The old woman heard the white-haired old man whisper to his neighbour that the stranger had plainly recognised his son's merits. He had lent him one of his lightning knives during the battle with the men from across the river. The old woman thought privately that the white-haired
man's son couldn't have been so clever in his youth, not if he'd so nearly fallen victim to whatever had dug its claws into his side.
The tall stranger was still deep in thought. Handing his two bright knives hidden in their wrappings to his woman, he untied the long strip of hide he wore doubled around his waist. The scarred hunter watched him closely. The stranger proffered the long strip of unknown hide and the hunter took it from him, bemused. Drawing his smallest blade, the stranger crouched and pretended to slice an equal length from the softer belly skin of the lizard hide. Standing up again, he pretended to pass the strip of lizard skin to the hunter, taking the unknown hide back in return. The hunter looked at him, baffled. Visibly trying to curb his exasperation, the stranger repeated his actions.
Several people around the hearth understood in the same moment and called out to the scarred hunter. The white-haired elder wondered aloud what the stranger could possibly want with strips of hide. The old woman saw younger women hurrying to bring old, worn hides from their huts. They weren't concerned with what he might want them for; they were just happy to exchange them for some claim on the highly prized lizard skin. The wrinkled sisters voiced their tart opinion that the tall stranger must be some kind of fool, to trade at such a disadvantage.
Was he a fool? the old woman wondered silently. She didn't think so. But he had had no idea how to find water roots and could have stood underneath the green-nut trees till he had starved before he had thought to eat them. She kept that recollection to herself.
The toothless old man was arguing with the wrinkled sisters. All of the village hunters had admired the tall stranger's bravery in the fight against the enemy from across the river. He had seen through their painted man's
deceptions somehow, and led them on that courageous attack up the ravine. The other old men concurred. The tall stranger was definitely a man to have on your side in a fight, and not just because he carried those remarkable blades.
All conversation around the hearth circle died abruptly as the two pale strangers appeared, the ones with the painted men's powers. The golden-haired one exchanged a few words with the tall stranger before bending down to gather up an armful of the pieces of hide. As the tall man spoke briefly to the red stranger with the curious leg, the golden-haired one jerked her head back towards the painted man's hut and the two of them walked away. The tall stranger watched them go, exchanging a few words with his woman. She bent to help him sort through the remaining hides, her face drawn and tired.
The white-haired old man ventured his opinion that the tall stranger must also have the powers of a painted man, for the red stranger and the golden one both deferred to him. When did a painted man bow his head to anyone but a more powerful rival?
All eyes turned to the old woman again, so she told them she had seen no sign of the tall stranger using any painted man's powers. Yet, she freely admitted, he certainly seemed to be the leader of the four strangers.
The white-haired old man spoke over her, still insisting that the tall stranger must be a painted man. And his woman had such powers too, most likely. Apprehension deepened the creases in his aged face. Painted men only ever cooperated with each other. No wonder none of the strangers had shown any fear of the black beast. If they were going to attack the painted man across the river, perhaps it was so they could feed him to the black beast, like the feathered woman, and win its favour that way.
Everyone fell silent. As the maiden returned and
carried the gourds from the edge of the fire with hide-draped hands, no one spoke apart from offering the briefest thanks. She looked around the circle, concerned, but knew better than to ask. The wrinkled sisters and the white-haired old man let the old woman dip her hand into the gourd they were sharing between them. She fished out a hot slippery piece of intestine and ate it hungrily, waiting humbly to be offered the gourd again before taking another piece. Once all the offal was eaten, the white-haired old man seized the gourd and slurped at the ripe-smelling broth of the lizard's innards, stomach contents and bone marrow.
On the far side of the hearth, the scarred hunter was smiling ingratiatingly at the tall stranger, gesturing to the lizard meat cooking over the fire. The tall stranger took a whole branch heavy with meat away from the flames and drew his smallest lightning blade. The village women shared glances to reassure themselves there would still be plenty of meat for their children, even if the stranger was claiming such an unexpectedly large share.
The white-haired old man started saying something but then fell silent, his broth-stained mouth hanging open. The tall stranger wasn't keeping all the meat for himself. Instead he sliced it with his lightning knife and offered it all around, first to his woman and then to the other pale strangers who had now returned empty-handed from the painted man's hut. The white-haired man recovered himself sufficiently to argue this made his point for him. A painted man would only share his meat with others of his kind. Painted men would certainly only take orders to fetch and carry from another painted man.
Then the tall stranger took another lump of meat and cut a portion, which he offered to the scarred hunter on the point of his blade. The hunter squared his shoulders and took the meat with a shaking hand. As he stepped
back to tear into it with his white teeth, the tall stranger offered a portion to the next hunter. The others promptly stepped forward. The circle of elders watched, mystified, as the tall stranger proceeded to cut up and apportion all the lizard meat. He continued until everyone had been fed. Even the smallest and weakest of the children got a share.
From the wonder on some of their little faces, the old woman guessed it was the first time they had tasted anything but offal. She almost wished she still had the teeth to manage meat like that. But at least she had a full belly. The second of the wrinkled sisters handed her the gourd and she drained the remaining pungent broth.
The scarred hunter walked around the hearth and sat down beside the white-haired old man. The old woman enviously noted the family resemblance that so safeguarded the old man. The hunter was watching the tall stranger, who was now sitting with his woman and the two pale strangers. The white-haired old man began telling his son her tale of seeing them on their strange raft on the sunrise coast.
The scarred hunter asked her bluntly what else she knew of these strangers. She repeated her tale of the waterspout that had lured away the water beast. The white-haired old man barely let her finish before insisting once again that all four strangers must be painted men, his voice rising.
The old woman looked down at the empty gourd. Well, if she was to die tonight, it would be with a full belly and warmth in her weary bones. So she told them about the painted cave. She slid over the dangerous truth that it was she who had led them to it, saying instead that they had seemingly stumbled upon it while she was merely following them. Though she admitted they had deliberately raised a path across the river for her. She assured the scarred hunter that the strangers had insisted she go inside the
painted cave, mutely beseeching him not to kill her out of hand for profaning it.