“The woman,” he says. “She is… remarkable.”
“She is mine,” I reply, my voice calm. “Onlymine.”
He lifts both hands slightly, palms out. “Of course. I mean no insult. I only wonder.”
I arc my eyebrows and calmly put my hand on the handle of my knife. “About what?”
“About whether the Deep will be so generous again.” He glances at me. “And whether such gifts come only once.”
I look at him fully now. “Say what you mean, outtriber.”
Ires’ax hesitates. Then he gathers his courage. “Are there more women like her?”
“I don’t know,” I lie.
“But she knows things,” he presses. “Craft. Nets. Plants. I heard it spoken of. She speaks as if she has seen other peoples. Other ways.”
“She has,” I say shortly. “She comes from far away, where there are women. Many. But they are not here. Only Callie.”
“And so,” he continues, still careful, “she came to you. Not to all of us.”
“I did not ask for her,” I snap.
“No,” he agrees. “The Deep chose, you say.”
“Do you question your Ancestors when good things happen?” I ask. “We accept what the Deep gives us. Who are we to decide? Who am I to give Callie back because some other men wish they had her, too?”
“Some say,” he adds, “that the Deep gives signs in pairs. A blessing. And a curse.”
I feel heat rise in my chest. “You speak too freely of things you know nothing about. Talk of your Ancestors, not our Deep. Unless you also see the truth.”
Ires’ax inclines his head. “Perhaps. But these are strange days. The jungle has changed. There are white bulbs everywhere. And then there are… other things.” He glances toward the lone platform with no hut on it. Then he steps back. “Enjoy your good fortune, Crat'ax. Perhaps we shall meet again next year.”
He leaves me standing there with the echo of his words and the sense that they will not be the last.
Later, as the sun dips lower, more men find reasons to stand near me. None are openly hostile. That makes it worse.
“Is she Dry-born?” one asks.
“Does she worship the Deep?” another wonders.
“Will she stay?” someone else says, as if discussing weather.
I answer them all, briefly and firmly.
But when Carter’ez joins me near the fire, his expression is not curious. It’s troubled.
“The traders talk,” he says quietly.
I look up at the evening sky. “It’s hard to stop them.”
“Yes. But this time they talk about balance.”
I turn to him. “Balance? Do they not like our canoes? Yes, I saw the Opreti man falling into the bay. One should never try to stand up in a canoe. But he was rescued.”
“Another kind of balance,” he says. “One man has a woman. And many others have none.”
“She’s not a thing to be divided,” I say sharply. “There wouldn’t be much for each.”
