Calamity's Child (4 page)

"Peace," he said, as gently as he knew
how. "Gineah meant well. We should not be at odds because of her
kindness."

She swallowed, and shook her hair back
from her wet cheeks. "I -- Tales of Grandmother Gineah's good works
are told around story fires wherever the Sanilithe gather. I will
be proud to tell my own story, that the grandmother so valued her
son she gave his wife-tent a Dark Season's worth of provisions, as
a measure of her regard."

"A good story," he said, softly. "And
nothing to weep for."

Arika snuffled, and raised a hand to
scrub at her cheeks.

"I weep because --"
Another gulp, and a wave around at the general chaos. "It was not
like this. It was orderly and, and
erifu
and -- and the babe was
born dead, and Keneple caught the milk fever, and the grandmothers
did what there was to do..." The tears were flowing again, and she
hugged the pot tight to her chest.

"So, she died," she
whispered. "It was past time to leave for Dark Camp... They helped
me with the pyre before they left. I packed the tent in haste and,
and -- " She bent her head, hair falling forward to shroud her
face. "
Erifu
has been broken, and I don't know how..."

He slipped an arm around her waist, as
she cuddled her pot and wept, offering the comfort of his
warmth.

Gently, he asked, "Keneple was your
mother?"

Arika sniffled. "My elder sister. Elae
-- her hunter -- fell from a rock ledge at Far Gathering and broke
his neck. We --" Her grief overtook her, then, and there were no
more words for a time.

Slade stroked her hair, murmuring
nonsense phrases, as he had heard Gineah murmur to soothe a sick
child.

Gods,
he thought, the tragedy unrolling before his
mind's eye.
Every one of the tent
dead, save herself, within the space of one summer
walkabout?
Mother, hunter, and
hopeful babe -- gone, leaving one grieving girl-child, who had
promised her dying sister that she would not allow the tent to
lapse...

"Arika," he murmured.
"Gineah taught me. We can together put things right. Our tent will
be
erifu
and the envy of every hunter!"

She looked at him sidewise through her
hair. "The grandmother taught you how to order a tent? But that is
--"

"Who says no to a grandmother when she
requires a thing?" he asked, smoothly.

That argument had weight. Arika
straightened. "We do as the grandmother says."

"We do," he said, and smiled at her.
"Let us begin in the Windward corner."

*

Slade shivered in the
light wind and held his end of the braided leather rope loosely by
the knot. The other end was tied to the most robust of the
shrub-like trees in the thicket with a knot Verad would have
frowned upon had he seen it, for it looked to be more
erifu
than the
knots men might use. All around, the rocks, bushes and moss
glittered silver in the starlight -- ice, and treacherous footing
for even a skilled hunter.

As had become his habit since his
mating, Slade hunted alone. He regretted the loss of Verad's
companionship, but the elder hunter had grown even more
disapproving of Slade's methods. Hunting alone, he had perfected
those methods. It was seldom, now, that their tent was without
fresh meat.

Today, Slade thought, might be one of
those rare days when he returned empty-handed. If the binkayli
failed to swarm, if his throw went awry, if the leather parted, if
the branch gave way -- if, if, if...

One-handed, Slade reached to his belt
and worked the knot on the hunter's touch. Though he hunted
solitary, he was often enough among other hunters at the end of the
day, when casual groups might form to discuss the weather, the
hunting, the lie of the land for tomorrow's hunt. Thus, he had
added several odd quartz bits, the tail fur of an ontradube, and
the sharply broken stub of the same creature's small antler to his
collection of magical items, as further camouflage.

Finding the vial of vitamins by touch
among the lot was a chore, but he succeeded, and squeezed the drops
into his mouth. He grimaced at the taste, and at the state of the
container, and dropped it back into the bag.

Checking his hold on the leather, his
nose hair bristled. Cold, cold, cold.

From his left came a rolling rumble,
as of dozens of hooves hitting the frozen ground. Slade tensed,
then forced himself to relax, pushing all thought of failure -- all
thought -- from his mind, just as the binkayli burst out of the
silvered thicket, barely six paces from his crouching place,
running hard across the open land.

He threw, the lasso arced into the
spangled air, spun and fell about the neck of a well-grown binkayli
stallion.

Oblivious, the stallion raced on. The
rope stretched, the noose tightened. The branch held, held -- and
broke in a clatter of scattered ice.

Slade swore and leapt. His boots
skidded on the icy surface, he twisted, clawing for balance, and
fell badly, left leg bent beneath him, head cracking against the
ground.

Half-dazed, he saw the rope and the
branch speed across the icy ground in the wake of the stallion. The
pounding of hooves vibrated through his head, and finally faded
away.

*

It was late when he limped back into
camp, leaning heavily on his spear. He staggered to his own tent,
standing silver and serene 'neath the changeless winter sky, pushed
the flap back, ducked inside -- and froze.

The air was pungent with some
unfamiliar odor, and thick with smoke. Arika sat, cross-legged and
naked, before the fire, eyes closed, holding a hunter's gutting
knife between her palms. Two women he did not know knelt, fully
clothed, facing her.

Slade moved as quietly as he was able,
meaning to retire to the corner where he kept his hunter's gear, to
warm himself, and rest his injured leg.

One of the strangers looked over her
shoulder and leapt up, her eyes wide and angry. She grabbed his
arm, none-too-gently, and shoved him toward the flap.

"You are not allowed here!" she
hissed. "Go! Do not return until you are summoned!" Another shove,
and a third, which sent him stumbling out into the cold, ice-rimed
camp.

Slade stood for a moment, gathering
his wits; shivering, aching and angry. Then, leaning hard on his
spear, he limped away, toward Gineah's tent.

*

"Rest, tomorrow and tomorrow," Gineah
said, rising from her inspection of the injured leg. "The muscles
are angry, and you -- you are a very fortunate hunter, young Slade.
You might have broken that leg, and then you would have been a dead
hunter, alone in the freezing darkness, without a brother of the
hunt nearby to aid you."

He smiled up at her. "I was fortunate,
I know. I will be more careful, Gineah."

She snorted and motioned him to sit
up, as she crossed to the cook fire and the pot hanging there. "At
least your head is hard," she said -- and then, "You should not
hunt alone."

"I must," he said. "My methods
frighten Verad, and the others are more timid still."

Gineah ladled soup into bowls and
brought them back to the hearth fire, handing one to
Slade.

"Eat." She ordered. "And while you
eat, tell me what your wife was about, to allow a stranger to send
you from her tent."

So he ate, and told her of his strange
homecoming, with Arika entranced or uncaring, the smoke, the knife,
and the woman who had banished him.

"So." Gineah looked at him straightly
across the fire. "Your wife, young Slade, is a Finder."

He blinked, trying to read her face,
and, as usual, failing.

"What is a Finder,
grandmother?"

"A woman of great
erifu
, who may
cast her thought out to find that which is lost. The best Finders
improve their tents many times over. Your wife is young, she has
some years before she reaches the fullness of her gift. But she is
already known as a Finder of great talent. The tent will improve
quickly, I think, and you will no longer live on the edges of the
Dark Camp."

Surely,
Slade thought,
this
was good news?
In the house of his
mother, the birth of a Healer was cause for rejoicing. Yet, Gineah
looked more doleful than joyous.

"This troubles you..." he said,
tentatively.

Gineah sighed. "Finders ... do not
thrive. The heat of their gift consumes them. Not all at once, but
over a time. Sometimes, a very long time."

He stared at her, thinking of Arika,
young and frail and fierce, and his eyes filled. "Is there no
--"

"Cure?" she finished for him. "Child,
there is no cure for destiny."

"Then," he asked, blinking the tears
away, though the empty feeling in his chest remained. "What should
I do?"

"Be the best hunter you
are able. Be her friend, as I know you can be, O, wisest and
most
erifu
of hunters. If children come to the tent, care for them. And
pray that they were not born to be Finders."

Something moved near the flap of the
tent, loud to Slade's hunter-trained ears. He came around, began to
rise -- and fell back as fire shot through his leg.

"Rest!" Gineah hissed at him, and went
to unlace the flap.

"Grandmother," he heard Arika's voice,
thin and vulnerable. "Is Slade with you?"

"He is. A woman pushed him from your
tent while you were Finding, child. What greeting is that for a
hunter returned to his tent wounded?"

"Wounded?" He heard her gasp and
called out --

"A fall, nothing more.
Gineah..."

She stepped back, motioning, and Arika
entered.

She was wan, and unsteady on her feet,
her eyes great and bruised looking.

"A fall?" she repeated, and knelt
beside him, touching the leg Gineah had wrapped. "Is it
broken?"

"No," he soothed her. "Not
broken."

"He must rest," Gineah said. "Tomorrow
and tomorrow. Eat from stores. If there is a call upon your gift,
you will come to me, rather than turn this hunter out. Am I
understood?"

Arika hung her head. "You are
understood, grandmother." She looked up, and Slade saw tears
shining in her eyes. "Slade. You should not have been cast out.
Next time, I will be certain that those who watch know that your
presence will not disturb me."

"Thank you," he said,
sincerely, and touched her thin cheek.
The heat of their gift consumes them...
he thought, and wanted nothing more than to fold
her in his arms and protect her from that fate.

"So," said Gineah, and his wife stood,
to attend the grandmother with due respect, and to receive two
medicine pots.

"Rub the leg with this, morning,
mid-day, night. If there is swelling, three drops of this, in
noginfeil tea. If there is fever, send, and I will
come."

"Yes, grandmother," Arika murmured,
and tucked the pots into her pouch. She looked down at him
doubtfully.

"Can you walk?"

The leg was considerably stiffer,
despite the warmth, but he thought he could walk. "If I can rise,"
he said.

Gineah held out a plump arm, and Arika
offered a thin one. It took the support of both, but gain his feet
he did, and stood wobbling, arm around Arika's waist for balance,
while Gineah fetched his vest and his spear.

*

They made love, their last night in
Dark Camp. After, in the soft silence, Arika snuggled against his
chest, and he put his arms around her. She had gained weight since
they had married, and the tent had improved as well -- in some part
due to his efforts; in greater part, so he had it, to hers. As the
Dark wore on, more came to ask the Finder to locate this or that
misplaced item, animal, or -- rarely -- person. They paid well,
those seekers -- in fur, in food, in good metal knives and spear
tips. He watched her closely, having taken Gineah's words much to
heart, but, truly, she seemed more well, not less.

"Slade," Arika murmured. "Tell me
about your home."

He stirred, breathing in the perfume
of her hair. "My home?" he repeated, lazily.

"Gineah told me that you were not of
the Sanilithe," she said, nestling her head onto his shoulder. "She
said you were not of the Trinari, or of the Chinpha. She said that
you had fallen out of the starweb, and were no ordinary hunter at
all."

Shrewd
Gineah,
he thought, stroking Arika's
hair;
and really -- what does it
matter now?

"She said," Arika continued, "that she
expected your tribe to come for you, and held you away from the
Choosing. But when they did not come after two full rounds of
seasons, she sent you forth, for a hunter of the Sanilithe must
live by the law of the Sanilithe."