The Rage

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © Lassiter Williams 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in a manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: LassiterWilliams.com

  First paperback edition 2019

  Cover and interior design by TLC Book Design

  TLCBookDesign.com

  Cover: Tamara Dever, Interior: Erin Stark

  ISBN: 978-1-7337386-1-3 Paperback

  ISBN: 978-1-7337386 Ebook

  REGENT STREET PRESS

  Philadelphia, PA USA

  tinking marsh mud dripped down the collar of Trib’s waistcoat. The back of her head stung where the stone embedded in the glob of mud had struck. She pushed a strand of sodden red hair out of her eyes and turned around.

  Eight mud-splattered figures moved into a semi-circle around her. All were armed with rough-hewn swords on their backs.

  “Who threw the mudball?” Trib snarled.

  A huge, barrel-shaped young woman stepped forward. “I did,” she said, pulling her sword off her back. “What do you mean to do about it?”

  Trib assessed her challenger. She had coarse black hair that stuck out in intimidating spikes all over her head. She wasn’t much taller than Trib but looked at least 50 pounds heavier. Her wrists, where they extended beyond the threadbare cuffs of her waistcoat, were as thick as Trib’s ankles, and she held the heavy sword as if it weighed nothing.

  Sweat prickled under Trib’s arms and slid down her back. The marsh air was hot and heavy, like breathing through wet wool. “I mean to do nothing,” she said, turning away. “Ain’t worth the effort.”

  There were grunts of disapproval from the semi-circle as it drew in tighter, blocking Trib’s retreat.

  “Coward,” the huge girl muttered.

  Trib spun around. “I ain’t a coward!”

  “Can’t tell by looking at you,” the girl taunted.

  Trib locked eyes with her challenger and broke into a slow, gleeful grin. “Reckon I’ll have to prove it to you then,” she said, reaching back for her own sword.

  The two blades met with a clash of metal that made Trib giddy. “What took you so long, Cuss?” she asked, stepping back for another swing. “I’ve been itching for a fight all day. I thought you’d never get around to starting something.”

  “Sorry, Trib,” the other girl grunted, parrying the blow. “The master-warriors have been keeping too close an eye on us apprentices.”

  “Don’t worry, Cuss,” a voice called from the semi-circle. “The masters ain’t paying us any mind right now. Kick Trib’s ass!”

  “Reckon we could switch to grappling, Trib?” Sweat poured down Cuss’s face as she strained to fend off a series of blows.

  “No way in hell,” Trib replied. It was an accepted fact among the apprentices that Cuss was the best grappler. “Fisticuffs would suit, though,” she said, tossing aside her sword and starting to bob and weave.

  Cuss, whose feet were planted up to the ankles in the mud, raised her fists and laughed. “You dancing a jig or fighting?”

  The other apprentices laughed with her.

  Trib grimaced at her friend’s idea of fisticuffs, which was to stand still and trade heavy blows until someone fell over. Cuss had the ideal warrior’s frame, towering and bulky with thickly padded arms and haunches, just like the Scath, the head warrior of the New Murian settlement. Trib, in contrast, was lean and narrow with long, ropey muscles and often had to rely on speed and agility to make up for her lack of bulk in a fight. She ducked under one of Cuss’s jaw-shattering swings and aimed a hook at her friend’s kidneys.

  “Tribulation!”

  Distracted by the sound of her own name, Trib stopped weaving, allowing Cuss to sink a fist into her belly.

  “Oof.” Trib doubled over as the semi-circle of apprentices made way for one of the master-warriors, a young woman named Heresy.

  “Tribulation! Cuss!” Heresy shouted. “What in the Goddess’s Name do you think you’re doing?!”

  Trib and Cuss blinked at each other.

  “Uh…fisticuffs?” Cuss guessed.

  “Brawling like a couple of farmboys in a manure pile!” the warrior corrected her.

  “We’re just sparring,” Trib mumbled. “It ain’t like we’re using the Rage on each other.”

  “Aye,” Cuss chimed in. “There’s nothing else to do in this ‘Dess-damned place, and we warriors have to stay in shape, don’t we?”

  There was a rumble of agreement from the other apprentices.

  “You ain’t warriors yet,” Heresy pointed out. “You may have passed your initiations, but just because you can summon a Rage doesn’t mean you’re ready to be a warrior. I know you’re a favorite of the Scaths, Trib, but even you need some real battle experience before the Scath makes you a warrior.”

  “How are we supposed to get real battle experience down here, hauling gear for the priestesses, when all the fighting is back home in New Murias, against the Puritanics?” Cuss asked.

  Heresy glanced towards the edge of the marsh, where five black-robed figures were clustered around a small table.

  “The priestesses are doing something important, otherwise the Scath wouldn’t have sent us here,” she said.

  “Crows give me the shivers,” Cuss said, irreverently naming the priestesses after the birds they resembled in their flapping black robes.

  “Aye,” Heresy agreed. “There’s something unnatural about them. But it was their Goddess who gave us the Rage, and it was the Rage that gave us the strength to beat the Puritanics out of the settlement. Every New Murian owes them her freedom.”

  “I heard the crows are making a map,” one of the apprentices spoke up.

  Trib snorted. “Why would they want a map of this place? There are no people here, nothing but rivers and trees and animals.”

  “And bugs,” Cuss said, slapping the back of her neck and flicking away the tiny carcass of whatever had bitten her.

  “You ain’t the only ones who’d rather be up north defending the settlement against Puritanic raiders,” Heresy said, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at her fellow master-warriors. There were eight of them sprawled here and there on hummocks of grass, pipes lit to keep the bugs away. They all looked as hot and restless as Trib felt.

  “But it ain’t a warrior’s place to question orders,” Heresy continued. “And I’m ordering you to quit brawling like farmboys.” She turned and rejoined the other masters.

  “’Dess damn it,” Trib muttered.

  “Heresy got me thinking about farmboys,” Cuss said, picking her sword up off the ground and strapping it onto her back. “It wouldn’t be so bad down here if we had some of those around to sport with, eh, Trib?”

  Trib, who was far more comfortable with brawling than with boys, gave a non-committal grunt in reply. “I need to piss,” she said. She started towards a stand of reeds, stepping carefully as she crossed the marshy ground.

  Cuss followed along. “If you could have any lad you wanted right now, what would it be? Farmhand, manservant…?”

  Trib stopped, the hair on her neck suddenly standing up. She had seen something move among the reeds.

  “Well?” Cuss asked, oblivious. “What would it be? I’m partial to farmhands myself. They’re brawnier…”

  “Shh!” Trib hissed. The reeds were still now, but she started turning in a slow circle, taking in as much information as she could. The closest warrior was over 200 yards away, lying with her head on
her pack and the hood of her cloak pulled over her eyes. The rest were even farther away, in various attitudes of repose, with curls of dark smoke marking their positions. The marsh was oddly quiet. No birdsong, no buzzing insects. The surface of the standing water was perfectly still.

  Then she heard it, a breezeless rustling, followed by the sound of squelching mud. She turned back to the reeds and discovered the source of the sound.

  “Summon your Rage!” she shouted, leaping forward and plunging up to her knees in a bog pit. For a moment she felt nothing but foolish. Then the foolishness turned to fear as the dark mass she had seen among the reeds erupted with the sparks and reports of rifle-fire.

  “Protect the priestesses!” she cried, clawing her way to solid ground. She could see the warriors already on their feet, swords drawn. Heresy was loading powder and shot into a pistol as fast as she could, but there was nothing to aim at but shadows. Nor was there anything to take cover behind.

  A bloodcurdling shriek pierced Trib’s eardrum and she saw that Cuss’s face was crimson, her eyes bulging. The first Rage had been summoned.

  “Watch the bog!” she warned.

  But Cuss didn’t hear her as she roared and lunged towards the attackers in the reeds. Trib watched helplessly as her friend, whose mind had taken on a singular focus, became mired in the mud. The superhuman strength of the Rage propelled her forward, but her movement was slowed, and she became an easy target at such close range. Trib could hear the musket balls thudding into her body. She didn’t stop, but it was clear that when the Rage died so would Cuss. Ignoring the urge to throw up, Trib turned her attention to the attackers who were gaining confidence and leaving their hiding place.

  There was no question, they were Puritanic. There were fifteen or twenty of them, malnourished, scarecrow figures in dark, tattered clothing. Trib had no time to stop and think. They were less than ten yards away. She yanked her sword from her back and fixed in her mind the steps it would take to get close enough without sinking. Then she closed her eyes and summoned her own Rage. The vibration started deep in her chest and raced like fire through her body, bursting from her throat in a hurricane roar. She opened her eyes on a blood-red world, the destructive power of nature singing in her veins.

  The Puritanics didn’t know what hit them. She tore into them like an animal. She had never used the Rage on humans before, only straw dummies and wild pigs, but it felt natural. The men around her moved slowly, ponderously, and she hacked away at them with ease. Their bodies seemed to present themselves for the slaughter, their throats exposed, their vitals unguarded. She heard other battle cries in the distance, and her Rage burned hotter. The warriors were coming and their combined fury would be crushing.

  But then a ball of fire erupted before her eyes. She stopped, momentarily blinded. The ground beneath her feet heaved and she was thrown into the air before crashing back to earth and darkness.

  ulture circled on an updraft. The marsh below smelled of its usual decay, but also of blood, and it made him hungry. He swooped in low and saw human bodies. One was still alive. It rose to its feet and staggered through the mud. Vulture had never seen a human like this. Its face was pale, and its hair bright like fire. It shouted and threw a rock at Vulture. Vulture wheeled away. He would come back when he could feast in peace.

  Peyewik awoke with the smell of death in his nose. He took a breath of morning air, and the smell faded. He wanted to wake his grandfather and tell him about the bad dream, but he knew Muhkrentharne would say it was a message from the spirits. Peyewik didn’t want to know what the spirit of carrion-eating Vulture was trying to tell him, so he climbed out from under his bearskin quilt, pulled on his leggings and shoes, and tiptoed across the cabin without disturbing the old man’s snoring. He pushed through the doorflap and into the first light of day. Raising his arms, he began to sing his morning prayer.

  Manito, spirit of the sun, I thank you,

  For chasing away the darkness once more,

  and blessing your children with the light and warmth of day...

  He felt better when his prayer was done. Normally he bathed in the river after praying, but today he was going fishing with his best friend Chingwe, and there would be lots of time for swimming later. He went back inside to put a pot of beans in the coals to warm for his grandfather’s breakfast. Then he grabbed his fishing basket and set out to meet Chingwe in the woods on the other side of the village.

  No one was stirring as Peyewik passed through the cluster of bark-covered houses that was the village of the Original People. He stifled a giggle when he came to the house of Old Man Chikinum. The old man was known for farting in his sleep loud enough to wake the neighbors. The game was to hold one’s breath when passing his house, and keep holding it as long as possible. Peyewik held his all the way to the woods, where he let it out with a triumphant whoosh.

  Chingwe was waiting for him among the trees. His hair was still messy from sleep, and he was fidgeting impatiently.

  “Hurry,” he said, taking Peyewik’s arm and pulling him towards the river.

  “Why?” Peyewik struggled to keep up with his friend’s long strides. Chingwe was twelve, only a year older than Peyewik, but he was already close to the height of a man. His skinny arms and legs seemed too long for his body until he started running. He was the fastest boy in the village, and people said he would make a great hunter someday soon.

  Chingwe glanced over his shoulder. “My mother tans skins today. She wants me to help her.”

  “Tanning is women’s work,” Peyewik pointed out.

  “I know this,” Chingwe grimaced. “But since my sister got married my mother complains that there is too much work for her to do alone. I asked my father to take me hunting with him today, but he says I don’t know how to stand still yet, that I will scare the animals away. I told him it does not matter. If the animals run away, I will run after them. But my father said no. So we must get away before my mother wakes up and starts looking for me!”

  He was hurrying along at such a nervous pace that Peyewik had to laugh. “You look like a squirrel stealing nuts!”

  “It’s not funny,” Chingwe said miserably. “Your grandfather would never ask you to tan hides like a girl.”

  “No, but my grandfather asks me to cook like a girl,” Peyewik replied.

  “That is different. He has no wife or daughter. The other boys do not laugh at you for that, but they will laugh if they see me making the curing soup with my mother and aunties.”

  “You are right,” Peyewik said seriously. “We must get away. But first I need to fix my shoe. Hold this for me.” He held out his fishing basket and bent down as though to retie the leather lacings of his shoe. As soon as the basket was in Chingwe’s hand he straightened up and started running.

  “A race to the river!” he called. “Last one there hooks the worms!”

  Chingwe took off after him, the fishing basket banging against his knees. They left the woods behind and charged across the floodplain. Pushing through cattails and leaping over debris left by the spring floods, they reached the river path at the same time.

  “You cheat!” Chingwe gasped.

  “You are too fast,” Peyewik laughed. “If I do not cheat, I will lose.”

  “This is true,” Chingwe said, sticking his skinny chest out and striding down the path. “People say I am the fastest boy the People have ever seen. When my Blessing comes Manito will send a deer or a panther spirit to me. They will tell me I am to be a great hunter and there will be many stories about me.”

  “Yes,” Peyewik said slyly. “There will be many stories told about the boy who runs away fast when his mother needs help.”

  “You are jealous because Manito will send a timid little mouse with your Blessing,” Chingwe teased back.

  Peyewik’s face fell at the mention of his own Blessing.

  Chingwe saw this and said, “I am sorry.” After a pause he asked, “You have had another dream?”

  Peyewik nodded.<
br />
  “People talk about your dreams,” Chingwe said matter-of-factly. “I think it’s good when the spirits tell you when it will rain or where the next hunt should be.”

  “My grandfather says it is a gift,” Peyewik mumbled.

  “Your grandfather is a wise healer. You should listen to him.”

  “I know what people say about my dreams,” Peyewik argued. “They say normal boys receive one Blessing when they are twelve years old, after many days of fasting and praying. I was seven years old when the first spirit came to me, and I did nothing to bring it.”

  “I remember!” Chingwe laughed. “You fell asleep in the middle of a game, and when you woke up you said Chipmunk told you there would be lots of rain to make the strawberries fat and sweet.”

  “It makes people afraid, even when the spirits tell helpful things,” Peyewik said sadly.

  Chingwe shrugged. “My mother makes shoes for you. My father teaches you how to hunt. You are like my brother. I don’t care what people say. I am not afraid.”

  Peyewik thought about telling him what Vulture had shown him the night before. He didn’t think his friend would be so brave then. But Chingwe had suddenly disappeared. He reappeared just as suddenly, hanging upside down from the branches of a mulberry tree. He gave Peyewik a purple grin and a handful of berries. Peyewik stuffed the berries into his mouth, trying to forget Vulture once more.

  Chins sticky with purple juice, the boys continued along the river path, passing into a thick growth of sycamore and jewel weed. The sun was two hand spans above the horizon by the time they arrived at their favorite fishing spot. A huge sycamore had fallen into the river, creating a jetty perfect for dangling lines and catching shad before they swam upstream and got stuck in the nets near the village. The boys dug for grubs under the exposed roots of the trees, and then climbed up onto the trunk. They sang a prayer of thanks to the river spirit—and to any fish willing to be their breakfast—and plunked their deer-bone hooks into the water.

  Peyewik leaned against the stump of a branch and yawned. The sun was warm on his bare shoulders, and the quiet chuckle of the river was soothing. He yawned, his eyelids growing heavy…