Barbarian's hope

1

ASHA

When I agreed to let Farli be my cave mate, I did not think things through.

I roll over in my furs, rubbing my face. It’s early. My breath fogs in the darkness and the fire is nothing but embers. The howse is dark, and I’m not sure what woke me up.

Then something noses at my mane.

I shriek and sit up in bed, swatting at my mane. My head bangs into that of the dvisti, and it bleats, scurrying away, its hooves clacking on the stones.

“What? What is it?” Farli asks sleepily.

“Your pet was trying to eat my braid again,” I bite out, ru

She chuckles, which does not help my mood. “He thinks it’s one of the braids of straw I’ve made for him.” She gets up and I see her face in the shadows as she heads over to the storage bins. She pulls out a thick braid of straw and offers it to the dvisti. “He’s just hungry, aren’t you, little one?”

“He smells,” I say with a scowl. “And he relieves himself on the floor.”

“It’s ready-made fuel,” Farli tells me, unruffled by my anger. “No gathering needed.” She gives her pet a hug, then wanders back to her bed. “He’s harmless. Just hide your braid.”

I snort and pull the covers back over my head, but I can’t go back to sleep. The dvisti is chewing noisily, his large teeth grinding. It sounds overloud in the small howse and makes me toss and turn. I might as well get up. Somewhere out in the vee-lage, a kit cries.

My skin prickles with awareness and I think of my own little Hashala. Her cries were so weak, not the strong, healthy wails of the kits in the vee-lage now. I remember holding her in my arms, no bigger than my hand, and wishing my own strength into her small body. Anything to save her.

It did not work. Nothing ever worked. She died before a khui could even light her eyes.

I reach under my pillow and pull out her small tunic. It has lost her scent, but I still like to close my eyes and hold it close, imagining that it is her. Imagining that she lives yet again and my mate smiles at me and my kit nurses from my teats and we are a family. We are whole.

The kit cries again in the distance, and I sit up, putting on my tunic. I ca

Seeing so many kits in the tribe is both the most wonderful thing…and the most difficult.

I slip on my boots as Farli rolls over in her furs, going back to sleep. The dvisti just chews placidly and watches me as I walk past. Sometimes I think it would be better if I had a howse of my own, but it would be very lonely. I do not think I want that.

I emerge from my small howse and head toward the center of the vee-lage. It is brisk today, a bit of snow falling. The sky is dark with storms, yet not much falls down below in our protected valley. The wind howls loudly above, which means that the hunters will be staying in this day. This also means that because their mates are home, many of the women will not be gathering by the main fire to exchange stories and let others hold their kits. They will be snuggled in their furs with their mates.

I am envious of the image this forms in my mind. There is nothing I would like more than a little family to fuss over at my own fire. Kits to hold close and spoil. A mate whose smiles promise wonderful things.

This is not for me, though. I have no living kits, nor do I think I will ever have one again. My mate has abandoned me. Everything I have ever wanted is out of my reach.

But life must go on, and it seems that this morning I ca

As I walk down the main path, I see people climbing onto the walls of one of the small howses, straightening one of the hide covers. A teepee top, the humans call it. Since the howses have no lids, great hide covers have been constructed and vaulted over the top of each of the howses to allow smoke from fires to vent out and for the light snows that fall into the gorge to trickle harmlessly down the sloping sides. Each howse requires a very large hide to cover it, which means several are stitched together and fitted over the frame. It is a task that requires many hands working together.

I should not be surprised to see my once-mate there, but I am.

Hemalo has his back to me, his tail flicking as he smooths hide over one of the long bones that props up the frame. I recognize his body instantly, the graceful motion of his shoulders as he reaches over and points at the far end of the structure. “Tighten your corner, Kashrem. We need to pull taut.”

I pause to watch them work. Kashrem and Hemalo are the tribe’s most experienced leather-workers, so it is natural that they should take charge of roofing each of the howses. He is in his element, confidence and knowledge in his stance, and enthusiasm in his smooth, rolling voice that still sends ripples right down to my tail when he speaks.

I should hate him. I should hate him for abandoning me. For giving up on me as I work through my grief. But I do not hate him. Instead, all I feel is a bone-deep ache that seems to devour from within.

He is happy, my once-mate. Hemalo has always loved to feel needed, and that is something I have not been able to give him. This move to the new vee-lage, the chance to work his skills and be important to the tribe—all of it is wonderful for him. For once, it is Hemalo that is needed and in demand, and Asha who is unimportant.

I cross my arms over my chest, curious at how uneasy that makes me feel. In my mind, I am very different from the Asha I used to be. The one that flirted with all the males of the tribe and who went from pleasure-mate to pleasure-mate, just because she could. Just because I was one of two young females in the tribe and all the strong hunters wanted my attention. Then, all I wanted was to be the center of attention.

Now, the thought makes me tired.

“Grab the cords,” Hemalo instructs, and I watch as Taushen and Ereven move around the far side of the howse, and the roof pitches even higher. “Just like that, Hemalo tells them. “Good job.”

“Ho, Asha,” Taushen calls out. “Do you come here to help?”

All of the workers stop, but my gaze is on Hemalo. He stiffens, his tail flicking, and he turns slowly to look at me. There is sorrow and apology in his eyes. It makes me angry.

“No,” I say, keeping my voice tart. “I was looking to see who was making so much noise that they would rouse good people from their sleep.” Not that I was asleep, but they do not need to know that. “It is early.”

“Ah, but if we wait until you are awake and out of the furs, we could be waiting a very long time,” Ereven calls out.

I ignore his jibe.

Hemalo shoots Ereven a look. “My apologies,” my once-mate says in his low, thrumming voice. “We will be quieter.”

“Do as you like.” I shrug as if it does not matter to me. It feels strange to stand apart from him as if we are merely tribesmates and not once-mates. I ca

Nothing is simple between us. I hate that, even though I know it is my fault as much as his.

The males continue to watch me, as if waiting for something. I shrug and move on, as if I am unaffected. The truth is, being this near Hemalo bothers me, like an itch I ca

I am not interested in that, though. I am just…tired. I want to move on.

I head toward the long-howse, and the closer I get, I smell something cooking over the fire. Someone is there, at least. I hurry in to get out of the wind—one of the things I am not quite used to despite several moons of living in the vee-lage. It still feels very open to me, very exposed. Perhaps it always will. The humans love it, though. They say it feels more like home to them.

I step into the long-howse, and warmth hits me. This room is drowsy-warm and humid, thanks to the warm pool at the center. The lid of the long-howse is cleverly rigged as multiple skins that can be dragged closed or pulled open, depending on the weather. Most days it is left open because the walls keep the worst of the wind out, and everyone likes the sunlight. It is so warm here that Tee-fah-ni has potted several fruit plants and keeps them in the direct sunlight, hoping they will grow. In one corner, there are drying racks of roots and herbs, and another of meat.

Stay-see is by the fire, and No-rah is with her, both of her kits’ baskets at her feet. I feel my spirits lift at the sight of them—No-rah always needs help with her twins, and I am glad to hold them. “Good morning.”

“Hi, Asha. We were just sitting down to have some eggs.” No-rah beams a bright smile at me. “You hungry?”

“I will eat.” I sit down next to No-rah while Stay-see pushes a lumpy yellow paste around in her skillet over the fire. I personally do not like the taste—or the thought—of the eggs. The humans love them, but the sa-khui are revolted by the taste and texture and the fact that they are uncooked young. We revere the act of life, so it seems horrible to me to eat dirtbeaks before they hatch from the shell…but it is food, and the stores are lean. So I will eat eggs and smile through gritted teeth as I do so.

One of the twins starts to snuffle and cry, and I look over at No-rah. “May I?”

“Please do.” She gives me a tired smile. “They were up all night fussing.” No-rah stifles a yawn.

I pick up one of the twins—Ah-nah. I can tell her apart from her sister because of the way her bright yellow mane sticks up. Her ‘cow-lick,’ as the humans call it, makes her tufts stick up toward her brow, whereas El-sah has a smooth mane. If I have to be particular, Ah-nah is my favorite of the two. She is a little fussier than her calm twin, a little less settled. I can relate to that.