Hope of Earth (22 page)

She was apt in other womanly arts, though. They ate very well, and Sam was provided with a fine bed of straw to sleep on. Still, when he slept, he dreamed of Wona, the way she had been at first, avid for his embrace. The way she was only in his dreams, recently. He wasn’t sure why she had changed, but suspected that she blamed him for giving her a girl baby.

Next day Otzi was busy helping with the threshing. Snow took Sam to the central house and departed, for she had work of her own to do. There were their wares, spread out on a table: bows, arrows, and what he wanted—several fine copper-bladed daggers. He had seen these elsewhere, and desired them, but had not had enough cloth to trade for them. Farther along was one of the necklaces of fine amber beads, that any woman would like, even if they weren’t a signal of availability. But he was here for something more useful.

Sam unloaded his bundle and set his cloth down on the clear end of the table, and stepped back, inviting them to inspect it. He knew the workmanship was good; no one could excel Flo at weaving fancy material. She had worked for many months on this, helped by the other women of the family.

A woman came up and checked the cloth with practiced eye and fingers. She glanced at him and nodded, recognizing the quality of the handiwork.

“There is a problem,” she said. After his night with Otzi and Snow, Sam was adjusting to the dialect, and knew he could use it well enough to get by.

“This is good cloth,” Sam protested. “My sister Flo wove it, and she’s the best—”

“No, the cloth is good. It’s that we can’t trade now. Crockson handles it, and he’s busy with the harvest.”

The harvest. Sam realized what that meant. Many villages had a policy of postponing all business during harvest time, because all their hands were needed. He should have realized that when he came down with the flock, he would by definition be there for the harvest.

“When will Crockson trade?”

“On our festival day, after the harvest is secure.”

That did not mean a day, it meant a week, because they had to get it done during fair weather, lest all be spoiled. But he was stuck for it.

“The cloth is satisfactory?”

“Yes, of course. But I lack the authority—I merely care for the goods, while the able-bodied work.” Sam noticed her hunch, realizing that she was not able-bodied; otherwise she would be out in the field too.

Sam sighed inwardly. “Then I will have to wait upon that day. But may I examine the wares now?”

“Certainly, if you wish.”

The woman stepped back. He moved down to the daggers. He picked up the best one and touched its keen edges to his finger. He hefted it, feeling the balance. The handle was of wood, with the copper blade wedged into a split at the end, and bound in place by fine cord. It came with a wooden sheath, superior to the ordinary sheaths of woven grass, with leather thongs attached to tie it in place. A very nice instrument.

He smiled and set it down before him. He picked up the second one. This, too, was nicely made, slightly lighter but no less sharp. He set it beside the first.

He reached for the third, but the woman grunted negatively. “Crockson will not give three,” she said.

Sam nodded. The woman might lack authority, but she knew what was what. They would give him two for his cloth, but not three. He considered; perhaps he could bargain. But he wasn’t sure, because they were very nice daggers, and surely worth the price.

“Suppose I stay here and help with the harvest?” he inquired.

The woman studied his heft and muscle. “Then I think Crockson would agree to the third knife.”

Sam nodded. The deal had in effect been made. “I shall see you again on the festival day,” he said, rebundling his cloth and heaving it to his shoulder. She nodded in return.

The following days were busy indeed, as the work of the harvest proceeded. Sam stayed with Otzi and Snow, after making an informal oath of brotherhood to the girl so that it would be acceptable for him to remain with them more than a night. The more he knew of the father and daughter, the better he liked them. Otzi was a competent, hardworking herder and hunter, and Snow was the same in woman’s work. It was too bad she was having such difficulty finding a husband. On occasion she removed her clothing so as to wash—something that women thought necessary—and though he studiously ignored her at such times as a matter of brotherly protocol, he was aware of her healthy body. She had breasts and thighs that could certainly put a man into rapture, if she chose. And weirdly lovely hair. Did a face matter so much?

At last the harvest and slaughter were done, except for a few loose ends. Some of the goats had strayed, and now they had to be rounded up and brought in for the slaughter. Sam went afield with Otzi and Snow, for it would take all three of them to catch the frisky animals. But it would be a relatively easy day. Tomorrow would be the festival.

“FU be glad to make my trade and be on my way home,” Sam said. “But it has been nice enough with the two of you.”

Snow laughed. She did that often, pleasantly. “You know that Crockson wanted to have you stay this week, because of your strength for the heavy work?”

“I suspected,” Sam said. “But it was good work, and I am promised an extra knife.”

“We shall see that that promise is honored,” Otzi said.

“I am glad you stayed,” Snow said. “You are a good man.”

Sam, embarrassed by the compliment, did not reply. They continued to the pasture where the goats had strayed.

They went after the goats, catching each one and tying it temporarily while they went after the next. Snow was good at it, for a woman; she seemed to like being out in the field for a change. She sweated as she got hot. Sam liked that; Wona was careful never to exert herself enough to sweat. Not even when having sex on a hot night. Not that she bothered, any more.

Sam spied another goat, and ran to head it off. He needed to get ahead of it and turn it back toward the others. But it was a fleet one, and it surprised him by running right down the path toward the village. By the time he caught up with it, they were almost in sight of the houses. He trapped it in a narrow spot, and managed to lay his hands on it so it couldn’t get away. It seemed a waste to haul it all the way back to the pasture; he could take it the shorter distance in to the main village pen.

So he looped his rope around its neck and hauled it along. But as he approached the village, he heard something. So did the goat; its ears perked up, and it snorted.

The noise sounded like human screaming.

Sam’s battle reflexes cut in. Maybe it was just a goat being slaughtered; they could scream like children when hurt. But maybe it wasn’t. So he hauled the goat off the path, and approached the village under the cover of rocks and brush. He had gotten to know the area in the past few days, and hiding came naturally. The goat, nervous, was silent.

Soon Sam got a good look at the village mound. There was frenzied activity there. For a moment Sam couldn’t grasp it. Then he saw one of the village children being carried to the edge by a strange man. The man threw the child to the ground, drew his knife, and stabbed the child in the chest. The child screamed once more, and died. The man turned and went after another child, much in the manner Sam had been going after goats.

Sam was chilled. This was an enemy raid! The village had been taken unaware, and the people were being slaughtered. There would be no mercy; only babies under a year old would be taken, because they could be adopted into the enemy tribe. All others would die.

Sam knew he couldn’t help the villagers. All he could do was warn Otzi and Snow, so they could escape before being discovered. He loosed the rope from the goat’s neck and let it go; there was no point in keeping it, now. Then he ran back up the path.

In time he heard something. He cocked his head, listening. It sounded like a faint scream ahead.

The girl! Something was happening.

Sam broke into a run. He charged on around a bend and over a small crest. Now he saw several figures in wild activity ahead. They were quarreling or fighting, not aware of his approach. As he pounded on toward them, he recognized the clothing of Otzi and his daughter. They were being beset by two of the raiders, who must have ambushed them. One knocked Otzi down and stomped his ribs. The other grabbed Snow and ripped at her clothing, hitting her in the face as she resisted. He was raping her!

Sam was running swiftly, but it seemed painfully slow because of the distance to cover. He could only see, not stop what the raiders were doing. But his rage was burgeoning, because once he had seen his sister Flo raped, and had not been able to stop it or even protest. Today he had a score to settle with all rapists.

Then at last he was there. He lifted his staff and knocked one man on the head, sending him spinning to the ground. Then, panting, he whirled on the other, who was pinning the girl to the ground. He grabbed the man’s hair with one hand, and one leg with the other hand, and heaved him bodily up into the air. Such was the strength of his fury, he whirled around in a full circle, then threw the man into a tree. The man struck the trunk and dropped to the ground without a scream, just two thuds.

Sam turned back to the first raider—but he was already up and running away as fast as he could manage. Sam doubted he could catch him. So he went to Otzi, who was woozily sitting up. The man tried to lift his arms defensively, not recognizing Sam.

“Easy!” Sam said. “It’s Sam. I routed the two raiders.”

Otzi looked round, seeing that it was true. “Ambush,” he said. “I tried to fight them—-”

“They had clubs and surprise,” Sam said. “I saw from a distance, but couldn’t get here fast enough.”

Snow groaned, and they both looked at her. Her skirt was half pulled off, and her face was a mass of blood. Blood was in her eyes, blinding her.

Sam went to her, pulling out the cloth he used to clean his own injuries, at such time as he had any. Wary of her reaction, he spoke before he touched her. “Sam. I am Sam. You know me. The raiders are gone. I will help you.”

“Sam,” she repeated, recognizing the name and voice.

“I will wipe your eyes,” he said. He poured some water into his cloth, and used the wet material to clean out one eye and then thé other, carefully.

“You are so gentle,” she said as she opened her eyes.

Otzi snorted. He had gotten to his feet, and was looking at the raider by the tree. Gentle? The man had been pulped.

Sam cleaned off the rest of her face, then wrung out the cloth and gave it to her to stanch the continuing flow from her nose. “Hold it tight,” he said. “I know it hurts, but you must not lose more blood. I think that’s your only injury, except—” Then he caught himself.

She caught the implication anyway. Her free hand came up and ripped the amber necklace off. She threw it away. “Except I am no longer a maiden,” she said bitterly. “No one will marry me now.”

“No, that’s not—” Sam started, but had to break off again. Because it was true: most men wanted to marry maidens. The raider had deprived her of her most precious attribute. The only thing that might have made up for her homely face—which now was worse.

She began to cry. Sam, feeling somewhat helpless, lifted her to a sitting posture and put his arms around her somewhat in the manner of a father, trying to comfort her.

“That brigand is dead,” Otzi said.

Sam realized that this, too, was probably true. “I was angry,” he said a bit ruefully. “My sister—she was—I was then too young to stop it. I have been ashamed ever since.”

Otzi nodded. “Justice has been done. Take his things.”

Sam shook his head. “No. I want nothing of his. You can have them.”

“I want nothing of his either,” the man said grimly. He studied the body. “He’s of the Green Feather tribe. Those folk are nothing but mischief.”

“Yes,” Sam agreed. “We know of them too. They plunder and—” Yet again he caught himself. What they did was rape any women they caught alone or inadequately protected, exactly as in this case.

“We can leave him here as he is, to rot without burial,” Otzi said. “That is fitting.”

“That is fitting,” Sam agreed. Then, belatedly, he remembered the main threat. “The village—the raiders have taken it. They are killing all the people. We must flee.”

“The raiders!” Snow cried. “The village!”

“Too many to fight,” Sam said. “I saw them when the goat led me there. The one who ran just now will tell them of our presence. We must get well away from here, immediately. I was coming to warn you—”

“Then all is lost,” Otzi said grimly. “They waited until the harvest to strike, so as to glean the richest spoils.”

“Yes,” Sam agreed. He did not comment on the village’s laxness about defense. “We must go.”

Otzi looked at his daughter, whose nose was no longer bleeding badly. It would, unfortunately, never be normal again. Her appearance had not been great before; now it was ruined. “We must go,” he agreed.

“Yes,” she said, understanding the situation all too well. Sam released her, and she started to get up—and stopped. “Oh!” She fell back flat on the ground.

“What is it?” Otzi asked, concerned.