Authors: P.W. Chance
By the third, she was begging. By the sixth, she was coming,
whimpering and shaking as they held her still, never slowing, using
her one after the other. By the ninth, her eyes rolled back in her
head and she sank into darkness, leaving her body nothing but a
mindless doll for them to fuck.
*********
She saw Black-dog’s face above her, ruddy in the firelight,
hair as dark as the night sky above him. He was close, wonderfully
close and warm. She laid her cheek against his shoulder. She didn’t
want to wake from this dream. She just wanted to rest for a while,
to take comfort in this fantasy where he came to rescue her. She
just wanted to curl up next to his chest, feel his arms supporting
her, listen to his slow, steady breathing. She sighed, watching the
look of concentration on his handsome face as the lighting changed
from firelight to pale moonlight, as they slipped away from the war
camp.
The witch-girl blinked. She wasn’t dreaming.
Silent as a shadow, Black-dog carried her into the forest and away.
T
ree trunks, black in the moonlight, slipped past them as
Black-dog carried her deeper into the forest. He held her close
against his chest, one arm under her shoulders and the other
supporting her legs. He moved as if she weighed almost nothing.
She closed her eyes and pressed her face into his shoulder, her heart
sinking. As much as she had longed for him, as much as she had
dreamed of rescue, this would ruin everything. Twice, Black-dog had
stolen a witch from the River-folk. They would be furious, their
vengeance doubled. She could call out to them, cry out that she was
being kidnapped, but that would only mean fighting and death.
His shoulder smelled of pine forest and male sweat. His arms rocked
her gently as he carried her. His body was warm. She stayed silent.
They were far from the camp, now. A low, dark hill rose between them
and the distant firelight. Black-dog’s hounds, Fika and Rika,
appeared out of the forest like gathering shadows. He lowered the
witch-girl to the ground.
She set her feet down. She felt crumbling old leaves beneath her
toes, cool and soft. Black-dog turned away, crouching, retrieving
something from beneath a fallen log. The curve of his back was
beautiful in the moonlight.
“I have to go back,” she said. She kept her voice soft.
“No,” he said, simply and confidently, as if she had
asked whether it was raining.
She backed away, one step. “I must. I may be able to stop the
war.”
Black-dog pulled a bag from beneath the log. His back straightened
as he lifted it and examined the contents. “No. Ten-hands
will fight. He has more warriors than the Cave has hunters, and he
will send messages to his cousin tribes down the river as well. He
is tired of sticks and bruises, tired of being ambushed and tricked
by smaller numbers, tired of shame and frustration. He wants blood.
He dreams of it. But that is not what matters now.” He
turned. His right hand trailed lines of darkness. The witch-girl
blinked, and her eyes focused, told her what she was seeing: a nest
of leather cords, straps, bindings.
She darted left, then turned right and started running as hard as she
could. He was on her in seconds, hand on her shoulder, foot tangling
her legs, guiding her fall into a pile of leaves. In silence, she
struggled, trying to twist out of his grip. Trying to ignore the
heat she felt whenever he touched her, the singing joy inside her
each time she tested her strength against his and found him stronger,
much stronger.
He held her down, grip firm and unyielding, weight pressing her into
the leaves, as she strained against him. Finally, exhausted, she
relaxed. As she panted, breathing in the earthy scent of the forest
floor, he took her wrists. She felt him wrap a cord around them,
quick and snug, binding them behind her back. She gritted her teeth
and struggled again, kicking and bucking, fighting him, fighting the
desire inside her that wanted to just let him do it, let him tie her
and touch her and do whatever he wished with her. Alone with him,
with his body so close above her, she could barely fight against the
binding between them. Was he fighting it too? Or was it controlling
him?
When her struggling slowed again, he bound her ankles. Then he bent
her legs at the knee and tied her ankles to her wrists.
He rolled her on her side, then lay down next to her, watching her
eyes. She panted and glared at him, her hair falling in a tangle
across her face.
He reached out, gently, and brushed her hair back out of her eyes.
She stared at him, furious. He was lying on his side, one hand
supporting his head, the other idly playing with her hair. She was
tied, helpless, straining against her bonds, and he was just watching
her. The binding caused her body to arch toward him, thrusting out
her chest, which was heaving as she fought to catch her breath, and
he was watching from a foot away with his face as calm and composed
as if he were watching falling leaves in autumn.
Her heart was thudding. Her mind was a mad storm of emotions; anger
at being bound, thrilling joy at his closeness, raw and embarrassing
lust for his body to join with hers. Deep and despairing sorrow,
too, at the fate they’d stumbled into. Hopeless, to think they
might be together. Hopeless, to think that they might both survive.
And there he lay, stroking her hair, face still and calm as if he
felt nothing for her at all.
This is why I didn’t know, she realized. This is the face he
showed me for years, while in his heart he loved me, or hated me.
This silent mask.
His arm wrapped around her back and pulled her closer, pulled her
against the warmth of his body. Her anger rose, but there was
nothing she could do to pull away. She was pressed against him, her
cheek against his chest, her stomach against the rippled muscles of
his abdomen, her thighs against his.
I could bite him, she thought. I could turn my head and bite him.
Or kiss him.
His heart thudded in her ear.
It was beating hard, raw and ragged. Deep within his chest. Deep
behind the silent mask of his face. She listened to the thunder
inside of him, the drums beating quick and fierce, the rhythm driven
into a frenzy by her closeness, by the maddened love and hate he felt
for her.
She closed her eyes, listening. Gradually, the beating slowed. She
relaxed against him, bound and safe in his arms. There was nothing
she should do, because there was nothing she could do. So, she was
free. Free to forget yesterday, and tomorrow, and simply be there
with him, warm in his embrace, listening to his heartbeat.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, and slowly let it out. There
with him, alone together in the silent forest, she was happy.
Black-dog stroked her hair. She closed her eyes. They lay together
without speaking, two beating hearts in the boundless dark.
The wind brushed through the treetops. The moon sailed behind a
cloud.
Black-dog sat up. More straps went around her, crossed behind her
shoulders, broad between her legs. He lifted her onto his back,
looked up through the trees to the north star, and started to walk.
He carried her through patches of moonlight and shadow, the black
shapes of the dogs keeping pace to either side. The witch-girl’s
chest was pressed against his warm, broad back. Though she couldn’t
move, leather straps supported her comfortably. She rested her head
on his shoulder, letting the gentle rocking of his pace lull her
towards sleep. She remembered the first time he had tied her with
leather. He had left her arms and legs free, then, only wrapped a
strap around her waist and between her legs. But it had felt harsh,
violently sexual, like being taken hard. This time, even though her
wrists and ankles were carefully bound, she felt comfortable. Safe.
Like he was holding her helpless in his embrace.
They were going uphill. The wind was getting cooler.
Black-dog stopped at an old, dead tree with a staff leaning against
it. He reached into the dark hollow of the trunk and pulled out a
fur cloak. He shook it out and pulled it over them both, so that the
fur warmed her back and the two of them looked out at the world from
the same wide hood. He reached further into the tree and gathered a
waterskin. He raised it to his lips, tilted his head back, and
swallowed half the contents in seconds.
He took one more mouthful, then turned to her, where she rested on
his shoulder. She raised her head and drank from his lips.
He raised the waterskin, filled his mouth once more. She was no
longer thirsty, but she pressed her lips to his and drank again.
He slung the waterskin from his belt and picked up the staff. They
moved on.
The witch-girl dozed, warm and bound, letting her mind drift. The
broad-leafed trees around them gave way to pine and cedar,
evergreens. A single snowflake fell, spiralling and drifting down
out of the dark sky. She watched it tumble past. Beneath her,
Black-dog’s body was as warm as a fire-heated stone, tireless
as the waves on the shore.
“Once, there were two brothers.”
She shifted slightly against his back, resting her ear against his
shoulder and closing her eyes. His voice sounded deeper, pressed so
close to him, resonating in her head. It felt like he was speaking
inside her.
“One brother was dark, and one was light. They ran together,
laughed, fought. They learned to swim and to hunt. They loved each
other. But one day, the dark brother realized they were fated to
kill one another.”
He paused for a moment to clamber over a stone. The way was growing
steeper, rougher.
“So the dark brother said: you will grow in strength, and I
will grow in wisdom. You will learn to hurt, and I will learn to
heal. In this way, our powers will be different. We will not crash
into one another like stags and be destroyed, but slip past each
other, like fish in a stream. So you will go to Heartwood, and learn
how to hunt and make war. And I will go to Granny Rattlebones, and
learn herbs and secrets.”
“But when he went to her, the old witch frowned. She looked at
the boy, and rattled her fortune-bones in her hands, and cast them on
the ground to see how they fell. And she said no.”
He stopped, leaning on his staff. They were on a high ridge, moonlit
forest spread beneath them. The witch-girl could see the distant
shimmer of the lake to the south, and the curving valley where the
River-folk lived to the east. To the north, up the slope, loomed the
shining, ice-capped bulk of White Mountain. A few snowflakes drifted
on the wind, dancing in the starlight.
Black-dog’s head turned slowly, sweeping his gaze over the
view. Then his staff crunched on the gravel as he began to march up
the mountain.
“The dark brother thought the witch was testing him. He asked
again, the next day. And the day after. He went down to the marsh
with a clever net and caught a heron, making her a gift of all its
beautiful feathers. He sat outside her hut for many days without
food. Still she said no. She said there was no test. She said she
would never teach him.”
“The dark brother decided that she was wrong. She would teach
him, whether she chose to or not.”
Snow was falling all around them, silent as stars.
“The brothers trained with Heartwood, trained to be hunters and
warriors. The bright brother ran swifter. The dark brother ran
longer. The bright brother was better at throwing a spear. The dark
brother was better at moving silent and unseen. He could be very,
very quiet.”
“The old witch took an apprentice. A white-skinned, clever
girl, who listened to her stories late into the night. The dark
brother listened too. Once or twice, the old witch saw him. But as
time passed, and the boy and girl each grew in skill, the old woman
could no longer tell when he was there.”
“Sometimes, the old woman whispered too quietly for the dark
brother to hear. Sometimes, he was too weary from hunting during the
day to follow them in the night. But he learned as much as he could.
When they gathered herbs, he watched, and listened, and padded after
them to see what leaves had been taken and roots ripped up. When the
old woman guided the girl through dreams, with smoke and whispering,
he lay on the roof of their hut and saw dark things in his sleep.”
“The apprentice was given trials. The dark brother watched.
In a deep-shadowed valley, at sunset, the old witch led the girl to a
dead tree filled with holes. The witch took a fortune-telling bone
and tossed it high into the air. It fell into a hole at the top of
the tree, and rattled and tapped its way down through the hollow
trunk, sending scorpions scurrying. The apprentice listened, and
thought, and plunged her hand into a hole. She showed the old witch
the white bone in her palm, the witch whispered, and they turned for
home.”
“When they were gone, the dark brother went to the tree. He
took a rough stone from the ground and threw it high, so it rattled
down through the hollow tree. He chose a hole, reached in, and was
stung.”
“He lay beside a stream that night, his veins on fire with the
scorpion’s venom, his cramping muscles trying to tear his bones
apart. When dawn came, and he could finally open his fist, he saw
the stone shattered in his hand.”
Snow had begun to fall, muffling sound, hiding the world. Black-dog
seemed sure of the way, still taking them upward. The night grew
colder around them. His breath steamed as he spoke.
“When it was time for the girl to become a witch, the old woman
brewed a special tea. The old witch whispered in her apprentice’s
ear as the girl drank. And then the girl walked through the village,
and through the cave. I do not know what she saw.”