Climate of Change (8 page)

When the first rocks cooled, she reached in with her hand and drew them out, and Harbinger put them back in the fire. When the water in the pot became too hot for her hand, she left the rocks there; they were doing their job.

By the time Craft and Crenelle emerged, the water was boiling and the things were cooking. Haven glanced up at Craft. He looked somewhat awed. He had never before done it with a woman. With a girl, maybe, but not a woman. Crenelle obviously knew her business, whichever man she entertained.

Haven stood. “Take over here,” she said. Then she glanced at Harbinger and stepped into the house.

Inside she did what she had imagined, opening her cloak and removing her vest and loinskin. Harbinger seemed oddly hesitant, in complete contrast to the prior night. So it really was true: after the rape, it was to be voluntary. She appreciated that.

She took his hand and drew him down beside her. She opened his cloak for him, and helped him get out of his underthings. Then she kissed him and embraced him.

He entered her slowly, gently, savoring her body. She kissed him and wrapped her legs around him. This time there was only trace pain as he completed his thrust. She was healing, more than physically.

She let him finish, then held him close, kissing him again. “This way is good,” she murmured.

“Good,” he agreed gratefully. “You are good.” He stroked her hair.

The odd thing was, now that she was acting loving, she was feeling it. She had control of the situation, and she did like being with a gentle man. She might not have chosen this one, had she had a choice, but he was handsome, and the fact that Crenelle was his sister spoke well for him. Probably it would work out. Certainly she could have done worse for a marriage. Maybe she really
had
invited it.

In any event, once the storm passed, she could leave, if that seemed best. He might consider rape the basis for marriage, but she did not.

They put their clothing back on, for the chill was coming in, and went back outside for the meal. Craft and Crenelle had it ready. They fished out morsels from the pot and chewed hurriedly, for the cloudbank was almost upon them. Haven could see the distant trees bending in the wind, and leaves were flying up.

Then the storm arrived and it was dark despite being full day, with hailstones pelting down. The wind rose, tearing at their clothing, blowing the smoke of the fire sideways across the land. They piled inside and lay jammed together, for there was barely space for four to stretch out. The two men lay on the outsides, the two women inside, sharing warmth. Haven would have liked to talk with her brother, to compare notes, if he wanted to, but this was not the occasion. There
were several extra cloaks, and they spread these over the group of them for additional warmth.

“I'm glad it was you he chose,” Crenelle whispered. “I knew you were good, like your big brother.”

Haven didn't answer, because she wasn't sure how to react. At the moment she was more concerned about whether the wind would tear the roof off the house and leave them cruelly exposed. But the house did seem to be well made.

The howling of the storm prevented further dialogue. All they could do was huddle, trying to escape it. Their grouped bodies under the blanket skins kept them warm, but it seemed precarious.

They slept. There was nothing else to do. From time to time Haven was aware of Harbinger getting up to go out and tend the fire. That helped, for otherwise the snow would have put it out. At least there was now plenty of wood. The storm raged on, sending cold gusts of air in through the crevices. Snow filtered down onto the blanket skins. Haven knew that she and Craft never would have survived this weather out in the field.

She did not know the time of day, for her bearings had been blown away by the storm, but judging by the times she had slept and awakened, she judged it to be afternoon. Now she was awake and bored in her prison of slight warmth. She had had a reasonable night's sleep, and was caught up. But there was nothing else to do.

Crenelle moved beside her, turning over to lie on her side, facing Haven. Then she nudged slightly back, bringing her knees up and clasping them. What was she doing? Haven peered at her, and saw the face of her brother beyond the girl's neck. He was moving in close to Crenelle's back, apparently at her invitation, cupping her for additional warmth.

Then the woman began jerking, as if banging into something. Was she sick? Alarmed, Haven reached out to take her hand in a silent query. But Crenelle merely smiled, drawing Haven's hand down to touch her groin. Then up to touch her breast, where there was already a hand.

Suddenly Haven caught on. They were having sex! Like the girl on hands and knees, only Crenelle was on her side, giving Craft similar
access from behind. His hand was on her breast, and his pounding entry was making Crenelle's whole body bounce.

Haven blushed, ashamed to have intruded on something private. But why were they doing it now, when they had done it just this morning?

Then that too fell into place. They were as bored as she was. And one ready way to alleviate boredom for a time was sex. So Crenelle had offered, and Craft had accepted, and they were doing it without shame. Crenelle did not seem to be concerned about getting pleasure herself; this was just a diversion, something more interesting or amusing than lying there doing nothing. She was not belittling the man's effort, but cooperating to make him feel good.

Haven considered. Well, why not? It might be hours more before the storm abated. Sex was not her idea of entertainment, but in a situation of nothing at all, it might be an improvement. There was also much to be said for keeping the man satisfied; it forestalled any other inconvenient notions he might develop. So she turned to Harbinger, and touched his groin. Yes, he had caught on too; he was already hard. She turned away from him, drew up her knees, and nudged back, as Crenelle had done. She felt much like the girl who had given it to Hero, more to show off her indifference than from any desire. In a moment his hand came to cup her breast, and his member was sliding into her. She knew she was taking it all in, for his groin bone came up against her tailbone. So she was competent that way, too. There was a certain gratification in being appreciated. In another moment, he was pulsing in the depth of her, and subsiding.

It was too fast. He had had his fun; now she would have hers. So Haven withdrew, then rolled over to face him. She pushed him onto his back, and climbed on top of him, pressing her breasts against him. He offered no resistance, not knowing her intention; as far as he was concerned, it was over. But she had something to teach him.

She kissed him, and ran her tongue into his mouth. She stroked his hair, and massaged his neck. When she tired of that, she slid off him and reached down to play with his penis, massaging it similarly. He let
her do what she wished, satisfied with this novel form of play, lacking erotic ambition at this stage. She was in control, and she liked the feeling. The problem with rape was that she lacked all control.

After a while his member hardened in her hand, signaling her power to restore him to life when she chose. She got on him again, setting it carefully in her and easing down around it. She had him lie still while she moved, taking her time, wringing increasing pleasure from it. She tightened on it, and withdrew part way, and rode slowly back down to the base. She set the depth and the pace, thrusting and withdrawing, being the man. She kissed him, when she chose, and withheld her mouth when she chose. Glorious! And in due course she got her own wash of joy, jamming hard down on him, clenching, taking his fluid from him. This was the way it should be!

But eventually even sex lost its diversionary power. They had done it, and done it again, and it seemed that Craft and Crenelle had indulged similarly, and were similarly sated. Old sex lost the appeal of new sex; both desire and novelty were gone. Their bodies had to recuperate. And she needed to go out to the toilet region.

She got up, wrapped her cloak tightly around her, and went out. The storm caught her, shoving her back. She recovered her balance, hunched down, and plowed through the snow to the back. She could not tell exactly where the place was; everything was blowing whiteness. So when she judged it was right, she squatted inside her cloak and did it there.

When she returned, Crenelle went out. Then Harbinger, and Craft. That, too, was a diversion, in its fashion. But more was needed.

Crenelle came to the rescue. She brought out her little bone flute. She began to play a lovely melody.

Harbinger set up his drum, then joined in by singing the same melody. He had a good voice, and he knew words to it. Haven could not decipher all of them, but the combined effect of voice, drumbeat, and flute was lovely.

“That's wonderful,” Haven said when they finished the song. She was trying to be positive, making the best of their situation, but it was also true: they were making beauty.

Harbinger and Crenelle knew many songs, and Haven and Craft
encouraged them all. Soon they were joining in, learning some of the tunes and words. It made their confinement much less burdensome.

The storm continued through the day. They kept the fire going, and remained under the blankets, alternating between shallow sleep, pleasant music, and languid sex. Three days ago, Haven would never have imagined herself doing anything like this. But if she had known it was coming, would she have avoided it? She realized that her life had already become somewhat dull, and this was a significant change. So maybe she would have accepted it anyway.

In the evening Harbinger and Craft got the fire blazing high and dropped more hot rocks in the pot, so they could eat again. Then they settled for the night.

Haven thought of something else. “We must learn to speak better to each other,” she said. “We can learn words.” She took Harbinger's hand and put it on her breast. “Breast,” she said. “What's your word?”

“Oh, this will be fun,” Crenelle said, laughing. She took Haven's hand and put it on her own breast, which had filled out since the prior year, repeating the word. Haven had to laugh at that. The funny thing was, she found Crenelle's breast interesting, and could almost imagine the stimulation it would give a man.

So they continued, and made rapid progress, because it was their only diversion between sleeps. And by morning they had a fair basic mutual vocabulary, so that they would have far less trouble communicating essential thoughts.

The storm carried through the day, but was easing as the snow piled high. The cold was intense, but the snow mounded around the house protected them from the wind, so they were more comfortable. They were riding it out.

But Craft wasn't satisfied. He was a maker of tools and a builder. He got to work chinking the cracks with mud he made from dirt and hot water. He buttressed the mud with twigs, giving it stability. This house was going to be much tighter than before.

Harbinger and Crenelle watched. It was evident that they had never thought of this, but as the leaking drafts cut down, they were appreciative.

The supplies Crenelle had brought were diminishing. She had not anticipated four people. They would have to get more—and how could they do that? The snow covered everything; there was nothing to forage. There was also no sign of game.

She stood by the fire and gazed across the landscape. And spied smoke. They had neighbors!

But Harbinger shook his head. “Other,” he grunted.

“Who?”

“The Others,” Crenelle clarified. “The beast men. We stay away from them.”

“Surely if they make fires, they are our kind,” Haven said. “Maybe we can trade with them, for food.”

Harbinger shook his head. “Beast men dangerous.”

But Haven would not let go of it. “We're in a desperate situation. We'll starve without help. Can these strangers be worse than that?”

Crenelle tried to explain. “They are ugly and brutish and very strong. We can't fight them. Their women are as strong as our men, and their children are like our women. They speak a different language, not like any of our dialects. They mostly leave us alone if we don't get in their way, and we try to stay out of their way. They are good hunters and deadly fighters. If we bothered them, they would kill us.”

Haven looked south. “Can we trek south, until we reach one of our own settlements?” It was what she had thought of doing, once the storm abated, but now she was doubtful. The landscape was so frighteningly bleak.

“It's a long way. The ones I traded with don't have any more food, and I don't think any others do. No one is doing well here, except the Others. They like this kind of weather.”

Haven looked at Craft. “What do you think?”

“I think we should try to approach the Others, in peace. Maybe they will trade.”

“No!” Harbinger and Crenelle said together.

“But if we have no other way—” Haven protested.

“They kill any of our men they meet,” Crenelle said. “They don't like anyone else hunting in their lands. That's why we're short of game:
we can't cross into their territory, but they can cross into ours and take what they want. So our game is scarce.”

Her words rang with conviction. But Haven's life had changed so much recently that she was reckless. “You say they kill men. But not women?”

“Not women, usually.”

“What do they do with our women?” Haven feared she knew the answer. But would getting raped by a beast man be any worse than a rape by an ordinary man?

“Sometimes they feed them,” Crenelle said reluctantly. “Sometimes they try to adopt them, but their lifestyle is so rough, an ordinary woman can't survive it. Mostly they just ignore them.”

“Adopt them?” Haven asked, amazed. “Why?”

“I think it's because they see us as children. So thin and weak. But we can't live their life. No, it's best when they ignore us.”

“They don't. . . rape?”