He spread one of the smaller blankets on the floor and loaded the treasure into the center. For some small time, he sat holding the ivory baby in his hands. With a fingertip, he traced the indistinct features of its face, the round cheeks, the closed eyes; then he returned it to the soft bag that Olikea always kept it in and added it resolutely to the pile. Once that was done, he tied up the four corners of the blanket to make it into a carry sack, tossed it over his shoulder, and left the lodge. He left the blankets scattered on the floor and the door wide open. Either he thought he’d never return, or he’d become so accustomed to having feeders pick up after him that he no longer noticed the messes he left.
The sun was already low, and soon the light would be lost to us. “You’re a fool, starting a journey at this time of day,” I said to him, but he paid me no heed. I doubt he even noticed the thought. For a time, he simply walked, following the well-trodden trail. I think he enjoyed the end of the spring day. Despite my trepidation, I did. There is nothing that smells quite like a forest in spring. The air was cool enough that walking was pleasant. Even for a heavy man, the first part of a walk can be a pleasant thing. But all too soon, my feet and knees began to complain, and my back reminded us that we’d spent far too much time sitting on a rock the night before. The blanket of swag on my shoulder began to seem heavy, and sweat began to trickle and chafe.
He took a deep breath, blew it out, and then with his next step began a quick-walk. It took me off guard and I did not enjoy the lurch from one place to another as he stepped. He had not fed as well that day as he was accustomed to, and soon he was using magic he had stored. I thought I sensed him grumbling to himself about that, but could not be sure. He strode quickly as well as quick-walked, so that the countryside flew past us. Night came on, and still we walked. He was very tired and his stomach roared with hunger before he saw fire ahead of us in the distance. He stopped his quick-walking then, and despite his aching back and muttering knees, forced himself to walk normally as he approached the campfires.
The trail ahead of us led uphill. To either side of it, firelight winked through the sheltering cover of the newly budded trees, like a string of glistening jewels scattered up the side of the mountain. As he approached, the cooking smells nearly made his knees buckle with hunger. Music floated on the night, drums and strings and the voices of the People upraised in shared song. Lisana’s memories of the westbound migration surfaced in his mind. The younger folk had always loved the trek back to the western side of the mountains. During the firelit nights of the migrations, they moved freely among the kin-clans, discovering friends new and old, taking lovers, trading with one another and comparing the trade goods that they were carrying west. It was a time as eagerly anticipated as the social season in Old Thares. The best storytellers of all the People would be performing, and there would be singing and shared food and shared blankets. A good time. Up ahead, someone gave a sudden whoop. Perhaps it was a storyteller ending a rendition of a favorite, for his cry was echoed with laughter and applause. If I had been a Speck child, I would have been racing up the trail to see what wonderful event was going on.
That thought brought Likari sharply to my mind. A moment later, Soldier’s Boy sighed and then paused on his upward trek. I wondered if the same thought had occurred to him. But his pause was momentary. He was soon laboring along, the calves of his legs screaming with the extra effort and stomach growling at the smells of the food.
His disappearance the night before had badly delayed the departure of his feeders, so it was no surprise that he found them around the first campfire he came to. Olikea was there with them, crouched by a pot of something simmering on the coals. At first glance, she seemed an old woman from the droop of her face and her untidy hair. She still wore a winter robe against the chill of the spring night, but it was a simple work robe, unlike the spring finery that some of the other women had donned. Grief had aged her. She was not the wild and flirtatious creature that had seduced me only a year ago. I thought of that, and marveled at all the changes that had been packed into such a short time.
While I pondered such things, Soldier’s Boy walked unannounced into the circle of their firelight. One of the other feeders noticed him first and gave a small squeak of surprise. Olikea started at the sight of him. She immediately put her gaze back on her cooking and said sourly, “So, here you are. You’ve come to your senses, then.” Her tone was not welcoming, but I thought I had detected a brief expression of relief on her face when she saw him.
“I suppose I have.” He lowered the sack of treasure to the ground beside him. At the sound of it, she looked back at him with a frown.