Progeniture, Ch. 2

The old woman's stillness hasn't merely been idleness. She's been intently watching a dark lump, nearly hidden in the deep underbrush about fifty paces back from the opposite tree line, which had silently materialized at some point in the pre-dawn gloom. She knows the lump has been watching her just as intently, though so far it has also remained motionless.

When the lump finally does shift, a little after mid-day, her leathery cheek twitches. The waiting game is one she never loses. A small, shaggy boy-creature emerges and approaches hesitantly, slinking low and dropping into a sideways knuckle-walk every few steps. He pauses frequently to sit back on his haunches and peer up into her eyes.

He knows where to find a lie. She gives the pup some credit for that--it means that not only had he dealt with other traders in the past, he'd survived their treachery. His own eyes flash between thick chords of matted black hair, buried in a face made dark from several layers of grime and dust, which makes them seem to shine even brighter.

Strange eyes, the old woman mused. They glowed a brilliant emerald in the sunlight that filtered through the canopy, but with a rich depth like they'd absorbed shadows from the deep woods.

He stopped and looked up expectantly, so the old woman raised her staff and gestured towards the woven mat sitting between them, near the middle of the clearing. It was covered with her standard trade goods: bone-bead necklaces and bracelets, bundles of brightly colored feathers, antler knives of various sizes and shapes, a baby crattha skull, and two long, perfectly straight branches from an Iron Pine that she'd obtained with far more effort and risk than they'd really been worth. She wouldn't be parting with those easily.

The boy shuffled forward, keeping a wary eye on her as he began to pick through the offerings. After a moment of browsing, a palm-sized blade caught his eye, one that she'd carved from the antler of a young buck. He flipped it a couple times and fondled it loosely, testing the balance. As he ran a finger along the edge he yelped suddenly, dropping the knife and glaring up at her, snarling as if it were somehow her doing.

She suppressed a small chuckle. His fierceness was undercut somewhat by his scrawny frame and squeaky voice. She wondered how long he'd been on his own, foraging and fighting for each day's existence. She wondered how much longer he could last. He was a tough little beast, she didn't doubt. You had to be in order to make it in a world full of predators and bigger predators, no matter your age or size.

It was no great concern for her. More of a morbid curiosity, really. She'd known solitary creatures, though, and she'd known tribal creatures, but she'd never known a creature born to one that was able to become the other. Pain and death had always been the result, sooner or later.

The boy picked up a bundle of vibrant feathers, staring at them wonderingly. It was obvious he'd never seen so many colors all at once. He looked up at the old woman for a moment, calculating, then pulled forward a small hide sack that he kept slung across his chest with a strap. He rummaged around inside until he latched onto something, then hastily yanked it out and held it up.

She could see that the necklaces and bracelets the boy clutched were poorly made. A strung-together collection of shells, seeds, tiny bones and colored glass shards, they were clearly the boy's own handiwork. She shook her head and made a brushing-away gesture.

The boy frowned, and dug into the pack for more of the shoddy jewelry. He held up two fistfuls and shook them insistently. She shook her head again.

He glowered at her, a tiny growl rumbling in his throat. He dropped the jewelry and reached back into the pack, fishing out a white, fist-sized object. When he held it up the old woman could see that it was another baby crattha skull, a bit smaller than her own. His still had its jaw bone, however, attached with carved holes and small strips of hide. He grabbed the other from the mat and made the two skulls fight each other, controlling the jaw with his thumb and clashing them together as if they were snapping and biting at one another--his skull was clearly the superior fighter. He provided the sounds as well. The tiny growls, hisses, squeeks and barks touched the old woman, stirred some deep vein in her that hadn't moved in centuries. A smile touched her wooden lips.

When he looked up and saw her smile, the boy's face lit up and he dropped the skulls. He hugged the feathers and moved to put them in his pack, but a loud thump on the ground made him look up. The old woman had butted her staff down and was shaking her head, the smile gone. His play was cute, but the trade was still bad.

The screech that echoed through the meadow made all the birds take wing. The boy raged, ripping up small bushes and tufts of grass, rolling around and kicking and beating his fists on the ground. He was so raucous that the old woman feared every predator in the valley was now headed their way. Nevertheless she waited, unmoving, allowing the child to finish his show. He couldn't have been long on his own, she decided. No tantrums could survive the wild for long without attracting teeth and claws.

He quickly began to tire and slow, and after a couple more half-hearted flails he collapsed into a bony little heap.
Eventually he rose and slunk over to the mat. He flopped down and pulled his pack into his lap. He fished around deep inside for several moments, occasionally pulling out little bits to examine before quickly tossing them back in and digging deeper.

Several minutes passed, and the sun crept away from its zenith. The woman had moved to begin packing when the boy's hand came up, clutching his final offer. She strode over to look more closely.
The boy was excited, and as he jerked his hand up to proffer the object, his fingers just barely brushed against hers. They both sprang away, fear clouding their eyes. Boy and old woman both stood motionless, waiting, expecting the disfiguring pain to begin any moment.

Allowing skin-to-skin contact was one of the deepest taboos when trading with tribes other than your own. Most peoples carried strange, evil magic on their skin and in their fluids, remnants of some Ancestor-devilry. Simply touching a person from another tribe was to risk anything from harmless visions and sickness, to madness or mutation, or a violent, skin-splitting death.

After their heaving breath evened out, and several minutes passed without any onset of pain or visions, the old woman bent to retrieve the little stone that she'd let fall. It was angular and faceted, precisely shaped to be the same on all sides and nearly clear but for a slight milky opacity. Little bits of gold clung to multiple edges, seeming to be remnants of some elaborate setting. She pulled out her own fire-hardened antler knife and tried to scratch the stone. When she looked closely, though, she saw only the shimmering, unblemished surface. She scratched it with another stone, and again saw no mark.

She looked up at the boy and nodded, accepting the trade. The boy whooped, ran over and grabbed the bundle of feathers from where he'd thrown them. He hugged them again and looked into her eyes, grinning.

A wave of giddy heat suddenly washed through the old woman, passing away almost as quickly and leaving her woozy. She stood very still, her heart pounding against the back of her ribs as one minute passed, then two, then three. She slowly unclenched her jaw, and let her fear recede.

The boy was completely unaware-- he was leaping around, trying to catch some of the butterflies that drifted on the afternoon heat rising from the grass. She watched him at play for a while, troubled by a new degree of concern. She shrugged, and set about packing up her goods. Hopefully it was passed.