Children of the Wolves (22 page)

“She had no right to do this,” he stormed. “And yet you aided her!”

This time Bertha did look up at him, her lips pursing. She waved the whisk at him as she spoke. “Young man, you may be the spiritual leader of this community — and I grant that you seem to understand the non-material world better than most — but you are as narrow-minded and pigheaded as the rest of them.”

Michael was taken aback. “The rest of whom?”

“The rest of them,” Bertha growled, turning back to her stove and flinging her hand in the direction of the dining hall.

“You mean the awakened?” he asked. “Bertha, you're talking in riddles. What does this have to do with Jelena leaving and your not telling anyone?”

“It'll do you some good,” Bertha muttered.

“What will?”

“To learn!” Bertha exploded. “To learn! Does that have any meaning to you, young man, any meaning at all?”

“Yes,” Michael said calmly. “You mean that the awakened have not always treated the unawakened fairly and perhaps they can do more than we give them credit for.”

Bertha grunted.

“But where is Jelena?” Michael shouted, this time grabbing her shoulders and giving her a small shake, then immediately regretting the action. Bertha flinched and set the whisk down with a sigh. He didn't appear to be in imminent danger of being struck with the cast iron pot, but he stepped back a pace anyway.

“Jelena is gone,” Bertha said, turning to him. “She left. Do you know why she left? Can you put it together?” Her voice was even but harsh. “She left because she set you free and sacrificed her hope of awakening and tell me, Michael, what did you do?”

“I don't understand.”

“I may have overestimated you, boy.” Michael saw that he'd fallen in her estimation from “young man” to “boy” but even so, he still didn't understand her riddles. They glared at each other for a long moment.

“Jelena set you free from protecting her. Yes or no?”

“Yes, of course — but I didn't want her to.”

“By all that's good, give me patience,” Bertha muttered. “Did she or did she not release you from your vow?”

“Yes,” Michael said, then wisely said no more.

“When she did so, didn't that mean she'd have to give up certain rights?”

“Yes,” Michael said, vibrating with impatience but sticking with the one word.

“When she did so, didn't that mean she'd remain unawakened forever?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I don't understand.”

“May the makers have mercy on my soul,” Bertha said. Then, slowly, patiently, as if she were talking to a very dim child: “Why do you suppose she did that? Release you from your vow knowing what it would mean for herself?”

“I — she was tired of waiting,” Michael said.

“She was tired of waiting,” Bertha said incredulously. “She was tired of waiting for what?”

“Why, to be awakened,” Michael said, blinking at Bertha's vehemence.

Bertha was muttering under her breath again. To Michael it sounded suspiciously as if she were threatening to roast him alive.

“Well, now she'll never be awakened,” Bertha said, her voice dangerously calm. “So explain to me why that's better than staying under your protection, Michael? By which relationship she was granted rights and obligations very nearly the same as a full-fledged member of the tribe. What was there to be tired of?”

“It couldn't have gone on forever,” Michael said.

Bertha turned back to the stove. To Michael, the sauce smelled as if it might have burned but he didn't say so. She sighed, took the pot off the burner and muttered additional imprecations under her breath.

“All I know is what she told me, Bertha,” Michael said. “And she told me she was tired of waiting. She told me she was worried about me.”

“She did, did she?”

“Enlighten me, oh learned one,” Michael said, throwing his hands in the air. “Explain to me why she released me from my vow and why she has left the community.”

“Because she loves you more than she loves her own life,” Bertha said, picking up the cast iron pot and hurling it in the direction of Michael, who, anticipating her, ducked out of the way. She watched in satisfaction as the pot slammed against the wall, narrowly missing the calico cat on the window ledge.

“And so,” Michael said in a voice not his own, “if that's true, that she loves me, then why did she leave?”

“Michael, what did you announce this very morning?”

“That I've agreed to partner with Danielle. But that's nothing, Bertha, Jelena knows I would have done anything for her, she knows I would have taken her as partner in a minute if … ”

“If what, boy?”

“If I had known she loves me.”

“And in all these years — seven if I count correctly — in all these years you've been mooning about her, being a very noble and tragic figure of unrequited love, did you yourself ever once happen to mention to her that you loved her?”

“But she — she never thought of me as more than a — a good friend,” Michael said unsteadily.

“Good friend, yes, releases you from your vow, dooms herself to a life of scutwork in the kitchen, never to be awakened and find her calling, the unawakened aren't even allowed to partner with one another, as I think you are aware, and you say this is the work of a
good friend
?”

Bertha picked up one of the kitchen knives, measuringly. She eyed Michael, then the knife. He took another step back.

“Let me repeat the sequence of events,” Bertha said silkily, turning the knife this way and that. “Jelena realizes that the demands on you are exhausting, more than you can take. She loves you and wants to spare you that. At the same time, she is tired of waiting for you to declare yourself. She knows that noble as you are, you young idiot, you will never propose a relationship with her that is not perfectly appropriate. She knows it is forbidden for a newlyborn and a protector to partner. So she releases you from your vow, dooming herself to a life of scutwork in the kitchen … I believe we've been over that already … and what do you do in response, to thank her very kindly for her consideration? You announce your partnering with
another woman
.”

This time he didn't duck. The knife wasn't actually thrown in his direction, which was fortunate. Bertha nodded briskly as it struck the far wall and stayed, quivering in the wood.

Michael sank to the bench along the wall. He felt as if he had been eviscerated, only unfortunately he was still alive.

“So what, exactly, did you expect her to do, Michael?” Bertha asked, her voice scarcely more than a whisper. “Pour the wine at your partnering celebration?”

“Which way did she go, Bertha?”

“She went south,” Bertha said crossly.

• • •

Michael packed a bag — if he left quickly and took one of the cavalry mounts, he could catch up with Jelena in a day or two and convince her to come home. Before he was finished, Teresa swept into his room, her dark eyes flashing with excitement.

“Michael, you must come. Danielle is ill.” Teresa lowered her gaze so that he couldn't see the gleam of anticipation in her eyes. But he knew it was there. Sometime he would have to do something about Teresa — but not now.

“What is it?” he demanded, tossing his cloak aside.

“It's the baby. It's coming early.”

Michael's stomach clenched at her words. The women of the tribe had great difficulty bearing trueborn children. His heart skipped a beat at the thought of Danielle losing this baby.

Abandoning the bag, he pushed past Teresa and set off for the main hall, stopping only to demand of the day keeper where Danielle was being cared for. The day keeper whispered “the infirmary” in a trembling voice.

Michael strode across the courtyard. Frustration with Jelena for leaving without declaring herself, anger with Bertha for saying nothing to him, and concern for Danielle all boiled in his heart. His hands shook and his stomach roiled. He stopped to collect himself before tapping quietly on the door to the infirmary and easing himself into the room.

The physician, busy at a side table preparing instruments, hardly marked his entrance. On a raised pallet in the center of the room lay Danielle, white-faced and sweating, her features contorted with pain. Charmaine stood beside her, stroking her brow and murmuring soft words.

“Michael,” Danielle breathed as she caught sight of him. He came over to the bed, grasping her hand, sharing a look with Charmaine.

“I was afraid you wouldn't come,” Danielle said in a small voice.

Michael bit back a sound of frustration. Of course he would come, he was always well aware of his duties.

“I thought,” Danielle squeezed out, her eyes shut against the pain. The pooling circle of blood on the bedclothes grew wider.

“Shh,” said Charmaine. “It's all right, dear one. It's all right. I'm here, Michael is here, the physician is here. We'll take care of you.”

Another low groan and Danielle forced the words from her throat, panting with the effort. “I thought you might have gone after her,” she said, her voice shaking with the effort.

“I'm here,” Michael said only, rubbing the back of her hand with his thumb.

“I wouldn't have blamed you,” she said.

“Hush, now,” Michael said.

“You should go to her,” Danielle managed to gasp out. “I will understand.”

Michael leaned down and kissed her cheek, her lips. “I'm here now. Hush now. Save your strength.”

Danielle closed her eyes and leaned back against the pallet.

“It's coming,” Charmaine said, watching Danielle's contractions ripple through her body.

The physician turned, unhurried, from his preparations.

“Charmaine, please come help me. Michael, please stay where you are and keep an eye on Danielle's breathing.”

He lifted a knife as Charmaine came around the pallet to help him.

Michael looked away from them as Danielle screamed. He leaned close, her hand squeezing his arm. Charmaine handed him a knotted piece of rope, which he slipped between Danielle's teeth so she could clamp her jaw against it as she bore down.

It was over in minutes, the stillborn child delivered, Danielle's wracking screams abating.

“I am so sorry,” Michael said, cradling her head against his neck as the tears ran unceasingly down her face. He realized with a shock that he was crying, too.

After a while Danielle slept. He helped Charmaine and the physician clean up the room and replace the blood-stained bedclothes.

• • •

Teresa caught up with Michael just as he was entering his makeshift room in the meeting hall.

“You can't mean to leave,” she said incredulously. “Not after what has happened with Danielle.”

“I'm going after Jelena and the unawakened who went with her,” Michael said, shouldering past Teresa to enter his room and finish his packing.

“Her blood is still on your hands!” Teresa's voice was shrill and unnatural. Michael glanced involuntarily at his hands, despite knowing that the blood had long since been washed away.

“How can you do this?” Teresa demanded. “It's not just Danielle, it's the entire community. You can't just go running off on some impulsive errand.”

Michael grinned without humor at her words. He had never felt less impulsive in his life. Always he had thought of everyone else first. What everyone else wanted or demanded. Except himself. And now he would not make that mistake. Now he would go after Jelena and tell her the truth and bring her back home and makers save anyone who thought they could oppose him.

A broad bulk filled the doorway to his room. Michael looked up and smiled — genuine pleasure this time.

“Rufus,” he said. “Are you ready to go?”

“Ay,” said the other man, holding up his pack as evidence of his readiness.

Teresa narrowed her eyes at the two of them. “You can't both leave,” she flared.

Rufus turned a curious, appraising look at her.

“And who made you an elder?” he asked. His voice was mild but an ugly flush crept up Teresa's neck and face at his tone. She tightened her lips, then whirled and stormed out of the room.

“By all that's good,” Rufus muttered, staring after her. “Well, Michael, are you set? Charmaine has agreed to take over drilling the riders since Danielle is — indisposed.”

Michael nodded and the two began walking toward the paddock where the riders' horses were kept.

“Rufus. You understand why I'm doing this.”

“For the good of the community,” Rufus said.

“No,” Michael said. “It's just for me. Purely selfish. Because I want Jelena back.”

“Ay,” Rufus said. “It's as I said. For the good of the community.” And smiled at his friend.

Jelena closed her eyes as the wind whipped through her hair. On the prairie, you could breathe, unfettered and free. You could see for miles and let the wind sweep over you. No towering trees to suffocate you, no craggy mountains to hem you in and blot out the sun. The wolves lay next to her, contentedly, lifting their muzzles to the wind.

“Jelena?” William called.

Reluctantly she opened her eyes. William had become surer and stronger in the days since they'd left, recognizing his worth as a man, earning the respect of the small group. The first night he had guided them by the stars. During the day, he had taken their bearings from the position of the sun in the sky. Jelena wasn't sure what they would have done without him. Derek wanted to call him the navigator, but Jelena refused to let him use the term.

“We are who we are,” she'd said. “And William can teach what he knows to whomever he may.”

“Right,” Derek had said, but his brow remained furrowed. He had once told her he wanted to be an explorer. When Jelena had asked what that was, he'd told her it was a person who discovered things. She'd thought about that for a very long time. There seemed so much more to knowledge than remembering and reckoning. There was also this discovering, which led to learning, as young Caterina could tell you. The group gave Jelena credit for what they learned, but she knew it was not her leadership. It was a fierce need in the heart of each one of them.