Fire in the Cave (11 page)

His lips brushed hers.

“I hate you.”

His voice was soft, so full of kindness and love and desire that she
felt herself melting as he kissed her, as their lips pressed
together, both of them gasping with need. He kissed her harder,
tongue touching hers, nipping at her lips, growling with each breath,
the weight of his body on top of her making her gasp for breath.

He pulled away.

“And I love you.”

It was a savage growl, his voice burning with rage. He yanked at her
hair, pulling her head back cruelly, baring her throat. As his teeth
bit into her neck, he forced his shaft into her below. His arms
wrapped around her as pain from her throat and pleasure from below
flowed together like crashing waves and set her on fire. He moved
against her, moved inside her, she kissed him and bit him, desperate
for more of him. His fingers clawed her back, his lips were soft on
her throat. He was pounding into her, breaking her into heat and
light inside, all the lines of her body dancing with fire and
lightning. She tasted sweat, she tasted blood, the darkness was
filled with flashing, swirling colors, he was filling her and
destroying her. She cried out as she came, a long wail of agonized
joy. Then the darkness rushed back, crashing over her like a warm
sea, and everything was gone.

*********

She could see.

She blinked, surprised. The fire in the center of the hut was lit,
crackling and hissing to itself as it sent sparks up to the hole in
the roof. There was a clay pot, her cookpot, pushed up against the
hot coals.

Black-dog was sitting with his back to her, stirring the pot with a
stick. She smelled grain and mint, rabbit meat and sweetroot.
Black-dog, silent hunter, feared warrior, taker of women, was
cooking.

Half-asleep, the witch-girl lay in her pile of furs. They were warm,
soft, surprisingly heavy. Not furs. Dogs. His two big hunting
hounds were in the bed, sleeping in a lazy pile with her, keeping her
warm. The female, Rika, opened one eye and gave the witch-girl a
look. The dog sniffed, a half-sneeze chuffing sound. She licked the
witch-girl’s hand, sniffed again, and settled back to sleep.

The witch-girl lay still, and listened.

Black-dog was speaking. Low, quiet, so quiet she hadn’t heard
him at first, he was talking to himself. No, not to himself: he was
looking up at the far wall, to the high shelf where Grandmother’s
painted skull sat grinning in the firelight.

He was talking to Granny Rattlebones.
Can he hear her?
The
witch-girl was fully awake now, and worried.
Is the old ghost
talking back to him? How much witchcraft does this hunter know?

A branch cracked in the fire, sending up a spray of sparks.

“You knew, didn’t you,” said Black-dog quietly.
“That’s why you waited so long to give us our true names,
our adult names, our names as men.” He poked at the fire with
a stick; flames leaped up and died away. “You knew what our
names would be, my brother’s and mine, before you ever dreamed
your witch-dream to name us. You knew what you would see, and what
would happen. See a white stag in your dream, and if you catch it,
you get your dearest wish. See a black dog in your dream, and if it
catches you, you’ll die before the next full moon. So you
waited, wouldn’t dream for us, wouldn’t let us become men
until your granddaughter was trained. Until she was ready to replace
you.”

He looked up at the skull for a while, as if listening. The
witch-girl heard only the crackle of the fire.

Black-dog shook his head, slowly. “What she has done to me, I
cannot bear.” His voice was rough. Anger, and pain. “I
could hold my hand in a fire and smile, but this, I cannot bear.
This is not what I truly feel, for her. This is lies and sickness.
I would tear it out of my guts with my teeth. I will rage against it
until the binding breaks, or the world does. I cannot do otherwise.
I am what I am.”

He stared up at the skull in silence, for a time. His fists
clenched, and his voice went cold. “If I could choose, I would
not choose to feel this. The hunger to do harm. The pride that will
die before it bows.”

The witch-girl bit her lip. She should be feeling a touch of fear as
she watched the clenching muscles of his back, heard the hate in his
voice. Instead, she found herself fighting against the urge to go to
him. Hold him, stroke his hair. Sooth him. She held her breath,
and stayed still.

Black-dog watched the skull. Slowly, he relaxed, looked down. He
stirred the stew-pot, then moved it away from the coals. “I
thought so, once. When my brother and I were young, running by the
stream, playing at being warriors, telling brave stories. When we
played with other children, always we were the strongest, always we
were the winners, the leaders, the shining ones.”

His voice was almost a whisper now. “But when we wrestled each
other, it couldn’t end. Our strength was equal. The others
would gather around us, cheering and laughing and making bets on our
play. First the laughter stopped, as they watched us strain against
one another, hands on arms, shoulder pressing shoulder. Then they
began to worry. The fight was lasting too long. There were bruises.
Then blood. Neither of us crying out. Neither of us able to stop.
How can you surrender, against an enemy who is not stronger than you?
Both of us wishing it would end, but unable to give up. Too much
hunger, too much pride. Both of us gripping, straining, harming the
one we loved the most. Miserable, hurting, trapped by our own
natures, by our equal strength.”

He was looking at his hand, now. A faint, pale scar, twin crescents.
A child’s teeth. “The adults pulled us apart. Wasn’t
easy for them. We lay in your hut together, old witch, and as we
healed I told my brother a story.”

“I told him of two brothers. One was golden-haired, and he was
brave and strong. One was dark-haired, and he was clever and wise.
And they never needed to fight, because they already knew who would
win any challenge. For one was the strong one, and the other was the
wise one, and each had their own kind of power to use to help the
other. The strong one could wield any weapon with perfect skill.
The wise one knew the names and secret uses of every plant and stone.
One could defeat any enemy, and the other could heal any wound, and
they never fought one another. A healer. I would be a healer.”

“Why would you not train me, Grandmother?” There was
sorrow in his voice as he looked up at the skull. Old, tired pain.
“Was it because of blood, because I was not your true grandson?
Was it because men may not learn witch’s secrets?” His
voice went quiet, hard, cold. “Or did you already know what I
would become?”

He stood. “I see why you chose her,” said Black-dog.
“She set a binding that can’t be undone unless she wills
it, with her will unbroken… She’s as clever as I am
strong. But neither of us is wise. The binding must break, no
matter the cost. And soon there will be war and death and weeping,
for all the Red Cave tribe.” He spread his arms wide, voice
mocking. “So tell me, dead old woman, did you get what you
wished for when you dreamed my brother’s name?”

A chill ran through the witch-girl as she watched Black-dog’s
back, the flexing muscle and scars. He was standing ready to fight.
Facing down the ghost. What was he seeing, the witch-girl wondered.
What was he hearing? Echoes from his own mind? Or the true words of
the old woman’s spirit?

Whatever it was, it did not satisfy him. He snarled, turning his
head to the side. “Then at least tell me this. You gave my
brother his name, you cursed me with mine, for all the tribe to know.
So tell me what you dreamed for her. Tell me the witch-girl’s
true name.”

Only echoes, thought the witch-girl. He’s only arguing with
his own shadow, the ghosts of his own mind. He can’t hear her.

He leaned toward the painted skull, listening intently. “A
bird?” he growled. “What kind of bird?”

No, no, no. The witch-girl shivered in her furs. She was only
barely matching him, will-to-will, as it was. If he had her name, he
would have more power over her, he could break her heart open and
take hold of her soul. The witch-girl strained to listen, to hear
Grandmother’s voice.

Outside in the darkness, the wind stirred dead leaves, sent them
racing and rustling across the ground. Far out over the lake, a
night-bird cried.

Black-dog turned and strode out the doorway, his two hounds padding
after him. They vanished into the night.

The fire crackled in the quiet hut.

The witch-girl pushed herself upright, sitting on her furs. She
pulled one up over her shoulders to keep out the chill.

She stared up at her grandmother’s skull.

“Eat your supper, dear,” whispered the wind.

The witch-girl glared at the painted bone. “What did you tell
him? Did you tell him my name? Why?”

“Smells like a lovely rabbit stew,” the old woman sighed.
“When was the last time you had a proper meal? Always getting
so wrapped up with your work, brewing and binding and giving advice,
taking care of everyone but yourself. Go on, eat it before it gets
cold.”

“Meddling old haunt,” the witch-girl muttered. She
scooted over to the cookpot and sniffed it suspiciously. Stars and
stones, it smelled good. She was ravenous. She fished a pair of
eating sticks off a shelf and set to work filling herself with sweet
and savory chunks of meat and root.

“There, isn’t that better?” Grandmother said. Her
voice was the scurrying of some small night animal, out in the
forest.

“Too much mint,” the witch-girl grumbled. She would have
used more wild onion. This was different. Good, though. It was
hard to stay angry as her stomach filled with warm food.

“He was always good with herbs,” Grandmother sighed. The
night breeze stirred around the roof.

The witch-girl raised the pot to her mouth and slurped the broth.
She felt warm, and tired, and a little sad.

“Have I done this wrong?” she asked the skull. “I
feel twisted-up when I think about him. And he… Sometimes he
looks at me like I’m nothing, just an object. A stone, or a
cord to tie in knots. Sometimes he looks at me, and I’m sure
he wants to kill me with his bare hands. And sometimes he kisses me,
and I’m sure he’s falling in love with me.” She
leaned her face into her hands. “Did I do the binding badly?
Did it get twisted up because he’s… some kind of
half-witch, too? Should I have done the binding at all?”

For a while, the skull was silent. Then, the old woman’s tired
whisper: “Sometimes I wonder whether I should have drowned one
of them in the lake when they were born.”

“What?” The witch-girl sat bolt upright, staring at the
skull in shock.

“It’s what we used to do,” Granny Rattlebones
sighed. “Twins can be bad, bad luck. But I couldn’t. I
told myself stories about why. I told myself that one of them would
likely die before they grew to men, from fever, or cold, or accident,
and then whichever one lived would be chief. The strength I saw in
those tiny babes, I thought it would be a waste to drown one and lose
the other. I told myself that, of all the futures I saw for them,
all the darkness and sorrow and blood, there was at least one of
great happiness. For both of them. For everyone. But in the end, I
just didn’t want to kill a child. Not for the greater good,
not for anything.”

The witch-girl watched her grandmother’s painted skull, eyes
wide. Grandmother had clear visions, she had wisdom and certainty
and a cackling laugh like rocks cracking. For her to doubt, to
regret, was like the moon choosing not to rise.

“Make it right,” the old woman sighed. “Make my
foolishness the right choice, saving both children, both beautiful
brothers. Make it the right choice, setting the binding. Of all the
hundred paths you wander in the dark, find the one that leads to
happiness.”

The witch-girl shook her head sadly. “I don’t know how.
He was right. I am not wise.”

“You’re young, of course you’re not wise!”
The skull grinned. “But you’re clever!”

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.”