Feather (10 page)

“Hmm.” Hunter seemed to be wavering. “Alomar knew the ruin was there before you were born. That is not the reason why I should take you tomorrow.”

“Because he filled a man’s shoes while we were off hunting?” Jem asked, entering into Hunter’s game. Karsh threw him a grateful glance, but again Hunter shook his head.

“Because I know the stranger, and you do not,” Karsh said desperately.

Hunter laughed. “No, son. I shall take you, but only because I want to.”

Karsh was quiet then. A warm contentment filled his chest as he walked on toward the village. Hunter wanted to have him along on his hike up the river. They had found the books that Alomar had craved so long. Almost it was a perfect evening, trekking home to their cozy village with all their amazing finds. Almost.

If Feather were here, it would be perfect,
Karsh thought.

Feather kept up now without fearing for her life, but she was exhausted by sunset each day. The deep bite wound on Cade’s shoulder was infected, and he staggered along, barely able to keep pace. Tag helped him as much as he could, and

Small parties of men raided as they went, bringing in enough food to keep them moving, but during the next two weeks they did not stop long anywhere. In spite of the speed of the march, they didn’t manage to get ahead of the frost that descended on their camp each night.

The two bright spots in Feather’s world were Tag and the orange kitten. Tag let her walk with him and Cade now. Sometimes Vel or one of the other boys, or even Denna would let Cade lean on them for a mile along the trail, and Feather began to become acquainted with the other young people, but still she did not feel part of the group.

The kitten, which Tag had dubbed Patch, traveled under protest in Tag’s pack for the first week, but Tag soon devised a soft leather collar for him and let him walk along beside him until he tired.

Feather picked him up a few times and carried him along until her arms ached, and she looked forward to playing with Patch at the rest stops. She was still amazed that Mik had allowed Tag to keep him. The leader was shocked when he first saw the ball of orange fur, and stepped back in momentary confusion and fear. Then he laughed, a big, loud laugh.

“You caught him; you keep him! You must feed him from your ration too. But by the time he is six months old, he must be feeding you.”

Tag had accepted Mik’s challenge and was determined to have Patch bringing down rabbits and quail before spring.

The kitten was a bold little thing and from the first played at stalking crickets and dragonflies, progressing soon to chasing shrews through the dead grass. He had not yet developed the spots that the adults of his species sported, and his tail ended in the most pitiful little fluff of fur Feather had ever seen. The regal tuft would grow as Patch did, Tag assured her. He seemed mildly offended when Feather laughed at his pet, but Patch’s antics as he rehearsed his hunting soon had Tag laughing too.

It felt good to laugh. Feather had not laughed for many, many weeks. Her new life was still dreary and tedious, but there were moments of relief now.

When at last they rested over a full day, she anticipated carving out some leisure time to spend with Tag and Patch, but that was wishful thinking. After barking orders to her to scurry around with the other girls for the sparse fuel on the plain, Hana sent her to work with Kama once more.

Kama had chosen a flat spot away from the bustle of the camp as a work area.

“More arrows,” was her greeting to Feather. She nodded toward a bundle of straight sticks on the ground. Feather knew these had been cut near the City of Cats and had been drying to be made into arrow shafts.

“The wood is not good.”

Kama shook her head. “It is the best we can get now. You work. Mik and Lex, they want plenty for tonight.”

“Tonight?” Feather asked. “They’re hunting tonight?”

“No, no. A raid. There is a village beyond the river, up on the plateau. Four, five miles, maybe. They go after dark.”

Feather’s stomach churned as she reached for the bundle of sticks and the leather pouch that held the feathers. Her arrows! The very shafts she held in her hands might in a few hours be used against other people. Her hands trembled, and she sat down quickly, pulling in ragged breaths. She had been so proud, back in her old home, when Rand told her that her work equaled that of any fletcher he had ever known. She had been slightly amused when Lex and Mik began trading her arrows for the luxuries the other bands offered. But now she felt ill. It was one thing to make good arrows for hunting or trading. It was quite another to make weapons that would kill people.

At noon she ran to Tag without bothering to take a portion of food.

“Did you know about the raid?” she whispered breathlessly. He was sitting with his plate on one knee, taking tiny bits of meat on one fingertip and holding them up to Patch’s mouth. The kitten sniffed at the morsels, then grabbed them greedily with his scratchy tongue.

Tag did not look at her when he answered. “Yes, I knew.”

“But they’re going to attack a village.”

“It is how we get our food.”

“Can’t they just . . . take it? And leave the people alone? Why do they have to attack them at night?”

Tag sighed and set the plate on the ground. He put Patch beside it and let him eat at will from his dinner.

“Feather, you’ve known all along that this is what we do.”

“We? You’re not one of them.”

His gaze held hers for several seconds, and a panic began clawing at Feather’s heart.

“I wear the necklace now,” he said quietly.

“Tag! You’re not . . . you can’t be going with them!”

He looked down at Patch and stroked the kitten’s head. “I have to, Feather. If I refuse to go, I will be driven away.”

“But . . .”

He swallowed hard and met her gaze. “It’s not my choice. You must understand. You have to make the arrows. I have to use them now.”

Feather felt tears burning in her eyes. A lump in her throat made it difficult to breathe. “My arrows.”

“Yes.”

“How can you do this?”

He stared toward the horizon on the other side of the river.
The village is over there
, she thought.

His eyes pleaded for acceptance when he spoke. “I will not take the two you made special for me. I will leave them here with you. And . . . will you keep Patch too?”

She nodded, unable to speak.

“Don’t let him off the rope. He mustn’t try to follow me.”

She glanced at the kitten. He had eaten his fill and was sitting back to lick his paws clean. He was such a baby, so playful and innocent. But one day, like Tag, he would be mature, and then where would he get his dinner? Not off a boy’s plate, she was certain.

“Tag, what are we part of? I can’t live this way!”

He grabbed her shoulder and shook her a bit roughly, darting a glance toward where the other young people sat eating. “You must! Because it is the only life we have. We live this way, or we do not live at all.”

Feather’s tears spilled over and coursed down her cheeks. “Kill or be killed.”

“Yes. By the enemy or by my own people.”

She glared at him. “Well, these are not my own people. They will never be my people!”

Tag bowed his head.

Feather wanted to hate him, but she couldn’t. She sobbed then gulped air. “I will keep Patch tonight.”

She saw a shimmer in his eyes that had not been there before, and she knew that Tag was close to tears too.

“This is not who you are,” she whispered.

Tag drew up his knees and hugged them, then buried his face in his arms.

S he sat up late that night, away from the others, but not so far from them that she felt isolated and afraid. She tied the cord attached to Patch’s collar around her wrist, so that he could not run away if she fell asleep.

But there was no sleep for Feather. The men had left two hours after darkness fell. There was no laughing and shouting this time. As they crept away, all was silent but the cold wind that brought the frost.

She tried not to think about the village, but it was useless. Over and over she saw it in her mind—a small, peaceful town of log shelters one time, a camp of the conical tents the plains people used another. Perhaps it was only a small settlement like the valley of the Wobans. Instantly the unsuspecting villagers in her mental picture took on the faces of the Woban tribe. The women she had worked with and loved: Tansy, Rose, Zee, Weave. The men who had protected them and provided shelter and food: Shea, Rand, Hunter, Jem, Neal, Hardy, and dear old Alomar, the wise elder. And the children! Would Lex and Mik kill children tonight? Her stomach lurched as she thought of Karsh and of the children they had grown up with and played with: Cricket, Gia, Flame, and all the other children of the tribe.

Her own parents had been killed in some terrible battle, she was sure although she did not remember. Why didn’t she? She had been old enough to have memories of it.

She shuddered. She and Karsh were not the only Wobans whose loved ones had been murdered. She had heard bits of stories. Rand’s entire family had been killed. Jem’s wife had been lost in a raid, and he had escaped with their son, Bente, and joined the Wobans in the mountains.

It was very cold, and she pulled her blanket close around her. She reached into her leather pouch and took out the green stone carving Tag had brought her from the ruin in the City of Cats. It was cold as she curled her hand around it, but it warmed as she held it. She couldn’t see it well in the darkness, but she knew well what it looked like. She had examined it covertly many times in the last two weeks. It was carved and polished in the shape of a panther. But could the cats, or a tuft of their fur, or this talisman in the form of a cat, or even the owning of a live panther kitten protect a person? She doubted the cats had any power over the sickness. They could not make the Blen warriors victorious in battle. Their only power over the Blens was their ability to inspire fear in their hearts.

She sighed and pushed the carving back into her pouch. The torn scrap of paper Karsh had found the day she was stolen crackled at her touch. She had tried to be careful of it, but it was becoming ragged.

Every time she touched it, it made her think of Alomar and the books of which he had spoken. He longed to have a book, and to be able to read the mysterious runes inside it. What useful knowledge would it hold? This fragment of a book in her pouch might be far more valuable than the stone cat Tag had brought her, though she cherished his gift as proof of his friendship.

Her thoughts turned once more to Tag and the mission that drew him tonight. Would he come home safe? And should he? What he was doing was evil, her heart told her, and yet he was still a boy. A boy-turned-man who followed others in wicked destruction.

She tried not to think of Kama’s words that evening. As usual, Kama had frowned and shaken her head. “They will regret this night,” she’d said.

Patch meowed and rubbed his head against her arm. Feather picked him up and held his warm, fluid body close to her chest. “Come back,” she whispered, “come back to me. But please, please, do not come back a murderer.”

B efore dawn the men returned, and then the reveling began. Patch stood and stretched himself. Feather picked him up and hurried to the place where Cade was waiting. His wounds had prevented him from joining the raiders, and as she had suspected, Vel and Tag were beside him, telling him what he had missed.

“It was scary at first, but it was great,” Vel said, his voice loud with bravado. “Next time, Cade.”

“Next time,” Cade agreed.

Feather slipped away before they saw her and went back

Tag came to her silently and sat down three feet from her. They stared at each other. Feather was determined not to break the silence.

He cleared his throat. “We took two prisoners.” She nodded.

He looked away then back at her. “I did what I had to

do. I think the leaders will not be ashamed of me.” 

“Did you . . ” She couldn’t say it.

Tag grimaced. “At first I just tried to keep up but not get in the way. I was scared. Then I found myself fighting a man, a young man. He had a club, and I had my knife. I . . .” 

He glanced at her quickly and pushed the hair off his forehead. “I won, Feather, but when it came time to strike the final blow, I couldn’t. He just lay there, staring up at me, and I couldn’t move.”

“What happened?”

“Lex came along. I . . . told him I had a prisoner. He praised me, Feather. I was afraid he would kill the man, but

Feather shook her head. “Do you want me to praise you like Lex? To tell you that you did a good thing in saving that young man’s life?”

Tag ducked his head. “No. I am not worthy of praise. But I did not say that to Lex.”

“Where is the man you captured?”

“He’s over beyond the fire with the other prisoner.”

“Another boy?”

“No, he’s an older man. He begged Mik not to kill him. He’s a tanner, and he told Mik he can be useful to him, and that he’ll serve him well. Mik let him live.”

“And the other villagers?” Tag shook his head.

That day Feather was given new clothes. She hated to even touch them, but it was freezing cold, and she knew she needed to put them on. The tunic was soft and warm, a creamy color that pleased her senses. Hana also gave her a short jacket of thick cloth dyed a deep reddish brown. Feather fingered the soft nap of the wool and tried not to think about the person who had worn the jacket last.

The booty from the raid tripled the food supply. There were sacks of barley and ground wheat and corn, dried beans and peas, and vegetables. Feather couldn’t help enjoying the noon meal. The pumpkin and carrots went down smoothly, and the mealy roasted potatoes were a delight. If only they had some butter! But the Blens had not brought back any milk animals. Too much trouble, they would say. Driving cows or goats along would slow them down. But they did drive back an ox, which they roasted all afternoon for the evening feast.

Tag stayed away from Feather all day. Being ignored hurt her, but she pushed down her resentment. She was kept busy helping prepare the food and organize the new supplies. The foodstuffs were measured out for the people to carry when they resumed their journey. There was so much that even the warriors would carry some for the first few days.

At supper she piled her plate high with food and retreated to her sleeping place. The prisoners were tied back to back to a post in the middle of the camp, and she couldn’t stand to look at them. They had not been fed, and one of them, the older man, had a bruised cheek. The skin beneath his eye was black and purple, and smears of blood blended into his beard. The younger man seemed to be uninjured, but it was hard to tell. He would not meet the gaze of any of the Blens but slumped with his chin on his chest.