Primitive Nights (25 page)

Her eyes brightened. “Have they agreed, then?”

“They believe in you as I do.”

She nodded. “Good.”

He sat down, surveying the scene around him. “Come, Myla. Sit with me for a moment.”

After a glance at the people still lying on cots, she knelt on the ground next to him. “I’m afraid if I stop moving for too long, I won’t have the strength to get back up.” Her tired smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“You have worked hard for days.” He brushed the hair back from her forehead and used the contact to check for a fever. Sweaty and warm from exertion, she was free from any traces of a high temperature. Relief flooded his mind. “I would not have you become ill in trying to help.”

“Don’t worry about me. My immune system is used to these types of exposures.” His confusion must have shown, because she continued into his silence. “If your people were exposed to these colds more frequently, their bodies would build special—guards, which could fight off the bad stuff that makes them sick.”

He waited, engrossed more with the way she talked and the expressions on her face than her actual explanation. Though that was interesting as well.

“Our bodies can compensate for most weaknesses.” She reached out to take his hand and smoothed a finger over the rough pad on his index finger. “Here, your body has built a resistance to the continued use of this hand when you use your bow. This callus developed to protect the skin, and your body can do the same on the inside. It develops defenses to protect itself.”

He closed his hand around hers and pulled her onto his lap. “You are very intelligent.”

“Not so much.” She nuzzled into the crook of his neck. “But thank you.”

“And resilient.” She yawned again, and Damon pulled her tight against his chest. “Rest with the knowledge that what you have done gives hope for my people’s future.”

“That—was all I ever wanted…” her body relaxed, “…until you.” Within moments, she was asleep. Damon closed his eyes. He would enjoy this brief reprieve, though the soft shuffle of someone approaching threatened his moment of peace.

“She has reminded me of who I was a long time ago.”

“Mother, you should not be up yet. You will tax yourself.” He opened his eyes slowly. Even with a slight pallor still lingering in her skin, her recovery was obvious. “You look better than I would have expected.”

She pulled a stool over next to him and sat, leaning her elbows on her knees. “I continue to suffer from a lack of energy, but I will survive.” She nodded her head toward Myla’s sleeping form. “Thanks to your woman here. Without her, I fear I would have died.”

“As would have many more.”

Her eyes closed for a moment, and he was surprised by the tears that glistening when she met his gaze. “So many already.”

Deep sadness enveloped him. “Nearly sixty.”

“My God.” She shook her head. “I have kept myself apart from these people for most of my life, but I learned to care for them, as I did your father. This suffering—well, I would not wish it on anyone.”

Taken by surprise at her offhanded mention of his father, he pressed the opening to what had always been an unapproachable topic. “You cared for Father?”

A slight shrug preceded her answer. “Yes, in a strange way. I guess I loved him.”

His mind reeled. Cared for? Loved, even? How long had he waited to understand his mother’s odd actions and undercurrent of resentment toward his people? “Mother, I have never questioned you, nor would I.” He glanced down at Myla. “But I find myself unable to consider my existence without Myla. Tell me what waits for me, if I refuse to let her go.”

His mother shook her head. “It really is so simple, but in this, you are so much like your father.
Bajluk
Sijdu was a great man. He was strong, handsome and deep within him, a lust for life which I had never encountered.”

He recalled his father. Similar to what she described. The tribe had respected him, followed him and mourned his death. “Then why did you hate him?”

Tears pooled in her eyes. One slipped free to travel over her wrinkled cheek. She shook her head. “Your memory confuses hate with resentment. He took my freedom, Damon. Given the chance, I would have loved him of my own choosing. But he was impatient. He demanded my love, my body, my very soul, and when so much of you is taken instead of asked for, a person cannot feel that it is ever real. I always questioned what I felt, for him, even for you.”

“Me?” He had never experienced her resentment. “But I never knew.”

“Of course not. I have loved you from the moment you came into this world.” She reached out and ran a hand through his hair. “You were the reason I lived, the reason I kept moving and breathing every day.”

“And yet you questioned your feelings for me?”

“Only the depth.” She shook her head and sighed. “It was difficult to understand how I could love you with every ounce of my being, when you were part of him as well. You were the product of his demands for my surrender. I was his captive for years before I became pregnant with you. I may have hated him at that time and yet I had never felt such joy as when you were born.”

Moved by her words, he suffered a moment of guilt. He had always blamed her for the difficulty between her and Father. Had he opened his eyes, really looked at what she had sacrificed, he might have accepted a stronger bond with her. “I never understood why you could not find happiness. Now I do, and I am sorry for not seeing it before.”

She sat back. “Don’t be. You were a child. Children see nothing beyond themselves. I found contentment with my life. Though when your father passed, a part of me died with him.”

He weighed her words carefully. So much complexity. Would he himself not resent someone for taking his freedom, forcing him to a life that was not his own choosing? Suddenly her odd behaviors and strange ways made sense. Now that he could see her circumstance through Myla’s situation, respect and admiration created a deep ache in his chest. “Mother, why did you not leave when father died?”

“Because of you.”

Myla stirred in his arms and he forced himself to relax. “I was a man full grown when he passed. You could have returned to your world.”

“A man?” Her soft laugh sounded foreign in a structure erected for death and disease. “You were hardly a man, Damon. Barely fifteen and as headstrong and arrogant as your father. You were also half white. Tinjtol and his mother hated you for nothing more than being born. Besides, I had to teach you our world. I knew the day would come when you would have to understand the things outside of these damned trees.”

“You knew the white men would come?”

“Of course. It is our legacy to conquer and destroy. I came to hate my lineage. Hate what I knew would be your future. Your father ignored my warning, so did you.” She shrugged then. “There was nothing I could do to stop it, but I could teach you so you were prepared. I know it may seem that I kept to my little hut and made no intrusions, but I have gained the ears of mighty men. Years it took me, too. But now they listen, and in the end, I think you will find it helpful.”

“The elders.” Realization burst through him with stunning speed. “You talk with the elders. They listen to your council.”

She nodded and sat up a bit straighter. Her voice was little more than a whisper. “They will take the admission to the graves, but they have listened to me often, especially concerning the white men. In exchange, you were safe from the death that surely would have come at Tinjtol’s hand.”

Oruminoch had mocked him for listening to Myla. The fact that the elders listened to his mother seemed ironic. And raised doubts he never would have considered. “How closely do the elders keep your council? Has your influence assisted my status in this tribe?”

“Fractionally at best.” She patted his shoulder. “My opinions were heard. The decisions made by the elders were their own in the end.”

“You suggested me as
Bajluk
over Tinjtol?”

“Of course.” She sighed. “As
Bajluk
, you would be safer. Even if something happened to me. Your father was dead. The jungle takes lives without warning. I had to know you would be safe.”

Nothing could have prepared him to hear her admission. Fighting for his right as
Bajluk
had given him great pride. Knowing she had planted her seed of opinion shouldn’t take away from that, but somehow, it did. Still, he could not fault her reasoning. Life was—uncertain. “You have given much of yourself to protect me. I am blessed to have such a devoted mother.”

She inhaled sharply and sat in silence for a moment. “Thank you, Damon.”

“So I must let her decide.” He shifted Myla more securely onto his lap.

“Yes, my son.” She slipped her finger into one of Myla’s loose curls. “She is a much stronger, kinder person than I ever was. I see that she loves you and she has admitted as much to me. If you do nothing else that I say, be smart where your father was not.”

He did not want to, but he understood. “Her happiness is all that matters. If she wishes to leave, I will let her.”

“Good.” She straightened then and stretched her back. “Now, you are feeling good? Healthy?”

The sudden shift in conversation caught him off guard. “Yes.”

He stared at Myla, his mother’s words filling his mind. As much as he now understood what had happened to his mother, he could not help but relate to his father’s reasoning. If his father felt anything near the powerful need he suffered for Myla, he could understand why he had refused to let his mother go.

It would be a difficult thing to do.

“Damon?”

He shook himself from his thoughts to find his mother staring at him expectantly. “Sorry. What did you say?”

She rested her chin on her hands, a small knowing smile creasing her lips. “Has Seiret returned from the Hountas yet?”

“Not yet.” Seiret had taken medicine to the Hountas nearly two days ago. “He is a true brother to me, Mother. If he does not return soon, I will go to him. I cannot leave him to care for their people while I hide here.”

“You’re not hiding, Damon. And Myla needs you. She’s exhausted.” She pushed up from the stool. “Let me go to him. Myla has taught me how to use the new medications as well.”

“Are you well enough?”

“I am.” She turned to walk away but stopped and looked back. “You should know that the elders have agreed to Myla’s proposal. Against my better judgment, I might add. Take Myla to rest. I will send word from the Hountas.”

She winked then and hurried from the hut.

Damon sat for a moment, shocked by her odd behavior. She had strength of which he had never been aware, and a new respect developed inside him.

Even more when he considered her words where Myla was concerned. He did not want Myla to suffer the same fate as his mother. He wanted her to be happy. To love him of her own will. If that meant she had to leave, then it would be so.

She sighed in her sleep, whispering his name, and his heart swelled. If she must leave, then perhaps—no. He could not leave his people. Could he? His mother’s confession created a doubt he had never experienced. Could her opinion have swayed the elders? Was his reign as
Bajluk
nothing more than her manipulations? He did not like the thought that his position had been given rather than earned. Once again, the odd sensation of not belonging resurfaced.

He shook the childhood feeling away. There were more important issues at hand. The first was taking care of Myla.

He pushed up from the ground, trying not to disturb Myla’s sleep. He walked out of the hut and slipped the mask off with a smile. She could not holler at him while she slept. And the fresh evening air would do them both good. Sliding her mask free, he pulled it from her hair gently.

Her eyes remained closed, though she nuzzled deeper into his chest, her long lashes tickling the skin there. Dark circles marred the skin beneath her eyes and her features were drawn. She had worked herself into exhaustion and he was certain she had not eaten much in the days since they had returned.

When he passed Cuklho carrying a tray of fruit, he stopped. “Bring food to my hut. Warm water as well.”

She smiled. “Myla need to washing?”

He grinned at the use of Myla’s language and answered in English as well. “Very good, Cuklho. My mother must be very proud.”

The younger woman bobbed her head. “She say I smart.”

“You are.”

Cuklho reached out to touch Myla’s hair. “She make my father good again. I will bring clean for pretty hair. Yes?”

He nodded. “She would like that very much.” Cuklho hurried away, and it only took a moment more for him to reach his hut.

Laying Myla on the cot, he gazed down at her. In little time, she had won over his entire tribe. There was something in her smile that drew him, welcomed him and made him feel like he always belonged with her. Somehow, she had woven that effect on every other person around her. Even a rival tribe.

He shook his head and dropped to his knees next to the cot. Brushing a light kiss over her forehead, he whispered, “
Alogu
, wake up. You must eat.”

She stirred, curling onto her side with a frustrated groan. “Not yet. So tired.”

A soft laugh from the door made him look up. Cuklho stood with a large tray of fruit and several bowls. She whispered, “Food. Water.”