Fire in the Cave (19 page)

“He’s not breathing,” Ten-hands gasped, an ugly
grin on his face. His eyes rolled toward Black-dog, lying half in
the lake. “Just dripping blood. Getting cold. Killed him. I
won. Killed the witch-taker, the forest-shadow, the mad wolf.
Nothing your herbs and tricks and lies can do, little bitch. Killed
your…”

The witch-girl tugged the cord tighter, cutting deeper into the
muscles of his neck, cutting off his voice. She passed both ends of
the leash to her left hand, holding it tight, as she reached out and
picked up a heavy, jagged, blood-stained hunk of rock.

“Tricks?” she hissed. “Tricks? I am Bright-owl,
who is called witch-girl, and Luna. I dream true dreams. I speak
true names. I learned my craft from Grandmother Rattlebones. She
learned it from Old Water Woman.” The witch-girl raised the
rock above her head. “She learned it from the Witch of Thorns,
who stole the secrets. The secrets of sickness and healing, the
secrets of darkness and vision. Of weakness, and power. The secrets
of birth, and death, and rebirth!” Her voice was ringing out,
through the caves, echoing back twisted and distorted, as if a chorus
of witches, living and dead and yet to be born, were chanting along
with her. Her face was twisted in fury. “She stole them, in
the dark! In the last hours of the eternal night, before time
began!” Her hand came down with a sickening crack. She raised
the stone again, and swung it down once more. And again. And again.

“She stole them,” the witch-girl whispered, “from
beneath a stone.” The jagged rock fell from her hand. She
leaned forward, pressing her lips to Ten-hands’ ruined face.
She released the leather cord, put her hand on the dead man’s
broken chest, and pressed. As his last breath hissed out of him, she
caught it in her mouth.

She stood, holding her breath, and walked the edge of the black lake
that was the underworld. Black-dog lay on his back, body marred by
deep cuts and bruises, face a red mask, hands open and empty. He lay
half on the shore, and half in the water. She knelt beside him,
raised his head in her hands, and kissed his bloody lips.

T
he sun was setting. Soon the hunters would return, and light
the fire in the cave.

The witch-girl sat in the mouth of the cave. Old Surtur, a hound too
old to hunt, had laid his head on her knee. He had refused to move,
so she was petting him. He was grinning happily, tongue hanging out,
as he enjoyed the warmth of the day’s last rays of sunlight.
Howl the dog-trainer sat nearby, playing with a pair of puppies.

Manala, the River-witch, came out of the cave and frowned down the
slope. “I am hungry. Why must we wait for them?”

“Because they’re bringing the meat, River-lady!”
Ria Redwife laughed as she came up the slope, carrying a basket of
berries. Sparrow was following close after her, with a basket of
grass seed and nuts to roast. She peeked out from behind Ria, giving
the witch-girl a searching look.

The witch-girl raised an eyebrow. “Don’t worry, girl,
I’ll send Highhawk your way as soon as she arrives.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Sparrow scampered into
the cave, blushing, with a grinning Ria following after.

Manala crossed her arms, staring down at the edge of the forest. “I
am hungry,” she complained again.

“You are just eager for White-stag to be here,” said the
witch-girl, grinning. “...with the rest of the food, ”
she added sweetly, as Manala scowled at her.

“White-stag is a happy, thick-skulled fool,” Manala
muttered. “All you Red Cave folk are. Comes from not eating
enough fish. Luna, you should eat more fish!”

The witch-girl stuck out her tongue. “You give silly
nicknames. Half the tribe is calling me Luna, now. Or Mother Luna.
I’m not even a mother yet!”

“It is a perfectly good mask name. It does not leave you as
free and formless as when they just called you witch, but it does not
tie and shape you as a true name would. Someday some clever, foolish
little witch will chant it when she tells the line of teachers who
gave her the secrets. And it suits you, white witch, girl who shines
in the night like the rising moon. Ah, see!” Manala leaned
forward, peering down the hill, as a flicker of light appeared at the
edge of the woods.

Highhawk was leading the way, bearing her torch high, a spring in her
step. Hunting dogs danced around her as she led the hunters into the
village and up the slope. Behind her followed the hunt-chief. A
cheer went up from the women in the village as he passed, bearing a
fresh-killed deer over his shoulders.

“White-stag, White-stag!”

“Chief White-stag!”

Behind him, big Bors was carrying another deer. Beside him walked
young Fox, and Two-spears, a River-warrior who had come to the Red
Cave to join the hunt. Behind them came Redheart Riamate and old
Heartwood. The women gathered around the procession as it passed
through the village, flirting and joking with the men, until most of
the tribe was coming up the hill together in a great mob. From the
back of the parade, two black birds took flight, dark shapes against
the red light of sunset.

Manala snorted. “I can’t believe he is trying to tame
ravens. That man is strange and foolish.” The witch-girl only
smiled.

The tribe came closer, chattering and boasting, laughing in the
torchlight. The witch-girl grinned as Highhawk approached.

“Luna!” Highhawk called out, laughing. “Did you
long for my beauty, and wait out here to see me sooner?”

“Every moment without you lasts a month,” the witch-girl
replied. “A peaceful month in spring, with flowers blooming
and birds singing in the evening.” Highhawk made a mock-tragic
face, clutching her heart as if stabbed. The witch-girl laughed, and
relented. “In truth, there is someone who’s been waiting
for you.”

“Pretty little bird’s been missing me?” Grinning,
Highhawk raised the torch above her head and loped into the cave as
the rest of the tribe approached the entrance. They passed by the
witch-girl in a long, happy stream, smiling and greeting her. Manala
stepped into the group alongside White-stag, though she held her head
high and did not look at him. The faces of the crowd lit up as
Highhawk reached the center of the great cavern and lit the bonfire
there. Flames and light danced in the cave, throwing long shadows
down the hillside just as the last man in the line reached the cave
entrance.

He was broad-shouldered, dark-haired, with a dark dusting of beard.
Two great black hounds were with him, pacing on either side. A strap
of leather angled across his face, hiding his missing eye and part of
the ragged scar that cut his brow and cheek. Over his shoulder he
carried his kill, a great gray wolf.

The witch-girl stood and bowed. “Good evening, Black-dog.”

He gave her a crooked smile, watching her closely. “Witch-girl.”

A raven landed on his shoulder and pecked the side of his head. He
winced. The bird flapped away, back to its roost above the cave
entrance.

The witch-girl raised an eyebrow. “Your pet is already
well-trained and loyal, I see.”

Black-dog shrugged. “I like animals,” he said.
“Sometimes they like me.”

Because you’re a beast yourself,
the witch-girl thought.

Howl was on the ground, rolling and wrestling with the hunting
hounds. The witch-girl smiled down at her, then offered her hand to
Black-dog. “I want to eat. I want to dance. Will you come
with me?”

His large, callused hand folded around hers. He leaned close,
whispering in her ear. “Always, Bright-owl.”

They walked together toward the flickering light.

There was meat, and fish, hot from the fire. There was mint and
cress from the hill, and nuts and mushrooms from the forest stewed
together in pots. There were sweet berries, and jar after jar of
berry wine from the stores deep in the cave. There was singing, and
drumming, and stories told of war and of love. As the last light of
sunset faded over the lake, White-stag and Black-dog circled the
fire, watching each other.

“I have led the hunt through the long day,” said
White-stag. “The tribe is strong, the tribe is safe!”
Men and women cheered, their voices ringing in the cave.

“But now the dark comes, and I grow weary.” White-stag
held out his hand, over the fire. “Who will guard the tribe
through the night? Who will guard our witch, as she protects us from
dangers we cannot see?”

Black-dog clasped his brother’s hand. “Go to your rest,
Day-chief. I will keep watch in the darkness.”

White-stag smiled. “Thank you, Night-chief.”

The voices rang out again. “Black-dog! Night-chief
Black-dog!” Then, louder: “Start the dance!”

The drums began to pound. The two brothers turned away from each
other, facing out into the gathered tribe. White-stag grinned,
holding out a hand toward Manala. “Will our wise and beautiful
visitor dance with me?”

The River-witch stood, to scattered applause. With her head high and
a proud smile on her face, she stepped toward the fire, swinging her
hips as she walked. The applause grew louder as she reached into the
pouch at her waist, held up a generous handful of dried herbs, and
tossed them into the fire. As sweet smoke began to fill the cave,
White-stag wrapped his arms around her from behind. She gasped, with
an expression of outrage that sent laughter through the tribe. But
then she melted back into him, pressing against his chest, rolling
her hips against his, raising her arms above her head as they began
to dance.

Black-dog had stopped circling. He said nothing, but held out his
hand, open and empty, toward the witch-girl.

The cheers were immediate as the witch-girl stood. “Mother
Luna!” they called out as she stretched, letting the feathers
at her wrists trail through the air. “Witch-girl!
Ghost-speaker!” they cried as she sauntered toward the fire,
the bright stones and shells at her waist rattling with the drumbeat.
“Witch of the Cave! Life’s kiss!” they cheered
as she reached Black-dog, and took his hands.

“Show us the moonrise, Luna!” the tribe roared. The
witch-girl smiled, her eyes on her lover’s face. He wasn’t
smiling. But she saw peace, there. Joy. Hunger. He took a slow
breath. She grinned, and leapt into the air.

Black-dog’s hands lifted her higher, until she could look down
on all the tribe, their faces gazing up at her. Her bare feet came
down on Black-dog’s hips as she held tight to her hands, her
pale body an arched crescent moon above the gathering. As the tribe
cheered, she jumped again, throwing her legs over Black-dog’s
shoulders.

She looked down at his face, smiling. His cheek was pressed against
her stomach, and he was looking up at her with one eyebrow raised.
She bent to kiss him on the forehead, and he growled.
The more I
tease him,
she thought,
the more savage he’ll be later.

“Show us the stars!” the tribe roared. The witch-girl
reached both hands into the little pouches at her belt and tossed
dust and pine needles down toward the fire. As the tribe laughed and
cheered, the fire billowed sweet smoke and shot sparks of green and
white and purple up toward the ceiling. The hunters rose, whooping,
and the dance began in earnest.

Young men, bare to the waist, leaped and stomped and spun all around
her. She had her legs wrapped around Black-dog’s waist. He
was gripping her hips with his hands, supporting her as he danced,
spinning her around the fire. She was laughing, laughing. Someone
passed her a jar of berry wine. She took a sip and fed it to him,
one mouthful, one kiss at a time, as sparks danced and bodies moved
around them. His lips were hot, hungry. When she pulled back, his
mouth found her neck and claimed it with teeth. Her breath caught in
her throat as he bit her. Her skin was on fire, her legs locked
around his motion, riding on his strength.The whole tribe was in the
dance, now, moving together in the beating drums and swirling smoke,
pressing against each other, giving gifts and trading kisses and
sliding hands over each other as the drums pounded, beating out waves
within waves.

Her feet touched the floor. They spun away from each other, the
dance closing between them. She felt giddy, ecstatic, drunk on wine
and smoke and music, on the press of bodies all around. She could
barely keep track of who she was touching, who was touching her. She
found Redheart and tall, beautiful Nim, dancing pressed close
together, skirts and vests gone. They grabbed her and pulled her
between them, and for a while her world was Redheart’s mouth
bent down to kiss hers, Nim’s soft breasts pressed against her
back, Redheart’s chest pressed against her front, all of them
moving with the drums.

She slipped out as they came together, kissing each other hungrily as
Nim reached down between Redheart’s legs. The tide of the
dance moved her away, her feet stomping and spinning as it carried
her. She knew Black-dog was still near, could feel his presence
somewhere in the smoke and heat and moving bodies, and she watched
for him as she danced.

She grinned to see Fox and Bors together. The slender younger man
was looking up, blushing, nervous, as Bors gently pushed him down to
his knees. Bors smiled as the witch-girl slipped behind Fox and gave
him a little push forward, so that the young man’s face was
pushed right against Bors’ thick shaft. Fox’s shoulders
were rising and falling as he panted, mouth half-open. As Bors
reached a hand behind Fox’s head and pulled him forward, the
dance pulled the witch-girl away once more.

She saw Manala, held in the air by White-stag, legs open and head
thrown back in ecstasy as two hunters took turns kissing between her
legs. The witch-girl laughed and moved on. The dance took her past
Two-spears, the River-warrior visitor, being held down and ridden by
Mother Mara, a blissful expression on his face. The witch-girl
whirled with the beating drums and found Highhawk, with Sparrow
kneeling before her.