“To the smoke huts?” a man asks.
“No. Those stay sealed. We’ll sleep crowded tonight if we must.”
I trail a step behind him, careful not to get in the way. I tell myself that’s why I’m quiet. Not because I like watching him like this.
It’s different from the way he was during the fight. Then everything about him was sharp, fast, and terrifying. Now he’s solid and grounded, moving deliberately. He’s a pivot point the whole village turns around without quite realizing it. Or maybe they do. Even the chief has taken a back seat to the real leader and is feebly helping as well as he can, stacking broken pieces of wood.
Men keep approaching Crat'ax, interrupting him mid-step, mid-thought. He never snaps at them. He never waves them away. Hejust listens and decides, and then answers, often telling the men to make their own decisions. They obviously like that.
At one point, two men argue loudly over who should take charge of a half-submerged platform. Crat'ax steps between them before it can escalate.
“You will both work on it,” he says calmly. “You are both strong, and the Deep knows you are stubborn. Together, you will succeed faster than apart. It is the way of the Deep.”
They grumble, but they go.
I don’t know why that makes my chest feel warm. But I have to seriously wonder if Cora’s highly praised Borok tribe has a chief as good as Crat'ax.
I do what I can without being asked. When men haul dripping bundles of rope up from the water, I help coil them. When planks are dragged ashore, I stack the ones that aren’t warped. My hands shake at first, but the work steadies them. Wood is wood. Knots are knots. Gravity behaves the same everywhere, and so does water.
A few of the men glance at me while I work, little smiles flickering across their faces when I meet their gazes. It’s not hunger I see, but that could change. They’re still shell-shocked about my being here in the first place, as well as the attack. But these are huge cavemen, full of life, and I’m the first woman they see. I can’t imagine that things will stay this calm.
Crat'ax notices the glances. He positions himself without comment, so that I’m always just a little closer to him than to anyone else. He doesn’t say it out loud, but the message is clear: she is with me. I don’t mind that as much as I probably should.
At midday, someone announces food. No one stops working, but baskets start circulating. There is smoked fish, berries, and sweet slivers of dried fruit, which must be the closest this planet comes to candy. Crat'ax eats standing, barely slowing down.
“Sit,” I tell him, before I can stop myself. “You bleed before.”
“I’m fine,” he says automatically.
“You were bleeding,” I repeat, firmer. “If you fall in water now, it hurt.” It’s a weak reason, but I kind of want to see him relax, too.
He studies my face for a moment, then exhales through his nose. “Very well. A short rest.”
He sits on a coil of rope, long legs stretched out, and gestures for me to do the same. The simple act feels oddly intimate, like claiming a shared space in the middle of all this activity.
As we eat, men still come to him. They lower their voices now, respectful of the pause, but they don’t hesitate to interrupt.
“We found another cracked brace,” someone reports.
“Mark it,” Crat'ax says. “We’ll replace it before nightfall.”
“Some water pots floated loose.”
“Secure them to the inner posts and hoist them up. We can’t afford to lose fresh water.”
Each answer is immediate and certain, but he must be making a lot of this up on the spot. Someone once said something like being a leader means appearing sure even when you’re not, and I’m sure Crat'ax must have read that book, too. Or maybe he wrote it.
I chew slowly and watch his hands. They’re huge, scarred, and competent. They are obviously hands that build and fight. Hands that saved my life not so long ago.
The kiss flashes through my mind again, unwanted and insistent. My stomach flips. Is it okay to be really possessive if you also are really protective? Because Crat'ax backed up his “she’s mine” bullshit with some real action today. He could have jumped in his boat and escaped. I’m sure he never thought about that, but jumping onto that claw was the most dangerous thing he did. And I’m sure he did it for me.
When Crat'ax stands again, the men straighten almost unconsciously. Someone starts to say something, then stops when Crat'ax lifts a hand. Not really in command, but in acknowledgment.
“We finish this before sunrise,” he says. “The Deep took from us today. We will show it that we endure. We need more wood. Lots more. And some thick trunks to hold up the platforms.”
A murmur of assent runs through the group. Men jump into their canoes and set off for land and the jungle.
As he walks off, spear once again in his hand, I feel it: that strange, unfamiliar swell in my chest. Pride. Not in myself. Not even exactly in him. But in being here, maybe. In being beside him while the world reshapes itself around his will. I don’t understand it, but that doesn’t stop it from feeling real.
