I lie there for a good while as the storm grows, feeling empty and aimless. The rain starts, with torrential sheets almost right away. The wind howls through the treetops and makes the trunks bend. Even in the shallow water this deep in the mangrove, the waves start to wash over my little island.
I slowly, tiredly make my way further inland until I’m at least away from the ocean. But it’s fine. I’ll stick close to the shore,and if I just keep walking I’ll end up on the beach and find Theodora.
I have my knife still. I might need it.
Plik keeps up with me for a while, but he seems to prefer water. I like having him close, so I change my route to where I’m within a few yards of the mangrove where he can see me.
“Sorry to drag you through this,” I tell him as a tree dumps its collected reserves of rain water on my head. “You’re just trying to help.”
I’ve walked for maybe two hours when I see movement among the trees, and I know I’ve screwed up bad.
24
- Callie-
At first I think it’s just a tree or a bush being blown around by the storm. But then I instinctively crouch down - that’s a caveman. And he has the yellow stripes of the Adropo tribe. He’s walking fast in the same direction I’m going, sword at his side, and head swivelling, as if he’s looking for something.
Then I spot the second man deeper inside the woods. He’s also walking quickly along. He has a stick that he uses to lift branches and bushes, peering under them. It looks like they’re looking for something.
Well, it can’t be me they’re looking for. This must be a day’s walk from the bay, and my escape can only have been known for a few hours.
But they are looking forsomething, and it looks like a line search.
Which could mean that there’s more of them-
“Find!” comes a hoarse yell right behind me. Another yellow-striped caveman is looking right at me.
I don’t like the way these guys look, so I sprint away, towards the sea. There’s a miniscule chance that these guys don’t know how to swim.
But I don’t get that far before strong arms grab me and lift me off the ground.
I kick and scream and punch, and I do hit something, but I’m in an awkward position and nothing I do is that effective. When I try to bite a forearm, the man carrying me just grabs my hair and pulls my head away.
Soon I’m surrounded by men. Five of them are from the Adropo tribe, and I’m sure I recognize some of them. The sixth I would recognize easily, even if I hadn’t seen his scars - Sprub’ex. He’s strapped a sword to his belt and looks more like a Dry man than one who worships the Deep.
He just stares for a moment. “That was not what we expected. But the Ancestors are remarkably generous and have given us Callie herself!”
The men drag me a few steps back under the trees where the rain hammers down softer, the canopy rattling and hissing as if the jungle itself is arguing with them.
Someone knots my wrists with practiced efficiency, while another takes my chin and tilts my face toward Sprub’ex, as if presenting proof of a hunt. Their voices overlap, low, excited, and edged with grievance.
They talk of timing and shelter, of waiting until the worst of the storm passes, of not mixing pleasure with discomfort. Fingers stroke along my legs and arms.
Sprub’ex listens, eyes bright, and then corrects them with a sharp gesture toward the sea. “Not yet,” he says, measured, as if this is a matter of patience rather than cruelty. “The waves are loud, but the rain makes fools careless. And cold. We keep her where the ground is firm. We decide who speaks first.”
Someone laughs softly at that, another mutters that night will make everything simpler. Over the rush of the rain I hear the ocean throwing itself at the shore in vast, booming breaths.
Hours pass. The men gradually shift closer, forming a wall of striped bodies and wet stone, debating routes and sentries, who will fetch firewood, and who will keep watch. I keep looking for Plik, but he must have returned to his ocean. “Smart skirr,” I mutter.
The storm gradually lets up, and then the rain is suddenly gone as if it was never there. The men stir and get to their feet, distributing food and juice to each other.
Sprub’ex crouches to my level, rain tracing the scars on his face, and speaks calmly about debts and lessons, about how stories are made when the right person arrives at the wrong time.
“Of course Crat'ax would keep you to himself. We all understood it. We all understood the noises coming from his hut at night. And most men found that fair. Fair!” He spits the word. “Fair that only one man of the tribe has a woman to mate with? How is that fair? Many times I went into the woods and I came back with meat and roots and berries. Did I keep it all to myself? Thatnever crossed my mind. I gave it all to the tribe! And they were grateful.”
He puts a hand on my shoulder, but I angrily shrug it off. “Keep your stinky hands off me.”
He scowls. “We would also have been grateful if Crat'ax had shared you. I would have thanked him after I mated with you. Every time, I would have thanked him for finding you and giving you to the tribe, like a decent man would. But not Crat'ax. He kept you only to himself, not even letting us see what lies under the fabrics!”
