bit of mud.
‘The way we came.’
‘Yes. South. Middle ocean. West. Great ocean. North. Much land, cold ocean. Four rivers, four ways.’ He eyed Novu. ‘Alone?’
‘Me? Yes.’
‘Jericho boy?’
‘Not any more.’
‘Slave?’
‘Not any more.’
‘You go home? Go east. Easy down the river.’
‘I don’t think so. You?’
‘North.’ He sketched again. ‘Big country.’ He jabbed the stick to the left: ‘Albia.’ Right: ‘Gaira.’ Centre: ‘Northland. Big country. Boat, easy on river.’
‘Your boat. Big boat.’
‘Yes.’
Novu considered. ‘I come?’
Loga frowned. ‘Why?’
He meant, what was in it for Loga. ‘Strong,’ said Novu. ‘Paddle. And, Chona’s goods.’
‘Mine now?’
‘Some.’
Loga considered. ‘Fetch goods. We talk.’
21
Ice Dreamer lay in a heap of furs like a bug in a cocoon. She slept, or woke in a daze that was no different from sleeping, save for the continuing pain of torn thighs, aching breasts, a deeper hurt within.
Somehow, even in her bloodiest reveries, even when she didn’t know who she was, Ice Dreamer always knew she was on a boat.
Her world was sky. By day it was either an unbearable bright blue, or was choked with grey clouds. By night there were stars, a silent forest of them. Yet the sky’s dark was broken sometimes by sheets of green light that rippled and folded.
And when the rain fell, or the snow, a blanket of skin would be pulled across, enclosing her in a creaking, rocking chamber of leather and wood and smoke, and pale, glimmering firelight.
Other sensations. Water cool in her mouth. Another liquid, heavier, salty and rich, warm, a soup.
The heat inside her. That was the first thing outside herself she was clearly aware of. A warm mass of tissue and blood, it was in her, and of her, and yet not her. She folded her thoughts around it, felt its sleeping weight. It was a comfort.
And then the faces.
They hovered over her in the tented dark at night, blurs in the faint yellow lamplight, or they were there in the day, leathery bearded faces framed by hoods of fur, weather-beaten skin pocked by frostbite scars. The faces of men. At first they blurred in her mind, but they gradually separated into two. One older, his face rounder, who eyed her sceptically. The other younger, hair red and tightly curled, nose straight, eyes a startling blue, who looked at her with more complicated feelings. A kind of compassion. But even as he looked at her his attention seemed turned inside, into his own soul.
Men’s faces. A memory sharp as a stone blade cut into her mind, of the Cowards’ eager faces over her.
In that instant she remembered who she was. She sat bolt upright.
In response to her sudden movement the boat rocked. The men turned, alarmed, and jabbered in some unknown tongue. Working together quickly and expertly, they stuck their blades flat in the water to stabilise the boat.
It was a bright, clear day, the sun low behind her. She glimpsed sky, and grey water scattered with ice floes. Two men sat before her in the boat, huge in their fur hoods and cloaks and mittens, paddling patiently with big leather blades fixed to poles.
She was suddenly aware of her heavy belly. The baby. It felt big, bigger than she remembered; oh, earth and sky, was its time close? And Moon Reacher – she remembered now – she looked around for the girl, but she was not here. Only the two men and herself in this pitifully small boat, alone on the endless water.
The men’s breath steamed around their heads as they watched her. They seemed wary of her. The older one, at the boat’s prow, stayed where he was sitting. Roundface, she called him. The younger one, Longnose, shipped his blade inside the boat, and, shuffling, came towards her.
She cowered back. Her weight made the boat tip up.
Roundface jabbered, ‘Whoa, whoa!’ Longnose leaned back quickly. The boat settled again, rocking and creaking.
Longnose tugged off his mittens, showing dirty hands, and he spoke again. His tongue was like none she had ever heard, not even the Cowards’. He seemed to be smiling, behind that beard.
‘My name is Ice Dreamer,’ she said, or tried to; her voice was a croak, her mouth dry as dust. ‘Ice Dreamer,’ she said again. ‘Ice Dreamer.’ She pointed at her chest. ‘And if you come any nearer I’ll jump over the side.’
He listened carefully. ‘Ice – Ice-’
‘Ice Dreamer. Dreamer.’
‘Ice Dreamer.’ His accent was thick, almost incomprehensible. He pointed to his own chest. ‘Kirike.’ And the other man. ‘Heni.’
‘Kirike. Heni.’ They were meaningless names, and too short. Maybe these men didn’t have totems. Her throat remained dry. She dipped her hand into the water; she didn’t have to lean far over the boat’s shallow side. When she lifted it to her mouth the water was so salty it made her gag, and she spat it out.
Heni spoke again. Kirike took a small skin sack and threw it carefully over to Dreamer. It landed heavily, and when she picked it up she could feel liquid slosh inside. Its neck was fixed by a splinter of bone. She opened it, sniffed suspiciously, and then took a sip. It was water, cold, a little brackish, not salty. She drank deeply, letting the cool stuff slide over her throat. ‘Better,’ she said. ‘Better,’ more loudly. Her voice was working. She sang a snatch of song, a hymn to the coyote.
That surprised the men. They both burst out laughing. Immediately she remembered where she was, alone with these two men. She stopped singing.
Longnose – Kirike – held his hands up again. He began to speak to her, earnestly, gesturing. He was clearly trying to explain something to her. She just sat and listened. He had a tattoo on his cheek, above the beard, concentric rings and a tail. She had seen it etched in the rocks of the coast, where her walk had ended. He spoke slowly and loudly, as if she was deaf. Heni nudged his back, and they had a short jabbered conversation. Ice Dreamer thought the meaning was clear. ‘She doesn’t understand, idiot. Try something else.’
Kirike looked at her, a bit helplessly. Then an idea struck. He rummaged in the bottom of the boat, and he came up with a wooden bowl, covered by skin. He took off the skin to reveal a puddle of some kind of broth. He stuck his finger into the broth and licked off heavy droplets, making a satisfied noise. ‘Mmmmm. ’ He held it out to her.
She took it. Cautiously, she dipped in her own finger and tasted the cold stuff. It was thick, meaty, salty, rich. Memories flooded back. Lying half-awake under the furs, she had tasted this stuff, this broth; she had eaten it before. Kirike smiled. He mimed spooning the stuff up into his mouth, then pointed at her. He had fed her.
She couldn’t remember it all. Maybe she would never remember, not properly. But she began to work out how she must have got from that barren beach with Moon Reacher, to here, on this huge, limitless lake, in this boat with these men. They must have landed on the beach in their boat. They must have found her. They could have killed her. Instead, evidently, they had taken her onto their boat. And they had cared for her.
She was still heavily pregnant. Her thighs and her crotch and her deep innards still ached from the attentions of the Cowards. But she was not dead. She was not even hungry. Her head was clear. And it was because of these men.
