“Yes, sorry. I was thinking too deeply there, forgetting what I was doing. No, we’ll stay here, you and I. It may not be her world, but it is ours. We can’t blame her for wanting to go home, can we? We want that, too. Maybe. At some point, when you’re big and strong, perhaps we shall return and show them how wrong they were. And they will let us back into the village. Surely the old men must be dead by then.”
I stop talking. The idea of returning to the tribe makes my stomach feel hollow. Of course, leaving three dead tribesmen and defying the chief and the shaman would make it difficult to go back. Burning their huts also will not have endeared me to them. It’s a fantasy, nothing more. But still, I can’t stop thinking about it.
Aker’iz coos, babbles, and burps contentedly, so I put her in her backpack and set the pack inside the ship’s hatch. I can hear Theodora talking softly to herself somewhere inside.
I sit down by the fire and cook dinner for the two of us. Supplies are running low, and tomorrow at dawn I will go hunting.
After a while, Dorie comes back out. She carefully avoids looking at me.
We share the evening meal in silence.
- - -
The jungle is at its best in the early morning. Dew drips from the treetops, mixed with sticky sap. The air is heavy, but there’s a freshness to it that I like. The light is also brighter than it will be all day, when the sun rises to its usual place straight overhead, its light blocked by the dense canopy of leaves so high above me.
I move quietly, my feet making no sound on the ground. I smell no recent predator on the air. I’m the only hunter out right now, as much a part of the jungle as any Big.
But those white balls everywhere were never a part of it before. I’m tempted to kick them whenever I see one, but that would make noise. Hopefully, they will disappear in time.
I find the track of a skarn, and it leads me deeper into the woods before I can throw my blade at it, spinning through the air. The strike is perfect, killing the skarn on the spot and completely severing its strange head pouch from the rest of the carcass. That way, it can’t release the sour fluid that can sometimes ruin the meat.
As I gut the skarn, I see two small signs of tribesman activity. Someone has been here not long ago, moving at night probably, or they wouldn’t have left these faint signs. Dorie said there would be no tribes nearby, but she might not know if there are.
Then I hear their heartbeats and slow breathing—they’re so close. I keep gutting the skarn, but in reality I’m ready to strike with my sword. There’s at least two of them.
“Greetings, Kenz’ox,” comes a voice from the side. “Our swords are in our belts.”
I recognize the voice and turn calmly. “Greetings, Emar’oz. You’re far from home. As are you, Torkz’ik. And you, Frant’ex.”
The three young warriors stop well away from me. Indeed, their swords are not bared. But they are three, and I will struggle to defeat them if they attack.
“We followed you,” Emar’oz says. “For several moons.”
“You should go back,” I tell him curtly. “There is nothing for you here.”
“We were sent to kill you,” Frant’ex says. “The chief and shaman were furious that you defied them.”
I feared it would come to this. The thoughts flash through my mind. I left both Aker’iz and Dorie asleep inside the ship, with the hatch closed. There’s a small chance these warriors will not discover that ship.IfI lose this fight, I tighten the grip on my sword.
“What Frant’ex means,” Torkz’ik growls with an angry glare at his friend, “is that we were told to, but we won’t do it. We think you were right in taking the baby.”
“Was I right in killing three of your tribesmen?” I growl, checking the area for possible escapes and tactics for the fight. “And setting the chief’s hut on fire?”
“Chief Smirt’ax was not concerned about that,” Emar’oz says. “He was very concerned about having you defy him. And we’re not concerned, either. You were ambushed by six of your own tribesmen! And you killed three of them! Surely you should be celebrated as a great warrior instead of hunted.”
I smell sour smoke on them. They’re not picky about the wood they burn for their campfire, and they haven’t bathed for many days.
“Was I cast out?” I ask, innocently kicking away some of the bloody parts of the skarn, placing them so that my adversaries might slip on them if this becomes a fight. The smell of the prey’s blood makes me want to have one.
Torkz’ik looks away. “Not before we left. It may have happened later. Or it may not have happened at all.”
I snort. “I killed three tribesmen and defied the chief so everyone could see it. We have cast men out for less than that.”
“But none of those men were Kenz’ox,” Emar’oz points out. “Remember, you were given the use of a Lifegiver as the youngest man ever to have that honor. You were always talked about as a future chief. Indeed, many of us could barely wait for your face to be carved into the totem pole.”
“Then I am not bad enough to be cast out,” I sum up, “but still three men were sent to kill me. It makes little sense, warriors.” I listen for more sounds, but it does appear that these three are all that are coming for me. They’re not just keeping me busy with talk while the actual attackers are surrounding me.
“Many things don’t make sense in the village these days,” Torkz’ik says, his belt creaking as he takes up a broad-legged stance. “Or in the jungle. Have you seen all these white things everywhere? The Envoy just laughs when asked about them.”
