I am most definitely not disgusted by the soft, red-maned female. I do not understand her, but I do not find her disgusting. I watch her like any good hunter, trying to understand his prey. I know that she speaks in a soft, even voice. I know that she hums sounds under her breath when she puts the basket down, and stays for a while, scanning the cliffs as if she hopes to catch a glimpse of us. Her eyes are always full of hope, and I wonder if she leaves, disappointed, when I never come out from the rocks to greet her.
I think about what she must smell like, too. Sometimes I catch her scent, faint and musky, drifting on the wind, and I want to smell it up close. I want to bury my face in her mane and feel if it is soft, if her teats are as full as they seem. If she is soft all over.
I do not share this with Pak, though.
My father taught me that Outcasts must be hard and self-reliant, and I will teach this to him. I cannot think about females and their teats and soft skin. I must think about our next meal, our next shelter. There is no room in our lives for weakness.
When we get to the basket, the scents are old. I am not surprised that it is hers, but I am a little disappointed that it is not more prevalent. I just want to fill my nose with her. One good whiff of her scent, and then I will be satisfied. It is the wondering that makes me obsess, I tell myself. Nothing more.
Pak races ahead, full of excitement. He climbs the rock, putting his small hands over the yellow painted handprints as if saying a greeting to the others, and then he shoves his face into the basket. "More food, Papa!"
I grunt acknowledgment. Food is good. There was food yesterday and we left it…but if we are going to abandon this beach for a new place, perhaps this time we will take it with us. "Let me see it."
Pak slides out of the basket. He holds the bag out, and he has a long strip of the food in his mouth as he holds it up to me. I want to give him a stern look, but I smile instead. He is hungry. We have caught no food this day. Of course he is going to eat. "Save some for our journey," I warn him. "It will do us no good if we eat it before we leave."
"No leaves this time," Pak informs me. "Why do you think they give us leaves?"
"It is for hot drinks," I remind him. "Remember when the elders would make tea over the fire?"
"No," he tells me. "I do not remember the elders at all." He digs into the basket again. "More clothes!"
It bothers me that he does not remember the elders…but he is young and it has been many turns of the moon since the Great Smoking Mountain breathed its last. Soon, I suspect, all he will remember is me.
Which means it is twice as important that I teach him properly. "Leave the clothes," I tell him. "We will only take what is necessary."
"No playthings," he says in a small, sad voice. "No paints."
My chest hurts at his disappointment. I sit down on the rock next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Pak…"
"It is all right, Papa." Pak smiles bravely at me. "It is better this way. Even if there were paints, I would not be able to take them. Right? We must only take what we can easily carry and will not weigh us down. That is the way of the Outcast, yes?"
I nod. Sometimes I hate that it is our way. Sometimes I wish we were something different—soft like the other clans—so he could spend all day playing with paints and not have an empty belly. Wishes do not fill a stomach, though. My father was quick to tell me that when I complained as a small boy. It is something I should tell Pak, too. To make him tougher, stronger.
Instead, I just hug his shoulder. "When we get to the new home, perhaps we will make you paints of your own and you can decorate our cave."
He throws his small arms around my neck and hugs me, and it is days like today that I am glad our clan is Juth and Pak. I am glad we have each other…and I am very, very glad I have a son.
3
STEPH
Everyone's getting incredibly restless with the onset of the warmer weather. No one wants to sit and have therapy talks, and I try not to let it hurt my feelings. It makes sense. Not everyone wants to talk about their feelings when the weather is so nice. There's a million things to do, and I watch as Callie and Marisol work with Vaza and Brooke to rub some dyes into leather. They spread out on the sands, and it stinks to high heaven, so everyone's trying to go upwind. Several of the men have headed off to go hunting, along with the women, and I end up sitting by the fire with the heavily pregnant women. I bring my sewing with me, because I can't just sit around and do nothing when everyone is working. I help with the cooking and cleaning, but since several of the women are heavily pregnant and don't want to leave the camp, they volunteer to do a lot of the cooking, and that means I get sewing duty or net-mending duty. Right now I'm working on stitching together some thick, waterproof boots for both I'rec and O'jek, since they don't have mates to take care of them and help them with their clothes. Does it feel a little sexist sometimes to have the men doing the heavy lifting and the women at camp cooking and cleaning? Yeah, but at the same time, I also get why it happens. If I wanted to hunt, they'd be more than happy to let me do it.