Feather (5 page)

Feather inhaled deeply. Had she unwittingly caused trouble for Tag? She looked behind and saw that only a few were slower in leaving the rest stop than she was. Tala was heckling them and swinging his stick. She hurried ahead, passing several women. When she saw Tag marching along ahead of her with two other young people, she adjusted her pace so that she would stay in line behind them. For as long as she could, she would keep his golden hair in sight. Just knowing he was there and that he was carrying part of her load, lifted her spirits. Her aching feet obeyed her and moved along.

T hat night they camped where the stream flowed into a wide river. Feather’s pack seemed to have increased in weight as the afternoon waned although she knew it wasn’t so.

The woman she had received food from called to her as she neared the stopping place.

“Girl! You come!”

Feather limped wearily toward her.

“Drop your pack. You will help me.”

Feather loosened the straps. The bunches of wilted leaves she had used for padding scattered on the ground about her. She wished she could sit and rest her feet, but the woman put a metal pot in her hand.

“Water.”

Feather turned toward the river. She walked along the edge, looking for a place where she could approach it without falling down the bank and into the swift stream.

A man coming toward her looked at the empty pot, then nodded with a grunt. She saw the place behind him where the slope was less treacherous, and with care she was able to climb down onto a large rock at the water’s edge and dip her pot in. She snatched a few seconds to dip her feet into the cool water. It felt good, but she dared not linger.

Getting the full pot back up the slope was more difficult than she had anticipated. Her muscles screamed with pain as she tried to lift the heavy pot and not spill the water. Inch by inch she worked it up the bank until suddenly it was lifted.

She gasped and looked up. Lex stood above her, holding the water pot. He did not reach out to help her, but set the pot on the ground and walked away. Feather crawled over the edge of the bank and sat panting for a minute, then got up slowly and hauled the pot back to the cooking area.

“You are slow,” the woman said.

“I’m sorry.”

The woman frowned. “I am Hana. You work for me every night now.”

Feather looked at her in confusion, wondering how many people would claim her services.

“It is Lex’s word,” Hana said, and Feather took a deep breath and nodded.

The sky had clouded over, and at that moment a distant boom of thunder reached them.

“We must start the fire quickly,” Hana said. “Get it going good before the rain comes. You make fire?”

Feather nodded. “Yes, I . . . do you have tinder?”

Hana kicked a bag with her foot. “In there.”

Feather opened it. The leather bag felt greasy, and she guessed it had been oiled to keep the fire-making things dry.

Inside she felt some stones, small twigs, and wood shavings. Something crackled, and she drew back her hand in shock. Carefully, she loosened the thong around the neck of the bag and looked inside. Could it be? She reached in and felt around again for the dry, crackly thing, and pulled out a torn sheet of white.

“Paper?” She stared up at Hana.

The woman was laying small sticks for the fire on the ashes in a circle of rocks. The camp site had been used before, Feather could see.

Hana looked to see what she held in her hand and nodded. “It makes good tinder.”

“But . . .” Feather gulped. In her tribe, a scrap of paper like this would be put carefully away for the elders to study. There were runes on it. It was a rarity among the Wobans, and no one could read the runes, but they all wanted to. Whenever any writing was found, it was placed in a dry, safe chest with other treasures. Alomar got the writings out now and then and puzzled over them with a wistful yearning. His grandfather could read, and his father had been able to make out a few written words, but Alomar’s generation had lost the skill. Their village had no teacher, and Alomar said that in his youth the people spent all their spare time gathering food and fuel or defending their homes from belligerent bands of strangers. There was no time for reading or art, he said. They survived; that was all.

Feather was glad the Wobans had found a quiet valley where they could live in peace. She thought of the bright designs Weave put in her fabrics and the arrows Rand had helped her make. They were not only functional; they were beautiful, with dyed feathers and bright markings for each of the hunters. The clay pots the tribe members made bore vivid designs too.

She remembered the long winter evenings when they gathered in the lodge to hear Alomar’s tales and to hear Rose sing. Rose’s voice was sweet and rich, and she sang the songs of a mother. Sometimes Alomar’s daughter, Zee, his only living family member, sang with her. The two women sometimes taught the girls happy songs while they worked together preparing a meal. Feather’s favorite song was a lilting tune that told of the birds calling to each other and flitting from tree to tree. She wondered if the Blens ever sang.

Feather slipped the paper back into the tinder bag and took out a handful of bark and chips. She would not be the one to squander paper for starting a fire.

As she worked, she watched for Tag, but she did not see him until the food was served. As the people jostled one another, seizing what they could from the rocks where Hana and the other women laid out the food, Feather saw him. He dived in for a corn cake and a scoop of cooked turnip. Then he joined the others near the fire where a small pig one of the men had shot that day was spitted.

“Get your meal,” Hana said. “Quick, while there is some left.”

Feather went straight to Tag. He saw her and smiled, handing her a chunk of meat.

“Careful. It’s hot.”

“Thank you.”

“We can’t talk now. I’ll come around later, where the girls sleep.”

She stared after him as he hurried away with another young man. He wasn’t being mean, she told herself. He was brushing her off for her own good. But still she wondered if he really wanted to talk to her at all. Was he afraid to be seen with her, or embarrassed, or just annoyed?

She refilled the water skin Lex had given her that morning and managed to get quite a large corn cake.

“Where’s the turnip?” she asked Hana.

“Gone.” Hana had quite a pile of it on her wooden slab of a plate, but she didn’t offer any to Feather. “It’s good.”

Feather swallowed, trying not to think how it must taste. “Where did it come from?”

“The last place we raided. Their gardens were coming on good.”

Feather tried not to think about the Woban village and the burgeoning gardens there. She stretched out her legs, glad to sit still for a little while. She yawned and picked up the piece of meat.

“You did not so bad today,” Hana said. “You help me every night. We clean up after. Then you rest. Sleep all you can.”

A light mist fell on them, and the people began to settle down for the night. Some had blankets or bedrolls. Others stretched out in the grass with no covering from the rain. The women clustered near the edge of the woods, and Feather wandered toward them, uncertain of her welcome. They ignored her, and she found a place beneath a pine tree where she could lie on the spent orange needles and be sheltered by the thick branches overhead.

Lex had taken his pack from her after supper, and she had no belongings to worry about. Before crawling into her sleeping place, she looked around. Hadn’t Tag said he would come here? Or was she in the wrong place? Two teenaged girls had spread their blankets nearby. This must be right.

She saw him then, standing at the edge of the trees. When she caught his eye, he jerked his head to the side and turned away. Feather headed in the direction he had taken, stepping carefully in the dimness, trying not to draw attention to herself.

She came near a large oak tree, and he suddenly stepped out from behind it.

“Here!”

She ducked under a low branch and joined him. The rain was steadier now, pattering down on the broad leaves above them. Feather shivered.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes. Just tired.”

“Lex sent you to work with Hana.”

“Yes.”

“Was she mean to you?”

“No. Not mean, but not nice either.”

He nodded. “She is Lex’s wife.”

“That cannot be.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because they barely seem aware of each other. They exist in the same time and place, that’s all.”

“That is their way.”

As Feather considered his words, it made more sense to her. After all, Hana had given Lex and his slave food when the others had already finished eating, and she hadn’t questioned his word, though Feather had seen other women bicker with the men. “I guess I could have a worse master and mistress. Thank you for helping me.”

“Lex came and asked me why I did it.”

Feather gasped. “What did you say to him?”

“That it was too much for you.”

“You dare speak to him like that?”

Tag shrugged. “It is not about honor and courtesy here. It is all strength and grit. Soon I will join their men in hunting and raiding, and I must prove that I can stand up to them.”

Feather stared at him, wondering what sort of world she had entered. “How long have you been with them?”

“Nearly two years now.”

“And they stole you?”

Tag broke a small twig from the oak branch and twisted it in his hands. “I was taken, much as you were, only . . .”

“What?” Feather asked.

“I’m afraid most of my clan was destroyed. I saw many killed before they took me . . . me and another boy.”

“Is he here?” She looked around, as though expecting him to materialize from the mist.

“No.”

“Where is he?”

Tag threw the stick out away from the tree. “He hurt his foot the second day, and he couldn’t keep up.”

She stared at him, unable to speak.

“Don’t worry,” Tag whispered. “You will be fine. You are doing well.”

“Is that why you helped me? Because of what they did to him?”

“Perhaps. Just remember, if you work hard, Hana will not be cruel to you, and once she decides she likes you, she will not let Lex beat you.”

“Do you think about running away?” she asked. “About going home?”

“I have no home now. And you mustn’t ever speak of it. If you do, they will try to find your village and raid it.”

She stood staring at him in the dark shadow of the tree, shifting her weight from one sore foot to the other. She could barely make out the glitter of his eyes. “Why didn’t they look for it yesterday?”

“Who knows? Although they ambushed a band of cattlemen only a few days ago, so they have plenty of food for now. But you’re right. It was unusual to take a prisoner and not try to find the rest of her people.” He studied her for a moment, then whispered, “Why were you alone?”

Feather clamped her lips shut. Almost she had blurted out the fact that she wasn’t alone at the berry patch, but it occurred to her suddenly that Tag might be spying for Lex and the others. Perhaps they had threatened him and told him to question her.

“It doesn’t matter now,” she said.

There was a moment’s silence, then he said, “You’re right. It’s better not to trust anyone. Not yet. I hope you will learn later that you can trust me. But the Blens come this way every summer. If you let slip anything about your people, they will have to beware next year. Here.” He fumbled in the darkness and pushed a damp bundle into her arms.

“What is it?”

“A blanket. Take it.”

“What will you use?”

“I have a leather tunic in my pack. I will be warm enough.”

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Tomorrow we will head westward to meet the other bands of their people at Three Rivers. Then we will go on to the City of Cats. Every year they go there. They will make several stops along the way, to raid and to trade with the few clans they have made peace with. Then we’ll go south for the winter.”

“The City of Cats? What is that?”

He chuckled. “You will see. It is where I shall either become a man or suffer the worst humiliation possible in this tribe.”

The adults not working in the gardens were building a new shelter, and Neal, who directed the project, had asked Alomar if they could provide strong nails or pins of metal to hold the timbers together. It would make the work of building go much faster than carving wooden pegs and boring out the holes for them.

“If we could only contain the fire better,” Alomar sighed. “Then we could make it hot enough to soften the iron more. It would be so much easier for you.” Karsh knew the old man ached to take the hammer in his own hands once more, but his arms were too weak to wield it.

“How could we do that?” Karsh asked. “A bigger fire pit?”

Alomar shook his head. “Some people use a kind of big oven.”

“Build the fire inside the oven?”

“Yes. And they have machines to blow on it and make it hotter. In the Old Times, when they rode horses, the king had a man who did nothing but make iron shoes for the horses. And others made tools and weapons from iron.”

“There were a lot of people then,” Karsh said.

“Yes.” Alomar sighed. “The towns held many people. Hundreds. My grandfather said that a thousand lived in the town near the castle back then.”

Karsh shook his head. It was hard to think what a thousand meant, or how much space the houses of a thousand people would take up. He didn’t think he’d like to live among so many people, but he wished he could see the iron worker’s shop.

Sometimes when Rose and Zee were baking, they scooped hot coals from the fire pit and transferred them to the clay oven. When the oven was hot inside, they scraped out the coals and put in the food they wished to cook. But the oven would never get hot enough to soften metal, Karsh was sure.

“In the Old Times,” Alomar said sadly, “they even melted metal and poured it into molds. That’s how some of the things you’ve found were made.” He nodded toward Karsh’s woven belt. “That buckle, for instance.”

Karsh wiped the sweat from his forehead and returned his strip of iron to the fire. “How could you melt metal? In what would you melt it?”

“A pot,” Alomar said, but he sounded doubtful.

“A clay pot would crack,” Karsh said.

“Not a clay pot, then.”

“What kind of pot would hold the molten metal and not melt itself?”

The old man had no answer. They had spoken of this before but never found a solution. “The trader comes soon. We can ask him. He goes to many tribes. Some of them work metal. He may have knowledge of special tools and ways to work.”

“We know some metals are softer than others,” Karsh mused. “The red metal is softer than iron, and the heavy metal softer still.”

“Yes,” said Alomar. “I’ve seen lead melt on a stone beside a hot fire. You can shape it easily, even when it’s cold.”

“But we don’t have much,” Karsh said, “and it’s too soft to use for tools.”

He was glad they were raising the new building. For the last month they had worked hard on their hidden sleeping platforms and secret food caches in the forest. But those were finished now, and they had turned to this new structure in the village.

It meant they would have another house that was livable in winter and would not all be crammed together in the lodge. Three winters they had spent that way, and now, especially with the addition of Neal and Weave’s baby, all could see the need of a larger living space. The two married couples would move into the new house, and each family would have a room of its own on opposite sides of their common living area. Shea and Rose, with their daughter Gia and young son Cricket would live in one side, while Neal, Weave, little Flame, and the new baby would be in the other. The unmarried adults and orphans could spread out a bit more in the lodge this winter, and it would be quieter.

But Karsh knew it would be too quiet for him at times. He could not stop thinking about Feather. Imagining a long, cold winter without her was too painful to bear.

The others seemed to have forgotten her. Seldom was her name mentioned. On rare occasions, Karsh would look up and find Hunter watching him. Only a week ago, Hunter had come to him on the ridge, where Karsh had climbed to sit and look down at the berry patch where he had last seen his sister.

“You miss her,” Hunter had said, and his simple words had started tears flowing. Karsh hid his face in his arms.

“Don’t be ashamed,” Hunter said, touching his bowed head. “It’s not a disgrace to weep for one you love.”

Karsh gulped for air and wiped his face on his sleeve. If Rand had been the one to find him, Karsh knew he would have received a stiff lecture on discipline and the good of the tribe. “Do you think Feather is alive?”

“I do.”

“I want to find her, Hunter. I need to go and find her.”

Hunter shook his head and looked out over the valley below. “You must give up that idea. The Blens range far and wide over the plains. Even if we could find the band that stole her, we are not strong enough to take her from them. We found their camp, remember? There were dozens of them. We would surely lose more of our people in such a venture. We mustn’t lose any more of our number. Do you understand that, son?”

Karsh closed his eyes tightly. It hurt him inside when Hunter spoke to him so gently. It was almost as if he had a father. But without Feather, his family would never be complete, even if Hunter got married and asked the elders to allow him to adopt him. That was one of Karsh’s daydreams. Even before Feather was lost, he had dreamed of it. They were children of the tribe, but it would be so much better to have a family of one’s own, a strong and caring father like Hunter, and a mother like . . . He never saw the mother’s face in his dreams. He would let Hunter choose the mother for him and Feather.

But in the years they had been with the Wobans, Hunter had not married, and now Feather was gone. The family was a mirage that had evaporated into dry, empty air.

And so his conversation with Hunter had ended in frustration once again, and he was still here, forcing himself to lay aside the vision of finding Feather and working for the safety and comfort of the tribe.

“The sun is setting,” Alomar said, and Karsh looked up. It was true; the light was already fading. He quenched the last nail of the day—only sixty-three today. He would do better tomorrow.

“Go join the men at the lake,” Alomar said. “I will put away the tools.”

“No, I’ll help you. Then we’ll both go.”

The old man smiled at him. “You are a good lad.”

Karsh stored the tools in the men’s shelter while Alomar carefully fitted the new nails into a small box. Neal and the other men left the building site and headed for the lake to swim before supper.

“Go,” said Alomar. “I follow, but I come slowly.”

Karsh ran down the path, pulling off the leather tunic he wore when working with metal and fire. It was uncomfortably hot in summer, but it kept the sparks from burning him or making holes in his fabric clothing.

“Hey, Karsh!” Cricket called from the water, and Karsh hurried to leave his leggings and moccasins in a heap on the shore, then splashed in to frolic with the other boys. The men came in more leisurely, ducked under the water, and swam a few lengths, surfacing beyond the shallows where the young boys played.

Karsh kept an eye on Hunter, and when he returned to shore, Karsh followed.

“What, done dunking Cricket and Bente so soon?” Hunter asked, reaching for his clothes.

“I want to talk to you.”

Hunter pulled his leggings on and sat down to brush off his feet before donning his moccasins. “We can’t track the Blens, I told you,” he said quietly.

“I know. It’s not that.” Karsh waited until Hunter looked up at him. “I want to go on the big hunt with you.”

Hunter gritted his teeth. “Not this year. I can’t let you.”

“Why not? I’m a good shot; you know that.”

“Yes.”

“Please.”

Hunter sighed. “You are hoping we will find some sign of Feather.”

Karsh looked down at his feet. The fine gravel was sticking to them. “It’s too hard to just sit here while you’re gone. It was bad enough last year. I wanted to be with you so much! But now . . .” He looked up, not wanting to whine, but hoping Hunter could see his aching need to do something, to make some progress toward finding Feather. “I can’t do nothing. Hunter, I need to find her, or at least . . . at least to be trying.”

Hunter’s mouth softened, and he rested a hand on Karsh’s shoulder. “When my wife died—”

“You had a wife?” Karsh blinked at him, shocked for a moment out of his distress.

“Yes, many years ago.”

“You’re older than I thought.”

Hunter smiled. “We married very young. I was eighteen, as was she. And two years later she died.”

Karsh frowned, trying to see where this story’s ending lay. “What does that have to do with Feather?”

“It’s hard. That’s all, Karsh. When someone you love dies, it’s hard. But I suspect it’s not as hard as this has been for you. Because when Ella died, I knew there was nothing more I could do for her. You don’t have that knowledge. You will always wonder about Feather and wish you could have saved her.”

Karsh pulled away. “No! I will not always wonder! I will find her! I know I’m not strong; I know I’m young. Everything you say is true, but someday I will find her.”

Hunter sighed. “When the trader comes, we will ask him to inquire about her. Perhaps he can bring us news in the spring. Can you live with that?”

Karsh nodded slowly. “If we knew . . . if we knew where she was . . . or who she was with, and that she was all right, I would feel better, and maybe then I could go after her. I can’t wait until I’m grown though.”

Hunter’s face was still troubled, but he stood up and reached for his shirt. “We will ask the trader. And you must stay here during the hunt.” Before Karsh could protest, Hunter held up his hand. “The women will need you. Perhaps you can help stand guard. Rand and Alomar will stay as well, and one other man.”

“Who?”

“We will draw lots.”

Karsh scrunched his face up. “No one wants to stay.”

Hunter went on quickly. “And besides, the trader may not come before we leave. If he comes while we are hunting, you must be here to instruct him about your sister.”

Karsh nodded slowly.

“The tribe needs you to be faithful now, Karsh.”

“I will be. And, Hunter?”

“What?”

“I’m sorry.”

He smiled. “That I’m so old? I’m not yet thirty.”

Karsh smiled. “No, I meant, I’m sorry she died. Ella. I’m very sorry.”

Together they walked back to the village.