Page 188 of Mates for the Raskarrans #1-6

CHAPTER TWO

Dazzik

I t is late in the evening before I arrive back at my caves.

The nights set in quickly now that the clouds are gathering, the light of the setting sun dimmed for passing through them, the rising moons hidden from view.

It is the big rains coming. The skies would tell me as much, even if I could not feel their approach in my bones.

I set down the spoils of my hunt before my fire, heading into my cave and fetching my stockpile of wood.

I select two or three good, dried branches to get the fire started, but build the rest of it up with fallen branches.

The wood spits and hisses as the flames try to take, thick smoke pouring from them.

But better this than to waste my supply so soon before the rains come and soak everything so deeply that no amount of flame will cause it to burn.

While I wait for the fire to burn hot and clean, I turn to my spoils, picking up the bodies of the few small creatures I have managed to hunt.

Three frenelles, all of them rangy, their coats in poor condition, two little arrikas not yet full grown, and my best find - a fat gabol.

They make their homes under the ground, and when the big rains come, they shift from their usual burrows to ones on higher ground so they do not drown as they sleep.

This one had eaten well enough to last the season, but his burrow was too low down.

Already the dampness of the soil had caused part of it to collapse, making his home obvious to even my unskilled eyes.

“A good find,” I say. “Yet I fear it will not be enough.”

“You worry overmuch.”

I look up, and she is sitting on the ground across from me. She is hazy through the heat of the fire, but I can see the curl of amusement in her lips just fine.

“If the rains are short, I will be fine. But if they run long…”

I look to my catch, thinking about how far I could make the meat stretch. If I cook their bones into broth, use some roots to add substance, perhaps they would last me several sunsets. If I took small portions.

“I can see you counting mouthfuls in your headspace.”

I turn back to her, the scarred skin on the right side of my face pulling tight as I twist, distorting the smile that I would give her. I always try to give her smiles, even when they do not match the mood of my heartspace.

“Years as outcast have made me a careful male.”

“They have made you hard.” There is pain in her voice at this. “I do not like it.”

I huff. “There is not much to like about my circumstances. That is the point of them.”

I turn my head away so I do not have to see her look of sorrow.

“Their pelts will be a good addition to my collection,” I say to steer the topic away from food. “I think I shall have enough to fully repair my tent this season. A project for the rains.”

I risk a glance at her. Always looking at her hurts me, cutting deep in my heartspace. But it also hurts not to look. I see her so infrequently.

“You will not need it.”

“The project? Or the repaired tent?”

I cannot see how I would not need either of these things.

The big rains have always been a season passed in boredom, even when I was a youngling with a tribe.

Many sunsets of relentless rain means being trapped indoors.

No hunting, no training, no climbing of trees.

Just the pursuits that can be done indoors.

Making, mending. Forging stronger bonds and friendships.

These things can sustain a person for a time, but even the most home-focused raskarran tires of the same space always around them after a while.

I have no tribe, no friendships to strengthen.

All I have is making and mending. The work on the tent will keep me occupied, and the repaired tent will improve my comforts while hunting when the big rains end.

Rain will no longer bleed through the worn fabric to drip on my head, interrupting my rest. I will be able to travel further, sustain my strength for longer.

It will enable me to bring back more food, and that will give me greater strength and comfort still.

She does not answer me, going so quiet, I wonder if perhaps she has gone, but when I look over in her direction, she is still sitting there, the light of the fire dancing over full lips, proud brows, long braided hair.

As if she senses my gaze, she turns, dark eyes meeting mine through the dancing sparks of the fire.

Holding her eyes always makes my stomach twist, the memory of those same eyes but glassy and dull rising in my headspace.

You must do this for me, Dazzik. You must.

I close my eyes against the memory, but it does not stop it. My own words back to her echo in my ears, loud as if I speak them now.

You cannot ask this of me, Nelsah. How could you ask this of one who cares for you as I do?

And her own response, said with terrible desperation.

I ask this of you because you care. Because you are the only one who cares enough.

I open my eyes again, pushing away the memory of her gaunt face staring up at me from her sickbed with the vision of her before me now.

“You will not need it,” she says again.

I open my mouth to answer, but my head lolls forwards before snapping upwards with a jolt, my whole body coming to alertness in a moment. When I blink and clear my sleep-fogged eyes, she is gone.

Just a dream. Always just a dream, though it does not feel so when I dream it. Looking at the world around me now, it seems so obvious that I was asleep before. It is warmer when I dream, less dull. The whole world turned more vibrant.

And Nelsah is there, of course. Nelsah alive. Not just alive, but hale and whole. Not the terrible, skeletal thing she was by the end. When the sickness had ravaged her body so much that she could never fully recover.

I shake off the dreams and the memories.

I must be more tired than I realise to have fallen asleep sitting up, lulled by the warmth of the fire.

I could go to my pelts, sleep until the sun rises, and do my work by daylight.

But the fire is burning clean and hot, and if I prep my catch now, the morning can be spent on forage.

Better to be tired, I think, reaching for the gabol and my skinning knife. There will be time enough for sleep when the big rains come.

I lose track of the time that passes as I skin my kills, cook the meat and organs, boil the bones up for broth.

It is slow work and I do not rush it, careful to preserve every last bit of food I can gather.

The pelts I clean and prep while I wait for the broth to finish cooking, then everything is sorted into my storage.

Pelts to repair the tents, sinews for mending my clothes.

The meat I leave to dry on hot stones that sit in the dying fire.

I drink a cupful of the broth and set the rest aside to combine with whatever roots and nuts I find on my forage for my evening meal.

The sun is just starting to break through the trees when I finish, and I rise to my feet, stretching away the tiredness that threatens to draw over me. There are few days left between now and the big rains. I must make the most of them.

I set off on my usual foraging path - left for several sunsets while I have been gone on my hunt.

It has given the plants time to grow, the roots too thin for picking now swollen and ripe.

The djenti bushes have grown their last berries, and I take great handfuls of them.

No good for eating, but I can cook them down into a paste that will keep for many sunsets.

Adding a spoonful to my water each day will help me to stay strong when my food supplies start to dwindle.

I climb trees to gather their fruits, pluck nuts from branches, gather leaves for flavouring my foods.

I even go to the river and pluck reeds for weaving new baskets - more things to occupy my time during the big rains.

It is busy work, and again the time passes without my awareness, the sun rising high in the sky overhead and starting on its downward journey before I head back towards my cave.

My legs and arms are heavy with the sleep I have forgone by the time I am done with my second round of sorting things into my storage, but I look at my bolstered supplies with satisfaction.

It is enough, I think, if the rains are short.

There is no way of knowing how long the big rains will last. Some seasons they are less than thirty sunsets, others they can come close to sixty.

For the last few seasons, I have been lucky, and the rains have ended before my supplies have run short, but this last season has been a difficult one.

The ensouka herds travelled further from the river than they normally do, and I did not track them in time to take one of their younglings before it grew too large for me to handle on my own.

Without the abundance of meat such a kill would have provided, I have been forced to hunt smaller, harder to find creatures.

To make and set more snares and traps. I am not a hunter trained, and so my skill with such things is lacking, even after all these seasons working alone.

I know the ways of trapping things, but not the places to leave them to better my chances of something being caught in them.

Most times, my snares remain empty, my traps not triggered.

But if the rains are short, I shall be fine. And if they are not, I have hungered and survived it before. I can do so again.

With no energy to do much more, I spend the afternoon cleaning my clothes in the river, scrubbing the sweat and stains from the fabric with geberren root.

I do the clothes I have worn on my hunting travels, and the ones on my back also, wearing nothing but my skin as I work.

The river water runs deep and cold when the rains are due, and the chilly bite of it keeps me alert long past when I should have collapsed with exhaustion.