with the remaining cords, and bundling the rest in some tough hides. It was a heavy load, but they could afford to leave none of it behind for possible acquisition by the enemy.

As they left the long house, the women were returning. Crenelle and Rebel hurried up and took bows and some of the arrows. Normally women did not fight, but both of these had made it a point to learn the rudiments. Crenelle was determined to protect her children from any threat, and Rebel liked violence.

The other families were scattering into the landscape, finding their emergency hiding places. Craft's party couldn't afford that luxury; they had to get the weapons to Hero. They started out as rapidly as their burdens and the smaller steps of the children permitted.

They left the long house behind, walking north to find Hero's party. They took advantage of the cover of the trees growing on the slopes, but still had to cross a good deal of open sections. Craft was not at all easy about this, but they had no choice. If there were Green Feather scouts in this area, there would be mischief.

Rebel lifted her chin, sniffing the air. The dogs did the same, the hair on the necks lifting somewhat, confirming her concern. She had fine senses, and in fact was a fine figure of a woman. “We'd better hurry,” she murmured.

They hurried, but their burdens and the children still limited them. Craft was not at all easy with this. His sister was not given to false alarm. She must have winded Green Feather in the area. The last thing they wanted was to be caught as they were by an enemy party.

“We've got to move faster,” Rebel said, slinging her bow across her back. She picked up Dex.

Crenelle didn't argue. She picked up Sin. Both women started running.

An arrow flew just ahead of them and landed in the ground. It was fletched with a green feather.

“Warning shot,” Craft said. “They've got our range.”

“They want us to stop and surrender,” Keeper agreed.

“But we can't let them take us,” Crenelle cried, well understanding the consequence of that. She might have wanted her marriage to begin with a friendly rape, but she didn't want the hostile rape and brutality of the Green Feather.

“How many of them are there?” Craft asked.

“Four,” Rebel replied tersely. “You go for that copse; I'll lead two of them astray.” Before Craft could protest, she set Dex down, threw down her bow, then stripped her jacket, baring her breasts. She ran in the direction the arrow had gone. There could be no mistaking her gender or her desirability.

Keeper touched Brownback. “Go, Rebel.” The dog took off after his favorite person. He could complicate her capture, assuming the enemy caught her. But Keeper doubted they would; Rebel was as fleet of foot as she chose to be. She would run just slow enough to satisfy them that they were gaining, then give them the slip when they were far afield.

It worked; in a moment they saw two enemy men setting off in pursuit. Two, because the men knew that after they caught her, one would have to hold her while the other raped her. They wouldn't shoot her or club her senseless, because she was too pretty; they wanted to enjoy her whole and screaming. She had made sure they understood. They might also suspect that she was the only one really worth raping, so was trying to flee alone.

Craft shoved his bundle of arrows into Dex's arms, then picked up the boy. “Go!” he cried, and they lumbered toward the copse. Two remaining Green Feather pursued, but did not fire; they were satisfied that they had the quarry trapped.

Yet with only two, how could they be so certain that the two fleeing men would not turn and fight on an even basis? That didn't make sense. So this must be the advance contingent of a larger enemy party. There might be four more men coming up behind. So it would be the purpose of the advance party to locate and pin down the quarry, waiting for greater force to dispatch it.

An arrow thunked into Craft's back. It didn't hurt, because it had struck his pack and lodged without penetrating to his flesh. “Ooh!” he cried loudly, and staggered. But almost in the same breath he reassured the others. “I'm not hurt, but they won't know that. Better to have them think I'm injured.” He set Dex down.

Keeper came close to help him walk. They staggered, almost dropping their remaining burdens. It was a good show. If it fooled the enemy, the Green Feather would be less alert for some sudden move.

Still, it wasn't safe to try to go beyond the copse, burdened as they were; arrows in the back could take them down at the enemy's will. The others weren't wearing packs; it had been sheer luck that the arrow had struck Craft. They would have to try to defend themselves and their cache of weapons in the island of trees, until Rebel notified Hero where to find them. Time would be on their side, if they could hold out long enough.

They reached the copse. It was small, but the foliage of the trees was thick enough to put the center into shadow. “We need a strategy,” Crenelle gasped as she set Sin down.

Craft nodded. “There will be four or six men coming in after us, soon. We need to surprise them.”

Keeper nodded. “They'll shoot the dogs first, and try to capture the children. They know we'll be helpless if the children are hostage.”

“I have a notion,” Crenelle said. “Set up a mock group in the center. When they close on that, ambush them.”

His wife was smart, and he respected her judgment. But he didn't follow this. “Mock group?”

“They know we are three adults and two children. If they spy those, they won't look too carefully elsewhere.” She took Keeper's bundle of spears and untied it. She jammed two spears into an old rotting stump, then got cord from Craft's pack and tied some brush against them so that it stood about head high.

Now Craft caught on. She was making a dummy! It wasn't much, but if come upon by surprise here in the gloom, by those whose eyes were adjusted to the bright light outside, it might do.

Soon all of them were making dummies. Dex and Sin made stick
models of themselves, while the adults perfected two male and one female models. Spears and brush, cord and skins—would it be enough?

“They can't be silent,” Crenelle decided. “Or motionless. I'll tend the injured one. You two hide the children and dogs, and set an ambush.”

“But you can't risk—” Craft began, appalled.

She stripped off her shirt, becoming bare-breasted in the manner Rebel had. She was thicker set than Rebel, and her breasts had grown with nursing; the effect was striking. “They won't shoot me. But you be ready.”

Craft and Keeper hustled the children to either side, and lifted them into trees with cautions about silence. The dogs slunk out of sight, on Keeper's orders. Then the two men hid in the brush, holding their bows with arrows nocked. This was a desperation ploy, but surely unexpected. At least it should enable them to get some slight advantage they wouldn't otherwise have.

Crenelle played her part, ministering to the wounded dummy. “This is awful,” she lamented. “You could bleed to death. But I don't have anything to bind your wound, even if I get the arrow out.” Would anyone question why she was attending him bare-breasted? With luck the men would be too busy staring to wonder about that.

“If only I had some water to wash it,” she said loudly. “Hey, other Man, can you fetch me some?” She didn't need to use names, because few of the Green Feather understood the home dialect. They should just pick up on the essence, that the woman was tending to the injured man, distracted, and that she was a buxom prize.

“No, it's dangerous out there,” she said in a lower tone, speaking for the balky other man. “Get it yourself.”

“Get it myself!” she screeched indignantly. “What do you think I am!”

There was a giggle from the tree where Dex was hiding. Craft shushed him. If the enemy caught on too soon that the children were not in the center group, they would be alert for a trap, and would foil it.

“Then give me a kiss,” the other man figure said.

“Here your brother's dying of blood flow, and you want a kiss?” she demanded.

“Yes, that's wrong,” the other agreed. “Make it two kisses.”

There was another stifled giggle. Crenelle was putting on a nice show, complete with humor. He had not realized before how apt she was at it. Of course she told the boys stories all the time, so knew how to do it, but this was surprising.

“Oh, all right,” she agreed with bad grace. “For two skins of water.”

“For one,” the figure said. “A second skin will cost more.”

“More!” she cried, outraged again. “What more?”

“A squeeze of your breast.”

“A squeeze? For water? How dare you!”

“For milk, then.”

There was faint choking in the tree, as the laughter threatened to burst out. The children liked her stories too well.