Return to Hera

Noku's Invaders II

Suzanne Maxwell

The Noku River surged past, threatening to spill its muddy yellow waters over its swollen banks. The river was clogged with broken trees that had fallen over winter. Noku was cleaning up his shoreline with a powerful flow, washing entire trees downriver. Margole longed for a hot, flickering fire, but the hearth back home was stone cold, and the woodbin was empty. Along the shore, there wasn’t a stick of driftwood in sight. Noku had swept it all away.

Her eyes traveled upriver, spotting something drifting with the logs, something that wasn’t log-like. As it drifted closer, she realized it was a boat, crudely made, but a boat. The little vessel followed the same course as the logs, starting a slow circle through the back eddy that ran along the shoreline. The boat reminded her of the toy boats she’d built as a child and sent floating downriver, racing the other children’s boats, although this one was much bigger. Leaning forward, she strained to get a closer look without wetting her feet.

Beyond the little boat in the back eddy, far upriver, she caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye of something skimming across the water. The movement startled her. A faint growling noise made her glance around quickly looking for signs of a rottwere. She’d never seen one near the village before, but there was always a first time. Whatever it was disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. The heavy morning mist must be playing tricks on her eyes. She strained to listen. The misty silence made the air in her ears feel thick, and she wondered if she had imagined the sound.

The little boat began a second circle through the eddy. The eddy was filled with logs trapped within it, but the ones on the outer edge were breaking free, continuing their journey downriver. Margole drew close to the river’s edge as the current moved the little boat toward shore.

Barely larger than its sole occupant, the boat moved precariously through the rough waters. Its gunnel was decorated with a series of rocks intricately encased in rope mesh and fleshy, evergreen leaves from the aromatic cingen shrub. The boat was pretty, but hardly seaworthy. Inside, the fire-blackened hull was damp from water seepage.

As the back current swung the boat in an arc that came closer to the shoreline, its occupant came into full view. Margole gasped! It was a man, or maybe a boy. Although she couldn’t be sure, a single thought struck her mind.

“Jaeca?” she cried aloud.

Could it be Jaeca? She missed her twin brother as much today as she had when he left the village more than a year ago to join one of the tribes. Tears stung her eyes as she stared at the dead body in the decorated boat. If it wasn’t Jaeca, it was somebody’s brother or son. Ugly red swellings distorted the face and arms of the bloated body. One side of the body was blackened along with the inside of the boat.

Wiping tears from her cheeks, she wished more than anything that she had attended the last Spring Farewell, the one that sent her brother and six other fifteen-year-old boys away to join a men’s tribe. Her mother never said a word about her missing the farewell. The house had become a tomb with her mother and sister moping about, doing chores, rarely talking, until one day her mother put on a smile. Her grieving was done, and life went on, but Margole still missed him every day. It was different with a twin. Twins were a gift from Tula and were treated with great respect, but only if both were girls. Even twin boys were allowed to move on together, but a boy and a girl twin was a curse. Her mother had warned them not to get close, but it was like talking to the wind. Jaeca had been her only friend.

The back eddy swung the little boat away in another large circle. This time, the boat would pass close to the edge of the eddy. The log it followed swept past, its heavy weight and forward momentum defying the eddy’s weak back current as it pushed free and headed downriver. The little boat was coming back around, making the same large circle.

Margole waded out knee-deep into the river, preparing to make a grab for the boat. Bravely, she pushed deeper into Noku’s waters, making her way to the lower edge of the back eddy, the soles of her shoes slipping against the smooth rocks that lined the river bottom. If there was any chance of catching the boat, it would be right before it met the downward current. She would only have one chance.

Poised, ready for action, she stood in the icy water, shaking from head to toe with anticipation and cold. As the boat slowly traced the outer edge of the eddy, a small wave rolled over the top of her knees, stiffening her joints.

Breathing heavily, she waited. The morning mist was visible in the dim yellow-orange light reflected from Erran and Rullin, Hera’s twin moons, inseparable just like she and Jaeca had been. The larger Narceen Moon had long since set. The little boat drifted closer, lit by the feeble rays of First Sun emerging over the horizon. Noku danced in the pale light, alluring in his shimmery morning cloak, daring Margole to go deeper.

She had to know if it was Jaeca. The smooth blonde-brown hair reminded her of him, but the body was so distorted she couldn’t tell. It couldn’t be him! There must be one trait that would tell her without a doubt it wasn’t her twin. She tried to imagine the mole on his right cheek and his laughing green eyes that matched her own, about the only physical characteristic they shared.

On Jaeca’s last day in Mellansh, he had come to her room and, acting like a child, had grabbed her favorite doll, the one she was saving for her own child someday, and ran off with it. When she caught up to him and tried to clobber him, they both ended up in a mud puddle, soaked to the skin, the doll ruined. All she could clearly see of him now was the sad expression on his face when he had looked down at his soiled clothes and knew he was leaving, with her last words, “I hate you, Jaeca. I hate you,” raining down on him. She had run off, too angry to speak, and missed the ceremony. When she returned, he was gone, forever.

No! This couldn’t be him. Jaeca was fishing the river or hunting inland kir’ell. She imagined the boat to be a real boat with Jaeca paddling towards her. Still clinging to a dream that could never come true, Margole imagined thumbing her nose at village rules that didn’t allow women to travel the river, jumping in the boat with Jaeca, and together exploring the wilds of Hera. They would stomp through inland meadows, climb mountains, paddle all the way to the sea, and do just fine—without the fixers.

The little boat approached. As she had predicted, it followed the course of the log. Her muscles froze. Trying to shake out the stiffness, she waited, each cold breath filling her chest until it felt like her lungs would burst. The boat drew near, the dead eyes staring at her beneath closed, bloated lids.

She had one chance. If she missed, the boat would break free of the eddy and continue downriver. As she waited, reaching out as far as she dared, someone shouted her name. Her quick backward glance destroyed her concentration and the little boat floated past beyond her reach. She had ruined her one chance. Flipping around, she stormed up the bank to dry ground.

“Margole! Margole!” the voice shouted again. “There you are!”

Hilde, the village chieftess who was also her aunt, strode down to the beach, struggling to hang onto little Rayleen who had started screaming. Unceremoniously, Hilde dumped the little girl into Margole’s arms. Margole shifted Rayleen to a better position and patted her gently on the back, hugging her close to her heart. When the screaming stopped, Hilde glared at her.

Margole resembled Hilde more than her own mother, except that Hilde’s long black hair was carefully oiled, straightened, and held in place by a long comb, while Margole’s was a tangled, curly mass. Hilde’s green eyes had the same wild look as Margole’s, except Hilde’s were lined with a trace of black charcoal and her eyelids were painted reddish gold. They shared the same pale skin and brightly colored cheek splotches, but the combination looked better on Hilde.

Hilde moved like a chieftess, her head tall, back straight. She took charge of every situation, but was especially demanding of Margole. Margole had once been Hilde’s favorite niece, but that changed when Hilde, after suffering a string of miscarriages, gave birth to a live, but handicapped daughter instead of a healthy, female heir. After Rayleen was born, Hilde’s entire persona changed. No one had expected the little misshapen girl to live, but she had lived, and her presence made Hilde look weak. That irritated her immensely, and Hilde transferred that anger to Margole.

“What in Tula’s name are you doing down here? Natashe took Mari with her this morning to gather willawa. I have no one to watch Rayleen, and I’ve an important meeting with the village elders.” Leaving no space for an answer she continued, “There’s plenty of soy’uu in the cold box to feed her. Mari should be back by noon, and the fixers need attention.”

Hilde stopped for a moment and stared at Margole, surveying her from head to toe and shaking her head, “Get some dry clothes on,” she ordered. “You look like a wayward child.” Grumbling under her breath about how Margole was never going to grow up, she hurried back up the trail to the village.

Margole’s legs were wet and cold, but she sat down on the sand putting Rayleen on her lap and holding her tightly to her chest.

Rayleen fidgeted, pushing away. Margole kissed the little girl on the cheek and gently shook her little stump arm, which always made her laugh. The poor girl didn’t know how misshapen she was with her oversize head and offset eyes. She just knew that Margole loved her and thought she was the best little girl on the entire planet, because that’s what Margole told her every day. Tears came to her eyes as she held Rayleen, wondering how she would survive Hilde as a mother.

“Did your mother bother to feed you this morning?” Margole asked, swaying her gently from side to side. “Your little tummy is probably starving.” Margole’s own stomach was empty. Everyone in the village was lean this spring, but little Rayleen, the only daughter of the chieftess, should not go hungry. “Let’s get you home and fed.”

Margole took one last look for the little boat, finally spotting it drifting downriver in a procession of logs. Although she was fairly sure it wasn’t Jaeca, she wished she could have examined it closer. The boat had to be a funeral pyre from one of the tribes. She’d never seen a funeral boat before. Usually they burned and sank. The fire had gone out of this one before the boat was damaged enough to sink. Was Noku angry that his prize was being kept from him? The ugly red sores on the boy’s body made her stomach churn. If this boy was sick, she wondered if others were also sick. Men would be coming to the villages soon. She prayed to Tula that they wouldn’t bring sickness.