“Why?”
“How should I know, Mother? Maybe she’s ill. Maybe she’s exhausted—”
“Take this to her.”
I consider objecting to the idea, then realize that my mother is right. If you are sick or simply tired, as gracious hosts we should check on you and offer you something to eat. If you are being rude and unsociable, that doesn’t excuse us from similar behavior.
As I approach the door to your hut, I notice music. After a moment’s hesitation, I realize it’s you, humming to yourself inside the hut. I don’t recognize the exact tune, but it’s similar to a lullaby my mother used to sing to me.
Could this be a song your mother sang to you? Since your brother is your clan’s High Elder, I assume your parents must be dead. No one has spoken of either one of them.
“Excuse me,” I say. The humming instantly stops, but you don’t respond. “Excuse me, Mya? My mother sent food. . . .”
A few slow moments pass before your hand peeks out from between the draped hides and sweeps them back enough to reveal part of your face, lit by the thin rays of sunlight that filter through the huts so late in the evening. “I intended to come back,” you say. “I’m just tired.”
“Of course.”
Another long moment passes before you take the mat of food from my hands. Your eyes hold a message—not the hard disdain I saw earlier, but something just as dark. Loneliness? Your gaze moves away before I can be sure. “Thank you.” And then the drape falls shut again and I find myself standing outside your hut, alone.
The meal is delicious and spirits are high, just as they always are when a kill is brought in. Several songs break out spontaneously and my father even brings out skins of mead made from honey and berries gathered last summer. Sacred and precious, our clan consumes mead only at the holiest ceremonies and most significant celebrations. Sharing it with your clan today is not without meaning.
As everyone drinks, the singing grows louder. Still, I can’t quite shake the thought of that dark look in your eyes. It doesn’t matter, though. Everyone is happy. No one even notices my mood.
No one except my mother.
“What did she say?”
“She said she was tired, Mother. Everyone gets tired sometimes. Let her rest.”
But my mother is agitated. I can see it. She busies herself with gathering empty mats and collects many compliments on the meal as she does. It won’t matter; I know her—she won’t be appeased. The mystery of your absence is working her nerves. After a while, I feel her nervousness has jumped to me. As soon as she is occupied with some task in the kitchen, I take advantage of the opportunity to talk to her alone.
“What happened five years ago?” I ask.
My mother looks up at me. A strand of hair has come loose from the braid at the top of her head, and she tugs at it, tucking it back into place with restless fingers. “The Olen clan visited us. . . . They were moving south—”
“I know all that. I want to know what really happened. What happened between our two clans?”
She retrieves a large waterskin that hangs from a notch in a mammoth tusk that serves as a support beam, takes a long drink through the hollowed-out piece of bone attached as a spout, and offers it to me. “It’s only water. Your father has all the mead outside.” I take a drink. The water runs cool and soothing down my tense, dry throat. “Five years ago, on a joint hunt . . .” My mother hesitates. She does not want to say these words. The dread in her voice sends a tremor along my spine, and my mouth goes dry again. I offer my mother the waterskin, but she shakes her head. I take another drink, and as I do, she blurts out the rest of her story. “On a joint hunt, one of our men killed one of their women.”
I try to swallow, but water pools as if it’s caught in a knot in my throat. I hack and cough before I can speak again.
“What—”
“It was an accident, but that didn’t matter.” My mother is tired, her voice a hoarse whisper. “One of their hunters responded by killing the man who threw the spear.”
The back of my hand runs across my lips, wiping away drips of water and salty sweat. I stare at my mother’s unflinching face as if willing her to change this story, to tell me it isn’t true. But of course it’s true. It makes perfect sense. “The man who threw the spear was Tram’s father,” I say.
“Yes. How—”