Worse, the shaman’s group has apparently joined forces with the other group, the shaman having rallied them to the fight. Only a few members of that group are here. A total of five in the woods then, including the wounded shaman. Three are armed with bows.
Dalton listens to the assessment and then opens his mouth, but Petra beats him to it.
“Eric?” she says. “I’m going to suggest you let me and Will go after the ones we have eyes on. That’s two of the three archers.”
He hesitates, but only to check with Anders.
“Makes sense,” Anders says. “If Petra and I can subdue them quietly, that leaves one bow, one guy armed with a knife, and the wounded leader.”
They head to the back hatch. Dalton shouts out the hatch, “We want to talk to the woman in charge!”
Silence.
“We know it’s a woman. Your shaman or whatever. Your leader.”
Silence.
“Fucking hell. Seriously? We know your numbers. We might be holed up like cornered foxes, but that only means we’ve got eyes and guns on the exits, and we’re feeling a little trigger-happy. There are seven fucking people crammed in this tin can. Five guns. One really big dog. You honestly want to test your odds?”
Still no answer. He shifts his gaze, making sure Anders and Petra are gone before he continues his bluster.
“So what the fuck are we doing here?” he shouts. “You sit in the forest? We sit in this plane? Wait for dark? That’s a helluva long time, and I can guarantee you, the dark will be our friend, not yours. We’ll shine flashlights out this hatch and see you coming.”
Nothing.
Before he can react, I lean into the open hatch.
“I would like to speak to the woman I shot!” I shout. “I know you’re capable of talking.”
I pull back fast, even as Dalton growls.
It takes a moment. Then the shaman calls back, “I will talk to you. Not him. You. But you need to come out.”
Dalton’s laugh echoes through the clearing. “Fuck no.”
“You can be silent,” the shaman calls. “You call us savages, but you can barely speak a sentence without that word. You are ignorant and uneducated.”
I glance over at Maryanne, who is staring at the side of the plane as if she can see through the metal. Her brows are knitted, as if she’s not quite sure what she’s hearing. When I catch her eye, I lift my brows and mouth, Is that not her?
“No, it is,” she whispers. “I’ve just never heard…” She swallows. “She always spoke better than the rest, but not like that. Not so fluently.”
I think Maryanne’s hunch was right—the shaman regulated her own intake of the narcotics. She kept her mind clear and her wits sharp. Dalton hides his intelligence behind his rough language. She hid hers behind fractured speech.
“If I come out, so do you,” I say. “If your people shoot at me, you’ll be dead before you can get back into the forest.”
“I know that.”
“Do your people?”
“They will not fire unless I tell them to,” she says.
“Will you come out and speak to me?”
“If there isn’t a gun pointed at me.”
“Well, since I can’t tell whether there’s an arrow pointed at me, that’s a problem.”
“Lower your weapon,” she says. “That will be enough.”