Chief Brun'ax chuckles. “The Deep is generous this year. A woman before the splix run that will give us food for the next year.”
“The splix have not yet come,” I remind him.
“They will,” he says easily. “They always do. Well, nearly always.”
He knows that as well as I do. Sometimes the Deep keeps the yearly run of splix away from us. It means that the year to follow becomes hard, and some men have to go into the jungle to hunt, because there’s only a little dried splix stored. That hasn’t happened for many years now, and I was only a young boy last time. But I remember it well. They were dark times, and it is said that our tribe nearly went under.
“Nearly always,” I agree. “And anyway, they’re not expected just yet.”
“True,” the chief agrees easily, the way he does with most things. “And yet, some years they are early. Keep your lines hooked and ready.”
“I fish with aspear,” I remind him calmly. “As I always do.”
“Of course,” he quickly says. “We all know your long spear and the wonders you can do with it.” His voice has grown weak with age. His hands shake when he thinks no one is watching. He will not lead when the baskets and cases fill with sprattling, shining splix. He will bless and smile and let the rest of us decide what to do with what the Deep provides.
Sprub’ex steps forward from the crowd. His scars catch the light. They are old burns and cuts, marks from things with claws and teeth. Too many, I always thought. He never mastered the craft of catching splix or paddling a canoe in big waves, so he is the only one who sometimes goes into the jungle to hunt the way the other tribes do. Or so he says. He rarely returns with meat, I noticed. He stands a little apart from the rest of us, and he always has.
“It is a strange gift,” he says flatly, looking away. “One that arrives just before the run. Or instead of it, perhaps. If there’s no run, shall we eat the woman instead of the splix?”
There are nervous smiles all around. Sprub’ex sometimes says things that could be jokes, but could also be meant seriously. One never knows.
“Callie arrived when she arrived,” I say. “The Deep does not consult our reckoning of time. Should I then reject the gift because she was given on the wrong day?”
“The Deep gives valuable things to the tribe — wood, shells, fish, food, iron, and many other things. It has never brought a woman. Why should we believe that this is the one time it does? And why should it be given to you, Crat'ax, and not an older man? Perhaps the woman wasn’t given by the Deep, but sent by the Plood.”
A murmur runs through the men.
“Shewasbrought by the Plood,” he continues. “You said so yourself. A Plood ship on the beach, you said. And we know that the Plood are the servants of the Darkness. Perhaps they meant for her to watch us. Or poison us. Or call them back when the splix gather thickest, so they can steal it all from us and plunge the tribe into starvation and calamity.”
I look at him fully now. “You speak of caution. That is wise. You speak of fear dressed as reason. That is less so. Why are you afraid of that little woman? You saw her. What harm can she do to you? And since when does the Deep give items to the whole tribe, except for the splix? Everything is given to and found by one man. Even now, you’re wearing the tooth of an ocean Big around your neck. It was given to you. Or was it given to the tribe? Should any of us be able to take your necklace and put it around his own neck?”
His jaw tightens, but he does not look away. “Try it and see.”
“Callie bled,” I say. “She screamed in fear when a velan attacked. She tried to flee from me, thinking I would harm her. If she were sent to spy, she would be braver or better trained. If she were sent to harm us, she would have done so already, or tried, at least.”
Sprub’ex snorts. “How can you possibly know that? Or do you know more than we think about the Plood and how they do things? Did you meet the Plood yourself, maybe?”
“I only saw their ship in the dark,” I reply calmly. “But I know what her voice sounded like when the velan grabbed her.” I’d prefer not to have to say that I grabbed her, too, and then ran. When the Deep gives something, it’s usually not necessary to tieup the gift’s arms. But Callie is the first thing I’ve been given thathadarms, so perhaps it is as it should be. “She’s not an agent of the Plood. They are as much her enemy as ours.”
Silence follows. Sprub’ex inclines his head. He has lost this exchange, but he has not abandoned the field.
Mek’tor steps in before anyone else can speak. He smiles too quickly and too broadly, but then he always does. “We only wish to be careful,” he says. “You have taken responsibility for her. That honors you. Still, the Day of Trade comes soon, after the splix run. The jungle tribes will arrive to trade their goods for our splix. They will see her. They will ask questions. Perhaps it would be wise to decide together how she is to be presented.”
“Presented?” I repeat, and I hear the danger in my own voice. My spear is still in my boat, but I can easily get it.
Mek’tor follows my gaze. “As a blessing,” he says quickly. “Or as a warning. As given from the Deep. You know that the jungle tribes don’t believe in the Deep. If they were shown a woman, surely they’d have to give up their silly beliefs about the Ancestors or the legend of the Woman they’re all waiting for. ‘Look,’ we can say. ‘Here is a real woman. Was she found in the jungle by one of you? No! She was found by us, on the beach, given to us by the Deep.’ They would have to see the truth, then.”
“What do we care about what other tribes believe?” I ask. “Since when is it our task to help them realize that the Deep is the only power there is? Do we really want them building villages on the water as well? Let them believe what they want.”
“Ah, but if they saw the truth,” Mek’tor goes on, “they would hold us in even greater regard. They would have to ask us about how to worship the Deep, how to be given its gifts. We couldtell them to bring us iron, sweet-smelling firewood, fabrics, pots, and furs in return. And they could bring it more often than just once a year. We could have them hunt for us!”
Some of the men nod, clearly liking the idea. “We do need pots and iron.”
“And,” Mek’tor goes on, encouraged, “if we show the woman to them as something shared, they might see her value all the better?—”
I take a step forward as heat rises in my cheeks. “She is not a splix to be shared,” I snarl in his face. “She is not a tool to be loaned. She stays in my hut until I decide otherwise. She was given tome. She ismine.”
Mek’tor lifts his hands as he takes a stumbling step back. “As you say, Crat'ax. I only speak for the tribe. For balance.”
