Chapter 7: Once the Waters Rise

The rain was falling in sheets by the time Tarek awoke just past dawn, and he scrambled to wake his parents and Tavi. They bolted down handfuls of pemmican from his journey bag and darted into the driving rain, joining the other desperate villagers shaking sleep from their eyes to reinforce the flood wall that would slow the currents and keep the largest debris away from their homes when the waters rose. It was the twelfth day of the Month of the Mudwasp. The rains were not supposed to begin for more than another fortnight, and the Catori were not ready.

“This will never stay,” Tavi said despairingly as they packed mud into the exposed tangle of woven branches that formed the floodwall. Cracks and breaches formed every year, and sometimes entire sections of mud brick would wash away when the waters rose. “The mud has to dry. We’re wasting our time.”

Tarek swept water from his brow. “I think you’re right. We look like ants swarming out here. What’s the most useful thing to be doing?”

Tavi grimaced. “We need the hunters bringing in as much food as possible.”

Tarek threw up his hands. “I have no bow.”

“Then we work with the gatherers,” Tavi said grimly. “Every handful of berries is a day of survival for one of the tribe.”

“And best to get as much as we can before the water rises,” Tarek agreed. “Let’s talk to the others.”

Tavi gave a sigh that rose from his bones. “I don’t know if we’re going to make it through this.”

Tarek swept him into a tight hug. “We’ll survive, little elder. You worry too much.”

“Somebody has to,” he grumbled.

Tarek grinned at him. “At least your hair is finally getting washed.”

It took time to get Zuma to listen to them as he tried to coordinate the dozen different tasks that needed to be done before the rain started falling, but by midmorning nearly half of the tribe had scattered to the jungles around their village to strip the berry bushes, fruit trees, and nut-bearing plants of every last bit of food. Tarek saw Yaretzi stagger in with a bundle of sweetgrass the size of a large child and wished he could go searching with her, but the only thing that made sense in this dire moment was for every person to be out of sight of every other in order to minimize any overlap in foraging. Kanga and the other hunters complained about wet bowstrings, but the piles of fallen prey waiting to be cleaned and gutted in the village clearing grew steadily. Tenoch muttered about serpents filling up his traps, but even still, he was their best trapper and brought in no fewer than five small capybara.

Tarek found himself in an unfamiliar stretch of jungle two fingerspans’ walk from the village with a woven basket nearly full of sour biteberries as midday approached. At least, he thought midday was approaching. The rain had only gotten heavier, and the sky was the dark gray of cloudy twilight above the canopy. He put down the basket to roll his shoulders and knuckle the small of his back for just a moment. The ground felt spongy underfoot in a way that it usually didn’t until the rains had been falling for days. This is going to be very bad, he realized. What will we do if the floods rise higher than our floorboards? They could string up hammocks inside their own homes, of course, but rats and snakes would seek shelter alongside the humans. In normal years they could simply pull up their ramps and the vermin had no way to get inside, but if they could swim right in… We’re not all going to survive this. It will be hardest on the elders and the babies. He thought of the chief’s infant daughter Beyimba and felt a pang of distress.

He was staring blankly into the undergrowth and realized he’d been doing so for fifty heartbeats or more. There was something… Oh. As soon as he understood what had drawn his attention, he became aware of the rustling of leaves and the curiously loud breathing that he’d somehow known would arrive. Normally, such noises would have sent him scrambling for his bow or swinging up into a tree – but not this time. He was already looking in exactly the right spot, and he knew it.

The river otter he’d fought with the day before ambled up with half a trout in its jaws and flopped down right beside him. Grasping the fish’s tail between his paws, the creature took a hearty bite, fresh blood staining his teeth and fur. “Want some?”

“I like my fish cooked, thanks.” Tarek looked the creature over. He seemed healthy. The wound on his shoulder was a red gap in his thick russet fur, but it looked clean and uninfected.

“What’s cooked?”

“We put meat over a fire before we eat it. It’s better.”

The otter cocked his head and looked at him curiously. “Fire is bad.”

“Sometimes, yes. But if you can keep it in one place, it can be useful.”

The otter huffed. “You slick-skins are fools.”

That hardly seemed worth arguing. “Are you following me?”

“Didn’t follow you,” the creature protested. “Just eating my fish.”

Tarek wondered if the silly beast was lying to him or just unaware of his own motivations. He’d seen plenty of otter families, and they tended to stay close to their home dens. This one, though, was nearly a handspan’s walk from where they first met for no apparent reason.

“Can I give you a name?” Tarek asked, squatting beside the otter.

“Name?” The otter crunched down the last of the fish and waggled his face between his paws to wipe his whiskers clean. “Can I eat it?”

“No, it’s something I can call you.”

“I am me.”

“Well, yes. My kind use names, though – words that mean ‘me,’ but different for everyone.”

“Stupid, stupid. If you must.”

Tarek considered the playful, scatter-brained creature with his ridiculous cream-colored mustache markings and knew just the name to pick. “Pahtl. I’m going to call you Pahtl.”

The otter stood up and turned in a circle, biting at a spot on his tail. “Pahtl? What word is that?”

“It’s from a story I heard. There was a man with this name.”

“Isn’t he using it?”

“No, he’s dead.”

“Oh.” The otter thought it over as he groomed his wide tail. “Was he a good slick-skin? Did he play?”

“Oh, yes. He was the best at playing.” Pahtl was a mainstay in Ryki’s stories – he was a fool and a terrible hunter who did everything wrong but somehow always managed to outwit his enemies by mistake. Pahtl stories had been Tarek’s favorites as a child.

“Very well.” The otter stood still, puffing out his chest. “I am Pahtl!”

“And I am Tarek.”

“Pahtl is better.”

“It is,” Tarek agreed, smiling. His heart felt lighter simply for having spent a few moments with this odd creature. He remembered the taste of his blood. His desire to have more of the rich substance had waned in the hours since he tasted it, but still it pulled at him. He’d forgotten in the rush of the day’s desperate gathering, but in the night, he’d dreamed of filling his mouth with blood. It had been almost like dreaming of Yaretzi. Remembering it made him flush with shame. A lifetime of taboo could not be easily discarded. Moreover, he worried that if he had more blood, he might lose himself in the sensation. It was a powerful magic, and he hardly knew anything about it.

“Why couldn’t I bite you?” Pahtl asked plaintively.

“When we first met?”

“Yes.”

“Do you still want to bite me?”

“Not really. For fun, maybe. But when I think about it, I can’t.”

Curious. Tarek wondered how long his commands would last for the oversized otter. “Walk to that tree,” he commanded, pointing to a nearby wimba.

Pahtl immediately marched to the tree. “Wait, why? Why do I move? I didn’t want to!”

“Now climb it.”

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The otter’s claws scratched and scraped against the bark as it stretched upward in a vain attempt to scale the huge trunk. “I am no monkey! Water people don’t climb trees. What, what, why? I don’t like this! Make it stop!” Even as he complained, Pahtl kept scrabbling at the base of the great tree.

“You can stop,” Tarek said, relenting.

The otter rounded on him, his whiskers trembling. “Did you make me do that?”

“I suppose I did.”

Pahtl ran in a tight circle, agitated. “Why do I do what you say? You’re a stupid slick-skin!”

“It’s the blood. When I tasted your blood, it… well, it gave me power, I guess.”

The otter hissed and bared his teeth. “I don’t like that.”

“I…” Tarek felt a pang of conscience. “I’m sorry. I’ve never had to worry about what an otter thinks. I won’t do that again.”

“Won’t?”

“No, I won’t.”

“But still can.”

Tarek spread his hands. “I don’t know how to undo the magic.”

The otter ambled close to him and stood up on his hind legs, his head higher than Tarek’s where he squatted. “Try. Find out.”

“I do want to find out how it works. But I won’t make you do things. I promise.”

Pahtl’s blunt head drew closer, and he sniffed at Tarek. “Promise? What’s that?”

“It means I have to do what I say.”

“That is good.” The otter retreated, mollified. “Want to play?”

Tarek smiled. “That sounds wonderful, but I have to take food to my village. Once the waters rise it will be hard for us.”

Pahtl threw his head back and gabbled a laugh. “Stupid slick-skin. Food is the best game. Come play fish-catch. I will win. I am the best at fish.”

Fish was one food they would not lack for when the floods rose, but Tarek knew that any food he could gather would be a help, so he said, “All right. What’s the best spot for fish?”

Pahtl raced into the underbrush, and Tarek took up his basket and followed. They spent the next handspan splashing in a nearby stream, each trying to best each other in fish catching. Tarek was good at staying very still and sneaking a hand up under a fish’s belly to snatch it out of the water, but he couldn’t compare to Pahtl’s sleek form and sharp teeth darting through the water. By the time Tarek had four fish lined up on the riverbank, Pahtl had a pile of fifteen or more nearby.

“I am tired of fish-catch,” Pahtl announced. “I win!”

“I think you did,” Tarek replied. “But you can’t eat that many fish.”

“I could,” Pahtl assured him. “I can eat all the fish. But I will let you take them for the other stupid slick-skins.”

Tarek had hoped the silly creature would offer, but still his heart warmed. “Truly? You’ll let me have these?”

“Yes!” Pahtl declared. “Not this one,” he clarified, taking back the nearest trout and biting its head off.

“Will you stay here?”

“Yes. Maybe. Ask me tomorrow. When you come play.”

“I’ll do that,” Tarek promised as he pulled down a tough section of leathervine to string through the fishes’ gills to keep them from falling out of his overflowing basket. “But Pahtl, if you see me with another one of the slick-skins, don’t come play.”

The otter cocked his head, his fish headless and oozing between his paws. “Why?”

“They won’t understand you. They might hurt you.”

“You would stop them,” Pahtl said confidently.

“Yes…” he hedged, wondering if he’d be brave enough to do such a thing if his secret were on the line. “But they wouldn’t like it if they knew I could talk to you, so stay away if you see any of the others.”

“Jealous,” the otter decided sagely. “Stupid slick-skins.”

“Something like that,” Tarek confirmed, picking up his basket. He felt as if he ought to bid the creature farewell, but Pahtl was engrossed in his meal and had forgotten him completely. I suppose he did already tell me he’d see me tomorrow. Maybe it’s a human thing to say goodbye.

Shaking his head at the strangeness of his own thoughts, Tarek turned toward home. He was no wetter for his time in the stream than he’d been before, and still the rains increased. He could only see a few body-lengths in front of himself.

He was careful to put the fish down with the other meat when no one was looking – most of his catch had bite marks all over them – and nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand clapped down on his shoulder from behind. When he turned around, though, it was Yaretzi, who hugged him tight. A bow was strung over her shoulder, and a dead rabbit dangled from one hand. Though Catori women were not meant to be hunters, her dead father had trained her well as a child, and in this great moment of need, the other hunters gladly turned a blind eye. She was as beautiful as ever even with her hair plastered to her head.

“We’re doing it now!” she said firmly.

“What?” Tarek said. “The marriage ceremony? Everyone’s rushing around, and you can’t even see the other side of the clearing for all the rain! Yar, this is no day for a wedding!”

“It’s the perfect day,” she said fiercely. “I don’t care if anyone is here but you, me, and the chief. I’m not going to spend a moon’s turn or more sitting in my mother’s hut during the flood while you’re stuck in your parents’ home. We get married now, Tarek. I demand it.”

Tarek looked around and saw no one, so he snuck a quick kiss, and then another that was less quick. “I’d been so focused on gathering food that I hadn’t even thought about being separated during the floods. You’re the smartest woman alive.”

“Yes, I am. Now go get my veil, and I’ll find the chief. Tell your family if you can find them, and I’ll do the same. If you’re not back in a fingerspan I’m coming after you.”

“As you command, my wife,” he grinned.

They dashed away from each other in the rain. His mind spun in circles as he ran. His family would gladly vacate their hut for the night, as was traditional. Normally they’d sleep under the stars in the clearing, but Yaretzi’s mother would certainly take them in due to the rain. In the morning – after the night has passed… no, focus, Tarek – they’d have to talk to the chief about where they’d stay. Normally the men would go out to the jungle together to cut logs for a new hut, but there was no time with the floods on top of them. They’d figure something out. It’s really happening!

He dashed up the springy wooden ramp into his home at full tilt and stumbled to a stop when he saw the room was already occupied. His foot slipped in something wet, and he nearly fell.

Kanga stood in the center of the room. His hands and arms were streaked with red, and he held a large, upturned turtle shell balanced in his right hand. He was smiling, triumphant.

“What are you doing?” Tarek blurted, aghast at the hunter’s bloody body. “What have you done?”

Then he saw Yaretzi’s veil on the floor at the man’s feet. He’d pulled it from the rafters. The delicate white cloth was ripped down the center, and precious beads were scattered all about. Tarek gave a hoarse cry and reached for it. As soon as his fingers touched the veil, Kanga upended the turtle shell in his hand. Cold, sticky blood splashed everywhere.

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