The seconds stretched into eternity; then Benja’s head resurfaced. He gasped in the air, kicking and flailing his arms. Illya took a running start and flung the fish trap toward his cousin with every ounce of strength he could find.
This time, it landed a few feet away from Benja. He kicked, reached out, and caught the slats in his fingers. Illya dug his heels into the muddy ground, leaning back as the added weight of Benja in the current pulled on the rope. Unable to pull the rope hand over hand, he staggered backward with it a step at a time, digging his feet into the mud with each step as he went.
Benja kicked against the water, lending what strength he could to Illya’s efforts. Finally, he crawled onto the bank, his chest heaving. He coughed and spewed a mess of debris and river water onto the ground. Illya loosened his fingers from the rope and flexed the stiffness out of them. Benja rolled over and looked up at the sky, still catching his breath. A bruise was beginning to form along his jaw, and a trickle of blood dripped from a split lower lip and blended with the beads of river water on his chin.
“Someone came up behind me, I was taking a pee,” he said and sat up, pausing to spit a glob of bloody mucous on the ground. “Had my pants down ’round my ankles. Barely got them up and they hit me.” He rubbed his jaw.
“Shoved me in the river.” He scowled and looked at his feet. “Took the fish too. I didn’t even see who it was.”
Illya sucked in a sharp breath. He let it out slowly, shaking his head.
“I didn’t think even the worst of them would drown a man for a fish,” he said.
“I think there are some of them that would do anything,” Benja said, shivering. He nodded toward the other fish that was still strung to Illya’s belt. “Better hide that.”
It was one fish, but it meant everything for their families. Meat. With it, Molly would be safe for a few days more, maybe long enough for the new shoots to spread.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ILLYA LEFT THE village early the next morning and stowed the book under his jacket. He needed light to read by but didn’t dare sit beside his hut to do it. He was so early that he was the first person to reach the gates to unbar and open them. Outside the walls, he sat at the base of a big maple tree with bare branches and flipped through the book. The sun was coming up over the flats to the east, blazing fire across the sky.
“Shows what sort of weather will follow the moon’s entrance into any of its quarters,” he read. He frowned. How could they have known something like that?
The moon was still visible above the horizon: a circle cut perfectly in half. He wasn’t sure if it was the same thing the table meant by a quarter, but it could be. He traced his finger down the column and slowly studied each word.
The time of day was another thing he didn’t know. He decided to look at all of the entries for the morning. The first prediction was “Rain,” and the next one down said, “Stormy,” the one after that said, “Cold rain if the wind is west, snow if the wind is east.”
He held up his hand. West.
There would be rain then, no matter what time of the morning it was.
For a few heady seconds, he imagined going back to the village and telling the people at the central fire it would rain today.
He laughed at himself. Impiri and those who thought like her would have him thrown out of the village if they knew he was actually reading an Olders’ book. He could hear her now. Corruption! Curses! Banish him!
There were more words below the table.
Old wives’ tales to predict the weather: Those Old Wives knew a thing or two! The common adage “Red skies at night, sailor’s delight, red skies at morning, sailors take warning,” holds truth and can be used to forecast the weather with reasonable accuracy. The effect of red skies is caused by an accumulation of dust and humidity in the air, which refracts the light of the rising sun.
He caught his breath. Though the blaze of sunrise was fading as the sky lightened to a pale yellow, there had been a red sky. That was two signs.
He read on a little, then he heard a shout coming from beyond the walls. It was followed by more shouting. Quickly, he stowed the book under his jacket and hurried back to the gates.
They were raiding again. They were on the far side of the square, away from his mother’s hut he was relieved to see. They were heading in the direction of Samuel’s.
He kept out of sight from the growing crowd, and made his way around them by ducking behind huts, hoping to warn Samuel before they reached him.
Illya hesitated at the Healer’s door. A low murmur of voices came from beyond it. He paused then leaned closer, pressing his ear to the rough gray wood.
“…not with the talk that’s been going around.” A boy was mumbling.
“Two scoops in hot water,” Samuel’s voice came through the door, louder.
“But if there’s any more blood, you have to bring him to see me himself.” There was silence then a rustle.
“Do you have…” Illya only caught some of the words. “…comes with the drink, the wildness.”
“Nothing can be done for that if a man hasn’t got the sense to stay away from it,” said Samuel. There was a grunt followed by a scuffle. Suddenly, the door opened, and Conna came out. Illya leaped backward to avoid being hit. Conna stopped short and glared at him, stuffing something into his pocket. Illya took a few heavy breaths, hoping that he looked as if he had just run up to the hut.
He kept his face as blank as possible. Conna regarded him with narrowed eyes then slid his gaze away before taking off down the path at a walk so quick it was nearly a run.
Illya shrugged away his discomfort. He had more important things to worry about.
“Samuel,” he said, pushing his way inside, “they’re raiding the huts, dragging out any food stores that are left.” He glanced over his shoulder, through the open door, towards where Conna had disappeared, wondering for a moment why he wasn’t with the rest of them. His father was leading the group.
“After what they did before, I thought…” He gestured around the hut.
The Healer’s eyes flickered towards the door.
“I hope they learned before, but still…” He sighed and trailed off. The wrinkles in his forehead deepened. “May be better if we don’t stay here to see.”
He went to the corner and took two skin bags off hooks then turned around, holding one out to Illya.
“Willow bark,” he said.
“That will take most of the day,” Illya said.
“Exactly.”
Willows did not grow nearby. They were nearly in the lowlands, about ten bends downriver. If they went now, they wouldn’t be back until mid-afternoon.
The raids had moved to the far side of the village. They made their way out of the hut, staying out of sight and off the main paths as much as possible. There was yelling in the distance, crashing, and the sound of splintering wood from beyond the stone house. The raiders had gone through his family’s hut a few days before and found nothing. Still, Illya stopped there before they left to tell his ma to bar the door and keep Molly inside.
Ten bends downriver was not a bad distance to go in the summer. You could take a day and lie back in the shade of the tree, fishing the little swirling pool under the willows’ overhanging branches. At this time of year, the drifts were still waist-deep in the places where they had not washed away. Rain and runoff had created a grid of shifting bogs and streams across the hillside, alternating with the snow. Samuel was surprisingly nimble for his age, keeping up without trouble as they descended.
Illya’s foot punched through a snowdrift to find a running stream of frigid water underneath. He shook it off and stepped over a mound of deep snow. Soon, he found a well of dry ground where the snow had melted from around the base of a tree, and they stopped to catch their breath. Idly, he kicked at the damp earth, uncovering a net of withered leaves and stems. Recognizing the shape of the leaves, he crouched to examine them closer.