Feather Page 4

  “Put it on!”

  “I—I can’t!”

  He shook his head in impatience and hefted the pack with one hand. “Turn around!”

  Feather obeyed, and he settled the heavy pack on her back, passing two leather straps over her shoulders. She pulled them as tight as she could, but they were too long for her slight body, and the pack hung loose.

  “I don’t think I can carry this,” she protested, but when she glanced toward her captor, his arm was drawing back.

  “Move!”

  Feather clutched the straps and stumbled on after the others.

  She faltered many times during the morning march. The pack shifted and bumped her lower back with each step. Within an hour she was falling behind, and a man goaded her with a long, thin willow stick.

  “Keep up!” was his chorus, and Feather would hop ahead a few steps when the switch stung her legs. He seemed older than most of the other Blens, and his beard was grizzled, though she doubted he was anywhere near Alomar’s age. None of the Blens was old, and she was beginning to think it was because they had to keep up. There were no toddlers either, though one woman carried an infant on her back. The youngest children were nine or ten years old. Perhaps there was a permanent summer camp where they left their old and their very young.

  She fell twice. The first time, the stick man whipped her legs sharply with his weapon, and she scrambled to her feet. She plodded on, forcing herself to keep her legs moving. She was near exhaustion. When she fell again, he stood over her menacingly.

  “Get up, Girl.”

  “How much farther?” she gasped.

  “As far as Mik takes us. Get up now, or do you like the switch?”

  She pushed herself to her knees. A shadow fell over her, and she slowly raised her head. The man who had captured her was standing near them.

  “Let her be,” he growled at the stick man.

  “You wish to leave her behind, Lex?”

  “No, but she is mine to beat. You go on.”

  The stick man shuffled off after the band, and Feather climbed stiffly to her feet, wobbly as she drew herself up.

  “You are weak,” he said, eyeing her with scorn.

  Feather felt ashamed. She had never considered herself weak, but then, she had never been forced to march for hours on end, up hills and down, all morning long.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I was feeling faint.” She wanted to ask if there would be a noon meal, but she didn’t dare. The sun was already high overhead.

  Lex reached into his leather pouch and took something out. “Eat.”

  Feather took it with trembling fingers. It was some sort of hard, coarse biscuit. She put it to her mouth without hesitation. It was so dry she could hardly chew it.

  “You will learn to keep up,” Lex said. She nodded, and he continued, “Because if you cannot keep up, I will not leave you behind to wander alone as I found you. We don’t leave stragglers. Do you understand?”

  She swallowed with difficulty and nodded.

  He stared at her for another long moment, then jerked his head in the direction the band had gone. “Come, then. Mik will stop soon for a short rest. You will do any chores given you, and you will have a chance to drink. Then you will rest if you can. When we move out, I will not have you be last. The man who whipped you, Tala . . . it is his job to be sure no one falls behind. You think he is cruel?”

  Feather nodded.

  “I tell you, he is gentle as a fawn compared to our leader, Mik. If you see his wrath, then you will know the meaning of cruelty.”

  Feather took a shaky breath. “The pack is so heavy,” she whispered.

  “That is your load. If you can find someone to share it, well. But you must arrive at our evening camp with the pack and all that is in it now.”

  She nodded, knowing none of the Blens would ease her burden. Lex was her own master, it seemed, and it was his belongings she carried. If he was so concerned about her strength, she thought, why didn’t he carry it himself?

  “Go now.”

  Without another glance at him, she forced herself into a trot southward along the stream bank, following the wide trail left by many feet. She didn’t look back, but she could hear Lex just paces behind her. Pain tore through her leg muscles, and the ache in her back grew worse. A few minutes later she crested a hill, gasping for breath, and saw the people spread out in a shady grove below. Her legs were numb as she stumbled down the hill. When she came to the edge of the crowd, she knew many of them were staring at her. She limped around to where some of the children were sitting, gnawing at their food, and loosened the leather straps.

  Lex went to the woman who gave Feather fish in the morning. Although she feared him, she saw that he was her lifeline. She let the pack fall to the ground and hurried around to stand in his shadow. When he moved away from the woman carrying his portion of food, she stepped up as boldly as she could and held out her hand.

  The woman looked at her and sniffed, then shook her head and handed her a biscuit and a piece of dried meat.

  Feather took it back to the pack and lay down with her head on it. The pack was lumpy and unyielding. She looked up at the sky above, where there were no dirty, angry people, only wispy white clouds and clean blue space. She wondered what Karsh was doing now. Was he filling his plate with hot, nourishing food from Rose’s stew pot?

  “You had a hard morning,” a new voice said, and she jerked to a sitting position. A boy a little older than she was squatted beside her. She eyed him cautiously.

  “You don’t speak like them.”

  He gave her a fleeting trace of a smile, and Feather’s world was suddenly not so dreary.

  “Like you,” he said softly, “I am an outsider.” She studied his face. It seemed gentler than the others. His hair wasn’t dark like theirs either, but a soft brown, almost golden. It lay tousled over his forehead and hung down at the sides a bit below his ears. Most of the men had wiry, tangled hair and beards. This boy looked more normal to Feather, more like her own people.

  “Do they beat you?”

  He winced and looked around before replying, “I learned to keep pace, but it’s hard at first.”

  She nodded. “Do they ever stop running?”

  “When they have a reason to celebrate, then they stop and revel.”

  When they’ve raided a village, Feather thought.

  “There are places where they go in winter,” the boy said. “They will stop longer then. But not now.”

  Feather looked at what was left of her food. “How often do we get this?”

  “There will be more tonight. They cook at sunset. But you have to be quick, or there’ll be nothing left.”

  “Do the elders eat first?”

  He shook his head. “It’s whoever grabs first, but you do have to watch out. Some of them get nasty if you shove in front of them.” He leaned toward her, and Feather realized he was staring at the bruise on her cheek where a wellaimed blow had landed that morning. “Does that hurt?”

  Gingerly she felt the place just below her left eye. “Not so much as my feet and my back.”

  He nodded toward her pack. “Lex’s things?”

  “Yes.”

  He stood and hefted it by the straps, testing its weight. “It’s too heavy for you.”

  She laughed without mirth.

  The boy frowned. “The straps cut into your shoulders.”

  She nodded, feeling a flush stain her cheeks. “He said I am weak. It must be true, though I wouldn’t have thought so.”

  “You will strengthen, but this is too much. Is it Lex’s personal plunder?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He looked around, then began to work at the straps. “If it’s that, I can’t help you.”

  Feather’s lips trembled as she considered his words. “He . . . he said that I could try to find someone to help me, but I didn’t think anyone would.”

  He pulled the flap on the pack free and looked up, smiling broa
dly. “If he said that, it’s all right.”

  He peered into the pack and began to rummage inside. Feather watched in amazement.

  “Ah, this would do it.” He lifted out a pouch that seemed very heavy and set it on the ground. Beside it he laid a bulging cloth bag. “Extra arrow heads and corn. I have room for these. The rest should be manageable. I’ll fetch my pack.”

  He hurried away, and Feather felt tears spring to her eyes.

  He was back in moments and shifted the two heavy bundles to his own pack. Feather watched in silence, unable to find words that would express her gratitude.

  He looked toward the stream then back at her without smiling. “Lex is watching. Don’t look.”

  “Are you certain he won’t be angry?”

  “How can he be? He told you it was allowed.”

  “Yes. But I don’t think he really thought someone would help.” It was all she could do not to look toward her master. “Do I belong to him?” she asked, and even to herself, she sounded terrified.

  “You belong to the tribe,” the boy said, “but since he found you, you perhaps belong more to him than to anyone else. You’re his responsibility too. He doesn’t want you to die of hunger or exhaustion. But if you’re not an asset to the tribe, it’s up to him to make you improve or . . .” He looked away. “Well, we won’t worry about that because you’re going to be fine.”

  “Thank you.”

  He nodded and got to his feet, lifting his pack. “I’d best not spend too much time with you.”

  “Wait! What is your name?”

  He smiled again, and Feather wished she could keep him there with her, smiling and talking like friends.

  “I’m called Tag.”

  “Are you a slave?”

  “Not any more.”

  “You don’t wear the necklace.” She had noticed that right away. All of the men in the band seemed to wear the beaded necklace that held the tuft of orange fur.

  “This year I will be allowed to prove my right to wear it.” He looked toward the men. “We are leaving now. We mustn’t walk together. Do not try to talk to me.”

  He walked away, and Feather took a deep, slow breath. Tag. A friend . . . perhaps.

  The others were rising and scrambling for their packs and bundles. She lifted her pack. Its weight was less than half of what it had been. With thankfulness, she slipped it on. Even though it was lightened, the straps dug viciously into her sore shoulders. As she turned to go, her eyes met those of the woman carrying the baby. As she strapped on her baby’s cradle, Feather noticed that she tucked wads of cloth under the straps. She wondered what she could use to pad her own shoulders. She had no rags, and she didn’t dare look in Lex’s pack for something suitable. Moss, maybe. She decided to watch as she walked, to see if she could find a clump of moss, though the area they were crossing was quite dry. She usually saw moss in the damp, cool forest near the Woban village.

  Lex was staring at her, frowning. She hurried into line, ahead of a few other people, and he strode past her.

  “Did you drink?”

  How could she have forgotten? She realized the interlude with Tag had distracted her, and Lex knew it too. He shoved a small water skin into her hand. “Drink. And do not lag behind this time, or the boy will lose his new friend.”

  Her heart raced with fright as she tipped up the skin and drank. When she reached to hand it back to him, Lex was gone, striding ahead to where the leaders walked.

  Feather inhaled deeply. Had she unwittingly caused trouble for Tag? She looked behind and saw that only a few were slower in leaving the rest stop than she was. Tala was heckling them and swinging his stick. She hurried ahead, passing several women. When she saw Tag marching along ahead of her with two other young people, she adjusted her pace so that she would stay in line behind them. For as long as she could, she would keep his golden hair in sight. Just knowing he was there and that he was carrying part of her load, lifted her spirits. Her aching feet obeyed her and moved along.

  T hat night they camped where the stream flowed into a wide river. Feather’s pack seemed to have increased in weight as the afternoon waned although she knew it wasn’t so.

  The woman she had received food from called to her as she neared the stopping place.

  “Girl! You come!”

  Feather limped wearily toward her.

  “Drop your pack. You will help me.”

  Feather loosened the straps. The bunches of wilted leaves she had used for padding scattered on the ground about her. She wished she could sit and rest her feet, but the woman put a metal pot in her hand.

  “Water.”

  Feather turned toward the river. She walked along the edge, looking for a place where she could approach it without falling down the bank and into the swift stream.

  A man coming toward her looked at the empty pot, then nodded with a grunt. She saw the place behind him where the slope was less treacherous, and with care she was able to climb down onto a large rock at the water’s edge and dip her pot in. She snatched a few seconds to dip her feet into the cool water. It felt good, but she dared not linger.

  Getting the full pot back up the slope was more difficult than she had anticipated. Her muscles screamed with pain as she tried to lift the heavy pot and not spill the water. Inch by inch she worked it up the bank until suddenly it was lifted.

  She gasped and looked up. Lex stood above her, holding the water pot. He did not reach out to help her, but set the pot on the ground and walked away. Feather crawled over the edge of the bank and sat panting for a minute, then got up slowly and hauled the pot back to the cooking area.

  “You are slow,” the woman said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  The woman frowned. “I am Hana. You work for me every night now.”

  Feather looked at her in confusion, wondering how many people would claim her services.

  “It is Lex’s word,” Hana said, and Feather took a deep breath and nodded.

  The sky had clouded over, and at that moment a distant boom of thunder reached them.

  “We must start the fire quickly,” Hana said. “Get it going good before the rain comes. You make fire?”

  Feather nodded. “Yes, I . . . do you have tinder?”

  Hana kicked a bag with her foot. “In there.”

  Feather opened it. The leather bag felt greasy, and she guessed it had been oiled to keep the fire-making things dry.

  Inside she felt some stones, small twigs, and wood shavings. Something crackled, and she drew back her hand in shock. Carefully, she loosened the thong around the neck of the bag and looked inside. Could it be? She reached in and felt around again for the dry, crackly thing, and pulled out a torn sheet of white.

  “Paper?” She stared up at Hana.

  The woman was laying small sticks for the fire on the ashes in a circle of rocks. The camp site had been used before, Feather could see.

  Hana looked to see what she held in her hand and nodded. “It makes good tinder.”

  “But . . .” Feather gulped. In her tribe, a scrap of paper like this would be put carefully away for the elders to study. There were runes on it. It was a rarity among the Wobans, and no one could read the runes, but they all wanted to. Whenever any writing was found, it was placed in a dry, safe chest with other treasures. Alomar got the writings out now and then and puzzled over them with a wistful yearning. His grandfather could read, and his father had been able to make out a few written words, but Alomar’s generation had lost the skill. Their village had no teacher, and Alomar said that in his youth the people spent all their spare time gathering food and fuel or defending their homes from belligerent bands of strangers. There was no time for reading or art, he said. They survived; that was all.

  Feather was glad the Wobans had found a quiet valley where they could live in peace. She thought of the bright designs Weave put in her fabrics and the arrows Rand had helped her make. They were not only functional; they were beautiful, with dyed feathers and brigh
t markings for each of the hunters. The clay pots the tribe members made bore vivid designs too.

  She remembered the long winter evenings when they gathered in the lodge to hear Alomar’s tales and to hear Rose sing. Rose’s voice was sweet and rich, and she sang the songs of a mother. Sometimes Alomar’s daughter, Zee, his only living family member, sang with her. The two women sometimes taught the girls happy songs while they worked together preparing a meal. Feather’s favorite song was a lilting tune that told of the birds calling to each other and flitting from tree to tree. She wondered if the Blens ever sang.

  Feather slipped the paper back into the tinder bag and took out a handful of bark and chips. She would not be the one to squander paper for starting a fire.

  As she worked, she watched for Tag, but she did not see him until the food was served. As the people jostled one another, seizing what they could from the rocks where Hana and the other women laid out the food, Feather saw him. He dived in for a corn cake and a scoop of cooked turnip. Then he joined the others near the fire where a small pig one of the men had shot that day was spitted.

  “Get your meal,” Hana said. “Quick, while there is some left.”

  Feather went straight to Tag. He saw her and smiled, handing her a chunk of meat.

  “Careful. It’s hot.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We can’t talk now. I’ll come around later, where the girls sleep.”

  She stared after him as he hurried away with another young man. He wasn’t being mean, she told herself. He was brushing her off for her own good. But still she wondered if he really wanted to talk to her at all. Was he afraid to be seen with her, or embarrassed, or just annoyed?

  She refilled the water skin Lex had given her that morning and managed to get quite a large corn cake.

  “Where’s the turnip?” she asked Hana.

  “Gone.” Hana had quite a pile of it on her wooden slab of a plate, but she didn’t offer any to Feather. “It’s good.”

  Feather swallowed, trying not to think how it must taste. “Where did it come from?”