Great Sky Woman (27 page)

He knew the tiny mouselike creatures well. “Not much meat,” he sniffed.

“Their scat makes a tea, good for the shaking sickness,” she said.

She seemed thoughtful when she said that, and he wondered if there was a story to tell. She didn’t continue, and he remembered when Deep Dry Hole had collapsed, frothing at the mouth. Three times in a moon this had happened. The dream dancers had come and given him a thin soup to banish the shaking sickness. Afterward he had suffered only one more, and then none for as long as Frog could remember.

“Mouse shit?” Frog asked. “This is the medicine Dry Hole took?”

She looked at him proudly, seeing nothing humorous at all in the secret ingredient.

“Tell no one,” she said. “It is our secret.”

“No one,” he lied. Frog simply couldn’t wait to tell Dry Hole the truth. Perhaps he would wrinkle his nose, or if Frog decided to speak while Dry Hole was eating, he might even spit up his food.

That would be entertaining to watch. All the more reason to survive to reach home once again.

He heard the river before they reached it, and rather than merely fording its rushing waters, Frog thought to see if it might offer up nourishment. He shushed her and together they lay flat in the grass, watching the water at a slant so as to reduce glare. For half a quarter they waited, and then…

There!
Frog glimpsed a flash of life beneath the surface.

“Butterfly, quiet,” he whispered, and crawled onto a jutting flat rock, close enough to the water to see his own reflection. She bit her lip and hunkered down obediently. Ten breaths he waited, and then ten more. When he saw the moving shadow, he lunged.

Frog was not strong, and many were faster afoot than he, but Frog’s hands were quick as his totem’s tongue. He lunged, slipped from the rock and fell into the river. Then he sat up on the rocks, sputtering, holding a flapping blue fish high in both hands. Never before had he seen its like: pink speckles against pale blue flesh with flat black eyes. But it flapped mightily, and anything that fought so for its life must be tasty indeed.

Both he and the girl laughed delightedly. She stood and ran in a circle, flapping her arms like her pretended namesake, thanking its spirit for the gift of flesh.

It was the first truly good moment that they had shared.

Another day’s walking, and Great Sky was now a misty gray ghost before them. Or was that Great Earth? Coming from the south, the two mountains were in line with each other, so that what appeared when the light was just right was a vast cairn of green-dappled gray rock. This was the outer range of Ibandi hunting territory. The nameless one seemed more at home now as well. Occasionally she dug tubers and plucked fleshy seed fruits with cries of happy recognition. Gradually their camp transformed into a place of joy and promise. Where they found caves, he used them, except one that had clearly been used before by Mk*tk. On that occasion they moved on, as he had with the baobab tree.

Two days from home, he was about to step out of the grassland into an area blackened and still smoldering from a lightning fire, when the nameless one pulled at his hand. “Wait,” she said.

“What, Butterfly?”

She smiled at the play name, then grew serious again. “Something is wrong,” she said. At first Frog thought to question her, then a voice within said, again,
Trust the girl
.

Were they being followed? But if that was true, why hadn’t the Mk*tk simply killed them? Certainly the monsters had little to fear from a single Ibandi boy.

Not that, then. Perhaps something else. Perhaps…perhaps their enemy was closer than he thought. Occasionally, as the wind shifted, his nose had wrinkled at a strong, alien scent.

So far, he had seen nothing: no tracks and no visual sign.

Perhaps he no longer believed in gods or a life beyond this one, but he had to trust something sometime. Why not trust himself, the skills taught him by Snake and his brothers, and this strange girl?

Yes. Trust.

What to do? Frog and T’Cori couldn’t circle any farther west. If Others were genuinely on their trail, then they might be driven into lands completely unknown. On the other hand, considering the nature of their enemy, if pursuit was that tenacious, no hope remained.

No.
There was always hope. He was an Ibandi hunter, and the Ibandi would not be driven from their own lands.

So very cautiously, he began to move T’Cori farther east, backtracking and then searching for footprints.

And then at last he found sign, one brutish, splay-toed Mk*tk track, with wide thick toes and deep, heavy heel-print. A green centipede lay crushed in the impression, its pus sac mostly dried but still a bit gummy to the touch. From that wetness, Frog estimated the Mk*tk to be a half day ahead of him.

Letting caution rule him, Frog circled around the field of short blackened grass, camping in the bush without a fire. They followed on at daybreak when once again his eyes could distinguish between eland and elephant.

The wind wrinkled his nose. Frog stopped them, crouching to examine a sprig of broken grass. Then he simply remained still, and motioned her to follow his example.

“What are we doing?” she whispered.

“They may be close,” Frog said. “We take no chance. A hunter’s ally is stillness. My uncle Snake told me to be like a rock. All men, all animals want to believe all is well. Tell the world that you are harmless, and most will pass at peace.”

The girl nodded, and remained silent and still until he rose and motioned her to follow, which she did, dumbly, head down. But a quarter day later she said: “You are following him. How do you know he is not also following you?”

The idea burned. The thought of one of these terrible two-legged in the bush behind them, growing closer by the breath, was almost more than he could bear. And yet he wondered: Could that have happened? Could the Mk*tk have backtracked, just as he had? Found their signs? Even now come close enough to cast a spear?

No. Frog was slower and weaker than his brothers, but he trusted his mind. He
had
to. It was, and had always been, his sharpest weapon.

But with every step, that possibility gnawed at him.

Grand hunt chief. What if she was right? What then?

Frog began to cut glances at the nameless one. Again, he considered his motivations for remaining with her. Because she was a sacred dream dancer? Because there was a chance that T’Cori saw things that he did not? That she had actually seen a future in which he rose high in the Circle? He did not know how such a thing could be, but she claimed to see it, nonetheless. He had always suspected the dancers possessed such power. Snake said that Stillshadow could see the future. Could the nameless one?

So Frog doubled back on himself. For a quarter, he circled back, until he cut his own tracks again.

And there they were. Mk*tk tracks. Larger, deeper than Ibandi tracks. More weight on the balls of the feet, as if ready to sprint at any moment. “Do you trust me?” he asked the girl.

She nodded. “With my life.” Frog took her up into the rocks, very careful to brush away her footprints and any other sign that he and the nameless one had passed this way. “If I don’t return, it will be because I am dead,” he said. “If I die, would you rather die or have the Mk*tk take you back?”

Her expression told him all he needed. For his broken-winged Butterfly, death would be a comfort. Frog nodded. “Then here is the rest of the food,” he said, laying down the leather sack in which he had carried their supplies. “I will come back.”

There was a pause of several breaths in which neither of them spoke. Tears shone in her eyes, making them like twin summer moons reflected in the waters of Fire Lake. “Butterfly Spring,” he said. Her lips turned up in a sad little smile, and she spread her arms, flapping. Frog replied with his own little hopping dance.

Butterfly. Frog.

Family.

He started to turn away, but she called to him and threw her arms around his shoulders, holding him so tightly that he could barely breathe.

Again, he felt himself growing aroused, and was troubled. He had sexed with Fawn, a dream dancer, and now Fawn was dead. Other men and boys had lain with dream dancers, and it had brought no grief. Frog was confused, not knowing what was right or whether Fawn had been wronged in lying with him. He knew only that he did not want to sin against Great Mother twice.

It was almost embarrassing to pry her away. But the gratitude glowing in her eyes told him everything that he needed. This was right. And regardless of what happened, in her eyes he was a hero. As were his brothers. As Uncle Snake was. As he, Frog, had always hoped to be.

“I’ll be back,” said Frog. And then he was gone.

Whenever the way was clear Frog trotted, slowing down whenever the brush might offer concealment to an enemy. He crouched to examine the grass ahead, saw that it had been bent and broken only a quarter before, and increased his pace once again. If he could even
once
glimpse his quarry, it might be possible to design some kind of ambush. But even if he did catch sight before the Mk*tk detected him, how would he get into a killing position?

He was just thinking this when an impala buck bounded out of the brush behind him. Golden, slender and graceful it was, with a flash of white at hooves and flank. Its curved brown antlers swept back as if windblown. Wide-eyed and startled, it bounded off in another direction when its wide brown eyes glimpsed the human hunter.

The flesh along the back of Frog’s neck itched terribly. What had just happened? Was the appearance of the buck a coincidence? A sign from Father Mountain?

Or had the impala been disturbed? Driven from behind?

And if it had…?

The impala fled, but Frog sprinted after, cocking his spear arm, aiming, feeling the sense of sacred connection, praying that it was the impala’s death time. He threw, blunt end first.

The spear flew true, striking the impala hard at the rounded back of its skull, stunning it. Frog unslung his second spear, swinging it as the impala staggered to its feet, smashing it along the side of the head. It collapsed onto its side, bleating.

Then Frog scrambled away, wiping out his tracks, stepping on rocks whenever possible, until he was concealed at a safe distance.

The impala fell silent.

A hand of breaths passed. Frog felt a fool. Then again, better a live fool than a dead hero. Or a dead and
devoured
hero. Who knew what terrible things these Mk*tk did? T’Cori had not spoken of them eating human flesh, but that did not mean they eschewed such fare. Young Frog would make a tasty morsel indeed.

Frog heard something stirring in the brush, and a silver-backed jackal emerged. Its black-peppered tail twitched, red flanks and legs devoid of fat, pale chin and lips flecked with saliva. He was about to throw a rock to drive it off, when a second sound tickled his ears. The jackal’s massive head flicked around to face the direction from which the sound had come.

The imposing bulk of a solitary Mk*tk emerged from the brush. The jackal took one look at the Other, snarled, and despite its obvious hunger decided not to contest the meal. It ran, yipping in raucous disappointment.

The Mk*tk faded back into the brush, becoming just another shadow among the fronds. What was that shadow thinking? Was the Mk*tk as cautious as Frog had been? Then his enemy crept farther forward, close enough to examine the stunned impala. Frog was glad that he had downed it without leaving an obvious wound. What might the Mk*tk think about the gift? Had they mind to consider such things, or would belly overrule head?

The Mk*tk sniffed the air. Frog prayed that the wind would not shift and betray him. With a black-bladed knife wrapped with a leather thong the Other cut the impala’s throat. Even before the buck’s feet ceased flapping, the Mk*tk was slicing strips from its body.

Unwelcomed thoughts swirled in Frog’s head: Did the Mk*tk trade with the coastal people? Or rob them? Or did they have their own sources of black rock?

Quiet,
he told his mind. No time for the endless rattling of unanswerable questions.

Frog raised his spear point-first. Felt the stretch in his shoulder as he drew his arm back. Careful. Careful…and then he released the tension, hip twisting, chest pivoting, and then shoulder, the last segment of what the hunt chiefs called
The Bamboo Whip,
the movement that released the spear to flight. Almost as it left his hand, Frog sprinted after it, knowing that if it missed, the Mk*tk would catch and kill him.

But it did not miss. The spear struck the Mk*tk squarely in the back beneath the left shoulder, driving into the lung. The giant staggered, roaring in pain and rage as he reached back and clawed for the shaft, gripping and wrenching it loose. Screaming a string of sounds Frog did not comprehend, the Mk*tk hurled it to the ground. The spear’s fire-hardened wooden tip was smeared with crushed poison grub, but even if there was enough to kill the Mk*tk, it might take another quarter. Frog did not have a quarter.