The Rage Read online

  “I am all those things, depending on how my children choose to see me,” Panther said. “I have many faces. I can be a nurturing mother or a punishing father. I can also be the Devil or Snakebrother. These are the faces that fear gives me, and they cause much pain and suffering.”

  “I didn’t understand your Snakebrother at first,” Tribulation said to Peyewik. “Now I do. The Scath told me Aoifa hurt people because people hurt her. That’s why she hurt me, and why she’ll hurt the People. It’s all she knows.”

  “That is Snakebrother’s work,” Peyewik agreed.

  Then Tribulation and Peyewik spoke at the same time:

  “Manito, you will protect the People from those who would harm them?” Peyewik asked.

  “Goddess, did you give Aoifa and the New Murians the right to gain power by any means necessary over those who would harm them?” Tribulation asked.

  Suddenly Panther disappeared, obscured by a blinding light.

  “It is for you to decide,” came the voice out of the light. “Choose fear, or choose love. I will appear accordingly. This is the Blessing I bring to both of you.”

  Slowly the radiance faded, and Panther stood before them again. The cat stared at them for a moment, then turned and padded away.

  Peyewik felt deep happiness and peace. He had just received his Blessing from Manito himself, and he would never choose fear again.

  “Come back to life with me,” he said to Tribulation.

  She hesitated, uncertain. “I don’t know the way.”

  Peyewik held a hand out to her. “I do.”

  he first thing Trib saw when she opened her eyes was Peyewik kneeling beside her.

  She sat up and said, “I dreamed of you. I was lost and you came looking for me.”

  Peyewik smiled and said, “Tri-bu-layshun.”

  “My name!” she said in surprise. “Just call me Trib. It’s easier.”

  The boy smiled again, and Trib studied him. There was something different about him, though she couldn’t say what. For some reason, as she looked at him, she felt hopeful. Her memory of recent events was fuzzy, except for everything that had happened with Aoifa and the Scath. She remembered their betrayal with crystal clarity. Her whole life had been a lie, and her world was in chaos, but as the boy smiled down at her, she felt as though she sat in the calm at the center of the storm.

  “You called me your friend,” she said, remembering something more from her dream.

  Peyewik said something in his language.

  “Wish I knew what you’re saying,” Trib replied.

  “He said he is your friend,” came an unfamiliar voice behind her.

  Trib sprang up and whirled around. There, in a corner of the cave, sat a Puritanic. She pulled Peyewik close and reached for her sword. It wasn’t on her back and she tried to feel around for it one-handed, keeping her eyes on the Puritanic. She couldn’t remember where she’d left the weapon, but there was a lot she couldn’t remember, including how she’d come to be asleep in a cave occupied by a Puritanic. Trib gave up on the sword and straightened to her full height, trying to look menacing. She pointed at the Puritanic and said, “You’d be dead right now if I had my weapon.”

  “I do not doubt it,” the Puritanic replied. He held his hands up to show that he too was weaponless.

  Peyewik tapped at Trib’s arm.

  “He says you’re holding him too tightly.”

  Trib didn’t release her protective grip. “Why should I believe you?”

  “Peyewik is also telling you that I am a friend,” the Puritanic said patiently.

  She was surprised that the Puritanic knew the boy’s name, but it wasn’t enough to convince her.

  “You don’t look like a friend,” she pointed out.

  The man’s appearance was actually more bizarre than condemning. He didn’t look like other Puritanics Trib had seen. He had curly red hair shot with gray, and an orange beard. Trib guessed by his weathered face that he was about the Scath’s age, maybe a little younger. It was his clothing that baffled her most, though. He wore a regular linen shirt, like any man in the settlement might wear, but his trousers and shoes were of animal-skin, like those worn by the Natives.

  He noted her confusion with a slight smile. “My name is Jonathan Green,” he said. “The People call me Jongren.”

  Peyewik spoke again, struggling in Trib’s grip.

  “Believe it or not, he is telling you not to worry, that I am to be trusted,” the Puritanic translated.

  “I don’t believe it,” Trib replied, but she loosened her hold.

  “Don’t get too close to him!” she warned. “He’s dangerous.”

  “I promise you I am not,” Jongren said.

  “What’ve you done with Kwineechka?” she demanded.

  Jongren tilted his head towards the back of the cave, and Trib saw the storyteller lying there on a bed of leaves. She couldn’t tell if he was dead or alive. She made a move towards him and then stopped.

  “What happened to him?”

  “You don’t remember?” the Puritanic asked.

  Her heart skipped a beat. The last thing she remembered of Kwineechka was shouting at him to run just before she summoned her Rage. She shook her head, barely able to breathe. Peyewik went to the storyteller and checked the bandage around his middle, causing him to shift in his sleep. Trib’s knees went weak with relief at the sign of life.

  “Peyewik told me your spirit left your body for a time,” Jongren said quietly. “Perhaps that is why you don’t remember.”

  “My spirit? I don’t know anything about that,” she said impatiently. “Just tell me what happened to Kwineechka.”

  “He took some Puritanic steel in the stomach yesterday,” Jongren explained. “I was on my way to Aoifa’s fort with a contingent of Puritanics. My hope was to set them on the New Murians and create a diversion so that I could get Kwineechka and Peyewik away. But you had already escaped when we arrived, and the New Murians were close on your heels. Thankfully the New Murians and the Puritanics became too caught up in fighting each other to notice us slipping away.”

  “You brought Puritanics to the fort?!” Trib’s anger was automatic, and she was reaching for her missing weapon again before she remembered that she was now a traitor among the New Murians, as vilified as the Puritanics themselves.

  “My intent was the same as your own,” Jongren said. “I thank Manito you succeeded.”

  “Who are you?” Trib asked suddenly. “And what is this Dess-forsaken place?” She gestured around the cave.

  “I live here,” Jongren explained. “We are about one league southwest of the New Murian fort. I brought you here because Kwineechka could not have made it all the way back to his village without more help.”

  “What about the New Murians and the Puritanics? Are they looking for us?”

  “I do not know for certain, but I hope they will be distracted long enough for us to get Kwineechka safely home.”

  “Why do you live in a cave, like an animal?” Trib asked suspiciously. “And why did you help us? You’re a Puritanic, ain’t you?”

  “I was once, yes.”

  “You ain’t anymore?”

  “It is a long story,” he said, giving her an odd look. “Some of it is only now coming clear.”

  “If you want me to start believing you ain’t an enemy to be gutted on the spot—or as soon as I find my sword—you best tell me.”

  He gazed at her for a moment. “We might begin with you telling me your name,” he said at last. He looked strained, as though bracing for something.

  “Why should I?”

  “I told you mine.”

  She frowned but couldn’t find the harm in it. “Tribulation Sarahdaughter.”

  He breathed out slowly, as though he’d been holding his breath. “By Manito, how can it be...?” he said.

  Trib wondered what the hell he was talking about. “You’re insane,” she decided.

  “Not at the moment,” he repli
ed ruefully. “Though that’s exactly what I was twelve years ago when Kwineechka’s father found me wandering near here, naked and starving. You see, my wife and children had just been murdered, and it drove me quite mad.”

  Trib was puzzled. As far as she knew, no Puritanic could care that much about a wife and children.

  “Who murdered them?” she asked.

  “I had my suspicions, but I did not know for certain until recently.”

  He glanced at the boy, who sat quietly beside the storyteller, watching their exchange. “Peyewik told me what the Scath told you yesterday, about what she did to your family.”

  “What’s that got to do with you?” Trib growled, suddenly even more on guard.

  Jongren was staring at her, searching her face for something. He looked away. “Nothing. You have endured much hardship lately, and heard many difficult truths. I do not wish to burden you further with the details of my story just now.”

  Trib narrowed her eyes at the former Puritanic. There was something strange about him and it made her nervous.

  “I don’t trust you,” she said bluntly.

  Jongren sighed. “I do not blame you for that. There are two things you must know about me now. First, I parted ways with the Puritanics nearly twenty years ago. Second, Kwineechka’s father, Nitis, saved my life and restored my sanity. I am forever in his debt, and that is why I am here, to help his son. And any friend of his son’s,” he added.

  “I ain’t Kwineechka’s friend,” Trib dropped her gaze to the ground.

  “His actions say otherwise.”

  “What do you mean?” Trib glanced up again nervously.

  “He saved your life,” Jongren said. “I saw it with my own eyes. The Puritanic was intent on doing you harm. When you didn’t move, Kwineechka came to your rescue and caught the man’s knife in his side in the process. He must have been grateful to you for helping him escape.”

  Trib made an involuntary, strangled sound.

  “What troubles you?” Jongren asked.

  “Kwineechka had no reason to be grateful to me,” she mumbled. “Or to save my life.”

  “Why not?”

  “I promised to protect him and his village. I gave him my word of honor as a warrior. But Aoifa’s got other plans for the Natives and I let her do something terrible to him.” Shame flooded through Trib as she spoke, and she didn’t know why she was making herself vulnerable by talking to this strange man.

  “Peyewik told me much of what has happened to you,” Jongren said softly, and Trib was startled by the sympathy in his face. “It is not your fault. You tried to do what you thought was right, but you have been deceived by those you trusted. The world is not as you were told.”

  “Aye, and I no longer know my place in it,” she said. “That doesn’t mean I ain’t responsible for my actions.”

  Jongren smiled kindly. “Do not be too hard on yourself.”

  “What in Dess’s Name do you know about it?” Trib spat in sudden anger, tired of his unwanted sympathy.

  “I know what it is to lose everything. Kwineechka’s father showed me unexpected kindness, and I found a new understanding of the world among the People. You shall find a new place as well.”

  “Maybe,” Trib said doubtfully, “but it sure as hell won’t be with the Natives.”

  She looked across the cave at Peyewik and Kwineechka. “I’ve done nothing but bring them trouble. The sooner I leave them, the better off they’ll be.”

  She realized it was true as she said it and knew what she had to do. Jongren looked as though he wanted to say more, but she cut him off.

  “You got no reason to concern yourself with me. Best forget you ever saw me.”

  She turned to Peyewik at the back of the cave. He smiled at her, and she remembered what he had said about being her friend. Her resolve wavered for a moment. This boy was the only friend she had in the world.

  “I reckon you hid my sword from me so I wouldn’t hurt this Puritanic,” she said to him. “You have to give it back now so I can be on my way.”

  Peyewik looked at her, uncomprehending.

  “Tell him,” she said to Jongren.

  Just then Peyewik’s gaze shifted from Trib’s face to the opening of the cave behind her. He gave a shout, and Trib turned to see someone entering the cave.

  uhkrentharne entered the cave, followed by a pair of hunters.

  “Grandfather!” Peyewik shouted. “You are alive!” He ran to the old man and threw his arms around him.

  “I am very glad to see you, little one,” Muhkrentharne said.

  “I am sorry I ran away,” Peyewik said into the old man’s shoulder.

  Muhkrentharne held him tightly. “No, it is I who am sorry. Chingwe’s mother told me what she said to you. She was crazy with grief over her son’s death. She was not right to blame you. She has been full of remorse for causing the Original People to lose a second child that day. Now you are found, and the People will be glad.”

  Peyewik sighed and relaxed into his grandfather’s embrace, letting his cares fall away for a few heartbeats. Then he stepped back and looked up into Muhkrentharne’s wrinkled face.

  “What has happened to the Original People?” he asked. “I had a vision of the Pure Men attacking the village.”

  Muhkrentharne looked sad. “Yes, the Pure Men attacked. We did as Flame Hair told us. We had a path of escape and hiding places. Most of the People got away, but the village was burned to the ground. Some were killed. Old Woman Menukan was one. She was too old to run away fast enough. We were not able to bury her properly, but we sang the songs so her spirit would not linger. Hunters have gone back to see if the Pure Men are gone. They will bury our dead if they can.”

  Peyewik had known something bad had happened to the village, but hearing the details filled him with grief. He held his grandfather’s hand and prayed silently to Manito and the ancestors to look after Old Woman Menukan and the others who had been killed. At last he looked up and asked, “How did you find me in this place?”

  “We went to the village of the Away People after our village was burned. We arrived yesterday. We were there when Jongren came. He told us that the Fighting Women held you and Kwineechka as prisoners and that you escaped. He told us Kwineechka was wounded and needed a healer. I came instead of the healer of the Away People because I wanted to see you.”

  “I am glad you came.” Peyewik hugged his grandfather once more. “I have so much to tell you.”

  “I want to hear everything that has happened to you,” Muhkrentharne replied. “But first I must tend to the storyteller.”

  Peyewik led him to the makeshift bed at the back of the cave. The storyteller was awake, and the two hunters who had entered the cave with Muhkrentharne were kneeling beside him.

  “Little brother,” Kwineechka said when he saw Peyewik. “Meet Nishingi and Nakismus, the best hunters of the Away People.”

  The hunters were both tall with broad shoulders and similar, good-humored faces.

  “I am the best,” Nishingi said with a grin. “My brother is only second best.”

  “It is true,” Nakismus shrugged. “But I am better looking and my jokes are funnier.”

  “You are dreaming,” Nishingi punched his brother in the arm. “I am the best at everything.”

  “Best at boasting, you mean,” Nakismus punched him back. “There are two more hunters waiting outside to help carry you home,” he told Kwineechka. “So you will not have to tire your dainty little feet with walking.”

  “As it should be,” Kwineechka said. “I am the Storyteller, you know.” He gave a weak laugh that turned into a grimace of pain.

  “You will not die, will you?” Nishingi asked. “Before you tell me the end of the story of Moon Princess and Wolf Brother?” His tone was light, but Peyewik could see the concern in his face.

  “It is a love story,” Kwineechka told Peyewik. “Nishingi likes them as much as the women do. No,” he said to his friend. “I will not die before y
ou hear the rest of it. Now get out of the way. I have business with the healer.”

  “We will be outside when you are ready for us,” Nakismus said, and then left the cave, teasing his brother about love stories and a girl named Kinteka as they went. Jongren followed, and Peyewik could hear them discussing which route to take back to the village of the Away People.

  “Your friends are funny,” he said to Kwineechka as Muhkrentharne examined his wound.

  “They teased me endlessly when we were boys,” the storyteller replied. “They were the only ones who weren’t intimidated when I became Storyteller of the People. Now they stay friends with me because all the pretty girls like a good story.” He tried to grin, but his face was pale and drawn with pain.

  “My grandson did well with your dressing,” Muhkrentharne told him. “But you are still feverish. I will give you a strong sleeping draught so that you will be asleep when I close the wound and during the journey back to your village.”

  “My thanks to both of you,” the storyteller said.

  “And mine to you for taking care of my grandson,” Muhkrentharne replied.

  He prepared the sleeping draught from herbs he had brought with him. Kwineechka drank it and was soon asleep.

  “We should not have sent the storyteller to the Fighting Women,” Muhkrentharne said as he prepared his bone needle and sinew.

  “If you had not, he would not have been there to meet me in the forest,” Peyewik pointed out. “I would have been lost and alone.”

  “This is true, but it was clear that Snakebrother ruled the Fighting Women. We should have known they could not help us.”

  “If all the Fighting Women were like Trib…like Flame Hair…they would have helped us,” Peyewik said, realizing he had forgotten about Trib in the excitement of seeing his grandfather. He looked around and found her crouched in a corner of the cave, her eyes intent on the storyteller. “She did not understand that the spirit of her chief, the Crow Woman, was so damaged.”

  He remembered what Panther had said about the different faces of fear and anger. “Snakebrother has a strong hold on Crow Woman,” he said. “She tries to make herself stronger and more powerful by stealing the spirits of others.” He glanced worriedly down at the storyteller, wondering if he should tell Muhkrentharne what Crow Woman had done to him. Kwineechka was sleeping peacefully, and Peyewik decided to leave the telling to him.