Vision of Love (4 page)

A week later, there is another storm, and the lightning flashes the way I said it would. It is night and we can see no smoke.

Now I understand why, in my vision, so many of us died. It is too dark to see smoke, yet the fires look like dawn, a reddish glow where sky touches earth. The moon is too high for it to be morning.

The chief makes us move. People grumble—some always do, but most think it is foolish but are willing to pack up essentials and leave. Old dresses are left behind, worn tools, broken bits. We will be back, some say. We carry all the food, anything we want to keep. All of my family’s things are loaded on a sled the two dogs will pull, or on our backs.

Redbush, I notice, has four dogs just for him and a massive bundle on his back. I couldn’t even carry it.

I admire him. His strength, his willingness to believe, his cheerfulness and loving attitude to his father, the chief… Just everything. It leaves an odd glow in my chest as I watch him.

We walk away before the sky is fully light.

By noon we are choking. We have walked miles without breaks, but not enough. The smoke is thick. The heat is intense. I am terrified. We can see a huge flood of flame bearing down on us. Only some can run for so long. The very old are dying. The very young are being carried. We leave a trail of belongings, dropping things we need to survive through the winter in order to survive now.

My throat is sore and my eyes water. The smoke is unbearable, as is the stench of the world burning, the animals dying. How can a roast smell so good and a forest so bad?

Because it is the end of the world. What have I done?

There are more rocks underfoot, and the mountains that were too far away now block our path. The scouts told us that the paths are narrow and steep. We can’t run up them, and we can’t go back, the fire still advancing behind us. The tribe, my people, start to go around, heading sideways towards the fire, then away, in steps, the mountains toying with us.

We are so tired, not even the babies are crying. Suddenly rain pours down instead of woe. A cold, blissful downpour, like the gods’ tears. We huddle at the base of the mountains, glad for the rain.

It just fell from the sky, and people are wondering if I did it.

I am more shaken by that than anything. I do not want this power they are attributing to me. I just wanted to save my village, my friends and family. I don’t want to like the fact that I like the admiring gazes, but I do. Maybe my old life was not such a sacrifice for me. I had thought I was giving something of myself, some untouched inner part when I slept with Redbush, but maybe it has cost me less than I thought. Aren’t the gods still happy, though? The Allfather of the skies accepted my gift, and gave me visions. My gift in return, to save my people.

The skies above are misty and cold, but down here, we still stink of fire and ash.

* * * *

The next day, some men go back and return, black-skinned and tired. There is nothing. The grass is burnt badly, the animals are all gone. We must continue to move around the mountains. It takes us many days, but finally we find a new campsite.

It takes a long time to set up. To rest. To mourn. A few died, but only those who would probably not have survived winter. Mostly, though, we rebuild quietly, trying to gather again the things we lost in the fire.

And of course, I watch for Redbush to go hunting. Not the hunting he does with his friends after giving me covert glances, as though saying, ‘Do you see? I am with them—this time is not for you and me.’

Soon, I know, he will take just his bow, and though we have never said it we both know it means I will follow. I will find him, and it will be a glorious reunion.

He waits until the teepees are set up, and everyone is settled. Everyone who survived, anyway. The dead have been pretty much cremated.

“How did you know about the fires?” he asks when we finally meet. There is the nip of winter in the air again and I am surprised he got away at all for us. We lost a lot of meat in the fire. The hunters are very busy.
We
should get busy, so I can find another herd of deer.

I mumble something about dreams and luck. He ignores it, his dark eyes watching me, wondering.

“My father thinks I will marry Dancing Dawn,” he says suddenly.

I don’t like Dancing Dawn.
Stuck-up bitch.
Her dresses are always better than ours, and not for one second are we allowed to forget it.

“What do you think of her?” I ask suddenly.

“I think she would never do these things for me.”

He is probably right. I don’t think he loves Dancing Dawn. He doesn’t give her the sneaky glances he gives me. He laughs with her, yes, but they have been friends forever, like siblings. Not like us. Does he ever tremble when he touches her? I tremble at Redbush’s caresses, often, and I can hardly wait to do it again.

Like a deer in heat, he is savage, ripping off his loincloth. I lift my new dress and impatiently he pulls it over my head.
Free.
My hair flows down my back, and my skin breathes in the cold autumn air.

Wondrous!

His breath is hot in my ear as he tells me everything he wants to do with me.

Yes! With my whole body, yes!

I flip over and kneel, agreeing. Like a doe.

His hands are gentle on my back, but he quickly grows rougher, more urgent as he caresses my buttocks. All my dark emotions propel me—the longing for safety, the fire, the lust. My mouth waters at the thought of him, as though he is food. From this position I can’t see him but when he shoves his manhood in it’s worth it, so worth it. I groan at the feel. The dirt and grit dig into my hands. Redbush digs into my back. I arch as he slides out, my tender flesh trying to grip him, to wring droplets of delight from him. He pants in my ear as he loses control, giving soft whimpers of lust as he rocks hard, shaking us both to his rhythm.

He leans forward, grabs my legs, hold them spread for him. I am open to him, speared on his manhood, his rock-hard shaft finding the moist areas within me and bringing them to life. He curls his fingers around and digs them into my pubic hair. It’s too much. I buck almost as wildly as he does. The orgasm hits like a thunderstorm, all flashes of lightning and sound ripped from me. He pulls all the way out then.

As soon as he enters again I see—visions. It feels like spinning nonstop before falling down. Like the moment of coming.

The knife is in my sweating hand.

It rises overhead, in both hands now, the knife between them.

The young boy lies on the altar, looking up at me.

He is Dancing Dawn’s son, I somehow know.

I stare into his eyes as I tell him it will be all right. We must know the future today. The knife comes down, the edge grating on bone as he cries out—

No, it’s Redbush, only Redbush, hitting his own peak.

His whole body is stiff against mine, and he digs his hands into my shoulders. I welcome the sensation.
Yes—oh, yes, drag me back, don’t me leave there. Let me be in this moment.

I can still feel the knife edge grating on bone.

My mind still hears that cry.

Redbush goes limp on me, in me, his breath a storm in my ear.

His sweat mingles with mine on my back. I collapse under our weight, lie on the ground, feeling its coldness along my sweaty length—so good. He rolls off me, and my back is cold suddenly.

I grab my dress and lay it on top of me.

“Where do you go, when we have sex?” he asks.

I don’t say anything. I jump up and run off. My dress dangles from my hand, almost forgotten.
No. And again, no.
I won’t sacrifice a human. Not ever. I don’t care what the vision means.

And why was Dancing Dawn married to Round Bear? At least, I assume they were married. He was holding her while I killed her son. Horribly.

The remembered feeling of the blood rushing over my fingers repulses me. I dress quickly, trying to forget about it all for the moment.

* * * *

Nights go by. Days.

I see Redbush around the camp. He argues with his father. His mother. Dancing Dawn.

I ignore it all.
Fools. Idiots.

A greater danger is coming and I fear it might be me.

I must know more, I decide. Isn’t that what has worked before? I must see the future again and again, however long it takes, even if it takes all winter.

If it takes longer, I may have to get married. A regretful thought, but there you go. I need to know. I would pay anything.

And why are we having cold vegetable stew again?
I wonder, stirring it in my bowl.

“I was busy this morning,” Mother says. She looks at me. “You don’t have to ask, I can see it on your face. Your father and I were busy.”

If I have children, we will never eat cold stew.

“How’s the hunting going?” I ask.

Father answers, “Better, since you told us where the herds are. Any more knowledge you care to share?”

Something in his tone makes me look at him.

He’s not really my father. The chief gave my mother and me to him when I was very young. My mother’s husband had just died the winter before of a cough and the chief’s favourite warrior needed a squaw.

He became a new father and got a ready-made family. The chief is wise. My new father has been very happy, in bed and out of it.

What will
my
future be like?

Oh, yeah, blood and knives, grating bones and wailing sacrifices.

I grimace and look down.

When I am done, I wash the dishes—mine and Mother’s, for once—then leave.

Mother is busy out back, talking about papooses with the neighbours.
Ugh.

I know by now where Redbush will be.

This late in the day, he too will have eaten, will be on the cliffs, watching the deer I pointed out days ago. With his help, I grudgingly admit.

We will have sex, lots of sex, and maybe—just maybe—I can figure why I become this Shaman of Might and Evil.

I really, really don’t want that future. It makes me sick to my stomach. Or maybe it was that damn stew.

I climb the cliffs, grumbling that there are no paths, and that he likes to sit up there. Can’t he do things the easy way, like the others? There were five different warriors in the camp alone!

 For the first time, I think of sleeping with some of the others, since they would have me now—but now I don’t want them. Sex is a private thing, and Redbush and I have been sharing it. It seems wrong to take a stranger into my bedding, or for one to take me into his. I slept with Redbush first. He was like a gift from the gods on that first day, and on every day since that I have been able to catch him.

I snicker as I climb, then go back to huffing.

He is sitting at the top like I knew he would be, face relaxed, legs under him, meditating. He told me before that a warrior must think. Calm himself.

I won’t sneak up on him. I’m not childish. But I don’t want to wait, either.

I cough politely. A little ‘look at me’ sound.

His shoulders slump.

He says my name and it fills my stomach. It makes it hard to breathe, the way he says it. “What is it?”

I'm not sure if it is good or bad, this feeling. I know I love him, want to be with him.

I climb over the rocks and sit next to him, looking down below at our camp. We can see everything.

It’s so far below. So small, against so huge a wilderness. I must do what I can for my people.

I raise my face to the winds. The world is spread out from here—long, undulating plains of grass and trees and rivers.

And blue, blue sky.

I rest my head on his shoulder. His cold, hard, unyielding shoulder. He pulls away.

“We can’t keep doing this.”

We will. I must know the future.
The thought of not knowing makes me almost ill. I must know more about this power I have.

“It’s a sacrifice for me, I know—” I start.

“For you?” he yells, voice full of anguish. “I was to marry Dancing Dawn! Did you know that?”

“You love her?” I am stricken. At what? The thought of them together? Her having his love? Is this jealousy or something worse?

“No, I don't love her. It doesn't matter. I like her. We have been friends forever, because our parents are friends and they want us to marry. She wants us to marry. I wanted to marry her,” he says finally, and it breaks my heart.

And under my cardiac flesh that used to care for him is stone. Cold, hard stone has replaced my heart. I have anger instead. Where is his love for me? Why talk of the past when it is only the future that matters?

“My father doesn’t understand. She doesn’t understand. My friends don’t know where I am half the time, and I won’t lie.” He turns to gaze at me. His eyes are dark, as black as a moonless night. What does it mean?

“I—” I start.

But he won’t let me finish. His pain bursts out, like blood from a fresh kill. “I wasn’t going to have sex with you. I never thought I would. But then you were there, so naked”—he runs his hand through his hair in anguish—“with your breasts. I’m a man. You put a naked woman in front of me, and I can’t help myself. I should have said no, for our families. But I couldn’t.”

He turns to look at me. “I didn’t even know you liked me and suddenly there you were. Naked. Yearning. Giving me those looks, wanting all that sex.”

It’s in my mouth. If I open it, he will hear the words.

But I didn’t love you, not then.

And I know, without having a vision, what he will say.
Why did you sleep with me, then?
And I will say,
Sacrifice. I needed a sacrifice.
And until this moment, I thought I was it.

But the sacrifice has been him all along.

“I gave up everything for you,” he yells.

I can’t deny it. I just didn’t know until he said it.

His future is now gone. Is this what brings my visions, my power as a shaman? Losing the love of my life to my own selfishness?