Climate of Change (12 page)

“Yes, I think so. At least the ones we met.”

She shook her head. “That's hard to believe.”

“Best to stay clear of them, regardless.”

In due course they came to the familiar house. “I should approach first,” Craft said. “Lest Harbinger think you are Haven.”

“I will let him know I am not,” she said firmly. Rebel was fiercely independent, and seemed to be afraid of nothing. Craft worried about her, for that reason. She was, after all, a woman, lithe and healthy, but without the bones and musculature of a man. An extremely attractive girl. But maybe it would be all right.

He put his hands to his mouth and called “Hoooo!”

In a moment the door pushed open and a figure emerged. It was Harbinger, by the stance.

“Remember, he's a decent guy,” Craft said. “But he does believe in marriage by rape.”

“Remember, I'm not like Haven,” she retorted. “If he tries to put something into me, he'll find it in the cook-pot in a hurry.”

He didn't pursue the matter. She was not joking. She was indeed not like Haven, in much the way fire was not like water. At age seventeen, she had already had adventures that those who did not know her would hardly believe. But he would not tell; it was part of the pact between them.

By the time they reached the house, both occupants were standing outside. Neither moved or spoke. Craft had thought that Crenelle might run to meet him, but she was staring at Rebel. Both of them were. Belatedly he realized: they knew this wasn't Haven, and so thought he might have taken another woman as wife. No Haven for Harbinger, no Craft for Crenelle. That was only half correct.

So he introduced Rebel first. “This is my little sister Rebel. Haven is not returning, but I am. Rebel likes adventure.”

They relaxed. Now Crenelle stepped up to embrace him. “You know what you have to do,” she murmured.

“There has to be another way.”

She pushed him gently away. “We'll see.”

Meanwhile Rebel braced Harbinger. “You raped my sister. Try to rape me, and you die.”

He shrugged, not taking it seriously.

“She means it,” Craft said quickly. “Best to stay well clear of her.”

“Then what adventure is she here for?” Crenelle asked, seemingly bemused by the girl's boldness.

“I want to see the horses,” Rebel said.

Harbinger shook his head. “We can't get close to them. They spook readily, and they run fast.”

“My brother Keeper could get close to them,” she said. That was true, but in a way they would not understand. Keeper had a very special way with animals. Indeed, he had rescued and raised three wolf pups, who were now formidable assistance in the hunt, because they could range out beyond a herd and drive it back toward the hunters. But Keeper was young yet, sixteen, and this did not seem to be the occasion to bring the tame wolves.

“I have a new hunting technique in mind,” Craft said.

“It won't help if we can't get within spear-throwing range,” Harbinger said.

“It will help us get within that range.”

The man nodded, interested.

“We are tired from traveling,” Craft said. “Let's rest and eat, and then we can discuss it.”

They did that. Craft had been gone only two months, and it was now summer, but he felt older. He was eighteen now, a full man, thanks in large part to Crenelle.

And she was up to her tricks. She sat across from him, cross-legged, letting her thighs show, reminding him of the joys he could find there. When he had come here with Haven, Crenelle had intercepted him and given him immediate sex, to divert him from any problem with her brother. Her offerings had been phenomenal. He had expected to have sex with a woman at some point, but even in his fondest imagination had not dared aspire to one like Crenelle. She was beautiful, talented, and ardent, and though they had agreed that their relationship was not
serious, he had loved her from that first encounter. He couldn't even call it a seduction; she had simply taken him inside, thrown off her clothing, removed his, and swept him into her embrace. She had known he would do what she guided him to do, and indeed he had. Thereafter she had given him sex many times, and in many ways, teaching him all he would ever need to know about the subject.

But when Haven lost her baby and decided to go, he had had to go with her. She was not strong, physically or emotionally, after that loss. So he had seen her back to the family, then turned around and returned to Crenelle. He had expected to come alone, but Rebel had another notion, and he could no more deny her imperative than he could Crenelle's.

They had agreed that if he returned, it would be to marry Crenelle. Now he had done so. But he still had to negotiate the hurdle of the manner of winning her.

Crenelle caught his eye, and delivered a measured smile. He knew that she would not give him any free sex on this occasion. He would have to take it by force, the first time. He wasn't sure he could. Not because of any effective resistance on her part; she would make sure her resistance was insufficient. But he simply was not constituted to rape any woman, even in pretense. No man of his family was.

Yet those parted thighs were driving him crazy. Her legs seemed more fully fleshed than before, more rounded, more desirable. He knew she would keep doing it, tempting him unmercifully, making him desperate for sex, until he could hold back no longer. She was sure she could make him do it. Maybe she could; he wasn't so sure. She hadn't been able to make Hero do it, but Craft was not as decisive as Hero.

After the meal, they got down to business. “Here is my plan,” Craft said, clearing a place on the ground. “Here are the mountains; here is the level range where the horses graze.” He drew lines to mark the places, making a map.

“It looks like dirt to me,” Harbinger said.

The man had his talents, but was not strong on imagination. “Think of a bird, a hawk flying high above us. Now think of seeing through that bird's eyes as it peers down looking for prey. This is the lay of the land.”

“The land,” Harbinger repeated dubiously.

Craft tried again. “Or think of climbing the mountain and looking from the cliff. The trees look tiny, and the winding river resembles a snake. You can see where the horses graze, here.” He marked the place with a little crude horse figure.

“By the river,” Harbinger agreed, getting it.

“It's warm enough to swim in now,” Crenelle remarked, making a swimming motion with her arms that made her breasts flex. They too seemed to have filled out somewhat, but that was probably his frustrated imagination.

Rebel smiled, appreciating the private contest. She was well familiar with the nuances of sexual interplay, and quite capable of doing something similar herself, if she chose. Haven was a circumspect, cautious woman, who had surely submitted to sex reluctantly, the first time; Rebel was incapable of submitting to anything, any time. Rebel had no fear of sex, merely of ever being subservient.

Craft forced his eyes back to the map. “If we go after the horses, they will flee to the north, and we will never catch them.”

“That's why we don't hunt horses,” Harbinger agreed.

“But if we arrange a special course for them, we can divert some into a trap,” Craft continued. “See, here is the old dry chasm where the river once ran, before it changed course. Any horses that run into that can't run out of it, except by turning around—and then they would have to run past us, within our spear range.”

“No horse would be fool enough to run there,” Harbinger said.

“I think some might—if the herd were spooked, and there was not room for all to run in the main channel.”

“But there
is
room,” Crenelle said.

“There is room now, but there won't be when we act. We'll put up a baffle—”

“A what?” Harbinger asked.

“A wall. Here, in the narrow part of the running channel.” Craft marked the place. “Some horses will pass on one side, and escape; some will pass on the other side, and be diverted into the chasm. Then we will close in on them.”

“How will we make a wall?” Crenelle asked, leaning forward to peer more closely at the map. By no coincidence her well-formed breasts hung close to his face. He had caressed those breasts so many times, and wanted to do it again. If he reached across and grabbed her, she would scream and haul him into her. They would land across the map, and her legs would be wrapped around his body, preventing his escape, while she continued to protest the ongoing rape she fondly imagined. Harbinger and Rebel would merely watch knowingly. It would be Crenelle's victory—and his. Yet he could not do it.

The others were looking at him, with similar quarter smiles. Craft had been staring instead of answering. He closed his eyes for a moment to get the breasts out, and answered the question. “We can use sticks and hides.”

“But the horses will run right through them,” Harbinger protested.

“I don't think so, because they will think the wall is solid.”

Harbinger lifted a skin and shook it. “Nothing will think this is solid.”

Craft shrugged. “I think they will.”

Harbinger hesitated. Craft knew that the man thought the hunting plan to be nonsense, but also that Crenelle wanted to keep Craft here until he succumbed to her charms. Harbinger wanted his sister to marry the man of her choice. So he demurred. “We'll see.”

They got to work on the baffle. Craft made a framework of thin, strong sapling sticks, and cut small holes in the hides so that they could hang on the sticks. “We will have to dig holes to put the stick in, so the wall will stand,” Craft said.

The work took two days. They slept in the house, and Crenelle came to join Craft, but he refused to let her be naked under the blanket with him. He knew she would wrap herself around him and cry rape. She did not protest; she faced away from him and curled up, her posterior an easy target should he be so inclined. He would have the whole night to reconsider.

Harbinger slept on Crenelle's far side, and Rebel slept the other side of Craft. Rebel was fully clothed, and her stone knife was in her hand;
there was no doubt at all that she was sleeping alone. The difference between her demeanor and Crenelle's was complete.

In the night Craft woke to find Crenelle naked against him, nudged against his side. He pushed her away and turned over. He wished they could be together as they had been before, but she wouldn't allow it, without marriage, and neither would he, really.

He returned to sleep, and woke to find her up against him again, this time half across him, one thigh over his thighs. He moved her away again, and turned away once more.

A third time he woke. This time he was clasping her from behind, his left hand on her left breast, his right passing under her head to rest across her mouth, his exposed groin tight against her bottom. Clench two hands, thrust forward with groin, and the rape would be complete. She would struggle—hardly at all. But she had not given him leave, no matter how artfully she had arranged the two of them while he slept, so it would be rape.

He disengaged, but realized that this was likely to continue indefinitely. Every time he slept, she set up a new connection. Each one was harder to break. Yet he felt that if he was going to rape her, it should be a real rape, not a mere pretense—and he wouldn't do that. What was he to do?

Rebel stirred. She reached out and touched his shoulder. She knew what was going on. She would help, if he asked her. He rolled toward her—and she quietly climbed over him and settled between him and Crenelle.

After that his sleep was undisturbed. But he still dreamed of Crenelle. His sister couldn't protect him from everything.

In the morning they took turns rising and going out to the latrine area. Crenelle returned with her hair straggling down across her breasts. She wore much less, in this summer warmth, and what she did wear concealed things only passingly. Rebel continued fully garbed, but she was evidently warmer than she liked.

Then they ate from the pot and went back to work on the baffle. It was nearing completion. It was in several sections that could be set up independently.

“It will be best if there is a storm,” Craft said. “So they are nervous.”

“But they spook faster when they are nervous,” Harbinger said.

“And when they spook, they run,” Crenelle said. “As fast as they can.”

“Precisely. When they run fast, they don't take time to pause and think. They just go forward, one following another.”

“I think there will be rain tomorrow,” Crenelle said. “Perhaps a storm.”

“Then we should set this up before then. In the night.”

Crenelle made a girlish groan. “I can think of better things to do by night.”

“Marry me without rape, and we'll do them.”

“We did them last winter, and you didn't marry me.”

“And Harbinger raped my sister, but they didn't stay married,” Rebel put in.

“And if he catches you off guard, and rapes you, will you stay married to him?”

“He won't catch me off guard, and if he does, he won't return with his member attached.”

Harbinger winced. He had made no approach to Rebel, yet she acted as if he were a constant menace. It probably didn't help that she was a strikingly beautiful girl, with a figure easily the match of Crenelle's, and wild fair hair and eyes. She had demonstrated her ability to captivate any man she chose, even as a child, but had married none. Now her attitude was discomfiting Harbinger and angering Crenelle.

“Nobody's going to rape anybody,” Craft said.

“We'll see.” Crenelle returned to her work.

“Will the horses smell our traces, and stay clear?” Rebel asked.

“Not if it rains. Anyway, we've hunted there often enough, so our smells are there. It's us they fear, not our smell.”

They prepared carefully for the night. It was clear, and there was a fat moon, so they had enough light to see by. They carried their loads of stakes and hides down to the horse trail, and set them up where Craft indicated. They had to dig into the ground with one stake, to
make holes, and pound on its end with a stone to make them deeper, then set in the baffle stakes and tamp them tight. The job was a bit clumsy, but Craft thought it would do. Would this work? Now that the test was close upon them, his fear of failure increased.