As he works, he talks. I think he may enjoy Callie’s company. He must sense her warmth as well as I do.
“The skin came three years ago, on a Day of Trade,” he says. “The Dry men wanted splix, of course. And some enjoy the dried seaweed we offer. Certain types of driftwood we can usually trade.”
“The Dry tribes don’t have farms,” I say. “The seaweed we gather gives them a flavor they can’t get anywhere else. Some seaweeds make a strong green color when dried and ground.”
“And they fear the Deep,” Carter’ez adds. “They think it will murder them. They will not cross it.”
Callie pinches the fabric. “You trade because you can do what they can’t.”
“Yes,” he says. “And they can do what we prefer not to. Unless we must.”
“That’s smart,” she says. “That keeps peace.”
“It keeps balance, perhaps,” Carter’ez corrects. “Peace is rare. I hear we now expect war with the Adropo tribe.”
“Maybe not,” I state. “They were here early. They must be eager for splix. I think there will be no war. Wars are for the Dry tribes, not for the Deep.”
He trims the skin with a short blade and sets the scraps aside. “If the trade stops, their village starves or bleeds. Sometimes both.”
“Does it ever stop?” Callie asks.
“Only when men become foolish,” he says, glancing at me. “Or greedy.”
I watch her face. She listens closely.
“And if one man in a tribe has more than the others?” she asks carefully. “Does that cause trouble?”
Carter’ez glances at me, then back to his work. “I suppose it can.”
I lean on the doorframe. “She means food.”
Carter’ez clears his throat. “The woman asks sharp questions.”
“She’s a sharp woman,” I say. “Sharp and soft at the same time. Don’t cross her, tribesman. Especially not if she’s holding a net.”
Callie smiles at that and lifts her arms again as Carter’ez adjusts the fit across her chest.
“This skin will last,” he says. “If cared for. Give it some oil occasionally.”
“I’ll take good care of it,” she promises. “Perhaps you can make a belt and sheath? I have a long knife now, and I want to keep it with me always. It was also made for me.”
“A belt would be easier to make than this dress. I can do it right now. For a sheath, try this.” He picks through a stack of several sheaths and gives her one. It fits her knife perfectly.
He finishes the last stitch on the dress and holds it up. “Try it.”
Callie quickly goes to our hut, changes, and returns. She twists, bends, and crouches—the dress follows her every movement.
“It works,” she declares. “I can move. I can breathe.” She looks at me, eyes bright. “It’s not a loincloth, but do I look like I belong here?”
The question hits harder than it should. Does shewantto belong here?
“Yes,” I manage. “You do.”
Carter’ez hands her the sheath and the belt. “The trade will continue,” he says. “As long as the sea stays open and the jungle stays wary.”
“And as long as people keep talking,” Callie adds.
He chuckles. “I wonder if talking causes as much trouble as it solves.”
