Chapter 17
- Crat'ax -
Morning light slips through a space between two planks of our hut and falls across Callie’s hair. She sleeps on her side, one arm flung over my chest as if she expects me to vanish if she lets go. Her breath is slow and warm against my skin.
I lie still. I do not want to wake her yet.
A bruise darkens my shoulder where the dactyl’s talons caught me.
Callie cleaned it last night with care and quiet anger, as if she blamed the wound itself for daring to exist. When she finished, she kissed it—soft and serious—then rested her head on my chest again.
I have not told her how much that simple gesture unsettled me, in the best possible way.
She stirs now and blinks up at me. “What are you staring at?”
“I am checking that you are still real,” I say.
She rubs her eyes. “I was hoping for something more flattering.”
“You are real and wonderful,” I tell her. “Only sometimes annoying.”
She smiles and presses closer. “You like it when I’m annoying.”
“I do,” I admit.
Her hand slides over my chest, light and idle. “Does your shoulder hurt?”
“The shoulder will survive.”
“Good. Because I was thinking we might catch some splix later. Small ones,” she adds, eyes bright with mischief.
“Only small,” I sigh. “Some say the big ones don’t taste good.”
She laughs and rolls onto her back. “You help me talk to Carter’ez about pockets today.”
“I did promise that. He has been here once already this morning, asking how the thing fits you.”
She yawns and scratches her head. “And what did you say?”
“I said we’d come see him later.”
We lie there a while longer. The village wakes around us. Voices drift across the platforms. Someone laughs. A hammer strikes wood. It all sounds ordinary. That should comfort me. It does not.
Callie sits up and stretches. “You’re quiet today.”
“I am thinking.”
She gives me a sideways look. “That sounds dangerous.”
“It can be.”
She studies my face. “Did I do something?”
“No,” I say at once. “Well, yes. What you did was being wonderful. And then you just keep doing it! It’s enough to turn a man to despair.”
She holds my gaze for a moment longer, then nods. “All right. I’ll go see if the boys are awake. They promised to show me how the little boat floats with the extra plank.”
She slips into her garment and ties it with quick confidence. It still amazes me how easily she moves through our lives now. She belongs here. That thought brings pride. It also brings something else—a vague worry. It just seems too good to be true. She seems too good to be true.
“Don’t wander too far,” I tell her.
She tilts her head. “Are you worried someone will steal me?”
I smile back. “It has happened before.”
“Four times,” she says, and ducks out of the hut.
I frown. Four times? First when she was taken from her home planet. Then I took her. No—she told me about something called a space station and how she was taken from there to Xren. Then I took her. Then Sprub’ex. Yes. Four times. I must make sure there is not a fifth.
I sit for a moment longer, then rise and follow. I do not catch up to her. I turn the other way, toward the common Circle.
Several men stand there already. Port’iz leans against a post. Veret’ax squats nearby with a cup of frit. Two others linger at the edge, watching the huts with open curiosity.
“Crat'ax,” Port’iz says. “You are healed already?”
“I am breathing,” I reply. “That is enough. You know we heal fast in our tribe.”
Veret’ax nods at my shoulder. “The irox cut you deep.”
I shrug. “Not deep enough to matter. It was my first fight with an irox. Not many fight them and win.”
“The woman helped,” Gren’ix creaks. “With the net. None of us would have thought of it. And she came away without a scratch. She has a warrior in her, my friends.”
Veret’ax grunts agreement. Then he glances past me. “She still sleeps?”
“She is awake. She’s taken an interest in boats. Small ones. I was hoping to find some food for her here. We should eat the old smoked splix before our huts are filled with the new.”
There’s no reply. A pause settles. It feels heavier than it should after someone mentions the splix.
Port’iz clears his throat. “We have been talking.”
“Really? I would never have guessed,” I deadpan.
“It is only talk,” he assures me. “But talk comes from questions.”
“What questions are these?” I ask, my voice going cold.
Veret’ax shifts his weight. “The woman. Callie.”
My jaw tightens. “That’s not a question.”
“She comes from the sky,” one of the others says. “From the Plood. Yes?”
“She didn’t choose that,” I snap. “She was taken against her will. And then… well, the Plood didn’t send her here.”
“Maybe not,” Port’iz agrees. “But she knows things. About her kind.”
I wait, having a pretty good idea what’s coming.
“Does she know where other women are?” a man asks. “Does she know if more will come?”
Port’iz raises a hand. “We don’t mean to offend you.”
I grab a mug from the table and fill it with juice. “You are doing well so far.”
Veret’ax looks up at me. “You have a woman. The rest of us do not. The Deep sees all things. It is strange that it would give so much to one man.”
“I didn’t ask for her,” I say. “She came to me on the beach, where the Deep gives us most things. I accepted what it gave me, as we are taught to do in this tribe.”
“That is the question,” Port’iz says gently. “Is she meant only for you?”
“She is not a tool to be passed around,” I snap.
“I did not say that,” he replies. “I said meant for.”
Mek’tor steps forward. “If the Deep wished to bless the tribe, would it not bless all of us?”
Murmurs ripple through the group.
I take a breath. “The Deep gives storms and calm in the same season. It does not explain itself.”
Veret’ax frowns. “The captive speaks differently.”
Silence drops.
“The captive?” I say. “Who’s been talking to him?”
“He says the Deep balances its gifts,” Mek’tor continues with an apologetic smile. “That no man may hold more than his share without great cost.”
Port’iz shoots him a warning look. “I think that’s enough.”
“I will decide what is enough,” I say. “Who spoke to him? We are forbidden from that. Yes, I saw the canoes out there when Callie and I returned. Someone picked the time when I wasn’t here to paddle out there. Who was it?”
No one answers, but I guess from the way their eyes move that it was Mek’tor.
“I am chief of the forge,” I continue. “I have fought for this tribe. I have bled for it. I will not hear whispers about my mate.”
Port’iz nods. “No one questions your loyalty. But after Sprub’ex—”
“Good,” I snap. “Then stop doubting the Deep. It works in ways we can’t understand. I also don’t understand this. But I trust that the Deep does.”
The men exchange glances. Mek’tor looks troubled rather than defiant.
“She is kind,” he says slowly. “She helps. She teaches. She learns from us, from boys too. That is why the questions grow. If she knows how women live, perhaps she knows how they come to be.”
I shake my head. “She knows her own people. On her planet. Which is very far away.”
“Are you sure?” someone asks.
I meet his eyes. “I am sure.”
The words taste solid, despite not being true.
Port’iz steps between us. “This talk ends here for now. The Deep has not spoken finally. Until it does, we hold to what we have.”
The men drift away, some reluctantly. Old Gren’ix lingers.
“Crat'ax,” he says quietly. “You guard her closely.”
“She needs guarding,” I reply. “As we have seen. Some tribesmen might lose their minds. Sprub’ex is not the only one who’s been looking at her with fire in their eyes.”
“We all come out of Lifegivers,” he says, not unkindly. “And we are a tribe.” He leaves.
I stand alone in the Circle and listen to the sea. I do not look toward the lone platform. I feel its presence all the same.
Callie finds me later near the huts. She carries a coil of rope over one shoulder.
“There you are,” she says. “The boys think the boat will hold a sail after all.”
“That is good news.”
She tilts her head. “You look like you argued with the Dry and lost.”
“Only with men,” I say. “And I’m not sure who lost.”
“About what?”
I hesitate. “They are curious about you.”
She laughs. “That’s not new.”
“They wonder if others like you exist.”
Her laughter fades. “Oh.”
“They ask questions,” I continue. “I told them most of what I know.”
“Such as?” she asks.
“That you are here,” I say. “And that you are with me.”
She studies my face. “You didn’t tell them anything else?”
“I promised not to. And I think that’s wise.”
She nods, though her fingers tighten on the rope. “All right.”
She gives the rope back to the boys, and then pulls me by the hand toward Carter’ez’s platform before the sun sinks too low.
“Before he eats,” she says. “If he eats first, he might forget what I want changed.”
“That’s true,” I say. “He does enjoy a sip of frit with his meals.”
“I noticed.”
Carter’ez looks up from a pile of skins as we approach. His hands are broad and scarred, careful despite that.
“You bring the woman,” he says. “Good. I was hoping to see how my work failed.”
Callie holds the garment up. “The dress didn’t fail. It just needs change.”
He grunts approval. “Then let us see. Dres, you call it?”
“Dress,” Callie confirms. “Many women wear it on Earth.”
Carter’ez takes the dress and turns it over. The skin is supple and dark, patterned with faint ridges that catch the light.
“This is from a treper,” he explains, glancing at me. “It was a trade from one of the Dry tribes. I think the Oporty. They prize our fresh splix. We prize skin that does not rot in salt air.”
Callie runs her fingers over it. “It’s beautiful.”
“It tried to eat three men, so they said,” Carter’ez informs us. “Beauty is dangerous.”
“If you say so,” Callie replies, with an amused little glance my way.
He motions for her to step forward. She does, lifting her arms without being told. He wraps the garment around her and tugs here and there, frowning in concentration.