A November Sky

Chapter Eleven

As we neared the village, one of Kocoum's men slipped away into the forest, and the other three rotated to fill the gap. They pressed close along the village's clay paths, weaving through the bustle of tribeswomen, their arms and backs loaded with the first of the corn harvest.

Toma, standing outside the storage house directing the harvesters, saw me first. She murmured a few words with one of the other women, patted her on the shoulder, and jogged over, her head titled to peer around my shoulder. "Nehsa," she called. "Nehsa."

I shoved aside one of Kocoum's men. "He's okay. Healing. The medicine man stitched up his foot, but he has to stay off it for two weeks."

"You left him," Toma cried, lunging forward as if to march straight to the newworlder village.

I blocked her, grunting when her elbow rammed into my stomach. "John is looking after him. He's safe."

Toma's lips pressed tight. She glanced at Kocoum's men and didn't say a word. I knew what she was thinking, but how could I explain my feelings for John when I couldn't understand them myself? She'd think I'd lost my mind. Perhaps I had.

Kocoum paced up the village path in full red and black warpaint, and Toma sucked air between her teeth. "He's angry because he was worried," she whispered. "He wants to see you safe. We all do." She backed away, leaving me alone to face my husband.

Kocoum said nothing, though his arms and legs trembled with repressed strength. He nodded at our hut, his three escorts a wall at my back. The rest of his hunters prowled the edges of the village and forest, keeping lookout; he'd canceled his hunt. The tribeswomen paused and watched, placing their baskets of corn on the ground. By the time the sun rose over the crest of Wutapantam Mountain, the village gossips would have their ears pressed to the sides of our hut. But with nowhere else else to go, I flattened the leather journal to my side and led the way to our hut.

When I paused outside the door, Kocoum drew aside the reeds. He held them open and followed me through the doorway after a barked word to his men, who lingered outside presumably to scare off any listeners. He sat on the furs, facing away from me, and began to unweave his braids, long black hair spilling over his left shoulder. I placed the journal on the floor beside our furs, then hesitated, unsure if I should join him or stand. The fall wind snuck through the bottom of the reeds, and I shivered, rubbing my hands over my arms. 

I understood now. Why he hated the silence. That promise of pain to come, nagging at you, rubbing you raw. He'd never done that to me, I realized. He was always the one to voice his problems. I'd been the one running away.

I crossed the room to sit on the edge of the furs, facing Kocoum. I caught his hands in mine, taking his braid and finishing the top loops. I swallowed, my mouth going dry. "I'm ready to talk," I whispered.

"Now you're ready." He scoffed, a pained hoarse sound. "It's not supposed to be painful."

"It's not—"

Kocoum spoke over me, his words coming fast. "You asked for space, and I gave it to you. You asked for loyalty, and I gave it to you. I have ignored the alliance wives my council throws in my face. But still, you ignore me, pushing me away and taking off without a word. I feel as if I'm striking a fyrestone in a great breeze, striking and striking, hoping finally it might take. Don't you think I worry, too? Whether I can be enough for you, who I would be without you? I lost my daughter." His voice broke, the closest I'd ever heard him to crying. "But that doesn't seem to matter to you. You only leave room for one person to be hurting in this hut, and I've let you. Skies. I've let you. But I lost something too. I lost my wife. I'm right here, so why can't you see me?"