Arn dragged the knife across the fleshy underside of a water scale hide. He had killed it himself, while hunting without the hunters. A few had applauded him as he walked back to the village, carrying the creature over his shoulders. As he cleaned its hide, he again considered Thalla’s conundrum. His normal breathing, when completing such a task, was uneven.
He always knew what to do, or did it without thinking. But today, Arn could barely focus. If he let Thalla leave the hunter’s band, he’d be left with the angst, the usurping, the doubting… he’d dealt with it for months before. Furthermore, it’d show precedent to the tribe that Thalla could demand things from him. It would make him look weak. But if he refused Thalla’s request, he would lose an ally and a friend. Likely, she would arrange a duel to lose, to be replaced on the band’s leadership anyway.
Arn scowled and jabbed the knife into the dirt beside the scales. She couldn’t even look him in the face any longer.
Ever since killing Stone Spear, Arn had not seen the stern-faced man in his dreams. The starry waters and corridors of roots were empty more often than naught, and the animals he saw there were smaller, sneakier. The back of his eyelids didn’t help him with his indecision, so he stood up and left the reptile hide where it was.
“Arn,” a voice called as Arn walked down the slope toward the waterfront cliffs. It was Taran, leaning against a building near the ridge. Arn had never seen the man fishing, though he was part of that band. He was simply Logern’s best muscle.
Arn tensed his arms, but left them dangling at his sides. “What do you want, Taran?”
“Logern,” the man replied. “Dead. Or gone.”
“What?” Arn asked. He turned to face the man, stopping the tread of his sandaled feet. His peripherals scanned the road between buildings where he had just walked. It was empty—they were speaking in private.
“Logern has Bravar and me. That’s a problem for you.” Taran crossed his arms and smiled.
Arn smirked. Taran’s concern seemed so genuine. “How many rafts have you made before?”
The man scratched his short, sandy-brown hair and shrugged. “One,” he replied.
“So I have more experience than you.” Arn scowled. “No, Taran, you don’t have my backing for this. You’re ambitious and you’re skilled in the ring. Let’s talk about something else.”
Taran chuckled. “Your backing,” he muttered. “I like you, Arn. Let’s pretend for a minute that I need your backing to do the things I want to do. What did you have in mind?”
Let’s pretend I need your backing?! Arn blinked. He was facing a peer. While Arn had spent his years striving for something, Taran had spent them patiently waiting. He served when it entertained him and obstructed when he chose. Without any spies in Logern’s band, Arn had no way of knowing just how powerful the man he spoke to was. He shrugged. “I need someone to command a raft, when the time comes.”
Instead of balking, Taran grinned. “I thought you’d never ask,” he said. “But you’ve promised something that doesn’t exist yet. Be careful that it one day does.”
“You’ve a lot of nerve,” Arn said.
Taran raised an eyebrow and returned that statement to Arn, the man who had killed Stone Spear and survived the Deep. Then he shrugged and started to walk away.
Arn trembled. He was going to go look at the progress on the new raft that Logern was building. This time, they were taking into account Arn’s innovations, the board he’d run into the water to guide the craft straight, the sturdiness of the thick craft. But Taran had gone that way, dropping dextrously down the cliffs.
The way back into the village was busier now. An old man working with beads looked up and nodded to Arn respectfully. Arn returned the gesture and kept walking. He got looks and nods and murmurs wherever he walked.
But the look that mattered the most he got in the gathering area where the cooks were preparing the evening meal. Thalla was cleaning and rebinding her spear, but when Arn approached, she looked him in the eyes. The spear was set aside, and his friend slowly stood up. “Arn,” she said, quietly. The only other young women in the village were already betrothed to join families together. Thalla’s mother was an old woman, and that was her only surviving family. She sat on her own at Gatherings, or with Arn, or with some of the craftswomen she had known well a year past.
“Have you made a decision yet?” she asked, as Arn approached.
“No,” Arn replied. “Have y—?” He immediately regretted saying anything further. He didn’t want her to trade decisions with him.
Thalla stepped back at his words. “No,” she said. She was wearing that reed tunic again, loose and breathable from the humid hair. She sighed, and looked away from his eyes again.
“Thalla, I didn’t mean…” he trailed off. Others were looking. If Arn were to allow Thalla to step down from the hunters, he needed to make certain that his people didn’t think it was because she made him or persuaded him. He breathed deeply and looked back at her. “The hunters need to fall in line—they learned to doubt me under the influence of others. It’s just not time yet,” he said.
The young woman nodded and ran a hand through her hair. A few colourful stones glinted in the firelight as she shook her unkempt brown strands. For someone who didn’t want to be a hunter, she had earned the band’s respect and unity quickly.
Arn’s stomach twisted. If it seemed as though he was forcing her to step down, the hunters would doubt him. If it seemed as though she forced him to let her, the rest of the tribe would. With clenched fists, Arn went to find something to eat.