We dress and gather what we need with an easy rhythm, like we’ve done this before instead of inventing it as we go. He checks his spear and the sky. I secure my suit and stretch, testing muscles that feel pleasantly used but not sore.
Crat'ax gives the Lifegivers a final check. “Now we’ll get the iron. Then we go back.”
“I hope no rekh,” I say as I follow him into the canoe. He paddles us back and hides the canoe in the bushes, ready for the next inspection.
The walk to the meteorite is quiet, which is always a good idea. Sunlight sometimes filters through the jungle canopy, catching on leaves slick with morning moisture. Crat'ax moves alert but unhurried, always scanning without seeming tense. It’s competence without show. I find that attractive, in a way that has nothing to do with bodies. Well, maybe a little bit to do with that. Or even a lot.
At the meteorite, we get to work. I pick up the small pieces I threw last time, and Crat'ax shows me how to pry loose the smaller fragments without cracking them. I listen, ask questions, try things myself. My hands get dirty. I like that. I like not being ornamental.
“You learn fast,” he says, not surprised, just stating a fact.
“Sometimes,” I say lightly. “It has to do with who is trying to teach me.”
His eyes flick to me, amused. “Speaking, too. The boys taught you well. They are good teachers.”
“They are,” I say, straightening with a piece of iron heavy in my palm. “You also are.”
“Oh?”
I place the iron in a small heap. “You just taught me the right word for ‘teach’. I said ‘learn’, which is not the right word. Youteachedme the right word without trying toteach. Very goodteacher,Crat'ax. Now can youteachrekh to not attack, eat leaves only, and clean their teeth so they’re not stinky?”
He chuckles. “I think teaching rekh to clean their teeth would take a better teacher than even me.”
“How do you know about Mating?” I ask, because I’m genuinely curious. There was some clumsiness from both of us, but Crat'ax would have had to improvise more than me, and he was really good.
“The jungle tribes believe in the Woman,” Crat'ax says as he knocks on the meteorite with his rock to loosen more pieces. “Their shamans know about how to Worship and Mate with her. And some of my tribesmen know, too. One boy heard about it and told the rest of us. Secretly, of course. The Deep doesn’t like it when we talk about the Woman. Nor do the old men. But it was the most exciting thing I’d ever heard. The boy was very popular after. We’d give him food or juice or do his chores in exchangefor him telling us about it again and again. I never thought I’d actually use that knowledge.”
We work side by side, occasionally brushing shoulders, trading tools, sharing quiet jokes. There’s an ease here that feels earned in hours, not days. I’m aware of it even as I refuse to romanticize it too much. I’ve been swept up before. I know the difference between easy rapport and actual meaning.
But this feels like it could be meaning. Which is terrifying in a much different way.
By the time we head back, the village is fully awake. Smoke curls from cooking fires. Voices overlap. Life continues and there’s no sign of the krai attack or the kidnapping attempt.
As we step onto the platforms, I feel as if the mood has changed. There are more smiles, fewer stolen glances. Some men nod, others give us friendly comments or greetings. And yet some look away too quickly. Others don’t bother hiding their stares.
I straighten my shoulders. I’ve dealt with groups that felt like this. The stakes are different, but the underlying current is similar.
Crat'ax walks beside me, not ahead, not behind. I notice that too.
“They’re calm,” I murmur. “Not tense.”
“So it seems,” he says. “But they haven’t finished thinking.”
We pass a group of men carving a canoe from a thick trunk. One of them frowns openly. Another elbows him, muttering something sharp. The frown disappears. I file it away. Social pressure is a thing here, too. I can work with that. It’s the winning recipe for any Survivor contestant.
It also becomes clear, with uncomfortable clarity, that every interaction routes through Crat'ax. People look to him before speaking. They address him even when the words are meant for me. I don’t resent it, because Crat'ax is the clearest leader of men I’ve ever seen. But I want to do something about it.
We stop near his hut. The door is open. The inside smells faintly of the furs and wood—and something warmer now. It hits me unexpectedly, that sense of having a place I felt earlier. A before and after.
I inhale, steadying myself. This doesn’t have to be home. This is just where I am. For now.
Some of the men linger at a distance, pretending not to watch. I meet a few gazes deliberately. Well, I am a modern woman in a place that doesn’t know what to do with me yet.
Crat'ax sets the iron down and turns to me. “You did well,” he says.
“So did you,” I reply. “You didn’t even scare anyone on purpose.”
He smirks. “I could, if I had to.”
