I dunno where he went, and I’m not sure whether to care. I mean, he saved my life but if it wasn’t for his searin’ trap…the Cotees woulda caught me anyway. The realization sets in hard and fast. I probably shoulda been nicer to him. But still, the thought of him lifting my trousers up, up, up, too far up, reminds me of Bart ripping off my dress—even though I know in my heart they ain’t the same thing at all. Bart was taking from me, Feve was giving to me.
I can’t believe I met one of the Marked Ones! I almost want to scream it out loud. No one back in the village would ever believe me. They’re the people of myths and legends. Not myth. Not legend. Real. Just like my mother said.
The fire’s dying so I stir it up, cast a few prickler skins on it, cook up a swatch of meat. I eat slowly, afraid my stomach’ll reject the heavy food after going without for so long. It stays down and I cover the fire and smoke with sand ’fore I leave.
Everything hurts, but a few sips of Feve’s tea takes away most of the pain—or at least enough of it that I can walk again. Instinctively, I shove a hand in my pocket and feel for my knife. It’s there. I pull it out, remove it from its sheath, examine it. Clean and shiny—not one speck of Cotee blood on it. Another gift from Feve. If I ignore the fact that he had to stick his hand in my pocket to put the knife back, I almost feel warm from the gesture.
Everything I’ve seen from Feve certainly changes my perspective on the Marked Ones, ’specially now that I know my mother’s true love was the one who started the tribe in the first place. Maybe they’re not so scary and violent and cannibalistic as everyone seems to think. Or maybe I just got lucky ’cause there was plenty of Cotee meat to satisfy his hunger. I shudder at the thought of how different things mighta gone if he’d found just me caught in his trap.
I look ’round, get my bearings, and continue southwest like my mother told me to. The day is hot at first, but then, like most spring days, gives way to a burst of rain that stifles much of the heat. Three days pass with periods of both rain and sun, stutter-stepping at the whims of Mother Nature. I eat Cotee meat every night, drink Feve’s tea, get stronger with each passing day.
The fourth day since Feve’s departure—which I s’pose is the fifth or perhaps sixth day since I left the village—I spot it, a change in the endless monotony of the desert. From far away it looks like just a small crack in the earth, perhaps a hidey-hole for a ’zard or snake, but as I approach, it grows bigger’n bigger, until it’s a gaping crevice, wide and deep and winding off into the distance.
Southwest, where the river lies dead like a snake…
There’s no water in the ol’ riverbed, save for a few durty puddles from the spring rains. If it ever was a river, it’s long dead. And as for the snake part, the way it twists and turns proves I’m in the right place. Although it’s winding, there’s no doubt it’s meandering in the same direction as I wanna go. Southwest.
On and on I follow the Dead Snake River, camping along the edge, hoping that each new day’ll bring me to the next landmark—what was it my mother said? …and the rocks hold hands like lovers.
I picture two rocks that look exactly like Circ and me, rock arms outstretched, rock hands entwined. Were Circ and I lovers? Does a single kiss make lovers? As I plod along I’m blinded by the tears in my eyes, as blurry as a knock to the head. Whatever Circ and I were, it went beyond the simple labels of humans. Lovers, friends, family…
…soul mates.
That’s the only one that feels right when I think it. But Circ’s soul’s gone far away, where I can’t reach it, where maybe I can never reach it. I dry my eyes on my sleeve and keep moving.
~~~
I’m down to the last of my Cotee meat. The herbal tea ran out a coupla days ago but it did its job. Although I’ll have scars from the bites, they’re all healed over with no infection. ’Cause of Feve and his bandages and Medicine Man training. I’d have died twice over if not for him.
I ain’t no Hunter.
The women of the village don’t Hunt. They gather and Bear and look after the Totters and wash bloody, filthy clothes. Not Hunt.
But I gotta get food and more’n just prickler skins which leave me feeling unsatisfied. So I take my knife and my speed and both my left feet into the desert to catch me whatever I can catch—a burrow mouse or ’zard or something. I don’t venture too far from the dried out river though for fear of getting lost.
I ain’t no Hunter.
I know I already said that but after three thumbs of sun movement in the desert I prove it. The ’zards are cleverer’n I ever knew. Here I been thinking they scuttle and scamper ’round aimlessly all day, just waiting for us humans to catch them and skin them. The first one I see is back in its hole the moment I give a funny look in its direction. A moment later it pops outta a different hole on t’other side of me. When I take a step in its direction it jumps back down and outta sight.
The burrow mice are no easier. I find a whole nest of them, but no matter how deep I dig, all I find are more’n more tunnels with no mice. At some point I realize I ain’t gonna be killing anything, but it ain’t only ’cause I can’t seem to get close enough to stick one of them; it’s ’cause I don’t wanna stick one of them. The thought of taking the life of something so small makes me feel sick to my stomach. To save my life from a pack of Cotees, yeah, I’ll slash and fight like a wooloo person, but I can’t just stab an innocent creature.
I trudge back to the river emptyhanded.
That evening I eat what’s left of the Cotee with a side of prickler. Wash it down with a shirt squeeze of rainwater when it starts pouring. Sleep, wet and exhausted next to a fire that’s all smoke and wet prickler skins.
~~~
The sun goddess drives Mother Nature and her armies of dark clouds back. By afternoon my clothes are dry, as if they were never soaked through in the first place.
When I get hungry I munch on the tug jerky my mother put in my pockets. Soon I’ll have nothing left but the pricklers growing across my path.
Midafternoon, when the sun is long past its apex and starting to sink on down, the Dead Snake River ends. Just ends, like someone filled in the rest of it with durt and sand, made it look like it was never there at all. The tail of the snake—or is it the head?—seems to point off across a wide expanse of flat land. A sure sign as any, so I follow it.
Just as the world is darkening, I spot them. Statuesque soldiers, set out in perfect little rows, directly in my path. Hundreds of them, weather-beaten and proud and probably relatives of Perry. Pricklers. It’s a field of pricklers. I ain’t never seen anything like it. Most pricklers are loners, wearing their solitude like a badge of honor. Occasionally you’ll find a small group of them huddled together—prickler families we call them—but never more’n four in a patch.
As I enter their ranks, they seem to close in ’round me, watch me, like they’re guarding something. But that’s wooloo talk. They ain’t no more alive’n Perry was. Yeah, that’s right, Perry, you heard me!
Night falls while I’m still amongst the pricklers, and I hafta squint to avoid banging into them—there are that many. Something big’n dark rises up ’fore me, but I can’t see what. It’s not alive, that much is obvious. It’s just something big…and dark. A rocky bluff or black sand dune or something.
I can’t see, so I make camp right there within the merry band of pricklers. I’d like to say I don’t conversate with them, but a few of the prickly buggers knew Perry from way back when, so I can’t help but to do a little reminiscing, tell a few stories and jokes at Perry’s expense.
Sleep takes me.
~~~
I awake to lovers holding hands.