Once the lesson is over, Willa takes the leavings for burial, which they’ve taken to doing almost as a custom. There’s a spot where all of them are. It keeps animals away from their homes and also provides a nice place for people to visit if they choose to.
One of the women who has given birth told Willa that for her, it’s as if she’s buried a piece of herself, so she likes to check on it. She said that the person she was before she became a mother is in that hole, and from the hole came the person she is now. It sounds too sentimental to Willa.
The sun is bright this day, another summer just around the corner. The paths around their little village are clear and well-defined after years of feet. It’s odd to find this place has become home. Sometimes, like now, it strikes Willa how strange it all is.
After she finishes her burial, she detours toward their real graveyard, which has few graves. One is a woman who succumbed to cancer only months after joining the group. Without further treatment, she’d faded fast. One was lost in their first battle, the one that was more like a sneak attack, but she was the only one who died. She got grabbed when one of the men woke suddenly. She’d lifted her face to the sky.
It’s the third grave that Willa sits at, setting her basin aside and removing her big, yellow gloves.
“Well, Beau, you’re a father again. A girl this time, so you’ve got a boy and a girl. A matching set. You’d be proud of this one. She’s got a pair of lungs on her, for sure. I couldn’t say it in front of Ellie, but the baby even has your wrinkles. They remind me of you.” Willa pauses and rests her hand on the still-raised mound. “I’m not sure how I feel about it, Beau. This is the last one of yours.”
A pair of birds across the clearing draws Willa’s eye. With nestlings growing up, the birds are active. She misses them over the winter and likes their exuberant noise, even when they seem to be arguing with each other.
When they fly away, Willa lies back with her head on the mound and gives Beau’s grave an update on all the little things that have happened since her last visit. She doesn’t believe he really hears her, but she does it anyway. It’s a comfort.
Beau died three months ago, but he died peacefully, with no hint it was coming. He simply hadn’t risen from his bed one morning. One hand beneath his pillow and one across his chest, which was the way he always slept. That was how Willa knew he’d not suffered or known what was coming.
“You were right about the camp,” she says after a long silence. “They know we’re here somewhere and I’m not sure what we can do about it.”
He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to. Willa can hear it in her head as if he were sitting right next to her. Do what you have to. That’s what he would have said. The new camp of men has been migrating around the mountains, settling in at a new place and spending a few weeks roaming the area before moving on. They’re getting closer. They’re now on the same slope, though much further down. After all this time, the tribe has been found once more. It had to happen someday, but now that the time is here, Willa is resentful.
Who were these men to disturb them? They’d had to get used to a much more rugged way of life to find some peace, so who were these men to search them out and disturb that hard-won peace?
“They’ve set up camp between us and the fishing lake, so that’s out. We’re up against it. Or we will be soon if we can’t get to the lake all summer. Food is going to become a problem. We might have to send some of the men out. You know as well as I do that’s dangerous.”
Again, she doesn’t need the answers. Over the course of three years, she’s heard all of Beau’s thoughts on almost everything. Most of the men that provided their support network eventually had to stop. There are still a few out there who maintain a loose network, but it’s more difficult and has to be done with exquisite care.
Most of the other men are here now, swelling the tribe’s numbers, but not enough so that they’re confident of their strength against a sizable force. Too many to feed, not enough to defend.
A smear of pale color appears at the edge of the clearing, then disappears behind a tree.
“Claire, I can see you,” Willa says, smiling.
The girl steps out into the open and grins. It’s still a rather feral thing, though the girl is growing rapidly. She’s twelve now, but no less wild than she was at nine. At least she wears clothes now, though they are entirely covered in dirt and mud most of the time.
“It’s not nice to spy on people, Claire.”
Stepping lightly and barely glancing at the ground, the girl moves with absolute silence toward Willa. It’s a little unnerving how good she is at it.
“I spy all the time. I like it. And my name is Wolf.”
Willa sits up and brushes dirt from her hair. “That may be true, but that doesn’t make it polite. And your name is Claire. Your nickname is Wolf and I’ve chosen to call you by your real name at this time.”
Claire’s expression says politeness is not only an almost alien concept, but a mildly distasteful idea in general. Standing over Willa, she glances at the grave and her normally wild face softens. “Do you think he can hear you? I know you talk to him a lot.”
“No, Claire. I don’t think
