5. Stromm
5
STROMM
The fire Sartok tends crackles and pops, sending plumes of fragrant smoke curling into the air. Strips of kerboo and chunks of fish hang over the fire, far enough from the flame to avoid charring, yet close enough to the smokey heat to become cured. The preserved meat will sustain the tribe later in the rainy season, when hunting becomes increasingly lean.
Sartok is sitting on a short stool with his left leg jutting outward at an odd angle, a life-altering injury from a great white cooba attack. He uses practiced hands to manage his tasks, glancing up when I approach and greeting me with a smile. “Welcome, Stromm. Yola said you might be coming my way this day.”
I pull up another stool and sit beside him, still bristling from my conversation with the Elders. “You were expecting me?”
“Of course.” Sartok leans back, wiping his hands on a piece of soft hide. “I understand what you are going through, since I was a hunter once myself. A warrior, too, yet I have always been more of a peacekeeper than a fighter.”
“How can you truly understand? You were already mated when you were injured,” I point out. “I am alone and no longer a desirable mate.”
“Hmm. I thought your belly was the problem.” Sartok seems confused by my declaration. “Was your cock permanently damaged by the laser weapon as well?”
A muscle ticks in my jaw, and I scowl. I do not appreciate his silly question.
“My cock is just fine.” I remember how it stiffened when I slipped my fingers between Em-uh-lee’s thighs, and how I had to relieve the ache with my fist once she left. “No, it is better than fine. It is in full working order.”
He chuckles, but there is no cruelty in it. “Then you are still a desirable mate.”
This conversation is infuriating…yet I find myself curious. “What good is a working cock if I cannot protect my female…provide for her?
“Pfft. Females have other sources of protection.” Sartok waves a hand dismissively. “You can still provide a mate with the one thing she would not want to get elsewhere.”
His vague answer irritates me. “And what is that?” I ask, pounding my fists childishly on my knees.
“Pleasure under the furs,” Sartok says, laughing, as if the answer was obvious. “Oh, and putting a kit in her belly.”
“Those are two things,” I say through clenched teeth, seething from anger at his disregard for my concerns.
“You are right,” he says, winking at me before turning to add more wet wood to the smokey fire.
“How does this help me find a new place within the tribe?”
“It does not,” he says, shrugging. “Yet it does help your confidence problem with the female Terran, Em-ul-ee. If you keep her satisfied under the furs, everything else will fall into place.”
I sigh, weary of this discussion, and no closer to knowing how to move forward. “How do you continue on, Sartok? Unable to hunt or fight, and unable to teach these things to Rytok?”
His lighthearted mood vanishes in an instant. “Do you think it does not pain me to see other Rakuis mentoring my young son in the ways of becoming a warrior?” His raised voice is unlike him, and I am stunned into silence.
Dropping a hand to his mangled leg, Sartok continues. “This limb may be useless, yet I am not. I can keep Rykana warm at night, and teach Rytok to face adversity without fear. To build a strong mind as well as a body. Quit feeling sorry for yourself, Stromm. Anger and self-pity are the only things making you undesirable.”
Could he be right? Is my attitude keeping me from the one thing I want more than my ability to fight again?
Pondering this, I say nothing, my jaw tight.
Sartok jerks his chin toward the racks of drying fruit behind him. “If you need something to do, you could help me with smoking and drying. Rykana works too hard, and another pair of hands would be welcome.”
The idea settles over me like a dark cloud. I could help Sartok. The work is important since it sustains the tribe. Yet, it does not call to me.
Sartok watches me closely, reading my hesitation. “Not appealing?”
I shake my head. “No.”
His grin is back. “Good. I enjoy the quiet when Rykana is off cooking.”
Despite myself, my lips twitch. The first hint of mirth I have felt since Yola’s visit. “What about fishing?” I suggest.
Sartok nods, shifting his weight to stir the fire. “Not much skill needed, since nets are used. Takes plenty of patience, though. Brings in food without putting your guts at risk. It could work.”
I roll the thought around in my mind. It would be a way to contribute, to prove myself useful again.
“Hmm,” I grunt. “I will consider it.”
Sartok slaps a hand on my shoulder, his grip firm. “Good. Now stop brooding, and think about what I said. There are more enjoyable ways of providing for your mate than spearing animals or rogues.”
I snort, shaking my head. “I will think about that after I find a new role within the tribe. Only then will I feel worthy of her.”
“Do not wait too long,” Sartok cautions. “There are other males in the tribe who would enjoy making your Terran caretaker their mate. I would hate to see you lose more than your ability to fight.”