alive during her illness was made from boiled meat from the fish-animal. In the process she learned her first word of Kirike’s language, through his pointing. ‘Seal.’
‘Seal.’
More pointing. ‘Dolphin. Fish. Spear. Net. Harpoon . . .’
The journey went on and on, until she had long lost track of the days.
Sometimes the weather would close in, and they would be stuck in their tiny shelter for days, and their mood inevitably turned inwards, souring. There was always a tension between the men, she realised, as she learned to read their moods. Kirike was more welcoming; maybe it was Kirike who had wanted to save her in the first place. Heni was much more grudging. She saw something in Kirike’s eyes. He was injured within. Somehow helping her helped him. She fretted that it was a pretty tenuous reason to be kept alive. Dreamer always tried to stay out of the way of any arguments.
As the days passed, it was the sheer endlessness of the journey that wore her down. How large could this briny lake be? Maybe, she thought, brooding, the lake was not of this world at all. She feared she was the last of the True People. If everybody else was dead, maybe she was dead too. What if these strange men weren’t human, but were agents of the Sky Wolf whose rage had destroyed the world?
One day, as the men paddled, with the setting sun bright and pointlessly beautiful in her eyes, she folded her hands on her swollen belly and repeated the ancient priest’s words to her child. ‘ “The world is dead. We are dead, already dead; this is the afterlife, of which even the priests know nothing. Even our totems are dead . . .” ’ She folded over and began to weep, deep heaving sobs, though her tears would not flow.
Kirike stopped paddling. He worked his way down the boat to her, and folded her in his arms. But his thick furs were frost-coated and there was no hint of warmth from him, as if he was dead too, the dead embracing the dead.
Heni snorted his contempt. He stayed where he was, paddling gently.
Thus the days and nights wore away. Until the night she woke up screaming in agony.
22
‘You’re mad,’ Heni insisted. ‘You can’t cut the baby out. Even the priests hesitate to do that. And we’re not priests. We’re just two idiots in a boat who can’t even find their way home.’
‘There’s no choice. Her waters broke. The baby’s coming.’ Kirike, more desperate than he wanted to admit, looked down at Dreamer, where they had laid her down in the shelter of the boat tent. Mercifully the sea was calm. It was the first time in many days the two of them had had to handle the woman like this, but after the contractions had started she had soon lost consciousness. He put his hands under her tunic, over the top of her swollen belly. ‘But the contractions have stopped. Or they’re so weak I can’t feel them. And even if she woke up to push . . .’ He glanced down at the marks of an obvious and brutal rape. ‘She’d be torn apart.’
Heni put his hand on his shoulder. ‘Look - you’ve done wonders. She was nearly as dead as that kid when we found her. You brought her back to life. You gave her these days on the boat. She’s even laughed, at times. You gave her that. You can’t do any more for her.’
‘I’ve seen this done twice,’ Kirike insisted. ‘The cutting-out. The first time I helped the priest.’
‘How long ago was that? You were a boy! Watching a priest do it isn’t the same as doing it yourself, believe me. And the second time—’
‘It was Sabet. And, yes, it failed, we lost mother and baby. But don’t you think I paid close attention? Anyhow what do you suggest we do? Tip her over the side?’
‘Yes. Let the little mother of the sea embrace her, and her baby. It’s out of your hands now.’
‘Not yet.’ He felt his heart hammer. He stripped off his tunic so he was bare from the waist up. ‘Give me my best blade, Heni. The big one of the old Etxelur flint. Get an ember from the fire. And the sleeping moss.’
Heni hesitated for a long moment. Then he began to unpack the fold with their few remaining medicines, put together for them by Jurgi the priest before they left Etxelur, for what should