The Rage Read online

  “Why are you helping me?” she asked. “You don’t like me.”

  “I am helping you because you need help,” the storyteller answered.

  Trib lifted her head and looked straight into his eyes. She would’ve preferred disgust or hatred to the pity she saw there.

  “I will find you a bandage,” he said.

  “No.” She pulled her hand away and tried to stand, but her injured leg was stiff and she stumbled. The storyteller caught her elbow, but she shrugged him off.

  “I don’t need your help,” she said.

  The storyteller stood and walked away without a word.

  Trib dug one-handed through her small bundle of belongings for something to stop the bleeding. The cut on her palm stung now. She found a strip of cloth and tied it using her teeth. She could hear the storyteller singing again, quietly, from a distance, and tried to ignore the sound.

  When she heard the storyteller returning, she steeled herself, remembering what the Scath always said about never giving ground to a man. The storyteller would never see her vulnerable again. She stood up.

  “What happened to the Puritanics that were following us last night?” she asked as he approached. She hated to admit that she didn’t remember, but she needed to know.

  “They did not find our trail. We were not followed,” the storyteller said.

  Trib realized how lucky this was. She would’ve been in no condition to fight them off if they had followed. She turned to look at the still sleeping form on the ground.

  “The boy can’t travel home alone,” she said. “You’ll have to take him back.”

  “The boy’s name is Peyewik,” the storyteller replied. “He does not want to go back.”

  “Why not?”

  “He thinks the attack on the village was his fault.”

  “That’s a damn-fool notion,” Trib said. “Wasn’t his fault.”

  “I told him this,” the storyteller nodded, bending over to roll up his sleeping skin. “I told him it was your fault.”

  “You’re blaming me again?” She took an aggressive step towards him.

  The storyteller straightened up and stared at her, the half-rolled sleeping skin in his hands. There was a flash of anger in his golden eyes, but before he could say anything the boy, Peyewik, sat up.

  He looked at both of them anxiously, trying to get his bearings. The anger left the storyteller’s face as he spoke to the boy in the Native language. The boy looked reassured. He got up, walked a few paces away, then raised his arms and began singing, just as the storyteller had done a few moments earlier.

  “What is he doing?” Trib asked impatiently.

  “Giving thanks to sun.”

  “For what?”

  “Rising.”

  “Oh.” Trib had never thought about what made the sun rise every morning. She tried not to think about the Puritanic boy who would never see the sun rise again.

  “Peyewik comes with us,” she said to the storyteller. “He’s your responsibility. If he slows us down at all, I leave both of you behind.”

  eyewik hurried to keep up with the storyteller’s long strides. The early sun was warm against his face and made him glad. The previous day and night had felt like an endless nightmare. And although he was now far from home and facing certain danger in the company of two near-strangers, he rejoiced in the new day.

  His stomach gurgled with hunger and he tried to ignore it. The storyteller had been kind to him the night before, but he couldn’t help being intimidated by Kwineechka, Storyteller of the People. Peyewik had never heard Kwineechka tell a story in person, but he had heard about stories of great power from others who had traveled to hear him. The Storyteller commanded almost as much respect as a chief, and Peyewik couldn’t imagine bothering him about something as trifling as breakfast.

  “I am sorry, little brother,” Kwineechka said suddenly. “I was in such a hurry to get on our way…” He glanced back at Flame Hair stomping angrily behind and grimaced. “I forgot about breakfast. You must be hungry.”

  Peyewik had watched Kwineechka and Flame Hair arguing before setting out. He didn’t know what it had been about, but the air between them had been charged like just before a lightning storm. The charge had dissipated once they started walking, but Flame Hair had been grumbling to herself all morning, and Peyewik saw the storyteller’s jaw tighten every time she spoke.

  The storyteller took a pouch from his waist and held it out. “Try some of this,” he said. “It is cornmeal and maple sugar. Hunters carry it when they are away from the village for many days. A small handful will fill you up. I prefer porridge, but I did not bring a cooking pot.”

  He smiled and Peyewik scooped a handful out of the pouch. The storyteller turned and offered the pouch to Flame Hair, but she just shook her head with a grunt.

  “Too proud to eat?” the storyteller muttered.

  Peyewik didn’t know if he was expected to answer.

  “How can anyone think she is anything but an ally of Snakebrother, God of Chaos?” the storyteller continued. “She takes all sense and order out of the world. One moment she cries as if she is truly sorry for killing someone. The next moment she is like this…” He gestured over his shoulder at her. “Rude, thoughtless, and disgusting.”

  Peyewik looked back at Flame Hair. Her garishly colored hair was a snarled mess and her robe was stained. She moved awkwardly and made so much noise it seemed as though she was deliberately stepping on every twig in her path. The ones she didn’t step on she tripped over.

  Peyewik had to agree with the storyteller that she did not make sense. It was impossible to match the lithe, happy spirit animal he’d seen with this clumsy, belligerent girl.

  “I will not try to understand her anymore,” Kwineechka said. “Snakebrother has made her crazy. Think of the wife she would make.”

  Peyewik couldn’t help laughing at this. “She would have to take a bath first,” he said.

  The storyteller shook his head. “I do not think it would help. I am sorry for the man who becomes husband to Walks-Like-Moose-Smells-Like-Rancid-Bear-Grease-Woman.”

  Peyewik laughed again and it felt good. He hadn’t laughed in a long time, not since he and Chingwe had stopped being friends. Then he remembered that Chingwe was dead and his laughter faded.

  “I understand the burden you carry, little brother,” the storyteller said.

  Peyewik looked up, surprised.

  “When I was your age,” the storyteller explained, “I received my blessing, and it was that I would be the next Storyteller of the People. My parents were glad, for this was a great honor. But I was no longer allowed to play with my friends. I spent all my time with the old storyteller, learning how to let the ancestors speak through me. That is where the stories come from, from the spirits of those who lived them. They no longer have voices and bodies of their own so they must use mine. The Storyteller of the People receives much respect, but my friends no longer know what to say to me. And when it is time to tell a story, my body and voice are not my own.”

  This sounded familiar to Peyewik, except for one thing.

  “The People do not respect me,” he said bitterly. “They are afraid of me.”

  “They do not understand yet. In the stories there are always messages and warnings before something happens to the People. Nothing has happened to the People in a long time and, they have forgotten this. But change is coming. Your grandfather thinks so too. Your dreams and visions are a warning to the People. Something is coming, and it is not good. Flame Hair is proof of it.”

  “Why do the spirits choose me?” Peyewik asked. “I am just a boy. I do not understand any of this, and I am afraid!”

  The storyteller’s golden eyes were full of sympathy. “Your dreams and visions are a gift from Manito, just like my stories. They are also a burden. I know this. I did not want to come on this journey with Flame Hair, but now I am glad I did. It is good that you and I are together.”

  “You are not afr
aid of my dreams or of what may come?” Peyewik asked.

  The storyteller stopped walking and turned to face Peyewik. “I will tell you a story,” he said.

  A thrill shot through Peyewik. A story from the Storyteller of the People! He turned to see how far behind Flame Hair was, but Kwineechka was already speaking, drawing Peyewik’s attention like a moth to flame. His voice grew deep and powerful and became the sound of many voices speaking as one.

  “Manito’s children lived in peace on Mother Earth’s belly.”

  Peyewik felt the ancestors’ voices resonate in his bones.

  “Manito loved his children very much, and they wanted for nothing. They knew neither cold nor hunger, and they were content…”

  Peyewik felt as though he was traveling a great distance without moving from the place where he stood. The forest around him faded and was replaced by a vision of another forest. Manito’s children walked among the tall trees of this forest, exploring Mother Earth, full of wonder. Peyewik shared their happiness as they rejoiced in the glorious sun overhead, and in the quenching rain that fell on the sweet, rich soil. He joined Manito’s children in their songs of thanks and love. He felt many seasons pass and saw many generations live with the same joy and wonder.

  Then Peyewik heard a strange hissing sound. Manito’s children heard it too, and they listened, curious, as the hissing grew louder. It was Snake, jealous of his brother Manito’s love for his children. He had come to spread lies and discord. Manito’s children did not know better and they listened to his lies.

  Peyewik felt the world grow cold and his teeth began to chatter. Snakebrother’s lies had brought Winter into the world. Hunger gnawed at Peyewik’s belly, and he watched Manito’s children become weak and sick. The hissing grew louder still, and Peyewik could hear what Snakebrother was saying.

  “Manito has forsaken you…he does not love you anymore….”

  Manito’s children argued that Manito would never do this.

  Then Snakebrother said, “There is still a warm place in the world, but my brother does not want you to know about it.”

  Some of the People continued to fight Snakebrother’s lies, for they had learned to build houses, and they were warm and protected from the cold. But there were others who wanted to go and find the warm place that Snakebrother told them about. They were angry with Manito for betraying them, and they became angry with those who still believed in him.

  Peyewik felt the first act of violence as if the blow had fallen on his own body. He cried out in pain as the snow became red with the blood of Manito’s children, spilled by their own brothers and sisters. He cried out in sadness too, for Snakebrother had achieved his end, and Manito’s children were divided.

  But then the snow began to melt, and Peyewik felt the world growing warm once more. Manito’s children put down their weapons and lay down to rest. In their dreams they could hear the spirits of the trees and the rivers speaking to them. When they woke from their dreams, Manito’s children knew that Manito had not forsaken them, that he had brought Spring into the world for them. They also knew that he was always with them, no matter how hungry, cold, or scared they might become. All they had to do was listen and they would hear him and know.

  Then Manito’s children, the People, rejoiced. They sang songs of thanks and love again, and Snakebrother went away to a far part of the world, and many generations lived untroubled by him.

  The voices of Kwineechka and the ancestors fell silent. Time caught up with itself and resumed its normal pace. Peyewik blinked and looked around. Flame Hair was still limping towards them as though nothing had happened. The storyteller’s eyes were vague and far away. Slowly they came back into focus and he fixed them on Peyewik.

  “The spirits speak to the People through you,” he said, “just as the ancestors speak through me. It is always Manito reminding us that he is with us. I am not afraid of you, and I am not afraid of what may come.”

  Flame Hair caught up then and looked at them questioningly, wondering why they had stopped. She barked at Kwineechka, who started walking quickly to get away from her, and everything was back to normal.

  Peyewik jogged to keep up with the storyteller and thought about what he had seen and heard in the story. It made him feel better about the spirits who spoke to him, Manito’s messengers. He was still scared, though. If his dreams really were messages from Manito, then the People were not listening, and the way was open for whatever strife and suffering Snakebrother would bring.

  ach step had become excruciating, but Trib wouldn’t let herself lean on a crutch or ask the Natives for help. It wasn’t until the shadows in the forest began to grow long that she called out to the storyteller.

  “Reckon it’s time to stop for the night,” she said, trying to keep the strain from her voice. “The boy’ll be getting tired.”

  The storyteller and the boy stopped and waited for her to catch up. She gritted her teeth and tried to hide her limp as she drew close.

  “Peyewik is not tired,” the storyteller told her. A smile lingered on his face, as if he and the boy had just been laughing about something. “We will walk until dark. Unless you are tired.”

  Trib glared at him, wishing she’d never agreed to bring him along. All day she’d been walking behind him, watching his long, black hair swing over his smooth, coppery back. He hadn’t spoken to her since taking the blade out of her hand, except to offer her some inedible food. He walked ahead as if he were in charge, without bothering to consult her about their route. She wondered where a storyteller got such nerve. There were storytellers in the settlement, but they told their stories for entertainment, when the real work of the day was done. If this arrogant Native couldn’t do anything more than tell a tale, he was less important and more useless than the lowliest, chamber pot-emptying houseboy.

  “Damned disrespectful,” Trib muttered. No man in the settlement would behave this way in the company of a warrior. Manservants, farmhands, and houseboys all knew their place.

  Trib knew it was her own fault, though. She had let him see her in a moment of vulnerability. She hadn’t meant to, but killing the Puritanic boy without the Rage had affected her in unexpected ways. She realized she needed to get control of herself, act like a warrior and put the killing behind her. And then make the storyteller show her some respect.

  “If you are tired, we will stop now,” the storyteller said.

  A half-smile still played across his lips, and Trib was sure he was laughing at her.

  “No. I ain’t tired,” she barked. “We’ll keep going.” She took a step and it was all she could do not to yell out in pain.

  The boy, who had been watching Trib, spoke up.

  “Peyewik wants to stop,” the storyteller translated.

  “Aye, he’s tired, like I said.”

  The storyteller made no reply except to look pointedly at her injured leg. She turned her back on him and made for the nearest fallen log.

  “Thank Dess…” she hissed as she sat down and stretched her leg out in front of her.

  The storyteller and the boy set up camp, chattering away in their strange, flowing language. Trib wondered what the Scath would think to see her following this insolent, pretty-eyed man around like a docile cow. The old warrior would show him who was in charge in no time. She would wipe that smirk right off his face. The thought pleased Trib immensely.

  She noticed that the boy had begun gathering sticks.

  “No fire,” she said. “Puritanics might see it.”

  “To cook,” the storyteller explained. “We must eat.”

  “To cook what? Are you going to hunt us some fresh meat and make a stew? Where’s your cooking pot?”

  The storyteller looked offended. “Cooking is women’s work,” he said.

  Trib went rigid. “What did you say?”

  “Cooking is women’s work,” he repeated.

  Trib saw flickers of red at the edges of her vision. “Not where I come from,” she growled. She fe
lt a Rage coming on and embraced it gratefully. It was time to teach the storyteller some respect.

  She threw herself at him, her hands closing around his throat. She could feel his pulse under her thumbs. And suddenly she thought of the Puritanic boy’s eyes, terrified in the darkness.

  Her Rage disappeared as quickly as it had come.

  She pushed away from the storyteller, feeling strangely ashamed.

  He was on his knees, clutching his throat and coughing, but Trib was barely aware of him. All she could think of was the Puritanic boy dying in her arms.

  “I’m sorry!” she cried. “Forgive me.”

  Then she covered her face with her hands and roared in frustration. She had been taught that the Rage was her Goddess-given right as a warrior to use against her enemies, who were the Puritanics and any man who wronged her. The boy she had killed was an enemy, and the storyteller had wronged her with his disrespect. But if this was true, why did she wish with all her heart that she hadn’t killed that boy, and why had using the Rage on the storyteller suddenly felt so wrong?

  There was a touch at her elbow and she jumped. It was the boy, holding out a piece of dried meat. She was impressed by his courage, being willing to get near her after what she’d just done to the storyteller. She looked around for him, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  “Thanks,” she said, taking the meat and biting off a hunk. She held it in her mouth to let it soften before trying to chew it. She expected the boy to scamper away, but he stayed beside her, gnawing away at his own dinner.

  “Kid, I never been so lost and confused in my life,” Trib was surprised to hear herself saying. The boy turned to look at her, and, although she knew he couldn’t understand her, he seemed to be listening carefully all the same.

  “All I want is to get back to my people, back to a life I know and understand, and back to following the Scath’s orders. I’ve been following orders all my life, and never once have I had to figure out what’s right or wrong.”

  She chewed and swallowed.

  “Once,” she told him, “I was passing through the gates of the settlement and looked up to see a severed head on a pike. I reckoned it belonged to a Puritanic raider who’d been burning outlying houses and crops, but I was told it was the head of a manservant. I asked what he’d done, and they told me he’d broken a dish and disrespected the householder he worked for.”