Fire in the Cave (12 page)

“...the path…” The old woman’s voice was
barely audible, fading as night faded into day.

The witch-girl sat, wrapped in her fur, watching the mist. “What
happens next,” she muttered. “He’ll try to finish
that strange ritual he began, the trick he played on the river-folk.
But what is he doing? The blessing, the marked girl offering herself
to the whole town, that would make sense if he was trying to end a
drought or ensure a good harvest of fruits and berries from the
forest, but it’s nonsense for breaking a binding. Where did he
learn this? He knows some herbs, he’s got enough raw strength
to work some crafts by instinct.” She shivered, remembering
hands on her skin, remembering leather twisting tighter, digging in.

She shook her head, concentrating. “No. He can’t break
the binding with strength alone, because part of its strength is his.
He needs skill and training, he needs a witch, and I won’t
help him. His ritual will do nothing. The River-folk’s witch,
that woman Manala, she’ll put a stop to it. And what will he
do then?”

The witch-girl stared at the mist, thinking furiously, and saw.

She saw the River-folk girl, Four-leaf, lying covered in flowers and
hands. The men of her tribe were gathered around her, reaching for
her, touching her. Her arms were stretched ecstatically over her
head, her eyes half-closed as she rode a wave of exhausted pleasure.

The crowd parted. The River-witch was there. Her skin was stained
soot-black, save for the white bones drawn upon her. Ribs, arms and
legs, white skull-mask. Her hair was in long braids, hanging to her
waist, decorated with shells, stones, bones. She wore nothing but a
belt of little bags and pouches. She stood tall and proud, and the
men bowed their heads as she approached the flower-covered altar.

“What has happened here?”

Ten-hands, strongest warrior, ten dark bands on his mighty arms,
stepped forward. “She said she met a river-god, wise Manala.
The spirit marked her, and commanded her to offer herself to all who
would have her, so that the river may flow with blessings.” He
grinned, spread his hands. “We did as she asked.”

The witch leaned close over the tired, happy girl. Four-leaf gave
her a sleepy smile. Manala peered at the green-stained markings on
the girl’s skin, then closed her eyes and sniffed, three times,
like a dog. She frowned. “Too many men. Can’t tell.
But perhaps.”

She rose, and turned. “Carry her to my dwelling. Tomorrow,
she will show me where she met the spirit. There I will give thanks
for his blessings, or punish his lies.”

This must be how Grandmother saw,
the witch-girl thought.
The
visions didn’t just come. She had to start by thinking,
working, learning how each heart would choose. Wisdom is built of
cleverness and watching.

She saw the River-witch in the forest, in the morning light,
Four-leaf leading her towards the waterfall. The River-witch was
careful, ready. On her belt was a bag of offerings, shining shells
and flowers, to thank the river-god if the story was true. In her
hand was a thick, heavy staff, to punish any man or spirit who tried
to play her for a fool.

In the morning light, in the mist of the falls, the River-witch
crouched to examine the mossy bank where Four-leaf had been taken.
She bent low, closed her eyes, sniffed.

Black-dog was on her before she could stand, exploding from his
hiding place in the thick bushes. One arm was wrapped around her
chest, binding her arms to her sides; the other wrapped her throat.
As he lifted her off the ground, his dogs rushed out, leaping on
Four-leaf and knocking her back into the river. The girl splashed,
turned over and over by the current, struggling up towards air.

By the time she returned to shore, Black-dog and the River-witch were
gone.

The witch-girl blinked. She had grown cold, sitting in her doorway,
watching the sun burn away the mist.

“That’s what he wanted,” she whispered to herself.
“The ritual was false. He only needed to draw out their witch.
To kidnap her, to make her break the binding. But it’s not
like capturing a warrior or taking a woman. You can’t kidnap a
tribe’s only witch, their only healer. This is what he meant,
the blood and sorrow. This is what brings it.”

She looked out at the village, and saw smoke and fire.

“This will start a war.”

T
he Red Cave was empty. The morning light showed her the
packed-earth floor, the cold ashes of the firepit, a few broken
spearheads and scraps of leather. The hunters were gone.

The witch-girl stepped out of the cave, wincing in the bright
daylight. The waves of the lake were shining in the sun, reflecting
white sparks of light that drove into her head like spikes. It was
an unnatural time for an owl like her to be up and dressed for
travel, but she couldn’t wait for evening. Her fist tightened
around the old leather footwrap she’d taken. She closed her
eyes against the glare, listened, and then hurried toward the sound
of dogs.

Howl the hound-keeper was sitting on a sunny patch of grass,
surrounded by dogs. Most of the pack was gone with the hunters, but
a few were too young or old to run with the pack. A nursing mother
and a scarred old male were lying on either side of Howl, who was
playing fetch with two half-trained young dogs and a pile of clumsy
puppies. One puppy had the end of Howl’s long braid in his
teeth, shaking it back and forth.

As the witch-girl approached, the younger dogs rushed to her, barking
and sniffing and tripping over each other. The witch-girl knelt to
ruffle ears and scratch under short puppy muzzles. She thought of
Black-dog.

Once, he had come upon a group of puppies playing. He looked down at
them for a while, watched them roll over each other and bump into his
legs. Then he bared his teeth and growled like a bear. Most of the
puppies had run to hide behind their mother. Two little black ones,
with tiny teeth and big, clumsy paws, had stood their ground and
growled back at him. He knelt down with a piece of raw leather and
tugged it back and forth as the two pups dug their teeth into it and
tried to pull it away from him. Those pups, Fika and Rika, had been
with him every day since. They were with him now, wherever he was.

You put yourself in my mind
, he had said.
When I try to
sleep, I dream of you and wake.
The witch-girl shook her head,
clearing away the memory. She needed to concentrate. No knowing how
much time she had.

Howl was standing, watching her, frowning with concern. “Good
morning, witch-girl. Are you well?”

The witch-girl looked up, eyebrow raised. “Why would I not
be?”

Howl looked away, blushing slightly. “I... heard you might be
ill.”

The witch-girl snorted.
You heard I might have stumbled out of
Black-dog’s den, flushed and bound,
she thought.
You
heard I had the leash you gave me tied tight across tender places,
heard I had to be carried home. And you dream of being Black-dog’s
pet, and wonder what happened between us. Good. Wonder.

“I am well. But I need to find White-stag, quickly. Where are
the hunters?”

The scarred, grey-furred old hound pushed a shoulder against Howl’s
leg. She bent to scratch behind his ears. “They’re off
toward White Mountain. They left before dawn, moving quick. There
were wolf-howls out there last night, and they plan to chase the
wolves out of Red Cave territory before they start taking our deer.”

“I need you to call them back. Can you?”

Howl bit her lip, thinking. “Yes. I can send Spotter and
Curl, with old Surter to keep them on the task.” The scarred
male twitched his ears, and the two young hounds trotted over at the
sound of their names. “I will do it if you ask, witch-girl,
but may I know why?”

“The River-folk may be coming. Not to raid, or trade. A full
war-party.”

Howl’s eyes went wide. She took a handful of red feathers from
her bag and fixed them to the dogs’ collars, the sign for
“
trouble, come quickly
.” The witch-girl held out
White-stag’s old footwrap for the dogs to sniff. The three
hounds buried their noses in the old leather scrap and snuffed
deeply.

Howl pointed to the forest and barked, “Seek!” The
hounds bounded off into the green, toward the distant mountain.

Howl frowned, worried. “It will take time for them to find the
hunters. More time to return. If the River-warriors arrive before
they do…”

“Go to the village,” the witch-girl said. She was
checking though her pouches, making certain she had every herb and
trinket and dye she might need. “Gather the women, call back
any who have already left. Tell them to arm themselves. There are
weapons deeper in the cave. Not just staves, take spears and knives
and javelins. They can defend the cave mouth until the others
return.”

The pups around Howl’s ankles began to whine, picking up her
fear. “I will tell them. But where will you be, witch-girl?”

“Trying to stop the war before the blood starts. Or perhaps
just buying time.” The witch-girl turned to face the sun. She
narrowed her eyes against the glare and started walking. Eastward,
toward the river.

*********

In the forest, halfway between the Red Cave and the River Village,
was the meeting stone. It was twice as high as a man was tall, and
four times as long, a great rough dome of rock rising out of the
leaf-scattered forest floor. In the clearing before the stone a
campfire burned, sending a twisting ribbon of smoke into the sky.

The witch-girl sat cross-legged with her back to the rock, watching
the fire. She was in full witch’s garb, dressed for her task
with lips stained red and black soot across her eyes. Bracelets of
bone and blue stones adorned her wrists and ankles. Necklaces of
feathers lay bright upon on her chest. A leather band ran through
her hair, holding a single bead in place on her forehead. Obsidian,
for true visions, for seeing through darkness.

She watched the fire, turning her worries over and over in her mind.
If her visions were false, if Black-dog had never gone to the
River-folk and never taken their witch, perhaps no one would come.
She would return to the cave, mistaken and embarrassed. The whole
tribe would be waiting. They would be frightened, on guard, wanting
an explanation. Should she lie, make up some story to protect their
faith in her wisdom? No. There was a time for fooling the less
wise, and a time for admitting mistakes. If all that happened was
that she looked foolish, that was a blessing compared to what might
happen if she was right. She tried to hope she was wrong, but could
not believe it. She knew.

Her visions were true. So, the River-folk warriors would be making
their way to the Red Cave to seek vengeance. They could take the
north path, past the White Mountain. They could take their canoes
south, down their river, then up the fork that led back to the lake.
But she could see no reason why they would; their best hope was in
moving quickly, directly through the forest. They would see the
smoke from her fire, and they would come to the meeting stone. She
need only wait.

The fire hissed and crackled.

A woodpecker tapped a tree.

A twig snapped.

She looked up. Ten-hands, greatest warrior of the River people, was
standing at the edge of the forest. He was taller than White-stag,
broader across the shoulders than Black-dog. A giant, the largest
human she had ever seen. He was beardless, bronze-skinned, with his
hair in a hundred war-braids. He had a spear in his hand. At his
belt gleamed a rare and dangerous treasure: an axe of shining copper.

Other warriors appeared to either side of him, stepping forward out
of the forest. More, and more, armed for killing. Surrounding the
clearing. Staring at her.

She spread her hands wide, and hoped they could not hear the pounding
of her heart. She must do this properly, with full ceremony, to have
a chance of success.

“I greet and praise you, mighty Ten-hands, River-warrior,
Wolf-killer, Swift-swimmer. Let all remember your victory in the
warriors’ games! Though five men put their shoulders to the
log to oppose you, the strength of your two hands was as great as
their ten. Your feet bit into the earth as you pushed. Your back
was like a tall mountainside. Your arms were the antlers of a
charging stag. You forced them back, as the wind sweeps the dry
leaves before it, and with cries of defeat they fell into the river.
Thus you gained your name! Ten-hands, strongest of the
River-people!”

There was a chorus of cheers as the warriors called out their
leader’s name. “Ten-hands!” “Mighty
Ten-hands!”

He stood unmoved as the praise washed over him. His face was blank,
watching her.

She returned his gaze, eyes steady. She would not show her fear on
her face. She would not let him know how her stomach twisted, or how
the sunlight shining through the trees was sharp in her eyes,
half-blinding her. She set her hands on her knees.

“I am the witch-girl of the Red Cave, spirit-talker,
true-dreamer. I learned my craft from Grandmother Rattlebones, who
learned it from Old Water Woman, who learned it from the Witch of
Thorns, who stole it from beneath a stone in the dark before the
morning time began. Mighty Ten-hands, will you sit by my fire and
share words with me?”

Ten-hands stood silent, as if carved out of stone. The
river-warriors watched him, watched her. If he raised his hand, they
would rush her, grab her, a dozen hands would seize and bind her to
take her prisoner. If he raised his weapon, a dozen spears would fly
through the air to strike her, pierce her, pin her to the ground with
the life-blood leaking out of her.